Then switching, I moved under Carey’s ball sack and rubbed my tongue all around. He loved getting oral most of the three.
“God damn, yes. God damn, yes,” he muttered over and over.
Without a word, I stopped and stood. I put my hands on Jackson’s shoulders and jumped up on his cock. There was no need for condoms now, we had been faithful to each other for months. Kyle entered me from behind. While Jackson held me, the two of them fucked me. Carey reached down and rubbed my clit, while kissing me deeply with his tongue. I came on Jackson’s cock so many times I lost count.
“It’s time,” I whispered to Jackson. “You know what to do to me.”
We were experts at this now, so the next move was the swing. Jackson set me down and I got myself strapped in. I took Carey into my mouth. He loved to be sucked and I had gotten better at loosening my mouth muscles to accommodate his mammoth manhood. Kyle slid his erection into my pussy. It felt sooooo nice.
“Oh, yeah, like that! Fuck me Kyle!” I cooed. “Stick your cock in there! Do it!”
Jackson pressed into my tight little asshole. It opened for him like a blossom, his man shaft stretching my little hole. I could feel the head of his penis deep inside of me. Kyle and Jackson’s cocks pressed on my insides making the orgasms more intense.
“Oh, God, so tight!” he said, sliding in. “I love to fuck your ass!”
“Fuck my ass, Jackson! Fuck it! Fuck all my tight little holes!’
“Oh, baby! Oh, baby!” said Carey in delight.
We were getting a good rhythm going. Carey reached down and started flicking my clit as Kyle fucked me. I started cumming almost immediately. His big, manly fingers knew just where to touch me!
“Uhn! Uhn!” I moaned, vibrating in the sex swing. “Fuck me, you dirty boys! Fuck me!”
I was shuddering, but suspended up in the swing that was all I could do. I couldn’t fall, couldn’t collapse on anyone--- The fucking just continued even as I came and came and came! Water was now pooling beneath us. It had ran out of my pussy and all down Kyle’s cock and legs. He pulled out for a second and I squirted on him.
“Uhn!” I squealed. “Yes! Oh, God! Pull my hair!”
Jackson obliged while plunging in and out of me with reckless abandon. My asshole was being ravaged by his strong, hard dick. It made me cum so hard. I didn’t want it to stop, but I had an idea.
“Wait,” I said, almost out of breath. “I want to try something.”
Jackson grunted as he pulled out of my ass.
“What is it, baby?” he asked. “Anything for you.”
“I want you and Kyle in my pussy at the same time while Carey’s in my ass,” I requested. “I want to feel two of you in my pussy.”
“You down?” asked Jackson of Kyle.
“Yeah, why not?”
It took a minute to reposition everyone. Kyle slid into the top of my pussy, while Jackson slid into the bottom. The fullness of their erect cocks made me gasp.
“Oh, God! Yes!” I squealed. “Both of you fuck me!”
The boys obliged and I felt like I was being pumped like a piston. One went in, while the other pulled back. In between there was a moment when both were equally inside of me and I was so full! The tighter fit made me feel their hearts beating. Their cocks were throbbing, pumping blood and pumping me!
Corey was slowly entering my ass from behind. I could feel his giant cock push apart my ass cheeks. I braced myself for the next bit.
“You ready, baby?” he asked.
“Yes!” I screamed. “Stick it in me! Stick it in my ass! Fill me up!”
His massive cock stretched my tight little asshole again and I screamed in ecstasy. I further enhanced the experienced by rubbing my clit and opening my legs as wide as I could. I needed my men to have as much open access to my pussy and ass as possible. I was reeling from all the orgasms. They came in waves, one after another. I didn’t know which cock I was feeling when.
“Ooh! O-oh! O-oh!” was all I could manage to gasp.
“God damn! God damn!” said Carey, increasing speed as he fucked my ass. “Oh, Lexi, your tight ass! I love this tight ass!”
My ass and pussy muscles had never been stretched so far. At times, they seized as I had an orgasm. This made the sensation even hotter, so I’d seize again. It was like one big spiral of pleasure. My eyes rolled back into my head, I was gasping to breathe, and I lost all control. Again and again I came and came, shaking and shuddering. It was as if I had put my entire body and soul into the hands of these men and they knew just how to pleasure me. I trusted them utterly.
“I want you to cum!” I demanded. “Cum inside me at the same time! Cum in my ass and pussy! Oh, yes! Please!”
Then, all three exploded inside me. Cum filled my ass and pussy. The hot jism made me quiver even more and deep inside. The guys howled in pleasure and I could feel the massive gobs of gooey sperm running out of my holes as the boys came. I shuddered in the swing for several minutes. The orgasms were earth shattering!
“Ah, fuck! Fuck!” said Jackson cumming.
“Uh! Uh!” Kyle grunted.
“Oh, yeah! Fuck!” strained Carey.
Carey staggered back a few steps and his cock slipped out. I could feel is cum spray on my back, while the rest ran out of my asshole and onto the balcony floor. Kyle pulled out, but I grabbed and pulled him toward me. I sucked the last bit of cum out of his dick.
“Mmm, so good,” I moaned.
Jackson staggered back a few steps too. He flopped down on one of the lounge chairs, exhausted. A stream of jism shot out of his dick as he did so. He was still having minor orgasms as well.
“Holy shit, that was amazing,” he said out of breath. “How does it keep getting better? Six months and it feels so amazing. Even more amazing.”
“I know,” I said, still shuddering from the experience. “Mmm, oh, God. Give me a minute. Oh!”
When it was finally over, spent and exhausted, we retired to Carey’s room. We laid down together and went to sleep.
“I’ve never been this happy,” said Carey. “Seriously.”
“Yeah, me too,” added Jackson. “Except, the only thing that would make me happier is if we could take a special, private trip back to the zoo and let out our animalistic side all together.”
“How could that even happen?” I asked, laughing.
“Oh, I have my ways to make things happen,” Jackson answered.
“I believe you,” I told him, seriously.
Kyle smiled and just nodded.
“I’m happy to have you all,” I said sweetly.
This was my life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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Chapter 1 - Brandon
Tijeras, New Mexico. The East Mountains. February/ Winter.
Never in my life did I think I would ever agree with those Eastern monks. You know, the ones who say that if you’re looking for a spiritual practice — your place in the world — it can happen when you’re chopping wood and carrying water?
Doing the simple things can be very meaningful. The small things. The important, needful things.
Like what I’m doing right here, right now. Chopping firewood right outside my cabin. It serves an important purpose. The warmth and comfort are the tangible results of its final product – a fire – but the act of chopping the wood to make it also serves as my time to think. My time to reflect on who I am, w
hat I’ve done, and what I’d like to do and be in the future.
You see, I wasn’t always a mountain man, like most people would probably see me as now. If I ever wandered into the heart of Albuquerque from my little mountain sanctuary, they’d think me one of those wild types. Secluded, real down-to-earth and all that, but I used to be the exact opposite.
When I served in the Navy, served my country as a SEAL, I was all over the place. I was where all the action was, whether it was already popped off, or ready to go. I was there, giving my all. Sacrificing not just my time — but also potentially my body and my life — so that other people could remain free. So that other men and women didn’t have to be consumed in fire and flame.
But now I don’t need to be an action hero. I’d be happy just being a hometown hero type. Nice and quiet. Laid-back, but meaningful.
Just like the construction job I’m going to start in a week, I think, bringing down the axe another small piece of wood, splitting it fairly evenly. As evenly as I can manage, mostly using my stronger arm. The arm that hasn’t had the muscles fried in it from running up on the bad side of an explosive.
Not hard labor, but supervising. Guiding. Making sure the guys (or gals) give it their best with each job. Under these thoughts, I’ve cleared the pieces of wood I’ve split. Moved them into my “cut” pile. I take another good-sized log and line it up under the blade. I steady it the best I can with my non-chopping arm, before taking aim.
“And to make sure they don’t fuck it up,” I mutter, bringing the ax up and down on this new piece of wood. Unlike the last one, it doesn’t go clean through. The blade gets stuck halfway down, forcing me to wheedle it through. I jam it, with a little help from my number, less-functional hand and arm.
Not the most fun thing to do — too much jiggling and jarring on this side, and I feel like I have a small firestorm in my veins — but it’s gotta be done. This may be New Mexico, and therefore, a little warmer than most places in early February, but it still gets cold at night. Which is falling fast.
Out here for no more than an hour and a half or two, the light has already dimmed from late afternoon into dusk. The evening has arrived. Which means I only have probably another half hour of chopping time before I have to lug all this wood in.
I stand up from the stump I’ve been using as my chopping block, and take a breather. Not necessarily because I’m tired, but because I’ve just remembered I might need to chop some extra wood, for a little modification I need to make on my log cabin.
Part of the railing on the stairs up to the house is getting a little rickety. And I’ve just forgotten which part I thought was leaning too much. So, I’m looking at it now, trying to remember which part I lean into a lot every time I go up and down. It’s definitely on the side of the railing that is on my stronger side.
Figures. Here I use all my inheritance — the money Mom and Dad left me when they passed away — on Grandpa’s old log cabin, and it’s the railing that still needs attention! I chuckle, remembering how Granddad used to bitch about that. How he used to say the railings were ricketier and more unsteady than he was. And he was over 100.
Granddad was always fixing it. Dad told him he should just rip it out. Replace the whole damn porch and stairs, but Granddad wasn’t having it. And I understand why. All of us kids — great grandkids, grandkids and so on — we’ve all had our names up there. Carved into bits and pieces of the railing. Especially as boys, so of course Granddad wanted to keep that. And so did I. That’s why I tried to keep it, even with all the renovating I did.
But if I don’t fix it, I’m gonna end up biting it one of these days. And I can’t risk that happening — anything unexpected happening — right before I’m due to start my new job.
I sigh, looking at my woodpile for a suitable piece. Something I can split into a small, manageable part that can be sanded down and made into a railing. Or at least a piece of connective tissue.
I’ve just spotted the lucky winner from my firewood pile — a small, raggedy-looking piece of log — and lined it up a little off center, for just the perfect cut — when I see something even more urgent than the repairs needed on the railing.
Just through the trees, I’ve spotted a young woman sitting out there on the other side of my little screen of pine. Dressed as she is — in pale white or gray pants and a matching T-shirt — she looks like a ghost. At least she does to me.
Her dark, messy hair is windblown. Part of it seems to be an edgy style; the other part of it, my gut tells me, is the result of desperation. The frayed end of a rope.
My stomach dips, then knots. Though I can’t see the woman’s face, her posture tells me everything I need to know— she could be suicidal, not really “here.” It’s in the way her shoulders droop. Her back bends with the manner in which she hunches over the cliff there. The opening in the mountain range, almost waiting for the rock and wilderness to swallow her whole.
I drop my ax and run for the trees— or, more accurately, for her, on the other side of them. It might just be my eyes — the change in the evening light as it goes from dusk to night — but it looks like she’s wobbled forward, leaned closer to pitching herself over the edge, and I’m not gonna have that. Not while I’m around and can do something.
After all, there’s no such thing as an innocent bystander. Just a silent accomplice.
“Hey, young lady!” I shout, hoping to get some attention. Some response. “Don’t stay like that. You might fall, miss!”
Even at my semi-loud bark — the tone I used a lot when I wanted to get my fellow SEALs’ attention — the woman doesn’t respond. She just continues to face out toward the horizon, toward the drop off below, like she really is a ghost. Like she really isn’t here anymore.
When I get within arm’s reach, I think I see her starting to pitch forward again. And that’s when I make up my mind: whether she hears me or not, I’m going to let her know I see her. I’m going to snatch her from the precipice, before she does something she can’t take back.
I put my arm around her small, frail body and pull back.
And that’s when my ghost girl decides to come to life.
Chapter 2 - Juliet
From my daze — my willful and mindless descent into my inner world where there is nothing and no one to break my heart — I’m suddenly yanked back. Pulled away from my bleak interior. One that matches the steady, skeletal horizon. The foggy, impure light of the twilight amongst the trees. The darkened edges, tugging at my heart.
But those are nothing compared to the strong, capturing arm I feel wrapped around me and pulling me away from the cliff. Away from the edge. In that moment, all my instincts kick in. All the ones my dad taught me.
Sweetie, while I hope I’ll always be there to protect you, God knows I may not be. So, you’ll have to be able to protect yourself. Stand on your own two feet. This is a world run by men, sweetheart, and not all men are kind. Not all men are so service minded like myself. They will serve themselves and use and abuse you if you let them. Especially the lonely ones.
Now that someone is pulling me, I can’t help but think, It looks like one of these men you mentioned might’ve found me, Dad.
Despite the welling tears I can feel starting in my eyes, I immediately struggle against him. Slam my elbow into whatever I can reach fastest — his chest or his stomach — and hope something lands. It does, but it doesn’t do anything, except make this stranger grab ahold of me even tighter.
“Hey, hey!” says my assailant, “I’m not trying to hurt you, miss. I was just asking whether you were okay.”
Despite his words, I’ve already been kicked off into my “zone.” My fight or flight mode, which Dad built into me, and which only makes me fight harder. I turn — twist — in his grasp, so I can land another hit on him. This time, I go for his arm. The thing gripping me.
I punch at it the way none of the girls I grew up with would have the strength — or the guts — to do. It’s hard. Fast. Merciless. “L
et me go. I’m fine!”
As I say this, I’m practically screaming. Following the wired feeling in every nerve, every muscle, preparing to go over the cliff with him if I have to. Though I wasn’t ever thinking of jumping, like he obviously thought I was.
I punch again, though this one sloppier. “If you don’t let go of me, I’ll bite you. I’m not kidding!”
The third time’s the charm. As I strike his arm again — channeling all my energy into his elbow/forearm area — he lets go, though I’m not sure whether it’s from any actual pain I’ve caused him (that arm looks big and bulky enough to rival an elephant’s trunk or leg), or because he wants to avoid an incident. Whether that incident would be me putting my teeth in him, or calling the cops, either one seems to be enough to scare this deep-woods creeper.
With him no longer holding me back, I turn the rest of the way, determined to get a good look at him. Mostly for ID purposes. Especially if he turns out to be anything but my Savior. More like my worst nightmare, maybe.
“I’m fine,” I say again, looking at every inch of him. His tall bulky frame. Arms and chest muscles so thick and toned, it’s obvious he doesn’t spend time with people. Social people don’t have muscles like that.
His dark, unruly hair strikes me as intimidating, but not immediately a threat. His eyes, looking like two polished pieces of obsidian in the light, are warm. They soften, like two burning coals under something he sees in me.
He is hot. I can’t deny it. His body looks like he spends hours every day in the gym, but it’s probably the result of chopping wood and moving rocks or something. His chest, which is peeking out through the opening in his unzipped winter coat, is chiseled. From what I can see of his arms under the jacket, they look muscular and strong, like he could just pick me up and throw me over his shoulder, even though I’m no dainty petite girl. I remind myself not to get distracted by his looks.
“You looked like you were about to take quite a dive there, miss.” His words are soft, though heavy. Edged with a sorrow I can’t quite place, and a history I don’t care to know. If he’s out like this in the woods, it can’t be good. “Didn’t want you to do something permanent in a world of temporary,” he whispers.
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