Billionaire: Menage: Swinger: Let's Swing (MMF Bisexual Romance) (New Adult Contemporary Short Stories)

by Piquette Fontaine

  I lay wrapped in the two men's arms for some considerable time after that, writhing and tossing and squirming on the bed in a sea of kicking arms and legs, three sets of lips latching onto whatever available nubs of flesh they could locate, nibbling and lapping and savoring our salty, sweat-soaked flesh down to the very last sweet, succulent drop.

  I had a feeling that the three of us would end up getting together again, sometime very, very soon...

  THE END

  Pregnant By My Big Black Cuckold

  Chapter 1

  I felt... Well... I felt damn awfully lonely to be quite honest with you. Call me a pussy for that fact if you will, but that was my mindset, and no matter how adamantly I might have tried to buck up and snap out of it, I simply could not seem to get my mind into the sort of territory in which it needed to be in order to get my mood back on track. I mean, shit, I was in pretty fucking pathetic shape at this point in time. I was snuggled all up in one of those goddamn blankets that doubles as a robe, an object which, quite frankly, I'm ashamed to even admit to having owned in the written word, as I'm certain the record of this fact will forever be preserved throughout the whole of eternity. What was more, I'd just gotten through devouring an entire damn bucket of cookie dough ice cream, which would have been bad in itself, of course, but was made even worse by the fact that I was still hungry as hell, dissatisfied, and I felt like crying my eyes out for no reason I could seem to place my finger upon. I tried turning on the TV, flipping through every channel in desperation, yet wholly unable, for the life of me, to land on anything that looked even remotely interesting, anything that could pull my mind out of this God-awful rut, and at last I settled on some atrocious romantic comedy from, like, 2005 or something, whose flashing images and on-the-nose plot went a very small way in at least keeping me distracted, but then the notion of romance seemed to slowly creep up on my psyche and strangle away what little joy I might otherwise have managed to derive from the viewing, and I was left as damn miserable as ever.

  I sighed, shutting off the TV, and felt as empty as ever, forced to curl up in a little fetal ball on the couch and hug my body tightly for warmth, the room seeming peculiarly cool for this time of year- I would, normally and reasonably, have had the heat on, but it wasn't working or something, or maybe I had just been altogether too lazy to get up and turn it on, I couldn't really remember, my mind was so preoccupied with this miserable attitude I'd taken on. Everything just seemed... Seemed... Christ...

  I started crying, dreading the fact that I was without company here this evening, and playing, for what must have been the hundredth time that night alone, through the laundry list of my despairs internally, looking for whatever opportunity I could find to feel sorry for myself, and believe you me, said opportunities presented themselves to me quite readily in that current and dreadful state of mind. Mostly, more than anything else, I thought about Steven, my husband, who was the source of all these anxieties, although I can't reasonably say it was all his fault, not by any means, and probably not at all, really.

  Initially, at least, Steven and I had gotten married in a state of mad and wild love, the two of us head over heels for one another, so enamored to the practical point of sheer stupidity. Hell, when the two of us were in the heat of the moment you couldn't possibly have pried us apart if you'd tried, and there was no doubt in either of our minds that the two of us were made for each other as we walked together down the aisle, brought together by fate and certain that our union had been one that was written in the stars since the very beginning of time itself. And then there was our honeymoon night... Oh, Christ... That night contained some of the absolute most mind-blowing sex I have ever laid claim to in my entire friggin' life, the kind that makes your spine bend and your skin crawl and your pussy pop with the intensity of a thousand suns, if you'll excuse me saying so, and for the time being I probably shouldn't go into any further explicit details than that. The crux of the matter was, if you haven't already intuited it from that, perhaps, unnecessarily graphic description, the two of us were madly obsessed with each other, and in point of fact nearly every night that followed that honeymoon smashing of loins seemed even sweeter than the last. We were inebriated on one another, really, blind to anything and everything outside the realm of the union we shared, happy and stupid and content with what we considered the fact that we would continue to be happy and stupid and content from that day forth until the end of time itself.

  And yeah... Things didn't exactly turn out that way...

  I mean, they did, and it seemed apparent that they would, indeed, for quite some time, but decay did inevitably come, and in steps so slight that their gradual nature became far, far more insidious than they might reasonably have been otherwise. I mean, there was really no single incident that I think either of us could point to and say that it was a sign that things had started to go wrong, nothing so direct or theatrical as that whatsoever. It was so damn subtle, in fact, that I'm pretty sure we each failed to recognize it at all even as it happened. We might have noticed the episodes themselves, but we took no note of their overall implications, and didn't think by any means that these minuscule little incidents were signals or warning signs that this was the beginning of the end. There was no end, as far as we were concerned, and it was just such a mindset that ended up to what I suppose was an almost inevitable unraveling. Things like, maybe, our differences of opinion on certain matters starting to create more friction between the two of us. Like, not even serious things like politics or religion or actual significant shit, but things that were more like personal quirks, things that we might have considered simple charming differences between ourselves in the past, but nothing whatsoever that in any way served to threaten the sanctity of the relationship. Things like these, more than anything, began to accumulate, and though they quite reasonably shouldn't have, they really started to mutually piss us off. I mean, you always hear the jokes about couples fighting over which of them left the toilet seat up or down, and though it's funny to a point, that felt like the level of significance that the objects of our feuding with one another honestly took on. Like, ridiculous things... And I'm sure it wasn't the incidents themselves that were the problem, either, but that rather the converse seemed to have been the real case. Like, I think our lowering tolerance for one another's tiny little bullshits was a result of the growing staleness of our relationship, a consequence, maybe, of marrying young, and letting ourselves grow tired of one another before we'd hardly gotten our foot in the door of our marriage. The two of us began spending less and less time together, too, which certainly couldn't have been healthy; him staying late at the office more often or going out drinking with his friends perhaps, me meeting up with the girls for drinks and being flirted with by men at the bar, much to my consternation, mind you, and the distance, all the while, growing more and more acute between Steven and I.

  Things began to feel very, very hollow. It was painful, really, being so far apart from someone you'd once loved, and by that I mean emotionally speaking. And “once loved?” was that honestly the phrase I was using with myself now? Had my love genuinely dissipated that drastically that I no longer even considered it a legitimate entity, nothing but a forgotten matter, and henceforth to be treated exclusively as such? Christ, almighty... How the hell had the two of us let this happen to ourselves? This wasn't us... This wasn't what we'd intended or envisioned for the future, and it felt perverse to let things dissolve so entirely and with such contrast when compared to its most splendid of origins...

  Something had to be done.

  I tried, I really fucking tried, to come up with some sort of solution to this gradual death of something that had once meant so very much to me, and which still did, if I was honest with myself, even if it wasn't something as acutely felt as it had once been. I mean hell, I didn't want Steven out of my life, not by any means. I wanted things to be the way they had been, I wanted the detection of a pulse to bring us back together.

  I wanted..
. Well, I wanted that quick and easy solution that couples often wanted when they couldn't rekindle the spark they'd once had in their marriage, or at least so I had been told. I wanted a baby...

  I talked the matter over with Steven, eschewing, of course, the mention that I was doing this because I thought our romance was in the crapper, and although he raised any number of practical objections to the plan initially, he at last sighed a bit resignedly, and certainly lacking any passion, saying that we could give it a shot. Honestly, I think his mindset was more that that was about the phase in our lives we should reasonably be entering right about now, parenthood, that is, and I'm not really convinced his thought about the matter had anything at all, really, to do with his feelings for me, or the child the two of us planned to produce.

  But that was okay, or, at the very least, acceptable for the time being. I had, after all, every intention of changing his mind about this fact over the course of the next several weeks, certain that it would be impossible for the two of us not to enter into our way of feeling for each other once his unborn son was romping around inside my uterus. And, at any rate, the two of us going out of our way to fuck one another as we attempted to get pregnant couldn't possibly hurt matters all that much as far as romance was concerned...

  And, God help me, things actually seemed to be working for a while. Despite Steven's initially somewhat icy reception I went off my birth control, and the two of us began to acquaint ourselves with one another's bodies to an extent that far eclipsed that to which we had done so in the preceding few months. I savored being touched by him again, feeling him putting himself inside me and thrusting his anatomy in and out and in and out of me, filling me up with his sticky hot sperm and then kissing me in the afterglow until the two of us fell asleep... It was like heaven had come back to the two of us after a lifetime of hell, or at the very least emptiness, and the two of us began to re-consummate our love at any point in time that we seemed able to do so, fucking the moment we woke up with his stiff morning wood, fucking while we showered and got ready for the morning, fucking during either of our lunch breaks, fucking in our vehicle like two teenagers, fucking fucking fucking so often that his prick must have ached almost constantly from such a quantity of ejaculate being poured through it into my body, and yet despite this almost insane frequency it seemed as though the two of us were now, and forevermore, close to inexhaustible.

  But there did happen to be one fairly hairy fly in the ointment... And that was the fact that, every single damn time I squatted down and pissed on a pregnancy test, the result came back as a resounding, disappointing negatory...

  Lord, how it was beginning to piss me off. At first, Steven himself didn't pay much heed to the fact, mesmerized by the overabundance of pussy he was getting, I'm at least fairly certain. He was asking me if I had anything cooking yet, his palm warmly against my stomach and rubbing it around with some degree of reverence, and I was answering him, honestly, not yet, as though it was nothing but a matter of time, and he said that was alright with him, he liked being in my kitchen and would continue to stir the pot for as long as it took for the dish to come out right. Then he would tear me out of my clothes, stick his cock in me and bounce me off the walls for several hours, filling me wish so much sperm that not getting pregnant must have seemed an impossibility to him, although, no matter how many friggin' times this occurred, nothing ever seemed to budge in my uterus as a result, and I began to have my suspicions that things were rather less promising than I might have originally suspected in the matter.

  At any rate, when no baby ever seemed ready to manifest itself, things began to cool off accordingly between the two of us, our lovemaking growing far less frequent and, for certain, less passionate as the nights rolled by, and the old distance yet again stepping into the picture, draining away all hope that this wreck of a relationship could be salvaged. I mumbled something about a fertility clinic on one particular night, and he gave me little more of an acknowledgement than “we'll talk about it later” before turning his back to me, and falling asleep, the subject never to be broached again.

  Presently, Steven was away on a business trip, and though the two of us had made hard, steamy love immediately prior to his leaving, and although he'd sworn up and down his love to me as he exited the front door on the morning of his trip, I couldn't help but feel as though I was utterly abandoned by him, utterly hopeless and alone, and feeling, without any evidence or reason for doing so, that he must surely be cheating on me while he was away for the week, sleeping with someone younger or prettier or more lively, not that I was any sort of spring chicken myself.

  And so it was that, in the middle of this long and lonely and absolutely miserable night, I found myself booting up my laptop, visiting a url I had never before logged onto in the past, and scrolling through a series of online personal ads, posted by individuals in the market for no strings attached, discreet casual sex. I had no concrete intention of hooking up, really, no genuine desire to make up for an uncomfortable notion of my husband cheating on me by either equaling his depravity with my own or, otherwise, if he was in fact innocent as I guessed was reasonably the case, beating him to the punch.

  But my mind was greatly changed when I came across an ad whose listing was titled “Looking for a white girl to come over and smoke a big black cock,” and all semblance or reason or rationality seemed to fly straight out the window at the sight of the attached photograph...

  Chapter 2

  I wouldn't exactly say that being plowed by a big black cock had ever been a specific fantasy of mine, or at least, no more so than I imagine most white and unhappy married women might fantasize about the act. I'd always had a fairly adventurous and healthy sexual appetite, held somewhat at bay by my marriage to Steven and my perhaps counterintuitive adherence to the principles and guidelines of monogamy. And I knew, even as I sped down the highway, that what I was considering and about to do was completely wrong, that I was breaking some pretty explicit bonds and risking an entire life I'd built with Steven for a wild roll in the hay, yet when I considered the alternative of a long and lonely night by myself, a whole week, in fact, by myself, it was hard to really consider any alternatives whatsoever to putting my foot to the pedal and beginning to puff on that fat black cock in as timely a manner as was humanly possible.

  I came awfully damn close to crashing the car as I parked it in my excitement, sitting silently for a moment at the will and trying to get my nerves about me, knowing that I would fuck this up being all overeager and anxious as I was, yet unable to keep the mental images now assaulting me from absolutely devastating my constitution.

  Knowing that, apparently, sitting around and waiting wasn't going to make this a lick easier, I took a final, deep, intense breath, and with trembling, unsteady footsteps pulled my ass out of the car, hovering up to my boy toy's front door, and ringing the doorbell uncertainly. It was a moment before the door was opened, and I stood gaping for a moment at the man staring down at me, and by staring down, I mean staring very far down... This man, as it turned out, was gigantic, far larger than perhaps I'd imagined him from his photo, with a build to suit such a tremendous height, easily eclipsing past six feet tall or more. I mean, Christ, my husband was taller than I was, but he didn't fucking tower over me as this fine gentleman seemed to do...

  I found myself lost for words, my mind reeling and thoughts seem to smash up against the sides of my noggin like insects kept inside a jar. I kept trying to think of something to say to him, anything at all, really, as a means of introduction, but all I could muster was to continue to stare at the man, my jaw trembling and my body tensing up, knowing, full well, that this was not going to be an easy sexual prospect to handle, or much less to sustain.

  Finally, as the silence grew almost palpable and heavy between the two of us, he said very simply, “I like what I see...” and ushered me in the door. I stepped in uncertainly, feeling on edge and knowing, all the while, that I was making a fucking ridiculous mistake, th
at Steven would be devastated if he found out, but then the thought that hell, maybe he would give a fuck at all, quickly strengthened my resolve, knowing that it was my only option in my present state of emotional fragility, and that I had damn well better go through with this now if I ever wanted it to happen.

  He introduced himself as Tyler, and for a few minutes the two of us made strained, awkward small talk, my nostrils flaring all the while in a manner that was decidedly predatory, as though I could actually smell the sex on him as I prepared my body to be plowed by him, my pussy getting wetter and wetter and wetter by the minute as I leered into his dark eyes, and the moments between our exchanged sentences seeming to grow longer and longer and longer as time crept along.

  And I don't even realize how it happened, exactly, or when, but all of the sudden his lips were on mine, cutting me off in the middle of a sentence if I recall correctly, and leaving me gasping as he sucked every drop of air from my fucking lungs. His lips were hot, and felt spicy in this particular context for some reason, filling me up with electricity and going a long way in revitalizing me after having dwelled for so long in unhappy, dissatisfied doldrums. For his part, he seemed to be more than enjoying himself, snorting up my pale skin as though he could scarcely get enough of me, his lips promptly sliding from my own onto the sides of my neck, teeth sinking into my throat and creeping dangerously low down the front of my blouse, kissing my clavicle and the very tip top of my cleavage, causing me to moan with passion and to begin to roll my head around with my eyes closed in response, pleasure sweeping through my body like a virus, his saliva coating my soft flesh and causing it to shimmer and squelch, every nerve in my anatomy poised and ready to be dominated by this excruciating sexpot of a man. Then, Lord help me, he put his lips back squarely onto my own, opening his mouth wide and pushing his tongue back, back, back along toward my windpipe, choking me half to death on the beautiful fucking thing, my entire body ready to catch on fire at a moment's notice, my tongue trying to push feebly back against his own and wrestle playfully with it, but his powerful pink licker far too strong, pushing it over and rolling, twisting, lapping, coating me with saliva and making my eyes water with its sheer, splendid sweetness.