Black Lace Quickies 3 (3 page)

He’s dead right: I want to join in. So I cross to them, whipping off my top half as I do so. Greedy and urgent, I scramble up onto the carpets and Uncle welcomes me by holding out a brawny arm. He opens his mouth and I fill it immediately with soft pink breast, pressing a hand to his crisp chest hair, my body pushing against the bulk of his belly. His tongue lashes my nipple and he delves under my sarong, searching eagerly for my hole. With a force that makes me gasp, he plugs my wetness with thick, crude fingers. Grinning up at me, he holds my nipple between his teeth and gently pulls on it, stretching my flesh. I hold his gaze, daring him to keep right on going.

For the first time, I notice how stunning his eyes are. They’re a hard amber brown, sparkling like topaz. But this is no time to be romanticising,
because
the guy’s moving us into position, my sarong and belt are off, and I’m utterly naked, poised above that prodigious cock, buttocks split in his big rough hands, cunt wide open. With heavy luxury, I sink down on him, groaning all the way until I’m stretched and stuffed to capacity.

Truly, it’s a beautiful moment, made more beautiful by the fact that beside me is Tom, being sucked off by the Boy. They’re both naked too, Tom with his knees apart, the Boy’s shorn head bobbing in his crotch, his pert little butt stuck up in the air. Sprawled against the carpets, Tom has an arm flung wide, eyes closed, mouth open. I’ve never seen him looking quite so dead. I wonder if his expression’s the same when I go down on him. My guess is not. All the same, I try and commit that face to memory, thinking maybe I can reproduce it some time in charcoal and pencil.

Tom must sense me looking because as I start to slide on Uncle’s cock, he reaches out with a blind hand to stroke my arse. In that tiny affectionate gesture, I feel such a connection with him, such warmth. And I feel free to fuck like there’s no tomorrow, knowing Tom and I are united, mutual support in mutual depravity; for richer, for poorer; for better, for worse.

Uncle clasps my hips, bouncing me up and down, and I’m as light as a doll in his hands. This man can do what he wants with me, I think. And I don’t mind if he does. It’s a while since I’ve been
overpowered
. The two of us mash and grind, silk hissing beneath me, sweat forming on my back where sunlight heats my skin.

‘Hey, brother,’ calls Uncle, addressing Tom, ‘does she like it in her ass? Huh? A big prick in her tiny little asshole?’

Tom’s too zonked to reply immediately. He just sprawls there, half-dead, before his head rolls sideways, eyes still closed. When he finally speaks, it sounds as if it’s costing him an enormous effort. ‘Probably,’ he croaks.

The Boy pulls away from him. Tom groans in despair.

‘Dirty little slut,’ says the Boy excitedly. His cock is ramrod stiff, its ruddy tip gleaming, and against his scrawny frame it looks grotesquely large. He springs off the carpets, takes a small copper can from near an Aladdin’s lamp, and pours thick clear liquid into the palm of his hand. ‘Uncle,’ he says, ‘you in her pussy, me in her ass. Bam, bam, bam. We fuck her hard, yes?’

Uncle laughs lightly.

‘No,’ I whisper. Then louder: ‘Yes. God, yes.’

The Boy leaps back onto the carpets, lubricating his cock with lamp oil. Tom groans again. I reach out, feeling sorry for him, and Uncle, gent that he is, shuffles us closer. I lean over to kiss Tom and he responds eagerly, our tongues lashing awkwardly as Uncle pounds into me. Sweat dribbles down my back into the crack of my buttocks and I feel the Boy’s greasy fingers press against my
arsehole
. He wriggles a finger past my entrance and I’m groaning into Tom’s mouth as the Boy opens me out, forcing the ring of my muscles wider, making me slick and ready.

‘Keep her still,’ urges the Boy, and Uncle obliges, his cock lodged high.

‘Lean over,’ orders the Boy and I obey. His knob nudges my arsehole and pushes into my resistance. I think I’m going to be too small for him, my other hole too full, and that it’s all going to hurt like hell. I make a feeble cry of protest.

‘Don’t pretend,’ snaps the Boy. He grasps my hips then there’s a flash of pain and, with a sudden slippery rush, he’s fully inside me, and I’m swamped by dark, fierce pleasure. Uncle calls out triumphantly. I feel I’m on the brink of collapse, the intensity of having both holes packed so solidly taking me to a place I didn’t know existed. I gasp into Tom’s mouth, quite beyond kisses now, as the two men start to drive into me. Bam, bam, bam, as the Boy said. I have to pull away from Tom. I need air. I need to groan and wail.

Beneath me, Uncle’s face is flushed with exertion. He spots me looking at him and he grins, meeting my eye with a deliberate gaze. There’s the weirdest kind of friction going on inside me, the two men jostling my body as they fuck. And then I know I’ve lost it. I know pleasure has reduced me to lunacy because I see something wild in Uncle’s eyes. His pupils contract and, for
a
moment, they are like the Boy’s: bright with black, slit pupils.

It’s the light, I tell myself, the light, the light. And I can’t bear to look. I flop forward onto Tom, seeking a kiss, wanting the reassurance of his mouth, his nose, his face. I’m close to coming and so is Tom because the Boy, gorgeous greedy creature, is sucking him off again. As the two cocks shove fast and hard inside me, I nudge my clit and then gasp into Tom’s mouth, our lips so hot, so wet and loose: ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ That sets him off and he groans and pants, his body twitching as he peaks. My orgasm rolls on and on, and Tom is still gasping into my mouth, still coming. It feels sublime, orgasm-without-end. Our lips slide and smear, and nothing else can touch us. It’s as if we’re melting into each other at every breath. And I am him and he is me, and we are all ecstasy, all delirium, all gone.

Sex, I think, will never be the same again.

We didn’t buy a carpet for the hallway that holiday. But sometimes it’s like that. You go out hoping to buy one thing and come home with something totally different. I’ve stopped drawing Tom in the middle of the night as well. I don’t feel the need any more. I don’t have that yearning to capture him. Because I have my Tom, I have him entirely, from now until the end of time. And if I ever start to doubt it, I just need to picture his face, glazed with rapture at the point of climax.
He
doesn’t know what he looks like. I don’t know what I look like either. People don’t, generally speaking, do they?

All I know is that he’ll never look at another woman like that; he’ll never be able to. Because when he comes, something shifts in his eyes. He rides the wave, annihilated with bliss, the two of us breathing so hard and so deep. And when he looks at me, his beautiful blue eyes have black, slit pupils. And I am him and he is me. And I know we are possessed.

Kristina Lloyd is the author of the Black Lace novels
Darker than Love
and
Asking for Trouble
. Her short stories have appeared in several Wicked Words collections.

The Game of Kings
Maya Hess

TESSA DROVE HER
sweating horse down the field for the final time that day and clipped the ball with her mallet, sending it at an acute angle into the goal. The handful of onlookers sent a few casual claps her way before ambling back to the clubhouse, most of the other players and spectators having already retired to the veranda for pre-dinner drinks and talk of the impending matches.

Tessa was the last player left on the field and, as she guided her horse back to the stable yard, she again noticed that strangely familiar figure leaning against the perimeter fence, one foot cocked on the railings, both hands gripping the top bar. Tessa knew he’d been watching her throughout the afternoon’s practice sessions. In fact, he hadn’t taken his eyes off her from the moment she’d arrived at the club earlier. She didn’t understand the man’s interest in her, especially as she was caked in sweat and dust. Tessa had an uncertain feeling that she knew him from somewhere and guessed that he recognised her too.

‘Last off the field. Does this mean that you’re dedicated or apprehensive about tomorrow’s
play?’
The man stepped away from the fence and positioned himself in front of Tessa’s exhausted horse. The creature threw back its head and snorted indignantly.

Tessa brought her leg across the rear of the saddle and slipped lightly off her mount. Mandarin-coloured dust erupted around her black leather boots. She raised her eyebrows, allowing herself a beat to study his face, to harvest any recollections about the man before she spoke.

‘Dedicated, of course. Apprehensive, never. My entire team is honed and ready.’ Tessa offered a terse smile but wasn’t sure why her voice hardened and her jaw clenched. She found herself tipping back her head and bringing her knees together in almost military style. She clicked her mouth and walked on, holding her horse’s bridle.

The man remained by her side. ‘Jack Wentworth,’ he said, again positioning himself in the horse’s path and this time sending it into a series of frustrated whinnies.

Tessa patted its shoulder and gripped the bridle. His name was vaguely recognisable but Tessa’s impatience of the man’s rudeness outweighed her desire to know who he was. Doubtless she’d heard his name mentioned at another match. He was evidently a Polo player, dressed in jodhpurs and team shirt and cap.

‘I have to get Nitro back to the groom. He needs water and rest. Excuse me.’ Again, Tessa urged her horse on and headed across the arid yard to
the
stable block. Even though the sun was teetering on the horizon, the temperature was still in the high eighties and the humidity was unbearable – quite different to the tepid English summer she had left a couple of days earlier. Orange and gold fingers spread from the sunset and stretched over the distant hills, illuminating the far-away clouds like brightly coloured saris. Tessa was aware that the man was following her and, as she gave Nitro to the stable boy, she felt a hand in the small of her back steering her towards the clubhouse.

‘You look thirsty. Come and have a drink with me.’

Tessa was annoyed. She was exhausted, dirty and needed to collect her thoughts in readiness for tomorrow’s game but nevertheless allowed herself to be guided to the clubhouse veranda, driven simply by intrigue.

Seated at a table underneath a gently ticking fan, Tessa enjoyed the feeling of sweat evaporating from her face. She allowed her head to drop back on to the soft padding of the cane chair and let her eyes fall shut. All she could hear was the pounding of her horse’s feet through the dust and the thwack of mallet on ball in the day’s relentless heat. The practice sessions had gone well and she was sure that her all-female team would easily hold their own in the initial games of the tournament.

Jack Wentworth soon returned with two tall
gin
and tonics and unexpectedly seated himself directly next to Tessa on the small Colonial-style chair.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ He took a long draft of the icy drink and plucked out the chunk of lime. Jack was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, his upper body angled round to confront Tessa.

She stared hard at his sun-browned face and noticed his southern-hemisphere accent. She drew upon all her remaining resources to place him but simply couldn’t. The way his face broke into a series of laughter lines around his white teeth stirred something within Tessa but she finally convinced herself that she was merely responding to his fierce good looks. She shrugged and picked up her drink. ‘Sorry, I don’t.’ She didn’t want to flatter the stranger with too much interest and so gave more thought to sipping her drink and admiring the sunset.

Jaipur was certainly a stunning place and, as if he had read her mind, Jack Wentworth interrupted her thoughts. ‘Indian sunsets are like no other in the world.’ He gestured towards the west and the accumulating cirrus clouds hanging over the distant hills. ‘There’s a storm brewing. Tomorrow, maybe the day after.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Tessa said, thankful for the change in conversation. ‘I’ve heard that the –’

‘Melbourne 2001. Our team won, yours lost. We got the prize.’ Jack Wentworth’s clipped tone
coupled
with the look of absolute triumph and smugness he now wore as he sipped his gin and tonic shattered any feelings of tranquillity or enjoyment the sunset held for Tessa. The man was clearly trying to suppress his laughter.

‘Melbourne … prize?’ Tessa stammered. How could she ever forget
that
match? Simply the worst game of Polo her team had ever played; totally and utterly the most humiliating three days of her life. After leading her team to defeat on the field during the mixed-team match, she then had to lead three of her best players to the beds of the opposition. Having made the bet with the cocky, self-assured captain of the all-male over-35s team, it would have been dishonourable not to keep to their side of the bargain.

Tessa wasn’t sure if it was shame or an involuntary reaction to the memory that caused her top lip to curl into a smile as she sipped her gin. The memories filtered back like the gathering clouds on the horizon. She recalled agreeing to such outlandish sexual frolics because she hadn’t known any of the men in the room and had convinced herself and her teammates that they would never encounter any of them ever again. It was an anonymous orgy – a sweating mass of nameless bodies hungry for their prize and never to be seen again. But here he was, Jack Wentworth, veteran Polo player, veteran gambler and, if it was truly him four years ago in that hotel room, then expert lover too.

‘I barely remember it,’ she said, almost choking on her drink.

As if sent by the gods, an Indian boy interrupted the pair with a tray of fresh drinks and a dish of spiced nuts. Tessa took a large mouthful of her drink and closed her eyes for a second. Suddenly, she felt something fiddling with the top of her breast and recoiled, sloshing gin and tonic on her jodhpurs.

‘A mosquito was about to crawl down your shirt.’ Jack held up the insect and burst it between his finger and thumb.

‘Gosh, you’re brave,’ Tessa said, reaching for a handful of nuts.