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  ‘Text!’ Thomas almost jumps out of his seat at this suggestion. ‘OK.’

  For a couple of awkward minutes we sit in the car listening to the soft melodic beeping noise my keypad makes as I send David a warning text. And when the reply comes – one perfect word that makes me shiver with excitement – I throw open the car door purposefully and head in the direction of my perfect fantasy made real.

  It isn’t just the sheer stupid excitement of boy on boy that is calling to me. It isn’t just the way my boys look like perfect echoes of each other, two beautiful freaks. It isn’t just the way they are equal and opposite bad boys, one so ready to spill his deviant desires to me, the other one locked up so tight he can barely even whisper what he wants. And it isn’t just the bare mathematics of two heads (giving head) being better than one. It’s the really twisted mind-fuck part of it that is doing it for me. Surprise, surprise.

  It’s the way Thomas is, what, twenty-three, so about a year younger than David before his accident, making Thomas a perfect earthly representation of everything David was. Then. Making Thomas and David perfect – living, breathing – before-and-after pictures of David’s horrible cursed life-changing accident. The way I can say to David, look, that’s what you were, everything you were from the heart-throb face to the fully functioning legs, and, you know what, David, I like the ‘after’ version of you so much better.

  And it’s these thoughts, and the future echoes of the conversation I am going to have with David later, where I explain all this stuff to his wide-eyed, sex-sated body, that occupy me as I jump out of the car and head for the house.

  I’m 99.9 per cent sure Thomas is going to follow me, but there is a little part of my brain that is wondering if he might just rev the engine and roar off over the horizon – not that his car has the acceleration to roar off anywhere. But I’m not absolutely certain until I hear his door clunk shut and footsteps come up behind me.

  He’s still following me when I pick my way down David’s darkened hall, and when I emerge into the living room.

  The text I sent to David from the car had said, in slightly cringeworthy txt-speak, ‘U love me? Will u suck cock 4 me?’ and his reply was just one word, a shiver-inducing ‘Anything.’

  I suppose he might not have figured that the cock I had in mind would be attached to Thomas rather than to me. He might well have thought I meant a strap-on or something. I think I have mentioned fucking him with a strap-on on more than one occasion, but I’m not that much of a fan of such things these days. Quite apart from anything else, they remind me far too much of Gavin (or whatever his name actually was). And, well, they’re OK, but, for me, plastic or silicone can never compete with warm, pulsing flesh and blood.

  But, whatever he expected, David manages to look reasonably placid as I walk in, smiling. He’s sitting in his chair watching TV, dressed in his usual uniform of a nice pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, smiling at me, with a can of Coke in his hand.

  And then, just when the anticipation inside me starts to peak, just when the tension I have created so artfully, so carefully, starts to feel so thin and taut that I think it might snap – it does. It all falls apart.

  It starts with Thomas, who has followed me into the room, suddenly saying, ‘Holy crap! What the fuck is this?’

  I turn around smiling, loving it, still oblivious. I just think Thomas is playing with me. Teasing. (I’m in total denial.)

  ‘Well, Thomas, as you know, I thought you and David might like to get to know each other,’ I purr.

  Oh, I so should be hearing alarm bells. Thomas’s confused outburst isn’t what should be happening. But I’m not quite geared up to save the day right now. I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m already picturing Thomas and David touching each other, their hands gentle on each other’s faces – and then hard and twisting in each other’s hair, as their mouths clash and crash. Rough. Rougher with each other than I would ever be. Vicious, needy, real.

  I have never seen them in the same room before, and it feels like the first time I really notice how similar they look. Take a proper inventory. With their dark, luscious curly hair and messy Hollywood-starlet mouths, they could be brothers. And isn’t that wrong? And – wronger still – now I’m picturing them like that, imaginary brothers fooling around together, touching each other. Oh, so very wrong. So very right.

  I’m thinking about all of this, but above all else I’m thinking about David’s hot, red, red-hot mouth closing around Thomas’s sweet soft-skinned cock, and Thomas’s head tipping back, as his knees start to buckle and his insides melt. And all these thoughts are making it very hard for me to focus on the part of the room which contains Thomas, and his ever-increasing alarm and surprise, which is where my attention really ought to be.

  I finally notice that something might be going on when Thomas says, ‘No.’

  I look at him, still not quite getting it. Still partly marooned on sex-fantasy island.

  Thomas swallows. ‘I mean, what? I mean, sorry.’ He pauses. He stands and swallows again, harder, and then, ‘I don’t get it.’

  I bite my bottom lip, starting to become aware of a strange dropping sensation in my stomach that isn’t excitement. Then I say, my voice edged with panic, ‘Don’t back out now, Thomas. Relax. It’s nothing heavy, darling, not if you don’t want it to be. It’s just a little bit of fun with both of us.’

  ‘But.’ Thomas is pointing at David. ‘But why is he … why is he in that wheelchair? What’s that all about? It’s all fucked up.’

  ‘What?’ says David, sounding confused maybe, or tired, or angry. Oh, god knows what David thinks right now, I haven’t even begun to consider. ‘What’s fucked up?’ David goes on, almost shouting. ‘Why am I sitting in the chair? So I could get myself this from the kitchen.’ He waggles his Coke. ‘Or, if you prefer, because otherwise I’d be sitting on the floor. Why do you think I’m in a wheelchair?’

  And that’s when I finally realise. That’s when I know I’ve lost it. My perfect mood is turned to ashes blowing away in the wind. Neither of my boys sound remotely like figures from a super-sexy fantasy-madereal, they both sound pissed off and impatient. And, oh god, they really don’t like each other. At all.

  In fact, Thomas is only a breath away from baring his teeth as he looks at David and all but snarls, ‘I don’t fucking know, mate. If you want to make out you’re in a wheelchair then fine, that’s your thing, but, Jesus…’ And he seems to give up with David and turns to me, his face softening a little but his eyes still angry, confused, hurt. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mary, this is too much for me.’ And he’s starting to disappear from view, backing down the dark hall – literally backing out – until he is just an oblique angle and a nose. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  Naturally, I follow him. And he’s about to open the front door when I reach out and put my hand on his upper arm. Oh god, his bicep is so firm and delicious under my fingers. A young man’s easy physique – he must be ten years younger than me. Without sanction a greedy section of my mind starts picturing him naked. What a body. He hasn’t worked for it – not like David and his endless (over-compensatory) bench pressing – but it’s no less beautiful for that. He turns his elegant face to me, mottled and weird with the jagged streetlight coming in bits and pieces through the textured UPVC in the door.

  ‘What’s wrong, Thomas?’ I say to his earnest expression.

  ‘What’s wrong? God! Do you really need me to … I don’t know. I knew you were a bit kinky and I liked that about you, but this is too rich for me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.’

  ‘But, Thomas, I don’t get it. I thought you would be into this. I thought you wanted to try it. Explore. David hasn’t either, hasn’t been with another man, I mean. So I thought it could be good for both of you. It would certainly be good for me.’ I give him a sexy smile in the half-light, hoping it’s not too presumptuous.

  ‘But.’ Thomas turns his head a little more towards me and I can see how
confused he looks. ‘I just don’t get what you’re doing. I mean, do you want me to be in a wheelchair too?’

  ‘What? No.’ Eh? ‘Look, Thomas, do you think…?’ Then I finally realise what he’s trying to say. ‘Thomas, David isn’t pretending to be disabled. He actually is disabled.’

  It’s dark in the hall. Shadows are falling across Thomas’s face, and it’s too dark to see if it changes, but his tone of voice certainly does. He seems to suddenly change the way he feels about the whole situation. ‘He is? Really?’ Thomas says, his voice soft, concerned, almost pitying. ‘Then why does he want to, you know, why does he …?’ Thomas turns away from the door a little, as if a threat has been removed.

  His shoulders sag a little. ‘Oh, sorry. I thought it was meant to be me and him. Is it not that, then? Is it going to be me and you while he watches or something? Is that what you have to do?’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ David suddenly shouts from the other end of the hall. He looks almost cinematic, silhouetted in the doorway, and his rage seems to hit us with such force we could both be catapulted through the door and into the street. ‘She does not fuck other men while I watch,’ he shouts, his voice breaking a little with, what? Hurt? Humiliation? Something else beginning with H? ‘God, why are you trying to make this into more of a freakshow than it already is?’

  And up until that outburst maybe some unrealistically hopeful part of me was still hanging on to the idea that I might be able to turn this round, but one look at Thomas’s under-lit face, and I know that I’ve blown it so far it’s practically in orbit. Fuck. And that’s the last time I pray to bleeding Morrissey.

  David

  There are many words for what Thomas is, but none of them sum him up quite as well as ‘wanker’. And wanking is exactly what he’s going to spend the rest of his evening doing, now I’ve banished him from my kingdom without so much as a single kiss from my girlfriend. Stupid git.

  And yeah, too right I’m angry. You might expect me to be angry with Mary for pulling that little stunt, making me feel spectacularly inadequate. I mean, bringing another guy back? What was she thinking? That that would make me feel super cool about being a cripple? That I would so love her wanting an able-bodied man as well? That I would feel great about the fact that I couldn’t satisfy her on my own? And, of course, put like that, it does look pretty awful. Which it should. But the weird thing is, I kind of get it. I get what Mary was trying to do. She can be a bit selfish when it comes to fulfilling her own perverted desires, it’s true. But I’m used to that. I even quite like it.

  I have to give her credit for something, because, in a weird way, the events of this evening go to show how far I’ve come. It’s amazing to think I am all open-mouth-shocked about someone not wanting to engage in sexual shenanigans with me because I’m in a wheelchair. Before Mary I had basically retired from sexual life for good. And now I really can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m so upset that some dumbass pretty boy has strolled out into the night without letting me suck his cock.

  Not that I would want to suck the cock of such a ridiculous prancing prick, obviously, but it would have made Mary smile and, well, making Mary happy is one of my priorities. Or at least it was, before she went and brought that stupid arse into my house for ill-thought-out three-way sex.

  I’m fine with the fact that Mary didn’t warn me about what was coming. I can even get off on that to a certain extent. But I’m pretty pissed off about the fact that she didn’t warn him.

  I mean, how could she not think to tell him I was in a wheelchair? Did she think he wouldn’t notice?

  Mary

  Fuck!

  Fuckity, fuckity, fuck!

  But, damnit, I am not letting this evening and all its sexually supercharged moodiness go to waste. It doesn’t take long for me to put my disappointment aside and regroup. Time for simple pleasures. Soothing familiarity.

  Ergo, I decide to tie David up. And once I realise this is what I want, I want to do it straightaway. I want to rush. I’m greedy to binge on sex. Block out the pain of my humiliating failure with the doping power of endorphins. Because that is the trouble of liking being the one in control, the one on the top: if you make a mistake it can spoil everything.

  Luckily David doesn’t take much persuading once I tell him my plans. He still looks a little spacey, a little adrenalised from his rage against the Thomas, so maybe he welcomes the chance to give it all up. Or maybe he is as frustrated as I am and eager for the soothingly familiar rituals and the soothingly familiar orgasms.

  It almost feels weird to ask him though, to have to ask if it’s OK for me to have my wicked way. I don’t usually ask these days. A smile and a look is often all it takes. But tonight, because of the circumstances, I find myself explaining, asking, ‘Can I tie you up?’ and enjoying his blush when he says, ‘Sure.’

  And then I’m off, rummaging for the nicest sheepskin-lined wrist cuffs – still seeking the simple comforts – and him on the bed already squirming all over the place, moaning and wanting. Everything else forgotten. Such a desperate little whore. And so, so perfect.

  He struggles feebly as I fix his wrists, gazing up at my handiwork.

  ‘Is all that really necessary?’ he says, with a laugh somewhere in his voice.

  I look at what I’m doing. I’m wrapping extra lengths of chain round his wrists and the bedframe. It looks lovely but, I admit, it might be slight overkill. I shrug and pull it all tighter, forcing both his wrists up higher.

  He gasps as his body stretches taut, and struggles some more. ‘Well, if you like, but you really don’t need to tie me down so much – I’m not going to run away, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I whisper and graze the pad of my thumb down the thin, sensitive skin of his forearm. ‘But the less you can move, the more I like it.’ I swallow hard, because he looks so amazing like this. His beautiful body tormented and displayed. Delicious. Thomas is disappearing fast from my mind. Thomas is nothing in comparison with this. He’s just a ghost of a memory of a dream. It’s as if he never happened.

  ‘Would you like it if I couldn’t move my arms at all?’ David whispers, darkly. ‘If they were like my legs?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my voice dropping too, lower and lower down the scale until it could honestly be described as husky, and I rock my hips against his erection, trying to show him exactly how I feel with a precise bit of friction.

  He looks at me, his eyes all sparkly and teasing, aglow with the knowledge of where I keep my magic buttons, and I know, I just know, that he is about to press one of them. Hard.

  ‘What about if I couldn’t move any part of my body? I’ve met a couple of guys at the social club; all they can do is blink. What if I were like that?’

  I lean forward and lick his temple. ‘If all you could do was blink, I’d blindfold you every night and fuck you so hard you’d have to spend your entire Disability Living Allowance on new mattresses.’

  He moans a greedy moan, and I lean over to kiss him messily on the lips. He tastes exquisite, like some obscure kind of dirty, musky honey. ‘But I wouldn’t be able to feel it,’ he mutters into my mouth, as I pull away.

  ‘Well, I’d have to describe it to you, wouldn’t I?’ I scoot back down his bound body as I speak, dropping kisses on to his alabaster chest between words. ‘Blow by blow.’ And I let my lips close languorously round his cock. If his mouth tasted delicious, this is sublime; I’m drowning in a great cloud of earthy, animal pheromones, brushing against his quiet, cool legs – so beautiful to me – and right up close to his magma-heated core.

  Somewhere deep inside me I know what he’s doing. Why he’s talking about this subject, which is undeniably hot, but slightly offbeat for him. David doesn’t normally talk about his disability when he’s in bed – that’s my job – and he certainly wouldn’t talk about his being more disabled to turn me on. Except when he’s just had his position threatened by Thomas-two-legs, of course. And, although I hide it, that place deep inside me
knows that bringing Thomas home without doing the proper groundwork first was one of the worst moves I’ve ever made.

  David might have been offering himself up to me, claiming he was willing to do anything. But there were limits. There are always limits. And in my lust-crazed state, I didn’t bother to check where the lines were drawn.

  David

  Mary moves above me. She’s tied me tighter than usual. Added a little bit more strain. And although that tiny extra tension was nothing when she first applied it, as time has worn on it has started to burn. What was just a slow warm feeling under my arms is becoming an inferno.

  And, god, I like it so much. I need this. I can’t imagine life without it. What has she made of me?

  It isn’t long before I can think of nothing else. My dirty conversation dries in my mouth, Mary climbs on top of me and I barely notice how hot and tight and wet she is inside. I only notice how, as she moves up and down, my underarms burn more and more.

  And she knows. I don’t know how she knows, but she does. She dips her head and runs her tongue across my armpit. Over and over. It’s not a soft and soothing balm, but a nasty, rasping little tongue, right where my body is hurting the most. And I moan, louder and louder, with every stroke.

  Then, after an eternity of strict restraints and taut skin and rasping tongue, when I come it’s amazing. I jerk on the wrist cuffs and they pull tighter and it makes me come harder and pull even more. Everything escalates, and it’s like I’m trapped in a loop of ever-increasing feedback ecstasy.

  It’s really that good.

  But it doesn’t take the underlying nasty feelings away. The sex and bliss and ohmigod lies on top, but I know that all the bad stuff is still there, deep down, underneath. That feeling that Mary fucked up. And no matter how hard she makes me come, things are never going to be the same again.

  Because it’s funny – actually it’s ironic – that despite all the weirdness and reservations I have had over the time I’ve been with Mary, the one thing I always trusted her about was sex. Being with her was the best sex I have ever had. And the most frequent. Even the edgier kinky stuff, which, truth be told, I enjoy a lot more than I let on to her. Maybe she brought out a side of me that I’d rather have kept hidden.