by Violet Blue
I told him when I thought I was ready. Dick was bigger than the dildo I’d been using, but I was so horny by that point I didn’t think it would matter. And ultimately, it didn’t, though when he put those first couple of inches in I nearly told him to take it out again and forget the whole plan. But then I felt Peter inside me literally twitching, and…
Fuck, yeah.
It took a little time, but once Dick got all the way in and started a long, slow fuck, I was pretty much in heaven. Peter didn’t really have to move, just stay where he was, filling me up. He wasn’t wearing a condom; we haven’t bothered with those between us since before we moved in together and I got an implant. Dick slid in and out, in and out, getting gradually faster.
“Can you really come just from assfucking?” Dick asked at one point, though because he was nibbling on my sweaty shoulder at the time it came out more like, “Kenya Regal Clone Justice Assfucking?”
I opened my mouth but Peter interrupted, “Holy shit, slow down or you’re going to make me come first.”
“No! Don’t you dare,” I said, clawing at Peter’s collarbone.
“Trying…” he whined.
“Gotcha,” Dick said. “Slower. That’s cool.”
So it was like a game: could Dick fuck me hard enough to make me come without setting Peter off too soon? I got closer and closer; Peter got closer and closer. Dick wasn’t letting on how close he was, but he seemed to have it under control. Very fine control. He and Peter made eye contact over my shoulder, and the next thing I knew it was like they were doing some kind of male-bonding mind-reading thing, speaking only in little grunts and whimpers.
I have no idea how long this went on. The movie we’d loaded up on-demand had ended a while ago. Then Dick got a bright idea. “Would you mind a reach around?”
For a moment I didn’t get what he said, but then I felt his fingers slipping over my swollen clit. No, I didn’t mind, but what came out was, “Yes, oh, yes,” and I guess it was clear I meant “Yes, that’s good,” because he kept on doing it. He had my clit between two fingers, and every time he pushed into me from behind, my clit was pushed into them. Kind of like a little tiny cock fucking a small pair of legs…
That was the thought that sent me over the edge. And once I went over the edge, Dick didn’t hold back, fucking me like a train piston and setting Peter to screaming he was coming so hard. Dick didn’t take long either, and it was like I was coming the whole time he was still fucking hard, only waning off as he softened and they both shrank out of me.
Dick took the first shower while Peter and I lay in a sweaty heap on the bed. “That was fucking amazing,” I said. “But seriously, was it too gay for you?”
“No,” Peter said. “It was awesome.” Then he fell asleep, so that was the totality of our processing on that for a while. We went back to just having sex like before after that, but kept up with watching the threesome videos, eventually talking about how we couldn’t drag someone else in every week without it getting weird. Maybe for special occasions, you know? Not that we could do much for our actual anniversary when it came, since we were so broke.
But I said it was all going to change, right? The next thing we got into watching was “security camera” sex videos. Now, you can be sure most of the ones you see on the Internet are fake, right? I mean, sometimes they even zoom in and stuff, which a real, static camera wouldn’t do. Also the sites have these disclaimers about all models being over eighteen, which kind of killed the idea for me that there could be real unwitting participants in it.
That is, until I found us. The description was something like, “Brunette vixen gets DP’d by nerd and hunk in hotel room.” Okay, yeah, Peter is a nerd, but I didn’t even think of us until the video actually started playing, and then it became obvious there had been a camera in the set-top box. Yeah, I know, I should have been outraged.
But damn, that night was the best sex Peter and I had since the night of the threesome itself.
While we were lying in an exhausted pile afterward I got to thinking, and, well, once I’d put it all together, it really wasn’t that hard to get started. Peter and I own a couple of websites now, including Threesomes-R-Us.com, Girl-Sandwich.com, and Two-Cocks-One-Girl. com. We haven’t even made that many videos and we don’t have to, because people keep coming and watching the ones that are there for money, plus there’s ad revenue. Peter is still in denial about being bi, but still gets off on the sensation of another man’s cock on his, as long as it’s inside my body. That’s all right. I’m the boss now, and he’s happy. I hire the guys who do it with us for the shoots.
I pay them by the inch.
SKINHEADS
Jacqueline Applebee
I was only a little girl when I started following the fascists home. I didn’t know what that word meant back then; I just knew that’s what people called the gang of skinhead white boys who walked through Belmont Park, scattering all in their path. I guess it was the power they seemed to radiate that snared me: the lean but muscular legs and arms, the arrogant, sneering faces. I loved the way they used to stare at people, intimidating anyone who came close.
North London in the 1970s was not the healthiest place to be a black child. At that age I never appreciated the danger I put myself in every day after school. I didn’t know the white boys I was attracted to hated people like me. In fact they hated just about anyone who wasn’t like them. I only knew that my first stirring of desire for the opposite sex sparked at the exact same time when most boys at school wore the worst fashions ever seen. I was surrounded by swathes of beige nylon trousers, polyester shirts and stripy school ties. The skinheads dressed differently. They wore tight white shirts, tighter washed-out denim jeans held up by black braces. But the thing that got me scurrying around behind them, when sense told me to stop, was the boots. Pairs of brightly polished Doc Martens would stomp ahead of me, disappearing out of sight to where my little brown legs could not follow. Ever since then, I’ve hankered after boots with at least fifteen holes.
I heard things. I saw the bruises, the smudges of red over fists. People told me to stay away from them; teachers grew concerned that I would try to exact some kind of childish revenge for the way the white boys treated the black ones. I was a tiny girl. What could I do? Besides, the way the skinheads treated the black boys was no different from how the black boys treated most black girls.
As an adult I still found myself craving skinheads. I’m no longer a little girl—even barefoot, I’m as tall as most guys I know. I soon discovered gay men who wore outfits identical to those that the fascists sported back in North London. I saw people reclaim the look, the tight lines, the shaven heads and the tattoos. But to me, it was always about the white boys strutting around as if they owned the whole bloody world.
My desire led me to Camden, to a warehouse where I had arranged to meet a friend of a friend, called Stuart. I was also to meet his “boy,” which was the real reason I was hanging around with the tramps and tourists on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Stuart, a tall solid man, met me by the stairs as I sheltered in what little shade I could find. He wore a black leather kilt, and boots the color of blood. He looked me up and down before he held out his hand. I gave him the agreed upon money—a clutch of notes in an envelope that he counted quickly in the shadow of the stairs.
He turned to me, speaking in a low voice. “I’ll not have my boy marked in any way.”
I sighed. “Is this little talk necessary?”
“I know what you women are like with all that cutting business.”
“I’ve got no interest in that.”
Stuart looked at me a moment longer before he inclined his head. I followed him. I could see up his kilt as he walked ahead of me, but it was his boots that held my attention.
Stuart’s boy stood in a corner of a large dusty room. He looked nervous. Like Stuart, he was tall with a shaven head; in his early twenties, I assumed. But unlike Stuart, this boy wore bleached denim trousers th
at stretched tight over his thighs. Stress lines in the fabric crossed this way and that.
“He’ll do just fine.” I put my large bag down.
“I’ll be over here if you need me.” Stuart pointed to a single chair against the wall near the door.
“You’re staying?” That wasn’t part of the agreement. I blew out an annoyed puff of air. I wasn’t going to start arguing about it now. “He got a name?”
“I’m Darren.” Stuart’s boy looked less nervous now, more pissed-off at being addressed like that by a black woman.
I smiled, took a step closer to the young man. He swallowed, looked away for a moment. I ran a hand over his thin belt; I would have preferred him to wear braces, but it would have to do. I hooked my fingers around the leather, pulled him to me. Darren grunted, but said nothing. I held his hand, pressed it to my jeans, to where the harness I wore beneath sat snug against my skin. I knew he could feel the buckles and rings when he smirked at me.
“Are you one of them chicks with dicks?”
He barely said the words before I smacked him hard across the mouth. “Excuse me?” I asked politely.
“Shit!” Darren touched his lip, which was already starting to swell.
I raised my hand once more. Darren flinched, looked to the corner where Stuart was. I felt a stir behind me, saw a shadow move on the dusty floor, but it retreated after a moment. I’d learnt this little dance from years of watching older boys intimidate younger ones. I’d memorized the way that force could be used—not in excess, so as to attract unwanted attention, but just enough to get your point across.
“Take them off.” I stroked down his torso for a brief moment before I stepped away. I watched as Darren peeled off his tight top.
All the times I risked life and limb by creeping into the boys’ changing rooms at school had finally paid off. I was no longer a little girl peeking around corners to see glimpses of flesh. Today, I was getting the whole damn show.
Darren had a smattering of hair over his tiny nipples. Blond wisps collected in a line down the center of his stomach, down to the tops of his pants where it got darker. He reached for the laces on his boots.
“Keep those on.”
“I can’t get my pants off if I keep them on,” he complained.
“Do yer best, Darren,” Stuart called out. I could have done without his input. I wanted the boy to concentrate on me, not his old man.
I unzipped my jeans and then bent to my bag where my black dildo lay among a variety of toys and tools. It only took a moment to fasten it to the harness I wore.
Darren took several steps away when he caught sight of my silicone erection. “You’re never going to put that thing in me!”
I heard Stuart sigh, along with the scrape of his chair on the hard floor. He stood beside me, peering down at my dick. “I’ve seen bigger,” he smirked. I gave him a look and put my hands on my hips. Stuart raised his hands, stepped away.
I returned to Darren, who was now pouting. I slid his belt out of its loops. He wriggled, looking uncomfortable, embarrassed. I wasn’t about to make things any easier for him. When I shook my head, he visibly drew himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest. It took all my concentration to not laugh at the spectacle.
“Bitch, please,” I said with a smirk.
“She called me a bitch!” Darren squeaked in complaint, looking in Stuart’s direction.
“Must I put up with this?” I asked out loud. “Do I have to request a refund?”
Darren stilled. His hands returned to his pants, which he pushed down with effort until they lay bunched around his knees. Even with the drama-queen attitude, he was still my living, breathing, wet dream.
“I think I’ll take you up against the wall.”
Darren shuffled to the nearest wall, his clumsy movements disturbing the dust into little blooms. I followed him, fingering the dildo I wore. I rolled a condom over my silicone length. I could feel the lines of sensation travel up my body from my clit to my breasts, electricity that was so intense and sharp, it was physically painful. However, I tended to enjoy pain—whether giving or receiving, I always lapped it up.
When I reached the boy, I was buzzing, burning up with anticipation and need. I braced my hands on either side of his head and rubbed myself over his back, over his bare arse that had a little tattoo on it: a St. Andrew’s flag. I lost myself in simply feeling his hot body beneath me. My dildo prodded his thighs, the curve of his arsecheeks.
“I’m ready,” Darren said.
“I’m sure you think you are.” I stretched around to his front, felt the hot burn of his erection on my palm.
“Go on then, do it,” he hissed. “Just do it.”
My little bottle of lube sat in my back pocket. I applied a liberal amount to my fingers and then pushed one between his cheeks. I circled around, enjoying the sight of him writhing against the wall. I stepped back slightly, and then with my free hand I slapped his arse, making him jump with surprise. I spanked him some more, steady beats that turned his white-boy skin a rosy red. When I returned my hand to his cock, it felt harder, hotter.
“Now you’re ready.”
Darren whimpered. The sound of surrender made my nipples tingle. I wanted to hear him make more noises like that.
The first slide of my cock into his body was a sucking squelch. I breathed out along Darren’s neck, exhaling the stored-up passion and want that had stirred inside me all those years ago. I pushed farther, implanting myself inside the boy. My feet were unsteady. My hips moved of their own accord. My head spun. He didn’t have to do a thing to surrender his power. It leapt off his skin, dribbled with the sweat that ran down his back. I licked around his throat, pressing teeth to the flesh that was stretched tight. I wrapped my arms around him, possessively circled his body with mine.
“Please,” he whispered into the wall. He arched up against me. I understood of course. I had power of my own. I brought down my hand against his arse once more. He shuddered beneath me, bucking slightly as I slapped him again and again.
A movement to my left made me look up, gasping, into the eyes of Stuart. His kilt was held up by a large pin. He grabbed his cock in his fist, stroking it hard and fast. He nodded at me. Knowledge and power combined into a potent aphrodisiac as I mirrored his movements with my own. I circled my hand around the boy’s cock, pulling and stroking in the same way that Stuart touched himself. Darren leant back against me, his weight threatening to push me over. I pressed him back against the wall fully, continued to jerk him off as I thrust inside.
“Shit!”
I don’t know which of the men swore out loud, but warm come erupted over my hand a moment after. Stuart squeezed his eyes shut, and then he came too, spraying his boy with thick streaks of white.
I breathed deep. My clitoris sung with pleasure, even though I hadn’t come yet. That was something I’d do later when I was alone at home. My orgasm was a powerful moment that I wasn’t about to let these guys see.
I slid out of Darren’s arse carefully. He winced and squeaked with every movement until I was free of him. He sagged against the dusty wall, sticky and sweaty. He didn’t look so tough now, although his boots were still impressive. I pulled the spent condom from my dildo, threw it down on the dirty floor. I felt my own power surge within at what I’d done. Somewhere inside me, a little girl jumped for joy.
“Will you be wanting to make this a regular arrangement?” Stuart’s voice was raspy, breathless.
“Make him wear braces next time. I don’t want to see the belt again.” I sounded hoarse, too.
“Yes, ma’am,” Stuart said, with a smile. “That’s not a problem at all.”
I straightened myself out, picked up my bag and left without another word. But as I descended the metal stairs and strode out into the bustle of Camden on a busy afternoon, I felt like I owned the whole bloody world.
KING SLUT
Valerie Alexander
Scene I
The actor playing t
he king stands against a backdrop of palm trees, his sandaled feet motionless on a three-foot dais. His muscled arms are a golden bronze, his chiseled chest and abs taut. He wears only a kilt of white linen, banded just beneath his narrow hips, with gold snake bracelets twining round his biceps. In one hand he grips a staff. But his face is concealed beneath a golden King Tut mask, its famous noble face staring past the director, cameramen and waiting extras with the poise of a real pharaoh.
“This isn’t at all true to life,” says one of the grips. “That mask was a death mask they found in his sarcophagus. Tutankhamen never wore it in real life.”
“We’re shooting a porn movie called King Slut,” the director says. “You really think anybody gives a shit?”
A female PA says, “I think the mask is hot. Without it, he’s just another guy.”
“I’m sure our star really appreciates that,” the director says. “Come on now. Back to work.”
King Slut stands motionless on the dais as if deaf to their words.
Cecilia pauses the porn movie running in her head. It’s her own creation and she can return to it later, even if she’d prefer to be watching it right now instead of the movie currently broadcasting before her. But she has to be social. She’s at a party; next to her is her fiercest crush, and he and the sixteen other people here are silently absorbed in their hostess’s art-porn project, which Cecilia pretends to like to be polite. The film isn’t working for her, though. She knows it’s supposed to be better than typical porn fare, the kind with a lot of bleached hair, fake moans and mechanical fucking, because it’s shot in black and white and the actresses are just local art student goth girls. But watching the girls finger themselves and stare moodily into the camera leaves Cecilia cold. She looks around at the other guests, their faces rapt in the flickering light and feels like a freak. Even watching cable soft-core porn with her friend Shea is better than this, because they snark and make up fake dialogue for the actors.
