DIRTY X6 (A MFMMMMM Menage Romance)

by Tara Crescent

  His hands grip my hips as he slams into me, over and over again. My entire body rocks under his lusty assault. “Fuck, Trent,” I groan, and he spanks my ass. Oh, we are loving the spanking tonight, aren’t we?

  “Pets don’t talk,” he warns me. He sounds like he’s barely holding it together, and I can understand perfectly, because I’m barely holding it together myself. The beads, Trent’s fat cock, all are making me feel full and ready to burst.

  Each thrust rakes at my g-spot. “Touch yourself,” he orders, not relinquishing his grip on my hips. I move my fingers to find my clitoris, and I rub my erect little nub with increasing desperation.

  We chase our climaxes. I find mine first, and every muscle in my body tenses as I fall into orgasm. I shudder and I groan and writhe, but I don’t remove my fingers from my clitoris. The wave of pleasure crests, but I’m desperate to keep going. I can feel the swell of another approaching orgasm.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mr. Buttman clenches out. His grip on my hips tightens painfully, and he grinds his dick into my body, as he erupts. That does it. My fingers move faster around my clitoris, and I come again.

  He’s not done with me. He pulls out of my vagina, and exactly at the same time, his fingers tug at the ring, and he pulls out all the beads in one rushing motion that sends lightning bolts of pleasure through my slippery anal passage. That weird feeling sends me into my third orgasm, and I gasp.

  When the waves of need have crested, my body slumps on the table, completely drained. I feel boneless. I cannot possibly play anymore. In the background, Mr. Buttman is moving, but I barely register the sounds. I just rest on the table, my ass still in the air, and try to recover from three bone-shattering orgasms. I know we aren’t done here.

  * * *

  With a thud, Mr. Buttman sets his perverted marble statue down on the coffee table. “Enough rest, little pet,” he tells me with a grin. “Come on, get your ass on this.”

  “Can I talk now?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Not for long.” I look, and his cock is already semi-hard. That is some seriously impressive recovery. “Don’t you want to practice suppressing your gag reflex?”

  I do. I beam at Mr. Buttman, who has remembered our conversation from last week. Then again, when a woman tells you that she wants to be throat-fucked, I guess you remember. This isn’t a ‘Honey, can you buy milk on the way home’ kind of conversation. “Yes please,” I say, and he waves his hand towards the butt plug.

  “Are you going to lube it up?”

  He hands me the lube. “You do it,” he says. I can see the gleam in his eyes. The idea of me prepping the butt plug is turning him on.

  I am nothing if not cooperative. I wink at him and squeeze some lube from the tube into my palms, before using both my hands to spread it all over the marble shaft. His eyes heat and his cock hardens. He likes that. “Now, lube your tight butthole, my little slut.”

  I turn my rump towards him and give him a show. His breathing becomes heavier, and mine does as well. His obvious arousal is fueling mine.

  “Now, Stephanie,” he orders. His cock is in his hand now, and he’s stroking it lazily.

  I straddle the butt plug. Prepped by the lube, and the anal beads, I take the first head with relative ease. The second head though, that’s harder. I feel the burn in my sphincter as I slide down. “It hurts,” I gasp.

  He gets up, and his cock is at my lips. I open automatically. His dick down my throat – that’s exactly what I need right now. “Relax,” he growls, as he wraps his hands around my hair, and pulls my face in. His cock thrusts, and I close my lips around him. My tongue feathers his shaft with little strokes, but mostly, he fucks my mouth, and I let him.

  I can hear the sounds I’m making as his thick, meaty cock fucks me. I’m slurping and gagging, and I need to breathe. I grab at his thighs and he pulls out. I heave in a quick breath and nod back at him again, and he’s back down my throat.

  As my throat is being vigorously fucked, my lubed rectum slowly relaxes, and I sink down still further on the second head. I whimper as that happens, but the sound is lost in the sound of the blowjob.

  My eyes water. I heave for breath. When my nails close around his thighs, Mr. Buttman draws away, letting me draw a mouthful of air before continuing. Without realizing it, I’m humping the marble butt plug and my fingers are rubbing at my clitoris frantically.

  Sounds of sex fill the air. His grunts. The gagging noise I make. The squishing sound that my fingers make as they spread the sopping wetness to my clitoris. The panting of our breaths. My world tunnels into just the feeling in my mouth, my ass and my pussy.

  A searing pain shocks through me. I’m past the widest point of the second head, and my sore, aching anus has closed over the stem. I whimper, and my fingers move faster over my tight nub. So does Mr. Buttman. His grip in my hair tightens, and I can feel him push deeper into my mouth. He erupts with a groan, sending spurts of come deep down my throat. And the feeling of his ejaculate tips me over my edge. I come with a shudder that runs through my entire body.

  Mr. Buttman staggers away with a groan, and sits on the couch. “Stay like that for a bit,” he says. His eyes are on my tight round ass, stretched lewdly open by the plug. “How’s it feel?”

  “Big,” I whimper. Now that I’m not distracting myself with an orgasm, I feel the burning pain in my anus.

  He comes over. “Do you want it out?”

  “Yes please,” I tell him.

  He nods, and I lift myself off it. My anal muscles are again forced open as my tight ring expands around the widest part of the second head, before I pull off the plug. My asshole feels puffy and sore, and I look at Mr. Buttman. “So next week?” I ask him. “All three heads, do you think?”

  He laughs and pulls me on his lap, putting his arms around me. “Ah, Stephanie,” he kisses my lips. “You really are one of a kind.”

  All my guys seem to think they need to feed me. After I shower, Trent puts a bowl of pasta in front of me, and tells me to eat. Since my alternative is either Campbell’s soup or Ramen noodles, I tuck in gratefully. It is delicious. Trent is an excellent cook. In response to me asking, he tells me that the trifecta of a perfect tomato sauce are good tomatoes, fresh basil and fresh garlic. And copious amounts of olive oil, though that goes without saying. We drink some wine, and chat about music and work and life.

  I take my leave after dinner. Sasha’s not around when I let myself into my apartment. I’m exhausted, and fall straight asleep.

  8

  Thank heavens it’s Friday, I groan to myself in the morning. Then I shake my head. I must be getting old. Even after a good night’s sleep, I’m slightly exhausted.

  I can hear Sasha up already, and I smell the coffee. “Oh, sweet goodness,” I moan as I get off my bed and head towards the aroma. “You were out late last night,” I say as I pour myself a cup.

  She grins. “I had a date,” she chirps. “He was even single.”

  “From the tone in your voice, I take it the date went well?”

  She winks. “A lady does not kiss and tell, Stephanie.”

  I laugh. “Is that what ladies do?” I ask wryly. “I wouldn’t know.”

  She ignores that, and switches topics instead. “We still on for Sunday morning?”

  Sunday is my birthday. Twenty-seven. As a treat, Sasha and I are going to a fancy brunch place. We are going to sip on mimosas and eat things like Eggs Benedict. You know, the kind of things people with money do. I’m not actually sure why I think eggs benedict is fancy food, but I do. Hollandaise sauce seems fancy. “Only if you let me pay,” I say firmly. It’ll mean that I’ll have to pull about a hundred bucks, money I don’t really have, from the small pool of funds I’ve been setting aside so I can buy a plane ticket home for Thanksgiving. But Sasha is in the same boat as me, and I don’t see why she should pay so I can fulfill my urge to pretend, for the space of one morning, that things like mimosas on a Sunday mid-morning are within my reach.

 
She opens her mouth to start to protest, then she sees the expression on my face and cuts herself off. “Okay,” she says gently. “Now, work.”

  I groan again. “Thank god it’s Friday,” I mumble.

  * * *

  My work phone rings Friday afternoon. It is my manager, and he wants me to see him in his office.

  My heart stills. When your boss wants to see you in his office Friday afternoon, it isn’t likely to be good news. I can’t afford to get laid off. I have enough money saved up to pay a half month of rent. Though Sasha would cover me if she could, she makes the same pathetic money I do. She has no slack in her finances either.

  My hands are shaking as I knock on his opened door. He glances up as he sees me standing there, and he smiles at me. I’m slightly reassured by that smile, and even more reassured that he’s alone. If a layoff was about to happen, there’d be a person from HR present, just to make sure Bob doesn’t say anything that’s likely to get the company sued. Not that I have any money to file a lawsuit, of course.

  “Stephanie, come on in.” He inclines his head at the chair opposite him, and I take it. “I wanted to chat with you about this.”

  This is a job application I’d submitted two weeks back, for the position of Marketing Consultant. It’s one step up in the ladder from Marketing Coordinator. The pay increase is likely to be minimal, but I think I am ready for the role. I’m about to find out if my manager agrees.

  On my own, I might have been reticent to apply for the job. But, when he’s not smacking the crap out of my ass, the Dominant gives me career advice. He’d narrowed his eyes at me when I’d mentioned the opening, and he’d asked me, in that polite yet dangerous tone that I knew so well why I wasn’t planning on applying.

  “I don’t know,” I had replied. “What if I don’t get it?”

  He had compressed his lips. “You can’t get a job you don’t apply for, Stephanie,” he’d pointed out. Then, he had helped me work on my resume, highlighting the various key bits of work I’d done the last year. “This hesitation isn’t like you, kitten,” he had said thoughtfully. “What gives?”

  See, the Dominant. Rich as all fuck, and he doesn’t get it. When you are rich, it’s easy to take risks. You aren’t likely to be out on the streets if your gamble fails. Sure, it is easy for me to be bold in my personal life. But work? I live paycheck to paycheck. I can’t afford to lose even a single one.

  I’d said as much to him, and he’d looked displeased. Before he could tell me that I was hardly likely to end up homeless, I’d changed the topic quickly. A similar conversation had led to the Dominant handing me a brand new iPhone, one for which I never seemed to get any monthly bills.

  My boss clears his throat, and my attention returns to him. “I’m going to be away for the next two weeks on vacation,” he says. “I wanted to give you an update before I left.” He smiles at me. “I hate waiting on tenterhooks for news, don’t you?”

  I nod. One of the best things about Bob is that he remembers what it’s like to be in my shoes.

  “I’ve discussed it with a few people,” he says now, with an encouraging smile. I wonder if I look as nervous as I feel. “And we all think you are ready. In fact, we all think you should have applied earlier.”

  I better not tell the Dominant that, not unless I want to see the ‘I told you so’ look.

  “Anyway,” he continues. “You are supremely well-qualified for this role and we’ve decided to promote you.” He hands me a letter from HR, confirming my new title – Marketing Consultant – and my new salary, which is ten percent higher. I glance at the number, and he misinterprets my gesture to be one of dissatisfaction with the salary increase. “Keep performing well, and we’ll do a mid-year salary review,” he promises. He extends his hand out to shake mine. “Congratulations, Steph.”

  “Thank you, Bob.” I’m a bit dazed by it all.

  Sasha is the first person I text. The Dominant is next. His reply is entirely predictable. ‘I told you so,’ he texts back. I laugh aloud. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist saying that.

  9

  “I got a raise,” I tell the Doctor happily when he opens his door.

  “Congratulations,” he smiles at me. “Come on in.”

  He insists on opening a bottle of champagne, and I’m happy to let him. It’s Friday. I don’t have to worry about hangovers and waking up early the next day to go to work. We sit on his couch and I giggle a lot, and he watches me in amusement.

  The Doctor’s name is Felipe. He is Spanish, a Professor of Economics at the University of Barcelona. He’s in New York for a year while on sabbatical. He spends his time exploring the city, training for marathons, writing a book, ordering strange medical-fetish sex toys on the Internet, and using them on me. He’s a ton of fun.

  Obviously, I call him the Doctor because of his medical kink. Sadly, he does not fly around in a TARDIS, does not have a sonic screwdriver, and is not looking for a young companion to trail around him and look pretty.

  I snuggle next to him on the couch. His beard tickles my chin, and I laugh. He laughs as well, and puts his arm around me, drawing me nearer. His fingers stroke my jaw, then he tilts my head up and kisses me, a deep, passionate kiss that has me whimpering with need.

  “What do you have in store for me today?” I whisper, as he kisses my neck. He undoes the buttons of my shirt, pushing it aside before pushing my bra cups down and kissing my nipples. His tongue flicks the hard nubs, and he nibbles them between his teeth. I writhe next to him, my hands trailing down to rub his hardening erection over his pants. Pleasure spirals through me, dramatically fast. Champagne and kisses will do it for me, every single time.

  Okay. If I’m being honest, pretty much anything does it for me. That’s the whole sex-addict thing. And yes, I know I might not actually be a sex addict, but getting diagnosed for something like that probably requires better health insurance than the plan I have.

  “Drink your champagne, Stephanie,” the Doctor says. He’s still kissing me. My neck, my throat. My exposed cleavage. My nipples. A trail of kisses flutter down my stomach, and he swirls a tongue in my belly button.

  “That tickles,” I giggle. The champagne is performing its magic, alarmingly fast. “I’m getting drunk.”

  “You are indeed.” He pours me another glass. “It’s fun to watch you.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “What, no Internet purchase?” I ask. I’m quite sure the Doctor has bought something that he’d like to try out on me.

  He shrugs. “How very scheduled you are, Stephanie,” he mocks me gently. “Is there no room for spontaneity in your life? Sit and drink champagne. Kiss me. If we don’t get to play with my internet purchase, well, there’s always next week, isn’t there?”

  Fair enough. I do rather rigidly schedule things. Six guys, six specific days of the week. It’s easier that way. I lean back against his chest with a sigh. “It’s your funeral,” I tell him. “I’m happy to drink your excellent champagne.”

  His thumbs run over my erect nipples. “I’m doing just great, Stephanie,” he rumbles into my ear. “But thank you for your concern.”

  I float in a haze of alcohol-induced pleasure. The Doctor kisses and nibbles and bites his way down my body. At some point, my shirt is tossed away, my bra unclasped, my pants and underwear pushed impatiently down my hips. He drops to his knees in front of me. “Keep your legs parted for me, bella,” he instructs, and I spread my legs as wide open as I can.

  His beard tickles at my bare pussy lips. I’m so turned on. So wet. His tongue slurps at my juices, and dances between my folds, before he concentrates his attack on my clitoris. He pushes three fingers into my pussy, and I whimper and grind down. “Please,” I beg.

  “Please what, Stephanie?” His accent, normally undetectable, always sounds stronger when he’s aroused. Right now, he sounds very, very Spanish.

  “Please, don’t make me wait,” I beg. “Please let me come.”

  In response, his tongue circles m
y nub, and his fingers ram into me. Relentless circles, pressing down on my flesh. Pumping in and out.

  I shiver. I scream. I come.

  When the tremors have subsided, I lower myself down on the plush, carpeted floor, and I kiss him. “Let me suck your cock,” I ask, and he chuckles.

  He doesn’t get up. Rather, he positions me so my mouth is at his dick, and his is not far away from my pussy. His fingers still tease my flesh, but gently. The strokes flutter over my skin, and my arousal slowly simmers again. I reach out, impatient, and pull his hips towards me, and I get my mouth over his cock.

  He doesn’t fuck my throat. We are both lying on our sides. My fingers encircle the base of his cock, and I lick his large head, my tongue lapping at his precum as it forms. I’m not in a hurry. My cheeks hollow as I suck his cock in my mouth. My fingers pump up and down his shaft. I’m just enjoying myself.

  I always enjoy sex. It’s such an intimate thing. To lie next to someone, skin on skin. To feel their heart thud in their chest. To feel their cocks respond to my body, and my pussy respond to theirs. To be tickled by chest hair. Our sweat mingling. Our breathing in tune with each other. This is why I insist I like the guys I’m having sex with. I can’t bear to share this intimacy with someone I don’t like.

  The Doctor groans into my pussy. His mouth now bends over my folds, and his tongue now flickers over me with intent. I suck harder, forcing myself to focus on his pleasure as a way to delay mine. It’ll be so much better if I force myself to wait. Force my need to simmer for longer, before allowing myself to boil over in a cascade of pleasure.

  We are now moaning in unison. The sounds and smell of sex is everywhere, our champagne momentarily forgotten. The blood pounds in my head. His cock pulses in my mouth, and my tongue laps greedily at his hard shaft. He’s my own personal popsicle, and I love popsicles.