Come Play With Me Again

by Sommer Marsden

  The way she sat upon that bed as they showed it off, stroking the satin sheets as if luring us all beside her, enforced what I already believed about them: that sensuality and rudeness were never far from their thoughts. It proved merely a prelude to saucier things that evening. Eating is somehow more erotic when the subject-matter is suggestive. It stops you being all prim and proper. You certainly don’t mind slurping your wine, whatever fine chateau it came from. The three of them are so comfortable with each other it is hard not to be drawn in and wish to be part of that closeness. It all felt warming, absorbing, decadent. I’d been in their company a few times before but that night was the first time they’d engulfed me in their world.

  We played ‘Fifty Shades of Sambuca’ at Jez’s behest. The idea is simple: each player must utter a word or simple phrase that is dirty enough to get a reaction from the other players. Ideally you are looking for a vocal exclamation. If not, you have to hope you have invoked a twinge or a little shiver. A majority decision must be gained from the other players that you hit the spot; if not, down the hatch goes a shot of the syrupy hangover potion. Jez was never going to be in danger, unabashed and with those posh tones of his somehow making everything sound extra lewd. Matilda had tried to veto the game but had been talked down by her other half. Imagine my surprise, then, when she intoned her opening gambit of ‘luscious cunt’ so lasciviously it was as if she had said it whilst biting into a succulent peach and slurping in all the juices. It certainly made me shiver.

  It took only a couple of rounds to realise my ‘sticky flange’ efforts were going to bring only giggles, derision and a Sambuca express to the system. I wanted to opt out and watch the experts at work. Instead Jez, pitiless as he is, altered the rules. This time it would be a battle between me and them. They would perform in turn at me alone. If I could remain outwardly unperturbed, I won and they drank the shot. If I failed, I had to take a step closer to aniseed death. I thought I could at least withstand the efforts of Manny and Matilda. I grossly underestimated them. I never realised it would be so personal.

  ‘A cock – not just any old cock,’ purred Matilda, leaping at the chance to go first, ‘but a huge, iron-hard one like my husband’s, the smooth skin smeared and burning with chilli oil to engorge every cell within it fit to burst. And you, naked on all fours, your hair gripped and twisted around his fist to hold you in place. The cock pressing into you, opening you up a fraction at a time, refusing to drive deep despite your needs, sliding tantalisingly into you little by little and inflaming your insides, leaving you burning, itching and desperate as it creeps forward until you are screaming out for it to be buried all the way to your belly.’

  Well, that could have earned me five or six shots alone. I could practically feel him in me. The shot burned as it went down and kept the image strong. I told them I could take no more. Jez said I would have to rack up my debt until I could, because it was his turn next. He looked like a beast about to devour its prey, buoyed further now that I knew how huge and hard he could be.

  ‘I slip my fat cock from inside you,’ he said, ‘and come around the front, keeping you on your hands and knees, keeping my grip on your hair. Your greed for me makes you salivate but I won’t make it that easy. I order you to keep your mouth closed as I slowly smear your lips with the ooze of my precome. Then I wipe my shaft all across your face, smearing you with your own juices. I beat your cheeks with it, and press my tight, smooth balls to your lips so that you are silently begging me to let you open up. Then I do, and you sink down upon half my length at once, tasting your come on me. You guzzle like the greedy bitch you are, not letting up even when you feel a tongue delving into your tight little rear, and then the finger of someone you never even knew was there slipping up inside you.’

  They’d done this before, I guessed. It was far too slick to be spontaneous. You’d think Manny would have come to my aid, but he was rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed and clearly enjoying it all, despite the fact his friends were right there, shamelessly cuckolding him in words. I could see him summoning the tale in his head, ready to tell me. I was hot and flustered and there for the taking, knowing defeat was assured if he decided to take their story on, with me there prone on my hands and knees, my willing holes at the mercy of the stranger behind me. He spared me this at least, but that still wasn’t going to save me.

  ‘I sneak to your flat when you think I am at work,’ Manny said, and I guessed it was coming straight from the heart. ‘I secretly watch you shower, watch how you stroke and rub yourself when you think you are all alone. Then I hide in your bedroom as you spread out the towel on the bed and lie upon it. You place your vibrator and a bottle of clear moisturising oil at your side. I am expecting a slow, delicious show but I get much more. In comes a girl I never even knew was there. It is Cassie, that girl from work you seem to like. She slips out of her clothes and lies beside you. You don’t need to talk because you’ve done this before. She kisses you with soft passion, all the while smoothing the oil into your breasts and belly and thighs. Then, as you still kiss, you rub yourself and she fucks you deep and slow with your toy until you come.’

  Well, it was a softer tale than theirs but no less shocking, coming from my own boyfriend, whom I thought I knew pretty well.

  ‘My, what a sneaky little spy you are!’ I blurted, knowing full well this counted as a defeat and added to my growing debt. What I must have looked like!

  ‘Have you ever kissed a girl before?’ asked Matilda, piling on the pressure.

  ‘No, I have not!’ I replied, trying to sound incredulous.

  So she kissed me. No warning, no by-your-leave. She leaned forward and sank her soft lips to mine, caught my flesh between gently nipping teeth, allowed her tongue to find mine. It was brief but mightily effective. She broke off as if nothing untoward had just happened, leaving me with my head whirring. I could barely breathe.

  ‘You owe us two drinks,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t take any more,’ I pleaded, and meant it in every sense.

  ‘Then Manny must come to your rescue,’ Jez announced. ‘Double or quits.’

  Double would have seen me dead several times over but there was no sense that I should be given mercy. Jez explained Manny’s task. He was to relate a new fantasy. He had only a few moments to bring it to mind, meaning it would have to be one he’d thought of beforehand and not dreamed up on the spot. To win for me and wipe my debt, it had to be rude enough, and I quote from Jez, ‘to make Matilda wet.’ And tellingly there would be no denying Jez in this. He just has this way of making you know that his word is law and to be obeyed.

  ‘I better get thinking,’ grinned my man.

  ‘Make it your best one,’ Matilda said, giving me one of those eat-you-up looks.

  ‘I suppose your best one would include another woman?’ I blurted at her, not knowing how to counter her lusty gaze, but not wanting that kiss to pass into nothing.

  ‘Good lord, no,’ she said as if I was being ridiculous. ‘No, I’d have Jez leave a man of my choice bound and gagged naked in a room somewhere. I would go there alone, grease him up and fuck him deep and slow with the toy strapped to my crotch. I’ve always wanted to fuck a man, but a subservient one – not one like Jez, not that he’d ever allow me to anyway.’

  ‘OK, I’ve thought of something,’ said Manny, dragging my focus back to him.

  His fantasy story turned out to be quite involved. It was supposed to turn Matilda on but it was all about me, said to me. It made me need another drink. I am blundering alone through some snow-trapped village in eighteenth-century Eastern Europe. I’m trying to find my beau, a lawyer who has brought me out there while he pursues his dealings with the Count of Wallachia. He has not returned home as expected, so I go out to search, not knowing what else to do. Instead of finding him I am captured by two guards from the Count’s castle and dragged off there to who knows what fate.

  The castle is all dimness, all jumping shadows and torch flames. You can make out almost no
thing. It smells enticingly sweet, despite the foul deeds that some say go on here. I am dragged up the spiral stairs and a door to the master bedroom is thrown open. Gloom pervades here too. I sense a figure sitting, maybe trussed to a chair, in the shadows, but my attention cannot be drawn by this for long. In the centre of a large iron four-poster bed kneels the Count himself. A single flickering torch upon the wall lights up his huge form, gleaming on his smoothly shaved head. The face is stern but does not show the centuries of age.

  He wears a black gown, almost like a priest’s, buttoned high just beneath his chin and secured with a dagger brooch. However, unlike any holy robes, the gown is split at the crotch. From this split proudly protrudes the longest, most solid erection I will ever lay eyes upon. Then from either side my dress is ripped away from my body as if made of paper, leaving me totally exposed. I do not know if the guards then leave or merely sink into the shadows to keep watch. The Count beckons me with one talon-nailed finger. The motion draws me in, sees me wordlessly climbing up on the bed and crawling towards him.

  He strokes my face with that same finger. He could tear into the vulnerable flesh at my neck at any moment but I feel no fear. Instead I am filled with a yearning to be his, to serve him. He turns me and puts me upon my hands and knees. My hair is gripped and pulled, forcing my head up so that I can see the dim form of that trussed figure upon the chair. I can see almost no detail. The figure appears to be draped head to toe in some kind of thin veil or mesh, so that, although I cannot make him out, he can see me perfectly. In truth I do not need to see him to guess his identity. It is obviously my beau, held here to witness the transference of all my affection, the giving of my body and soul, to a new master.

  The talon strokes lightly down the split between my thighs. I drip there. My thighs are gripped tight and then I am impaled by that huge prick, slowly but ever so surely, my cries stark in the ears of my trussed-up former beau, the rapture on my face a dagger to his heart. I am pulled upright, the prick yet only half in me. The talon presses at my neck and punctures the skin. I feel the warmth of my flow. His mouth is there, gorging upon me, drinking me. I have no strength. I slip down and down, opening up around him, sliding in my own bliss. I take his every inch, spitted to my core. Then I am placed back on my knees to be fucked; slow, hard and deep. I see the trussed figure tensing beneath the veil. Each loud slap of my behind is like a hammer to drive the stake into his chest.

  The joy is like a current through my body. I am molten and drench that prick so deep within. It slips from me and I wail my sorrow. I am turned again but not before I witness shadowy guards releasing the bonds that hold my former beau. The great prick is now before my eyes, glistening with my juices. The head is smooth and purple, pulsing full of blood, perhaps even my own. Saliva strings from my mouth – I cannot help myself. I strain against the grip on my hair, so hungry. At last he lets me take him in.

  Hands grip my thighs again as my head bobs up and down and my lewd slurps fill the stone-walled chamber. There are no talons this time. A smaller prick presses to me – not to the hole just used but to the smaller, tighter one above. I gasp. I have never been debased like this before, by him or anyone. My soul cannot now be saved. I will not know daylight ever again. This sin will set me on my final journey into darkness, spitted from either end and glorying in it, a glutton for their poles at each pole, their finish simultaneously spurting to scald me gorgeously at my core.

  Well, I don’t know about Matilda but my man sure did it for me. He told it like a pro and it raised every single hair on my body.

  ‘I think it is time to see if it worked,’ Jez said, leading his wife by the hand towards the spiral stairs to the mezzanine.

  ‘You could be the judge,’ said Matilda looking straight at me, ‘if you liked.’

  I still had some shock left in me and I was left open-mouthed once more, looking at Manny for guidance but finding him absorbed only in them.

  ‘Too late,’ Jez declared, and off they went.

  I think Manny and I practically ran the ten or so minutes home, to get behind closed doors and get frantic. Who knows what would have happened if I’d found my voice and answered Matilda in time? The mind boggles, after what kinkiness I’d heard the minds of those three produce. As I said, what a night it was.

  * * *

  I guess I have been expecting something like this ever since. It couldn’t have been left at that. It’s given me time to replay the details again and again. Just little things like the fact that Manny knows what I do to myself in the shower when I think I’m alone. Was it an educated guess or has he actually spied on me in secret just as in his fantasy? It’s quite a big thing to put out there. It could easily have resulted in one creeped-out rather than turned-on girlfriend. I certainly haven’t let slip to him that thoughts of being covertly watched do indeed spice up some of my shower times. Perhaps what I learned from the three of them that night was that mere words, said when the mood is right, can push the envelope of your erotic ambitions. Things can sound so much more appealing if put to you in the right way.

  Jez, for example. I am attracted to him, there’s no denying it, but I’d never prior to that night given more than cursory thought to being in an erotic situation with him. Since then, come bedtime, I find it hard to keep him out of my mind. Not as him – perhaps the real ‘him’ is just a bit too sneering and opinionated for me to lust after more than my Manny. But as the Count of Wallachia, that’s a different story. And it was him that Manny wanted me to see as the Count. Towering, shaven-headed and big-cocked – with him sitting right there, who else could I possibly have brought to mind? He was transformed that night from smug gloom-monger into the stuff of the most thrilling fantasies.

  And Manny. He’s never before shown himself to be a raving kinkmeister, short of whispering rude things in my ear as we play – which, on reflection, he was always very proficient at. Could it be that he is actually a very proficient spy too? Or was he just saying it because he knew in that moment the words would be erotic enough to put naughty, thrilling possibilities into my head? Maybe forcing fantasy on me rather than the real thing is enough for him. But how could you possibly bring yourself to weave stories of your best friend as some irresistible vampire super-being, plundering your girlfriend whilst you watched helplessly, unless you wished it could actually happen?

  It is certainly not a fantasy easily dislodged from the mind. It hit the spot with me. Vampires I find sexy, and Manny knows this. Being helpless to evade the vampire’s sexual clutches – maybe it’s reasonable to assume any girls who find vampires sexy would extend the fantasy thus. As for being watched, well, maybe Manny just took a punt and got lucky. Maybe a lot of us are turned on by the thought. What he did that night, with their help, was implant a whole kinky scenario in my mind that they knew I could only dwell upon, embellish and ultimately immerse myself in. They were setting me up for something; that much I guessed. Like Grand Wizards of some dark sex sect they were manipulating me with words and thoughts. Perhaps I should have been wary. But I liked it. I wanted it.

  And now I have it. Their story this time goes as follows: to mark the first anniversary of Manny and me officially becoming an item, generous Jez has laid on a meal and a room for us tonight at the nearby Raven Hotel. It will have cost him the best part of £300 but such a gesture from him is believable. Jez has purportedly arranged for Manny to be sent there from work, so the surprise will only dawn on him when he arrives. I have been invited to the Old Chapel for seven o’clock sharp to have a glass of best champagne before Jez gives me a lift to the hotel. Like I say, that’s the story. I am under no illusion that it is simply a ruse on their part to get me there. I know what they really want. By going I am entering their kinky fantasy world.

  I’ve chosen to wear my LBD. I am supposed to be dressing for dinner, after all. I need to play along even though, if my suspicions are correct – and I’m convinced that they are – my clothes are destined to be ripped from my body by the castle
guards. I bought this dress for a wedding. Maybe such things are irrelevant now. I’m putting myself into the clutches of a vampire, after all. I’m trembling but the appointed hour sees me venturing out into the autumn darkness. I know Jez is a stickler for punctuality and will want everything just so. There aren’t many streetlamps in the village but the moon is bright and porchlights spill onto the streets. I will get there safe and sound for sure. It seems almost like my destiny.

  A simple, one-word handwritten sign tacked to the front door of the Old Chapel bids me ENTER. This will be my last chance to back out. Once I am in, they will carry me along every bit as easily as they did that night. My heart bangs but not from fear, despite my trembling being almost a shaking now. I know they will do everything just right. The door creaks to signal my arrival and in I step. There is no one there to greet me, no way this was ever about a lift to some hotel. Only candles light the chapel’s interior. The modern touches are hidden in the gloom. I see only the stone walls, flickering flames and gothic arches of an ancient castle.

  I go forward through the lounge, full of the trepidation of any virgin female searching an imposing foreign fortress for signs of her missing beau. From the shadows on one wall a long-haired, naked witch-girl looks solemnly over her shoulder at me, perhaps bemoaning my last moments in this world, perhaps entreating me to join her in the darkness of the everlife. Wine like blood has been poured into two silver goblets that sit on the long refectory table. There is a partially carved ham too, on a large pewter tray; bread and fruits on separate platters. It is a feast that will have to wait because I am being drawn past it. Other things are to be consumed first.