Threesomes

by Miranda Forbes

  Whatever it was, Paul had noticed.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said, stretching contentedly and pushing the plate of eaten eggs and toast away from him. ‘That will set me up for a long day. Oh, by the way, Tamara.’

  I stiffened and my hands rose out of the dishwater precipitately, dripping soap bubbles. By the way, Tamara. That always led somewhere ... interesting.

  ‘When I get home, I want you in full uniform, ready to serve.’

  Deep breaths; somehow, although I am always expecting this, it always takes me by surprise.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, my voice low.

  ‘You are not looking at me, Tamara. You need to look at me when you speak to me.’

  ‘I know; I forgot. I’m sorry, sir.’ I spun around, agitated at the idea of displeasing him.

  ‘Tut tut, Tamara.’ Danni was grinning as she spritzed on perfume and dropped it into her Prada clutch. ‘It isn’t like you to be disrespectful.’

  ‘I didn’t mean ...’

  ‘I know, sweetie. Never mind. We’ll sort all that out tonight. Have a nice day now.’

  She kissed me on both cheeks and fled to her breakfast meeting.

  Paul, always slower and more deliberate in his movements, pushed back his chair and picked up the jacket that was slung over the back of it.

  ‘You know you need this, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I need this, sir.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He held out one arm, inviting me into the sanctuary of his chest. I stood, trembling slightly, against the solidness of him, my cheek enjoying the cool silk tie it rested upon. ‘Now behave yourself today, hmm?’ He slapped my bottom in its satin bathrobe and kissed the top of my head. ‘Goodbye.’

  On days like these, concentration on my academic work is, well, academic. I gave up early, went to the pool, then wandered around town window-shopping and planning the evening meal. It would have to be special. It always had to be special on such nights.

  Thus it is that at ten minutes to seven, I am shoving casserole dishes into the oven, turning down the dial on the steaming vegetables, whisking up egg whites and uncorking a bottle of one of the nicer merlots from the rack, all while endeavouring to keep my hair, make-up and uniform pristine. Not an easy task, but thankfully I have years of practice behind me.

  There. Everything that can be done in advance is done. The table is laid, the lights are low and the house is spick and span. I check my face in the mirror, tug down the brief, clingy skirt, though I know it is designed to ride up and expose my stocking tops, pick up the silver tray with its two perfectly mixed gin and tonics, and stand by the front door.

  I have been staring at the coat rack for only a few minutes when I hear the low purr of Paul’s car engine. I wonder if he and Danni are returning from work together – they usually do on nights like these, but sometimes she has unavoidable commitments which mean she has to taxi home.

  No, she is with him. I can hear voices, high and amiable, getting louder along with the scrunch of gravel that documents their footsteps. The key turns in the lock and I hold out the tray, keeping it balanced on the flat of my palm.

  ‘Ah, thank you, Slutworth,’ says Paul lightly, using my “special” name. He takes both the glasses from the tray and hands one to Danni. ‘Now hurry along to the parlour for your inspection.’

  I return the salver to the kitchen, make sure nothing is burning or overboiling, then I present myself in the “parlour” – the living room on less formal nights. Danni is reclining cross-legged in her favourite armchair, listening to the ice cubes clink in her gin, but Paul’s dominating presence radiates from the centre of the room. He has his Master of the House face on. I stand as expected, spine straight, head slightly bowed, hands clasped behind back.

  ‘Face,’ he says, and I look up. His fingers cup my chin while he scrutinises my maquillage – sweeping eyelashes, scarlet lips. He runs a smooth hand along my smoother hairline, following it to where it disappears into a bun whose severity is dissipated by the frippery of white lace ribbons that trail down from it.

  ‘Good.’ He turns attention to my sheer white blouse, undoing the top pearl button, all the better to plunge his hand into my cleavage and check that I am wearing regulation underwear. The cupless rubber basque is breathtakingly tight, and obviously he would have seen my rouged nipples through the whisper-thin fabric of my blouse, so you could argue that this is an unnecessary formality. If you dared argue with Paul, that is. I wouldn’t.

  I gasp when he pinches each nipple then exhale at the withdrawal of his hand.

  ‘Good. Now lift your skirt, please.’

  I hitch it to the waist and stand silently while he casts his eye over my nude shaved pussy and white thighs, contrasting with the black suspender straps that dig into them. At a wave of his hand, I turn to display my bared bottom. No knickers is a rule that does not only apply to nights like this. I am forbidden to wear them in any other than emergency circumstances.

  ‘Yes, that seems to be perfectly in order, Slutworth. Now take yourself over to your mistress, for closer examination.’

  The heels I totter over on are high and slim, but I manage to maintain the correct posture until I arrive at Danni’s negligently crossed legs. She puts down her gin, leans forward and casts a sharp eye over my pubic triangle.

  ‘Spread those legs, Slutworth,’ she commands icily. I position my feet wide apart, still holding up my skirt, awaiting the crowning moment of my inspection.

  Her hand snatches at me and I feel the perfect polished ovals of her fingernails glide along my labia before she tests the size and protrusion of my clitoris with the pads of two fingers.

  ‘She’s very wet, Paul. Dripping wet, in fact.’ Danni swishes around in my private places – though I am not supposed to think of them as private any more – until her fingers are thoroughly coated with my juices, which I am then made to lick off.

  ‘Disgusting little slut,’ she croons, smiling at me, her brilliant blue eyes narrow as a cat’s. ‘Turn around and face Paul.’

  I do so, then I feel her press her knuckles into my slit, hard against my clit.

  ‘Ride them, Slutworth, while I prepare your back passage.’

  Face flaming, and knowing I have to look Paul in the eye throughout the performance, I begin to sway and lurch on her knuckles, which she twists a little underneath me, creating an exquisitely tense friction. Once I am bucking in earnest, hearing the little sucking sounds of my sex fitting around her hand, she begins the second part of her task. One cool, lubricated finger begins to circle my anal pucker, slow and steady in contrast to my frantic frigging motion.

  My brow damp, chest heaving, I strive to reach the moment that will end this dance of degradation, even as I fall deeper and deeper into pleasure. Danni slides two fingers up inside my bottom and wiggles them there so that I feel held fast between her front and rear invasions.

  Paul crunches on an ice cube, smiling encouragingly at me throughout.

  ‘Ride a little harder, Slutworth. Show us how much you want it. Show us how much you need it. So much that you gave yourself to us, to be our very own free fucktoy. You must need this very, very badly.’

  Danni rotates her fingers in my bum and I come with a mighty rush, my legs weakening so that it is only my posterior prong keeping me upright, along with the supportive set of knuckles I am spending myself on. The moment I dream of and crave is so fleeting, but for just those few seconds, I experience the keenness of my surrender, my submission to them at full force; an abandoned rapture that lifts me beyond my body.

  ‘Well done,’ they chorus, their voices warm and thick. I have pleased them.

  ‘Now present yourself for the plug, please,’ adds Paul, and straight away I am clicked back into my reality of service and obedience. I lower myself slowly on to my knees, feeling Danni’s fingers retreat back down my passage until they are out again, then I place my head on my folded arms, so that my bottom is raised and exposed to my mistress’ liking.

  Ove
r the years, the plugs have increased in size and width. Their current favourite is a challenge to accommodate; it stretches me to the point that I can only waddle, legs bowed, rather than walk with the gracious poise I studied for so long. They don’t seem to miss my elegant gait though, and I think they prefer me this way.

  Danni likes to take her time over this operation, pushing in a little way, then pulling out again as my unwilling ring contracts and tries to expel its visitor. She proceeds with a great deal of soothing and clucking noises, telling me I am doing well, that I needn’t think she is going to stop, that I need to feel this level of fullness because it is good for my submission.

  ‘I know it feels uncomfortable, sweetie,’ she says, while I puff and grimace and yelp. ‘It’s meant to feel that way. Little sluts like you need to know that their bottoms don’t belong to them, isn’t that right? Their bottoms and their pussies and their tits belong to their owners. And sometimes their owners’ friends. So hold tight, Slutworth, and take it all the way in.’

  It finds its space and seats itself, the wide base peeking rudely from my rear hole.

  ‘Good. Now you’re ready,’ says Danni with satisfaction, slapping one cheek before pulling my skirt back down to my stocking tops.

  ‘And so is the dinner, I think,’ remarks Paul, sniffing the air. ‘Something smells delicious – something apart from Slutworth, who smells like a bitch in heat, as usual. Shall we take our places at the table?’

  I concentrate all my attention on preparing and serving the dinner, carrying each porcelain dish to the table, then ladling a little of each offering on to my owners’ plates, pouring the wine, adding the condiments. All of this is testing work with spike heels and a bumful of plug, but I manage to get through without any spillages or mistakes.

  While they eat, chatting lightly about their respective days at the office, I stand at the side of the table, between them, at attention. Every now and again, one of their hands wanders, perhaps to the seat of my skirt or the stiff nipple that is visible through my shirt. After I serve Paul some extra steamed vegetables, he has me crouch under the table between his knees, unzip his trousers and take his cock in my mouth.

  ‘Slutworth is behaving very well tonight,’ he comments as I suck away.

  ‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? If she carries on like this, it’ll be hard to find anything to spank her for.’

  ‘And that would never do,’ chuckles Paul.

  ‘Can you believe it’s been five years?’ I pause briefly in my fellatio. Really? Is this an anniversary of sorts?

  ‘Who told you to stop?’ Paul’s tone is severe, then it relaxes again when I resume my mouthwork. ‘Yes, five years ago today we met her in the museum restaurant. What a pretty little waitress she was. You noticed her before she even took our order, didn’t you?’

  ‘I told you she was special. Told you she was corruptible.’

  ‘And you were right. The way she reacted when you told her off for knocking over the salt cellar ... it told us all we needed to know.’

  ‘That little bitten lip, that tremulous look, the gabbled apology.’

  ‘And then we got chatting ... between courses ...’

  ‘Met her at the end of her shift ...’

  ‘Took her out for cocktails ...’

  ‘Took her home ...’

  ‘And she’s been here ever since. Excuse me.’ Paul pauses to ejaculate in my mouth. ‘And we’re very happy to have her.’

  ‘Very lucky to have her,’ says Danni and I melt, halfway through swallowing my own repast.

  After I have served them chocolate and amaretto soufflé, they send me into the kitchen to make coffee and feast on leftovers before we all repair to the ... parlour, for the post-prandial entertainment.

  I reflect, as I eat, on five years of loving service. Five years of feeling wanted, of safety and security, of having people I can tend to and who tend to me. What most would regard as a form of bizarre imprisonment has set me free, released me from mundane anxieties so I can complete my academic work, further my career ambitions, concentrate on my dreams.

  The irony is worth savouring, as is the coffee, but when it has been poured and the petits-fours offered around, my contemplation time is at an end and I must await my next order.

  ‘Well, Slutworth.’ Paul smiles expansively at me, looking relaxed and sated, making me feel proud that I have conferred this air of satisfaction on him. ‘Like I said earlier, you have been an exemplary maid tonight. I can’t find any fault with you at all.’

  ‘Perhaps we should let you off your spanking.’ The look in Danni’s eye is mischievous. I’m not a masochist, don’t enjoy pain in the least, but without a spanking the evening will feel incomplete and I will sleep badly. Which she knows.

  ‘Oh, is that a quivering lip?’ teases Paul. ‘Don’t worry, Slutworth. You’ll sleep on your stomach tonight. After all, we could say that we owe you a birthday spanking. Five years. That calls for a ... celebration, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say gratefully.

  ‘Take yourself over to your mistress and use your tongue to pleasure her, Slutworth. I’ll attend to your spanking while you work.’

  My eyes widen – this is a new tack. I have never been asked to do this before. But I do not query his wish, and I scuttle forward, arrange myself between Danni’s cobalt-coloured pumps and say the words that are second nature to me.

  ‘Please, ma’am, may I serve you with my tongue?’

  ‘Of course, Slutworth. One moment.’ She stands, long legs shearing away above me, and removes her knickers, laying them down next to her espresso cup. Then she arranges herself in the armchair so that her delicate quim is at my eye level and I shuffle forward, snuffling like a pig seeking truffles, and give her pale pink clit a kiss.

  ‘You will need to stand for this,’ says Paul from behind me. He hoiks me up with an arm beneath my ribcage, makes me hold on to the arms of the chair and bend down to lick Danni’s lips. I feel the strain on my calves and the backs of my thighs, but I know why Paul is doing this – my bottom cheeks are stretched perfectly taut and my skirt has risen to the very crest of my buttocks, revealing my pale suspendered thighs to his view. The wide bulb of the butt plug is especially inescapable now, and I squirm a little, trying in vain to find a more comfortable stance. I do not leave off my licking though, for once I have started I must not stop. When Paul lifts my skirt to bare my backside, I push my face further into the strong-scented juices, half-hoping he will remove the plug, and half dreading it. In the event, he leaves it in.

  I ply my tongue hard as he runs his hands over my vulnerable half-moons.

  ‘Five unforgettable years,’ he croons. ‘Let’s have two strokes of the paddle for each year, shall we?’

  I am not expected to answer, of course. Although I simultaneously worship and abhor his hard wooden paddle, I cannot clench my buttocks in anticipation of the first stroke, for the plug has them stretched beyond that capacity. Instead I thrust my tongue inside Danni’s cunt, smashing my face into her flesh, so that the first stinging smack of the paddle forces the breath out of me and on to her swollen clit, giving her the pleasure and the benefit of my pain.

  She writhes beneath my groans, enjoying them for the sensation they afford her as well as the knowledge that I am submitting to her husband’s discipline, a twin stimulant to which she is addicted.

  The paddle falls inexorably, heating me up, sending tremors beyond my flesh and inside me, where the plug transmits the impact to my widespread walls. After only three, I know that I am dripping wet, my cunt as hot as my bum cheeks, pushing out for more, more pain, more gain, more steps on the road to what I need.

  I am gorging on Danni, sucking and devouring her, almost frantic with the strength of my appetite. I can hear her harsh breaths, her swearing, feel her scratchy nails against my shoulders, digging in. And I can hear the heavenly crack of the paddle against my hot skin, hear Paul’s count in that slow, steady way he does it, hear my hoarse cries, mu
ffled by their cunt gag.

  On the ninth stroke, I cannot stop myself, I put my hand between my legs and begin to rub myself furiously. On the tenth, I come, and so does Danni, wrapping her thighs against my ears, holding me tightly between her legs so my mouth is imprisoned in her spread, spent centre. Paul drops to his knees behind me and begins to paw and kiss my burning bottom, twisting the plug to draw out my orgasm even longer. His arms clasp around my waist and he sinks his lips into my neck, marking it as his possession.

  We lie like that, exhausted but happy, for some time, gathering ourselves without hurry. I know that later on I will be taken to their bed and comprehensively fucked until we are raw and sore and unable to continue. I know that we will spend the rest of the night in each other’s arms, thanking whichever unnamed deity is to thank for the way we all came together. With Paul and Danni I have found the thing I never thought I’d have – a place where I belong.

  Three to Tango

  by Josie Jordan

  The pounding techno shakes the ground beneath my feet. I’m buzzing with excitement and at the same time shivering with nerves.

  Tia points down onto the dancefloor below. ‘Guy in the blue top?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not my type.’

  All of a sudden, her hand grips my arse. ‘Yeah?’ she spits, over her shoulder. ‘What do you think you’re looking at?’

  Used to this by now, I turn to see who her victim is this time. It’s the group of guys behind, who are backing nervously away.

  Tia glares at them. ‘They were eyeing up your legs, Lauren.’

  ‘Were they now?’ It’s hardly the best way to go about achieving my mission, but I know she means well. Her hand remains there for a moment even after the men have disappeared. When she turns to face me, my eyes are drawn to her lips, part open and showing her cute little teeth. I’m very tempted to kiss her. Yet I’m pretty sure that if I did so, she would recoil. The whole “bi” thing is just a game she plays to wind men up.