The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

by Linda Alvarez

  Boyfriend was, however, ready to up the ante. In fact, I think Boyfriend’s middle name was “Up the Ante”, or maybe just “Up the Ass”, because that’s where he liked to go, and that’s where he usually wound up, even with men who had never before thought that they might have an asshole. As Mark fucked me, he made a moving target, but to an old pro like Boyfriend that didn’t matter. I heard condom noises from miles away. I had already come several million times, it seemed, and neither Mark nor I focused much away from the slow dance that engaged our cunt and cock.

  Until I felt a steady increase in the weight on me, heard Mark moan – a good moan, not a bad one, a deep Ohhh of a let-your-breath-out-and-the-cock-come-in moan – as Boyfriend’s cock met Mark’s back thrust and rode forwards along with us, burrowing into Mark’s asshole just as slowly as Mark’s cock sank into me. A perfectly timed, come-along-for-the-ride kind of move, Boyfriend’s hips pumping exactly in time with Mark’s, and the energy changed just as perfectly: all of a sudden I was fucking them both. Pierre may be the guy in the middle, the one who gets the most sensation and attention, but each of us could feel the other two, Boyfriend’s cock gradually nudging Mark’s cock into Boyfriend’s own rhythm, driving us both like a team of horses. This made it feel as though there were two cocks in me, not filling me up like two cocks really would (yeah, of course we tried that later) but energetically, one fucking the other fucking me, as Boyfriend’s cockhead rubbed the base of Mark’s cock over and over.

  Maybe this is the true basis of male homophobia. Guys, when fucking, know their ass is sticking up for anyone to plug. It might as well be painted on in neon letters: “Fuck me! I’m an ass-phobic straight guy!” Some big fag like Boyfriend is going to come along and become the ultimate topman, pin Mr Missionary Position like a bug on a corkboard. I’m sure the charm of this situation was not lost on Boyfriend, though he had the decency not to brag about it when he was fucking straight-boy butt: a fey boy, fag since youth, able, with the help of a glop of lube, to subvert a heterosexual coupling, turn it perverse, bend it from two to three, from straight to queer, from vanilla to kinky.

  And if you do it right in the first place, he’ll bend over any time you like. The arrow will never really straighten out again.

  This was one of the bases for Boyfriend’s and my arrangement; in a way, I helped get the boys in, held them down while he worked his ass magic, gave them just enough of the familiar – hot hungry pussy, legs wrapped around their backs – to allow them to assimilate his cock without freaking out. Together, we were a walk on the wild side.

  Maybe some of the men we fucked went home and cried, got drunk, went into therapy. But Mark fucked back, ass opening easily to new knowledge, greedy for pleasure from both ends. He was as open to sensation as he was to love. If fucking me was like saying a mantra, getting fucked was like being the prayer. Filled with cock, his cock in me, he became a fulcrum, sex and sensation perfectly balanced, and I felt the song of his come build up in him as he climbed higher and higher. Surfing pure fuck, anyone’s come was everyone’s come – any one of us could have been Lucky Pierre, the one in the middle.

  When you fuck someone over and over, you learn them and you create a new entity, the fuck of your relationship, your ongoing connection. Your sexual energy weaves together, making a new thing that is of you but beyond you. You can’t create it again with anyone else, not exactly. This is true when you fuck one person, and it’s just as true when you fuck more.

  When you fuck someone only once you enter into chance, ride a wave of fate, then sweep up on the shore. Many waves, one ocean: most of us go out and ride the waves again, but not that wave.

  Mark died shortly after I brought him home to Boyfriend, doubtless just after making someone else happy, for that seemed to be his brief and shining path. His motorcycle slid on a rainy curve; his last threesome was with it and a speeding car.

  When you fuck someone only once, someone you’ll never be able to fuck again, it’s as evanescent as the spun sugar crown on top of the fancy dessert, and just as delicious. I imagine the three of us, on each other, and I circle around and around the image, stopping and starting us like we were wind-up toys, or computer animation. In a place where time stops, just like it did for Mark, we are fucking right now, will fuck perpetually – I visit that place in glimpses and always will. He will always be Lucky Pierre, and I – oh, I’m just lucky.

  In memory of Mark.

  The Magnificent Threesome

  Elspeth Potter

  The One-Eyed Man saloon was not providing the entertainment DeVille was waiting for. His companion, Harcourt, was hunched over a small bound notebook, turning his stub of pencil over and over between his big, blunt fingers. DeVille doubted the numbers would change tonight. The next town along was hosting a fandango after a performance of the travelling Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, and the streets had emptied by noon. Not a soul had entered who was interested in playing cards or hiring guns; the patrons, all two of them, came in, drank, gave him and Harcourt a suspicious glance, and left. He’d seen pitched battles that were friendlier.

  He fluttered his deck of cards between his hands in a never-ending stream while he pondered how best to irritate Harcourt, and thus distract him from his obsessive accounting. It wasn’t getting them to San Francisco any sooner.

  “It’s closing time,” the saloon’s owner Miss Kitty said, leaning over their table. A tuft of dark hair poked out of her red dress’ low-cut bosom, and she needed a shave. DeVille had been surprised, when they’d first arrived two days ago, how few of the customers seemed to mind Miss Kitty’s eccentricities. Then again, it was the only saloon in town.

  “I know you must get your beauty sleep every night,” DeVille commented. He gathered the cards into one hand and smiled up at her.

  Miss Kitty laughed like mountains crumbling and tapped the back of his head. He grabbed for his hat. She said, “You are a caution, Mr DeVille. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night?”

  “I am so sorry, ma’am, but me and the captain here have other plans,” DeVille said. “Right, Harcourt?”

  Harcourt put away his notebook. He looked up long enough to say, “Yes.” He pushed his chair back and stood.

  DeVille knew what the locals thought: Harcourt looked dangerous. A coloured man with deep-set eyes and lean cheeks, he wore black from hat down to scarred cavalry boots. The grips of his two low-slung Colt revolvers gleamed with use, and he didn’t hide the Bowie knife sheathed at his back. His voice was deep and rough as his appearance.

  DeVille, a round-faced white man with a tidy moustache, knew he looked as if he’d come from another country entirely, though both men hailed from Holmestown, New Jersey. He made an effort to look less dangerous and more prosperous than Harcourt. Today he wore snug fawn pantaloons and a brocade frock coat the colour of good red wine. His embroidered gold waistcoat glowed over a minutely pleated cream linen shirt with a string tie. He reached into his breast pocket, but Miss Kitty laid a giant hand on his arm.

  “I’ll run you a tab,” she purred.

  “Why, thank you, Miss Kitty,” DeVille said. “And I’ve been thinking – why don’t you call me Virgil? It doesn’t seem fair, me using your Christian name and you not knowing mine.”

  Miss Kitty giggled. This sound was more like rocks tumbling down a mineshaft. “Oh, you sweet thing,” she said. “Don’t you forget to have a drink with me next time.”

  “I most surely would never forget!” DeVille said. He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. Harcourt rolled his eyes.

  As they exited, a slender young cowboy entered, battered hat in hand, his longish blond hair tied back into a stubby queue. He wore a long sourdough coat, stained dark with waterproofing. DeVille gave him a second glance, and then a longer, more appreciative one as he hurried into the saloon, graceful in his high-heeled boots. Harcourt elbowed him. He sighed and let himself be drawn out of the swinging doors.

  They’d gone barely ten steps when Miss Kitty
bellowed after them. “Virgil! Captain Harcourt!”

  DeVille looked at Harcourt, who lifted his eyebrows. They retraced their steps. The cowboy sat at their vacated table. Seeing his face clearly for the first time, DeVille was startled by the softness of his features, though he was clearly no longer a young boy. Without beard or moustache, his lips had a plush curve, just waiting for someone to press with their thumb.

  Miss Kitty poured the cowboy a glass of whiskey and placed it in front of him, but he didn’t drink it. Miss Kitty said, her expression fierce, “Some rowdies attacked the Widow Larimer’s spread, just outside of town. Austin here’s her wrangler, and he thinks they’ll be back.”

  The Widow Larimer was a coloured lady. DeVille imagined she hadn’t been interested in the Grand Ethiopian Minstrel Choir, either. Before Harcourt could say they’d risk their lives for free, he named their rates.

  Austin looked up at that. He was beardless, but no fool, that was clear. “She told me to hire Captain Harcourt.”

  “Where he goes, I follow,” DeVille said. “Ever since we were boys. But I’m only half his price, since he’s the better shot.”

  After a little haggling, DeVille stowed away their advance money. Austin would ride ahead; they had to retrieve their horses from the livery. As they headed for the Widow Larimer’s ranch, Harcourt said, “You only follow me because it suits you. You’ve been getting me into trouble ever since we were boys.”

  “He paid up, didn’t he?”

  A few moments later, Harcourt said, “You keep your hands off the widow.”

  “What if she’s pretty?”

  “She’s respectable, Virgil. God knows, you could inveigle a snake into bed with you, much less a defenceless coloured woman. I don’t trust you farther than I could throw you.”

  “What if I inveigled for the both of us?”

  “Virgil.”

  “Is it because she’s coloured? Are you afraid I’ll—”

  “We were hired to protect her, not seduce her.”

  “That tart back in Boise stick your sabre up your ass?”

  “Virgil.”

  “Jesus. You didn’t do her at all, did you? You wasted my money and didn’t do a damned thing.”

  “She appreciated your money, not me,” Harcourt said, wryly.

  “I paid her triple,” DeVille said. “She claimed she would make you so happy you’d be singing for a week. She had this thing she did with her—”

  “I didn’t ask you for your help in getting a woman.”

  DeVille muttered, “If you’re not careful, your cock’s going to dry up and fall off.”

  Harcourt remarked, “Yours will wear out first. And remember, hands off the widow.”

  The Widow Larimer did not look as if she needed protection. It was clear she would repel seduction attempts with the shotgun she cradled competently and lovingly against her incredible bosom. A second shotgun leaned against the porch railing beside her. She was a veritable goddess. DeVille moaned softly.

  She called out, “I don’t need that fool gambler. I don’t care how cheap he is.”

  “Boudicca!” DeVille rhapsodized. “Penthesilea! Mrs Bridger the Sunday school teacher back home!”

  “Quiet,” Harcourt growled out of the corner of his mouth. To the widow, he said, “An extra gun can never hurt, ma’am.”

  Austin stepped into view, cradling a rifle. “With all respect, ma’am, you sent me for some extra hands, what with everybody gone over to Destiny for the dancing.”

  The widow snorted audibly. “You keep them out of trouble, boy. And they’re sleeping in the barn.”

  DeVille murmured to Harcourt, “He’s got a pretty face. Can’t be more than twenty-five. Wonder if he needs someone to teach him the wonderful ways of the world?”

  Harcourt eyed him sourly. “Hands off the wrangler, too.”

  Austin didn’t hear their exchange, too busy wondering if the two men were going to be more trouble than they were worth. At least they had guns. And the coloured man was right, more guns were better; though he looked like, alone, he could whip his weight in wildcats. Austin would have bet a month’s pay he’d been in the war. What Harcourt was doing with a dandy like DeVille, Austin couldn’t fathom. Perhaps he was DeVille’s bodyguard. If DeVille was anything like Austin’s daddy had been, he would have a lot of reasons to need one, but it wouldn’t help him in the end.

  Austin watched the visitors quickly care for their horses. The horses liked them, and they didn’t stint on the work. Even knowing some men cared more for their horses than for other people, Austin relaxed a little.

  DeVille glanced over as he gave his gelding’s nose a final stroke. “How’d you come to work for Miz Larimer?”

  He probably had his eye on the widow, or at least on her ranch. Since a gambler didn’t seem likely to have money, maybe he was hoping his nice teeth would recommend him. Austin said, “How’d you come to be a dandified flatterer?”

  DeVille said, without seeming to notice the insult, “Some are born to glory. I, however, am the son of the worst ruffian in Holmestown, New Jersey, saved from disgrace only by the good offices of Captain Harcourt.” He plopped down on a hay bale.

  “The archangel Michael couldn’t save you from disgrace,” Harcourt said.

  His tone was familiar and absentminded, as if this sort of remark was common to him. They were friends, then, and not employer and employee? A strange pair. Austin said, “Don’t let Miz Larimer hear you blaspheming. If she’s your goal, that is.”

  Harcourt said, shortly, “I have no interest in the lady.”

  “She’s rich,” Austin said, testing.

  “Is she?” DeVille asked. “Rich and a warrior queen. I think my heart just might leap out of my chest.”

  Harcourt thumped him on the back of the arm. “Later,” he said.

  A pistol slid into each of DeVille’s hands. “Yessir,” he drawled. “I’ll take the cookhouse, sir, and cover the back. Austin, you coming with?” He smiled and winked. Austin startled; the smile charmed, and the wink had looked almost seductive. Some men would go after anything that moved, true, but surely not if it moved in pantaloons.

  “I’ll take the well,” Harcourt said.

  Outside, Austin settled with one hip braced against a water barrel while DeVille paced endlessly up and down the side yard between house and cookhouse, talking endlessly as well, his voice clearly audible across the yard.

  “Speak up, I don’t think they can hear you in town yet,” Austin said.

  Cheerfully, DeVille replied, “The widow seems to have an itchy trigger finger. I can’t enjoy my money if she accidentally blows my head off.”

  “And Harcourt?” Austin asked. The other man was only just visible as a dark bump on the well house, if one knew where to look. It was too bad he wasn’t over here, chatting. Austin had never seen anyone like him before. “Why’s he hiding, then?”

  “He’s in reserve in case things get difficult,” DeVille said. “So, Austin, you like poetry?”

  “No!”

  “Well, how about this one? You might like this one, it’s better than you think.” And, without letting Austin interrupt, DeVille charged into a recitation and then another and another.

  Just after midnight, the attackers ran into the yard, whooping and firing pistols. Austin had never heard more than a single gun firing at once. The noise was bone-shaking.

  DeVille appeared unaffected, apart from dropping Alexander Pope in the middle of a rhyme and plastering himself against a corner of the house. “How kind,” he said. “They brought friends. At least they’re not on horseback.”

  “Miz Larimer,” Austin said, from behind the water barrel.

  “Hush,” DeVille said. “Stay hidden.”

  “I thought hired guns were supposed to be brave.”

  “Only an idiot nominates himself to get shot.”

  The widow’s voice rang out. “Get off my property or I’ll pump you full of buckshot.”

  A foul reply
from the yard was followed by her shotgun blast. Shouts and pistol cracks, and more shotgun blasts, covered any more dialogue. Austin followed DeVille’s slow creep around the corner and was nearly knocked down by a reeling, brawny figure wielding a flaming branch in one hand and a pistol in the other. The intruder swung the pistol at the side window; Austin leaped at him, wrestling for the torch before he could shove it through the hole in the glass and set the house afire. The torch went flying into the yard, but the big man still had his pistol. He shoved Austin backwards and aimed.

  “Down!” DeVille yelled, and leaped. Both landed on the ground. Austin struggled free and sat up. The attacker fled, along with two others Austin hadn’t seen, in a confusing melee overflowing with drunken curses.

  “Cowards!” the widow yelled.

  Harcourt stepped into view, rifle to shoulder. A hat flew into the air as if jerked on a string; its owner kept running.

  “Great shot!” Austin said, feeling strangely euphoric.

  “I was aiming for his—Virgil, you all right?”

  In the sudden silence, DeVille’s voice trembled. He still lay on the ground. “I can’t believe, after all I’ve been through, some brainless lickfinger son of a bitch—”

  Harcourt shoved Austin to the side and yanked open DeVille’s coat. “No blood,” he said.

  “Jesus Christ, something sure hurts. Right here.”

  The Widow Larimer loomed over the men with a lantern. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, for if you died right now, you would surely go to the fiery pits of hell.”

  DeVille squinted up at her. “I don’t think I like you any more.”

  Events came together in Austin’s mind. “Miz Larimer, I think he saved my life.”

  Harcourt produced a dented silver case from DeVille’s coat. “And this saved his. Virgil, you don’t smoke!”

  Austin took the case and examined the bullet mashed into its tooled surface. The case would barely prise open. It held, not rolling papers at all, but pornographic playing cards. “Captain Harcourt, do you think they’ll be back?”