DIRTY X6 (A MFMMMMM Menage Romance)

by Tara Crescent

  “I contemplated adding a dressing,” he announces with a gleam in his eyes, “but it would distract from the flavor of our come, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would,” I agree. “Are you going to eat some as well?”

  My bold suggestion is greeted with a twitch of his lips. “I don’t think so, pretty girl, this is all for you. Eat.”

  Twisted, deviant Mark. The Chef. I eat my salad, and he goes down on me in reward. He’s an expert at eating me out. I twist and moan, writhe and flail, and I surrender to the sensations he coaxes from my body. He brings me to orgasm once, twice, and finally a third time before I beg for him to stop.

  Eventually, I get up off his bed and look at my watch. It’s nine at night. It will take me an hour to get home. “I should leave,” I say. “But do you mind if I use your shower first?” I’m sticky all over, and I don’t fancy the thought of a subway ride in my state.

  “Of course,” he says readily. He hands me a towel, and when I come out, he’s made me a sandwich. “I figure I should feed you actual food once in a while,” he says to me with a smile.

  I reach up to peck his cheek. “This was lovely,” I tell him honestly. “Next Monday?”

  He gives me a strange look before he smiles widely. His eyes glitter with barely concealed amusement. “Next Monday sounds fantastic. Text me when you get home.” He’s sweet that way, the Chef. If I’m riding the subway after dark, he always has me text him when I reach my destination.

  “Will do,” I tell him.

  3

  Tuesday is the Technician, who thankfully lives in Park Slope, not terribly far away from me. The Technician’s real name is Thomas. He’s a computer engineer, a complete geek, and he looks the part with his dark hair and his square glasses. He’s also fiendishly inventive. I’ve nicknamed him the Technician because he’s a gadget freak. Fucking machines? The Technician enjoys building them and testing them out on a very willing subject. Me.

  “What do you have for me today?” I ask as he takes my coat.

  “A custom order,” he says enthusiastically. The Technician is much in demand in the local BDSM scene for the devices he builds. “Come see.”

  I walk into his studio apartment and see the device suspended from his ceiling. It looks like a mobile of some sort. Or an upside down model train track. “What does it do?”

  He waves his hand towards the bed, and I take off my clothes and lie down. He reaches for a pair of large stainless steel rings and fastens them around my breasts, tightening them till they bulge. I watch them as they slowly start to pinken. In a few minutes, they’ll be a deeper color. I have no doubt that they’ll be a bright scarlet by the time the Technician’s done with me.

  “The rings aren’t essential,” he says. “But I find that they increase sensitivity.”

  “No doubt,” I say dryly. “So, breast torture?”

  “Torture?” He laughs at me. “Stephanie, in a few minutes, you are going to be begging me never to stop.”

  I stick my tongue out at him, but I don’t dispute his words. I love every single invention of the Technician’s. “No blood,” I warn him.

  He looks horrified. “Stephanie, if you bleed, I will faint,” he promises me. Right, I’d forgotten. Thomas has mentioned he was a pre-med major until he realized that medical school would involve blood. The first time he saw a frog being dissected, he went straight away to the University office and changed majors. Me, I graduated with a liberal arts degree, an ability to write insightful thirty-page essays on almost any subject assigned to me, and fairly sparse job prospects. However, as shitty as my paycheck is, it could be worse. McDonalds employs an absolutely frightening number of liberal arts majors.

  “How’s that feel?” He runs a hand over one of my breasts. I run my fingers over the other. It is hot to the touch, and my skin is getting redder.

  “Getting more sensitive,” I reply. The Technician likes me to describe the effects of his devices in detail.

  “Can you take a pair of nipple clamps on them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “Just for a little bit,” he soothes. “You’ll get the best experience if your nipples are a little tender.”

  Ah, my nipples need to be pre-tortured in order to prepare them for the real torture. This is like pre-drinking before I head to a club. I tell him that and he chuckles. The Technician is quite solemn most of the time, but he has a really nice laugh. “You should laugh more,” I tell him.

  He rolls his eyes and places the clamps on my nipples. “You should talk less,” he rebukes. “Pay attention.”

  “Yes Sir,” I joke, breathing through the sudden pain that has run through my nipples.

  He lets me wear the clamps for ten minutes, sitting next to me and slowly running his fingers over my breasts. His thumb brushes over the clamped nipple, and I catch my breath. “Good?” His voice has deepened. The time for joking is past. Arousal is now dancing in the air. My arousal, at what he’s doing to me. His arousal, as he watches my reaction.

  “I could blow you off while you wait,” I offer. The Technician is a bit shy, but I do want to work on my oral skills. My goal is to get rid of my gag reflex entirely.

  “Or I could fuck you.” He flashes me an amused look. “That pussy of yours is dripping on my sheets.”

  I hide my surprise at his words. Seriously, this is as forward as the Technician’s ever been. Every single one of the guys I’m sleeping with has some reason for being in a casual, no-strings-attached sexual relationship. The Chef got out of a bitter divorce a year back, and is staying out of the game until his heart heals. The Technician is painfully shy around women, preferring the logic of his gadgets. If he’s getting to the point where he’s suggesting a fuck, then he’s not going to be part of my rotation for very long.

  “You could indeed fuck me,” I murmur. I part my legs invitingly, and he rubs a thumb through my folds, before pushing it in. I moan and arch my hips. “More,” I beg. For a moment, as my focus shifts to my pussy, the throbbing of my nipples recedes to the background.

  “Distracting me from science, Steph,” the Technician chides, spanking my ass. I gape at him. Where did this guy come from? When we first met, he could barely make eye contact.

  “Sorry.” I don’t sound the slightest bit contrite. The Technician might be shy, but his dick is thick and fat, and my pussy won’t be denied.

  He chuckles again, wrapping his hands around my hips and pulling me to the end of the bed. His fingers tease the clamps off, and I brace myself for the rush of pain as blood flows back in, but they haven’t been on for very long, and the pain is muted. But as the Technician has predicted, my nipples are very, very tender.

  “Now, the device,” he says. He takes off his clothes as he speaks, and folds them neatly before setting them down on the top of his spotlessly clean dresser. His hands tinker with the mobile, and it powers on.

  For the first time this evening, I pay attention to the device that Thomas is going to test on my breasts. As best as I can describe it, it seems to be an assorted collection of objects that will cause sensation, suspended on a moving conveyer belt. As I watch, a steel chopstick whirs towards my conveniently placed breast, and scratches my aching, throbbing nipple as it passes, only to move towards my other nipple. Then comes a feather. Then, what seems to be a fine-toothed steel comb, which feels like a hundred pin-pricks on my reddened orbs.

  Another feather. A blunt steel cocktail stirrer that’s icy cold to the touch. I flinch away from that one, and Thomas looks annoyed. “Don’t move. Do you want to be tied down?”

  He’s all dominant male now. The Technician brooks no interference with his research.

  Another steel chopstick itches at my breasts. A hot metal spike follows. Then the feather again, succeeded by the spiky comb.

  I’m bathed in sensation. Soft tickling from the feather. Hard pinpricks from the comb. Aching spikes from the chopsticks. My breasts are alternately scalded and chilled. The conveyer belt whirs, and
each torture device loops back from one nipple to another, bent on causing an overflow of feeling. My nerve endings are screaming with pleasure and pain, and I can’t tell which one is the dominant sensation.

  “What do you think?”

  I hear a whimpering, moaning, keening noise. I’m startled to realize it’s coming from me. “It’s good,” I gasp out. Does the Technician seriously expect much of a scientific answer at this moment?

  He chuckles again. I can feel him part my thighs; I can hear the sound of a condom wrapper tear. His fat dick nudges at my folds, and I arch my hips in invitation. He pushes in. Aah. So good.

  “Close your eyes,” he suggests. “Just feel.”

  I do as I’m told. He’s right, a blindfold will enhance each and every sensation. As it is, with my eyes closed, I can’t tell what’s in store next for each nipple. Is it hot or cold? Is it a gentle tickle of a feather, or the harsher bite of the chopstick? I don’t know.

  The Technician is playing with me. His fingers toy with my folds, teasing my clitoris with light touches that have me begging for more, harder, faster… He alternates the rhythm of his thrusts as well. Short, short, long. The strokes vary in length and in speed, and eyes closed, I just feel.

  My pussy drips. I can hear the squishing sounds it makes as the Technician thrusts in and out. My fingers twist in his sheets, as I feel the waves of pleasure wash over me. “Fuck, I’m coming,” I warble out as I feel myself tip past the point of no return.

  He doesn’t let up. His thrusts deepen; his fingers dig into my flesh as he smacks into my wet pussy. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chant as his talented dick keeps my orgasm at full simmer. On my breasts, the conveyer belt has sped up a little. Hot. Cold. Feather. Chopstick. Comb. I’m panting and moaning. His fingers are unrelenting on my clitoris. I want to twist away, but I hold firm, and I ride the tidal wave of pleasure and crest once again.

  * * *

  “You should sell a blindfold as part of the device,” I smirk at him when I’ve showered. He’s poured me a glass of beer, and I sip in pleasure. The Technician has good taste in alcohol.

  “No margins in blindfolds,” he says seriously, before he realizes I’m being a little facetious. He smiles and we chat about nothing in particular while I finish up my drink.

  When I’m done, I wash out my glass and hug him good-bye. “See you next Tuesday?” I ask.

  He doesn’t meet my eyes; he gazes at the floor and mumbles ‘sure.’ Weird. He’s been a lot less shy today; a lot more dominant. I wonder if he’s ready to date someone more seriously, and doesn’t know how to break it to me. He shouldn’t be worried about my reaction. I’ll be genuinely happy for the Technician, and he must know that I’m not the slightest bit interested in monogamy. Though none of the guys I date know the specifics of my sex life, they all know I’m not dating any of them exclusively. I use condoms. I do unprotected oral, but I also get tested regularly, and insist everyone I date gets tested as well. It isn’t perfectly safe, but to me, it is a tolerable risk level.

  4

  Sasha is home when I get to my place. “Which one was it tonight?” she asks curiously. We are polar opposites in our dating approach. Sasha’s looking for her one true love. Me? I’m having too much fun playing the field.

  “Tuesdays belong to the Technician,” I intone solemnly. “Keep up, Sash.”

  “And did the Technician feed you, or do you want some soup?” Her voice is bone dry.

  Ah, the joys of canned soup, reheated in a microwave. Still, beer does not make for a very good dinner. “I want some soup, please,” I tell her, and she hands me a mugful, along with a roll of bread. “How’s work?” I ask her.

  I could never do what Sasha does. She’s an aid worker, working in a senior center. She’s had people die on her, people bite and spit on her. When dementia hits, it’s not a pretty sight, and then, the relatives start to disappear. Sasha is the angel that takes care of these people with patience and good-humor. If the Technician is going to start looking to date seriously, I think that I should set them up. Thomas is a good guy, and Sasha is a goddess. A goddess who gets paid the same terrible wage I do, which is why there’s a curtain across the middle of our one-room apartment so we can each try to sleep with some semblance of privacy.

  She shrugs and sips at her soup.

  “Okay, how’s dating?”

  “I met a guy,” she says. “At a bar. We kissed, we made out, I was thinking of going home with him.”

  “What happened?” From her tone, I’m going to guess that the guy was married. There are a lot of assholes in the world, and Sasha’s entirely too sweet and gullible.

  “He was engaged.”

  Slightly off. I make a sympathetic face. “I think the Technician is going to want to start dating real people soon,” I tell her. “Can I set the two of you up?”

  “Are you not real people?” She gives me an amused look.

  “You know what I mean,” I tell her. “People who want what normal people want. Relationships and commitment and stuff like that.”

  “There’s no such thing as normal.” She ruffles my hair as she gets up. “You know what the difference between you and the engaged louse is, Steph? You are honest with the people you are involved with. And honesty makes all the difference in the world.”

  5

  For whatever reason, I sleep poorly. Yawning at work on Wednesday, sipping coffee to try to clear the haze in my brain, I ponder calling the Playboy and cancelling. My pussy is willing, but my body is screaming for sleep. My fingers hover over my cell phone, when it rings. The Playboy’s number flashes on the screen. Ah, maybe he’s going to cancel on me.

  “Can we change up our plans a little today, Stephanie?” he asks. “I have a work party at the MOMA that I need to attend. Would you like to come with me?”

  “Isn’t that kind of like a date?” My voice is hesitant. I don’t want to lead anyone on.

  I can sense his exasperation. “Stephanie,” he chides. “Have you been to the MOMA lately? The Matisse exhibit is spectacular.”

  Of course I haven’t been to the Museum of Modern Art lately. Admission is twenty-five bucks. I don’t have that kind of money. “No.” I’m wavering. I love museums. I love seeing an artist’s imagination come to life. Sometimes, I understand the message, and other times, it makes me think. But I always leave feeling expanded in some way.

  “I’ll pick you up at six then. Home or work?”

  “Work.” I glance down at my outfit. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt and a grey cable knit sweater. I’m sure I’ll stick out like a sore thumb at the Playboy’s work function, but it can’t be helped. I don’t own anything appropriate anyway, and I don’t have time to head all the way to Brooklyn to change before six.

  * * *

  The Playboy’s real name is Wade. Blond hair, blue eyes – he looks like he belongs in a J. Crew commercial. You know, the ones in which impossibly good looking men lounge on boats, pretending they are sailing.

  Of all of the men I fuck, the Playboy is probably the most similar to me in his attitude to sex. Lots of variety, lots of frequency. That’s his philosophy, and it is mine as well. Because of this, we tend to get along pretty well. We understand each other.

  When he arrives, he surveys my outfit before shaking his head. “Come on,” he says, tugging me down the street. “I know a boutique down the street.”

  “Wade,” I sigh in exasperation. “I cannot afford a new outfit.”

  “Yes, but I can,” he says.

  I start protesting, but he cuts me off. “Stephanie,” he says impatiently. “I went out on a date last week with an exceedingly high-maintenance young lady. I sent her two dozen roses before our date. We went to Le Bernardin for dinner, a show after. Flowers after the date. The whole thing cost a bloody fortune, and it would have all been worth it if she was the slightest bit interesting.”

  “She wasn’t?” Wade doesn’t really talk about the other people he’s dating, and neither do I.


  He rolled his eyes. “I learned more about someone called Kim Kardashian than I ever wanted to know.” His voice gentles. “Please, Stephanie. It’s really no big deal. Let me do this.”

  “Will you at least let me buy dinner?” I hate this. Six different guys, six different days of the week, but it’s only for the sex. Sure, they are all more stable financially than me, but that’s only because I need to date people with their own bedrooms. I can hardly bring them back to my place.

  The Playboy grins. “If it’ll make you happy,” he says. “Besides, you always know the most interesting places.”

  “I know the cheap places, Wade,” I retort. “That’s because I’m poor.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t sell yourself short, baby.” He puts his arm around my waist. “You could eat at Burger King or McDonalds, but you don’t. The noodle house you took me to last month was fantastic. I’ve been back at least five times since.”

  I’m surprised. “Really?” Wade’s wearing a suit that probably costs as much money as I made last year. I can’t see him visiting the tiny, greasy noodle house we had dinner in.

  He frowns. “I think I’ve been typecast,” he says. “I’m not sure I like it. Yes, Stephanie, on occasion, I head to tiny dives and slurp noodles from a bowl. Besides, it’s really close to my house.”

  We have arrived at the boutique that Wade knows. As expected, it looks rich. I sense a Pretty Woman scene about to happen.

  Sure enough, the retail assistant’s eyes hover past me to rest on Wade. I can see the assessment of the expensive suit and the hand-made shoes before she beams at him. “How can I help you, Sir?” she asks. I might as well not be there.

  “You can help Stephanie,” Wade replies. The Playboy is being very un-Playboy-like this evening. Our Wednesdays are much more straightforward. I go to his apartment, we fuck like bunnies. We eat dinner after. Most times, he already has take-out ordered, but sometimes, I insist on buying. Maybe it is because I’m poor and therefore much more conscious about money, but I hate not being able to pay my own way. “You’ll need a cocktail dress,” he whispers to me.