Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

Not good, this, she told herself. Onto her or not, what was happening was bound to leave him depleted or, if not depleted, then unavailable to her for another week-most of which he would undoubtedly use recovering, if the marathon fuckathon was to run its course.

But there was nothing she could do about it, any of it.

She had to stick with the program-especially now.

The time to walk out, dignity intact, future obscurity assured, was before she in fact walked the other way.

Useless now, stupid and harmful, it would be, were she to decide, mid-stream, that she had had enough.

So that yes, she had no choice but to let the two men fuck themselves to death, with her as mutual fuckee.

What would they do next? she wondered.

Repetition? Maybe. But surely a mind as fertile as Armand’s could come up with something more interesting.

At least, she told herself, among the’ three of them, hers was the least demanding task.

All she had to do, really, was to ride out the storm.

What would Armand think of her?

Again, that made no difference, not any more.

What’s done is done and can’t be undone-one of Armand’s favorite sayings, and certainly never more true than in her case.

So she simply made the best of it, letting go in her mind; allowing the triple stimulation to take its course, letting herself drift, letting herself be carried along up the rainbow by the bumpy, grinding ride, by the distension and distortion of her innards.

As the two big cocks went about their work, which was of neither pleasure nor procreation, but of competition, of manly, male, macho oneupmanship, the issue hot and heavy and very much-undecided at this point.

And it was actually quite easy for Jessica, in the event.

She had merely to let it happen, and happen it did, fore and aft-and within herself as well.

Because she came when they did, vaginal convulsions and anal twinges adding to the exquisite pleasure of the moment.

And fore and aft, they repeated the pumping out ceremony, their generous jism oozing, being squeezed out of both her nether orifices.

And this time, after the last spasm of their shared climax bad passed through them all, they lay there, collapsed in a heap, the two turgid intruders slowly detumescing within her, Armand’s dropping out of her pussy, then Steve’s becoming sufficiently flaccid that the peristaltic action of Jessica’s bowels expelled him, turd-like.

And he dragged himself up off her, did Steve, did the mighty Mister Galaxy.

And he was slow to get up off the bed.

So that Jessica rolled off Armand on the opposite side, going to get up, but Armand reached out a hand, stopping her.

“Better idea,” he said.

And Steve, who had been on his way to the bathroom, stopped, turned, looked at him, expectant.

Armand lay on the bed, eyes closed, pronouncing, “Way it works is that the first one of us up gets to fuck Jessica. Second man has to clean ‘er up the hard way before he fucks her.

“Naturally, any time you wanna concede-”

“In your ear, old man!” Steve says, grinning. “And you are on, pal! “Lookin’ forward to havin’ you clean ‘er up before your pathetic attempt at round three.”

SO that Jessica lay there on the bed, double load oozing slowly out of her, whatever had been left inside her, and onto the sheet beneath her, trying not to think about what would happen after she got fucked by one or the other the third time.

Too revolting to think about, that, she told herself; and yet, think about it she did, wanting it to be Steve.

SO that Armand would be humiliated, therefore vulnerable, malleable, with her controlling him with a combination of contempt and sympathy, stick and carrot to get him to “do” her, to portray her a hundred times over, as he did with the nonentity Irene.

The men were In the bathroom, side by side, washing off their pricks, draped Into the basin of the sink.

She did it to herself this time, she told herself; she is off In unfamiliar territory, off on a tangent in the wonderful world of macho bullshit.

What the hell did these guys have to prove, either of them, for heaven’s sake? she asked herself, truly mystified.

The one a wealthy, famous and successful painter, the other Mister Galaxy, the living symbol of manhood itself, according to Armand, according, probably, to Steve himself, and here they are, enmeshed in some sophomoric fucking contest.

Who the fuck needs this? she asked herself, but she knew the answer only too well.

She did, did and does.

Because what else has she got going for herself?

An indifferent talent, academically gifted, of wealthy parentage, she could no doubt land some so-so job in an ad agency when she gets her master’s.

Which relates to fame and fortune how?

Which only relates to a relatively well paying position of reasonable responsibility and business suits, to be worn every day except for holidays, weekends-those she wasn’t traveling and didn’t have to work-and vacations.’

While some nothing, some know nothing bitch from out of the gutter gets ten big ones an hour or’ whatever, her face on the cover of the fashion magazines, over and over again, her face and body on the Inside, in both articles and ads, appearances on talk shows, welcomed In the best social circles-forget it, okay?

No way. No way does she take a hike on Armand Fortuna.

Because it’s simply ‘norworth it.

They came back out of the bathroom, the men, the over-grown boys.

They got on the bed on either side of her, each helping himself to a breast, the plan being, obviously, to inspire themselves using her to the point that they could raise a hard on, staking their claim In the prescribed manner and, upon successful completion of the mission, vacating the target area for sanitary operations courtesy of the Loser, who would then have the choice of either mounting up or surrendering.

In the event, Armand managed to raise an erection first, a thing Jessica could have predicted, this being a case of mind over matter.

So that Armand lucked her as Steve looked on morosely.

At this point, Armand was working away, the action more mechanical than enthusiastic.

Nevertheless, he acquitted himself well, popping his nuts, coming again and again before pulling out, Jessica remaining in position afterward, legs raised and spread, bent at the knees.

To her amazement, Jessica saw Steve, now at the ready, however belatedly, getting onto the bed.

“First things first,” Armand reminded him.

And sure enough, there was Steve, right down on her, his tongue probing her cream-filled depths, eating her pussy thoroughly as Armand watched, grinning.

And only after he had well and truly cleaned her out did Steve mount Jessica, riding her up, up, up the ladder of his sexual pleasure until he too climaxed, his motion as well become a dispassionate, determined horizontal dance.

He pulled out as Armand came out of the bathroom and, to the amazement of both Steve and Jessica, Armand practically dove onto the bed, onto her snatch, eating her as though they were alone and he just beginning his evening.

He ate her and with her Steve’s sauce, and him with a beard and moustache!

And whatever the imagery of his mind might have been, it worked; because he was up and he was hard as he mounted her.

And he rode her, a triumphal gallop of the hips, pistoning in and out of her, riding higher and higher, until he came.

“Your turn,” he told Steve.

And Steve could only shake his head and say, “You win, old buddy.”

He wins? Jessica asked herself. Just what is it that he won?

She saw no prize, no trophy, nor did they have a monetary bet going.

And yet, Armand’s triumph was an unmistakable fact.