Linda Alvarez - The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

He wheeled around the couch and shot towards Brent so quickly that my breath leaped into my throat. For a terrified heartbeat, I wasn’t sure if he was planning on forcing the other man on me, or if he was one fraction of a second away from beating him within an inch of his life.

Brent must have seen the savage uncertainty in Richard’s movements too, because he didn’t wait to be asked again. He climbed on to me, straddled my waist, and guided his semi-soft cock so the tip pressed against my folds.

It was too soon after the last orgasm for him to take me like the wild stallion my husband wanted him to be. Brent gripped his prick and stroked it with long, hard jerks. The delicate skin of his shaft turned an angry shade of red, but his dick obeyed, growing long and hard on demand.

With a satisfied smirk, he positioned himself right where he needed to be and gave a brief thrust. My labia parted and he filled me in one smooth glide. The fullness of his cock shocked me into realizing how easily I’d given in and how good it felt to spread my legs for someone other than the man I’d married.

“No!” I lashed out, slapped Brent’s chest and shoved at those firm muscles with all the strength I didn’t know I possessed. I was like a wild beast, fighting the man on top of me, despite the fact that his cock felt like heaven, despite knowing this was just what I wanted. What I needed.

Brent drew back, startled, but didn’t pull out of me.

“Don’t listen to her,” Richard urged, his imposing presence no less menacing than it had been earlier. “Give it to her good. Harder. Faster … Yes, like that. Do it!”

Brent pinned me down. His hands locked around my wrists and he held me immobile while his cock pushed in and out of me. My climax built with each thrust, coiling in my cunt like a ball of fiery bliss waiting to explode.

I looked past Brent and met my husband’s eyes. His gaze filled with lust, and so much torment I marvelled that he could hold it all in. His lower lip trembled and his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes I’d fallen in love with all those years ago, filled with tears.

“No!” I screamed, a long, piercing howl that drowned out the sound of my pummelling heartbeat. I struggled beneath Brent, but every writhing motion brought me closer and closer to release.

“N-not him,” I managed to grind out. “Y-y-you. Always … you. Only … you.”

We stopped then, all three of us, as though suspended in time and space, caught in a web shaped by every lousy choice we’d ever made. Whatever our faults — lust, frigidness, greed — they’d brought us here, to this moment.

Brent’s cock slipped out of me. My pussy ached with frustration and my clit begged to be touched, but I couldn’t move.

“Y o u ’re a lucky man,” Brent said. I realized with a start that those were the first words he’d spoken to either of us since the elevator.

I wasn’t sure Richard would come to me then. That he wanted me, I had no doubt. But all the history standing between us might as well be a wall of barbed wire waiting to claw at his skin.

Through a film of tears, I saw him move. It was only a fraction of a step towards the couch, but he’d taken it, and the relief that filled my body nearly made me sob. I rose, too, and met him halfway.

He fell on top of me with a grunt, and soon we were both fumbling with his clothes. I’m not sure whether I managed to get his cock out of his pants or he did it himself, but I recall the exact moment he claimed my body as his own.

And for as long as I live, I’ll remember the triumphant scream that broke loose from his throat as he came inside me.

Richard buried his head in my shoulder. His tears ran down my skin and pooled in the valley between my breasts. I held him, not saying a word, while my own tears fell silently and ruined the leather beneath my head.

By the time we got up an eternity later, Brent’s clothes were gone. So was he.

Curiosity gnawed at me, so I called up the elevator. It opened with its customary ding. My panties had disappeared.

I have no way of knowing who took them, of course, but I like to think Brent wanted a souvenir. He never did get his ten grand.

For the last two years, Richard and I have worked at loving one another. Some days are more of a struggle than others. Trust takes time to rebuild when it’s been shattered so completely, but we’ve kept at it.

The endless nights spent in each other’s arms make the occasional shouting match worthwhile. At least we’re talking, and that’s a hell of an improvement.

All this time, I’ve been certain that one day Brent would turn up in our elevator, demanding his money. Every morning, I rifle through the mail looking for a letter from him. There hasn’t been an email or a call, either. It’s as though Brent never existed.

Richard went looking for him once, a couple of months after our threesome, convinced he had to hold up his end of the bargain. The manager of Antoine’s told him Brent never returned to work after leaving with us that night. A thousand dollars later, Richard had Brent’s last known address scribbled on the inside of a matchbook.

He found the place quickly enough. It was a one-room apartment in a rundown brownstone on the edge of Brooklyn Heights. A for rent sign hung in the window.

The landlord said Brent came by one morning and cleared out his stuff. He’d left the cash he owed for last month’s rent, along with a note … something about tracking down the teenage girl he’d knocked up before fleeing the middle of nowhere, Arkansas, to seek fame and fortune in the big city.

I thought about hiring a private investigator to track Brent down. It shouldn’t be difficult, since we know his full name and his home state. Even if he doesn’t want the ten grand, I’m willing to bet the mother of his child feels differently.

I assured Richard I wouldn’t tell her how Brent earned the cash, but he refused. I think perhaps he’s worried I have more devious things in mind than repaying an old debt.

He couldn’t be more wrong. I don’t want to fuck the man.

I want to thank him.

Cheyenne Blue

“What if I wanted to visit Paris?” Peta began. “Would you come with me?”

Our favourite game. I rolled over and rested my head on my folded arms. Peta was also on her stomach, chewing on a grass stalk, the sunlight gilding her hair to a soft gold.

“Depends,” I said. “Would we fly or sail?”

“Sail,” she replied without hesitation. “On an ocean-going yacht, just you and me, and a discreet crew to actually make the thing go. Champagne and sunsets at sea-”

“Motion sickness and stinky pump toilets-”

“Waves lapping on the hull, dolphins leaping at the prow.”

“I don’t think there are dolphins in the Atlantic,” I said, “but OK so far. Where would we stay when we got to Paris?”

“In a garret in the artists’ quarter. Up seven flights of creaky wooden stairs. We’d have baguettes with unsalted butter and cherry jam for breakfast, and strong, thick coffee, and we’d wander the boulevards hand in hand buying cheese.”

“Would this garret have hot water?”

“Sometimes. Other times it would be clanking pipes and a tepid dribble.”

“Not so keen on that,” I said. “So who would do the cooking?”

“Moi!” Peta showed one of her few French words.

I rolled on to my side and let my hand trace her sinewy arm. She looked damn hot in the white singlet, her tanned biceps displayed to perfection, and a hint of brown nipple through the clinging white top. “You win,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”

She grinned and rolled on to her back, her arm over her eyes to keep out the sun. “So I get another go?”