Trivia Night

It was trivia night, though neither of you remember a single question. The bar was over lit, the sound mix bad--it was difficult to hear the questions. A typical Tuesday, tables full of people half-listening to the host and overthinking the spelling of "acquiesce."

You sat with your wife in a booth near the back. She wore a red blouse--and tan pants too, you can't remember now--striking in a way that didn't announce itself; elegant, composed, not overtly sexual, but with a quiet sensuality that lingered in the air around her. You'd both had long days. There was a looseness in her posture, a warmth in her voice, and then, at some point, there was the girl. Across from your table, maybe thirty feet, sitting at the end of the bar.

She wasn't exactly beautiful. Or maybe she was.

Cute, definitely. That kind of reserved prettiness that sneaks up on you--not the type that announces itself, but the kind you start noticing more with every glance. A face that looked younger than it probably was. Not girlish, but unfinished in a way that suggested she hadn't quite settled into herself yet. Straight blond hair that hovered at her shoulders, as if she hadn't touched it all night, and eyes a little too big for her face, which somehow made them feel more expressive. Fair skin, almost translucent in the light. Her clothes were deliberate in their conservatism: a dark gray turtleneck, almost tight to her chest. Black pinstripe pants that made her hips seem narrower than they were.

She had the kind of posture that read as self-contained. Not stiff, not shy--just private. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she spoke. The way she tilted her head to listen to the older man next to her at the bar. She didn't fidget. Didn't scroll on her phone. She had a glass of water in front of her that she barely touched.

It was like she wasn't trying to impress anyone--but somehow, that made her more watchable.

You tried not to stare. But every time she stood, something happened. The room, which had felt loose and unfocused, suddenly felt still. And you felt yourself shift in your seat without realizing you were doing it. Her hips, narrow and swaying only slightly in the fitted pinstripe pants. Her sweater, snug enough to show the suggestion of a figure but modest enough to feel accidental. There was a line of skin at her wrist where her sleeve had ridden up--pale and almost too intimate, like the hint of a shoulder would've been less revealing.

Every ten minutes, she stood, walked--slowly--to the bar to turn in her team's answer sheet. Not once did she look around, not even when the room quieted. But your eyes found her every time, and--after a while--you thought maybe your wife's did too.

"She's a graduate student," your wife said. "Or maybe just looks like one."

You looked at her. "How do you know?"

"I don't," she replied, sipping her cider. "But she's not dressed like someone trying to impress a date. And that man she's with--he's not her boyfriend. He's either her professor, her uncle, or her boss. She doesn't flirt with him. She explains things to him."

As the girl walked to the moderator, the trivia sheet crinkled slightly in her damp palm--a sign she hoped no one noticed. She was hyper-aware of the room's eyes, the way background voices dipped as she passed, though she told herself it was just her imagination. Still, whenever she explained an answer, a quiet pride stirred in her chest. It wasn't the trivia she loved, but the moment of certainty--brief, rare--when she felt clever enough, seen enough, even while mostly invisible.

"I think she's cold," your wife murmured, watching the girl return to her seat. "That sweater looks warm, but her arms were tight across her chest. Not defensive. Just withholding."

A silence fell. Not awkward. Just full.

Then your wife leaned closer, her voice a touch lower. "You've imagined her naked, haven't you?"

The words hung between you, dangerously casual.

You didn't look at her right away. Just watched the girl adjust her chair, tuck one leg under her as she leaned over her team's answer sheet. "No," you said.

Your wife tilted her head.

"Not naked," you clarified. "Just... halfway undressed. Like she doesn't realize it yet."

A slow exhale. Your wife's lips curled, just slightly. "That's worse."

You shrugged, smiling. "I know."

Across the bar, the girl glanced toward the window, distracted by something outside. The gesture was slight, but when her eyes returned to the room, they didn't land on her teammate. For the briefest moment--half a heartbeat--she looked your way. Or maybe past you. You couldn't tell.

--

Through the haze of trivia questions and glances, the truth of who she was lingered out of reach--until beneath the noise and the watching eyes, something more intimate surfaced.

Her name was Mia.

She was twenty-four. She'd once been told she had "an old face," whatever that meant. She'd grown up in Vermont, studied art history, hated red wine, and knew almost nothing about trivia.

She wasn't cold. She was overstimulated.

She wore the pinstripe pants because they made her feel precise, contained. The sweater was soft, though it itched a little where the seams pressed against her skin. Mia was used to noticing subtle shifts in the atmosphere around her--the fleeting hush in a conversation, the weight of someone's attention, that almost imperceptible pause in the air before something happened, like the world holding its breath before rain. Tonight, she sensed that hush more clearly: a prickling awareness at the nape of her neck, as if eyes lingered just a moment too long. She tried to keep her focus on the trivia questions, but distraction teased at her thoughts. Once or twice, she dared a glance across the bar, her pulse quickening when she sensed eyes upon her. A flush crept up her cheeks, confusing but secretly thrilling, awakening something restless and electric beneath her skin.

She was the kind of girl who noticed when women stared harder than men. Who trusted accidents more than intentions. Who had once had a dream about undressing in front of strangers, not to seduce them--but because no one had told her she couldn't.

--

Mia stood again. You noticed the moment her hand touched the edge of the bar, the way her fingers curled slightly as she pushed herself up. She crossed in front of you this time--no longer just in the background, but in the foreground now, close enough to smell something faint and herbal as she passed. Sage or lavender. Something gentle, vaguely feminine.

Inside, Mia's heart tripped over itself. Each step forward felt deliberate, her awareness sharpening with every stray breath that grazed her skin. She registered the glances--quick, heavy, impossible to read--felt her own face flush, but kept her eyes forward, determined not to stumble. With every inch closer, the air thickened around her, both intimidating and secretly exhilarating.

When Mia returned to her seat at the bar, your wife turned to you. Her expression unreadable. Her voice even.

"If she asked you to kiss her," she said, "but you weren't allowed to touch her anywhere but her mouth--would you do it?"

The question hit like a silent alarm.

You blinked. "What?"

Your wife didn't smile. Didn't look away. "Would you kiss her if you knew you couldn't have anything else? If you had to sit with that forever after?"

You laughed once, but it was too late. You were already imagining it.

Your wife leaned in, whispering now. "Do you think she's ever had someone older teach her how to cum with her clothes still on?"

A pause.

"I think," your wife said softly, "you'd be good at that."

Before you could answer--before you even breathed--Mia walked back toward the moderator and past your table again. This time, her eyes dipped toward the floor. Or maybe not. Maybe they flicked up, just for a second. Just enough.

--

That night, the questions hung between you, echoing in the hush of the drive home and the quiet ritual of getting ready for bed. Both of you pretended to sleep easily.

The next morning, the house was too bright. The sun had come in hard through the kitchen window and made your wife squint over her coffee. She was wearing the oversized sleep shirt you always liked--one of yours, long enough to be modest but just short enough to remind you she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

You hadn't spoken about Mia. Not directly. But she was there, curled in the silence between toast and jam.

The silence stretched, weighted with unspoken names. The scrape of a knife on toast startled you back into the room.

Your wife stirred her coffee slowly. Then she said, "So. About the girl."

You hesitated. "Mia?"

She looked up, amused. "Mia?"

You blinked. "I--made that up."

She smiled faintly, but something shifted. "What did you imagine last night? After we got home?"

You tried to play dumb. "What do you mean?"

She leaned back. "I mean when I went to bed before you. When you stayed up for twenty minutes. What did you think about?"

You paused.

"I thought about kissing her," you said--truth, mostly. "Just that. At first."

"At first," your wife repeated. "And then?"

You breathed out. "Then I imagined what she'd do if you told her to sit still and just watch."

Your wife didn't blink. "And did she?"

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. She didn't even breathe hard. She just sat there and stared. Like she wanted to learn something."

Your wife was quiet for a moment. "I imagined her too," she said.

You looked up. Surprised. She never admitted that sort of thing. Not like this.

"She smells like sleep," she said. "You know what I mean? That warm, breathy scent people have when they've just woken up."

You nodded slowly.

"I imagined her mouth pressing against your stomach," she said. "Not doing anything. Just that. Just the heat of it. Her mouth soft and closed. Her fingers curled around your thighs like she didn't know where to hold."

The silence crackled now. Thick with voltage.

You swallowed. "Do you think she wanted something?"

Your wife tilted her head. "Not yet. She doesn't know how to want like that yet. But she knows when she's being watched. And she's starting to like it."

Another pause. Your voice was quieter now. "What if she had come over to our table?"

Your wife shrugged. "I think I would've let her sit between us."

Your breath caught. You pictured it. The heat of it. The space. The way you'd both lean in, just enough to feel her skin without touching it.

Your wife looked at you, thoughtful.

Then, like it was nothing:

"Would you let me touch her first?"

The toast had gone cold. Your wife was playing with a corner of the crust, tearing it into neat little triangles without looking down.

"I would've touched her first," she said again. "But not where you'd think."

You were still reeling a little from her last question, the one hanging in the air like perfume.

"Where?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She tilted her head, almost like she was bored. But her voice betrayed the tension threading under the surface.

"Her hair," she said. "I'd run my fingers through it. Not like a lover. Like I was checking her. Feeling how she moved under something soft. Seeing if she flinched."

You swallowed hard. Said nothing.

"I don't think she would've," your wife went on. "Flinched, I mean. I think she's one of those girls who freezes instead. Not out of fear. Out of wanting too much and not knowing what to do with it."

A pause. You could hear sounds from outside. The dishwasher humming. Your heartbeat.

Your wife glanced up. "You want me to stop?"

You shook your head.

She reached for your coffee mug and took a sip from it even though hers was full. "What if she'd asked me something? Something private. What if she asked me what you look like when you cum?"

Your eyes snapped to hers. She was studying you now.

"What would you have done?" she asked.

You looked down. "I guess I'd listen."

"No," she said. "I mean, what would you have done if I answered her. In front of you."

You hesitated. Then: "It depends what you said."

Her voice was soft now. "What if I told her the truth?"

Your stomach tightened. "Which truth?"

She smiled faintly. "That you always look a little embarrassed. Like you're not sure if you were allowed to. Like you're waiting to see if I'm going to tease you or kiss you."

You looked away. Her voice followed you.

"Would you have been hard if I said that in front of her?"

You didn't answer.

"I think you would've," she said.

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It was jagged. And strange. You felt exposed. But not violated.

Just... seen.

Your wife watched you squirm, a glint in her eye like she was weighing something--testing how far she could push without snapping the wire.

Then, softly: "She'd ruin you."

You blinked. "What?"

She leaned on the table, chin resting in her hand. "That cute little blonde in her tight little pants. You'd fall apart the second she touched you. You know it. I know it."

You shifted in your seat.

"She wouldn't even have to try," your wife went on, voice smooth now, almost gentle. "She'd just brush your thigh with her wrist while pretending not to notice. Ask you some innocent question like, 'Does this place always get so loud?' and you'd be stiff under the table in seconds."

You swallowed hard. "That's not--"

"She wouldn't even know what she was doing," your wife interrupted. "That's the worst part. She'd be clumsy. Sweet. Curious. And you'd just melt."

You gave a weak laugh, but your face was hot.

"She'd put her hand over your pants and giggle--softly, like she didn't realize what she was doing to you," your wife said, eyes on you now. "And you'd cum just like that. Fast. Helpless. Right there, in your pants. Before you even knew how badly you needed to."

You opened your mouth--closed it again.

"Would you apologize to her?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or would you just sit there red-faced and wet, trying to act like you were fine while she looked at me for answers?"

You couldn't answer.

"You would, wouldn't you?" she said, voice silk-wrapped steel. "You'd look to me like you always do. And I'd just sit there. Let you stew in it. Let you ache."

She leaned back, satisfied. "You're hard now, aren't you?"

You didn't nod. You didn't need to.

She smiled without smiling. "I knew it."

The air between you changed. Something electric--humid with anticipation. She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving yours.

The silence swelled, growing heavier, as if the morning itself were holding its breath. You could sense something changing in her posture--a new confidence, almost predatory--her gaze sharpening as she set her cup down. Every inch of your skin felt newly exposed, raw and expectant, the world narrowing to nothing but her and the words you yearned for, and feared, her to say.

"I didn't imagine her touching you," she said finally. "Not really."

You met her gaze, heat prickling under your skin.

"I imagined me touching her."

Her words drifted between you, intoxicating--tangible as the heat radiating off her.

"I imagined how warm her skin would be. How she'd shiver a little if I ran my nails just under the waistband of those pretty pinstriped pants."

You couldn't answer. Every nerve stretched taut.

"She'd be soft," your wife went on, voice quiet, low. "Not in the way girls are when they're lazy. But soft like silk stretched over a wire. Tense underneath. Desperate to hold still. Trying to be good for me."

She licked a crumb off her thumb with slow deliberation, eyes wicked.

"I'd unbutton her pants. Slow. I'd savor it. Each pop louder than it had any right to be. And I wouldn't let you touch anything. Not me, not her--just watch. She'd stare at my lips, hungry, so distracted she'd barely notice you at all."

You shifted, restless.

"I'd hardly even look at you," she continued, almost absently, as if she were telling a dream. "I'd have her on the bed--knees curled under, legs barely apart, like a good girl trying not to be obvious."

Her voice turned soft, low and hot.

"She wouldn't know what to do with her hands. I'd guide her--show her how to spread her palms across those flushed thighs, tilt her chin up, let her pretty hair tumble aside. She'd be breathing so fast, trying so hard to act normal, but I'd feel her heart racing the moment I touched her."

You swallowed, hard.

"I'd go slow at first. Just my fingertips over her ribs. Watch her flinch, a little gasp--that involuntary jump when the pleasure's still new. That's my favorite. And I'd smile at her like she was my favorite secret."

She leaned her elbows on the table, voice a sharp whisper.

"She'd be lost, at first. I'd trace every inch--hipbones, then higher, brushing over her breasts just enough to make her whimper. And then I'd slide my hand inside those perfect pants--not just teasing, but letting her feel how badly I want her. Pressing into that heat until she arches for more."

Your head spun.

"She'd squeeze her eyes shut, still smiling, thinking she could hold herself together. But then--" she paused, relish in her tone, "I'd slip my fingers even lower."

Silence, thrumming between you.

"I wouldn't ask. I'd just do it. Slide two fingers over her, right past the thin fabric. She'd gasp for me--that sharp, beautiful sound. She wouldn't believe how wet she is. You'd see it too."

You stared at her, helpless.

"I'd move slow. So slow. Draw circles, coax her hips to rise and beg. Her face would give her away--bitten lips, pink cheeks, eyes wide and pleading. She'd start to grind against my hand, desperate, not even realizing how much she wanted this."

Your wife eased back, eyes blazing.

"She'd try to hide it, try to be quiet. But her body would betray her--those little helpless thrusts, the way her mouth opens and can't form a single word. And just as she was about to break, just when she thought she could control it--I'd press down, just right, just once."

She paused, savoring.

"She'd cum just like that. Shattered in my hand. No warning. Confused, overwhelmed, utterly undone."

You couldn't answer. Your heartbeat thundered.

"She wouldn't even know what hit her," your wife whispered, voice smoky and low. "Not until she was already trembling. Lost in it all, too spent to speak."

She searched your face.

"And maybe," she teased, a wicked glint, "if you behaved--if you stayed silent and hungry--maybe I'd let you kneel between us afterward. Clean her up. Feel her taste. Taste me with her."

You nearly stopped breathing.

"She wouldn't say a thing," your wife finished, voice velvet-dark. "Just lie there, dazed and beautiful, skin burning, eyes wide. The secret of what we'd done written all over her, even before she understood."

You sat there, stunned. Nothing between you but the ache.

Then your wife rose, calm as ever, the spell unbroken.

And as she walked away not looking back, she called--voice soft but electric:

"Trivia's next Tuesday."