Triad

by Selena Kitt

  “Stef…” The warning in Ben’s voice was clear.

  “It’s okay.” Her eyes were on Evan.

  Ben was thrusting deep, grunting as he came, and Evan watched his wife’s beautiful climax, her face twisted into an expression that could have been mistaken for pain out of context.

  Her hands pulled the covers, her back arched, and she shuddered against Ben. Evan could hear her whispering, “Oh, oh, oh,” over and over as she came. And still she never stopped looking at him. He knew she was coming for him—with him—somehow. When he looked down, he saw that his hand was gripping in vain at his own crotch, as if he could feel something there.

  “Jesus,” Ben whispered, sitting back on his heels.

  Stef let out a breath, stretching out on her belly on the bed and hugging a pillow. There were tears slipping down her cheeks as she mouthed, I love you, again to her husband.

  “Are you okay?” Ben touched her thigh, moving to stretch out beside her. He looked over her to Evan, his eyes a question. Evan nodded, wheeling his chair slowly over toward the bed.

  “Stef?” He stroked her hair.

  She leaned up to kiss him, and he tasted her tears.

  “I love you,” she whispered. Glancing back at Ben, she held her hand out to him, and he took it, looking dazed. She kissed his palm. “Life is so fucked up.”

  “It’s okay.” Evan wiped at her tears with his thumb. “I’ll be your superman, remember?”

  “You are my superman.” She smiled, shaking her head at him, her tears falling onto his hand. “Don’t you know that? You always were.”

  About Selena Kitt

  Selena Kitt is a bestselling and award-winning author of erotic fiction. She is one of the highest selling erotic writers in the business. With half a million ebooks sold in 2011 alone, she is the cream-at-the-top of erotica!

  Her writing embodies everything from the spicy to the scandalous, but watch out-this kitty also has sharp claws and her stories often include intriguing edges and twists that take readers to new, thought-provoking depths.

  When she’s not pawing away at her keyboard, Selena runs an innovative publishing company (www.excessica.com) and in her spare time, she devotes herself to her family—a husband and four children—and her growing organic garden. She loves bellydancing and photography. She also loves four poster beds, tattoos, voyeurism, blindfolds, velvet, baby oil, the smell of chewing gum and leather, and playing kitty cat.

  Her books EcoErotica (2009), The Real Mother Goose (2010) and Heidi and the Kaiser (2011) were all Epic Award Finalists. Her only gay male romance, Second Chance, won the Epic Award in Erotica in 2011. Her story, Connections, was one of the runners-up for the 2006 Rauxa Prize, given annually to an erotic short story of “exceptional literary quality,” out of over 1,000 nominees, where awards are judged by a select jury and all entries are read “blind” (without author’s name available.)

  She can be reached on her website at www.selenakitt.com

  PAINTED INTO A CORNER

  By Darcy Sweet

  Inara never would have made the bet if she hadn’t been so completely sure of winning.

  What a cliche, she thought to herself making her way up the white pebbled path to pay her forfeit. No doubt that was the first thought of every fool who lost a bet.

  Thinking back, she realized she’d let herself be spurred on by the crowd—that and her own foolish pride. It was so out of character for her, so why did she do it?

  Friday night at La Luna Bar, challenges flew thick and fast amongst the eclectic artistic crowd. No simple games of chance played here—no bets made on cards or pool. At La Luna money changed hands over Shakespeare quote offs, sketching contests, word jumbles and the fastest completion of the New York Times Crossword. Inara, while loving the frenzied betting, was more of a watcher than a joiner. She was happy to sit on the fringes and rarely, if ever, became involved in any of the games of forfeits and bets. It was Laney, her best friend, who issued the challenge on her behalf. Inara could have backed down, she could have said no, but foolish pride and greed made her agree.

  “Inara is the best! The best here,” Laney called out.

  Buzzed on two margaritas, Inara found herself nodding even though she had no idea what Laney was talking about.

  “Really?”

  In her alcohol fogged brain a little warning signal went off as Inara saw who was speaking—Sara Graeme.

  Sara was an amazing artist. She’d sold out two showings at the prestigious Latham Gallery and was rumored to be about to stage a third. She’d been asking Inara to pose for months. Inara had no objection to being an artist’s model. With her mix of Swedish and Korean genes, her exotic looks had attracted many an artistic eye. Inara thought she looked weird—eyes too far set apart, chin too pointy, nose too freckled and her mouth duck bill wide— but artists saw something in her odd mish mash of features. She’d posed several times before for both painters and photographers and was always happy to be paid scale, but there was something about Sara—a prickling feeling she felt whenever she was near—that kept her saying no.

  “If Inara’s the best then she wouldn’t mind a wee bit of a challenge would she?” Sara’s photographer husband Niall spoke, moving behind to cradle his wife against his broad chest. If Sara made her skin prickle, Niall made it smolder. Dark curly hair, classic black Irish looks—he had an aura of dangerous sensuality.

  Around them the cries of, “Challenge! Challenge!” started up.

  “She can. She’ll whip your butts!” Laney cried out over the crowd.

  “I can. I can what?” No longer just nodding, Inara wanted to know exactly what was going on.

  “Your friend here says you have the best photographic memory,” Sara said, nodding her head at Laney.

  “I’m pretty good,” Inara countered, feeling herself to be in pretty safe territory.

  “Would you be willing to wager on that?” Niall asked in the sing song tones of his luscious Irish brogue.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll go against you. Tell me what you want if you win,” Sara said, moving closer. Her long blonde hair brushed against Inara’s arm, shooting wildfire goose pimples across her skin.

  “If I win…Niall photographs my catalogue. For free.”

  Inara was a knitting designer. The last collection of woolen work she’d photographed herself. It had sold well online and with the money she’d made she was hoping to expand. Her photography, while passable, was not up to a professional standard. With professional presentation she was sure she could get the interest of major department stores. Niall’s quote for photographing her collection was sitting in a depressing pile with all the others she couldn’t afford. If she won this bet it would be worth thousands of dollars of free work. No way would he agree.

  Niall nodded and laughed. A reaction Inara hadn’t expected.

  “All right then, my pretty, what would we want in return?” Niall tilted his head to ask his wife.

  “Oh that’s easy. A no brainer. If I win then I get to paint her.”

  “Do you agree?” Niall asked.

  “Yes,” Inara said and the terms were set. The bar owner Michael Drury would choose the items. Fifteen items, thirty seconds viewing time. One minute to write the remembered items down.

  Her photographic memory was a party trick she’d brought out on many a drunken occasion—a trick that had never before failed. The heat of the bar, the press of Niall against her side, the noise and how very much she wanted to win all combined to seize her brain. When it came time for pen to hit paper Inara’s mind blanked at ten items. Around her the crowd chanted down the time.

  “Ten…nine...eight…seven…six…five...four…three…two...one!”

  It was pens down and Inara had lost—lost the unloseable bet.

  Now here she was, walking through the immaculate Japanese garden up to the front door of Sara and Niall’s brownstone.

  * * * *

  The studio was like the rest of the ho
use. High ceilings and white walls. It was a large room divided in two by painted Japanese screens. One side housed Sara’s easel and her paints and the other, large box lights and a multitude of other photographic equipment.

  When she was led through the door by Sara, Inara started towards the side with the easel. She looked back in surprise when Sara pulled on her arm and tugged her towards Niall's side of the room.

  “Umm…I thought you were going to paint me?”

  “I am.” Sara’s smile was enigmatic. A prickle of unease snaked down Inara’s spine. Sara’s hair was pulled into a high pony tail that sharpened her perfect Nordic features. High cheekbones were dusted with pink and her blonde lashes darkened, but other than that her skin was bare. Standing this close to her Inara could see that her skin was flawless peaches and cream unmarred by even a freckle.

  “Don’t you need me near the easel?”

  “You’re my easel, “Sara said, “I’m going to paint you.”

  “Paint me,” Inara repeated, sinking fast out of her depth.

  “She’s going to paint you and I’ll photograph you.”

  Inara jumped at the sound of Niall’s voice. She hadn’t expected him to be here and she hadn’t noticed him standing in the corner of the photography studio. She should have seen him. Dressed head to toe in black he stood out like a wraith against the stark white walls.

  “That’s not what I agreed to,” Inara said, backing away from Sara, her shoulders bumping against the Japanese paper screens.

  “I think you’ll find that you agreed to be painted. Didn’t she Sara?” Niall’s voice was hypnotically melodic.

  “She did Niall. She agreed that I could paint her.”

  “Okay. So maybe I said that, but there was nothing about him photographing me.”

  “That’s true my love,” Niall said, black curls shaking as he nodded.

  “Well then, if you don’t want to be photographed you’ll have to go…”

  Inara let out a sigh of relief and just when her pulse had almost returned to normal Sara finished her sentence,”…and come back the day of the showing. I’d hoped to show photographs of you, but I’d be just as happy to display your body on the night.”

  “Display me?”

  “Yes. Naked and painted.”

  “I like the idea my love. Imagine her on a pedestal. She could be your centerpiece.”

  Inara felt a flush of hot and cold fear rush across her skin. From head to toe. She was painted into a corner. She agreed to be painted now and photographed by Niall or she appear naked on the night of Sara’s next showing—in front of thousands of people and the media. She had no choice, other than to forfeit the bet and if she did that she could never show her face at La Luna again.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll be painted now and you can photograph me.”

  “I don’t know. I really like the idea of showing you on the night instead.”

  “No! Now! Please, now. Whatever you want. I’ll agree to whatever you want.”

  Sara came towards her, stalking like a predator. Inara could move no further back without toppling over the screens. Pressed against the paper screen Inara shuddered as Sara trailed a finger up her bare arm and across the collar bone showing through the thin straps of her tank. “Whatever I want Inara. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Whatever you want.”

  “Strip down for me.”

  Inara had expected this; knowing full well that Sara painted nudes, she’d come dressed for easy removal. She was bare underneath her top. The tank she wore had a shelf bra, not that with her little apple breasts she needed much support. For bottoms she’d chosen wide leg grey drawstring yoga pants. They pooled at her feet, slipping easily to the ground the moment she released the drawstring. Dressed only in brief, flesh-colored panties, she bent down and neatly folded her clothes. When she stood up, both Sara and Niall were watching her. Goose pimples shot across her skin and she fought the urge to cover her breasts. She was no nudity novice; she’d done this before. She wouldn’t cover herself like some naïve girl.

  “Panties down.”

  Inara tried not to let her disappointment show. She’d worn the flesh colored panties on purpose, hoping that she wouldn’t need to strip completely bare. She pulled the slip of fabric down over her legs. Not bending, but picking the panties up with her toes. She didn’t bother to fold them, just flicking them on top of her pile of clothes.

  “Come into the light.” Sara stood in the center of the room and beckoned her forward with a curl of her fingers. Heart pounding, Inara moved slowly to the middle of the photographic area. Niall was standing near the big box lights but had yet to turn them on. Fingers crossed there was enough natural light, Inara didn’t know if she had it in her to stand tall completely naked under such bright white light.

  Sara stalked around her in a circle. Pausing every couple of steps to murmur indistinct words. Finally she stopped in front of Inara with her hands on her hips. When she spoke she didn’t look at Inara, but directed her comments to Niall, “It’ll have to come off. Won’t it?”

  What would? What would have to come off? A cold rush of fear gripped Inara at her words.

  “Yes it definitely will,” Sara said as she moved forward and stroked her hand down the slight swell of Inara’s stomach. Only when her fingers dipped to run through Inara’s pubic hair did she understand Sara’s meaning.

  “Off? Take…it off?” Inara stuttered.

  “I recall you just saying Inara dear, that you’d do anything,” Niall said.

  “But..”

  “Anything,” Niall repeated, his voice dipping lower.

  Sara went down on her knees, her face close to Inara’s pubic mound. Inara squeezed her legs tight, clamping her thighs shut. “I have to shave it. I need it bare to paint it Inara darling,” she said as she stroked her fingers through the sparse hair. As a product of her Korean-Swedish heritage Inara’s pubic hair was fine and thin. She’d never before thought of even trimming it, let alone shaving it bare.

  “Niall, can you set up my paints while Inara and I go to the bathroom?”

  “Certainly my love.”

  * * * *

  The bathroom that led off the studio was stark—bare white walls and polished concrete floors. “No need making it fancy when it gets splattered with paint on a regular basis,” Sara explained as she followed through the open doorway.

  The sinks were battered double stainless steel tubs covered in paint drips. The shower was just a tap and a shower hose handle attached the corner wall. There wasn’t even a shower curtain. The floor sloped to a big drain in the center of the room. A stainless steel chair sat in the corner beside the shower hose handle. In the other corner was an old fashioned, off white toilet pedestal. It had a pull chain to flush.

  “I get really dirty painting,” Sara said as she led a naked Inara over to the chair in the shower corner. “Sit here and I’ll get you ready.”

  Inara sat on the cold metal chair. It felt like she was in a weird art film. How else could she have ended up naked in a concrete shower room waiting to be shaved? She embraced the out of body feeling, hoping that it would get her through this bizarre experience.

  Sara’s hands pressed down, cool on Inara’s thighs. “Scoot forward on the chair. Bring your bottom right to the edge.”

  She shifted forward and spread her legs. Squeezing her eyes shut tight Inara braced for intimate contact. She felt the puff of Sara’s breath on her inside thighs as she laughed. “Calm down Inara. It’s not going to be that bad. Who knows. You may even like it.”

  Inara opened her eyes and looked down at Sara. She was on her haunches nestled between Inara’s legs; her face close to the apex of Inara’s spread thighs. Her mouth tilted in a slight smile and even white teeth were biting her bottom lip—she was enjoying herself. Enjoying Inara’s stilted reaction to her touch. Inara forced herself to relax, letting her shoulders drop and her back slump into the chair. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—show smirking Sara her apprehen
sion.

  “Good honey, relax,” Sara said, coming up on her knees to spread Inara’s thighs open wider—so wide cool air hit the lips of her pussy. “I don’t think I’ll need to trim you back with the scissors. Your hair is so soft and fine the razor should do it easily.”

  Inara nodded, but she was unprepared for the feeling of Sara’s fingers spreading the shaving gel on her mound. Round and around she slicked the fragrant gel until it transformed into a thick layer of creamy foam. She wiped her hand on a damp washer and then brought the orange disposable razor up to the top of Inara’s pubic mound. “I’m going to stroke down first. Get off most of the hair and then I’ll go up, against the grain until you’re nice and smooth. Okay?”

  Feeling light headed, Inara nodded.

  The pressure of the razor was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. It scraped and massaged at the same time. In long slow strokes Sara worked her way down Inara’s mound, stopping every now and then to tap off the excess hair. She had a little jug of hot water in which she rinsed the razor. Every time she did it the razor returned hot on her skin. She liked the feeling and found herself spreading her legs and arching up into the movement.

  “Now I’m going to work up. Against the grain. I’m going to pull your skin tight.”

  Sara pressed the heel of her hand just above Inara’s clit and pulled the skin up. Inara bit back a gasp. The heavy sensation on the root of her clit was delicious. Each time she stroked the razor blade against the grain Sara pulled up on the skin. Her hand worked in a rolling movement. Her clit began to throb, ache with the need to be touched. After she’d finished with the top Sara’s hand moved down, her fingers pulling tight on the fleshy lips of her labia. Her thighs tightened, her ass clenched as she felt the slow build of a coming orgasm. When she masturbated she loved to pull on the lips of her pussy. She’d always done it and Sara fingers tugging at her pussy had her body craving release. It wasn’t enough, she wanted more. She wanted those long artistic fingers inside her.

  “I’ve finished,” Sara said as her fingers let go—leaving Inara aching to come. “You’re nice and smooth now. Feel.”