The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes (38 page)

“Are you going to come, bro?”

Her voice was as clear as if we were in each other’s arms. Pauline did something astounding with that tongue piercing.

“Are you?”

CeeCee spoke directly to the vent, up to me, breaking the fourth wall. Izzy lapped whiskey from between her spread legs. Their pubes matched. For the hundredth time that week, I thought about waking from a nightmare that had become sexual in all the wrong ways. Pauline slurped and licked at my balls, humming happily.

Cecilie smiled and pushed Izzy’s face lower. I dealt appropriately with the spectacle of my sister frigging herself while her doppelganger ate her ass, which is to say that I yelled, pushed Pauline away, ran out of the room and stood hyperventilating on the landing with my dick still flapping out of my pants.

My three tormentors came out of the bathroom and from CeeCee’s bedroom next to it in uncanny synchronicity, each of them bearing a litre of whiskey. Pauline wore the quilt, too, but appeared to have abandoned the hot-water bottle. CeeCee spotted me, smiled and fell over. The other two caught her and her bottle, propped her up and advanced towards me.

“This has been a long time coming, Graham.” Izzy was slurring her words a little.

“Where did all this booze come from?”

“Our lawyers. Isn’t that sweet?” Cecilie staggered slightly, but the three of them kept coming. It was like a horror movie, or a porno, or the scariest elements of both combined. I could not move. I knew it was going to be sick, bad and wrong, but I could not budge.

Pauline reached me first, handed over the bottle and knelt before me.

CeeCee and Izzy dropped to the edge of the landing, watching us. Their hands were busy at each other’s cunt, but their eyes were fixed on the wet, slippery juncture of Pauline’s lips and my improbably stiff cock.

“Did you put Viagra in the whiskey or something, Pauly? How come he’s so hard?”

“Maybe he’s still into watching his sister.”

Izzy slipped a slick forefinger into CeeCee’s butt. I wondered if I would go blind immediately or during subsequent months of reliving this moment. There was something both performative and very genuine about the way they were together. I imagined they were an amazingly successful duo. I imagined that maybe they were so good at performing that they didn’t have to actually touch their clients. My wishful thinking isn’t any more hampered by realism than anyone else’s.

CeeCee licked her lips. “Are you going to save some of that for me, Graham?”

I struggled not to spit up a mouthful of impossibly good whiskey and wondered if I could drink myself into impotence before the unthinkable became more thinkable.

“This firewater, sis? No, you’ve got your own.”

“The cock, Graham. I want some. I want you to fuck me.”

Izzy and Pauline pulled their respective hands from various orifices and applauded. I gaped and sputtered. Pauline kept sucking.

“About time you asked clearly for that, honey. About time you got it, too.” Izzy was saying exactly the wrong thing. The world was not behaving. Dad would have blamed me.

CeeCee stood, wobbling, near the edge of the landing, precariously close to the edge of the last long flight of stairs down. All of a sudden I saw the drunken tragedy about to happen, pictured her losing balance and tumbling to her death down these same stairs. I pulled away from Pauline for the second time in one night, miraculously avoiding being maimed by all those pretty, perfect teeth. I stepped forwards too late, saw the slow-motion collapse begin, and threw myself across the landing to intercept CeeCee’s fall. Even in the haze of my rush to catch my sister I noticed the calm of Izzy’s placement, carefully bracing herself against the banister, poised. Even as I tripped on my own ankle-bound trousers, I noticed Pauline snapping into place on the other side of the landing, also braced and waiting. Almost as if they had rehearsed it . . .

I fell atop Cecilia, saw her head expertly caught and pillowed in Izzy’s lap, and only knew for sure I’d been bamboozled when Pauline landed heavily on my back, sandwiching me on the landing atop my naked, squirming sister.

“Watch it!”

Izzy slapped the falling urn out of the air just above my head, dashing it against the stairs above us. Grey powder and slivers of ceramic spattered us all. CeeCee gasped, looked horrified, and dabbed a splinter from her bleeding cheek.

“Oh shit.” She sounded suddenly, perfectly sober.

I spat my mother’s ashes into her face and started to laugh. “Get off me, Pauline. Now.”

There were little stinging punctures all up my neck, bleeding into the tux shirt. Ashes and spilled whiskey made a vile, bumpy mud that showed brown-grey on my jacket. I wondered how much it would cost to replace the whole bloody, crusty mess, and then I remembered the insanity of our meeting with Locke and Hannaford. One ruined tux was not going to send me to the poorhouse, one skanky sister wasn’t going to melt my brain and one mouthful of my mother was not going to ruin my night. I stood, pulled off the uncomfortable dress shoes, yanked off the red-streaked white bow tie, tore off the jacket and shirt and wiggled out of the trousers. Blood dripped from a cut in my forehead, pooling around my eye and dripping on CeeCee’s perfect knockers. She looked like an extra from an X-rated zombie film.

“Got a rubber, Pauly?” I might have had rubbers in the tux pants, but everything else was punctured by shards of ceramic, and it didn’t seem the right situation to risk holed condoms.

Cecilie pulled her knees up around her ears and looked at me. “This time, Graham . . . this first time I want skin on skin. Do it.” Gone was her uncertain slur. I had been duped by a master.

I knelt. I pressed the head of my cock against the delicious, sticky wetness of my sister’s pussy. I wondered if I could stay hard through this impossible, mad, stupid moment. Cecilie canted her hips up, reached down for my cock and pressed it against her asshole.

“Do it. Now. Before I change my mind.”

I did.

Sometimes ass-fucking feels like a scary struggle. Sometimes it feels like the smoothest, sweetest wrongness a guy could do to his gorgeous, plump-bummed, spread-wide-open little sister. This was one of the latter times. I pressed slow, steady. I realized midway through opening up her butt that I couldn’t really feel my own cock. I’d gone numb from excitement and feeling overwhelmed. We looked at each other, my sister and I, and we laughed as I pushed into her ass a little deeper. Pauline appeared with a pump jug of lube and applied it liberally. Those really were small hands. Most of Pauline’s left hand slid into CeeCee’s pussy and her eyes crossed. Izzy tapped gently at CeeCee’s clit, and the four of us began to build a rhythm.

Sensation returned to my cock as I relaxed. My cock sunk further into CeeCee as
she
relaxed. As I pushed in the last few inches, she made a noise I’ve never heard another human utter.

Izzy looked at me. “What was that?”

“Er . . . I hit bottom.”

“Hit it again! Three years of boffing this hottie and she’s never sounded like that. Give it to her! ”

I did, looking down at her skin distended around me. “Change your mind, yet, sis?”

Cecilie smiled beatifically. “Just stuff it in me, Graham. Like I’ve wanted you to since I knew what fucking was.”

“You’re kidding. You hated me.”

“Not really. Thought about this every night and watched you every day . . .”

I slid in again, slow, deep, slippery with lube into my sister’s impossible tightness. “Filthy, sneaky little voyeuristic princess. You know it was you I was thinking about. Still is. I can’t believe I never figured out that vent.”

“Who are you calling filthy, Graham? Fucking panty sniffer! Pervert. Fuck me, Graham. Just like that! ”

I watched Pauline’s hand push CeeCee open and open again, timed my own strokes to alternate. Izzy and I were breathing in tandem. She looked smug and euphoric. Izzy had set this scene up, I was sure of it, and I was grateful. In her expression, I think I saw how much she cared and how much she would risk for my sister. I tried not to feel competitive. I pushed in a little harder, and CeeCee’s breasts bounced with the impact. I wanted to be in her always. My perfect, pretty, sneering little sister had become this horny, warm, wet woman who wanted me. “I love you, Cecilie.”

CeeCee blinked. Ashes, blood and sweat mixed on our skin with fragments of ceramic. The effect was surreal. “I know, bro. I can feel it.”

I reached for somebody’s whiskey bottle, took a pull of it and got a mouthful of lukewarm tea.

“You didn’t need to set up all this elaborate game, but I’m glad you did. You both make pretty convincing drunken sluts.” I spat the tea into CeeCee’s face, grabbed her ankles and pushed in again. Hard. She squealed.

Izzy slapped a little more emphatically at my sister’s clit. “Are you going to come for us, honey? Come around your brother’s big, hard cock?”

“They both should.” Pauline stroked and tugged at my balls. I wasn’t in any hurry to orgasm, and I was feeling so full of liquor and beer that I probably couldn’t anyway. This time when I reached for a bottle it was pure whiskey. CeeCee clenched around me, wiggled her rear and leered. “Give it to me! Graham, you’re the brother everyone should have. I love you too.”

She laughed as she came, her asshole spasming around me and her face reddening. “Holy shit! Yes! Yes!”

Pauline’s guffaw joined in behind me. “You guys are amazing. I don’t believe you’re actually fucking.”

CeeCee held me close, made sure I didn’t pull out. “This is so fucking sick. It doesn’t get any nastier. Damn!”

For a moment, we both believed that was true. I relaxed, pushed in further and concentrated on releasing the valve that should be shut when one fucks. It took a moment, and then the floodgates opened. I breathed deep, looked into my sister’s eyes and waited for her to notice I was pissing up her ass.

The Queening Chair

Kate Dominic

One doesn’t have to be a queen to enjoy a queening chair. One does, however, need to have a retinue of lusty men available, ready and able to wear their tongues out on the queenly nether regions presented on the opened seat of the low stool beneath which each royal retainer will lie.

Max loves eating my pussy, but it will be a cold day in hell when he slides beneath a queening chair. We’re both hardcore dominants with no interest in seeking out non-existent submissive sides. Fortunately, by the time we met, we’d been in the BDSM scene long enough to have learned how to negotiate getting our sexual and emotional needs met. We go to BDSM play parties together, spend the evening topping other people in bondage and spanking scenes, then come home, compare notes, and fuck each other senseless.

Neither of us was comfortable with penetrative sex with others – at least, not yet. When I realized how much I really wanted to try a queening chair, though, he thought about it, then said even though a tongue sure as hell could penetrate – we both knew his did! – to him oral sex wasn’t the same as fucking sex. He bought me the queening chair, invited three trusted male submissive friends from our group over to entertain me, and went off to play poker with his non-kinky buddies.

When Max had gone, I took my time getting ready. I’d programmed my MP3 player with a selection of slow sexy songs, all sung by men with deep, rough voices. I shaved my pussy silky smooth. I piled my hair on my head in my favourite jewelled clip and slid into a deep, scented bubble bath. Then I leaned back on my bath pillow and let those crooning sandpapery voices glide over my skin while my pores opened.

It wasn’t long before my hands were sliding through the warm, slippery bubbles, stroking my breasts and my belly, moving down between my open thighs until I was so horny I couldn’t help wiggling my fingers into myself. With my thumb on my clit, my index finger in my pussy, and my middle finger up my ass, I masturbated until my skin was flushed and I was breathing hard. Finally, I was so close to coming I just lay there, my fingers motionless inside me, concentrating on the feel of the air moving in and out of my hypersensitized body as the bubbles popped around me.

However, I had no intention of coming before I was seated on my queenly chair. By the time I climbed out of the tub and wrapped myself in a thick thirsty towel, I was primed for an evening of talented male mouth performance.

I’d chosen a black leather bustier, short gold velvet skirt and thigh-high leather boots for the evening’s festivities. As I finished styling my hair, I could hear my submissives arriving downstairs, greeting each other as they disrobed and set up the living room per the detailed directions I’d sent them during the week. I had no doubt they’d be naked except for their cock rings by the time I made my entrance.

It’s so lovely playing with well-trained submissives. When I walked in the room, the queening chair was in the centre of the carpet – low to the floor, the well-oiled leather of the padded arms and back bar forming a C-shape around the opening in the middle. Below that opening, the cylindrical neck pillow hung from silver chains that gleamed in the firelight. I had no doubt it was already adjusted to position the mouths of my servants at exactly the right height to service me. Next to the chair was an antique end table, covered in a pristine white linen cloth. On it rested a glass of sparkling water in a crystal goblet, a just-opened box of Godiva chocolates, the TV remote, the latest issue of
Cosmopolitan
and my cell phone.

The only sound in the room was the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. I lifted my skirt just enough for it to clear the arms and back of the chair. Then I squatted down with my boots just outside the chair legs and adjusted myself until I was comfortable. It took me a minute. Although the chair supported my weight well, my knees were bent deeply. The position spread my pussy lips and my anal crack deliciously wide, though. I snapped my fingers, picked up my glass and the remote, and turned on the TV.

Those wonderful men had set the station on the Food Channel. A special on angel food was just beginning. I picked up a bonbon, biting into a juicy cherry truffle as the lusciously muscular and spectacularly hung Darin slid his head beneath my skirt. The women in our club considered him an Adonis, and he was a masochist to his core. He was usually naked in my presence – my submissive in many percussion scenes. I had never before allowed him access to my pussy.