ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  “Bend me over,” she said while she played with his balls.

  Without saying anything else Ben stood her up, walked her over to the couch, and bent her over the side. Ben rubbed his throbbing cock head up and down her slit, taking the time to give her clit a rub or two extra before sliding into her pussy in a single, long, smooth thrust. Sarah pushed back into him as he moved forward, moaning and groaning to let him know that she was loving every minute of it. She kept reaching back to grab at his thigh, then underneath her to diddle herself, then up to her tits to tweak her own nipples.

  “Fuck yes, baby,” Sarah said. “Fuck me harder. Fuck yes. Just like that. Really pound my pussy. I love it. I fucking love it. Oh my God you feel so fucking big in my pussy. All I want you to do is keep fucking me. Harder baby. Just like that. Keep fucking me harder. Just like that. Fuck yes. Fuck yes.”

  Sarah was loving it, Ben could tell not only from the dirty talk but how wet her pussy was. She was so turned on that when she wasn't moaning, groaning, or dirty talking she was making a strange cooing sound. Ben loved it when girls really let go during sex, it reminded him that life wasn't always serious, and was sometimes about nothing more than having fun with the people around you. And he knew that while today had been serious it had been a big moment of release for him. There were so many things in the world that he couldn't help with, but today he'd found something that he fixed very easily. And the fix would make a lasting impact on the life of a person that he wanted to have more of in his life.

  Sarah moaned and bucked back against him as he fucked her harder and harder. She kept talking about how she was going to come soon. Ben was trying not to think anything about coming. He just didn't want to do it himself was all, it wasn't that he didn't want her to come. But the more he tried not to think about it the more he thought about it, until he had to think of other things to take his mind off of it. He thought about baseball for awhile, but then that was too hard to keep thinking about with such a hot woman fucking herself on his dick while he pounded her pussy. He thought about other things that he knew were boring, but he couldn't make anything stick. No matter what he thought about, eventually he came back to the same thing, how hot Sarah was and how much he wanted to come all over her face and tits.

  “Oh fuck, I'm going to come,” Sarah said. “Please don't stop fucking me like that! Right there! Oh God! Right there! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”

  Ben did his best to keep fucking her harder but it was proving to not only be exhausting, but harder and harder to keep ratcheting up to the crescendo the way he wanted to. Maybe he should have started out way, way slower, but there way no way to go back and start over now. Not with how close she was and how close he was.

  “Fuck!” Sarah screamed. “Fuck me! Holy fucking shit!”

  She came and her whole body racked with waves of pleasure convulsed, once, twice, then a third time. After that a bunch of smaller tremors ran through her as he kept fucking her as hard as he could. Her ass jiggled as he pounded it, harder and harder, and she kept her ass in the air thrust backward.

  “Do you like that?” Ben asked as he smacked her ass. “Do you like it when you come on my big fucking dick? Look at you with your eyes rolled back in your head, drooling on the couch. Look at how much you want dick. Well, baby, I'm afraid to say that I'm going to come soon.”

  “No, don't come!” Sarah panted. “Please, just keep fucking me. It's all I want! Just keep fucking me, please!”

  “Oh, baby, I want to keep fucking you,” Ben said. “I'm just not sure if I can.”

  Then Ben felt it, the feeling of his balls tightening as they got ready to release their semen and fly out of his cock.

  “Oh fuck,” he said.

  Sarah immediately pulled away and got down on her knees in front of him, holding her tits together to make a platform for his come to land on if he missed her face or mouth.

  “That's it,” she said. “Fucking come all over my face and tits. Get it in my mouth.”

  Ben leaned forward as his fist furiously pumped back and forth over his dick and unloaded in her mouth. She loved every second of it, he could tell, as his hot semen gushed over her lips and down her throat. A few ropes did get on her face and in her hair, not to mention all over her tits.

  After they cleaned up and had a cigarette Sarah went to her place, telling him that she'd see her tomorrow. It left Ben alone for a few hours before he had to turn in for the night. His thoughts drifted back over the last few days. What a strange world it was where a man could think about the object of his desires, and then have what he wants and find it to be so much more, and all he had to do was scare off some old man that had had some kind of strange hold over Sarah.

  Ben thought about the old man more and more before he went to sleep. He wondered what had gone on between him and Sarah. He thought about if maybe the old man had been trying to wed Sarah through his money and stability, and if Sarah had maybe been sucked in at first but quickly learned that they just weren't a good match. That's usually how those things went when it came to old men with money—the old men were so used to being old and having money that they couldn't figure out that they would need to be able to not only keep up with a younger woman but be able to converse with a younger woman. He realized before he fell asleep that they would need to talk about it the next day. Not that he needed to know every little detail of every little thing, but at the same time he really did want to know what was going on between them, or if there was really anything at all going on. That always seemed to be the way it was with some relationships, they somehow stayed alive even after both parties had long walked away.

  But maybe there was more to it.

  “There isn't anything else to it,” Sarah said. “I needed help and he helped me. Then we talked for awhile, then we kind of dated for awhile. Then I went to college and things got bad and I'm not even sure if it was dating anymore as much as it was waiting for things to end.”

  Ben nodded. It was as he thought. There really wasn't much to tell except that she had gotten caught up in someone's bullshit and that was all there was to it. Ben glanced around the small cafe they were sipping coffee in to see if anyone was listening. Of course no one was. Even in the smallest cafes in the world, if there was wifi, everyone was silent. Ben looked across the table at Sarah. She was looking down at her cup of coffee in her hands. He hoped he hadn't offended her by asking what had been going on.

  “I don't mean to pry or anything,” Ben said. “But I guess I just wanted to know for the sake of myself. I think it's pretty plain that I'm into you beyond just sex, and that you are the same way about me. So I just wanted to clear it up and know rather than let something like this just hang around and fester. You know what I mean?”

  Sarah nodded.

  The rest of the coffee date went well, and led to another. It wasn't long before life swept them up in its great embrace while they managed to cling to each other. Sarah graduated with a degree in management and Ben graduated with a degree in creative writing. Both of them wanted to be involved in academia, but at the same time both knew that if they didn't go on to get their masters that they wouldn't be moving very high up the ladder at any university. So they both started looking for places they could go to graduate school together at.

  They both went and ended up renting a house together not for from the place they'd chosen. They were lucky that the school accommodated both of their degrees. Ben counted his blessings as they both worked their way through graduate school, but it wasn't even that hard because they had each other. Sure, there were fights and stuff like that, but that was just the bullshit, and it didn't really consume anything good that they had between each other.

  One day they finally graduated, and they were so happy. Both of their families were there and they all went out to eat afterward. At dinner Sarah said that she couldn't get a glass of wine. The table went silent. All eyes were on her and Ben, although Ben hadn't caught the significance. Sarah chimed her
knife off her crystal glass full of water.

  “I have an announcement to make,” she said. “Me and Ben have secretly gotten married and I'm pregnant!”

  Ben couldn't believe his ears. He was so happy. He threw his arms around her and couldn't believe that everything that he'd ever wanted had come true. The rest of the dinner all anyone could talk about was how they were married and, of course, the baby on the way. Ben did his best to fabricate the cutest wedding that he could think of, and Sarah jumped in whenever he got stuck. It actually came off as pretty convincing.

  After the dinner they headed home and talked the whole way about what they would name the baby to be. Sarah had all kind of ideas, and Ben only had a few. He was proud of her, in a strange way, for keeping it a secret. Maybe because he knew that he wouldn't have been able to. There were a lot of things that Sarah could do that Ben couldn't, it had turned out that he was always going to play second fiddle to her in the academic world. But he didn't mind, and getting to know Sarah over the years had just made him appreciate her abilities for what they were—amazing gifts. He was glad to have such a woman in his life, so when they slowly made love that night they really made love. And he was grateful for every second of it.

  The time for the baby to be born came and a girl was birthed into their lives. Everything changed for the better, something Ben didn't even think was possible. And years later, when the child was able to walk and barely talk, they were married for real. Their families were of course shocked and pretend outraged, and everyone got together and they were wedded for real. And when they kissed, Ben was taken back to the first time he'd seen her in class and thought how pretty she was, and how he wanted to know more about her. When the kiss broke everyone cheered, and they went on with their beautiful lives and were never apart after that.

  THE END

  Bad Boy Obsession

  The image in the mirror never lies to me. It is the only one I can count on to tell me the truth of my face and my body. I am not much of anything, at first, and people often forget to give me a second glance. This happens so often that sometimes, I forget to look at me, too. But since I am a banker, and one for such a complex organization, I know I have an image to maintain. And so every day, I force myself to look in the mirror, until finally, I am accepting of what I see.

  The mirror in the closet behind me is half-length, so I can see myself from the waist up. My dark gray tie is fashionably thin, and my waistcoat matches it in fabric and shade. My shirt is crisply white, with the sleeves especially folded up past my elbows. My face is thin, too thin, but when you consider the compactness of the rest of me, it wouldn’t surprise you. My eyebrows are often ready to take over the rest of my face, huge hairy caterpillars that are straight from my mother’s side of the family; my eyebrows are a third grader’s drawing, a child’s rendition of each individual hair to make sure that the person looking at the picture cannot mistake them for anything else than eyebrows. There is a fine dusting of hair in between them, but I do not care. They are the only thing about me that belong on a man’s face, even if they have a feminine origin. My mother, she plucked, waxed, and tweezed, but I think they add character. The rules are different for women, even, and maybe even more so, for Italian ones.

  My dark brown hair is slicked back, and my cheeks are gaunt. My eyes are a light hazel, almost green, and my mouth is what is known as a Cupid’s bow, a woman’s mouth. The hair on my arms is thick and dark. My pants buckle with a slim belt at my waist, and my slacks are neat and dark; they fit me perfectly. I pay the tailor well.

  You may think me an odd duck for paying such close attention to my clothing, but the truth is, I represent a brand of living; for an organization like the one I represent, image is everything. And the man who manages the money has to at least give off an air of competency. The fact that I also happen to be competent is just gravy. Or sauce on your meatballs. Whichever you prefer.

  It was through this mirror that I first saw the Rufino couple. In that first moment, I felt caught, trapped like a wild animal, for it would not do to be caught primping in front of the mirror like a dandy. Sure, many Italian men were vain, but they also prided themselves on getting all their mirror work over with in the morning. Any more and you might as well consider yourself a woman. Startled, I slammed the closet door shut and dropped my hands from where I had been slicking my hair back. But not before I caught sight of two figures entering the bank office.

  Valentina Rufino had curly black hair that framed a heart-shaped face in gentle waves. In those days, before everything, Valentina was young and soft, like an amorous young colt that is midway between knowing and not knowing what to do with its body. She was chosen to be Santiago’s wife, no doubt, because of that body, which was, in true rustic Italian tradition, lily-white where the sun had not touched her, full-breasted, and wide hipped and bottomed. That day, Valentina’s black eyes were bored, to say the least, and she had little to say while her husband and I discussed business. She sat in front of my desk, fidgeting with the peplum edge of her rust-colored blouse, which was belted below her sloping soft breasts with a thin bright red belt, the buckle gold, the material rippling a tiny bit at her then-slim waist. Valentina Rufino, before she became a feared matriarch, before she settled into her iron will. In the early days, Valentina was little more than a young wife who did not want her mother’s drudgery, who could not imagine making tomato sauce from scratch for a husband who had no intention of staying faithful to her.

  Not that in the coming years, Santiago would stray too often. No, one day, Valentina would prove to be an undeniable asset to him, but right then, he had just started becoming bored of the milky young breasts peeking out from the sweetheart neckline of her red belted suit.

  I had years to wonder about all the questions that assailed me that first evening as the Rufino couple established me as their personal banker. I was my uncle’s son, they heard, his most trusted advisor. Would I be able to help them out with a loan for their godson’s first birthday? It would be a blowout for the whole neighborhood, as was customary, and the whole family would be invited. Of course, for the couple who stood in line to inherit a family that spanned far beyond cousins, aunts, or blood ties, the number of guests would surely exceed private funds. It was my first introduction into the intimate lives of the family’s elite, and a part of me panicked at first, thinking I could no more manage their finances than a mouse scare an elephant, but I was to be proven wrong. I would soon demonstrate my ability to scour up funds where funds simply could not exist, and this made me invaluable to the Rufinos.

  I, however, was not thinking about any of this that first night as I drank them in a surreptitiously as I could from beneath my calm, measured exterior. I was wondering how long a couple had to be married for Santiago’s gaze to stop lingering on the gapped cleavage of his young wife, and whether he had ever been particularly over interested in that part of the female anatomy to begin with. Surely, I was not the first person to ever wonder this about the handsome Rufino future patriarch.

  As he spoke to me, Santiago Rufino exuded a quiet kind of calm that only just starts belonging to a man in his early thirties; he was short a few years, but his father had been grooming him to take over the family business for a few years, and the heavy weight of responsibility was visible in the grave manner in which he always conducted himself. I never saw him smile. But I also did not feel bad for him. Instead, I devoured his face with my eyes, looking at him only when he spoke directly to me. To do otherwise would not have been appropriate, and given my history, would have sent me into paroxysms of stress and worry. When he spoke, his aqua-shaded eyes glowed calmly against olive-toned skin that had been burnished bronze by a recent trip to Nappa. In those days, family royalty could visit the mother country any time they wished, even if it was for something as frivolously delicious as smooth Italian wine on a weekend away.

  Those eyes that marked his descent from the North were not what captivated, me though. I followed the slant of
the thick brown eyelashes that framed them and dark irises to a proud aquiline nose. The hard bump in its center, visible only when Santiago turned into profile, was what I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Classic beauty is one thing, but when a man’s nose tries to take revenge on his face for simply existing, that is what I cannot resist. Also, the hard line of stubble along his jaw; it made me want to rub the smooth ends of my fingertips along it, to feel the sandpaper rub against my skin.

  I have described what I look like; I hardly think that while I was arranging their loans in those early days, the Rufinos were looking at me with the same amount of interest. They saw the brown leather band of my watch, the familiar hair grease of an Italian banker, and that was enough for them. They hardly saw the person behind the big oak desk, handling the black fountain pen, either then nor years later. They valued the soothing quality of my voice, the one that assured them, both for the loan that day and for all the deals we conducted later, that they would come off Scot=free, that their financial security was ensured just like a baby in a warm crib. They let me care for them, but they never considered the person behind everything.

  Who does, truly? Who ever wonders what the story of the man who chooses numbers over people is, especially when he is not using those skills to cure a disease, but rather sits amongst actual bills. A banker is not a sexy career, but mostly it appears that way to the people who are not actually doing the job. They may not think of me, even now, from the depths of years, but I always remember them.

  Certainly, there is far more glitz and glamour when people on the street know your name, when it is your blessings they seek out for their babies. Valentina did not know then, jiggling one white leg impatiently sitting on the chair before me, that belted skirt suits would take off in our community, that the natural fullness of her curls would taunt young Italian-American princesses whose own genetic heritage had presented them with blondeness or flat hair.