by Donna Alam
‘That’s ridiculous.’ I push my fingers over my ears as though moving my hair. Clear my throat. Sit straighter in the chair.
‘I have a theory that you’ll taste like honey.’
‘And that’s impossible.’ My voice is weak and a little breathy, and my heart beats erratically, though this time, I fight the urge to fidget and squirm.
‘Have you ever had a one-night stand?’
‘Is this an interview?’
‘Ever gone down on a woman?’ Face burning, I shake my head. ‘Then you wouldn’t know, Dr Honey Bea.’
‘H-how is that my name these days?’
He hums, the sound low and compelling. ‘Because you’ll taste like honey. I know it, and I want it. I want to place my tongue between your legs until your honeyed cum covers my face. I want to crawl up your body, paying attention to every inch of your sun-kissed skin until I reach your face. Then I’ll kiss you, and then you’ll know I was right about how you taste.’
‘But I can’t do that,’ I whisper, my eyes sliding from his.
‘You can’t do what?’ he purrs.
‘Have sex with—’ I lean across the table as though those around will hear. ‘Have sex with multiple people. At the same time.’
‘I didn’t ask you to,’ he says, smiling. ‘I just said I want to fuck you. Have you all to myself. Especially not over there, though I would. You can choose. A hotel, a wall, a bed, bent over a spanking desk in a sex club . . . ’
‘But there was a man out there on the steps earlier.’ I can imagine Kit participating in threesomes. Can and will imagine probably, placing myself in a starring role. But could I be the meat in that sandwich? I don’t think my imagination would even stretch that far.
‘Greg,’ he asserts with a slight incline of his head. ‘Simone’s husband. What about him?’
‘He lets her . . . ?’ How to put this?
‘Fuck other men?’
Yes, that. A pure surge of need floods my body; his expression, the cadence of his voice, and the things he says—and the accompanying images— make it hard not to wriggle and squirm in my seat.
‘He likes to watch, mostly. Sometimes he joins in. When I let him.’
‘With you?’ Between my legs begins to throb, prickling waves of need pulsing through me.
This man is a wolf.
No, he’s the devil in a Saville Row suit.
I’d never survive him.
‘You know what they say, Dr Honey Bea. It’s never gay in a three way.’
Chapter Thirteen
KIT
The following Friday night, I have my usual room booked at the Den. I don’t linger in any of the common areas, though I do order a drink after checking in with my phone—one of the club’s rules to protect identities—then I head straight to the room.
I’m there before Simone and Greg, and that pisses me off for no other reason than I’m in a bastard of a mood. I’d altered the booking yesterday, changing it to a different room. Change is as good as a rest, or so they say. Only, I’m not sure a change of scenery will do the trick.
I hang up my suit jacket and take a seat in the room decorated like a high-end hotel—pale walls and cherry wood furniture concealing all kinds of kinky kit. It’s a little Danish in décor, though more Eames than Ikea, with various shades of white. It reminds me of a dentist’s waiting room, and I begin to wish I’d left the booking as it was.
When the pair arrives, Greg almost trips over himself as he notes the large, padded leather bench in the centre of the room, fixed with restraints at various points. I ordinarily get a kick out of seeing his trepidation. He likes restraints . . . on himself. While he watches me fuck his wife, loathing himself while he does so.
I’ve never asked him why. I’m not a psychologist or even interested. If it works for them and their marriage, I’m usually, though not always, in . . . somewhere.
‘What’s with the change of rooms?’ Simone doesn’t appear to notice any difference in the atmosphere as she places a bottle of water down on a console table. ‘Don’t tell me they double booked?’
She looks good tonight, as always, though this Friday isn’t an event like last week. No feather masks or evening wear, no kinky shows to admire on the main floors. No watching her suck another’s dick while I’m buried balls deep. No sexual free-for-all.
Simone pulled her dark hair into a ponytail, and her dark, tight jeans look new. Nude coloured heels and a champagne camisole complete the look. She looks like a yummy mummy ready for a night of cocktails with the girls. As for Greg—dressed in a pale grey shirt and dark pants—he looks a little scared. Which works for him. He likes a little fear and humiliation.
‘Kit? Did you hear me?’
I take a mouthful of my drink—Hendricks and tonic—and turn my attention to her.
‘I heard. I just don’t care to answer.’ The look on her face is priceless and sends a surge to my dick.
‘You’re in a strange mood.’ She makes as though to move to the chaise, but I have other plans.
‘Stop. Just where you are. And strip.’
‘What?’ Her cheeks are suddenly painted pink, her chest rising and falling with halting breaths. It’s been a while since we played like this, and I can tell the prospect excites her.
‘You heard me. Strip. All of it—off. Both of you.’ I put my glass back on the side table and make a show of rolling my shirt sleeves. ‘Last week, you were both very rude to a friend.’
‘What? When?’ Greg is quiet, but Simone, as usual, is all mouth.
I should make her put it to good use.
But then, she’d like that.
‘Outside the club.’ My answer is impassive as I pick my glass up again.
It’s almost funny that she pretends not to recall when her behaviour was borderline possessive. And that’s not how our dynamic works. We have no claim on each other beyond the duty of care the pair should have for each other and their marriage.
‘She tried to hit me,’ she says, pointing her finger in my direction, her accusation clear. I didn’t defend her. Didn’t come down on her side. ‘And you said you weren’t seeing anyone.’
Ah. And there we have it. The crux of her ire.
The first part of her statement could’ve been stated in a court of law. The latter, more appropriately in a schoolyard; whining and petulant, she displays a protuberant bottom lip to match.
‘Is it any business of yours who I fuck?’ My voice is cold and impassive, making it clear that I’m bored when I’m actually annoyed. Irrationally annoyed and feeling protective of a woman I barely know. ‘And did I say you could stop taking off your clothes?’ Her fingers return to her jeans, sliding them down over her smooth, toned thighs as ill-suppressed anger mars her pretty face. ‘Well?’
‘No,’ she spits out.
‘Have I ever asked you when was the last time you fucked Greg?’
‘Of course not, but—’
‘I am now.’ I turn my question to him. ‘When was the last time you got your dick wet, Greg?’
‘About a month ago,’ he answers quietly. ‘She’d had a bottle of wine.’
Should’ve seen the signs.
‘He prefers to watch,’ Simone grates out. ‘You do! And you know that.’
I turn my gaze slowly her way. ‘Tell me why I’d be interested in anything you have to say.’ She looks shocked. Naked and shocked. Nipples standing to attention, and I’d guess she’s also wet. ‘The only thing your mouth is useful for in this room is taking care of my cock.’ Though the more this evening progresses, the more unlikely that seems.
I know she’s right. Greg’s a voyeur and a bit of a slut for the tease. But surely the whole point of joining a place like this is to improve your sex life, not ruin it. In my mind, they should be fucking more, not less.
‘My Scottish barbarian,’ she murmurs huskily, shaking her head slowly. ‘I do only as my master pleases. Tell me how I can please you. How we can please you.’
This is just a game. A real su
bmissive would at least be on her knees. And I find, even without the red flag of their revelation, that for the first time since we started meeting, my dominion over their nakedness does nothing for me.
I blame my craving for honey. For brown eyes flecked with gold.
‘On your knees. Crawl to me.’ I pull a roll of tape from the side table, throwing it to Greg. ‘Then tape her wrists.’
Because, for a second Friday this month, it looks like I’m not getting laid.
As she reaches my feet, she seats her backside on her heels, her nipples tight and her colour flushed. In a flurry of movement and discomforted expressions, Greg binds her wrist to elbow, at her back, as I instruct.
I know from experience the tape will prickle and pinch. I could direct him to use the restraints on the bed, but I find I really want to piss her off beyond a punishment she’d enjoy.
Frustration is not Simone’s friend.
‘Comfortable, Si?’ I run my finger down her cheekbone, and she shivers in response, her heart beating hard as I place my hand flat against her sternum. ‘I asked you a question,’ I murmur, trailing my hand to her breast.
‘I-if it pleases you.’
I smile as I pinch her nipple, exacerbating her irritation. Despite her words, it looks like the only thing that’d please her right now is to bring her knee to my crotch.
‘On the floor,’ I growl at Greg as he hovers in the background. ‘It’s your turn. Crawl.’ His movements are fluid as he falls to his knees. Unlike his wife, he keeps his head down as he makes his way towards my feet.
‘Ask me,’ I ask gently as he sits back on his heels. Again, unlike his wife, he keeps his head lowered, and he smiles to himself. ‘Ask me, nicely.’
‘I want to take you in my mouth,’ he murmurs, keeping his eyes on the floor as, from the floor beside him, Simone makes an inarticulate but irritated sound.
‘You can do better than that,’ I suggest.
‘If it pleases you, I’d like to suck you off.’
It doesn’t particularly. I’m off my game and feeling, well, bored.
As a rule, I’m not drawn to men on their own, but when the occasion calls, I’m attracted to the strong type. Not those powerfully built, but those who are lithe and with a defined musculature. As far as men go, Greg ticks all the right boxes, doubly so because of his submissive nature. On his knees right now, all open faced and with pleading eyes, he looks more than a little desperate. So yes, I suppose he’s my type if a willing woman is between us.
My gaze slides to Simone at the thought, taking in her petulant expression. She reminds me of a child at her own birthday party trying to lay down the rules.
Look at me! Look at me!
And I don’t want to. I know it’s not fair—that I’m uninvested—but I can’t fucking help that I’ve got another girl on my mind.
Honey hair, legs for miles, and a rack I long to slide my dick between. Even her eyes are the colour of honey. I want to see her mascara running in rivulets down her face. While I fuck her. Defile her. Do all the things she’s never thought of, but I know she’ll enjoy.
I want to curl my fingers around those freckled shoulders as I fuck her from behind, kissing the expanse of her smooth, tanned skin. I want to run my teeth over every inch of her body. Cover her body in lashes of my cum.
I take a sip from my glass. I’m hard now, and I want to fuck—but not either of them.
‘Open my zipper,’ I command. ‘Seeing as your hands are tied, Si, I guess we’ll have to give the job to your man.’
If looks could kill, I’d be fried in my chair as her chest begins to rise and fall with an ill-contained fury that’s quite entertaining to watch.
Greg’s blunt fingers pull down my zip with a soft susurrus, the pulse in his throat hammering as he moistens his lips.
‘Take it out,’ I rasp. ‘Wet it.’
Yes, I’m hard. And I’m feeling detached. Craving other experiences, too. But sometimes you want caviar, and McDonald’s is the only thing in front of you.
Greg digs his fingers into the waistband of my boxer shorts, and my cock springs free from the confine of my pants. His dark head lowers, his tongue licking my length. I groan at the sensation, my free hand falling to his head.
The sight of his broad shoulders and dark head.
The feeling as he inhales me to the tip.
‘That’s it,’ I hiss, pressing his head to keep still—to keep going—to allow me to feel the channel of his throat tightening around my length. With a rush of air, he moves, engulfing my cock again before he begins in earnest, obscene noises filling the air, joining the waves of need and frustration vibrating from his wife.
‘Let her see how much you like sucking cock. How it gets you off.’
This may be embarrassing for him, but it’s a turn-on for them both.
‘You want this.’ I tighten my hands in Greg’s hair as he moans, my attention turning to an avid gazed Simone. For a moment, her expression turns hopeful, and she’d like to touch herself, I can tell. ‘Come and join the party,’ I whisper. ‘Your husband, unlike you, can share.’
From her position, she shuffles forward on her knees, leaning her cheek on my thigh, her blue eyes staring up at me.
‘Thank you,’ she murmurs, her tongue then uncurling and sliding the length of my dick. Two heads working me, but I don’t look down—not yet. I just revel in the sensations of their mouths while my mind drifts elsewhere.
I imagine her here in the Den. She’s wearing a cocktail dress and nothing else at my behest. No underwear, no shoes. Her luxurious hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves. She’ll sit on my knee. No—she’ll ride it, her wetness leaving a coating on the fabric of my pants. We’ll have an audience we’re barely aware of as I lower the dress from her shoulders, baring her creamy skin as we watch her reflection in the mirror and I drag my teeth over her neck.
A moan from my lap drags me back to the now. There in my lap, two heads—one light, one dark—with my dick between them, screaming to come.
Bobbing heads and sliding lips. Tongues tangling at the tip. The combined sensations have pleasure shooting through my balls like hot pins.
But it isn’t right. It isn’t what I want.
‘Enough.’ I push them away. Their greedy mouths are still open, and Greg lands on his arse and palms. His breath is ragged, his expression shocked.
‘Take her to the bench and strap her legs down,’ I demand, taking my wet cock in my hand.
Greg falls back on his heels in front of Simone, strapping her ankles to either side of the bench.
‘Please. Please.’ Her hips fuck the air, her pussy visibly wet against the leather.
‘It’s a shame I’m not feeling particularly accommodating. What do you think?’ I ask Greg.
‘I think she needs it,’ Greg answers.
‘And you’re just the man for the job.’ He nods his head rapidly in agreement. ‘Do you think she deserves relief?’ His cock bounces between his legs, long and hard and desperate. I note his face is clean-shaven. He knows his wife’s preferences even if he isn’t getting to use his cock lately at home. ‘Well? Do you want to fuck your wife?’
‘Yes. Desperately.’
‘Good. Do it.’ My hand speeds up, the lubrication drying, causing a delightful friction. ‘Fuck her before I change my mind.’
I roll my head back and stare at the ceiling, trying to lose myself in my fantasies of Bea writhing in my lap. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of their coupling—skin hitting skin, her moans and his grunts—filling the room. But I can’t. The whole evening is doing nothing for me.
I can’t bring myself to picture her properly, and therefore, I can’t seem to come.
It’s annoying and as frustrating as all fuck. There’s only one thing for me to do, I decide as I tuck my hard cock back into my pants.
I have to have her. And soon.
Fuck Rory finding out. I’ll take my chances because something tells me she’ll be worth it
.
As I retrieve my jacket, the pair barely notice. It’s a good sign, I think, and what happens next is up to them. I won’t be fucking either of them again, and they have to know. But it seems cruel and somewhat counterproductive to spoil their moment, so I head out to one of the anterooms to wait.
It’s time for me to pursue my new playmate.
Chapter Fourteen
BEA
The week passes in a blur of work; wards and clinics and surgeries. And before I know it, the following week is here. I’m thankful for my job—and I love it, really—for keeping my mind exercised and away from my personal woes. When I’m at work, there really is no time to focus on anything else. When I’m at work, five minutes spent with the parents of a child born with a congenital cleft palate deformity or surgery on a victim of some awful fire puts my problems into perspective super-fast.
There but for the grace of God go I.
It’s what made me call Jon, relenting on the whole hell-freezing-over thing. He wants to see me, but if he couldn’t make it before, I told him I don’t think it’s worth it now. When pressed, I told him I’d think about it. But then, I also told him where he could stick his excuses and his apology.
Cathartic this call was not.
I didn’t even bother calling him out because, even after speaking with him, I find I just no longer care why. He thinks I’m going to change my mind because I haven’t told my family. That I’ll come around, eventually. Meanwhile, I told him he could get fucked, and then I hung up.
I’m not sure why I haven’t told anyone. Maybe it’s because I’m a planner. I’m someone who knows which direction their life is heading. Well, usually. Only now, I’m feeling adrift. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want people’s sympathy? Who knows.
The only thing I am certain of is it doesn’t mean I’m going back to him.
I flew to Edinburgh for a medical conference yesterday. Initially, I planned to be here until Friday afternoon and then fly home following the last seminar, but now that Friday night is here, I’ve decided to stay in town another night—maybe the whole weekend—because I’ve devised a course of action. A plan—something to move forward with, to get over this hurdle with a hump to get over, so to speak.
