Menage

Black Lace novels are sexual fantasies.

In real life, make sure you
practise
safe sex.

First published in 1998 by Black Lace

Thames
Wharf

Copyright © Emma Holly 1998 Reprinted 2001

The right of Emma Holly to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Typeset by
SetSystems
Ltd, Saffron Walden, Essex Printed and bound by
Mackays
of Chatham plc

ISBN 0 352 33231 X

This EBOOK is not for sale!!!

On the night it began, I bounded up the stairs to my two-hundred-year-old colonial town house in the heart of
Philadelphia
. The shiny green shutters gleamed against the brick as if winking in welcome. Despite the tree-lined seclusion of Society Hill, the cacophony of rush hour sang in my ears. I loved this reminder of the city's vitality. My body hummed with its energy. My heart pounded, strong and free. My skin tingled in the brisk autumn air and under it all, like a fruit ripening for harvest, my cunt warmed at the thought of the half-read erotic novel waiting by my bed.

Masturbation first, I thought, then dinner, then TV, then to bed with my smutty book.

Back then nothing made me happier, or hornier, than a productive day at work - preferably a long one. Not only did it prove that, at thirty-three, I still had plenty of go in me, it proved I was as good a breadwinner as Tom - better, in fact, because I didn't have to be a lawyer to do it.

'First thing we do, let's get rid of all the lawyers.' Kicking off my Adidas, I tossed my keys on to the Queen Anne side table in the hall. My hair clip followed.

With a sigh of relief, I dug my fingers through my sheep-thick curls and massaged my scalp. Heaven. I flicked on the lights. Apart from its usual creaks and groans, the old house was quiet. My lodgers must be out cruising the bars on

A thrill ran through me as I imagined the picture they'd make: one dark, one fair, both gorgeous and young, both fairly reeking with erotic possibilities. The connection between Sean and Joe was palpable. I could almost smell the sex on them, like animals in heat. Could some of that heat be for me, I wondered, or would they keep it all to themselves?

Pondering that very question, I smoothed my black riding jacket over the swell of my breasts. I loved the way the black velvet hugged my generous curves before nipping in at my waist. Paired with a snug pair of
Levis
, I knew the jacket bordered on obvious, but I wasn't one to hide my figure - not when I worked so hard to stay in fighting trim.

In any case, having two scrumptious young studs in the house tended to make me clothes-conscious. And body-conscious, I thought, peering up the narrow spindle-banister stairs to make certain I was alone.

No shadows moved on the landing. No Robert Cray Band growled seductively through the hall. I'd never heard Robert Cray before Sean and Joe moved in, but once I had I was hooked. That man really knew how to sing about love. I could have eaten him up just listening.

My sex melted like butter at the thought. I loved giving head, which probably kept my marriage together longer than anything else. Seventeen year olds simply don't do that sort of thing well.

Smirking to myself, I took the stairs two at a time.

Maybe I'd slip into Joe's room and borrow the CD. He wouldn't mind. Despite Sean's attempts to make me -and Joe, for that matter - believe he was one hundred per cent boy's boy-toy, I knew Joe was sweet on me. Sean had an early accountancy class, so every morning Joe and I ate breakfast alone. Lately I'd been coming down in my embroidered silk kimono. How he blushed if I bumped his leg under the table or bent to drag the frying pan out of the cabinet.

Of course, my derriere is one of my best features. Power walking will do that.

Anyway, most days Joe finished breakfast with a boner too big to let him stand. There he'd sit, a napkin draping his humped-up dick, a prisoner of my erotic torment -and his own shyness. Sometimes I'd press a goodbye kiss to his clean-shaven cheek for the sheer pleasure of watching that napkin jump.

Joe made me enjoy being a woman again.

Reaching the landing, I saw he'd left his door open. I caught a whiff of soap and Armies, the purest aphrodisiac I knew. My palms tingled with excitement. I didn't intend to snoop, merely grab the music and go. Even so, my heart skipped at the prospect of having his private space all to myself. Who knew what I might stumble across?

As though it divined my thoughts, Joe's Phantom of the Opera poster glowered as I sauntered to the CD player. Robert Cray's Strong Persuader lay on top of the stack. Joe knew I liked the album, and knew I might wander in if he played it. I suspected he played it as often as he dared. I tossed the plastic case into the air, caught it neatly, then stopped in my tracks.

Joe's jockstrap hung from his bedpost. The white pouch sagged with the memory of its burden. I knew from our breakfast sessions that he was well-hung. Oh, yes, Joe was a six-foot, hard-as-a-board, twenty-three-year-old stud.

I fingered the sweat-dampened cotton. The mouth of my sex gave a little gasp and a trickle of warmth ran out.

This was too kinky. What the hell, though. Men liked women's lingerie. Why shouldn't I be aroused by a jockstrap? I brought the cotton to my nose and sniffed the combination of good clean sweat and young man's musk. Immediately, I felt an urge to keep the thing, to sleep with it under my pillow or press it between my thighs while I stroked myself to climax.

I told myself the urge was juvenile, not to mention thievish, but I shoved the underwear in my pocket and ignored my twinge of guilt. Worse, I continued my survey of his room. I touched the military crease at the bottom, of his mattress, evidence of Joe's self-disciplined nature. It was a young man's bed, narrow, the sort a man could carry from his parents' house because he couldn't afford to buy something bigger. That bed made me think of raging, unrequited hormones, of jacking off with his big brother's Playboy, or waking up to sticky sheets.

God, I was crazy to even consider messing around with someone that young.

Annoyed with myself for more reasons than I could name, I turned to gaze at my reflection in the small, square mirror on the back of his door. At five foot five, I could see myself from the neck up.

Trying to be both fair and honest, I faced a smooth-skinned woman with wide blue eyes and a mop of unruly auburn curls. My fitness walking, in addition to keeping my curves where they belonged, lent me a flattering outdoor blush. My lips were generous, softly pink, and my cheekbones owed a debt to some forgotten Scandinavian ancestor. All in all, my face appeared a good deal more open than I really was. People would never guess at my reserve from looking at me. Only when I smiled would the twinkle in my eyes lead anyone to suspect I harbored secrets.

My lips curved upward. In my opinion, that grin and the mischief in it were my best features. I shouldn't have let my sense of fun become a stranger to me. I'd been burnt by my divorce, it was true, but that was no excuse for failing to take advantage of the opportunity Fate had so kindly set in my path. Joe was twenty-three, an adult. If I had any nerve at all, I'd let him know - in no uncertain terms - that I was more than ready to play.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Losing my smile, I sighed and shut Joe's door behind me. The third floor called: my bedroom, my big grown-up bed, my two hundred pages of masturbation aid.

A sound halted me at the door to my room: a rhythmic rattle, like a blind flapping against the window - except the sound was too fast for that, too fast and getting faster.

'Slow down,' hissed a voice: Joe's voice. 'I think I heard someone.'

Another voice groaned something coaxing. The rattling slowed but did not stop.

My hand flattened over my pounding heart. Joe and Sean were fucking in my room. A wave of heat swept me from scalp to ankle - instant, intense arousal. I didn't even have time to take offence. Awash in cream, my clit beat a frantic tattoo against the seam of my jeans.

My knees gave way. My hand brushed the door. The latch clicked. The door swung open an inch. Wincing, I grabbed the frame for support.

I could see them through the gap in the door. Oh, could I see them. Both men were stark naked. Joe was bent forward at the waist, his arms propped straight on my footboard. His legs were straddled wide; every muscle in his thighs and calves stood out with tension. There was no mistaking what that tension was, either -Sean was sodomising him. The force of his thrusts made the bed rattle. His tight pink buttocks clenched as he forged in and out.

What a cute rump Sean had. I'd been so distracted by Joe's crush on me, I'd never noticed. Now I longed to kiss it, to bite it. My knuckles whitened on the door. With an effort, I forced myself to remain still.

Sean was shorter than Joe, but he looked at home on top. He caressed Joe's hair-shadowed torso with a handful of yellow silk. Its trailing edge brushed Joe's up thrust cock, which bobbed like a spring at the contact. Sean chuckled and repeated the tease.

Apparently, he enjoyed tormenting Joe as much as I did.

But what of it? Sean wasn't my concern. Joe was. I turned my attention to my favorite tormentee.

Sweat spiked Joe's straight dark hair. His face red, he grimaced - but not, I thought, with pain. As I watched, he arched his back and tipped his buttocks higher.

Accepting the offer of access, Sean gripped his shoulders and levered deeper. 'Gotta have it, don't you? Can't hardly go a day without it. Hell, if I did you every hour, you'd still want more.'

‘Fuck you,’ Joe responded, even as he pushed wholeheartedly into the next thrust.

Sean laughed. He nipped the apple of Joe's shoulder and rubbed his cheek across the smooth olive skin. The gesture made my insides turn over. I hadn't thought Sean capable of tenderness - or that his relationship with Joe was more than a power trip.

'Would she do this for you?' he asked. 'Would she lay you over the end of my bed and bugger you till you begged?'

She? I wondered. She as in me?

Joe choked out a laugh. "That would take some doing, considering her equipment.'

Sean laughed, too, and then I really felt like an intruder.

But it was my room! Taking a quick breath for courage, I shoved the door open. The lovers froze, mid-stroke.

'Shit,' said Sean.

'Oh, my God,' said Joe.

Young Joe's face was a canvas for his emotions. I read contrition in the compression of his lips, embarrassment in his flaming cheeks. 'Kate. We didn't expect you back so early.'

'I guess not,' I said.

At the dryness of my tone, he tried to disengage. Sean wouldn't have it. His muscular arms formed a vice around Joe's waist. With a short grunt, he slung himself deeper. Joe couldn't stifle a groan of pleasure.

That groan was all the impetus I needed to step inside.

Joe's head came up. His cognac-coloured eyes darkened. That's when I knew my lodgers were here, in my room, because the chance I might walk in lent a thrill to the proceedings. But I could live with that - considering the thrill they'd given me.

Hiding a smile, I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it over a chair. One pocket bulged with Joe's stolen jockstrap. What a bad girl I was, and getting badder by the minute. Beneath my apple-red turtleneck the tips of my breasts felt cold, as if they'd been capped in steel.