Come Play With Me Again

by Sommer Marsden

  Suddenly, Sam comes. I can feel him push in deep and hold himself in me, pushing as hard as he can against my cervix, and then shudder. Part of me wishes he weren’t wearing a condom. I’d like to feel him against my skin, to know that his and Brad’s semen were going to be mixing inside me.

  Sam pulls out and rolls over, making room for Brad, who pulls me down to the end of the bed and flips me over. I know what he wants me to do, and I put my head and forearms down and raise my ass for him to enter me. Brad pushes in from behind, slapping my right cheek with every thrust. He pistons in and out, spanking me again and again with his hand, then, when he can tell I’m close again, he reaches around and starts rubbing my clit in tight circles. When I explode into my third orgasm in an hour, my cunt contracting so hard it hurts, I let out a shrill yelp I don’t ever remember hearing come out of me before. Brad just laughs, sounding weird himself because the laughter is broken up by his panting and grunting and fucking and the noise that our wet bodies are making, the way hiccups interrupt you when you’re trying to talk.

  I know why he’s laughing. Neither of us knew this would turn out to be so much fun.

  I can’t believe I was worried about including Sam in the mix, especially on a Wednesday. This is as wet a Wednesday as we’ve ever had. Maybe the wettest. Before Brad comes, Sam crawls over on the bed until he’s kneeling in front of my face. His cock is almost flaccid but not quite, and I’m wondering what he wants from me. I look up at him as Brad continues to ride me from behind, and Sam says, ‘Bring me back up, Dana. I want you to suck me until Brad comes, and then I’m going to fuck you again.’

  I take him in both my hands and start working him as I bend down to lick his head. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a cock in my cunt and another in my hands, and the experience is beyond sexy. Right away, Sam starts getting hard, and I wonder whether this is the first time he’s tag-teamed a girl. If it is, it seems to come very naturally to him.

  Pretty soon, he’s almost completely erect and I take him in, enjoying the feel of him in my mouth, delighting in the taste of his cock. He groans as I run my tongue repeatedly through his slit, down to circle around the head, back up again to the top. He’s super-sensitive there. I lick him over and over, relishing the sounds he is making as I excite his tip.

  ‘How are you doing up there, Sam? I’m getting close,’ Brad announces, and Sam hesitates for a moment. I wonder whether he can’t quite make up his mind to abandon my mouth for my pussy. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to choose, that he can have it all. I look up into his eyes. ‘Whatever you want, Sam. You can have whatever you want,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’ll be back, Dana,’ he says finally, as he pulls out of my mouth and gets off the bed to take his place beside Brad.

  ‘You only spanked one side,’ he observes, remarking on my sole reddened cheek.

  ‘Yeah, I know. When she’s over my knee, I usually hit both. When I spank her while I’m fucking her, it’s easier to slap her like this, because I’m right-handed.’ I suddenly remember that Sam isn’t, and my pussy clenches on Brad’s cock.

  ‘Mind if I get the other side for you?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Go for it,’ answers my generous man. ‘Makes her wet.’

  We all laugh. I’m so wet now there are spots on the sheets. I’m so wet that, with Brad fucking me, I’m making loud, sloppy noises. How will we even be able to tell if Sam makes me wetter? There’s a river running down my thighs already. But I still hope Sam will spank me. I want to feel his hand on me.

  Brad comes. He thrusts into me hard three times, the way he always does, and then pulls out, and Sam takes his place. I’m so turned on, I can hardly see straight. I’m tired and panting but I never want to stop. I feel like I could keep this up for days. Sam starts slapping me on the left cheek with every thrust, like Brad did, until he moves that hand up to my hip the way he’s holding my right side, and now he starts fucking me harder, even deeper, faster, and I’m wailing and he’s pounding and grunting. Suddenly, I come like Armageddon, harder than I have ever come in my life, with Brad lying on the bed beside me, smiling into my face, and for some reason I can’t even understand, I am shrieking and laughing and crying all at the same time.

  I collapse on the bed. A minute ago, I felt like I could fuck like this for ever. Now, all I want is to be in Brad’s arms, and as quickly as the thought enters my mind, I am. Still panting, Sam peels off his condom and goes to look for something to drink. I lie with Brad, who keeps kissing me all over my face, telling me how much he loves me and that I’m the sexiest, most wonderful girl in the world.

  The three of us hang around on the bed for awhile, naked except for my cut-up T-shirt, a guy on either side of me. The three of us talk the way Brad and I talk on Wednesday nights, and I feel close to both of them. It feels like we’re a real threesome, and I realise that Brad and I haven’t lost anything by sharing a Wednesday with Sam. They play with my tits, and I tease their cocks with my hands and my mouth, but the big stuff is over for the night. I wonder whether I’ll be able to walk the next day.

  When Sam says he needs to get home he pulls on his clothes and we both walk him to the front door. I feel sore and stiff.

  ‘Thanks, you two,’ he says to both of us.

  ‘No problem,’ says Brad.

  ‘My pleasure. Honestly,’ I tell him. We all laugh.

  Sam leans down and gives me a long, sexy kiss goodnight. As he does, Brad runs a hand over my ass. It has been the best night of my life.

  * * *

  ‘So,’ Brad asks me the next morning as I walk gingerly into the kitchen for coffee, ‘would you ever do that again?’

  I smile at him. ‘Sure. Feel free to bet me at poker. Consider me the chip up your sleeve.’ I know all the guys he plays with. Not one of them is hard on the eyes. All great guys, too. None I’d say no to.

  I’ve heard strip poker can be fun if you’re playing with the right people, but I’ll bet it’s not as much fun as fuck poker. For the next several weeks, every other Tuesday night, my stomach is aflutter. I wonder whether Brad will be coming home to tell me one of his friends has won me, and there’s going to be another Wet Wednesday threesome. But the Tuesday after my evening with Sam, Brad wins without ever having to bet me. Two weeks after that, the game is called off. Two weeks after that, it’s at our house.

  Sam gets there first, and when he comes in he gives me a quick kiss. ‘I had a really great time with you, you know, Dana,’ he says. ‘I’ve been trying to think of ways I can cheat, just on the off-chance Brad will bet you again, and I’ll win another Wet Wednesday.’ I blush, flattered, and I think how much I’d like that. ‘You never know,’ I tell him. ‘You could always win me again. I wouldn’t mind.’

  Brad arrives and the other guys drift in, one by one, until Reese shows up at last and the game gets under way. I’m watching TV in the bedroom while they play, but every so often I go out and collect empty beer bottles, bring in snacks, playing the part of hostess-with-the-mostest.

  ‘Tell Brad to bet you, Dana,’ Mike says as I exchange his empty bottle for a fresh cold one.

  ‘Yeah, Dana, we’ve been trying to get him to bet you, but he’s holding out on us,’ chimes in Reese.

  ‘That’s Brad’s decision. You know it is, guys,’ I tell them. ‘I’m just the go-with-the-flow girl.’

  ‘I want a chance at a Wet Wednesday,’ adds Tom. ‘It must have been great, because Sam won’t say a word about it to any of us.’

  I just smile and go back to the bedroom. I’m pleasantly surprised. Even with all the guys knowing what he’d won, Sam wouldn’t talk about what had happened between us. If it’s possible, I think even more highly of him than before.

  They take a break between hands and Brad comes into the bedroom for a minute. ‘They’re riding me pretty hard,’ he tells me. ‘You want me to bet you? The next hand is probably the last.’

  ‘OK,’ I tell him, hoping I’m not making a mistake. ‘You can bet me. Do whatever you want, B
rad.’

  ‘It was pretty hot, Dana. We both liked it. I could see us doing this once in a while, with guys that we trust. I trust these guys.’

  ‘I do, too. It’s OK, Brad. Go for it.’

  A while later I’m watching the late news when I hear whooping and hollering coming from the living room. I have a feeling I’ve just been lost again. Or won. I go out into the living room to find out who will be playing with me this Wednesday night.

  Brad has a funny look on his face, and the rest of the guys are all smiles.

  ‘You bet me, didn’t you?’ I ask Brad.

  He nods.

  ‘OK, who’s the lucky winner, guys?’

  Mike and Sam both speak at once.

  ‘We did. We both had two pairs.’

  ‘Dana, we split the pot.’

  A tie score. Three men this time, then. One me. And another Wet Wednesday for the record books.

  Commuter Lust

  Justine Elyot

  London Bridge. The familiar knot of excitement tightened in my stomach.

  I never saw him until he was practically upon me. I’d look for him every time, in the heaving mass on the platform, but the push and shove, the bags in the face, the elbows in the stomach, created a smokescreen through which he would suddenly appear like a beacon of flame-haired light, every morning.

  When this first started, I’d be sitting down, taking full advantage of getting on near the beginning of the line, coveting my end-of-row seat. Back in those days, I’d have earplugs in and be staring at my book.

  I can’t quite remember when he first impinged on my consciousness. I’d looked up a couple of times and thought, Nice hair. My admiration had extended, gradually, incrementally, with each stolen glance, to the rest of him. Eventually – perhaps a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks later – it had occurred to me that it was a bit strange that he always contrived to be in the same carriage as me. I was well used to getting on with the same crew at Colliers Wood, but by London Bridge surely you just took your chance wherever you could find an inch of platform space?

  The glances lengthened. Oh, God, he’s seen me looking, look away.

  But he was just as guilty of that as I was. It became a game – five points if you got a look in without him noticing; back to zero if he caught you. I rarely scored more than fifteen. Eventually, he caught me every time – even if I wasn’t looking at him, the heat in my cheeks must have told him what I was up to.

  Our lips joined in, twitching upwards with each captured moment of eye contact.

  It was absurd. One day soon, I was going to burst out laughing, and how would that look on a packed tube train full of grumpy morning commuters? Insane, that was how.

  I tried to give up, focusing severely on my book for a few days. This only served to embolden him; every day as I stood up to alight at Moorgate he was a little bit closer. I twisted my neck, avoiding looking at him, as I picked my way over dozens of feet on my way to the door.

  Then, one day, I made the fatal error of looking back at him before the doors opened. He didn’t look away.

  I thought I might catch fire.

  Green eyes.

  The next day I’d made a resolution. Why not flirt with him? Where was the harm? I was single … oh, he might not be single. But what were we going to get up to on a tube train anyway?

  I took my favourite end-row seat and waited for him. At London Bridge, he surfed in on that hectic human wave and stood right in front of me, towering over me, the sides of our feet touching. I was looking directly at his belt buckle and the grey-trousered crotch below it. If I wanted to see his face, I’d have to tilt my head back – too blatant. I didn’t dare. Not that sticking his dick in front of my face wasn’t blatant – was it intentional, though?

  The hand that wasn’t hanging on to the bar fidgeted with a phone, just above my head. I pretended to read the same paragraph of my book over and over until without warning he turned the phone and held it in front of my face.

  There was a notepad message.

  ‘Must be a good book,’ it said.

  All the blood rushed to my head. I clutched my book tightly, trying to stop it flipping out of my trembling hand. This represented a level of escalation for which I was not prepared.

  I had no choice but to lift my eyes to his. I nodded slightly, preventing the threatened nervous laugh by biting down hard on my lower lip.

  He smiled back, keying another message into his phone with dexterous rapidity.

  ‘I’m jealous of it.’

  I couldn’t help an inelegant snort of a laugh this time. I mouthed, ‘Why?’ at his expectant face.

  ‘You used to pay me more attention,’ he typed. ‘But now you prefer that bloody book. Throw it under the train.’

  I shook my head, snuffling with silent laughter. God, this was far too exciting for 8.17 on a Tuesday morning.

  He made a sudden lunge for it and swiped it from my hand before I knew what was happening. I sat gaping at him, open-mouthed, while he read the back cover. I looked to each side of me, to see if anyone had registered this astonishing behaviour, but nobody was looking and nobody cared.

  He flicked through it, slowly and teasingly, eyeing me over the pages as if challenging me to snatch it back. But I sat with my hands primly in my lap, feigning unconcern – probably not very convincingly.

  He handed the book back as the train slid into Moorgate. I couldn’t get off unless he stepped back a little – our knees were practically touching. For a split second, it looked as if he wasn’t going to move, but he let me up as soon as the train halted, leaving me to rush off in a hot and bothered state.

  Bloody hell! What had that been about? The ante had been upped on our mild flirtation by about a thousand per cent. I looked back at the train as it prepared to leave. He was sitting in my seat. I imagined my warmth transferred to him. It didn’t do much to dampen my unexpected Tuesday-morning arousal.

  On Wednesday morning I changed my tactics. I moved out of my seat at Borough and stood by the door instead. My book stayed in my bag, strictly a commute-home read now.

  Mild worry that he might not get on that morning had become a feature of my journey, but now it wasn’t mild. I really needed to see him on the train today.

  I flattened myself back as the crowd surged on, all with the wrong hair, wrong coats, wrong bodies, until at last he was there, brushing against me without even seeing me – he was looking at my usual seat. Up this close to him, I could smell his aftershave, which was ravishing. Hell, if he got any closer I’d be able to determine whether he was a tea or coffee drinker.

  He looked towards the other end of the carriage, still unaware of my proximity.

  Giddy with his nearness, I hooked a finger into the back of his belt and tugged. I felt him stiffen, then turn quickly to face me.

  An indignant glare turned to a drolly raised eyebrow and a smile.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, under his breath, mindful of the other commuters swaying along on either side of us.

  He spoke! He had a voice. A nice one.

  ‘Hello,’ I whispered back.

  He eased a little closer to me, bumping his hip into my side. The point of contact felt as if it might burn through our clothes. He bent and spoke into my ear.

  ‘No book today?’

  His breath sent waves of knee-weakening lust through me. My knuckles whitened as I clung to the pole for dear life.

  I shook my head. My hair brushed his face.

  He was closer still, one hand resting lightly in the small of my back. I did nothing to shake him off.

  ‘It’s hot on this train,’ he murmured. ‘Why don’t you take off your coat?’

  He might as well have asked me to strip naked, for the effect his words had on me. Shallow breath, shaking hands and not a dry thigh in the house.

  ‘I’m getting off soon,’ I objected, still in a stage whisper.

  ‘Is that so?’ He hiked his eyebrows again, enjoying the innuendo. ‘I’ve hear
d this kind of thing sometimes happens on the tube but I never …’

  ‘Oh, my God, what are you like? Stop it!’

  ‘You don’t want me to stop,’ he said, pressing his fingertips into my back just a little harder. ‘You want to take off your coat. Do it. Go on.’

  There were a hundred reasons why I should just tell him to get lost, but they were all somewhere else, obscured by the outrageous exhilaration of it all. The more he behaved like a pervy sex pest, the more I seemed to like it.

  I untied the fabric belt and unbuttoned. He did the rest, removing the coat from my shoulders with a mock-gallant flourish.

  ‘Isn’t that better?’ he asked, looking me up and down.

  Green and white polka-dot blouse, grey tailored skirt, black tights, black cardigan. Bit librarianish, but he didn’t seem to object, if the hungry look in his eye was anything to go by.

  ‘Mm hmm,’ I said, pressing my lips together, unable to face him in his triumph.

  I sucked in a breath, heart stopping for a moment, as he dug one fingertip inside the cuff of my blouse and stroked the inside of my wrist.

  ‘You should keep your coat off tomorrow,’ he said, slightly croaky in my ear. ‘Will you do that?’

  I nodded, my eyes shut, his maddening feathery touch overtaking my senses, drawing me closer to him. He undid the button and managed to get his busy fingertips halfway up to my elbow.

  If running his fingers up my arm made me feel this mad with desire, what chance did I stand of fending off any more serious advances?

  He dragged his nails across the sensitive skin, holding my wrist tight in his other hand.

  I thought I might faint. In fact, when the train jolted to a halt, I thought that was what had happened.

  But it was Moorgate. God damn it. I almost fell on to the platform, dragging my coat behind me, all blurred and pulsing with frustrated need.

  He winked as the train moved on.

  Arsehole. How dared he do this to me? I’d get in a different carriage tomorrow, maybe even take a different train.

  But I didn’t.