Tate's Tale

by Lilith Darville

I match her and raise her one. “We’re in Bardo, thank the gods very much. Heaven sounds a lot more formal. Rules and all that, you know.”

  “Bahahaha.” She leans down, and our tongues dance for several minutes until we pull apart, panting again.

  “Enough.” Chuckling with delight, I lift her off my hips and plop her ass on the arm of the recliner. A large wet circle covers the lap of very wrinkled pants. “Look what you’ve done.” She stands and does a lockstep out of her kickers.

  “Why are you wearing those ridiculous things?” I asked.

  “Pfft. They must have been the fashion during Francis’s formative sexual years. I suspect he outfitted my closet,” she says before stripping them off and throwing them at my head.

  I take them, twist them like I used to twist our tea towels at home, and smack her ass, giggling as we tumble over each other in our race for the shower.

  We spend a few minutes in silent enjoyment, rinsing away all signs of our debauchery. Then I pull Tate into a large terry towel as we step out onto the heated floor.

  “Were you unhappy with me?” Tate asks. Despite my euphoric state, I hear the note of insecurity in her voice.

  I look down into very serious multi-colored eyes and frown. “What are you talking about?” Then it hits me—Caleb’s questions must be making her question her sexuality and our sex life. “I love life with you. You know that.”

  She looks up at me, her face a study in earnestness. “You can tell me if I didn’t satisfy you. I can take it.”

  “Tate, I know you were put on the spot a lot today, but . . . wait—is this about the sex toy?”

  “Kind of.”

  I’m shaking my head before the words are out of her mouth. “Sprite, that wasn’t a thing for me. That was for you, for us. I bought it in Seattle. I was going to surprise you with it on one of our date nights, but then I got sick. We both knew going into that diagnosis that sex would be out of the question for a while, possibly forever.” I tip her chin up when she bows her head. “So, I hoped you’d use it for your own pleasure. That’s all it was about.”

  “Are you sure, Bob?” she asks, but I hear the note of hope in her voice. “Because you can tell me if I wasn’t giving you what you needed.” She squares her shoulders, and her girls as she calls them bounce, calling for my attention. I keep my eyes glued on Tate’s face.

  “All I need is you, that’s all I ever needed. But just to ease your mind, I didn’t know anything about my kink side until I got here. That’s part of the orientation process, helping us uncover and explore our hidden desires. And now that you’re here, we can explore this together.” And nothing in the universe could make me happier than an infinity to explore our love. I lift her right hand and brush the pad of my index finger over the pulsing unity brand we share.

  I grin up at her. “Guess you’re stuck with me, kink and all.”

  She grins back. “Bring it on.” She pivots out of the towel as I reach for her and runs into the bedroom, laughing.

  I wrap the towel around my waist and follow her into her dressing room. I lounge in the doorway while she rifles through the suits hanging in exact precision, a rack of matching blouses stacked above them.

  “Oh no you don’t.” I step into the closet and walk over to a row of beautiful dresses and pull a deep jade one from the rack. “This one. Is this a dress or a gown?” I ask teasingly.

  Tate takes one look at the slit in the front, then the one going up the side almost to the waist, and finally the very low back. “Technically a gown, though it probably includes as much material as a minidress if you account for all the missing parts.” She shakes her head and turns back to the suits.

  “Francis likes us to dress for dinner,” I say.

  “I am dressing,” Tate says, “in a suit.”

  “Do it for me, then.” I say the magic words that will steer this away from a dispute.

  She smiles and grabs the hanger. “Well, if you ask like that.”

  My cock stiffens when Tate drops her towel and wiggles into the dress, but when she turns to me to zip her up, it fully tents my towel. I slide a slow kiss up the side of her neck. She steps away and wiggles a finger at me, eyeing my towel with amusement.

  “Hold that thought, babe. Right now, we need to talk.” She steps up to the mirror, runs a comb through her loose curls, and turns, motioning me out of the room. “Lead the way. You need to get dressed, right?” She follows me as I head from her room into the hallway and to the door on the right.

  Tate gasps as she steps into the large room. Francis followed his favored Scottish highland motif when designing our rooms. The walls are done with rich damask and oak panels with carved moldings, but it’s the wood canopy bed hung with red velvet that dominates the room.

  “Oh, my gods, this is gorgeous.” Tate roams around the room, exploring. She picks up the bed warming pan sitting next to the fireplace. “Is this what I think it is? A bed warmer?”

  I nod. “Francis got a little carried away with his Scottish theme. You get the thirties, we get sixteenth-century Scotland.”

  “Dark but cool.” She sits on the small stool sitting at the foot of the bed. “So what’s up with this clan stuff? Is Francis the head?”

  “You’d think that, right?” I throw on a pair of black dress pants and a black knit sweater, then shift through a collection of jackets. I pull out a dark gray jacket with a fine pattern and hesitate, second-guessing my choice.

  “Yeah, that one,” Tate says. “Very chic. I take it from that comment that you’re the head.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I turn and look at her, that crazy grin I can’t lose plastered all over my face. She’s mine, and there’s nothing anyone can say or do about it. We have the brand to prove it. “The term is actually Alpha. What about Nameless or Caleb? It could be one of them, you know.”

  “Yeah, right,” she snorts.

  “We’re a team. Don’t worry about alphas.”

  “Okay.” She rises with the grace of a dancer and glides over to me. I drink her in, running my finger along the soft edge of her breast peeking out through the slit in her gown. She moans and moves closer to me. “All this sex stuff is very weird.” She gives me a worried look. “I don’t know if I’m up for this.”

  “Don’t worry, sprite. It gets weirder.” I give a bow and gesture for Tate to precede me. I don’t know why, but I like the idea of leaving her just a tiny bit on edge. She sticks out her tongue and sashays out the door. Whatever we’re facing, we’ll face it together.

  Damn, I look good, and if I didn’t know it before, the way the air freezes into hot silence when Bob escorts me into the dining room lets me know it in spades. The dress Bob picked fits me as if it were designed for me alone, and it’s sexy as hell. Caleb lets out a low wolf whistle. Francis stands and bows before pulling out my chair. Even Nameless gives an appreciative nod of his head.

  It probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve got that just-fucked look about me. Bob is looking particularly hot with those swollen lips and sleepy eyes. It’s obvious what we’ve been up to. I reach for my napkin to hide my discomfort, but Francis snatches it first and places it on my lap. And all four guys stare at me . . . hungrily.

  I clear my throat and look around at the formally set table. It’s obvious someone went to a lot of trouble for this dinner.

  “This all looks amazing,” I say. “Who—”

  As if on cue, a couple of plump fairy-godmother types in flowing silk gowns float into the room, their tiny glistening membranous wings fluttering like mad. They place several platters on the table and then hover, one on each side of me. The one on my right looks just like Bette Midler—who else would a fairy godmother look like? I smile up at her, delighted.

  “The food smells delicious,” I say.

  Bette and her companion positively preen.

  “What are your names? Am I allowed to ask that?”

  “You may, child. My name is Clarania”—the Bette lookalike points—“and t
his is Elliflutter.”

  “Delighted to meet you both. May I call you Clare and Elli for short?” I ask.

  “You absolutely may,” Clare says. She pulls a white linen cloth from her belt and wipes an invisible spot from my wineglass. “There.” She flits in a quick circle around the table and stops beside Francis. “Is there anything else we can get you?”

  “Everything is perfect as usual. My compliments to you both.” Francis takes her hand and kisses it. Clare looks so pleased she might pop a wing. Instead, she grabs Elli’s hand, and they float out of the room.

  “Okay, they are uber cool,” I say. “Are those the silkies you mentioned? They look like fairies.”

  “And just what do fairies look like?” Nameless asks. Because he can’t leave anything alone nor let me have one moment of pure joy. And I can’t think of anything smart to say back.

  “Ignore him,” Bob says. “They’re spirits, not fae. They’re distant cousins of brownies, but not as bitchy.”

  “But they’re easily offended. Don’t piss one of them off, or they’ll leave us forever,” Caleb says dramatically. “Let’s eat.” He rubs his hands together gleefully and reaches over to remove one of the domed lids covering the large platters.

  “We serve our hostess first,” Francis says.

  “Sorry.” Caleb looks at me sheepishly as he sinks back into his chair. Every one of them is looking at me. My mouth waters from the delicious smells, but I take a moment to enjoy the attention. After all, it’s not every night a girl gets four drop-dead gorgeous guys hanging off her every word. Of course, it might just be that they’re starved for female companionship what with waiting for their destined mates and all. I wave a hand toward the platters. “Please.” I smile at Caleb.

  “Hot damn.” Caleb has the domes off the platters, and by the time Francis fills my glass with wine, my plate is stacked with food.

  I laugh. “This is way more than I can eat.” I look around at the guys who are looking at me expectantly, and in Caleb’s case, somewhat impatiently.

  “We need to fatten you up,” Bob says. “You’ve lost weight.”

  Bob always preferred me with a few extra pounds. When I’d been a dripping cow and sixty pounds overweight after giving birth, he’d treated me like the reincarnation of mother nature. He’d have loved the Renaissance.

  Francis points to each platter in turn. “We have rib-eye steak with crispy smashed potatoes, broccolini with cheese sauce, risotto with crispy roasted mushrooms, seared scallops with brown butter and lemon pan sauce, butternut squash ravioli in thyme brown butter sauce—”

  “Whoa, whoa,” I laugh. “I’m overwhelmed. Let’s eat before Caleb kills someone.”

  Caleb’s heaping his plate before the words are out of my mouth. I shiver. My dress doesn’t cover much. Eight eyes latch on to me.

  “You cold, sprite?” Bob asks.

  “A little,” I rub my bare arms.

  “Easily rectified,” Francis says. He lifts his hand, and fire jumps to life in the stone fireplace.

  I take a bite of the ravioli and my eyes almost roll back into my head as hedonistic pleasure rushes through me. There’s no other word to describe how the taste blasts straight from my mouth setting my pinkish parts on fire.

  I clear my throat and take a gulp of wine, then I remember what happened when I drank the mead, and I hastily put the glass down. “Is there some kind of aphrodisiac in this food?” My voice sounds husky in my own ears, almost as if I’m getting laryngitis, which is the only time I’ve ever sounded close to sexy in my life.

  Bob looks concerned. “No, there isn’t.” He looks at Francis and raises an eyebrow. “Is there?”

  “Of course not.” Francis waves impatiently. “This seems to be part of her process.”

  My process? Gods, it’s as if waves of warm sexual energy are flushing my system, getting rid of everything else but . . . well, sexual desire.

  Francis looks pointedly at Bob. “What is her sexual appetite?”

  “Strong libido, erotic, without a doubt. Definitely hand-against-the-steamy-car window bunny-rabbit-like. She’s got more testosterone pumping through her veins than I do. I used to tease her that she’d fit right in in those Girls Gone Wild videos.” He takes a bite of his potatoes, seemingly unconcerned about the overstated pronouncement he just made.

  “Close your mouth, babe,” Caleb says with a wink. I snap my mouth shut. This clan sharing stuff is going to take some getting used to.

  “What he means by strong is healthy.” I’m a bit on the dramatic side as I make this pronouncement.

  Nameless smirks, but otherwise, they all nod.

  “Hades is always drawn to the ones that need to feel the heat,” Francis says.

  Oh, I’m feeling the heat, all right, and it’s not coming from the fireplace. I resist the urge to fan myself. “I am not like a bunny rabbit.” That’s the thing I find to pick on. Not that he’s describing me as highly sexed—I take offense at being compared to a cute, furry, cuddly thing. And the borderline nymphomaniac suggestion. I give Bob the biggest stink eye I can make. He just chews and grins. Fucking guys!

  “Help me understand what this kink event looks like.” Time to get this conversation back on track.

  “It’s a lot of fun when you’re not the object of examination,” Caleb says. “The females are hot, hot, hot.” He is the only person I know capable of nodding, grinning, and chewing all at the same time while still looking hot himself.

  “Hot women are not my thing,” I say.

  “Oh, the men are hot, too. Wait until you see Hades.” Caleb mimics my fan-waving movement. I guess I did fan myself. “Sizzling. He’s even better looking than your Bob here, and he’s pretty gorgeous.”

  Bob shifts beside me uncomfortably, and a combination of embarrassment, humility and gratification flashes over me.

  “Yes, he is,” I agree. “As the song says, this groom was prettier than the bride. Do you swing both ways?”

  “Not really, although I’m open to anything,” Caleb says. “Why?” His brown eyes twinkle as he shovels in another mountain of food.

  “It’s unusual for a guy to talk like that about another guy.” I study my plate as I realize I probably just lowered myself into a can of worms.

  “I could be gay.”

  “No, you couldn’t.” That pops out before I have time to stop it.

  Caleb’s grin gets wider. He’s loving playing with me. “How do you know?”

  The china pattern demands more study. I have myself to thank for getting into this one. “I can tell.”

  “That is a nonanswer,” Francis says. “How can you tell?”

  Because you get an instant hard-on every time you see me. I’d swear Francis smirks, but his face remains impassive. I’ve got to steer this away from me. “He acts like a straight guy, that’s all,” I mumble. “Can we please move on with what I can expect?”

  “The gods, usually under Aphrodite’s direction, choose a number of supplicants willing to participate in scenes with the gods in exchange for sexual powers. The gods choose a number of scenes from those offered. The rest watch the scenes.” Francis says.

  “Like your Bob here asking for his legendary sexual stamina,” Nameless says.

  Bob bristles beside me, and I rush to his defense. “He did no such thing. That’s a lie.”

  “It’s not a lie if I believe it to be true, and just how would you know, anyway?” Nameless takes another nibble from what looks like a field of greens. He definitely seems to be the health nut of the group.

  “I know because he had the legendary sexual stamina you’re talking about before he came to Bardo.”

  “One offs do not a legend make,” Nameless says.

  “Sustained, enduring ability does. And he can have multiple orgasms.” Now they’re all staring at me, and a flood of emotion washes over me—curiosity from Francis, disbelief from Nameless, and awe from Caleb.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Nameless says. His ey
es narrow to slits as he studies me.

  “She is telling the truth,” Francis says, “although I will wager she is referring to simultaneous orgasm not multiple.”

  “Not that you’ll ever find out,” Caleb says. He says this without guile; it’s just the way it is.

  “I most definitely do not swing both ways,” Nameless says.

  Bet he does. Interesting. I shelve that thought for another day. Right now, I need to know how bad tomorrow night will be. “What does a scene look like?”

  “It’s a pre-discussed and consented BDSM activity or set of activities performed in front of a group. It can be anything from a guy getting the shit kicked out of his balls to golden showers,” Nameless says. I blanch, and it’s obvious from his expression that he got just the reaction that he wanted.

  Bob puts his hand on my arm and says, “It can also be more mainstream BDSM like impact play—flogging, spanking . . .”

  But my mind is still fixed on what Nameless said. “So a guy actually let another guy kick him in the balls? Why?” I can’t get my head around this.

  “Actually, it was a woman doing the kicking, and she didn’t just get his balls, she got his whole package. It took about ten kicks for her to drop him to his knees, but he got up for more. By the time she was done, he could barely walk, and his balls were this big.” Nameless makes a large circle with his hands, one that matches the size of my eyes. No way.

  “How did he have sex after that?” My voice is almost reverent as I wait for the answer. This is a whole new world.

  “Kink isn’t always about sex, sprite,” Bob says.

  “Then what does he get out of it?” I’m seriously trying to figure this one out without making my usual judgments, but that’s got to hurt, right? And not in a good way.

  “We cannot always explain the psychological motivation behind kink,” Francis says.

  “Francis is making it a lifelong study, which in his case is centuries. If anyone can figure out all of the psychology involved in every kink, he will,” Bob says. I love his willingness to give praise where it’s due. Francis gives a nod of appreciation.

  “Brother, here we go again,” Nameless mutters.