by Jess Bentley
TWIN TEMPT
AN MFM MENAGE MILITARY ROMANCE
Jess Bentley
Copyright © 2018 by Jess Bentley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1. Preface
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
24. Epilogue
Excerpt of TWIN TEASE
About the Author
Also by Jess Bentley
Preface
Libby
My mind is churning, a thousand thoughts all trying to happen at once. I can barely sort it all out.
As I close the door behind me, I finally catch sight of myself in the mirror. It takes my breath away.
Mascara is caked below my eyes in uneven smudges, speckled with flakes like ash. My hair is an absolute fright, sticking out all over the place, tangled in blonde patches, totally unkempt.
But what really gets me is the mark on my left cheek. It’s not huge. It probably even looks like a birthmark or even a line from the pillow I was sleeping on. But I know it wasn’t there yesterday. I know what happened.
No, I’m not going to think about that. There are nine hundred and ninety-nine other thoughts that I could be savoring right now. Why should I focus on just that one?
The shower controls are basically the same as every other, and with just a little bit of fiddling I manage to get the water spray to a tolerable temperature. On second thought, I crank it up little bit. It’s too hot when I get in, but I make myself stand there, bracing against the heat, forcing myself to tolerate it.
There aren’t a lot of frills to the shower. No girlie poofs. No shampoo at all—just soap. But the soap is strong and rough, and it feels unbelievably good to get myself really clean. Scrubbed. Renewed. It feels like a million years since the last time I gave myself a good, thorough going-over.
But in reality, it was just yesterday.
Still, that feels a million miles away. Back when the only thing I was worried about was my next shift at the convenience store. Back when the only prospects I had for romance were the phony, exaggerated videos I saw on the internet.
Yesterday I thought I knew exactly what I would be doing today, and every day for the foreseeable future. It was all laid out in front of me, neat and tidy and predictably boring.
I’m not even the kind of person who takes big, sweeping chances. I have my wild side… well, I think I do. But mostly I am a good girl. The colonel’s daughter. The one who keeps the house clean and tidy for the big boss. The one who can be counted on to do the right thing all the time.
Everything is different now.
There’s no shampoo, so I guess soap will have to do. People probably manage without shampoo all over the world, after all. And soldiers are known for their adaptability, their uncomplaining dedication to only the barest essentials. No frills.
Washing my hair with the bar, I love the feeling of my fingers against my scalp. I feel so turned up, like a knob that’s been edging closer and closer to ten. It’s thrilling. I’m full of bees. I never really dared before, but now I think I’d like to get all the way up there, see how high this is all going to go.
Yesterday was just the start, I know. There is so much more to come. So much more I haven’t done yet. And now, it’s a dream come true. Everything I ever wished for magically dropped into my lap.
Finally clean, I step back out of the shower and unfold the towel without looking at myself too hard in the mirror again. I know who I am, after all. My reflection doesn’t change that.
Somehow, these borrowed boxer briefs actually fit. Not perfectly, of course. They’re not made for girl hips and there’s all this extra fabric in the front. But I kind of like the way they wrap around my thighs. They almost look like shorts, if you don’t notice the button crotch.
And just before I slide the T-shirt over my head, I get a whiff of the scent. It cracks open in my mind like an egg. This hungry, feral craving. This strangely thorough desire. I never knew that I could feel this way… A deep void has split open within me, and I have to fill it with something. I can’t just let it howl with emptiness. I need to find order in there.
Dressed in these borrowed clothes, my hair wet and hanging around my cheeks, I open the door to the bathroom again and step back into the living room, greeted by their direct, meaningful, truthful stares.
This is it. This is the connection I have always denied myself. This is the moment where I take the steps I can’t retreat from. I’ll never be able to go back to where I was.
I don’t want to.
Chapter 2
Libby
The sliding screen door opens, and I hear Mona’s bare feet slapping on the concrete patio as she walks toward the lawn chair next to me. With my eyes closed, I can totally picture her taking careful steps as she lines herself up with the recliner. She cautiously settles in the middle of the beach towel she spread out earlier, pinching a Diet Coke bottle between her thumb and forefinger with her other fingers jutting out at the perfect angle to keep her manicure from getting chipped.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she sighs luxuriously as she arranges her limbs in the sunlight.
I hear the hitch of her breath as she sucks down some more Diet Coke. She practically lives on that stuff. If she were ever in a car accident, I would have to make sure there was a full IV bag of that blackish, mysterious liquid pumping into her arm the whole time. She wouldn’t be able to recover without it.
The cap of the suntan lotion squeaks open and she squirts out a bunch, then I hear the scraping friction of her smoothing it over her belly and thighs. A buzzing insect of some kind—a hornet or bumblebee or something—swoops low over my face, but it is gone in just a moment.
“This is nice,” she murmurs as she settles back again, dropping the suntan lotion bottle in the grass next to her. “Isn’t this nice?”
“Really nice,” I agree.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her or anything, it’s just that it really is nice. Beautiful day, close to the end of summer. It is about 85 degrees here in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The sun is at exactly the right angle in the sky: clear enough to bronze our skin, not so blazing hot that we get burnt to a crisp. There’s a nice little breeze too, so it isn’t too unbearably hot.
Fall will be coming soon, though we probably still have another month or so of beautiful, balmy weather. Compared to Seattle, where we used to live, this place is a regular tropical vacation. But as my father likes to remind me, his duties as an officer in the United States Army are much more important than whether or not our location is suited to my personal tastes.
Well, that may be true, but Seattle does not have a lot of sun. There is no getting around that. It has a lot of… green. Green trees covered in green moss dripping from green vines that sprawl all over green hillsides. It has a lot of rain. If you are the sort of person who likes to either stay inside and look at the beau
tiful, foggy landscape through window, then Seattle is for you. Also, if you are the kind of person who likes biking over hills with your hair all kinky and sticking to your face, and your blue jean cuffs perpetually soaked so that they scrape against your ankles, then Seattle is definitely for you.
But if you are like me, and you enjoy being able to lie underneath the bright, cheery ball of flame that scoots across the sky every day, then North Carolina would be much more to your taste.
I open one eye just a sliver when Mona shifts around on her lawn chair. The sunlight reflects off of her ample thighs in golden, blinding sheets. She is wearing a turquoise-blue bikini with silver beads around her cleavage. The color perfectly sets off the deep, lustrous tan that she has achieved. She looks pretty amazing.
She told me that she has been working on that tan since she was about seven years old. I knew that tanning was not such a great idea long before I started nursing school, and now that I have done a few dermatology rotations, I can see what long-term exposure to the sun really does to a person. But I am nineteen, and Mona is twenty-one. If we stop soon… Well, probably… Well, I hope it will be okay.
Even through SPF 60 I have managed to get a pretty good base. Not as chocolatey as Mona, but respectable. Especially considering I spent the first sixteen years of my life in jeans and a baseball jersey or military fatigue piece, pretty much constantly. I’ve never been the girly sort, or at least not until recently. Once we moved here and I met Mona, whose family conveniently lives right next door, I got a whole new set of influences in my life. I haven’t touched my skateboard in years. It’s still in the corner of my bedroom, but usually has a couple of tank tops thrown over it.
Probably because I was raised on Army bases, I always gravitated toward more tomboyish adventures. I liked climbing trees and playing catch. I liked getting muddy. I enjoyed hitting a ball though I never got to really play on organized teams, so I don’t really understand the rules of individual sports. But I do like being strong and unbothered by what might happen to my makeup or nails. That’s the important thing.
But over time, I got to appreciate the curvy, luscious beauty that Mona demonstrates. It’s another way of life. I suppose I will always be a tomboy, but as my hair grows out and my body fills in, and my attitude changes to… Well, let’s just say it has taken a turn from sports to… other things of a physical nature.
“Did you bring me a Coke?” I ask.
Without answering, she holds the sweating bottle out to me. I take a quick drink, only slightly disgusted by the damp bottle and skin-temperature liquid. So I guess that means she did not actually bring me my own Coke. Still, it is good to hydrate.
Twisting the cap back on, I just drop it in the grass underneath her chair. The grass is thick and green, trimmed to exactly the right height. Everybody on base takes very good care of their lawns.
Mona readjusts her arms, making sure that she’s not casting any shadows by mistake. Sometimes she even raises her wrists over her head to make sure that she gets a little bit of tan in her armpits. That seems dangerous, but she swears she has never gotten a sunburn there.
“I like your suit,” she sniffs, her voice liquid and lazy.
“Thanks. I like yours too.”
“Did you get that at Target? I think I saw those purple ones at Target, right?”
I glance down at my suit, the eggplant-purple triangle stretched between my hip bones. It’s simple and undecorated, with only a double-tie detail at the hips. I don’t need overly flashy embellishments.
“Yeah, totally,” I smile. “I hate buying bathing suits, you know what I mean? It always seems like 99 percent of them are engineered to fit no one in the world. This was some kind of magical meeting. It fit right away.”
“Oh yeah?” she answers, her voice sly and drawn out as she enunciates every syllable. “And is that what inspired you to wax your girl bits?”
I bite back a gasp, instantly embarrassed. It takes all my self-control not to cross my legs protectively.
“Oh yeah,” she crows, “I can tell. You are bare as a Barbie doll down there, aren’t you? You naughty minx!”
“But… But… How can you tell? You just knew? What… by just looking?”
She giggles, the vibration jiggling the whole front of her bosom and belly. Sunlight shimmers off the tiny hairs there, making her glitter all over.
“Well, it’s pretty obvious,” she smiles. “I mean, I can practically see the outline of all your parts! Is it weird? Does it tickle? Wait… did it hurt?”
I shrug, still kind of embarrassed but happy to know she is at least a little intrigued. “It’s not so bad. I tried shaving it all once before, and that didn’t work out so well. Takes forever, and the razor got gross. Waxing was at least immediate! No waiting!”
She laughs, raising an arm to shield her eyes.
“Are you saying you don’t shave? What have you got going on down there?”
She waves a hand in the air vaguely. “Oh, I just trim around the edges, you know. A little landscaping here and there. The bikini line, you know. Nothing so dramatic as you. Carson likes me like this, thank goodness.”
I shift on the lawn chair, relishing the delicious tickle of the bathing suit fabric rubbing against my naked nethers. Truthfully, it was pretty shocking to go completely bare. There were tears, not gonna lie. But now, I kind of like it. I am soft and velvety, like a stuffed animal.
One more surprising detail: I can feel myself all the time when I am walking around, rubbing against the cotton crotch of my panties. I’m aware of my sex all day in a way I wasn’t before. It is sort of a secret thrill.
“But what if your boyfriend liked you to wax?” I pester her. “Would you do it then?”
That should get her. Mona prides herself on being some kind of feminine savant. She truly believes she is the center of Southern Belle wisdom in regard to subjects of romance and Getting A Man. I know she thinks I am her personal project. Since my mother died when I was in preschool, she has taken it upon herself to fill in the huge gaps in my feminine education.
“Wow, you think up the weirdest stuff,” she scoffs. “Let’s hope I never have to find out! Anyway, he’s out of the state for a few more weeks, so I can let it go all jungly for a while. It’s nice to take a break.”
“You could try this while he’s gone! Get some experience in the matter,” I suggest, knowing full well she would never.
She snorts derisively. “Not unless I was abducted, roofied, bribed and threatened with bloodshed, Libby-love. No way.”
“Hey, it’s not so bad. I mean, it’s your body. You could do whatever you want.”
I realize I sound a little bit defensive, but after all, it’s a bit of a sensitive subject. Compared to liberal Seattle, North Carolina is pretty conservative. They have strong ideas about how women are supposed to act around their men. Maybe this was a little bit of an act of defiance. Or maybe I just liked it. Or maybe it isn’t anybody’s business!
“Whatever,” she sighs. “I just think you been watching too much porn, Libby. It has twisted your mind!”
“I have not!” I object loudly, then instantly drop my voice to just above a whisper. “I have not… I only watch, you know, a regular amount of porn.”
She twists her chin and looks me up and down slowly. “Just how much is a regular amount of porn, Libby?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug uncertainly. “Like, a regular amount. A normal amount. The amount that normal people watch.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. Or maybe you are some kind of freak.”
I start to say something, but then I remember she is just messing with me. She likes to get me riled up. Especially about these things where I am kind of sensitive. She thinks it is a hoot, is what she told me. Those are the words that she used: a hoot.
But it’s just a regular amount of porn, or at least I think so. I don’t know why it draws me… I just like it. Maybe it is my medical curiosity, like what drew me to nursing. Maybe it is just my per
sonality. But I enjoy watching the biology at work. I enjoy all of those specimens of different kinds of genitals, different sizes of everything, different places and angles and intensities for every kind of action. The variety just boggles the mind. If this is what real life is like, why shouldn’t I explore it?
I discovered it when I was twelve, wandering the internet like twelve-year-olds do. Instantly I knew I was seeing something I was not supposed to see, and simultaneously could not ever stop seeing.
But despite the societal warnings about how such images and videos would warp my brain, I have remained pretty buttoned-up. Only a single kiss from a single boy, junior year in high school. So if porn turns you into some kind of raging hormonal sex beast, maybe I am immune.
Though I do think about it kind of a lot.
And I did just wax myself completely clean.
So maybe not completely immune.
“Well, you can do whatever you want with your lady bits,” she sing-songs. “I’m happy with how fluffy mine are. Next time I see Carson, maybe I’ll shave it into a heart!”
“Oh, now who’s the freak?” I sass.
“Ha! Yeah, I guess. But it’s worth it, you know? All those little gestures of effort—they add up. They mean something.”
I’m sure she’s trying to teach me some great lesson, but it sounds like one of those phony messages in a greeting card. I am not sure what the big deal is.
“They mean... you can do whatever you want?” I offer sarcastically.
“Oh, gracious, no!” she cackles defiantly. “It’s not like that at all, Libby-love.”
