Linda Alvarez - The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

Francesca sighed and slowly rolled over on her stomach. She smiled back at Theo — an unexpected, surprising and perfect erotic gesture. She arched her back, her perfect ass high in the air. Theo slapped it lightly. Francesca wiggled. “Don’t be shy,” she said. Theo splayed both hands across Francesca’s ass, sliding his thumbs between her ass cheeks, before slapping her ass again, harder this time. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she encouraged. Theo alternated between smacking Francesca’s ass and massaging her backside with his fingers until her skin was bright red, and her thighs were quivering.

She looked at Theo over her shoulder and he paused long enough to kiss her, a crushing, sloppy, hungry kiss that forced me to look away. Francesca reached for him and he worked his cock inside her, my name sliding into another woman’s cunt one letter at a time. I could hear how wet she was. The bitch was enjoying this. So was I. I also entertained the idea of each of the letters of my name circulating through her bloodstream and wrapping themselves around her throat, constricting with each breath and moan until she went silent.

At first, Theo teased Francesca, filling her to the hilt, waiting, sliding all the way out, rubbing the tip of his cock along the curve of her pussy before filling her again. He turned to me again, smiling, tapped his heart and pointed to me. Francesca’s legs spread wider. She rocked back against my husband, urging him to stop playing games. “Fuck me,” she said harshly. Theo grabbed hold of her waist and shoved his cock forwards, deep and hard. They found a rhythm, the two of them, their bodies slapping together wetly, then coming apart, and back together again. Theo grabbed her hair and pulled Francesca’s head back, her neck muscles straining. He slid his tongue in her mouth, groaning, the sound, I imagined, echoing into her chest and waiting there. He fucked her harder, the sound of her desire growing slicker, looser, my name reaching further into her body. I sat perfectly still, my jaw aching. My teeth had been clenched for some time. They looked good together — his pale skin against her darker tones, his leanness where she was round, their thighs pressed together, the undulating of their bodies moving in time, their eyes closed, mouths open. I felt myself disappearing into the walls of our home, the rest of the world falling away. And I felt the painful and intense pleasure of watching something I was not supposed to see. I hated myself for it.

“You like this, don’t you?” Theo asked, punctuating each word with a slap on her ass. “You like it dirty.”

“God, I do.”

Francesca began moaning louder until she was practically shouting, her head and her long mane of black hair flying from side to side. She whispered, “I can’t believe I’m going to come.” She shrieked, once, and buried her head in a pillow, her body trembling. Theo kept fucking Francesca, steadily stroking her pussy with his cock. “I’m not stopping until I’m done,” he said, lifting her hips higher. He fucked her until he came, his ass clenching as he gave her one final thrust, so hard that she slid up the bed, her head bouncing against the headboard. He lay on top of her for an uncomfortably long time, then rolled off when Francesca pushed him away and jumped out of bed. The room was filled with an awkward silence. I finally allowed myself to breathe deeply and pulled my knees to my chest, hugging myself.

Francesca started collecting her clothes. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” she said. “But that was wonderful.”

Theo smiled, and wrapped a towel around his waist. Once Francesca had dressed and composed herself, he walked her to the door. When he returned to the bedroom, I had blown out all the candles and was standing near the window, watching Francesca drive away. I heard the snap of Theo removing his condom and the soft thud of it being tossed into the trashcan. I couldn’t look at him, afraid of what I might see there, not even when he wrapped his arms around me from behind nor when he whispered, “I love you.”

I reached back and squeezed his thigh. “I know.”

“Are you angry?” he asked.

I shook my head, swallowing hard.

“You sure?”

I took his hand and pulled it around my waist, sliding it beneath the waistband of my panties. He parted my pussy lips with two fingers. I hissed, my clit throbbing and jealous and angry. I felt my wetness slide around his fingers while he stroked my clit. “What does this tell you?” I asked.

Shanna Germain

I’ve had the pill for three weeks now. I keep it folded in an envelope in the nightstand next to my bed and, every evening, I take it out and hold it in my palm. It’s so small, almost too small considering what it could do, what it will do, and it’s a colour that’s not quite blue, not quite grey. Sometimes I only hold it for a moment before I let it fall from my palm back into the envelope. Other times, like tonight, on the eve of my fiftieth birthday, I hold it for a long time, reading the single letter on it over and over. Neither Raina nor Maddox know I have the pill. They would try to get me to give it up, and I can’t do that. Not to them. Not to me.

It’s too early for me to even have this pill — there are only small signs. Forgetting where I put the keys, or how to make my famous anise cookies. Only once have I forgotten how to get home, back to this place that I love, but that was enough for me to make the appointment. They say I’m overreacting, that there’s no way to make a diagnosis yet. Maybe. Maybe not. But I know they see it too. Already I’m forgetting. Not just recipes or directions or birthdays, but the things that really matter: how to strap on the harness that Raina likes so much, the way that Mad holds his balls up with one hand when I suck him, how I sound when I’m coming.

The forgetting runs in the women in my family like bad eyesight. My grandmother. Then my mom. At fifty, my mom didn’t just forget things, she forgot herself. She forgot her quiet sense of humour, her acceptance of people, her love of the men she called the Dylan Boys, meaning the poet and the musician. In the end, she swore and raged and pinched.

I’m still holding the pill when I hear Raina come in. I drop it back into the envelope and slide it quickly under the pillows.

Downstairs, Raina slicks off her raincoat and stamps her feet on the rug. “Ana? Anabel?”

“Up here,” I call. “In bed.”

Raina laughs, her big horse laugh that comes from her belly and booms through the house. Such a little person to make such a big sound. “Of course you are.”

It’s true. All I want to do lately is fuck. Fuck and be fucked and then, finally, lie in our big wide bed with Raina on one side, Mad on the other. It’s like my biological clock is ringing overtime, only it’s not for having kids. It’s for having orgasms, for having the taste of skin in my mouth, for the feeling of being filled once, twice, three times more.

I lean back against the pillow, listen to Raina’s stockinged feet pitter-patting up the stairs. The smell of fall enters the room before she does. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair is damp with rain. “Sleeping?” she asks.

“Not with that loud-ass laugh of yours booming through the house,” I say.

“Oh, I’m so sure,” she says. Her eyebrows go up — she’s caught sight of my new lingerie. A lacy bra that’s almost blue, almost grey. I ordered it online and forgot what colour it was until I put it on this afternoon. “Nice,” she says. “Birthday gift?”

“Do you like it?”

“Mmm. .” She sits on the side of the bed and rubs her hands together. Where I am dark and tall and thin, Raina is white and short, shaped like an alabaster violin. Her hair, now more salt than pepper, seems the same colour as her washed-out blue eyes, as her pale skin. She has on a soft orange skirt that I like — one that looks like fall — and I slip one hand beneath the hem, find the top edge of her thigh-highs. Beneath my fingertips, the band is raised in some kind of pattern I can’t make out.