Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  “Matthews,” Jake inserts, using Zane’s surname rather than his own.

  Talk about bittersweet torture.

  Mrs. Zane Matthews.

  Christ, it’s too soon to want that but it sure as hell sounds good.

  “Oui. Geraldine, help Madame Matthews to clean up.”

  Geraldine smiles at me and immediately ushers me forwards and through the crowd toward a ladies’ sitting room. And that’s the only thing it can be described as, because it’s unlike any bathroom I’ve ever seen.

  There’s a large circular seating area, padded rose chintz with buttons on the brink of popping. Not from wear, but from thick padding. A wall of mirrors covers one side of the room and, directly opposite, a wall of vanities with a long row of dressing tables. Women are in various states as they pose into either set of mirrors. Some adjusting their make-up, others realigning their skirts or bodices. The room stinks of perfume, what smells like a thousand different scents clashing and battling for supremacy. The urge to sneeze makes another appearance, but once more, I manage to contain it.

  I’m at a complete loss as to what to do. I’m hovering, gawking at the women as they prod their boobs and try to arrange them for maximum, not minimum, exposure, and generally titivate themselves. Apparently noticing my fascination, Geraldine nudges me toward an alcove where the toilet stands are discreetly tucked away opposite vanities with sinks.

  There are cushioned, thick towels on the ledge between sink and mirror, and platters of soaps arranged in a pattern that follows the hotel’s logo.

  “Here, let me wash your back for you.”

  Geraldine’s comment has me jumping away from her. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says in accented but charming English. “You cannot reach your back. Please, let me tend to you.”

  She forcibly moves me so that I face the mirror. Grabbing one of the washcloths from the side, she runs the water, dips the cloth into the cold stream, twists it to remove the excess liquid and then begins dabbing at my back. The instant it touches my flesh, I jolt with the cool, though, refreshing wave of moisture against my sticky skin.

  A smile graces her lips as she works and says, “Renée is one of those women most men forgive, for she is too beautiful.” Her eyes flash upwards and clash with mine in the mirror. “Amazing how that glamour fades after marriage, non?”

  I flush, uncertain of what to say and she grins at me. “I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable. Let me say this is not her first ‘accident’. She is a foolish woman to drink so much at these kinds of events.”

  “These things will happen,” I tell Geraldine with a shrug that belies how pissed I am at the back of my dress being doused in champagne. I don’t care if it’s a thousand-dollar-a-bottle bubbly. I’d prefer it to be fizzing through my veins than drenching my dress.

  “I think it will survive for another time,” Geraldine tells me with a sickly sweet smile that I instantly distrust. “The black fabric clings to your back in a way that is most becoming. Almost intentional. Apparently, perfection can be improved upon.”

  I get the feeling I could be dressed in the hot pink-diamante spandex number that poodle Jake and I were arguing about the other day was wearing and still, this woman would tell me I look like perfection.

  She drops the washcloth on to the side and leaves it there, obviously expecting a cleaner to clear it away. I glance at it, habit almost urging me to straighten it out, but I force my attention from it and to Geraldine. “I must return to my husband.”

  At my comment, her smile widens into an almost feline pout that I can tell is an encouragement to divulge. A look that is female-to-female property. One that says without words, the man will never win. Her words merely confirm it.

  “I must confess to having overheard some of your conversation with your husband. I would say that you won the war, non?”

  At ease now the chatter is more on the matter at hand, I return her smile. “Hopefully. I’ve been looking for something like this to go in my sitting room for an absolute age.”

  Incredibly, I sound like spending fifty thousand dollars on an ornament is an ordinary occurrence.

  Maybe I missed my vocation as an actress.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it you think you have found?”

  Geraldine’s sweetly-accented voice encourages me to reveal all. On to her ploy, it behooves me to do just that. “Well, are you a fan of ancient Chinese artifacts? If you are, then I can’t tell you in case you try your luck.”

  “Moi? Non,” she murmurs around a tinkling laugh. “I am more a fan of recent history.”

  “Ah, well, that’s all right, then. Better to be safe than sorry.” As we walk out of the restroom, I tell her, “It’s an ancient bi. A disk of jade so old that it pre-dates Jesus Christ.” I sigh, as though thrilled at the prospect. “It recently came on the market and I’m willing to do anything to get it.” It goes without saying that I’m talking about the black market.

  “It seems to me that you are a smart woman, non? I’m sure you will soon have your piece.”

  As we approach the crowded function room, the noise nearly consumes her next comment. She’s a head taller than me, especially in the stalactites for high heels on her feet.

  “It would seem your husband and Pierre are now friends.”

  “Oh?” I ask, pretending to be disinterested, as I peer ahead, spying the jovial slap Jake lands on Rousset’s back.

  “Yes, Pierre is a good man to have in your circles. You never know when he can be of assistance.” There’s a smug grin on her lips, one that tells me she believes Jake and I, a.k.a wealthy, dumb Americans have been ensnared in Rousset’s game.

  She’s too busy being pleased with herself to notice that I’m equally as smug.

  Now who’s dumb?

  Chapter Eleven

  Two hours or so later, in the bath of the ensuite shared by Jake and myself, my fingers are turning into juice-soaked prunes.

  If I say that I’ve never seen a bath this big, it would be an exaggeration.

  Take an average bath, double it, and then add on another half. It’s like a small swimming pool. Well, I can’t actually swim in it, but I can stretch out full length and chill.

  For the last three nights, I’ve done exactly the same thing. Indulged myself in a bath that has taken far too long, and felt decadent as I’ve done just that.

  It’s here that I’ve studied the papers Jake gave me about Rousset. And on the tablet that Zane bought me back home, tonight, I’m doing something I’ve never done before. It feels so wrong, but at the same time, I can’t help myself.

  When I walked into that ballroom and saw Jake deep in conversation with Rousset, my mind reverted to the pictures I’d once found on the net. Of Jake and Zane smiling at various events. The pair of them looking so damned hot together. And with Jake in a tux, it set my mind to thinking about the pair of them.

  It’s strange. In all the things I’ve seen and that have caused my jaw to drop open—mostly at Marina’s urging—I’ve never seen two men together. I mean, why would I want to? I’m straight. I don’t want to see man-on-man action. I want to see a man touching a woman, to drool over the way he licks a nipple or flutters his tongue over her clit. I don’t want to see a man sucking another man’s cock.

  Or I didn’t.

  That is to say I do now.

  Yeah.

  Weird or what?

  I’m confused as hell and, of all things, horny. Christ. What’s wrong with me? I’m almost disturbed by how difficult it was not to go searching online for pictures of man-on-man action as soon as I logged on to the net. And in the end, I caved. I searched, I saw and now… I’m looking at pictures.

  Stills of men sucking cock, of cocks being jerked off as the same man’s ass is being fucked, of tongues fluttering over buttholes, of hard pecs rubbing against hard pecs and not soft breasts.

  And it isn’t revolting.

  I feel like it shoul
d be. As though I should see these images and feel sick. Okay, that’s a bit strong, an exaggeration. But still. Why aren’t I repulsed?

  I don’t care that there are women all over the world who get off on this kind of thing. I never have but I’m slowly transmogrifying into one of those aforementioned women. And that’s what concerns me.

  The only turn off for me is that the clips I’ve seen, the pictures I’ve seen… not a one of them stars Jake or Zane.

  And what that signifies, I do not know.

  Hell, it’s not that I expect them to star in porn flicks. But every man I’ve seen, I’ve overlaid Zane and Jake’s faces over the porn stars. And they’re ‘doing’ each other.

  It looks strange. Men fucking men. Men sucking men. But regardless of how strange it is, it has something inside me quickening.

  My eyes feel glassy from how much I’ve been staring at the screen. My mouth is dry, and the bottle of water that I perched on the rim of the bath is nearly empty. And my fingers are twitching.

  Why?

  Because they’re longing to do more than just scroll down the screen.

  My skin feels tight. As though it’s too small for my body, and at the moment, that’s just how I feel. Like something wants to burst out of me. Explode.

  A part of me would like to reason all of this down to frustration. With Zane at my sexual beck and call for the best part of two weeks, going without has taken its toll. More than I’d imagined possible. I’ve never been what you’d call highly sexed. In fact, I’ve always considered myself anything but.

  I was the archetypal ‘Sorry, hun. I just started my period’ kind of wife. Thankfully for my sensibilities, Dan, my ex-husband, was terrible at math. Remembering one month, where I had my period nearly three times, I can’t help but grin. Especially when I take my current self into consideration.

  My right hand curls into a fist and clenches. The sinews showing white against the bright pink flesh of my fingers and knuckles.

  I’m fighting myself. Fighting what my body wants.

  Because it’s wrong, right?

  This can’t be normal.

  My right hand is literally itching to slip down over my body and to settle in the notch of my pussy. To strum at my clit, to watch as two men fuck each other, as my brain superimposes images of Jake and Zane over the porn stars’ faces, and climax.

  Before Zane, the term climax might as well have been in Swahili. And I might as well have been over in Africa, that’s how far away I always was from ever experiencing anything as gargantuan as a mild pulse of pleasure. Never mind a full blown orgasm.

  So to be denied one for as long as I have, my body isn’t used to it.

  Especially when I’ve such inspiration floating about me. Because even though Jake isn’t as gorgeous as Zane, he’s still handsome. And those suits he wears. Fuck me, they’re delicious. It’s so wrong to be thinking the way I have, but the more I try and tell myself to stop, the more images just pop into my head.

  Thoughts of pulling his cock through the zipper of his fly so that he’s fully dressed save for that part of him, me kneeling in front of him and taking him into my mouth. And that’s just one of the wrong, wrong, wrong images that have been crawling through my brain so that I have to study every part of the fantasy.

  Then there are the ones that include Zane.

  Just thinking about Zane, Jake and myself in a sexual situation has my hand doing that itching thing again.

  Frustrated, I put my tablet aside, duck under the surface of the water, and vent my spleen in a scream. I come up after a few moments, water trailing down my body in tracks that tickle and have gooseflesh coursing along my limbs. My ears are plugged with soap so it takes a few seconds to hear the banging on the door.

  “Jake?” I call out.

  “Yeah. Everything okay in there? I thought I heard a noise.”

  Mortified that he heard me scream, and the potential connotations he could place on the noise, my already bright pink skin turns a shade brighter. “I’m fine. Just happy. I got a message from a friend in New York.” The lie trips off my tongue way too easily.

  Thank God.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good. If you’re okay, then…” His voice trails off, indicating that he’ll leave me to my bath.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “No worries. Night.”

  “Night,” I whisper, my eyes glued to the door.

  Sucking in a breath, I raise a hand and run it over my face. What the hell am I doing?

  What’s wrong with me?

  The guy’s been nothing but nice. I feel in no way threatened around him. Yeah, I lock the doors to my room at night, but I don’t fear him trying to rape me while I sleep or anything crazy like that. He’s pleasant to be around. He’s made my stay in Paris so much fun, and in truth, it’s his easy joviality that has switched me from cautious to at ease when I’m with him.

  I kind of wish I could be cautious and wary around him again. But it’s too late for that.

  Especially now I’ve seen his cock.

  In my mind’s eye only, but that’s still way too much information.

  Ducking my head underwater, I rise through the surface and sit up and reach for the towel I’ve placed on the bath’s edge to dry my fingers. I grab my tablet once more, and make to switch pages, to turn off the endless stream of gay porn pics, but I don’t.

  I spot an image of a man fucking another. A brown-haired guy is sitting on a sofa, his cock plowing in and out of a dark-haired man’s ass. And in between, as the dark dude fucks the other, a hard, thick dick jiggles with each thrust.

  Each man suddenly takes on my dream lovers’ faces and that’s without any instigation. Jake is being fucked in front of my very eyes and he’s loving every minute of it. Zane’s face is twisted and contorted with pleasure, and his hand reaches forward to grip Jake’s cock. The tautness of that clasp is almost painful and Zane howls with pleasure as that hungry hand slips down to cup his balls. He arches, his head thrown back and cum spurts out, splashing against Zane’s belly.

  The milky white liquid runs down the taut, tense slab of his abs. Each muscle clenched so that the lines of that luscious six-pack are heavily emphasized. And the creamy seed seems even brighter against that tanned flesh.

  As Jake jerks Zane’s cock, milking him of every drop, Zane pauses his rhythmic ride. He hovers there, in an almost stuporous phase of release as it assaults his every nerve ending. His back is hunched over, his muscles clenching and relaxing as though they don’t know what to do in the face of such pleasure.

  His hands come up to grip Jake’s shoulders, and he begins to massage the taut muscles as he works his way out of the pleasure haze that’s just overtaken him.

  Slowly, he begins that endless rise and fall.

  And that’s it. That’s all I can stand. My hands go under the water and my legs simultaneously slip apart. As wide as possible and in this bath, that’s an easy task. My fingers find my clit and they start to strum. I don’t realize it, but they’re in time to the thrusting of Zane’s hips as he rides Jake.

  My other hand reaches down and a finger slips into my shamefully wet sex. I’m drenched. My pussy eager and desperate for attention, more attention than my own hand can bestow upon me.

  I want teeth on my nipples and hands on my cunt. Cocks inside me, my mouth, my pussy, even my ass. I’ve never been taken there before and I don’t give a damn.

  I just need to be fucked. I need to come.

  My fingers pinch my clit, and the sharp sting has me arching my back and water sloshes over the side in reaction. I ignore it. The tips of my pointer finger and middle finger separate and take prisoner of my clit and they retreat up and down, directly rubbing the small nubbin that is the center of my pleasure.

  I feel like fire ants are crawling up and down my body. And as awful and as painful as that sounds, this is how it feels. I feel in pain. On fire. Desperate to come. To feel release. To be freed from the mass of
images that have been bombarding my brain over the last few hours.

  From a woman who never has sex, to a nymphomaniac, and within the shortest space of time imaginable, I’d be concerned if the two men fueling this sudden burst of lust weren’t as sexy as fuck.

  I continue to strum my clit as Zane reaches down and with both hands pinches Jake’s nipples. Almost as though that’s all he can take, Jake’s face screws up. His brow clamping down, his mouth firming so that his lips almost disappear as the pleasure-pain of the moment overtakes him.

  As it overtakes me.

  I try and contain the sounds longing to burst free from my throat. But whether I succeed or not, I don’t know. And don’t really care.

  The pleasure searing my body is a kind of agony. It burns, where it settles. Scratches, where it should caress. It ignites my blood, making the liquid as flammable as gasoline so that when I shoot up, I do more than explode. I shatter into a million tiny stars, that in turn implode and combust.

  The drop down to Earth is in itself an eye-opener. My skin feels more than sensitive. My hair aches at the roots and my pussy is in shock: the lips pulsing, the opening to my body fluttering in the gentle heat of the water.

  But my mind doesn’t settle into post-orgasmic bliss as it has of late.

  It’s agitated. Pondering. Worrying.

  Even in the face of such release, what I just experienced feels wrong.

  And the worst part is that when my eyes cease to be dazed, when they cast a glance over the men in the film I’ve just watched, the two men look nothing like Zane or Jake.

  Nothing at all.

  The fantasy overtook me and it will continue to do so. Like some parasite intent on overtaking its host, it will continue to divide and conquer until the Mona of old is no more. And the Mona that suddenly craves two men is all that remains.

  What frightens me the most is that I’m not freaked out by that.

  And I should be.

  Right?

  * * *

  I really shouldn’t be doing this.

  Talking to Zane with Jake in the other room… It’s just all kinds of wrong.