Naked in the Middle

It was one of those late summer weekends where the heat stays long after the sun’s gone down, and the insects chitter like they’re trying to fill up the whole night with their noise. We were just a bunch of early twenty-somethings, trying to act like we had it all figured out. My wife — well, my former wife — and her best friend, Riley, had planned this quick camping trip up near a lake they loved as kids. I was just along for the ride.

We squeezed ourselves into a tiny tent that looked like a dog house, barely wide enough for three sleeping bags. They both insisted they didn’t mind — that it’d be cozy. I wasn’t sure what cozy meant in that context, but I didn’t argue.

The girls climbed in first. I was finishing off a bottle of beer by the fire, watching the flames flicker down into soft orange coals. There was something about being out in the woods — no lights, no noise, just the quiet hum of bugs and the occasional popping and crackling sound of the fire — that made everything feel more vigilant. Louder, even. I heard them giggling in the tent, gossiping like teenagers, and I couldn’t help smiling to myself.

When I eventually unzipped the tent, the heat inside hit me like a brick. I wriggled out of my jeans, naked as usual when I sleep, and slid into the middle bag between the two of them. The air was heavy with warmth and their perfume — sun lotion, a little sweat, and sexual tension.

I lay there, stiff as a board — well, not all of me was stiff in the same way — doing my best to pretend I was calm. But I wasn’t remotely calm.

My ex-wife mumbled something half-asleep and draped an arm over my chest. Her casual and familiar hand brushed against my side. Her best friend shifted, too, well, a little, her leg slightly touching mine. Her skin was warm and unclothed. I remember admitting to myself that, just then, they were both wearing only their panties and no bras, which I found more arousing than seeing only one pair of boobs, pfft, of course! There were only thin sleeping bags and lust between us.

I tried to think of baseball stats, or taxes, or Riley’s dad’s face — something to kill the tension. But nothing helped.

At some point, her best friend whispered, “You always sleep naked?”

My heart started beating fast, throat suddenly went dry. I was thinking, “Maybe it was a mistake, sleeping naked tonight.” But instead, I said, “Yeah. Can’t stand the feeling of clothes wrapped around me all night.”

Riley let out a soft laugh, not teasing, more like amused curiosity. I could hear her smile, which she decided to keep inside.

“That’s sexy,” she said, low and close.

I could feel her breath against my neck. My ex-wife shifted slightly beside me, adjusting her arm without saying a word, pretending to be asleep. Or maybe not, because I could feel her fingertips drag more slowly than was necessary down my chest before settling back on my ribs.

“I don’t know if I could do that,” Riley added, still whispering. “Too… exposed, I guess,” like she was not half naked already.

“I’m used to it,” I murmured, trying to sound casual. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” she said. “I mean, come on. You’re in a tent. In the middle. Between two mostly-naked women.”

My wife gave a quiet chuckle, not even pretending to be asleep now. “Don’t encourage him, R.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying, if he’s gonna make things awkward, we should at least point it out.”

I laughed under my breath, but it came out tight and tense, and I hoped they didn’t notice because even though I was trying to play it cool, my body was hot, and my dick was already hard. And the fabric of my sleeping bag wasn’t doing me any favors.

“You’re making it awkward by talking about it,” I pointed out.

“That’s fair,” Riley admitted.

But then it got quiet again, where you can hear everyone’s breathing, hear every small rustling of fabrics like a thunderclap. I could feel Riley’s thigh against mine, my wife’s breath on my shoulder, and the way my skin felt was too tight for my body.

Riley said, “You know what I used to play when I was a kid?”

“What?” my wife asked, voice groggy but curious.

“That game, where you close your eyes and guess who’s touching you. Like… light touches. Just a fingertip or something. You remember that?”

“I do,” my wife said. “We used to do it on sleepovers.”

Riley turned her head toward me. I didn’t see it, but I felt the shift in the air, the weight of her gaze on me.

“Wanna play?”

I paused.

“You’re serious?” I asked.

“I’m game,” Riley put very casually. “No pressure, though. We’re just lying here. It could be fun.”

I could feel my wife’s hand slide slightly off my chest, her thumb trailing absent-minded circles on my stomach, not stopping it, not pulling away.

“Okay,” she said before I even opened my mouth to respond. “But he has to guess right.”

“Deal,” Riley said, I could hear the grin in her voice, “You ready, middle man?”

I pulled the edge of my sleeping bag up to cover my eyes, even though my heart was pounding with anticipation, my skin was buzzing even before any of them touched me. I wasn’t sure if I could breathe right, but I nodded.

I lay there, blind, every nerve suddenly tuned in. I felt a light touch on my hand — just one finger, slow and curious.

“Right,” I said.

Riley laughed. “Too easy.”

Then silence.

The next touch was slower, hardly there, across my collarbone. It was a single fingertip, tracing a line like it had something to say.

“Left.”

My wife hummed. “Nice.”

I felt like I was floating — not because of the game, but because of how unspoken everything was. No one said anything, but everything was being communicated.

The third touch was different. Both hands, lightly resting — one on my ribs, the other low on my stomach. The touch was still, and I could very well feel it.

I didn’t guess.

I didn’t want to.

Instead, I let the silence stretch — warm and tense — and as ridiculous as it might sound, I wanted the hands to move lower, to pretend I didn’t notice they were touching me, just so they would keep touching me even more.

“You okay?” Riley whispered, her voice suddenly husky.

“Yeah,” I said. “Keep going.”

“You don’t want to stop?” my wife asked, her voice close now. She must’ve leaned in.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

Riley shifted closer, her forehead gently touching my shoulder now.

“You’re not,” she said.

The air in the tent was thick with the kind of tension that hums under your skin, makes your breath come shallow, your pulse thump in places you usually ignore.

Riley’s whisper — “You’re not” — hung there like she was testing the water. And then, before I could overthink it, her fingers moved. Not just a light touch anymore, but a slow, purposeful drag down my ribs, her nails barely skimming. My stomach tightened.

My wife — ex-wife, fuck, why did my brain keep doing that? — let out this little exhale, almost a laugh, but not quite. Her hand, still resting on my stomach, flexed slightly, her thumb pressing into the dip of my hip.

“Guess,” Riley murmured, her breath warm against my neck.

I swallowed. “Left.”

She hummed, low and pleased. “Lucky guess.”

But it wasn’t luck. I knew her touch already; she was lighter than my wife’s and more teasing. My wife’s hands were always confident and right now, that was the heel of her palm pressing just above the waistband of my sleeping bag, her fingers splayed possessively over my hip.

Then Riley’s hand slid lower.

I sucked in a breath.

Her fingertips brushed the top of my thigh, so close to where I was already hard, aching. My sleeping bag was thin, and there was no hiding the way my cock twitched when she traced a slow circle.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

My wife chuckled, her lips brushing my shoulder. “You gonna keep guessing?”

I shook my head, the fabric over my eyes slipping a little. “Not sure I can.”

Riley’s laugh was breathy, close. “Then what are you gonna do about it?”

Her hand dipped under the edge of my sleeping bag, fingers curling around me. The second she touched me, my hips jerked up on instinct. She squeezed, just enough to make me groan, and then her thumb swiped over the head, smearing the wetness already gathered there.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

My wife shifted beside me, her leg hooking over mine, her knee nudging my thigh wider. “You like that?” she asked, voice low, rough.

I didn’t answer because I could not, especially with Riley’s hand moving, her grip tightening around my dick just a fraction as she stroked me slowly, then faster, and faster, her thumb circling the slit every time she reached the top. My hands fisted in the sleeping bag, my hips rocking into her touch.

Then my wife’s mouth was on my neck, her teeth scraping just hard enough to make me convulse. “You’re so fucking hard,” she murmured, her tongue soothing the bite.

Riley breathed hard, “God, I can feel it,” she whispered, her fingers tightening. “You wanna come like this?”

I shook my head again, blindly reaching for her wrist. “No, not yet.”

A beat of silence, then my wife’s hand slid down, her fingers knotting with Riley’s around my cock. “Then how?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

I didn’t have to look to know they were looking at each other. Riley was the one to move first.

I felt the shift in the tent, the rustle of fabric as she wriggled out of her sleeping bag. Then her hands were on my waist, pushing the material down, baring me to the oppressive heat of the tent. The second I was free, her mouth was on me. I groaned at the wetness and hotness of her mouth on my cock. My head fell back in pleasure. “Shit — Riley.”

She moaned on my cock, her tongue flattening against the underside before she took me deeper with her tight lips. My wife’s hand slid into Riley’s hair, guiding her, and the sight of it in my head — fuck, the two of them like this — it was a heavenly sight.

My wife gave me a hungry kiss, her tongue sweeping into my mouth as Riley sucked me deeper, her nails digging into my thighs. I could taste the beer on my wife’s lips, smell the sunscreen and sweat on her skin. When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath uneven. “You wanna fuck her?” she asked, blunt, no games now.

I didn’t say a word, I just gave her a silent stare.

Riley lifted her head with a wet pop, her chin glistening, “Yeah?”

I reached for her, my fingers twisting in her hair. “Yes.”

She didn’t waver.

The tent was too small for classiness, but Riley didn’t seem to care. She straddled me in one fluid motion, her thighs framing my hips, her panties already pushed aside. I could feel how wet she was, the smooth heat of her against my stomach.

My wife’s hand slid between us, guiding me to Riley’s entrance. “Go on,” she murmured, her lips against my ear.

I pushed up, and Riley sank down in one slow, tasty slide.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her nails biting into my shoulders.

She was tight, so fucking tight, and so warm that I could barely think. My hands found her hips, holding her as she rocked against me, her body taking me deeper with every movement.

My wife watched us, her eyes opaque, her hands caressing Riley’s back. “You feel good?” she asked, her voice rough.

Riley nodded, her breath coming in little pants. “So good — god, he’s so deep — “

My wife smirked, her hand slipping between Riley’s legs, on her pussy, “Then come on him.”

Riley’s hips stuttered, her rhythm faltering as my wife’s fingers found her clit. “Oh — oh fuck — “

I thrust up, harder, my grip tightening on her ass. “That’s it,” I growled. “Take it.”

She came with a broken cry, her body clamping around me, her nails scratching down my chest. The second she shuddered, my wife leaned in, kissing her, swallowing her moans.

I was close, too, so fucking close, but my wife pulled Riley off me before I could finish, her hand replacing where Riley had been, “My turn,” she demanded.

Riley collapsed onto the sleeping bag beside us, breathless, her skin flushed. “Yeah,” she panted. “Yeah.”

My wife climbed over me, her knees bracketing my hips, her panties gone now. She didn’t wait, didn’t tease — just sank down onto me in one smooth motion.

She panted, her hips rolling.

I groaned, my hands gripping her thighs.

She rode me slowly at first, her nails scraping down my chest, her breath hot against my skin. But then Riley shifted, her mouth finding my wife’s neck, her hands sliding up her stomach to cup her breasts.

My wife’s rhythm faltered, her hips jerking when Riley pinched her nipples. “Shit — “

Riley grinned against her skin. “You like that?”

My wife’s answer was to grind down harder, her fingers tangling in Riley’s hair as she gave her a sloppy and desperate kiss.

I could feel her tightening around me, her body quivering. “Come on,” I gritted out, thrusting up. “Let go.”

She did, her back arching, her cry muffled against Riley’s mouth. The second she clenched around me, I was gone, my release hitting me so hard I saw stars.

For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing, the rustle of fabric as we collapsed into a sweaty, sated heap.

Riley was the first to speak with a lazy and satisfied voice, “So, still think sleeping naked’s not a big deal?”

I laughed, breathless, my arm slung over my eyes, “Shut up.”

My wife curled into my side,

her leg snaring over mine, “Mm. Best camping trip ever.”

And for once, I didn’t argue.