The Corner House: A Reverse Harem

by Daisy Jane

  He knew I was too and that ability he had to read my body made the orgasm all the more intense. I don’t think Brett could read my body if he’d had a decoder and a flashlight.

  I came so hard; I gripped his shoulders so tightly that my nails burned. My thighs shook and my heart raced as the world exploded into all of the colors and noises of happiness before quickly dissolving into all encompassing dark. A settled darkness required after such an explosion. A time to calm and catch your breath while your brain relearns the world outside of orgasm.

  And when I came down, I was crying. Bodhi freaked out. Old Sloane would have probably been embarrassed and hell, maybe new Sloane should have been, too. But I explained to him, because new Sloane wasn’t feeling bad about anything anymore.

  Life’s too short.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured, reaching forward to drag my thumb across his bottom lip, taking some of the glistening wetness from his mouth. Licking my thumb, I blink away the remaining moisture in my eyes and push myself up further onto my elbows. “I’m just happy that that type of orgasm exists.” I roll my bottom lip through my teeth and wrinkle my nose. “I really seriously didn’t think it was out there.”

  Flopping down next to me, making zero attempts to cover his very naked body, he exhales a psh.

  “That’s fucking sad, babe,” he says casually, rolling onto his side. I roll to my side to face him, and so I can get a better look at his body. You can never look at him naked too often.

  “Oh, I know, that’s why my reaction was so extreme.” I let out a soft laugh but it gives me a great release. “I’m sorry, Bod, I didn’t mean to freak you out. Trust me, I’m not going clinger.”

  He chuckles then but there’s no release, just a reaction. “I didn’t think that. I just didn’t want you to be hurt or something.”

  “Oh, I’m hurt,” I say, widening my eyes. “I’ve been missing out on that for like, ten years.”

  “Nah,” he replies, reaching out, resting his heavy hand on my hip. My pussy pulsed. “More like four years. Guys don’t really learn how to do that,” he motioned to his face then to my crotch, making me laugh, “until they’re like, twenty-two.”

  “Is that when you got good at that?” I ask, enjoying the weight of him on me in some way.

  “Are you calling me good?” He drapes his other arm across his heart for a moment before blotting playfully at the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, that means so much.”

  “Yeah, from someone who hadn’t had anything but a self-inflicted orgasm before, I guess the compliment didn’t mean much, huh?” I say playfully but immediately he rocks my hip a few quick, jolting rocks.

  “Hey,” he responds, tone low but serious. “Something tells me you don’t realize what a cool chick you are and how fucking hot you are and that fucking sucks.”

  I blush but I don’t speak.

  What do you say to that?

  I reach out to him, surprised that he’s still hard after all this talking. Wrapping my hand around his cock, I rest my thumb against his piercing.

  “I love the weight of your hand on it.” He says, letting his eyes close briefly.

  “Thank you for saying that,” I whisper before pushing his shoulder back to the mattress, flattening him against it.

  “Sloane, look at me,” Bodhi commands with just a whisper. Between his legs, one hand resting on this thigh the other gripping his dick, I look up at him. Those steel eyes have a power of their own. They always make me lose my breath. The silver nose ring complimenting them and the ink over his eyebrow—fuck, he is a visual orgasm.

  “I mean it.” He reaches between his legs and smooths the hair away from my face then leans back into the pillows, eyes closing, fingers weaving together behind his head. He is ready to enjoy.

  We don’t need eye contact and whispered promises.

  I just want to suck his dick and he wants to enjoy it.

  It is so primal and simple.

  Running my tongue up and down his length, I stroke the insides of his thighs, never letting his dick leave my mouth. He makes noises, groans of torturous delight, grunts of discipline. Then I take his balls into my mouth, one at a time, running my tongue around them slowly. Sucking then lapping them, I let my fingers smooth over the sensitive skin on his body, under his balls.

  “Fuck,” he groans, “I might need the pillow. Jesus, Sloane.”

  I smile against his thigh before I kiss him there, working my way up in kisses to the head of his cock. Then I kiss it, tasting the precome that glistens there. I lick my lips and kiss him again, steadying him as he throbs. Slowly, I open my mouth and lower myself over his cock, not stopping until I can feel the barbell in the very back of my throat, hovering over the curve of my tongue.

  “Oh Jesus, Sloane, that’s….” I raise my eyes up as much as I can, but the strain sends a jolt of pain through my skull, instantly stopping my heart. Quickly, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  It’s nothing.

  It’s nothing.

  Really, it’s nothing.

  Raising up off Bodhi’s erection I take a deep breath and open my eyes. I look down and hold my hands out, fingers spread, over his body. One to ten, all my fingers are there and visible. I sigh deeply with relief and immediately get back to Bodhi, reminding myself that I can never get too comfortable.

  Something as simple as looking up at the wrong angle has the power to take me out for days. Even new Sloane can’t deny that.

  Suctioning my lips over his piercing I suck it into my mouth onto my tongue fast and hard, causing Bodhi to jolt. “Oh fuck, oh fuuuuuccck,” he growls, trying to control his own thrashing underneath me.

  I release him. “How do you want to orgasm, Bodhi?” I ask quietly, his cock thrumming and swelling inside my fist. Precome is dribbling down my thumb and when I look at him to see his response, I take a mental picture I promise myself I won’t forget.

  Bodhi.

  Naked, pierced everywhere.

  It’s really something else and I never want to forget it, in case it doesn’t happen again. In case no other man could ever make me orgasm the way he did. Smiling, he puts his hands together behind his head again.

  “Get me close,” he says, then kind of laughs. “Hell, I’m already close. But get me closer with your mouth then finish me with your hand.”

  “Do you want me to put my mouth on you when you come?” That is probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever said aloud.

  He shakes his head, brows pinching together. “On my stomach,” he responds.

  He doesn’t want to hold my head down on him while he shoots into my mouth. That’s what Brett always wanted. I swear he wanted me to gag and choke and the more he wanted that, the less ‘in the mood’ I became.

  Bodhi, once again, is so different.

  This superhero is unique for sure.

  My mouth returns to his cock and he settles into the bed with a groan. I tamp down on him, taking him down my throat then up again, resting the head of him on my tongue. A few more rotations that way and he whispers the word “hand” down to me.

  He’s on the edge and it is so empowering.

  Closing my fingers around him, I stroke his tall, rigid cock once, twice, and then his hips lift off the bed. His balls pull tight to his body. He drags the pillow out from under his head to press against his face, groaning loud right into it.

  I watch his cock as it thrums and spasms in my grip, his body motionless and he paints himself with come, shot after shot, all over his chest and torso.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit.

  Bodhi’s chest rises and falls as he flings the pillow across the room, off his face. He gasps in a deep breath and exhales. I let go of his only slightly softening cock and crawl up next to him, grabbing at the tissues on his night stand.

  “Just so you know, those aren’t my jerk off tissues,” he says, taking the bunch I’d handed to him. “Tissues can’t handle me.”

  “I can see that,” I say as I watch his neck s
train forward, lazily trying to mop up the copious amounts of come on his body. It wasn’t working all that well. “Towel?” I offer, motioning towards the bathroom that sits on the other side of the door from us. My bathroom.

  “Please,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. I pace to the door and pull it open before turning back and taking in his body, shaking my head.

  “What?” he whispers.

  “You’re still kinda hard,” I respond, “is that normal?”

  He laughs. “I think it’s the piercing. Fuck, so worth it.”

  After we each agreed a shower was needed, we showered separately then Bodhi and I met downstairs for the pizza we didn’t get to eat. Skipping down, I skidded to a halt when I saw Bastian, in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts that rode dangerously low on his trim hips, standing in the kitchen. He was spreading my red sauce onto the dough, having rolled it out into four separate pizza rounds. I made pizza often because um, pizza, so, I knew how long he’d been working on the dough. He probably came down right as Bodhi and I shut his bedroom door.

  Did he know?

  When I looked to him, his eyes went from me to Bodhi, fast, as if he didn’t want to make eye contact. Did he think Bodhi and I just had sex? Was what we did any less bad than sex? Stepping up to the bar, I slide onto a barstool as Bodhi moved around the kitchen, pulling down wine glasses.

  “None for me,” I say, “I got a funny feeling in my head a while ago, I think I’ll stick to water.”

  “Oh no shit?” Bodhi asks, “when? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Bastian’s eyes flash to mine, awaiting my response. I choose my words carefully, not fully even understanding why I’m doing that. It’s not like I owe anything to anyone.

  “It went away in a moment,” I reply, truthfully, “so no point in alarming anyone.”

  Bodhi shakes his head and gives me another exhausted psh. “That’s part of what I was saying before, Sloane. If you’re around people that care about you, we want to be alarmed if you’re not okay. You aren’t a stress. You’re an additive. Always an additive.”

  Bastian holds up his orange spatula which he is using to spread sauce around on the dough. “That,” he says, pointing it to Bodhi while his eyes remain on the pizzas, scanning them to make sure they are even. “Brett,” he says in air quotes after setting down the spatula, as if Brett was only his alleged name. “Was a weak dipshit.”

  “That couldn’t make you orgasm,” Bodhi adds as Bastian’s eyes flick back up to mine. His brows are raised, looking for me to verify, but his eyes are dark, like he’s thinking how he’d like to make me orgasm.

  “And he himself could rarely orgasm,” I add, “don’t forget that part.”

  Bodhi pulls the over door open and Bastian slides the trays inside, sets the timer and then put his hands on his hips.

  “Okay, now that pizza is actually baking, what the fuck?”

  Bodhi points to Bastian now.

  “That,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.

  They both stand there, staring, wanting details of my life, the smell of red sauce making me hungry, the flutter in my belly from Bastian’s gaze making me needy, the last tingle of orgasmic haze settling between my thighs making me horny. Suddenly I feel hot so I grab all my hair up off my back and neck and pull my elastic around it. A messy lump on my head isn’t attractive but it is comfortable and I vowed to not make myself uncomfortable at my home just because hot men also live here.

  Bastian’s eyes move up the curve of my exposed neck and watching him take me in makes me want to squeal. I want him to taste me, though Bodhi just had. I drape a hand across my chest, which probably comes off as self-conscious but really, I just need movement. Something to break the spell of dick I am under when I am around these men.

  “Yeah, um, he sometimes couldn’t come from oral or penis in vagina either.”

  “What, to a woman, does ‘sometimes’ mean?” Bodhi asks, his brows dipping, concern on his face.

  “In the beginning, he, uh, could rarely come. I guess maybe once every, I don’t know, ten times.” I say, sitting at the barstool, Bastian’s beautiful eyes making my knees clichédly week.

  “Oh fuck,” Bodhi responds, Bastian still silent and staring at me.

  “Did he see a doctor?” Bodhi asks, unconsciously stroking the front of his pants a few times. Men and their penises.

  I nod. “He did.”

  “And?” Bastian asks with a frown, hating his investment level in another man’s orgasms. But it is rare.

  “Basically, the doctor said that Brett had just, um, become too familiar with—”

  “Death grip,” Bastian finishes, leaning back like he’d just answered the million-dollar question correctly. Bodhi put his fist out and Bastian knocked his into it, “death grip,” Bodhi supported.

  “No,” I say, “wait, what is death grip?”

  Bodhi settles onto the barstool next to me, taking my face in his big, scruffy palms. For an artist, his hands sure were rough. Must’ve been the faux-leather-working.

  “Innocent sweet Sloane,” he says in a regal tone, “death grip is when a guy touches his dick more than he does anything else in the whole world. But instead of growing out of it, his grip tightened and he kept going.”

  My cheek smashes against Bodhi’s solid hand as I strain to look at Bastian. He nods, lips downturned, eyes closed. “True,” he verifies. Bodhi releases me from the theatrical moment and I look down, thinking of Brett’s frequent showers.

  “He did take a lot of showers,” I remember aloud, causing both Bodhi and Bastian to erupt with laughter. I smiled, loving being able to make fun of Brett. The asshole.

  We enjoyed pizza, making sure Grandma got a few pieces of tempeh-roni (which, by the way, obviously tasted nothing like pepperoni), cleaned up the kitchen, shared lots more laughs, and then we headed to bed. Bodhi went up first, saying he had a big back piece he was doing on a client tomorrow afternoon so we were under orders to not wake him until after 10am.

  When Bastian and I reached the base of the stairs, he reached out and took my wrist.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” His words were so quiet I almost thought I imagined them.

  “Me too,” I smiled.

  “So, how are your feet? Still sore?”

  I cock my head to the side, brows cinching together in confusion, my nose going full wrinkle. “Huh?”

  “From that walk of shame you did to the bathroom a couple hours ago,” he said, a slow grin taking over his face. He shoved his fingers through his hair, flaunting that solid arm and beautiful sleeve of ink. My heart thudded in my ears.

  “Uhh,” I say, feeling my face get hot at his admission. He saw me!

  “The last woman who walked out of Bodhi’s room,” he said, stepping into me, making my face jerk up to his, his eyes already trained on mine. So brooding and dark, interesting and engaging. My chest tightened and my nipples grew hard as heat flushed my neck.

  “Yeah?” I ask breathlessly, getting lost in the way he’s eating me up with his body language.

  “She came across the hall to my room,” he breathes, running the back of his knuckles up the length of my arm, making heat form between my legs.

  “She did?”

  He did one single slow nod. “Yeah, she was my fiancé.”

  I knew that he had been engaged, but I didn’t know the details of what had transpired between them. I never felt like I could or should ask. But now, now I can feel the opening.

  “Is that why you aren’t together anymore?” I swallow hard after the question, the worry of the situation mounting heavily in my brain. If he is upset or turned off by me being with Bodhi, I’ll never get the fantasy I’m craving.

  There is a moment of silence that feels long because I’m not breathing. Just waiting, on my toes, staring into his Clark Kent eyes as he runs his fingers down his jaw while his eyes pin me down with unbridled anticipation.

  “No,” he finally says, but my heart is s
till suspended mid-air. “The boys and I are close, Sloane, and we don’t mind sharing. When we tell each other where our heart is, the line is drawn. But we realize our bodies sometimes want things, no matter what the heart wants.”

  I swallow but my mouth is dry. My palms are sweaty as I run them down my thighs.

  “Cami and I had problems that had nothing to do with sex.” His eyes idle on the wall behind me, as if he’s reliving a painful memory he shared with the woman he loved. I reach out and drape my hand on his forearm. A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth but doesn’t make it to his eyes. His eyes seem so sad now at the mention of Cami.

  “The point is, Goldilocks,” he whispers, twirling a loose strand of my golden hair around his finger, a piece that wouldn’t stay in the messy bun. “Don’t think that you have to stop at one bear. Try all three. He doesn’t mind,” he nods to Bodhi’s closed door. “I don’t mind, and neither does Eli.”

  My thoughts are racing. I have so many questions. Did they share women often? Did it ever end bad? And most importantly, did they ever share… together?

  “Okay,” I say, my brain still processing. Bastian is telling me that he wants to fool around with me, despite the fact that he somehow knows I just fooled around with Bodhi. He’s not acting like I’m some whore or trash bag. Reaching forward, he cups my cheek with his palm and strokes my face.

  “You’re overthinking, Sloane. It’s not traditional, but it’s always worked fine for us. We’re solid.”

  I nod, chewing the inside of my mouth, questions probably written all over my face.

  “Okay,” he laughs softly, taking his hand from my face. Across his chest he drapes his arms and leans back. “Tomorrow, as many questions as you want. Because I know that’s how you operate. Tonight: one question only, okay? We need sleep.”

  “Can I have all three of you?” I ask quietly, almost with shame in my tone. But I don’t say at once, even though that’s what I mean. Bastian moves his hand from my cheek to under my chin, nudging my gaze up to his.