Three Way, page 18
So she saw it all, had fantasized about it so often she felt as if she’d seen the image in a dirty movie, but that didn’t mean it was going to happen. The boys had to win first, and winning wouldn’t be easy. Julissa was an ace at poker. Nobody ever knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Really?” Sam asked now, and Julissa realized that her poker face was already in place. The guys truly didn’t know whether or not she was putting them on.
“Really,” Julissa said, dealing out the first hand.
“And Raymond?” Blake asked.
“Fuck Raymond,” Julissa spat. It was clear to all of them that “fuck Raymond” was an entirely different statement from “fuck poker,” and none of the men commented further. They sat down, eyeing each other carefully, and lifted their cards.
Even though she wanted this fantasy to come true more than anything else she’d ever wanted, Julissa couldn’t lose on purpose. That wouldn’t be right. But the guys turned out to want the evening’s culmination even more than she did. For the first time ever, they created a three-man team, and they fought hard, all of them, to beat her down. Which they did. As soon as she started to lose, Julissa felt that the inevitable was happening. She couldn’t draw the cards she needed, couldn’t fake the boys out with any of her standard moves. Slowly, she began to accept that her fantasy was going to come true, and that made the cards shake in her hands.
“Nervous,” Sam asked, reaching out to stroke her knee gently under the table.
“No,” she said, folding her final hand, and she realized as she said the word that she wasn’t nervous at all. She was excited, desperately wet, and ready to get started. “Let me tell you how it’s going to be—”
They listened carefully to her precise instructions, and then they took their positions around her. Sam was in front, as he had to be, with his jeans splayed open, awaiting the first gentle lick of her tongue on his naked cock. He looked down at her in total awe, as she parted her full berry-glossed lips and let him in. And just as she surrounded Sam’s cock with her open mouth, Nelson lowered her panties and pressed his face against her pussy.
“Oh—” Julissa murmured, her mouth full of Sam. “Oh, yes.”
Blake didn’t jump in right away. He watched the action for several moments before wetting his fingers and tracing them around Julissa’s rear hole. He wanted her nice and wet before he plunged, and he wanted a signal from her that this was really what she needed.
Nelson continued to suckle on her clit, and Julissa, bent forward, had her mouth so full of Sam’s cock that she couldn’t talk at all. But she waggled her lovely ass a little, left and then right, to let Blake know that she was ready. He parted her cheeks wider and then pressed the head of his cock at her asshole. He waited a moment, and then slid in a little bit deeper. Julissa moaned ferociously around Sam’s cock, and Sam picked up the pace, sliding back and forth between her lips at a rapid rhythm. Julissa couldn’t get enough of him. She swallowed forcefully, and then reached forward to cradle his balls as she continued to work him. She was driven on by the pace of Nelson between her legs and Blake fucking her smoothly from behind. Being taken back there was as exciting as she’d dreamed of. The fact that Raymond had been denying it to her so long made the pleasure even greater.
The foursome were so self-contained that not one of them heard the knock on the private door, and none noticed the intrusion until they heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by, “What the fuck is going on back here!”
Then Blake looked over his shoulder, raised his eyebrows, and simply shrugged. He was too close to coming to stop at this point. Sam didn’t even bother with that much of a response, paying attention instead to the lovely Julissa, gently cradling her head as she sucked him to the root, swallowing every last drop. From his position, Nelson couldn’t really see Raymond very clearly, but he knew the man was there. Being watched had always thrilled Nelson, and he put one hand on his own bulging crotch as he continued to lick Julissa’s pulsing clit. He was going to come at the moment she did, and that made his entire body feel alive with impending ecstasy.
As for Julissa, when she glanced over at Raymond’s face, she felt a wave of satisfaction beat through her—in the back room of All The King’s Horses, and in the midst of All McQueen’s Men, it was obvious that this was one relationship that would never be put back together again.
But some stories are like that—for Julissa, it didn’t make her evening’s ending any less happy.
State of Grace
SOMMER MARSDEN
It’s a hell of a mindfuck. Wanting someone to come, but being terrified they will. Wanting to give someone pleasure, but being anxious of the outcome.
It’s also a hell of a mindfuck to not even be forty and be told you probably should abstain from sex. Follow that with being freshly married and madly in love.
Christopher handles it better than I do. He says he loves me no matter what. And that watching me have pleasure gives him pleasure. And that is where we are now… him lying across my legs, prying my thighs wide, mouth set to my pussy. Licking.
And every stroke of his tongue drives me higher. Every flicker of heated stimulation makes me clutch the bright red bedspread like it could save me from my pleasure. His fingers—long admired and loved—drive into me, thick and long, and I remember a day when I would have taken his hand and licked myself off his skin.
But now I have fear. I fear getting him too turned on, I fear him losing interest in me. I fear that he will orgasm and have another heart attack, I fear that I will never make him come again.
I have so many kinds of fear it tangles over me like an invisible black net that can never be cut.
“Come on, Grace, don’t go there, baby. Come for me.”
He’s in my head. Always has been. It’s both surreal and scary and brilliantly wonderful at the same time.
I toss my head, short black hair licking at cheekbones. A swatch of it covers my eyes and I enjoy the dimness for a second.
“Don’t worry your way through this.”
Thrust-curl-stroke. His fingers know me. I get one inch closer.
“Enjoy it. Come for me. Let me see you, Grace.”
Thrust-curl-stroke. He sets his mouth back to me and sucks me gently so that all of my pussy is affected by the motion. It’s unbearably sweet, that suction, and I gasp, arch up under him, feel—by accident, really—the hard erection under my right toe.
Once upon a time I would have made him lie down. I would have taken him in my mouth and sucked his cock until he damn near sobbed. I would have pushed him flat and lowered myself onto him, watching my cunt take every inch of him and then I would have rocked us to a place where we were just entwined fingers and clutching hands and seeking mouths. And then it would be bright white pleasure for an undetermined amount of time and then… time would stop.
Not now. Not now.
“Don’t, Gracie.”
My eyes are leaking little shame tears and the guilt is crushing down on me so that I can’t breathe.
I come almost begrudgingly. Thankful for his love of me, his skill, his fingers and his mouth. Hurt by my lack of ability to give him the same. My helpless gut-wrenching powerless state.
And then it’s sobbing and him holding me. My body giving small reminders of my selfishness with small internal jumps of pleasure. Tiny after-spasms that won’t let me forget…
“Don’t.”
My head in his lap, his hands in my hair. I can feel his cock under my ear and I whisper, “Do you think?”
“Too much. Maybe next time. I can feel this broken ticker racing as it is.” He laughs softly and there is a moment of irrational anger at him instead of compassion. “But we need to talk.”
My stomach bottoms out. I sit up so fast white spots blossom in my vision. “Are you leaving me?”
He cocks his head, my Christopher, with his reddish brown hair and his ocean blue eyes and stubble that still makes me want to jump him, fuck him, wring pleasure out of him so I can listen to the rasp of that stubble on our coffee brown sheets as he turns his head in the moment of orgasm.
“Of course not. Not taking away.” He shakes his head, traces my nipple with the tip of his finger. His fingers smell like me. “I want to add.”
“Add?”
“I want to bring a guy in. For you.”
“For me?” I feel like the most confused and anxious myna bird in history.
“To fuck you. Baby, we both know it. You need more. You need penetration.”
Penetration.
And though I feel like a total shit when I do it, I shiver and sigh. But he doesn’t care. Christopher simply strokes my hair and says, “That okay with you?”
I can’t find my voice—I just nod.
His name is Simon and he just lost his wife last year. He’s taller than Christopher, broader and more muscular. Where my husband is lean and wiry, this man is bulky.
“Hi, Grace.” He almost seems shy and that makes me feel shy. He goes to shake my hand, thinks better of it, laughs at himself and kisses my cheek.
“Thanks for hearing me out,” my husband says. He looks happy.
It is starkly terrifying. The whole situation. But as anxious as I am that I will somehow hurt instead of please, Christopher—I want it. I feel the dull achy thud of genuine arousal in my pelvis. The needy flex and pound of my cunt and my nipples actually hurt they’re so hard.
I pull back, assess him, take a deep breath—in that moment of calm I like the vibe I get off Simon. I like his open smile, his dark-dark eyes, his generous mouth.
“Hi.” I realize I haven’t said it.
“You know, a state of grace refers to someone who is under divine influence,” Simon says softly, popping the button on his jeans. I’m mesmerized. Both by his words and his ease.
Christopher drops into the arm chair at the foot of the bed. I stay standing. I’m not sure what to do with my body. I feel like I’m about to laugh or scream—I fear I might open my mouth and do both.
“I’m not religious,” I blurt out and Christopher chuckles softly.
I amuse him for the most part.
“Religion is what you make of it,” Simon says. “And I’m not either. When I lost Missy I decided that—to me at least—the only real religion is love.”
I blush and look away.
“And your husband loves you,” Simon says. “More than I bet you realize.”
“So drop the guilt, Gracie,” Christopher chimes in.
“What is this, a tag team?” I sigh but I feel a steady build of blood and excitement and need coursing through me. My skin is too small, too hot, too sensitive. And all I want is someone’s hands on me.
“That’s the plan,” Christopher says.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Oh, I’m not giving you over. He’s fucking you,” he nods to his friend. A man he met at work, plays ball with, goes out for the occasional beer with. I’ve heard the name, the news of his loss, but had never met him until now.
“And you…”
“Will be doing what I love to do.”
Going down on me.
They will be…so close. I will be… in the middle. A strangled little noise comes out of me and they both smile as if sharing a joke. It is both endearing and annoying given the current situation.
“Get naked, Gracie,” my husband says. “Show this good man that I didn’t exaggerate your beauty.”
I blush yet again—fast and fierce—but then I drop my leggings and my oversized tunic. I am barefoot and bare beneath my clothes and trust me on this, only so bold because the man I love more than life is in the room with me.
Simon trails a finger down my spine and my skin erupts in a sandpaper peppering of goose bumps. A small surge of fluid escapes my pussy and I can feel my heartbeat—violent and steady—in my clitoris. “She’s gorgeous.” Then to me, “Sorry, Grace, you’re gorgeous.”
I shift nervously. Feeling so far beyond naked I forget what naked feels like. But I like it.
“Touch her,” Christopher says. The sentiment is so odd and unexpected that I thrill at it before those new hands—stranger’s hands—ever come in contact with my skin. And then they do and it is so overwhelming for a moment my eyelids slam shut.
“Lower, now,” Christopher says and Simon presses himself to the back of me, wrapping his big thick arms around my middle. He splays huge, hot hands on my hipbones for a moment, long enough for my blood to leap and my heart to stagger, and then he pushes his hands down over my mound, finding my clit with one fingertip. He presses and I whimper.
“Good, she’s excited,” Christopher chuckles.
Simon’s cock is riding the split of my ass and he gives a dry laugh. “She’s not the only one.”
“What does she smell like to you?” my husband asks.
I freeze. My new lover presses his nose to my throat, my hair and inhales long and slow. “She smells like fruit and… leather.”
Christopher smiles and I say, “What the hell?”
“Just curious. To me you smell like lilacs and sunshine.”
Christopher is the one to rise and push me back. He drops to his knees between my legs and pushes his mouth to me, sucking and licking until my hips slam up to meet his mouth. I know he’s hard. I know he’s turned on, but I also know what an orgasm could do to him. Let alone the stresses of sex—
“Let it go, Grace,” he says against the fragile skin of my inner thigh.
In my head again. Reading me. Knowing me.
I blow out a long watery breath and try to let my worries go with it.
A single seeking digit forces into me and Christopher says, “You’re ready. Nice and wet and ready. Get up on your knees, Grace.”
As surreal and bizarre and dreamlike as it is, I obey. Rolling to my belly, getting on my knees, waiting, head down, hair shielding my face.
There is a slap of latex and the scent of it too. It seems to fill the small room and Christopher kisses my lips, shushing me. The smell of me on his mouth is such a turn on I flex my back, shiver.
And then there is Simon. New to me, just on the scene, Simon. His hands dance along my sides, my flanks. He palms my ass and smoothes his hands over my skin as if admiring me with his touch instead of his eyes. “Gorgeous.”
He presses a finger into my cunt and I bite my lip and try not to make a sound. I am terrified of offending my husband.
“Stop,” Christopher says, reading my face. “I love you more than anything. If you don’t enjoy it, I have failed. I don’t like to fail, do I baby?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Then enjoy it.”
One more kiss and he lies on his back, pushing under me, stacking his forearms so that he can rest his head back and still reach my pussy. He starts to lick me and I jump. His tongue is on me while another man’s hands are on me. The sensation is so foreign it startles me.
But then I relax. Force myself to slow my breathing. Force myself to not freak out. I absorb the wet flicks of Christopher’s tongue and push myself down just a touch lower so that he can get to more of me. I whisper, “Ready, steady, go…”
And Simon is smart enough to know that he should enter me now. And he does. Thrusting into me. Into me. He is so slippery and slick with arousal it is effortless and graceful, that first thrust of his.
Christopher sighs, heating my nether lips, the humidity of his breath washing over my clitoris. “I can see everything,” he says. So can I. I see the hump of his erection in his jeans and wish—even in that moment—more than anything, that I could take that hard-on and make him come. Make him happy. Give him what he still insists on giving me.
In various forms.
My eyes sting for a moment but then distraction sets in. Simon is bigger than Christopher. He curves differently too. And I am stuffed full of this stranger, his thick cock bumping and brushing bits of me that normally aren’t stimulated. It steals my breath and makes my face tingle. When Christopher adds to the fray by sucking my clit hard and then nibbling it, I clench my hands into fists. But it’s no use.
I come with a shaking, shuddering, embarrassing display of loud cries.
“I can see everything,” Christopher says again, his voice steeped in awe. One quick sweep of his palm over his erection is all he allows himself. And it thrills me to see him do even that.
Simon’s fingers are digging into my hips and he pushes into me so far I feel the bang of his balls on my ass. I try to picture what Christopher is seeing and feel my stomach dip with a thrill when I imagine it. He sees it all. Another man entering me—penetration and fucking and thrusting and…
“Tight again,” Simon says.
“Tell the nice man you’re usually good for two or three, Gracie,” my husband says.
I can’t help but snicker. “I am,” I say, feeling shy but okay with that.
Christopher sucks my clitoris hard and strokes the inside of my thighs with just his fingertips. The dual sensation—rough and gentle—sets me off and I come again. A small joyous burst of spasms that work me around Simon so hard he growls.
“One more for the lady,” Christopher says. He’s addressing Simon and my nipples spike at the realization. My arms tremble from holding myself up and the friction from Simon’s big cock is maddening in its goodness.
“I can do one more, but that’ll be it. You’re very tight, Grace.”
I gasp, captivated by the words rumbling out of him. How deep his voice is, how big his hands are, how different he feels.
“And very wet.”
I feel him nudge a finger into my pussy along with his cock and before I can wonder why, he’s withdrawing it and inserting it, slowly but insistently, into my ass.
“Oh, fuck,” I whimper.
Christopher’s hands are now hard and grasping on my thighs and Simon has me locked in place with his fingers on my hips. I seem to be swaying between thrusting and sucking, invasion and teasing, penetration and stimulation.
