The climax only made her more eager to take him. She reamed her pussy, then coated Devlin’s shaft with her juices. Reaching out, she tugged Damien, urging him to come around, between Dev’s legs. She brought his hands to her shoulders, reached behind her, and guided Dev’s hands to her waist. “Help me,” she coaxed them urgently.
Damien applied gentle pressure to her shoulders as Devlin held her waist tight, beginning to thrust shallowly, then more urgently as the tight orifice stretched to accommodate him. “Damien!” Jenny cried.
He knew what she wanted and straddled Devlin’s legs, thrusting his own quivering cock into her pussy as Devlin penetrated her ass. “Oh, Goddess,” she whispered. “Yes.” Damien pressed harder, using his hands on her shoulders to steady his own thrusts, helping to bury Devlin deeper in the process. “Yes. Yes!”
Her eager cries shattered any semblance of control the brothers had. They pounded into her, and she cried out in triumph as Devlin buried his cock completely. “Yes, yes,” she sobbed. “Take me. Please. Both of you.”
Damien’s hands joined Dev’s at her waist, holding her immobile as they both gave one last, mighty thrust. The rings at the base of their cocks began to swell, and Jenny gasped as Devlin’s stretched her ass painfully. But then their cocks met inside her, and the pain was forgotten as they trapped her tender flesh between them, the pulse of their release driving her into a bucking, frenzied climax as the three of them became One, in body as well as soul.
As their joint ecstasy faded, Devlin sat up, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his cheek against her back. Damien’s arms encircled her shoulders, her head resting in the crook of his neck. They held one another for a long time, Jenny shuddering with brief mini-climaxes as she felt their cocks shrinking within her.
Finally, they lay on the altar once more, Jenny ensconced between them, warm despite the cold night air, comfortable despite the rigid slab beneath them. Damien spoke of his plans for the future. He was determined to make their relationship official as soon as the justice of the peace opened on Monday. His words began to slur as he spoke of ways she might still work for Carol. “You can still design here,” he murmured.
Jenny nodded. “And I can sew the prototypes, and ship them to Carol. She can oversee the duplication.”
“And you can travel, Jen,” Devlin pointed out. “This isn’t a cage. You just can’t stay away from the land for extended periods of time.”
She shook her head. “I can’t stay away from you for extended periods of time.”
Dev smiled sleepily. Jenny listened as his and Damien’s breathing slowed, watched their faces soften in sleep. She looked up at the stars and thanked the Goddess for bringing them to her.
She hardly needed a civil ceremony to know that Damien and Devlin belonged to her, now and forever. They were already married in the eyes of the Goddess, who had showered her with double blessings on this most sacred of nights.
Jenny sighed in contentment. Twice wed.
She chuckled wickedly. Twice sexed.
She rested a hand on her tummy, already sensing the two lives that stirred within her womb.
Twice blessed..
Rachel Bo
Rachel Bo is an award-winning author currently published in several genres. On the weekends, she works as a Clinical Laboratory Scientist. During the week, Rachel writes and rides herd on her handsome husband, two wonderful daughters, a rabbit, a snake and several remarkably hardy goldfish. You can find Rachel on the Net at http://webpages.charter.net/rachelbo/ or e-mail her at [email protected].
* * * * *
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Stephanie Vaughan
Chapter One
“Excuse me? What, exactly, do you call this, Miss Sarcasm?”
Valerie Mills looked past the outstretched arm to the hand clutching a scrap of paper. Paper that bore her unmistakable spiky handwriting. The hand, and arm it was attached to, belonged to her friend Suzi Crocker, who now stood glaring down at her.
The corner of the main floor call center she currently occupied was only slightly quieter than the New York Stock Exchange. And definitely less organized. Row after row of tiny cubicles were crammed into a large room. Only one wall of the room, located as it was in the city’s industrial zone, featured windows -- windows that supervisors used as both carrot and stick to the workers who labored there. Go along with the program, soothe hostile customers, straighten out their complaints, and move on to the next call -- all in less than 2.7 minutes -- a couple hundred times a day, and you might get a cubicle near the window. Refuse to work through your lunch or fail to bow down to the sadistic supe who controlled your entire working existence, and you’d be banished to “the dungeon” -- a windowless room in which Valerie had resided, off and on, for the nearly six months she had worked there.
Setting her phone to Not Ready status, Valerie squinted up at her friend. “Why, I do believe that’s my wish list for the Secret Santa Exchange. Let me see it. Yes. That is indeed my handwriting.”
She looked up, thinking for the hundredth time, that Suzi looked like anything but a Suzi. Suzis were invariably small, cute, and red-haired, while her friend fit the classic Crocker mold -- the same one that had been turning out tall, well-built brunettes for generations. Having grown up as best friends, Val could swear to that. Oh, brother, could she.
“Well, you’re just lucky Burton drew your name. He owed me, so I made him switch. What if this had fallen into the wrong hands?” Suzi made a small but noticeable nod in the direction of the supervisor’s office.
“Probably what happens to everyone around here sooner or later. A short detour to the commandant’s office on the way to the door. Shitcanned.” The clarifier was unnecessary. Her friend knew every bit as well as Val did what happened to the disobedient, the defiant, and the just plain unlucky.
“Is that what you were hoping for? And just what is ‘Shibari for three,’ anyway? It sounds like Japanese food, and you know the gift limit is supposed to be five dollars.”
Taking advantage of Suzi’s moment of inattention, Valerie plucked the paper from her friend’s hand. “Never mind. It was a joke. I refuse to go along with that asshole’s latest torture plan. Like they give a rat’s behind about us in the first place. If they did, they’d show it by paying us a decent wage, not by forcing us to take part in some stupid office gift exchange. I refuse to spend even five cents of my crummy paycheck on a Secret Santa gift just so that the Asshole can tell H.R. that he’s doing his part to promote morale. I was hoping His Sphincterness would see it and drop dead of a heart attack on the spot.”
“Wow. And Merry Christmas to you, too.” Just like they’d always done, Valerie and her best friend played out their appointed roles. Val, the impatient sarcastic one, would blow her top, and Suzi, the diplomat and peacemaker, would smooth things over.
“Well, maybe it’s all sweetness and light in accounting, where you work. But down here in the pit, it’s a jungle. You thought I was a bitch before? Let me tell you, I’ve had the opportunity to hone my skills here. I’m about to apply for emeritus status in Shrews, International. Can you believe I’ve been here six whole months? Did you know that I’m the second-most senior person still standing?”
“Valerie, I’m sorry. I feel bad for even telling you about the opening. But at the time ...”
“Suzi, no. I’m sorry. For being such a bitch and taking it out on you. You did me a favor and I appreciate it.”
God, if only she could learn to keep a lock on her out-of-control tongue. Suzi had done her a favor. Laid off from her last position and unable to find anything for which she was remotely qualified, desperation had driven her to take the job in the call center hub for a large mobile phone company. Wages were low and working conditions were only slightly better than a garment-maker’s sweatshop, but at least it was something. However small, it was still a check with her name on it.
She’d already been forced to give up her little studio apartment and share s
pace on Suzi’s couch with Suzi’s obnoxious cat. But helping with the rent and groceries allowed her to kid herself that she was a half-step above the pathetic loser she knew herself to be. For God’s sake, she hadn’t spent four years in a prestigious art school to spend her days breaking the bad news to mobile phone service subscribers that their salesperson had, indeed, screwed them. Nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents a month did not entitle them to unlimited calling anywhere in the world; ditto, free nights and weekends. She was an artist, for Chrissakes.
“I know, honey. I wish there was something somewhere else in the company.” Worried brown eyes, full of concern and compassion, looked back at her. All the Crockers had soulful brown eyes. Especially big brother Dan --
Stop it. Not going there.
Disappointment and heartbreak on one front was as much as she could handle right now. People were just going to have to accept that a Christmas card and a pack of gum were as much as she’d be able to swing this year.
“Would you stop apologizing?” Val was ashamed of her bitter tone, but six months of her present job had worn her down. “I was the one who wouldn’t listen to the guidance counselors. I knew better. It’s not your fault that I was going to be the first graduate of Centennial High to make a living with my art. I should stop being such a sponge. I should sleep on my mother’s couch if I’m going to sleep on anyone’s.”
Suzi’s expression affirmed that she knew just how much that offer cost Val. “Don’t you even think that. You and your mother would kill each other. Besides, Skittles likes you.”
Twenty years of friendship kept Valerie from correcting her friend on that particular point. Suzi’s twenty-pound behemoth of a feline took a passive-aggressive delight in making Val’s life as miserable as possible. Sleeping on a six-foot sofa that didn’t fold out was hard enough for five-foot, nine-inch Val. What made it worse was that Skittles seemed to be able to tell the exact moment Val had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, because he invariably chose that moment to try to reclaim his favorite sleeping spot. A spot that just happened to currently be occupied by Val’s head.
“And you know how I feel about Skittles.” May lightning not strike her dead for that Texas-sized bit of fibbery. Val had lost count of the number of times she had mentally designed ensembles decorated with Skittles-colored fur trim.
“So no more crap about moving in with your mother. Something will turn up from one of the applications you’ve got out. Someone will see your stuff and recognize how much talent you have.”
“I appreciate the moral support, Suz, but I have about as much hope of that happening as I do of winning the lottery. Less, even. The last guy -- the one at the newspaper? -- told me to go to New York. He said I was too weird for California.”
“Well at least hang on here until you get something else lined up, okay? I know it sucks, but it’s a paycheck.” Leave it to Suzi to try to put a positive spin on working for TelexCentron.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Now you’d better get out of here before King Butthole sees you. He may not be your supe, but he can still make trouble for you.”
“Okay. Are you still coming to my parents’ house Saturday? Mom’s counting on seeing you. She’s making your favorite pyrogi.”
Suzi had played her ace in the hole. Her mother’s eastern European heritage came out mainly in gastronomic ways, and Suzi knew that her mother’s traditional dumplings were Valerie’s weakness.
“That sounds great.” Val tried to sound more chipper than she felt. Honestly, she’d rather curl up on the sofa with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas for the umpteenth time. Not only was it her own version of a traditional holiday activity, but she would have enjoyed watching Skittles’ mood turn from sour to suicidal as she ate every bite of ice cream without offering to share even once.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
* * * * *
“Is this the exit?”
Tyler Zinczenko looked over at his partner. Dan Crocker had reclined the passenger seat of Ty’s car as far as it would go and lay nearly prone, eyes closed.
“Does it say ‘Juniper’?” Dan’s eyes didn’t open and his lips barely moved.
“Yup.”
“Then that’s it. Turn right at the end of the off-ramp. Make the first left about a mile up. Turner Road.”
Ty knew that was as much direction he’d get. Close to five years of working together and another year in the academy -- Ty figured he knew Dan pretty well. After graduating from the same class of the San Carlos Police Academy, he had been surprised when the number-one graduate of the academy had accepted a position with the same P.D. he had. As pleased as he was, though, it was that turn of events that made him apprehensive as hell.
Dan was good. Better than good. He was also dangerously attractive. It had been tough enough to stifle an attraction while they’d been working side by side to pass the academy. But day after day on the same P.D. ... Ty didn’t trust himself not to let something slip, and that was a potential problem of major proportions.
It hadn’t turned out to be a problem, though. Quite the contrary. After a not particularly memorable night that concluded two weeks working a reverse sting for Vice, they’d gone out for beers and some winding down. One thing had led to another and, with surprising ease, they’d become lovers.
To this day, he couldn’t remember exactly how it had happened, or who made the first move. But the next thing Ty knew, he’d had Dan’s dick down his throat, chewing on that big hunk of meat like a starving man. The highlight of the evening, though, had been discovering Danny’s little secret. It never failed to give Ty a chuckle to remember the moment he’d discovered that big Dan Crocker was a butt slut. There wasn’t much Dan loved more than a big dick up his ass.
Making the turn onto Juniper, Ty moved gradually into the lefthand lane. The two-lane road was separated from opposing traffic by a big, empty dirt berm, and after barely a quarter of a mile, the gas stations and diners that hugged the interstate gave way to eucalyptus trees and barren fields. Ty mused on the absurdities of life as he watched for anything that indicated Turner Road.
Ty hadn’t known he was bisexual at first, growing into adolescence with the typical boy’s obsession with girls and breasts. But somewhere during his high school years, things had taken a turn. He had realized some time during his sophomore year that some of his teammates had asses that turned him on, too. Acting on his new knowledge, though, had had to wait. It wasn’t until an overnight senior class trip to Anza-Borrego to study desert ecology had yielded discoveries of another kind entirely, that Ty had completely understood.
A small green-and-white sign roughly two-feet square and reading only Turner Ro -- the last quarter of the sign was riddled with so many bullet holes the last two letters were impossible to make out -- caught Tyler’s eye. Another two-lane road approached at a lazy angle until it intersected the one they were on, and he made the turn.
Things were changing, though. After nearly two years spent doing undercover work, Ty and Dan were using the Get Out of Jail Free card they’d been given by the department. A trip back home for the Christmas holiday seemed like as good a way as any to mark the transition.
Lights flickered in the distance and Ty knew from Dan’s descriptions that they had to be the lights from Nan and Bill Crocker’s old farm house.
“Hey, Farm Boy. We’re almost there. Where do I put the car?”
“No place special. Just pull around to the side.” Dan reached a long arm down to his side and pulled his seat back upright and rubbed his eyes. “Remember. My dad will turn anything into an excuse for one-upmanship. And Mom won’t take no for an answer, so just eat whatever she puts in front of you.”
“Man, you are seriously whipped. How’d you ever grow enough of a pair to break loose of this place anyhow?”
Ty turned back from scanning the night for what he could see of Dan’s parents’ house in time to catch his partner’s resigned shake of the head.
“Sheer self-preservation. I would’ve died if I’d stayed here.”
* * * * *
You can’t go home again.
You can always go home.
There’s no place like home.
Well, which was it? Dan wondered. And why the hell had he come back, anyway?
Because your sister asked you to, that’s why.
It had always been Dan and his sister against the world. Neither one of them had fallen in line with their father’s hope that one, if not both, would follow in his footsteps. But being a citrus farmer had never been Dan’s dream. Getting out of Tule Corners had been, for as long as he could remember. Worrying about the weather and trying to fight it with laughably inadequate tools wasn’t his idea of how he wanted to spend his life. So he’d made it through high school and two years at the local junior college before he’d broken his father’s heart and fled south, leaving Suzi to the mercies of their parents’ badgering.
Never as restless as Dan, Suzi had taken a job as head of accounting for the second-largest dairy in the area. But after three pretty good years and an engagement to the owner’s son, things had fallen apart. A lawsuit over the death of three of the dairy’s migrant workers had devastated the business, and his sister’s relationship hadn’t been able to stand the strain. Out of work and suddenly free again, she’d taken the only job she could find in her field: head of accounting for a telephone service center. She’d tried to keep up a brave front on the phone, but her wistful question to Dan, asking if he would be home for Christmas, had gotten to him. “Sure,” he’d told her. And here he was. Anticipating it with the same degree of pleasure he would an audit by the IRS, but here nonetheless.
Grabbing his duffel from the back seat, Dan got out and drew in his first real lungful of country air. The rush of memories that swamped him caught him off guard. He’d expected to be nostalgic when he smelled his mother’s cooking, or slept in his old room and heard the creaks and sighs of the hundred-year-old house. But Dan noticed every individual smell and sound, and each one held a memory.
Rated: X-mas Page 8
