by Kerri Sharpe
‘Excellent,’ says Uncle in a thick, languid voice. ‘We have a willing woman.’
‘A willing slut,’ says the Boy, ‘who wants to get fucked.’ He seems to be relishing the words, testing their strangeness like an adolescent keen to rid himself of innocence.
I’m relishing them too. I like being objectified. It takes the heat off having to be yourself.
The Boy, still working me with his fingers, slips his other hand up my top. He strokes me through my bra before pushing up the cups to squeeze and massage. My nipples are crinkled tight and he flicks and rocks them, bringing my nerve endings to seething life. Then, just as I start to feel I’m losing myself, falling open to ecstasy, the Boy pulls away and crosses the floor to Uncle.
It’s a cruel, desolate moment. I’m about to protest but before I can utter a word, the Boy has sprung up onto the carpets, leaping from a standstill like a mighty ballet dancer. On his haunches, he straddles Uncle who reclines, mouth parted, to suck on the Boy’s fingers, offered like dangling grapes. The Boy cups the man’s shiny head, supporting it, and Uncle goes slack with surrender, eyes closed in bliss, as he slurps and snuffles on a sample of my snatch.
Now, I’m not averse to a spot of guy-on-guy action but I’ve only just arrived and I’m feeling a touch neglected. So I walk towards them because, dammit, I want to play too. As I near, they stop their weird feeding and, holding the pose, look down at me with benign curiosity, blinking heavily. It’s as if they’ve never seen me before. Jesus, it’s creepy. Without smiling, they continue to stare and blink for what seems like an age. A pair of green eyes and a pair of bright brown ones.
Then Uncle perks up, his expression changing to a villainous leer. He looks seriously gorgeous, like he ought to be behind bars. Sneering, he sits straight, swinging his legs over the edge of the carpet-pile, and delves into the crotch of his baggy pants. His pants are slate-blue silk, and a materialistic impulse asserts itself because that’s just the shade I want in the hallway. I consider asking for a thread so I can choose a carpet with a matching weave but the moment passes. I have a different object of desire, other needs to gratify.
‘Suck my dick for me,’ says the man, grinning. He releases a big fat erection, wanking it gently, the muscles of his beefy arm flexing under dark skin. It’s a beautiful brute of a cock, arrogant and obscenely large.
‘Dirty bitch,’ adds the Boy. He still sounds like a kid trying out rude words. ‘Suck the man’s dick.’
I’m happy to oblige. The stack of carpets are almost shoulder height and all I need do is lower my head to engulf him. His pubes tickle my nose and, butting deep within my mouth, he’s superbly stout and powerful. My head bobs between his thighs and I’m getting weaker and wetter as I dream how it’ll be when this beast slides into me. The Boy drops to the floor and I feel him at my feet, nuzzling my ankles then crawling under my sarong. I spread my legs for him and feel him rising, the heat of him on my skin, his shorn, silky head, his tongue trailing a path up my inner thighs. He pulls down my knickers and I feel him between my legs, his hot breath on my cunt before his tongue, so delicate and perfect, dances over my clit and squirms into my folds.
Oh, my. That tongue has truly been places. Like his eyes, it could be a thousand years old, a tongue that’s pleasured geisha girls, ladyboys and Babylonian whores. Fingers fill my cunt, a thumb rubs my arsehole and moments later I’m coming hard, gasping around Uncle’s cock, Uncle clutching my head, keeping me steady for fear I neglect his pleasure in favour of my own.
‘She’s a slippery little bitch, isn’t she, huh?’
Uncle’s voice is loud enough to carry across the chamber. He’s talking to someone else; not to the Boy, and certainly not to me. I pull back and turn, wiping saliva from my mouth.
Tom, of course. Hell’s teeth, I’d forgotten him. He’s standing within the white stone archway, looking somewhat dazed. Really, I’d completely forgotten him, forgotten the man I love. Well, I guess fresh meat can do that to a girl.
Tom stares, mouth sagging dumbly. I worry for a moment, fearing my blue-eyed boy is going to be appalled, but I can see he’s interested, absorbing the scene. It’s that fascinated passivity again. ‘My God,’ I can almost hear him say. ‘You’re so vulgar.’
‘Come, come,’ cries Uncle, jumping down from the carpets. ‘Welcome, my brother!’ He pumps Tom’s hand and claps him on the shoulder as if they’re the best of mates. ‘You want her to suck your dick too, huh?’ Pleased with himself, Uncle laughs over-loudly.
I think Tom’s had a hit of whatever I’ve had, the scent of dried hedgehog or something. He smiles. I know exactly what he’s going to say. He’s going to say, ‘I don’t mind’ in that sing-song way he does when I say, ‘Shall we have coffee here or there? Rice for dinner or pasta?’ It can get a bit annoying, to tell the truth. He looks at me; his smile’s ironic. ‘I don’t mind,’ he says, and I realise he knew that I knew he was going to say that, and his tongue’s in his cheek because he knows all that knowing will amuse me. Long-term relationships can be so nice.
The Boy, on his hands and knees, peeps out from under my sarong to edge a cautious pace forwards. Then he’s motionless, watching as Uncle leads Tom to a low bank of carpets, stacked at three levels like a shallow flight of steps. A hazy shaft of sunlight falls across them, revealing tiny squalls of dust as the men clamber and sprawl across this wool-woven stage. Uncle sits on the higher level, legs akimbo, and Tom lolls within his silk-clad thighs, head resting there as he yields to an off-centre shoulder massage. Uncle bows forwards, murmurs in Tom’s ear, and Tom smiles gently, stretching his spine in a discreet arch, his pleasure private and contained, as the man kneads with big oafish hands.
I stand there, entranced, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. The Boy edges closer, moving gingerly as if wary of disturbing them. Sitting back on his heels, he watches intently as Tom relaxes deeper in to the massage, occasionally grunting.
When Tom and I fuck, a glazed expression sometimes settles on his face. His eyes close, his mouth drops open, and he looks completely gone, blanked out with bliss as I move on top. He’s got that slightly dead quality about him now, and when Uncle reaches forward to remove his T-shirt, Tom acquiesces, raising his arms, as docile and obliging as a sleepy child. He doesn’t even protest when the Boy pads forwards to nuzzle his pale chest. All he does is smile fondly and, like a basking chimp, he stretches his arms back, exposing their white undersides, tendons taut, his dark patches of armpit hair attracting the Boy who tentatively sniffs, a hand sweeping broad caresses over Tom’s flexing body. Tom is clearly loving it.
Well, you sly old tart, I think.
I can’t take my eyes off him. I wonder if they’ve drugged him. And then I’m clearly not thinking straight myself because soon I’m wondering whether it actually is Tom. Perhaps someone – or something – has got inside his body because I’ve never seen him like this before. Tom likes to size up situations, to tread carefully, to fret unnecessarily; and he’s never shown even the slightest interest in men. And now look at him, pushing the boundaries of his experience as if it were a walk in the park. I start to fear I may never get him back.
But then I notice his smile fading and he moistens his lips, a small moment of nervous desire. It’s exquisite, so tender and Tom-like, and I feel I know who he is again. I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and, in his neck, a hint of tension, as he tests the air for a kiss. The Boy bends over him, their lips meet, and lust flares in my groin. I watch a knot of muscle shifting in the Boy’s jaw, movement in Tom’s neck, and I’m all eyes as, without breaking the kiss, the Boy reaches down to unzip Tom’s fly. Tom’s erection springs out, weighty and lascivious.
I don’t know what I want to do most: watch or join in.
Then Uncle grins at me, rummaging around in his silky blue crotch. He exposes his cock and moves it against Tom’s face, tipping it back and forth like a windscreen wiper. ‘Come here,’ Uncle says to me. ‘Bring us titties.’
He’s dead right: I want to join in. So I cross to them, whipping off my top half as I do so. Greedy and urgent, I scramble up onto the carpets and Uncle welcomes me by holding out a brawny arm. He opens his mouth and I fill it immediately with soft pink breast, pressing a hand to his crisp chest hair, my body pushing against the bulk of his belly. His tongue lashes my nipple and he delves under my sarong, searching eagerly for my hole. With a force that makes me gasp, he plugs my wetness with thick, crude fingers. Grinning up at me, he holds my nipple between his teeth and gently pulls on it, stretching my flesh. I hold his gaze, daring him to keep right on going.
For the first time, I notice how stunning his eyes are. They’re a hard amber brown, sparkling like topaz. But this is no time to be romanticising, because the guy’s moving us into position, my sarong and belt are off, and I’m utterly naked, poised above that prodigious cock, buttocks split in his big rough hands, cunt wide open. With heavy luxury, I sink down on him, groaning all the way until I’m stretched and stuffed to capacity.
Truly, it’s a beautiful moment, made more beautiful by the fact that beside me is Tom, being sucked off by the Boy. They’re both naked too, Tom with his knees apart, the Boy’s shorn head bobbing in his crotch, his pert little butt stuck up in the air. Sprawled against the carpets, Tom has an arm flung wide, eyes closed, mouth open. I’ve never seen him looking quite so dead. I wonder if his expression’s the same when I go down on him. My guess is not. All the same, I try and commit that face to memory, thinking maybe I can reproduce it some time in charcoal and pencil.
Tom must sense me looking because as I start to slide on Uncle’s cock, he reaches out with a blind hand to stroke my arse. In that tiny affectionate gesture, I feel such a connection with him, such warmth. And I feel free to fuck like there’s no tomorrow, knowing Tom and I are united, mutual support in mutual depravity; for richer, for poorer; for better, for worse.
Uncle clasps my hips, bouncing me up and down, and I’m as light as a doll in his hands. This man can do what he wants with me, I think. And I don’t mind if he does. It’s a while since I’ve been overpowered. The two of us mash and grind, silk hissing beneath me, sweat forming on my back where sunlight heats my skin.
‘Hey, brother,’ calls Uncle, addressing Tom, ‘does she like it in her ass? Huh? A big prick in her tiny little asshole?’
Tom’s too zonked to reply immediately. He just sprawls there, half-dead, before his head rolls sideways, eyes still closed. When he finally speaks, it sounds as if it’s costing him an enormous effort. ‘Probably,’ he croaks.
The Boy pulls away from him. Tom groans in despair.
‘Dirty little slut,’ says the Boy excitedly. His cock is ramrod stiff, its ruddy tip gleaming, and against his scrawny frame it looks grotesquely large. He springs off the carpets, takes a small copper can from near an Aladdin’s lamp, and pours thick clear liquid into the palm of his hand. ‘Uncle,’ he says, ‘you in her pussy, me in her ass. Bam, bam, bam. We fuck her hard, yes?’
Uncle laughs lightly.
‘No,’ I whisper. Then louder: ‘Yes. God, yes.’
The Boy leaps back onto the carpets, lubricating his cock with lamp oil. Tom groans again. I reach out, feeling sorry for him, and Uncle, gent that he is, shuffles us closer. I lean over to kiss Tom and he responds eagerly, our tongues lashing awkwardly as Uncle pounds into me. Sweat dribbles down my back into the crack of my buttocks and I feel the Boy’s greasy fingers press against my arsehole. He wriggles a finger past my entrance and I’m groaning into Tom’s mouth as the Boy opens me out, forcing the ring of my muscles wider, making me slick and ready.
‘Keep her still,’ urges the Boy, and Uncle obliges, his cock lodged high.
‘Lean over,’ orders the Boy and I obey. His knob nudges my arsehole and pushes into my resistance. I think I’m going to be too small for him, my other hole too full, and that it’s all going to hurt like hell. I make a feeble cry of protest.
‘Don’t pretend,’ snaps the Boy. He grasps my hips then there’s a flash of pain and, with a sudden slippery rush, he’s fully inside me, and I’m swamped by dark, fierce pleasure. Uncle calls out triumphantly. I feel I’m on the brink of collapse, the intensity of having both holes packed so solidly taking me to a place I didn’t know existed. I gasp into Tom’s mouth, quite beyond kisses now, as the two men start to drive into me. Bam, bam, bam, as the Boy said. I have to pull away from Tom. I need air. I need to groan and wail.
Beneath me, Uncle’s face is flushed with exertion. He spots me looking at him and he grins, meeting my eye with a deliberate gaze. There’s the weirdest kind of friction going on inside me, the two men jostling my body as they fuck. And then I know I’ve lost it. I know pleasure has reduced me to lunacy because I see something wild in Uncle’s eyes. His pupils contract and, for a moment, they are like the Boy’s: bright with black, slit pupils.
It’s the light, I tell myself, the light, the light. And I can’t bear to look. I flop forward onto Tom, seeking a kiss, wanting the reassurance of his mouth, his nose, his face. I’m close to coming and so is Tom because the Boy, gorgeous greedy creature, is sucking him off again. As the two cocks shove fast and hard inside me, I nudge my clit and then gasp into Tom’s mouth, our lips so hot, so wet and loose: ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ That sets him off and he groans and pants, his body twitching as he peaks. My orgasm rolls on and on, and Tom is still gasping into my mouth, still coming. It feels sublime, orgasm-without-end. Our lips slide and smear, and nothing else can touch us. It’s as if we’re melting into each other at every breath. And I am him and he is me, and we are all ecstasy, all delirium, all gone.
Sex, I think, will never be the same again.
We didn’t buy a carpet for the hallway that holiday. But sometimes it’s like that. You go out hoping to buy one thing and come home with something totally different. I’ve stopped drawing Tom in the middle of the night as well. I don’t feel the need any more. I don’t have that yearning to capture him. Because I have my Tom, I have him entirely, from now until the end of time. And if I ever start to doubt it, I just need to picture his face, glazed with rapture at the point of climax. He doesn’t know what he looks like. I don’t know what I look like either. People don’t, generally speaking, do they?
All I know is that he’ll never look at another woman like that; he’ll never be able to. Because when he comes, something shifts in his eyes. He rides the wave, annihilated with bliss, the two of us breathing so hard and so deep. And when he looks at me, his beautiful blue eyes have black, slit pupils. And I am him and he is me. And I know we are possessed.
Kristina Lloyd is the author of the Black Lace novels Darker than Love and Asking for Trouble. Her short stories have appeared in several Wicked Words collections.
The Game of Kings Maya Hess
TESSA DROVE HER sweating horse down the field for the final time that day and clipped the ball with her mallet, sending it at an acute angle into the goal. The handful of onlookers sent a few casual claps her way before ambling back to the clubhouse, most of the other players and spectators having already retired to the veranda for pre-dinner drinks and talk of the impending matches.
Tessa was the last player left on the field and, as she guided her horse back to the stable yard, she again noticed that strangely familiar figure leaning against the perimeter fence, one foot cocked on the railings, both hands gripping the top bar. Tessa knew he’d been watching her throughout the afternoon’s practice sessions. In fact, he hadn’t taken his eyes off her from the moment she’d arrived at the club earlier. She didn’t understand the man’s interest in her, especially as she was caked in sweat and dust. Tessa had an uncertain feeling that she knew him from somewhere and guessed that he recognised her too.
‘Last off the field. Does this mean that you’re dedicated or apprehensive about tomorrow’s play?’ The man stepped away from the fence and positioned himself in front of Tessa’s exhausted horse. The creature threw back its head and snorted indignantly.
Tessa brought her leg across the rear of the saddle and slipped lightly off her mount. Mandarin-coloured dust erupted around her black leather boots. She raised her eyebrows, allowing herself a beat to study his face, to harvest any recollections about the man before she spoke.
‘Dedicated, of course. Apprehensive, never. My entire team is honed and ready.’ Tessa offered a terse smile but wasn’t sure why her voice hardened and her jaw clenched. She found herself tipping back her head and bringing her knees together in almost military style. She clicked her mouth and walked on, holding her horse’s bridle.
The man remained by her side. ‘Jack Wentworth,’ he said, again positioning himself in the horse’s path and this time sending it into a series of frustrated whinnies.
Tessa patted its shoulder and gripped the bridle. His name was vaguely recognisable but Tessa’s impatience of the man’s rudeness outweighed her desire to know who he was. Doubtless she’d heard his name mentioned at another match. He was evidently a Polo player, dressed in jodhpurs and team shirt and cap.
‘I have to get Nitro back to the groom. He needs water and rest. Excuse me.’ Again, Tessa urged her horse on and headed across the arid yard to the stable block. Even though the sun was teetering on the horizon, the temperature was still in the high eighties and the humidity was unbearable – quite different to the tepid English summer she had left a couple of days earlier. Orange and gold fingers spread from the sunset and stretched over the distant hills, illuminating the far-away clouds like brightly coloured saris. Tessa was aware that the man was following her and, as she gave Nitro to the stable boy, she felt a hand in the small of her back steering her towards the clubhouse.
‘You look thirsty. Come and have a drink with me.’
Tessa was annoyed. She was exhausted, dirty and needed to collect her thoughts in readiness for tomorrow’s game but nevertheless allowed herself to be guided to the clubhouse veranda, driven simply by intrigue.
