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Story Notes:
This is a PWP, no redeeming qualities. Set in the same universe as Once in a Blue Moon, same warning: the Michael/Lincoln aspect is relatively tame, but you still may want to proceed with caution if this pairing is not your cup of tea.
“Then I guess you’d just have to watch her fuck me.”

It was a shallow threat when you threw the warning at Michael not so long ago, during one of those nights where your little trio goes a bit astray. You made it sound real and serious, and you all pretended it was, but you had a hunch that neither you nor Sara was actually willing to act on it. It was not part of the game – then.

The thought has thrived in your minds, though. Sometimes consciously and sometimes not, the three of you have fed it with glances and minute touches, so-called friendly hugs and excessive closeness. Michael and Sara let you in... Michael and Sara pulled you into their intimacy, showing you moments that should have remained private, including you in their displays of affection. You’ve watched them fondle each other and make love; you’ve brushed a thigh or stroked a shoulder here, cupped a breast or a buttock there, enjoyed touches and kisses; holding onto Michael’s shoulder, you’ve come a few times under the caresses of Sara’s fingers.

After, lying with them and basking in their warmth, you’ve played and replayed in your mind that provocative little sentence. You’ve allowed your imagination to run wild and picture how good it would be to feel Sara all around you and Michael’s eyes all over you. Inwardly if not actually, you stopped being an accessory in their games, became a full participant, and started wanting more – wanting it all.

Precedents indicate they may not be averse to the idea. You don’t know which the most disturbing is – you wanting this, or they ready to take further whatever it is that you are sharing.

Your indulging in kinky experimentations usually happens at night, but this... this has blossomed and flourished enough to turn into a distinct possibility even when you’re sitting in the sunlight. And indeed, no silver moonlight or velvety darkness when the urge hits you so hard you know that, this time, you won’t be able to fight it. You’re lying under the bright sun, on the small beach in front of Sara and Michael’s bungalow, Sara stretched out on her large towel, dozing between you and your brother. Admittedly, the bright sunshine saturates the whole thing with the same dream-like quality as the last silver moonlight in which you reveled, making everything possible. It doesn’t change the fact that the fantasy can exist in full light.

And it very much exists in full light. The more you watch Michael rub sun lotion on Sara’s lightly tanned skin, the more the temptation becomes irrepressible. His fingers gliding over her shoulders and toying with the flimsy material of her bathing suit, the way she moves under his touch, the heat in his eyes and the lazy grin on her lips... It’s the last straw. You snatch the bottle from Michael’s hands – he lets it go all too eagerly – and replace him by Sara’s side. Where he was swift and teasing, you linger and knead. Moving closer, your knees sinking in the hot sand on each side of her hips, you straddle her and draw long strokes on the lean muscles of her back. She’s smooth and slick between your legs, invitingly arching her back and pressing her bottom into you. Barely covered flesh against barely covered flesh that rips apart your imagined fantasy and makes it clear that it is going to happen. You tease the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs; the caress wrenches a pleased noise out of her throat, and the small whine goes straight to your crotch. You can’t help smirking when Michael shifts and fiddles with his bathing trunks.

Sara nudges you, signaling you to rise a bit on your knees to let her roll over on to her back. You drink in the sight she offers, all messy hair, flushed cheeks and perky nipples. The moment lasts only a couple of seconds before Michael’s hungry eyes on the two of you makes her shiver and spurs you on, leaning in to kiss her neck. She curls her fingers around your head, licks your jaw and asks, “What is it that you’d like, Lincoln?”

Michael’s hands have stopped fiddling with his shorts; they’re clenched with tension. For a split second before he speaks, you think he’s going to hit you or, at the very least, grab you and shove you away from her.

“Tell her,” he orders instead in a raw voice.

They know what you’d like; what she’s actually asking is how you’d like it.

* * *

You don’t make it to the bedroom; you end up on the ridiculously large daybed in the veranda. The roof shelters you from the blistering sun, but the golden light still kisses the contours of Sara’s silhouette, the warmth envelops you, the breeze pushes the scent of Michael’s arousal towards you. Best of both worlds and the perfect combination for what’s about to happen. You sigh in bliss, groan in anticipation when Sara playfully pushes you down, and grin when you bounce on the sofa. Michael crashes beside you, pressing against your flank. He’s a bit too close for comfort, but Sara is standing in front of you, shedding her bikini and motioning you to get rid of your shorts. Now is not the time to be fussy about personal space.

Personal space becomes a moot point, anyway, as Sara kneels on the mattress, leans down and drapes herself over you. Full breasts pressed into your chest, stomach against stomach, thighs trapping your hips, mouth latching onto your neck. No half measure, no false modesty in the way she lays her claim on you. From the corner of your eye, you see Michael licking and biting his lips. He follows your hands as they stroke up her body, from the swell of her bottom to the nape of her neck, taking their time to caress and pet and arouse – arouse the three of you. By the time you dig your fingers into her hair, as intimate as the embrace is, it’s not enough anymore; the atavistic need to take over and control surges in, and you roll her under you.

She lets out a strangled sound, half laugh half groan, as she roughly lands on her back and you possessively settle between her legs. Michael groans too; in his case, though, it’s because Sara, or maybe you, elbowed him in the stomach. You think it will teach him to hover so close to the action. Then Sara is arching up and rubbing against you, demanding your full attention – to hell with Michael and his sore belly.

You kiss her. Your lips press into hers in a soft, almost tender, way. You’ve kissed her before, but never like this, never as though you had the right to, as though you belonged with each other. Up until now, you’d kept it teasing or almost friendly: it had been some sort of half-mischievous distraction while she focused on your brother, or you had meant to taunt and provoke Michael. Now, even though Michael’s encouragements drive you deeper into her mouth, it’s for her and her only, and reciprocally. Maybe this is precisely the reason why Michael’s appreciative murmur lasts and grows rawer. He likes seeing you like this, but then, this is what all of you wanted, wasn’t it? As a matter of fact, Sara sighs when he rubs the whole length of his body on you. You wonder if she can feel how hard and hot he is, even through the material of his shorts; if it stirs up her as much it stirs you up.

Your stomach twists. You’re going too far; you’re taking things and fantasies to a whole new level, one you may not be ready to handle. But before you can process that thought, Sara is kissing you back, eager and wet and hot, and Michael’s hand is heavy on your neck to encourage you to carry on. Too good to pass up; even more so when Michael leans in and whispers into your ear, “She wants you. She made it clear. I love her, I love you. I don’t care which of us gives her what she needs, and I don’t care what it takes to give you what you need.”

It’s typically Michael, this sort of too long-winded speech, but at least it frees you from your shreds of hesitation. And makes you smirk.

“And get you off in the process,” you point out bluntly. You’re answered with Sara rolling her hips under you and Michael brushing a teasing kiss on your arm.

“Now,” he says, “the way you phrased what you wanted...”

More of typical Michael: too long-winded and offbeat speech. As if it was the moment to focus on your wording. You roll your eyes; or at least, you do until Sara orders, “On your back,” and you get what they actually mean. She lifts an eyebrow and gives you a falsely severe look. It’s one thing to banter with your brother; it’s another one to ignore Sara when she makes such requests. You properly groan your frustration, but comply nonetheless and end up lying there, exposed and offered, with Sara looming over you.

You try to touch her and, although she allows it, it doesn’t last very long. Before you can have your fill of her, she gently pins your arms above you and forces your fingers to grip the edge of the daybed head. The next second, Michael closes his hands around your wrists and restrains you. You test his grip and try to shake it off; it earns you a stern scowl and the reminder that since you wanted her to fuck you, you’re going to let her do just that. The gleam in Michael’s eyes clearly suggests he’s enjoys way too much the power he has over you right now. Not that you mind – you’re better than him at losing control, after all: you did it so many times, usually in less pleasant way.

You’re almost happy to be holding onto the daybed post, happy to have your smartass of a baby brother’s hands around your wrists when Sara starts crawling down. You’d be grabbing the back of her skull to hurry her, otherwise; that would be rude, not to mention stupid, to rush things in such a way. You raise your head to catch her eyes and you swallow hard. No doubt about her intentions, with the way her mouth trails down, kissing and biting softly. You grin and try to keep your hips still, try not to bump into her face.

Her lips stretched around you, she makes it intense and fast. She doesn’t linger, maybe mercifully so since you’re not sure how long you can take this. Your head lolls back; your jaw clenches. You grunt a first time when Michael asks you, “Good, huh?” and a second time when Sara releases you. And then you let out a third grunt because she’s moved and twisted her upper body to the right – towards Michael: the reason why Michael’s grip on your wrists is suddenly tighter, why he’s panting and squirming, isn’t too hard to grasp.

“I thought the brat was just supposed to watch,” you object good-naturedly.

Sara shimmies up.

“I got carried away,” she says with an unapologetic smile before kissing you. The strong and tangy flavor on her tongue makes you jolt and swear as you realize who she tastes like. She adds, “Sorry,” and “Don’t move, okay?” She doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest, but she does mean the part about you staying still, so you nod. You’ll address the other issue... at some point.

Assured you’ll behave, Michael unclenches his hands and lets them slide down. They follow your forearms, appreciatively curl around your biceps and keep moving until they reach your chest. The touch is too languid, even under the circumstances, but you already know the three of you are going to take things as far as possible without stepping over – too many – boundaries. That’s part of the appeal, part of the point, and none of you is hypocritical enough to deny it. Play and mess with the lines, do not irremediably cross them.

Clearly, Michael doesn’t have the same definition of ‘lines’ as you do. It occurs to you that his hands aren’t roaming on your chest anymore only when they end up much, much lower. They close around your erection, lift and angle it for Sara. They’re just the perfect kind of rough, and your treacherous body doesn’t seem to care who is touching you. You feel yourself hardening, swelling even more. Talk about stepping over boundaries, now...

The little bastard grins and handles you as cautiously as if you were some sort of luxurious gift. You can’t decide whether it’s flattering or humiliating; you can’t bring yourself to push him away either. All you can do is gasp and protest, “For God’s sake, Michael...” which is not even remotely enough to make him remove his fingers. He keeps them there, between you and Sara, until she has descended on you and taken you inside her, her face tense with pleasure. He rubs his knuckles where you are joined and lingers in the damp heat created by your bodies, reveling in the way the two of you shudder under his touch. The worst in all this is that you miss the contact when his hand trails down your thighs, even if it means you can totally focus on Sara.

She’s soft and tight and sizzling hot around you. With a husky voice you barely recognize, she tells you it feels so damn good. You feel so damn good, even better than she’d imagined. And she starts moving on you. Up and down, back and forth, hips rotating, as though she wants to sense you in each minute detail, to enfold your flesh as thoroughly as possible. You growl at the picture she offers: thighs surprisingly strong, breasts shifting slowly, nipples hard and dark pink, stomach coiling and uncoiling. You have to touch her, now. You throw a look at her face, then at Michael’s. Both of them are even further gone than you are, way too much to raise any protest if you let go of the fucking headboard.

Your hands find her buttocks first and fondle them – she cants her hips and pushes back into your hold – before moving up her back and shoulders to tug her forward. She curls down, her fingers digging into your shoulders and her breasts pressed against your face. You suck a nipple into your mouth, lick and worry it until she whines. You guess it’s too much, her pleasure bordering on pain, but the noise she makes is so delicious, you’re tempted to keep going no matter what. She has to pull back a bit and shift on you. She bends down again right away to let you have her other breast; you feast on it, the flesh succulent and luscious beneath your lips and tongue.

“Make her come.” Michael’s voice is velvety and dirty, his lips wetly brushing your earlobe when he adds “Make her scream.”

You chuckle. “I think she’s handling her situation just fine, man.” And she does, if the way she moves and grinds on you, uses you for her satisfaction, is any indication. Almost oblivious of yours and Michael’s presence and lust, she’s drifting in her pleasure. You’re losing her. Because you’re not quite ready for that yet, you ram up hard into her to get her attention, harder than you should and enough to steal a whimper of pleasured pain from her.

Struggling, she straightens up and towers over you again. Flushed, sweaty, shaking with need – it’s a nice sight, and an even nicer feeling. She smiles but her eyes are serious when they lock onto yours. For the second time this afternoon, your stomach flips and twists. What you’re doing isn’t casual anymore, if it has ever been, nor is a fantasy gone too wild. There is a statement in the way she clenches around you, as though to let you know she – they – won’t let you go away. You wanted to be a full participant; you got it. Better not to screw up everything now.

She comes first – you’ve been hoping for that outcome from the beginning, you won’t let her finish last. Not out of pure benevolence or selflessness, but because you’ve been longing to see her undone and falling apart. Watching her writhe, seeing the effect you have on her is almost as powerful a turn-on as the way you’ve been kissed, stroked and fucked for an hour. She doesn’t scream, but she pants and moans to yours and Michael’s hearts’ content as she moves more and more erratically on you. Helpful and keen to push her further, you glide two fingers down her stomach and between her thighs. The noises she utters reach a new peak and electrify you.

You follow her within seconds. She’s actually doing what you threatened Michael with, fucking you slow and intense and dirty. Her eyes once again trained onto yours, her hands hot and greedy on your body, she slams down on you and sets a pace that makes you arch up into her and almost beg her to finish you off – she knows how close you are to actually begging and pleading, no way she can’t see it, feel it. She smiles at you, encourages you with a glance and a hard squeeze of muscles. She robs you of any initiative. You don’t complain. Quite the contrary – you love it, being powerless and taken care of.

You don’t complain either, nor do you care as much as you should, that Michael is kissing your chest, sucking on the fingers you teased Sara with or stroking your lower stomach. Later, you’ll remember it’s more than you’re comfortable with, but right now, no way would you ask him – ask them – to stop.

* * *

Sara collapses on you, gasping in your ear, her face in the crook of your neck. The next second, Michael leans down to lick up her spine and catch small beads of sweat with his tongue – greedy and reverent. As worn out as you are, you automatically respond to the slick rub of her body elicited by Michael’s ministrations. She ends up caught between your clammy torso and his wet kisses. It makes her grin; it also makes her wanton in a way that shouldn’t surprise you any more by now.

Lazily, she casts a glance at Michael over her shoulder and offers in a sultry voice, “Michael...?”

What she’s suggesting is pretty clear; deliciously decadent, too. You picture it – Michael having her like that, while she’s still wet and throbbing from you, breathless and sprawled all over you – and shiver in the moist heat of the afternoon. With the way she rolls her hips against yours and kisses your neck, you can only assume she knows the effect it’s having on you. And she enjoys it.

“I’m... I’m good,” Michael stutters. His shorts are pressed into his lap, one of his legs bent at the knee. He flushes slightly for the first time today and avoids yours and Sara’s eyes. You can’t help laughing, a low rumble that makes Sara jerk on you. He’s just watched his wife and his brother get down and dirty, whispered filthy encouragements, kissed and touched you in ways you don’t want to think about right now, but it’s the fact that he got off on it, maybe the lack of self-control, that makes him blush.

Sara laughs too, and pulls him in for a kiss. You can’t see a thing, but you hear the sliding of their lips on one another’s, you feel the slight tensing of their muscles against you. You almost tell Michael jokingly not to rile up her again or she might kill you dead if she starts another round, but you don’t have this kind of opportunity. She raises her head, kisses you on the mouth – Michael sucks on your jaw right where it meets your neck and, really, this touchy-feely-kissy brother trend must stop... soon – and then comfortably settles on you.

“You’re not going to move, huh?” you ask her, fake resignation dripping from your tone.

She grumbles something that is at best a “no” and at worst totally dismissive. It takes her about two minutes and the soothing caress of Michael’s hand on her shoulder to fall asleep, the sun gently warming her skin and lighting red shades in her hair. You kiss her brow and shift under her to adjust to her position. Her breasts are pressed into your chest, her stomach damp against yours, her long hair tickling and soft on your shoulder. She’s hot and heavy on you; you marvel that someone so slim and delicate can pin you down so forcefully.

Fighting to stay awake, you turn your head towards Michael. His eyes are trained on Sara and you, staring with blown pupils. The intensity of his gaze makes you flinch. It betrays love and satisfaction and devotion and a dash of jealousy that has you smiling. You open your mouth and begin, “I...” but he shakes his head to silence you. Slowly, your hand creeps down Sara’s body and finds your brother’s on the small of her back. Your fingers entwine on the warm dip of her spine and stroke that little dimple above her bottom.

You thought it was a shallow threat that you threw at Michael not so long ago.