The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes
Page 3
He didn’t need an answer, and I didn’t give him one. I spread my legs and pressed Brent’s face into my sex. He kissed me deeply there, probing my lips, splitting me open with his tongue. His hands cupped my ass and brought me closer to him as he consumed me. I didn’t resist. My hips moved in time with his mouth, seeking deeper contact, urging him on.
I ground my cunt in his face and he took it, letting me use him as roughly as I wanted while he worked me over. “Yes .” I made a noise, something akin to a groan, hiss and moan all rolled up in a breathless sound of erotic torment.
Richard stood behind Brent. He leaned in, his face so close to mine I could smell the sweet scent of champagne on his breath. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say it, you little slut.”
Brent’s lips fused to my clit. He tugged and I cried out as a shudder ran through me and coiled in my stomach. I shook my head. “What?”
“That you want to get fucked. I’ve been waiting for those words to fly from your mouth for six damn long years.”
I sucked in a breath and flattened my lips together. Brent added a finger to his ministrations, first sliding it through my folds then thrusting it inside my quivering cunt. I squatted, needing to give him access, wanting more. So much more.
“Stop!” Richard’s command was a slap; a warning. “Get off her.”
Brent scrambled backwards and ran the back of his hand over his mouth, smearing my juices along one side of his jaw. I’d messed up his perfectly styled hair and it now stood on end, a dishevelled, endearing mess that made me want to grab his head again and hold it between my legs until he either suffocated, or I died first.
Richard grabbed my arm and shoved me towards the back of the couch. I lost my balance and fell forwards. We’d set the leather monstrosity in the middle of the room because it faced the TV, but now I realized it served another purpose. My ass thrust high in the air as my stomach flattened against the leather.
“You don’t want this, huh?” Richard’s fingers probed my cunt. I knew it was him and not Brent in an instant. I’d have recognized his hands anywhere.
“I—”
He thrust two fingers inside me in a savage motion made effortless by Brent’s masterful tongue-lashing. With his thumb, he pressed down on my back entrance, testing me. I drew my lower lip between my teeth and bit down hard. And then I pushed back against him, once, twice, taking his fingers deeper inside me with each glide of my skin against the smooth leather of the couch.
Another snap of his fingers. Another unspoken man-to-man order.
This time Brent came to stand before me on the other side of the couch. He kneeled on the leather cushion and unzipped his pants. I watched him pull out his cock through the slit in his boxer shorts and admired the thick, meaty length of it. The depth of the perversity and depravity of our actions hit me then with an unexpected force that made my muscles clench. My cunt clenched around Richard’s fingers and I shuddered in wanton surrender. The sweet rush of release tossed me around on a wave of pure physical pleasure, and I closed my eyes, losing myself in it.
I could have ridden that wave for hours. Hell, I might still be there now. But Brent brought me back to earth much too soon by shoving his cock in my face.
Not that I minded. I should have; I know that. But I didn’t.
I opened wide, took him in like the good, horny wife Richard wanted. I drenched him with my tongue, laved at the veins snaking up the underside of his shaft, and sucked hard enough for my cheeks to hollow. All the while, Richard’s fingers never stopped moving. He taunted me with his rough glides. His thrusts crossed the line from pleasure to pain, then jumped back again, eliciting the kind of ecstasy that made my head reel.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on the cock in my mouth. I buried my nose in Brent’s thatch of neatly trimmed pubic hair and sucked like I hadn’t known I could. I varied the pressure, caressed him with my tongue, slid my lips up and down his shaft while I listened to the sounds of his satisfied moaning. When it came, that soft grunt of inevitability I’d been waiting for, it fuelled my desire to work harder. He was close now, and, oh, how I wanted to taste him, to have him shoot his load down my throat.
And then I wanted to kiss my husband. Badly.
More than I could remember wanting to kiss him in my life.
Brent gripped my head and held it in place as his cock twitched and pressed against the roof of my mouth. My motions grew fevered. The anticipation of his salty come hitting the back of my throat was almost more delicious than the real thing.
He let out a low, guttural cry as his hips jerked in time with the spurting of his seed. I didn’t have the patience to swallow it all, so I pulled away partway through his shuddering orgasm. Some of his come splattered on my chin and chest, but I didn’t care. I swallowed most of what was in my mouth, then jerked myself away from Richard’s hand and twisted on the couch so my ass perched on the backrest.
My arms came up around Richard’s neck. My legs followed suit, wrapping around his waist, and I pulled him to me before either one of us could think too long about the implications of my actions. My lips parted. His did, too, and he sucked in a breath as I shared the remnants of Brent’s come. Our tongues twined and twisted and I pressed my crotch against the thick length of his erection.
I humped him while we kissed, like a teenager whose parents had left her home alone for the first time. And like that teenager, a tumultuous flurry of emotions danced within me. Eager, unheeded lust jumbled with guilt and regret, making me woozy.
I closed my eyes to fight the dizziness, but Richard stopped me. “No. Look at me,” he whispered after breaking the kiss. “I want you to see me. This is who I am. This is the man you married.”
He picked me up by the waist and, without warning, threw me over the back of the couch. I landed on the cushions with an oomph that fled my lungs on a startled cry.
“Fuck her,” Richard shouted at Brent. Gone was the cold indifference in his voice. I had the distinct feeling that he couldn’t keep the fury at bay if he tried. “Fuck her now! Show my wife what it’s like to be unfaithful. To think with your crotch rather than your head.”
He wheeled around the couch and shot towards Brent so quickly that my breath leaped into my throat. For a terrified heartbeat, I wasn’t sure if he was planning on forcing the other man on me, or if he was one fraction of a second away from beating him within an inch of his life.
Brent must have seen the savage uncertainty in Richard’s movements too, because he didn’t wait to be asked again. He climbed on to me, straddled my waist, and guided his semi-soft cock so the tip pressed against my folds.
It was too soon after the last orgasm for him to take me like the wild stallion my husband wanted him to be. Brent gripped his prick and stroked it with long, hard jerks. The delicate skin of his shaft turned an angry shade of red, but his dick obeyed, growing long and hard on demand.
With a satisfied smirk, he positioned himself right where he needed to be and gave a brief thrust. My labia parted and he filled me in one smooth glide. The fullness of his cock shocked me into realizing how easily I’d given in and how good it felt to spread my legs for someone other than the man I’d married.
“No!” I lashed out, slapped Brent’s chest and shoved at those firm muscles with all the strength I didn’t know I possessed. I was like a wild beast, fighting the man on top of me, despite the fact that his cock felt like heaven, despite knowing this was just what I wanted. What I needed.
Brent drew back, startled, but didn’t pull out of me.
“Don’t listen to her,” Richard urged, his imposing presence no less menacing than it had been earlier. “Give it to her good. Harder. Faster … Yes, like that. Do it!”
Brent pinned me down. His hands locked around my wrists and he held me immobile while his cock pushed in and out of me. My climax built with each thrust, coiling in my cunt like a ball of fiery bliss waiting to explode.
I looked past Brent and met my husband’s eyes. His gaze f
illed with lust, and so much torment I marvelled that he could hold it all in. His lower lip trembled and his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes I’d fallen in love with all those years ago, filled with tears.
“No!” I screamed, a long, piercing howl that drowned out the sound of my pummelling heartbeat. I struggled beneath Brent, but every writhing motion brought me closer and closer to release.
“N-not him,” I managed to grind out. “Y-y-you. Always … you. Only … you.”
We stopped then, all three of us, as though suspended in time and space, caught in a web shaped by every lousy choice we’d ever made. Whatever our faults – lust, frigidness, greed – they’d brought us here, to this moment.
Brent’s cock slipped out of me. My pussy ached with frustration and my clit begged to be touched, but I couldn’t move.
“Y o u ’re a lucky man,” Brent said. I realized with a start that those were the first words he’d spoken to either of us since the elevator.
I wasn’t sure Richard would come to me then. That he wanted me, I had no doubt. But all the history standing between us might as well be a wall of barbed wire waiting to claw at his skin.
Through a film of tears, I saw him move. It was only a fraction of a step towards the couch, but he’d taken it, and the relief that filled my body nearly made me sob. I rose, too, and met him halfway.
He fell on top of me with a grunt, and soon we were both fumbling with his clothes. I’m not sure whether I managed to get his cock out of his pants or he did it himself, but I recall the exact moment he claimed my body as his own.
And for as long as I live, I’ll remember the triumphant scream that broke loose from his throat as he came inside me.
Richard buried his head in my shoulder. His tears ran down my skin and pooled in the valley between my breasts. I held him, not saying a word, while my own tears fell silently and ruined the leather beneath my head.
By the time we got up an eternity later, Brent’s clothes were gone. So was he.
Curiosity gnawed at me, so I called up the elevator. It opened with its customary ding. My panties had disappeared.
I have no way of knowing who took them, of course, but I like to think Brent wanted a souvenir. He never did get his ten grand.
For the last two years, Richard and I have worked at loving one another. Some days are more of a struggle than others. Trust takes time to rebuild when it’s been shattered so completely, but we’ve kept at it.
The endless nights spent in each other’s arms make the occasional shouting match worthwhile. At least we’re talking, and that’s a hell of an improvement.
All this time, I’ve been certain that one day Brent would turn up in our elevator, demanding his money. Every morning, I rifle through the mail looking for a letter from him. There hasn’t been an email or a call, either. It’s as though Brent never existed.
Richard went looking for him once, a couple of months after our threesome, convinced he had to hold up his end of the bargain. The manager of Antoine’s told him Brent never returned to work after leaving with us that night. A thousand dollars later, Richard had Brent’s last known address scribbled on the inside of a matchbook.
He found the place quickly enough. It was a one-room apartment in a rundown brownstone on the edge of Brooklyn Heights. A for rent sign hung in the window.
The landlord said Brent came by one morning and cleared out his stuff. He’d left the cash he owed for last month’s rent, along with a note … something about tracking down the teenage girl he’d knocked up before fleeing the middle of nowhere, Arkansas, to seek fame and fortune in the big city.
I thought about hiring a private investigator to track Brent down. It shouldn’t be difficult, since we know his full name and his home state. Even if he doesn’t want the ten grand, I’m willing to bet the mother of his child feels differently.
I assured Richard I wouldn’t tell her how Brent earned the cash, but he refused. I think perhaps he’s worried I have more devious things in mind than repaying an old debt.
He couldn’t be more wrong. I don’t want to fuck the man.
I want to thank him.
What If?
Cheyenne Blue
“What if I wanted to visit Paris?” Peta began. “Would you come with me?”
Our favourite game. I rolled over and rested my head on my folded arms. Peta was also on her stomach, chewing on a grass stalk, the sunlight gilding her hair to a soft gold.
“Depends,” I said. “Would we fly or sail?”
“Sail,” she replied without hesitation. “On an ocean-going yacht, just you and me, and a discreet crew to actually make the thing go. Champagne and sunsets at sea—”
“Motion sickness and stinky pump toilets—”
“Waves lapping on the hull, dolphins leaping at the prow.”
“I don’t think there are dolphins in the Atlantic,” I said, “but OK so far. Where would we stay when we got to Paris?”
“In a garret in the artists’ quarter. Up seven flights of creaky wooden stairs. We’d have baguettes with unsalted butter and cherry jam for breakfast, and strong, thick coffee, and we’d wander the boulevards hand in hand buying cheese.”
“Would this garret have hot water?”
“Sometimes. Other times it would be clanking pipes and a tepid dribble.”
“Not so keen on that,” I said. “So who would do the cooking?”
“Moi!” Peta showed one of her few French words.
I rolled on to my side and let my hand trace her sinewy arm. She looked damn hot in the white singlet, her tanned biceps displayed to perfection, and a hint of brown nipple through the clinging white top. “You win,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”
She grinned and rolled on to her back, her arm over her eyes to keep out the sun. “So I get another go?”
“Yup. That’s the game.”
“What if …” And she hesitated.
“Can’t think of anything?” I teased.
“What if I wanted to sleep with Suzie? Would you let me?”
My fingers stilled on her biceps. The muscle was taut – too tight – underneath my hand. The moment was frozen in time. Distantly, I registered traffic noise out on I-25, the way the sun skidded off the peaks of the Rockies turning the white snowcaps to amber, the bug that marched purposefully over Peta’s hip. The tickle of the short grass of Washington Park, already turning brown even though it was only May.
She was watching me. Her eyes intent on my face, the time measured in the slow deep breaths that separated one plane of my life from the next.
Normal. Act normal.
“Just one time, or for a long time?”
“Just one time. Suzie’s straight. Once would be enough.”
Self-proclaimed straight, but 100 per cent bi-curious. She came into the Pink Light on Colfax most weekends, sitting up at the bar all quivering eagerness, shooting pool haphazardly, flirting with the butches, but always pulling away at the last moment, when it was time to leave, time to go home, time to go fuck.
“Would you take her to a motel, or go back to her place?”
“I’d take her to our apartment,” Peta said.
Our apartment. Our Washington Park den, all polished floors and wide windows that let the setting sunlight stream through over the tops of the Rockies, over our collection of houseplants, over Moggie, our cat, as she lay sunning herself on the sill. Over our lives. Into our lives.
I glanced at Peta; she was still watching me and the slight quiver of her hard brown abs below the crop top told me how deadly serious she was.
Continue the game, continue the pretence.
“What would you do with her?”
“I’d kiss her in the shadows between the pools of light on Colfax, and she’d sigh into my mouth in acceptance. She’s wanted this; she’s wanted someone to seduce her slowly. It’s all too hard and fast for her in the Pink Light. Then I’d take her hand and we’d go home.”
“How would you get home?”
“Us? Where am I then?”
“You’re following me and Suzie down Colfax, a few paces behind, and you’re watching. Watching how our hands intertwine, watching the slant of her hips towards me, watching how she skips and prances like a little girl being led home by Daddy. And then you’re in the front seat of the taxi, trying hard not to look at what we’re doing in the back.”
“What are you doing in the back?”
“Gentling her. Soothing her skittishness, like a filly that needs breaking. Calming her nerves, as now she knows there’s no going back. So I’m holding her curved against my side, and I’m stroking that wispy blonde hair back from her face. Telling her how pretty she is, how desirable. Maybe I’m kissing her cheek, soft little kisses, sliding around to the edge of her lips.”
“Why our apartment?”
Peta sat up in one smooth movement and her hand came out to touch me. The first time, I noted absently, that she’d touched me since this game began. Only it wasn’t a game any more. Her fingers walked down my arm and laced themselves with mine.
“If it’s in our apartment I’m not excluding you. You’re a part of it, Ria. How could it happen otherwise?”
It need not happen at all, I wanted to shout. She could forget this crazy idea, this macho strutting to take Suzie’s lesbian virginity. Was it something to boast about in the Pink Light? I wasn’t sure I could handle that, if it was; sitting there, stony-faced staring into my beer, pretending not to care as Peta told and retold the story of her conquest.
And what of Suzie herself? Would she fade into the woodwork after this, curiosity assuaged? Or would she hang around, wanting more? Would she want Peta for her own?
I stared down at our intertwined fingers, at Peta’s hard blunt paws, at my plump white manicured fingers. I didn’t know what to say.