ROMANCE: Double Play (Bisexual MMF Menage Romance) (New Adult Threesome Romance Short Stories)

by Natalia Wood

  Two weeks later, Rob was dating Chrissy B. I saw her in his letter jacket, his muscled arm wrapped around her waist as they talked with another couple by the lockers. If I had been any less dead inside, I wouldn’t have been able to recover from the sight of his beautiful fingers on her ample body, fingers that I had imagined caressing my skin more times than I dared to count in my dreams. She saw me coming down the hall, smacked her gum, and leaned her full, luscious blond locks in my direction as I passed.

  “That’s Claire?” I heard her ask as I walked by them. “Damn, honey, looks like you traded up,” she said, loud enough to make sure I heard. The laughter of her companions, including Rob’s, echoed behind me, loud and clear as fire alarm bells.

  Many voodoo hairdolls of Chrissy B. were made during my high school years. I never spoke to Rob again, but for the rest of high school, about once every four months, I’d get a phone call during our formerly regular hours, and I’d pick up to hear nothing but silence on the other end. I was never able to sleep well on those nights, my dreams full of me as a girl chubby with breasts and hips, and Rob eating his words.

  But I never grew up into all of those promised signs of femininity, but at least I understood fully why I was in so much awe of my friend Marissa. What I wouldn’t give for all those luscious curves. I would dream about them in bed, about the way she looked when she confidently wore her size twenty bikini at the beach, the self-assured way she rubbed suntan lotion onto her tanned skin, the round curve of her thighs when she bent her legs on the towel, like some otherworld creature in the sun.

  It’s no use, is it? I’m going to be this way for the rest of my life, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. So I think I can say with full assurance that this is the night it should all end. I’m not an idiot, okay? I realize that I’m angry and bitter and I don’t want to live this way anymore. Marissa’s confidence should have rubbed off on me, but it didn’t, and no amount of cake is going to make me the woman I want to be. So I’m saying hello to this little bottle of sleeping pills Marissa got me; I told her that I’ve been suffering with insomnia for weeks now, and she sweet-talked her doctor into procuring them for me, sans prescription. Her telling me that almost made me doubly depressed, if that’s even possible.

  I’m counting them out, one, two, three. Is five too many? I don’t want to throw them all up and be rushed to the hospital or anything like that. Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be? I can just see the doctor being all, “Ma’am, why did you attempt this?” What am I supposed to say, “I have no tits and ass and I want to stop hating the world for it”? Come on.

  So I count out six and hope it’s the right amount. I’ve done my research; I work with the chemical makeup of things, so it’s really my bread and butter. I estimated I’d need about five to ten to do the trick, but I can’t take them one at a time; I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep before I can take the rest. I pour myself a glass of white wine and take them, three at a time, fifteen minutes between each, because the anticipation is otherwise just too much for me.

  The world darkens by degrees, slowly, slowly, until everything is dark and I’m finally at peace.

  * * *

  God damn it. There’s all this light filtering in through my curtains and I want to kill it. What happened? Did I not take enough? Did someone find me and save me? Ugh. I didn’t even get to have one of those moments where I’m like, oh, it’s not all as bad as I think, I wish someone would come and pump my stomach.

  Jesus, can someone kill that light? I’ve got an ear-splitting headache, and the room’s all wobbly. I slowly slide the covers off; my balance is all off, probably because of the pills. I clutch every available surface around me on my way to the bathroom to try and splash some water on my face.

  It’s so damn gray in here; why don’t I ever make it cheerier; God, I’ll bet half the reason I’m so depressed all the damn time is because I never, ever do anything to cheer my—

  What?

  My hands still under the faucet as I look at some odd, brand-new face in the mirror.

  Green eyes, long, flowing hair. The pouty, Jolie-type mouth. I touch my face in shock, because it’s not my face.

  It’s Marissa’s.

  Now, I know. I know I am in total shock. But there’s this other feeling in me, too, lurking underneath the depressive ray bathroom like a thief who just can’t wait to be caught. But I’ve caught him.

  His name is Joy.

  That’s right. Pure, unadultered joy, mixed in with the knowledge that yes, this is sick, and no, I don’t care. I can’t stop pawing at my face, this gorgeous new face, touching the hair like I can’t believe this is all mine. Because I can’t. And now, for the best part.

  I look down. Oh yes. This is mine, too. These mounds of flesh, flesh so rotund that there are slight stretch marks on me, shiny in the dim light, proof positive that I am a woman and nobody can deny me that right. I strip down to my panties quickly and run over into the bedroom, to look into my full-length mirror. I draw the curtains open, and in the twilight of morning, I can see my fantastic new form reflected back at me clearly.

  Wow. I gather my breasts, those perfect, pink-tipped creations in my hands, the plum color of my newly manicured nails stark against that lovely skin. It almost feels wrong, seeing that chiaroscuro reflected back at me, but I can’t stop touching myself, hardly believing this is all real. I have hips. I have long legs that go on for miles and are curvy in all the right places. I twirl and check out my butt, this fantastic bubble butt that looks mind-numbingly unreal in my little leopard thong. In my other form, in my past life, I could have never worn something like this.

  I draw the mirror close to the foot of the bed and position myself back on the pillows, kicking all of the messed-up sheets out of the way. Now there’s nothing but me, and I am the focal point of the show. I begin to stroke myself, first my hair, which is soft and shiny. I take the ends of one of the locks and touch it, feather-light, over my chest, watching my new cotton-candy nipples tighten in response. I shift the heft of each one of my breasts in each hand and watch them jiggle in my reflection. I jiggle. Like jello. My joy is so complete that I laugh out loud, shocked into silence again by the confident, happy sound.

  I trace my fingers over my belly, that protrusion that completes me, that hollows out down into the hips that fill the palms of my hands. I can’t get over the fact that I cannot find my hipbones. They say that women have extra fat around their hips, more than men, and I have that now, instead of the hipbones you could see through every dress I ever convinced myself to wear before. I am warm as I outline my thighs, smooth as silk beneath my hands, and the sight of my breasts pushed together like creamy scoops of ice cream is making me tingly in a whole new way that I’ve never experienced before. I can and cannot believe what is happening right now—I’m getting turned on. By my own self.

  So why not take advantage of this incredible moment?

  I slide my index finger towards the top of that leopard thong. I take a peek below, and it’s as pink as my nipples. Nice, Marissa, very nice. I lift my legs and slide the thong off, enjoying the pull and ripple of my flesh in the mirror as I do so. I spread my legs and tentatively slide my hand between my legs. I am warm and pink and as my finger makes contact with the hood of my clit, I feel dirty and excited, all at the same time. God, it’s good. I rub a little faster on that spot that feels so nice, and I feel the blood rush to my hips, thighs, and legs. My chest is turning a little bit red, and my breath is becoming shallow. Any other time, I would picture some gorgeous guy I saw on the street with his head between my legs, but now that look like this, I don’t need to picture anybody but myself. I like that my lips are parting as I’m rubbing myself, that my perfect hair is now becoming disheveled. Most of all, I like that I feel tingly from my pussy to my ass, and I’m saying things out loud I’ve never dared to before, that I want all my holes filled up, that I want fingers in my ass and my pussy all at the same time. The pebble of flesh between m
y fingers is growing fuller, and I can feel my moans stretching out into eternity, rising and falling with the great fullness of my tits. They bob in the mirror, and I lift one of them up to my mouth and suck, amazed by the fact that I can finally do this, that I can finally feel my own tongue on my own body, that this fullness is now mine. Just as I’m building up to my climax, however, my cellphone buzzes.

  I look over, not daring to take my hand off my pussy, and the name that pops up on the screen almost makes me freeze. Damn it, Marissa. I know you’ve had a stroke of bad luck now that you’ve lost your tits and ass, but don’t you dare take away from my moment.

  Um, yeah. Gaining this body after a night of attempted suicide seems to have made me a little cranky.

  I silence the phone, but the photo of Marissa’s—I mean my—smiling face is still there, up on the screen. So I reach over my new body, flip the phone over, and get back to business.

  I add more fingers now, and my whole palm is grinding into the smooth flesh between my legs. I’m probing the inner parts of myself, the ones that are slightly rough to the touch, and I gasp as a finger slides accidentally in. Nice. My fingers are long against the sopping slickness of me, and I slide two of them inside. My pussy stretches to accommodate just a touch, and I’m working myself, over and over, holding my breast up to my mouth with my other hand. One bite on that nipple and I explode all over my fingers, moaning like an animal, like the big, sleek, contented kitty that I am now.

  Laying there, panting with exertion, I see that I have stained my sheets. I spread my legs even further, enjoying the fact that it’s me who has made this big, huge, incredible mess. Those are my juices on this bed. My cheeks are flushed, exaggerating the loveliness of my doe-like eyes, the pupils wide enough to evidence my recent orgasm.

  I’ll call Marissa later. I promise. Even though I’m kind of silently thanking whatever deity that may exist above that she does not know where I live.

  Oh man, speaking of that, I should really also return her planbook. She accidentally left it at the diner where we grabbed lunch three days ago, and she’s been on my butt ever since then to give it back. Apparently, she can’t do her work without it or some nonsense like that, blah, blah, blah. Seriously, woman, get with the electronic age, will you? You’re a high-end reporter, and all your friends have gone digital, so will you just get with it?

  I skimmed it out of curiosity—and jealousy, all right, I’ll admit it—and it seemed like she had something pretty exciting on tap for today. I cannot seem to remember it, but I do remember feeling a mixture of bubbliness and rage. I wonder what that was all about. I guess it must have gotten kicked under the rug when I was planning my evening of foreversleep.

  I stride naked to the countertop where I left the plan book and flip it open to today’s date. Manicure, facial—who needs one when you’ve got the natural glow that I’ve just achieved, I mean, come on—and ah, there it is. NFL players interview for five o’clock at the Rainbow Room.

  Wait, what?

  Oh man. Football players. At one of the best restaurants in town. With the classiest, most high-profile bar in the entire town. I could sing, I really could, but unfortunately, a good voice does not come with these glorious curves. Ah, who cares?

  I bounce past the mirror again, happy as a clam.

  Five o’clock. Marissa, you naughty girl. Well, not the original Marissa. I enter the players’ names into an Internet search engine and their photos leave me almost breathless. These are the types of hunks I would never even allow to enter my fantasies, they’re so hot. I love those big, muscly types with bodies like well-carved trucks and faces like Alain Delon, that French actor who was all boyishly handsome even into his late fifties.

  Come to mama.

  Now, ordinarily, I wouldn’t even entertain any thoughts about men like this, but hello, I look like the high priestess of everything feminine.

  If only Rob could see me now. He’d eat his damn words in a minute, and he would be so bowled over by what I look like he’d forget his name, address, and telephone number.

  And so what if the two NFL players look like him a little bit? I’m not shy, I’ll admit it—a little revenge flirting might be just the thing to kick up my spirits. And what if I wake up tomorrow and this Marissa’s gone, you know? I deserve this, more than anyone else I know. In case you forgot, there was a bottle with the Reaper in it with my name on the label.

  Five o’clock. Plenty of time to get prepped.

  First, I go shopping. Marissa tells me all the stores she goes to; I ask mainly because I like to live vicariously through her, but this time, it actually helps because now I know where to go. Thank goodness I live around the block from one of those boutiques, because all I can fit over my new body is this huge oversized T-shirt that I like to hide in—I mean wear because it’s so cozy.

  The salesladies take one look at me and assume that I’m doing what seems to be Marissa’s typical walk of shame. They flutter around me like those birds in Disney’s Cinderella, until I’m fully clothed from head to toe. I look hot. Incredible, even. I’ve got this red bodycon dress on that emphasizes that full, full hourglass I’ve got going, and my cleavage is eye-catching. I can’t stop turning in front of the mirror, black stiletto heels shaping my calves into works of art.

  As I leave the store, swinging the bag with some extra things in it for good measure, I can feel all eyes on me. Marissa, even when she was Marissa, never walked like this. She was grounded and self-assured, whereas I feel like I’m floating on air, making a statement with every step that I take. I purse my lips at passerby, and heads are swiveling. I thought that only happened in the movies. Not so, not so. Va-va-va-voom, baby.

  I get my hair styled in Marissa’s favorite salon, and take a long walk around some of the more high profile areas of the city. I can’t get enough of the attention. Men in suits, the type of men who date those reedy-looking girls but everyone knows secretly desire the bigger ladies, are making fools of themselves, slaving over me with their eyes. Tiny Japanese men breathe me in, and a bunch of college guys almost literally have to wipe up some of their drool off of their chins. I feel as if every pore in my body is screaming, “Look at me now, boys!” I am a walking sex bomb.

  Now, I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not a big sports fan. I did my research before I left the house, and I can think of one or two questions I can ask the two NFL players at the bar, but what I’m really hoping for is that one of them will ask me out to dinner at the restaurant. With all the attention I’ve gotten today, it doesn’t seem to be too far of a stretch to picture that.

  I’m sitting at the bar. I was hoping for one of those movie moments where the bar is crowded with people and then the hot girl parts it like it’s the Red Sea and approaches the bartender, who instantly grants her her drink wish, but the fact of the matter is that this is a class-A bar, and there are no crowds. I guess I’ll just have to try out that fantasy tomorrow. Agh, there are just so many things I haven’t done yet!

  The two football players enter the restaurant, and I can’t believe that nobody is squealing. The hostess walks them over to the bar, they’re that famous, and when they see me, their eyes light up. Now, nobody ever credited athletes for their brains, but this pair is very charming. Turns out they’re both college-educated and have been lifelong buddies. This is fantastic. Whenever they’re quiet, I suddenly find myself talking about all the research I’ve done as an engineer—I pass it off as a change of career—and they’re hanging on my every word as if I’m, oh wow, as if I’m Marissa.

  Huh. So this is what it feels like to be gorgeous. I’m not going to lie, it feels pretty darn great.

  They both ask me to join them for dinner, which is an unexpected twist. During the meal, the blonde stares at my mouth as I eat, as if he’s picturing it around his cock or something. The brunette keeps sliding closer and closer, and I tell myself it’s because he can’t wait to get snuggly with all this satin skin. From the way he keeps glancing down at m
y cleavage, I would say that that guess isn’t far off at all.

  I am everything and everywhere. I have one hand on the blonde’s wrist, stroking the fine hair there saucily with my fingers, and I’m sliding one of my heeled feet up the calf of the brunette. Who is this woman? I could have never thought that this is who I would be. Is she kind of slutty? Now what kind of talk is that? Like I said before, I deserve this, and amazingly, both guys look clued in on what‘s happening and they don’t seem to mind. That mind-blowing fact is further evidenced when the brunette, who has these cocoa-brown eyes and a dimple in his cheek that makes me want to lick him, asks if the blonde and I would like to go to his loft for a nightcap.

  Claire wouldn’t. But Claire in Marissa’s body sails outside of herself and watches the two footballers stare at her ass as she makes her way out of the restaurant.

  Time seems to blur. I don’t even notice how we got to that loft, but here we are. The brunette is playing soft jazz, and the blonde is pouring me some champagne as I stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the breathtaking lights of the city spread out before me. God, is this really happening to me?

  “To this meeting,” the blonde tells me, clinking his champagne flute to mine, and that’s when I notice that his eyes are blue, like Rob’s. I shake the little negative thought from my brain and drain the champagne. It fills me with this odd peaceful feeling, but it’s also like my stomach has gone out from my body for a little vacation. It’s strange, but as someone begins to rub my shoulders through the straps of my dress, I choose not to focus on it.