somerealnerd

  John knew what was coming next—shit was about to hit the fan, hard, and he could damn near hear the sptter already.

  Mar’s office door flew open with a kick so fierce the hinges squealed like a pig at sughter—and the heavy sb of polished wood rocketed straight at his face, dust kicking up from the frame like a cheap action flick gone off-script. He could’ve dodged—hell, he wanted to, picturing himself diving aside with a slick roll—but Mar stood right behind him, her heels clicking faintly on the hardwood, and he wasn’t about to let her catch a faceful of oak and a side of splinters. So he threw up his lean, wiry forearms, braced like a guy facing a bar fight—and the door smashed into him with a bone-rattling thud, pain shooting through his arms like he’d just blocked a mule kick from a pissed-off farmhand in steel-toed boots.

  “Well, well, well, who do we have here? Limp John, back in the flesh!” a loud, fiery voice boomed from the doorway, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in his ears. Vivian strutted in—tall as a damn grain silo, half a head over John, her shadow spilling across the carpet like she owned the joint. She was built like a pro bodybuilder who’d hit the jackpot on curves—no spring chicken, this was a full-on MILF with years of grit packed into her frame. Her chest heaved massive, twin peaks straining a tight sports bra like they were plotting a jailbreak—not some perky kid stuff, but heavy and ripe, seasoned by time. Her ass was a chiseled masterpiece, round and firm, stretching her yoga pants to the brink, threads groaning under a load that screamed experience over innocence. Every inch was muscle and power, wrapped in a frame that oozed sex appeal—bronze skin glowing like she’d just stepped out of a tanning bed brawl, etched with faint lines that told tales of hard-won fights, shallow blonde hair spilling wild over her shoulders like she’d wrestled a windstorm and won, a thin workout jacket draped open—unzipped to funt a sweat-slick torso carved with abs that could double as a washboard, all hot enough to melt steel—or at least make John sweat bullets under his colr.

  “Fuck,” John muttered under his breath, gut dropping like a sack of wet cement hitting pavement. This is bad—real fucking bad. It’s Vivian, and worse, I’m the dumbass who told Tammy to call her up.

  She didn’t wait for him to blink—her leg whipped up like she’d sprung a trap, a brutal sweep aimed dead at his skull, her sneaker cutting the air with a whoosh that sounded like bad news with a side of bruises. John’s head was still spinning from the door, his brain half-fried in an oh-shit haze—reflexes sluggish like he’d downed a gallon of cheap whiskey—too te!—and he barely got his arms up—she bsted him off his feet. He went flying, limbs filing like a scarecrow caught in a tornado, crashing into the wall with a grunt, his shoulder denting the drywall and sending a framed picture of some corporate award cttering to the floor in a sad little heap.

  Always dodge, John, always dodge—never block. You’re not a big guy, he cursed himself, ears ringing like a busted doorbell stuck on repeat.

  “What the fuck, Vivian?” he yelped, scrambling up, his legs wobbling like a newborn foal on ice. “Can you not swing the second you see me? I called you here—don’t hit me!” Mar stood frozen a few feet away, her bzer still crisp but her eyes wide, still processing the chaos like a deer caught in a storm of headlights and bad decisions—so John had to holler and fil to stop this shitshow himself.

  “So what?” Vivian snapped, arms crossed tight over that killer chest, her voice dripping with a cocky edge that could peel paint. “You’re here stirring up trouble with Mar, right, Limp John? Don’t kid yourself—I’m not here to save her prissy ass. I’m here to pound you into next week.”

  Still in love, huh? Lesbian lovey-dovey, huh?

  John caught the slip fast—her expining’s just covering up, and her words screamed she was here for Mar, pin as a billboard in a desert.

  But John didn’t have time for that crap—he just needed Vivian to cool her jets, maybe talk straight without turning it into a cage match. He softened his tone, practically whining like a kid begging for a timeout. “You’re literally calling me Limp John already—how the hell could I stir trouble with Mar?”

  Mar finally chimed in, cutting through her daze like she’d just remembered where she parked her brain. “But John, you just said you’re no longer…”

  “Happy log?” John finished that word again, feeling his throat tighten like he’d swallowed a golf ball. “Not helping, Mar—use your damn brain! Read the vibe. I’m better off a happy log right now!”

  Mar let out an awkward chuckle, like she finally got his drift after stumbling over it face-first. Fair—her st line had just tossed a lit match onto this grease fire.

  “So what are you doing here then?” Vivian barked, her gre swinging to Mar like a loaded shotgun ready to bst a hole through the tension. “Looking for a beating? Or itching to ‘talk’ to Mar again with your hands and mouth?”

  Mar’s face twisted, pure pissed-off, but she drew a bnk on how to fire back—like she’d forgotten her lines in a py gone off the rails.

  John, though, hit his limit. “Oh, come on—grow the fuck up, Vivian!” He roared, voice spiking with heat like a kettle about to blow its lid. “She was set up! So was I. It’s been a fucking year—can’t you just drop this shit and move the fuck on?”

  Mar’s eyes widened, a jolt of surprise crossing her face. “Why didn’t you say it was a setup this whole time? You could’ve expined this to me before Vivian came.” she asked, voice low, digging for the dirt.

  John was fed up—done with this lesbian duo. “Because you wouldn’t fucking believe it and I’m here to talk business, you fucking geniuses! Haven’t you two ever thought that way yourselves? Been stuck drowning in your little love betrayal soap opera this whole fucking time?”

  Vivian’s brows furrowed, her tone sharp as a razor fresh from the pack. “What gives you the right to say that? You booked the room, had the key, gave her the wine—every damn evidence points to you.”

  John simply couldn't take this dumb shit anymore. He let out a wild, pissed-off ugh, like he’d just met the dumbest rookie cop in a bad comedy flick. “Evidence? You talk about evidence? You’re a fucking gangster—you don't need no fucking evidence to bash heads. Quit pying that dumb courtroom cop shit—evidence my balls. Jesus fucking Christ!”

  That shut the room down—dead silence dropped like a brick on a gss table. John fumbled a crumpled pack of smokes from his jacket pocket, yanked one out with shaky fingers, and jammed it between his lips, the paper catching on his dry tongue. Then, half out of habit, half hoping for a truce, he waved the pack at the women, a quick tilt asking if they wanted to share the nicotine peace pipe.

  “Smoking’s bad for your health,” they said in unison, voices ft and synced like a pair of health-nut robots reading off a script.

  “Just give me a fucking break,” John grumbled, sparking his lighter with a flick that cut the quiet like a match struck in a cave.

  After half an hour of John spilling his guts—ying out every twisted thread of Bryce’s scheme like a damn crime novel—the two women finally got it. The whole messed-up story clicked, and they all saw it clear as day: Bryce Calhan was the real bastard screwing them over. John felt a quiet kick of satisfaction settle in—sure, the ordeal nearly popped a vein in his skull a few times, but it paid off. The knot wasn’t fully untied—old scars still itched—but at least old John’s name wasn’t mud anymore. Good enough for now, he thought, breathing easier.

  Vivian, though, still wrapped her head around that “hand and mouth” bit. It's not fair to me. So she wasn’t letting him off the hook that easy.

  She smirked, arms crossed, and dropped a bombshell that made their jaws hit the floor like a cartoon anvil. “Then you’ve gotta get me off once too—that’s only fair.”

  “Huh?” John froze, eyes popping wide like he’d been spped with a fish. “What?” No way I heard that right, he thought, brain short-circuiting.

  Mar stayed silent beside him, her face a bnk mask—no hint of what was ticking behind those cool eyes.

  Truth be told, the offer hit like a shot of cheap whiskey—tempting as hell. Vivian wasn’t John’s usual type; hell, if he was honest, hooking up with her felt like he’d be the one getting fucked six ways to Sunday. But damn, it was wild—wild enough he figured getting fucked might actually feel good with her. It’d be a first, a whole new ride he’d never punched a ticket for. He even caught himself wondering—half-curious, half-hard—if he slid his little buddy in there, how those insane pussy muscles of hers would cmp and suck it dry. Just the thought had him stiff as a damn fgpole.

  But he shook his head—nope.

  Simple as that—he wasn’t diving back into lesbian shit again.

  Back in his old world, his first love was a lesbian—a real head-scratcher of a story. The girl’d sat him down, all casual, and said, “I’m into gay, but you’re pretty cute—wanna give it a go?” Young John couldn't resist the temptation of this forbidden love story—with a hot lesbian. Things clicked fast—smooth as butter on hot toast—until one night she grabbed his penis like it was a prize carrot, looked him dead in the eye, and asked, “So, how do I suck this thing?” Young John, all decent, noble, and stiff as a preacher’s colr, puffed up—nah, can’t disrespect her—and turned her down, even though inside he was howling to ram it down her throat and fuck her pretty face ‘til she sang soprano. Then she dumped him the next day—“Back to girls, they get girls better. See ya!” A few months ter? Word hit she was pregnant, belly round like she’d swallowed a bowling ball.

  Nope, no way I’m dipping into that shit again. They fuck with your head.

  But even Mar couldn’t wrap her head around John’s weird-ass vibe—he’d just been out front, shamelessly letting Tammy slobber all over his dick with folks strolling by, and now he was pulling this saintly act, turning down a dripping-wet golden ticket? What, is Vivian’s stacked frame scaring his dick limp? she wondered. Then it clicked—oh, right, he just got sucked dry out there. She jumped in quick to bail him out. “John already, uh, ‘released’ once before he came in,” she said, smirking slyly. “No way he’s got the drive to get you off now.”

  I released jack shit—cut off mid-fuck! John screamed inside, but he figured this was his fast pass to dodge the whole damn mess, so he nodded along, pying it cool—though deep down, a tiny, sneaky pang of damn, what a waste flickered, too buried for even him to clock.

  “What the hell you yapping about, Mar?” Vivian snapped, eyebrows shooting up, confusion sizzling in her husky growl. “Ain’t he a log? How’s he ‘releasing’ anything?” Truth was, Vivian still couldn’t buy that John’s little John had sprung to life after all this time—nope, not swallowing that shit. “Besides, released or not, what’s that got to do with getting me off? He’s got hands, a mouth—plenty to work with, right?”

  John’s head spun at the thought—his penis twitched hard, practically begging, but his nerves were frying too—this crap just wouldn’t die. His brain was yelling don’t dip in that lesbian shit again, loud and clear. “Come on, Vivian, quit screwing with me—let me bounce,” he groaned, legs itching to bolt.

  Bullshit, they were his legs—if he really wanted out, who’d stop him? Deep down—let’s be real—Tammy left him hanging halfway, balls still aching with no release.

  “Who’s screwing with you? Get me off—it’s only fair!” Vivian barked again, her voice a sultry growl that could melt steel, doubling down like she was daring him to chicken out. John clung to his st shred of sense—things just started thawing with Mar, tension’s easing with Vivian—if I fuck this up now, what’s Mar gonna think? How do we patch shit then? With that, he finally made up his mind. He spun on his heel and bolted for the door, legs pumping like a man fleeing a horny wildfire.

  But Mar was already fed up—Vivian’s “fair this, fair that” nagging had her eye twitching. This chick won’t drop it ‘til she gets her damn fix. “John, stop!” she snapped, voice slicing through. “Do what she says!”

  John’s runaway leg screeched to a halt mid-step—he froze, ears buzzing. What the fuck? Thought you dies were patching shit up? You people really fuck with heads, don't you?

  Still, Mar’s order lit a filthy spark down his spine—his cock jumped, throbbing hot, but he was stuck, teetering on a razor’s edge. One st desperate jab: “You know, dies, you’re lesbians—so technically, it’s not cheating if you mess with a guy, ‘specially with no dick in the mix. It's probably more fair if we all just stop here and call it a day.”

  But Vivian—whether she took Mar’s words as a green light or John’s “cheating” jab pissed her off—lost it. She lunged, grabbing him like a damn ragdoll, yanking one of his hands to her heaving chest, the other shoved straight into her pants. It happened so fast—his fingers brushed her sweat-soaked skin, sinking into the tight, pulsing heat of her pussy. John’s brain bnked out, a white-hot rush frying his thoughts, his cock screaming to blow like a volcano on the edge.

  Well, guess I’m fucking doing it now.

  somerealnerd