Things We Tried On - Ch. 02

"There's a moment, always, when friendship tilts into something else."

We began, quite simply, by spending as much time with Barbara and Ken as we could. It happened naturally at first -- the ease of proximity, the kids getting along, the kind of casual closeness that doesn't need to be named. But before long, it was more than that. We weren't just seeing them often -- we were constantly drawn together.

Barbara and I slipped into a rhythm of our own. Every afternoon we'd steal a few hours for coffee and quiet conversation. It became a ritual -- one I looked forward to more than I ever admitted. And as couples, we were inseparable. At least once every weekend, and more often than not, one or two nights during the week, we found ourselves together again -- shared meals, slow drinks, laughter that stretched late into the night.

It was convenient, sure. We could drop in on each other without ceremony. No babysitter hassles. No reservations. No pressure. Just slip off your shoes, pour a drink, settle in.

"This is too easy," I once said, handing Barbara a mug of coffee across the kitchen table. "If it were any easier, we'd be living together."

She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Give it time," she teased, "Ken keeps saying it feels like we're halfway there already."

I smiled but said nothing. The thought had crossed my mind too -- in a strange, sideways sort of way.

It was during those nights -- the ones with the four of us -- that I started to notice Ken more clearly. He was attractive, no question. But it wasn't just that. It was the way he listened. Really listened. Most men treat another man's wife like an accessory -- polite, even kind, but never truly personal. They see you as part of a pair, not a person.

But Ken...

Ken met my eyes when we spoke. He laughed at my jokes, not just out of politeness, but because they genuinely amused him. He noticed things -- when I changed my hair, when I wore something new, when I was unusually quiet. And he never made it feel inappropriate. Just... attentive.

One evening, as the four of us sat out on our patio, nursing glasses of wine under the string lights, Ken turned to me in the middle of a conversation about music and said, "You know, I love the way your mind works."

I blinked, caught off guard. "My mind?"

"Yes," he said with a warm smile. "You always take things somewhere unexpected. It's refreshing."

Barbara gave him a playful nudge. "Careful, Ken," she said. "You're flirting."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Only a little. Respectfully."

I laughed it off, but I carried that comment with me. It lingered longer than it should have.

Later that night, as we cleaned up in the kitchen, I turned to Barbara and murmured, "Do you think he meant it?"

She tilted her head. "Of course he did. You're easy to like."

"That's not what I mean."

Barbara gave me one of her long, unreadable looks. Then she smiled. "You're not imagining things. He sees you."

And that was it -- that one sentence. He sees you.

I don't know how much of what I felt toward Ken was sexual. Maybe more than I admitted to myself at the time. But I do know this: he made me feel something rare. Like I was being noticed -- not as someone's wife, not as a mom, not as part of a couple -- but as a woman. As myself.

And it had been a long time since anyone had made me feel that way.

I noticed it before she did. The way Archie's eyes lingered on Barb when he thought no one else was watching. The way his posture changed when she spoke -- a little straighter, a little more alert, as if her words mattered more than anyone else's. It wasn't threatening, not yet. Just... interesting.

I didn't blame him. Barbara had a presence -- the kind that snuck up on you. It wasn't just her looks, though those helped. It was her calm. Her thoughtfulness. The way she let silence stretch without fidgeting to fill it. That kind of stillness draws people in.

And Archie? Archie had always been a collector of quiet, clever women. It's what drew him to me in the first place. But with Barbara, there was something different. Something more subtle. More layered.

One night, after dinner at their place, I found myself alone with Barbara in the kitchen while the men carted dishes out to the car.

She stood at the sink, drying a wine glass with slow, deliberate strokes, her fingers graceful, almost tender. "Archie pays attention," she said, her voice low, eyes fixed on the glass. "More than most."

I tilted my head. "He does. Especially to you." I hesitated, then added, "Yesterday he said your boobs reminded him of big, ripe mangoes."

She let out a soft laugh, her blush blooming instantly. It wasn't coy -- it was warmer than that. Pleased, but unpolished. "I wasn't fishing."

"I know," I said, stepping a little closer. I took the glass from her hands -- careful not to linger, though my fingers itched to -- and slipped it into the cupboard. "But you caught something anyway."

Her smile faltered just slightly, as if something stirred beneath it. She looked at me -- truly looked -- and for a breath, the air between us thickened. Something had shifted. Gently. But unmistakably.

She blushed again. Not playfully. Not teasing. Just... open. Sweet. And suddenly I felt it: a tug in my chest that melted downward in a slow, warm coil. Not just admiration. Not just curiosity.

Something stranger. Something tender. Something hungry. But more than anything? It was curiosity.

Later that week, as Archie and I were getting ready for bed, I brought it up like it was nothing -- like I hadn't been replaying that moment in the kitchen for days.

"So... you and Barbara," I said, brushing my hair at the mirror. "You like her."

Archie, already under the covers, looked up. "Of course. She's great."

"No," I said slowly. "I mean... do you like her?"

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then: "You're asking if I'm attracted to her."

I met his eyes in the mirror. "Yes. You said her boobs reminded you of mangoes. Do you think they're... shapelier than mine?"

He exhaled, long and low. "I think she's... fascinating."

Fascinating. The word landed in my chest like a bell. It didn't hurt. Not exactly. But it cracked something open in me. Something I hadn't realized was waiting.

"And if I said I didn't mind?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "If I said... I think she's fascinating too?"

Archie sat up slowly, cautious hope flickering behind his eyes. "Are you serious?"

I turned from the mirror to face him, brushing my hair behind one ear. "I am," I said. "I don't know exactly what I want... but I want to stop pretending I don't feel things."

He looked stunned -- not in fear, but like someone waking up mid-dream and realizing it's better than real life. "You've thought about her?"

I nodded. "And you've obviously thought about her too."

He gave a small, nervous laugh. "I mean, I'm human."

"So am I," I said, crossing the room slowly, sliding into bed beside him. I pulled the sheets over us and laid my hand over his chest, feeling the quick beat of his heart. "Would it scare you? If we explored that... together?"

Archie searched my face, like he needed to be absolutely sure this wasn't a trap, a test, or some strange joke. "It wouldn't scare me," he said finally. "It would turn me on."

His honesty stirred something inside me -- a thrill, a relief. "Me too."

We lay there for a few moments, the air thick with possibility. Then I added, "You know, she blushes so easily. I touched her hand when we were drying glasses, and she just lit up."

He smiled. "She's always had that softness. That glow."

"I want to see what happens when that softness gets touched the right way," I whispered. "I want to watch her melt."

Archie groaned softly and rolled toward me, his hand tracing a line along my thigh. "God, you're dangerous."

"No," I said, lips brushing his ear, "I'm curious."

His hand slid higher. "So what do we do?"

I kissed him, slow and deliberate, then pulled back just enough to speak. "We start by being honest. The rest will come."

***

It started innocently enough -- if anything about this was innocent.

A brush of knees under the café table. A longer-than-necessary hug when we said goodbye. Laughs that turned into lingering glances. We tested the boundaries, gently, like pressing fingers against soft clay to see if it would give. Barbara never pulled away. She never even seemed surprised.

One rainy afternoon, we stayed in instead of going out for coffee. Barbara had invited me over while Archie was out on errands, the kids miraculously away at a friend's for the day. It felt like stolen time.

We sat on her couch, legs tucked beneath us, mugs of tea in hand. The rain patterned the windows like a secret rhythm, cocooning us in a soft hush.

"I love days like this," I said. "Where everything slows down. No pressure to perform."

Barbara smiled, drawing her knees closer. "You perform?"

I let the question hang in the air before answering. "Don't we all? With our husbands. With friends. Even with each other, sometimes."

Her smile faded just a little, but not in a bad way. More like she was considering something deeply. "Maybe," she said. "But not with you. Not lately."

I tilted my head. "What changed?"

Barbara took a breath, her fingers tightening slightly around her mug. "You did. You started seeing me... like I was something worth seeing."

God, I wanted to touch her then. Just a hand on her wrist, maybe. But I stayed still, let the tension hum between us. "Maybe you started letting yourself be seen," I offered gently.

Barbara's eyes met mine -- steady, open, but shadowed with something deeper. Hunger, maybe. Or loneliness. Or both.

I shifted closer, our knees brushing. She didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a slow breath and rested her head against the back of the couch, exposing the graceful line of her neck.

"I think about you more than I should," I said softly.

Her eyes fluttered open. "Linda..."

I reached out, my fingers grazing hers. "Not in a jealous way. Not in a 'take you from him' kind of way. Just... in the quiet moments. When I'm alone. When I remember how you smell after a glass of wine, or how your laugh catches at the end. It stays with me."

Barbara looked down at our hands -- not intertwined yet, just touching -- and then lifted her gaze again, slower this time.

"Archie knows," I whispered.

She smiled. "So does Ken. We've all been playing a very long, very polite game. But I think we're ready for something a little more... honest." She didn't say a word. Just turned her hand, palm-up, like an invitation. No drama, no hesitation -- just quiet, electric openness.

I slid my fingers between hers.

And just like that, we weren't wives anymore. Or mothers. Or even neighbors chatting over drinks. We were two women hovering at the edge of something unspoken -- thrilling, tender, a little dangerous. Neither of us had a name for it yet. But we both felt it.

And then -- it happened. The shift. The moment that nudged everything closer.

From the moment she gave me that smile I don't suppose the issue was ever seriously in doubt. I was pretty well trapped. I ultimately agreed that there was no valid reason not to try it. I agreed to go along with it, though not without some protest.

"I honestly don't think I'll know what to do," I said, trying to keep my voice light, maybe even a little amused.

Barbara just smiled -- that infuriatingly confident, knowing smile she wore so well. "You don't have to do anything," she said, brushing my arm lightly. "I'll take care of everything. You just have to relax and enjoy it."

"Enjoy it?" I repeated, with more skepticism than I intended.

"If you feel like touching me, kissing me, caressing me -- then join in," she said, leaning in, her voice suddenly softer. "But if not, that's fine. Just be there."

I was oddly relieved by that. It felt like it would be much easier to endure something passively than to leap into it headfirst. If it all became too much, I could just go still, let it wash over me. If all else failed, I told myself, I could lie there like a corpse until she got bored and gave it up as a bad job.

Well. We all make mistakes, don't we? The truth is, it was... pretty fantastic.

At one point, Barbara leaned over and whispered, "We could go to one of the bedrooms."

I hesitated. God, I wanted to. But somehow, I needed to keep this wrapped in a layer of performance. I needed to pretend we were doing this for viewer.

"No," I said, louder than I meant to. "Let's stay right here. That's the whole point, right?"

Barbara tilted her head, watching me for a moment. Then she smiled again, slower this time, like she knew exactly what was going on.

"Right here, then," she said. "Just you and me. And somebody else watching."

And that's how it happened.

We got undressed.

It should've felt routine -- I'd seen Barbara naked. But this time... this time it felt different. It was as if I were seeing her for the first time. Not just looking at her, but seeing her -- as a woman, as a source of pleasure, of desire. As a love object, even. And that was new. Unnervingly new.

I felt embarrassed beyond belief. Exposed, in a way I hadn't expected. It wasn't the nudity -- at least, not exactly. It was the intent behind it. The way Barbara was looking at me -- softly, warmly, but with a purpose -- made me feel suddenly self-conscious, like I was stepping into a role I hadn't rehearsed for.

I sat down awkwardly on the couch, trying not to overthink where to place my hands or how I was holding my shoulders. I probably looked like I was about to be interviewed, not seduced.

Then Barbara walked over, calm and confident, her movements unhurried. She sat next to me -- close, but not crowding -- and placed her hand gently on my shoulder.

"You're beautiful," she said. She looked me directly in the eye. "You know that, right?"

I couldn't hold her gaze. I laughed nervously instead. "That's very kind of you to say. But I feel... ridiculous."

"You're not," she said softly. Her hand slid down my arm. "You're allowed to be nervous. I just want you to be here with me. That's all."

There was something in her tone -- reassuring, patient -- that made it just a little easier to breathe. I nodded, barely, and gave her the smallest smile I could manage.

"I'm trying," I whispered.

"I know," she said, and leaned in, brushing her lips lightly against my shoulder.

"I think you've got a much better figure than I do," I said.

Barbara gave me a look -- half amusement, half something else. "I like the way you're built," she said plainly, like it wasn't even up for debate.

I laughed, a short, nervous sound. "Oh, God. This is ridiculous."

But she didn't laugh. Instead, she leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn't a quick, friendly kiss. It wasn't the kind of kiss women give each other in greeting or goodbye, the kind that means no more than a handshake. This was different. This had weight. Her mouth was soft, her breath warm, and there was this faint, almost floral scent rising from her skin that made my thoughts scatter.

It felt too strange for words.

I pulled back. "This is just... silly," I muttered, shaking my head, trying to retreat into some version of normal.

Barbara didn't flinch. Her expression softened, and she reached out to touch my cheek. "You have to give it a chance," she said. Her voice had taken on this low, husky tone, full of seriousness and something else -- desire, maybe. Or intent.

She was already slipping into the mood, that much was clear.

I took a breath. A deep one.

Maybe I just needed to commit. Push past the weirdness. Do whatever I could to make it feel good -- let it feel good.

Barbara leaned in again, her fingers brushing over my knee this time. She kissed me once more, slower now, and I let her. I closed my eyes, telling myself I could fake it if I had to. Pretend she was a man. Pretend this was normal.

Her lips moved against mine, soft and patient. Not demanding. Just there.

And somehow... pretending didn't feel as necessary anymore.

It started out the way I'd planned -- telling myself she was a man, pretending I wasn't really there -- but that didn't last very long. Not even close.

It became confusing almost immediately. Strange. Disorienting in a way that felt more physical than mental.

Barbara kissed me again, and this time, I opened my mouth without thinking. Her tongue slipped inside -- warm, sure, unhurried. And suddenly I wasn't just tolerating it. I was participating. I was kissing her back.

I didn't even notice when my hands moved, one of them brushing against her side, the other resting on her thigh.

My thoughts felt like they were being dragged in two directions at once.

On one hand, I was still myself -- a woman, being kissed by another woman -- but somehow, in the heat of it, Barbara stopped feeling like a woman to me. Not exactly. She was like a man in that moment, taking the lead, making me feel... desired. Possessed.

And then the feeling flipped, suddenly and without warning. I was the man. Kissing a soft, beautiful girl. Touching her. Wanting her.

The strange part? It kept switching back and forth. First I was her, then I was me. Then I was neither, or maybe both. I couldn't hold onto a single identity. I was just caught in this loop -- this rhythm of alternating emotions, shifting desires. One moment vulnerable, the next in control. It was like watching my body respond while my mind tried to catch up.

At some point, Barbara pulled back slightly and looked into my eyes.

"You feel it, don't you?" she whispered.

I couldn't speak. I just nodded, mouth half-open, trying to breathe.

She smiled, slow and knowing. "It's not just about who we are," she said softly. "It's about what we can become."

I couldn't argue with that. Not in the state I was in. I let go. I let my body do what it wanted. And it wanted her.

We lay down on the couch, slowly, without a word. I was on my back, eyes closed, and Barbara leaned over me, her body warm and soft against mine. Her lips found mine again, and we kissed -- long, unhurried, almost dreamy.

I felt her breasts pressing against mine -- skin on skin -- and the sensation caught me off guard. It was... odd. Odd but undeniably nice.

A small, breathy laugh escaped me. "This is so strange," I murmured.

Barbara smiled against my mouth. "It's only strange if you fight it," she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. "Don't think. Just feel."

And I did.

I let my mind drift and found myself picturing how we looked together -- our bodies intertwined, mouths meeting, her dark hair falling over my face as she kissed me. I imagined watching us from above, like a slow, silent film.

Her hand found my breast, and she stroked it gently before leaning down to kiss it -- then again, slower -- and then she took my nipple between her lips and sucked softly.

I gasped. My back arched ever so slightly.

I wanted to touch her, too. I wanted to explore her the same way she was exploring me. But I didn't. I wasn't ready to lead. I didn't want to lead.

Her touch was sure, confident. It wasn't aggressive -- it was graceful, tender -- but she knew what she was doing. I remember thinking how incredibly soft her hands were. Like silk over skin.

Eventually, I reached up and cupped her breasts in my hands. They were warm and full, and I held them for a moment, unsure of what came next. There were impulses tugging at me -- urges to do more, to press forward, to give in -- but stronger than that was the desire to receive. To simply be there and let her awaken me.

Barbara looked into my eyes, her voice like velvet. "You don't have to do anything unless you want to," she said. "Let me take care of you."

I nodded. Gratefully.

And she did.

By then, my body was definitely responding. There was no denying it. I was aroused -- but it didn't feel like the kind of arousal I knew. It wasn't sharp and urgent, the way it often was with men. It was deeper. Slower. Like warm water filling me from the inside, rising inch by inch.

It was... completely different. Alien and yet somehow familiar. And I didn't know what to call it. But I wanted more. Ultimately, I stopped thinking altogether.

I stopped pretending, stopped resisting, stopped questioning what it meant or who I was supposed to be in the moment. I became completely involved. Consumed.

Barbara slid down my body slowly, kissing her way along my stomach with a kind of reverence that made my breath catch. And then she settled between my legs.

I felt her long hair spilling over my thighs, brushing against my skin like silk, and then -- God -- the smoothness of her face as she pressed closer. No scratchy stubble, no harsh texture like with men. Just warmth. Just softness. She kissed the inside of my thigh, her mouth lingering there, and I shivered.

She looked up at me, her voice low, velvet-rich. "Just let go," she whispered. "Let me give you this."

I opened my mouth to say something -- I don't know what, maybe a protest or maybe a thank you -- but nothing came out. Just a sound, half-breath, half-moan.

And then she began.

The first touch of her tongue was almost too much. Gentle, deliberate, impossibly slow. She knew exactly where to go and how to move -- there was no fumbling, no hesitation. She read my body like it was a book she'd memorized cover to cover.

"Oh -- " I gasped. My hips moved without permission.

She didn't stop. She just kept going, patient and focused, like she had all the time in the world.

The sensation built in layers -- ripples turning to waves. My fingers tangled in her hair, not to guide her, just to hold on. My legs fell open wider on their own, my body completely abandoning its pretense of control.

She whispered something against me -- I think it was "You're beautiful when you fall apart," -- but the words dissolved into sensation.

And then I was gone. Somewhere along the way, I got lost. I forgot where I was. Forgot why I ever hesitated. Forgot who was watching, who I was supposed to be. There was no "me" anymore -- just feeling.

It wasn't like with men. It wasn't linear, it wasn't driven. It was circular. Expansive. I felt like I was melting from the inside, like I was turning into color and heat and pulse and breath.

And when I came -- it wasn't even a climax so much as a cascade. A slow-motion explosion. I didn't come in a sound -- I came in colors. Liquid light. Trembling waves. I came with my mouth open, my head thrown back, my hands shaking.

I came completely.

"What a fuck," Barb whispered breathlessly, catching my eye for a second, and we both laughed in disbelief. Like we were watching ourselves from the ceiling and couldn't believe any of it was real.

I wanted to return the favor. To do for her what she had done for me. I really did. But I still felt awkward about it. I wasn't ready to say it, even though my body already knew.

And you know what? I was glad. I wanted to do that for her, and I didn't feel weird or guilty or ashamed. I felt... kind of proud, actually.

Proud that I'd let go. Proud that I'd let her in. Proud that I could feel this much and not run from it.

Barb must have seen it on my face, because she didn't press me. She just curled up beside me, her skin warm against mine, and rested her head on my shoulder like we'd done this a hundred times. Like we'd always end up here.

The room was quiet, except for the sound of our breathing syncing up. Her fingers traced light shapes along my stomach -- not trying to start something new, just lingering, like she didn't want to let go of the moment either.

"I didn't know," I said quietly. "I didn't know it could feel like that."

She smiled against my skin. "It's different when there's no map," she said. "Just instinct."

I turned my head to look at her -- really look at her -- and for the first time, I didn't feel like I had to label any of it. I didn't have to define what this was or what it meant. I just had to feel it.

And I did.

It didn't matter where it would lead, or what we'd say tomorrow. All that mattered was the softness of her against me, the quiet thrum of something new taking root between us.

And the certainty -- strange and sudden and sweet -- that I would carry this moment with me, tucked beneath my ribs, long after the warmth of her touch faded.

Because now I knew.

And I would never unknow it.