Linda Alvarez - The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

“What’s your name, son?” Richard asked, pocketing his wallet.

“Brent.”

Richard crooked his finger, beckoning Brent closer. The boy dropped to a crouch and leaned forwards, eyebrows raised in interest.

“Do you like women, Brent?”

The waiter’s smile faltered a little. Suspicion replaced the delight that had lit his eyes just moments earlier. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll get right to the point, then. How much do you make working here? Eight bucks an hour?”

“Nine fifty, sir.”

“Nine fifty … That’s not bad, Brent, not bad.”

Richard paused and looked over at me. My stomach tightened. Without tearing his gaze from mine, he said, in that same bland voice I was beginning to hate, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to sleep with my wife.”

Looking back, I can’t help but think it should have taken more convincing. More theatrics, maybe. I’d expected Brent to be shocked, and he was, but the surprise wore off quickly, the lure of cash dislodging any misgivings he might have had.

We didn’t even have to wait until Brent’s shift ended. He faked some sort of fast-acting illness and followed us out to the car, while the restaurant manager scowled and shouted orders to the other waiters to pick up the slack.

The drive home is a blur, fragmented by flashes of memory: Richard’s big hands cradling the smooth leather of the steering wheel; the minty scent of Brent’s breath from the back seat; New York’s city lights bouncing off the tinted windows of our BMW as we zoomed through Manhattan towards our loft. And my silk covered legs, crossing of their own accord, pressing down on the throbbing pressure building at the apex of my thighs.

The security guard in the lobby, a big black man whose uniform jacket was at least two sizes too small for his substantial muscles, nodded at Richard as the three of us whirled through the revolving doors. His gaze flicked over Brent, but he was too well trained to let his curiosity show.

While we stood in front of the bank of elevators waiting for the one that would take us to the penthouse, I leaned into Richard and whispered, “All right, you’ve made your point. Send the boy home.”

The only answer he gave me was a narrow, cryptic tilt of the lips and, as the elevator doors split open with a ding, a chill crept through my veins. He’d given me no reason to think he was bluffing, but I knew him. Richard coloured within the lines. He followed a set of rules that would make the morality police proud. Even when he cheated on me, I’m sure he did it missionary style and used a condom. Good Catholic boys everywhere would have been proud.

But this … this was different. For both of us.

Brent stepped into the elevator after Richard. When I hesitated, Richard grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me inside just before the doors closed in my face. His rough handling knocked me off balance, and I stumbled on my high heels, pitching forwards. I fell against Brent, who steadied me with a gentle hand.

“Whoa, careful, ma’am.”

I cringed and backed away until there was nowhere else to go. “Call me Dana, please.”

My spine pressed against the mirrored surface of one wall. Twin images of Richard and Brent stared back from the two mirrors in front and to the right of me.

“Be a good girl, Dana, and hike up your skirt,” Richard said. “Show us that pretty pussy you hide so well.”

My mouth went dry. If I wanted out of this game, now was the time to do it. I could refuse. If Richard insisted, I could hurl myself at the row of elevator buttons and slam my hand against the big red alarm. The burly security guard would come running to my rescue.

Truth be told, I considered it … for about two seconds. But the growing thrill of this indecent act filled me with a sense of anticipation. I caught the sides of my floor-length silk skirt and fisted my palms into the fabric before tugging it up … and up … and up.

The men’s gazes followed the line of flesh I revealed. A jolt of awareness flashed through me. I was in charge here. This night, this game, would go nowhere if I chose to end it. I set the pace. I had full control.

I breathed in sharply and my lungs filled with a heady rush of power. I could smell my own arousal, a musky aroma that seeped through the wetness that plastered my panties to my skin. I pulled my skirt up to my waist and revealed my underwear — a plain black cotton number that covered more of me than it displayed.

A spark of disappointment flashed in Brent’s eyes, but Richard’s gaze darkened. The bulge tenting his black suit pants made my pulse speed. I found it difficult to believe that he still wanted me despite the lack of a killer black dress, despite the middle-aged body shaped more by chocolate sundaes than by hours at the gym, despite these horrid panties that hadn’t belonged to my grandmother, but could have.

Still, I’d be a fool to ignore the growing evidence. Was it Brent’s presence that turned him on? Or could it really have been the sight of me, the knowledge that only that strip of fabric kept him from feasting his eyes upon my cunt?

I hooked my fingertips into the waistband of my panties and yanked them down around my upper thighs. I bared my mound of dark curls, my pink, protruding labia, the pool of moisture slicking the crotch of my underwear. They could see it all.

Emboldened, I used my index and middle fingers to part the folds of my sex. I exposed everything I had, held myself open, and trembled while I waited for one of them to do something.

Before either man moved, the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival at the penthouse floor. Richard punched in the key code, and the doors slid open into our living room.

Brent stepped out first. I made to follow him, but Richard held out his arm, stopping me. “Take off your underwear. That’s right … good girl. All the way off.”

I obeyed, still hoisting my skirt around my waist. I wobbled on my heels as I lifted one leg, then the other, and soon had the panties down.

“Leave them,” Richard said when I moved to pick them up. “Leave them right there. I want the world to know what a filthy, horny wife I have.”

I stared at the fabric that so clearly betrayed my wantonness. The panties had bunched on one side, but the crotch area lay uncreased, and the slick smear of my cream glistened shamelessly from the cotton strip.

The old Dana, the one who’d spent years waiting for one last excuse to leave, would have picked up the underwear and thrown them at Richard’s head before packing her bags and calling her lawyer. Or calling her lawyer and having him pack her bags.

I, however, did none of those things. Something had changed in that elevator. I wasn’t yet certain it was a positive change, only that I wasn’t willing to walk away until we’d played this game through to its conclusion.

Confusion made my head swim. Anxiety blended with arousal to form a miasma of uncertainty and apprehension. Yet despite the chaotic turmoil of emotions stirring inside me, I understood that no matter what happened tonight, my marriage would never be the same. And that frightened me more than anything.

More than being at the mercy of two men. More than fucking a stranger while my husband watched. More than letting down my guard and trusting them — trusting Richard — to bring me back to reality unharmed.

“Well?” Richard asked when I showed no sign of stepping over the threshold. “Are you coming in?”

I stepped inside and the metal doors whooshed closed behind me, sealing me inside a softly lit room as familiar to me as those panties I’d left behind. My heels made a tapping sound on the hardwood floor that echoed off the rose-coloured walls. I’d painted them a light fluorescent pink in an act of sheer rebellion. To my frustration, Richard claimed to like the colour. I hated it.