The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes (40 page)

“Is he doing right by you?” Max’s voice was back to normal – straightforward, possessive and determined to have me enjoy myself. “Lots of spit? Lots of foreplay?”

God, I loved that man. “Lots of spit and foreplay,” I panted. “It feels really good!”

Carlos’ tongue probed into the centre again. This time, though, I was too relaxed to tighten.

“He’s sticking his tongue . . . in my a-anus!” I moaned and dropped the phone. I could hear Max yelling, but what Carlos was doing felt too good for me to think about anything else. He was slowly working his tongue into me. I wasn’t tightening. Not really. But I was too stunned to do anything but sit there and enjoy the feel of his tongue pressing in.

Suddenly, Darin was next to me, picking up the phone.

“Beg pardon, sir. Mistress can’t talk right now. Yes, sir. She’s fine. Yes, she definitely appears to be enjoying herself.”

Enjoyment didn’t begin to describe what I was feeling. The tip of Carlos’ tongue was flat against me, then it pressed down and in. Hot flesh slipped between my anal lips. I groaned and thrust against him.

“Ma’am, sir says to bear down, like you’re having a BM. If it pleases you to do so, ma’am.”

I obeyed without thinking, bracing my feet against the floor. I gasped as Carlos’ tongue slid in deep. He kept it there, rooting around, slowly licking the sides of my anal ring. Getting me used to the feel of his hot wet tongue flesh fucking me. Fucking my ass.

“Beg pardon, sir. I know you didn’t say ‘if it pleases you to do so, ma’am’. But I have to say that, sir. I’m her submissive!”

I looked up to see Darin grinning at me, his eyes sparkling as he held the phone far enough away from his ear to keep from being deafened by the tirade of swearing issuing from it. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Give me that phone. No – hold it by my mouth.” Carlos was sucking the side of my ass lip. It felt so good I could hardly breathe.

“Dammit, Max! Stay the fuck out of this! If you want to listen, fine. But I don’t want to hear one more word out of your mouth unless it’s to say something that’s going to make me come harder!”

Darin covered his mouth, hiding his snicker. Richard was beside me as well, though his head was turned and he was wiping his lips. Carlos loosened his grip just enough to move up a bit. Then he was sucking on the next section of my anal lips. I bore down again, my groans getting louder as he took even more of me between his rhythmically pulling lips.

“Yes, sir.” Darin moved next to me, nodding as he dropped to his knees. “By your leave, ma’am, when you’re ready, your husband wants me to suck your nipple. And he wants Richard to finger your clit, so you get a really good come while you’re asshole’s being licked.” He held the phone out to me, but close to my mouth, rather than my ear. “And he wants to listen, ma’am. When you’re coming. He said if he can listen to you come while your asshole’s being licked, he’ll keep his big fucking mouth shut.”

Darin’s face was so close to the top of my bustier, I could feel his breath. But he didn’t move closer. Richard’s hand rested on the hem of my skirt, but he didn’t lift it. “If it pleases you, ma’am. Your husband would like to hear you scream when you come.”

Max was such an asshole. But I wouldn’t deny either one of us sharing my virgin analingus orgasm. I nodded and reached beneath myself, gripping the edges of the chair. Darin moved the phone right up next to my lips. With his other hand, he opened the top of my bustier. He lifted my breasts free, then bent his head to my nipple. He licked as my hem lifted. Richard’s fingers slid up my leg, dipping down in front, sliding on to my slick, swollen clit as Darin sucked my nipple into my mouth.

Carlos was licking in circles again, gentling my anus to relax, seducing it to open further.

“If it pleases you, ma’am.” Darin’s breath was hot on my wet, pebbled nipple. “Your husband suggests you bear down hard when Carlos really starts tongue-fucking your asshole. He says that’ll open you wide enough for him to get in really deep. He says it’ll let you come so hard you’ll see stars.” Carlos was probing again. Darin kissed, blowing softly just before he latched on again. “Your husband respectfully requests you come so hard your scream blows out the microphone on the fucking cell phone.”

My laugh came out somewhere between a moan and a cry as Carlos’ tongue once more pressed flat on my anal gate. This time, though, when he pressed in, I pressed out to meet him. His tongue slid in deep. Then it was out. And in. And out. I bore down hard, again, reaching for his tongue with my asshole as he once again slid in deep – and stayed. As I pressed against him, he licked the inner walls of my sphincter. Then he was tongue-fucking me again.

The pressure was starting deep in my belly. Darin’s talented lips on my nipple and Richard’s equally talented fingers working my clit were beyond exquisite. But the orgasm was starting deep in my asshole. Starting where Carlos was fucking my asshole with his tongue. As the splendour raced up through my body, I screamed, “Don’t stop! Please, don’t stop! PLEASE!”

I wailed as the orgasm tore through me. Darin’s lips were locked on my nipple, sucking hard as Richard’s hand kept up its relentless pace. And Carlos’ tongue – Carlos’ exquisite, perfect, angelic tongue – was buried deep in my asshole, wiggling but not pulling out as my spasming sphincter clamped down like a vice around him. Something hot and wet hit my leg. My asshole clenched so tight I was certain I’d push him out. But Carlos’ tongue stayed deep, letting me glory in the ecstasy of my first true anal orgasm. When he finally pulled back and kissed my quivering anus, I was still shaking so hard, I almost fell off the chair.

I looked down at the torso beneath me. This time, I wasn’t going to have to take my boots to the man beneath me. Carlos’ chest and belly and Richard’s arm and my leg were covered with glistening white puddles. A final line of semen dripped from the head of Carlos’ now only half-hard cock.

I lost track of how many times I came – and how many times they changed places. Eventually, I told Max I’d talk to him when he got home. I hung up and watched a chick flick he hated and ate more bonbons and drank my sparkling water and even some champagne Darin brought me from the kitchen. I called my girlfriends. There’s nothing in the world quite like sipping bubbly and watching movie stars with tight butts making slow tender love to their women – all while chatting up a play-by-play of the movie with my totally vanilla best friend from college. With each breath I took, an anonymous tongue beneath me worshipped my quivering pussy or my equally tingling anus.

Max got home shortly after I’d sent the others on their way. I fucked him so long and hard, I even wore him out – no mean feat for a man renowned for his stamina and horny beyond belief from listening to me come over the phone. He rolled me over on my tummy and slid his lube-slicked cock up my still hypersensitive ass. I screamed and came again, milking the juice from his cock as he grunted and growled and told me he loved me.

The next day, I was still so horny, I jumped his bones before he was even all the way awake. Max didn’t get the reputation he has in the pussy department by being a slouch. He took me out to dinner in a classy restaurant, we renegotiated our sexual agreements, and by the next Friday night, he’d arranged for his three now wildly enthusiastic friends to join us again at the house.

This time, it was definitely going to be “us”. Max still wasn’t going to climb beneath the queening chair. But he was going to feed me peeled grapes and tell me dirty stories and kiss me and suck my tits when I came. When he got too horny, he was going to jerk his dick, but he wasn’t going to let himself come until after everyone else had gone home. Then he was going to fuck me in every orifice I wanted. No matter how many times I’d already climaxed that evening, he was going to pleasure me enough to be sure I came at least one more time – with him.

Goldberg Variations

Lisabet Sarai

Harvey and Al stood in the chill drizzle beside the muddy grave.

“Damned inconsiderate of Richard, dropping dead without any warning,” Al commented.

“I’m sure that he didn’t do it deliberately. Certainly he would much rather have attended one of our funerals than vice versa,” observed Harvey.

“No doubt. He only cared about himself.”

“Well, to be fair, he put a lot of effort into the trio.”

“Right.
His
trio, he used to call it.”

“Whatever. It’s been our bread and butter for twenty-two years, so don’t knock it.”

“Sure, but what are we going to do now? There’s no work for a violin/viola duo.”

Harvey sighed. “Obviously, we’ve got to find another cello. I’ll put an ad in the
Times
next week. It shouldn’t be too difficult; there must be hundreds of starving musicians in New York.”

“Yeah, but can they play Bach? We don’t want someone whose repertoire is restricted to ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Endless Love’.”

Harvey had a pounding headache, and the rain was beginning to drip down underneath the collar of his topcoat. His brother’s negative attitude was all too familiar. “We’ll just have to see, Al. We’ve got a full schedule for the next few months. We’ll make do with what we can get.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the chauffeur, waiting under an umbrella beside the hired limo. “Let’s go. Everybody’s probably back at the house by now.”

The two-storey Brooklyn row house was packed with a boisterous, hungry crowd of relatives and friends. Harvey offered some obligatory greetings and accepted routine condolences. Finally, he managed to escape upstairs to the study.

It had been their father’s space, first, and then, since he had been the trio’s business manager, Richard’s. The walls were decorated with autographed pictures, their father shaking hands with Yehudi Menuhin and Pablo Casals. Then there were posters from some of their tours (“The Goldberg Trio, Live at Pittsburgh Symphony Hall”) and replica covers from their four recordings (
The Goldberg Trio Plays Classical Favourites
).

Dad would have been proud, mused Harvey. Wouldn’t he? It was hard to know.

On the bookshelf stood a picture of the three of them with Dad. It had been taken at Coney Island, not long after Al’s mother died. Everyone was trying valiantly to appear happy.

The three boys didn’t look much alike, but that was hardly surprising. Dad had divorced both Richard’s and Harvey’s mothers. Al’s mother, sweet, red-headed Emma, had been taken by cancer.

When Dad died of a heart attack only a few years afterwards, he left the row house to his three teenaged sons. The half-brothers had made it their home ever since.

Harvey realized Aunt Nelda was calling him. His father’s sister was frail but the years hadn’t diminished the piercing quality of her voice.

“Harvey? Where are you? Some of the guests are leaving, and Al seems to have disappeared. Harvey?”

Before he left the sanctuary of the office, he grabbed two aspirin from the bottle Richard kept in the desk. He chewed them without water, relishing the bitterness. Noticing Richard’s planning calendar in the drawer, he flipped through the pages to October. God, their next appearance was two weeks from tomorrow. A reception at the Mayor’s mansion, yet!

Harvey swallowed his panic and headed downstairs. Somehow it would work out. Things always worked out, one way or another.

Al was hiding out in the tool shed at back of the lot, smoking a joint. I’m some hip cat, he thought sourly, forty-nine years old and still getting high. When his rust-coloured hair had begun to thin, he had shaved it all off. Now he had the look of a bald scarecrow, long-limbed, skinny and awkward. Only when he tucked his violin under his chin and began to play did he achieve some kind of grace. Those were his happiest times, in fact, when he could lose himself in the music, in harmony for once with his brothers.

The rest of his life seemed empty and hollow, eaten away by envy, fouled with the nasty taste of decayed dreams. Richard had been the lucky one, the good-looking one, the one who had a solo career before the time of the trio. Richard had even had a lover, Al remembered, a pretty Barnard girl who used to come over and listen to him practise. Sherrie, Al dimly recalled.

What had happened to Sherrie? She had drifted away, it seemed, like all their hopes, leaving them marooned in this house full of ghosts, wandering through life as lonely and embittered as ghosts themselves.

The pot was making him maudlin. He dug a hole in the dirt floor with his toe and buried the roach. Now Richard was gone, a real ghost, leaving him and Harv behind. Al wasn’t sure whether he still envied Richard or not.

Harvey’s ad attracted a raft of responses. There was the jazz cellist who wanted to “broaden his horizons”, the spinster who had been teaching cello for forty years out of her home in Queens, the high-school kid who bragged about being “first cello” in the school orchestra. Harvey sighed as he reviewed the alternatives.

After all, the Goldberg Trio had a reputation. The
Times
’ Art and Culture columnist had speculated in Richard’s obituary on the future of “one of the city’s most persistent musical institutions”. Harvey had fumed briefly, then shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to waste his energy on some catty member of the press.

The latest response, though, was intriguing. It had a formality of tone that reminded him of an Edith Wharton novel.

Dear Mr Goldberg,

I am writing in response to your advertisement of October 9 in the
New York Times
, seeking an experienced cellist to join your chamber music ensemble.

I would be honoured if you would consider engaging me for this position. Currently I am employed on the faculty of the Berklee College of Music in Boston. However, I have become quite frustrated with teaching, and had been seriously considering a return to performing even before I saw your advertisement.

I have attached a copy of my CV. If you are interested in auditioning me, would it be possible for you to come to Boston? I have a very heavy schedule during the next week, but after that I can disengage myself more easily. On a longer-term basis, I have no objection whatsoever to relocating to New York.