The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

by Linda Alvarez

  Bertrand slipped a roving finger inside the crotch of Paulina’s silk panties and gently stroked the hidden lips. “Will you be with any of your family at Christmas?” he asked her.

  “No. I’m alone in America.”

  “Do you miss your family?”

  “Not much,” she said. She pulled aside the crotch of her panties to give Bertrand better access to her lips.

  “Wow,” he said quietly. “You’re beautiful.”

  She looked at me. “Does he say that about every girl?”

  “No,” I assured her.

  “Have there been many?”

  “A few,” I said. Bertrand pushed a finger into Paulina’s vagina. Her eyes gleamed when he did it. She looked intoxicated – in that amorous way. I added, “But none of the others were as pretty as you are.”

  She moaned contentedly and rocked on Bertrand’s probing finger. She was a girl who liked being told she was pretty, even though there was likely no doubt about it in her own mind. I leaned down and kissed her on her mouth.

  “You taste like sugar,” she said.

  I smiled at her. I broke off a tiny corner of the fudge and fed it to her. She didn’t so much eat it as let it melt in her mouth. Then her eyes sparked. “That is good. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “I made it this morning.”

  Bertrand, having lost Paulina’s undivided attention for now, reached for his cocktail and scooted closer to us. He helped himself to a piece of fudge. He said, “What would we like for dinner tonight?”

  I was too busy feeding Paulina, and kissing her neck, kissing her across her collarbone, to answer him right away. I was on all fours, leaning down to her. Bertrand rested a hand on my rear end then let his hand roam all over my tight slacks. He said quietly, “I’m thinking ratatouille; something with something else, and then ratatouille on the side.”

  “But that’s a summer dish,” I said distractedly. “And it takes hours.”

  “We’ve got hours . . . haven’t we? Paulina, do you have to be anywhere?”

  By this time, Paulina and I were kissing, our lips pressed together, our tongues meeting. She moaned something guttural that sounded like “no”. Her reply reverberated in my mouth. The thought of having hours with her further excited me. I felt my way down between her legs while we kissed. Her legs were still parted, the lips down there still exposed – and they were slick. She was already aroused. I stopped kissing her and said softly, “Do you want to play with us in our kitchen?” Two of my fingers pushed into her hole and felt the tight, slippery walls push open to accept me. I wanted to pull her panties down, get them all the way off and out of my way. But she planted her feet on the rug and pushed her hole down hard on my fingers; she wanted to stay connected. She took my fingers past the knuckles; her canal was deep and it gave me so many ideas. “Yes,” she finally said, a little breathlessly. “Let’s play in your kitchen – whatever that entails.”

  We’re fond of the baby eggplant, Bertrand and I: its perfect shape, its deep purple colour; the substantial heft it has when one holds it in the palm of one’s hand. In the vegetable world, they are small works of art. Baby eggplants are always in our kitchen, along with every colour of bell pepper, and yellow squash, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, garlic. We never run out of carrots, or celery, or cucumbers. In the spring and summer, there is no shortage of asparagus, green beans, or broccoli in our kitchen, or fresh fennel bulbs, chard, or leeks. And fresh herbs – we love herbs, and sea salt, both fine and coarse. We love peppercorns of every colour and, of course, olive oil.

  Bertrand dons his chef ’s apron. It is pure cotton and bleached white. We are on to the wine now, a Font-Mars, for starters; it is deep red. The colour of it excites me when Bertrand pours it into our glasses. But it is not a wine to be hurried; in an hour or two, it will taste even more intoxicating than it would now. Since we have all evening, I concentrate instead on seducing Paulina out of her clothes, right there in our kitchen.

  “In front of all these windows?” She is disinclined to do it – at first; until she sees that we do have window shades. Enormous ones: the windows are tall and wide and comprise one entire kitchen wall. Bertrand, with his glass of Font-Mars in hand, tugs the cord that brings the shades gliding down. We are now completely alone in a city of so many millions.

  Bertrand is over his initial idea of preparing ratatouille. I have no idea, yet, what he has decided upon instead, but as Paulina steps out of her skirt and pulls her sweater off over her head, Bertrand prepares to concoct a simple amuse-bouche to have with our wine.

  Paulina’s bra matches her panties; it is the same ruby red silk with a black lace overlay. It pushes her ample breasts together, offers them up enticingly. She is stunning. Her dark hair frames her face angelically. Her dark eyes are quite large and expertly made up to appear as if she were wearing no make-up at all. I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, but I wait for the unveiling of her tits. I let her do that part by herself. I reach for my wine and I glance at Bertrand. I know how much he loves to see a woman’s tits spill out of a lacy bra. He’s eyeing Paulina with rapt attention, but I notice also that he’s eating Brie! And he hasn’t offered us any. What happened to our amuse-bouche? I catch his eye and he shrugs, smiling sheepishly. He takes a sip of wine and then his attention goes back to his chopping block. He’s chopping away at herbs. For now, I am more interested in Paulina’s breasts – which are luscious, perfectly formed – than in chiding Bertrand over his hoarding the Brie. After all, there will always be Brie, but how often does a gorgeous foreigner strip out of her expensive underthings in one’s kitchen?

  Paulina is now clad in just her panties and those expensive stockings from Bergdorf’s. She scoots up on to one of the kitchen counters. Since she is not tall, this height is perfect for having her lovely tits almost even with my face. Her legs part as she reaches for my hair, pulling me gently to her, encouraging me to latch on to one of her nipples. They are the plump kind, meant for suckling, or for tugging on. My mouth sucks one of her nipples in eagerly and I am surprised by how intensely she moans, by how her hips writhe on the countertop, by how insistently she pulls me closer to her, pressing my head flush against her breast. I wrap my arms around her then, I hold her and let the full power of those erotic sounds she is making wash over me while I suck on her tit. It is a primal feeling, and it happened so quickly. I am very aroused myself. I can feel her nipple swell against my tongue from the pressure of my mouth and, as the nipple swells, her moans become urgent whimpers. It fascinates me; how sensitive she is. It’s as if I ’d never sucked a nipple before. Certainly never one that was this responsive. The act of suckling her and listening to her ecstasy becomes my entire world; I am lost in it. My pussy is soaking inside my slacks. Soon Paulina is writhing against the counter so much that I am beginning to wonder if she is going to come. I let her set the pace of it; when she wants me to stop, we’ll stop. If she wants me to keep at it until she comes, I will do my best to keep up with her rhythm. I’ve yet to make a woman come without touching her clit, though. It would be a challenge; still, it was one I was willing to take.

  It’s not long, however, before I realize that Bertrand is standing right next to us. He nudges me over so that he can have one of her tits, too. I release my hold on Paulina; I make room for Bertrand. Paulina leans back a little, enough to give us room. We each suck on a nipple and it is almost more pleasure than she can stand – judging strictly by the whimpering that issues from her then.

  I am trying to keep up the pressure on Paulina’s nipple, thinking that this is going to make her come; that this is the object of our foreplay. But Bertrand is overcome with lust. Pushing me aside completely, he picks Paulina up in his arms and moves her over to our kitchen island, shoving aside the many canisters of utensils and baskets of vegetables and fruits to make room for her to lie down. He tugs her panties off her, pushes her legs open wide and plants his mouth right on her pussy. Bertrand is usually the typ
e of man who is the first to have his cock out of his trousers, sticking it wherever a woman is willing to take it. But with Paulina, his mouth did not seem able get enough of her.

  I watched the two of them, locked in their lusty syncopation. It aroused me to see them like that. Paulina, naked except for her black stockings, writhing, tugging on her own nipples, lost in a swoon, her knees hiked high while Bertrand had his face buried between her legs, his sizeable hands pushing down on her slender thighs, holding her open.

  Just then, Paulina’s eyes opened; she focused on me. She looked drunk with lust. Almost inaudibly, she pleaded, “Find something to stuff up me.”

  It was jarring. I looked at her, momentarily confused. “What do you want?” I asked her. “Do you want Bertrand to fuck you now?”

  “No,” she said, trying to catch her breath but still pulling like mad on her nipples. “Stick something up me. Something big, that I can really feel, you know?”

  I thought I knew. I looked around at our countertops; there was food everywhere. I wondered: what would I want to fuck if I were in Paulina’s position, out of my mind with lust and needing to really feel something?

  I grabbed a zucchini. It was thick and long. I held it up to her. “This?” I said.

  She shook her head no. “Something bigger than that.”

  “Bigger than this?” I said. I wasn’t at all sure I could handle the zucchini up my own hole, yet she wanted something bigger. “What? Are you into fisting or something?”

  “No,” she insisted, losing patience with me, sounding as if she was nearing a climax. “Something wider – to stretch me open, you know? Fill me up.”

  I felt a bit frantic, as if I had to find this pleasure tool to stretch Paulina open before Bertrand managed to make her come in his mouth. I picked up a yellow squash. It was wide at the bottom but had a slender neck, like a handle. Maybe that would work, I thought. I showed it to her. Her eyes gleamed again. “Yes,” she said. “Try that.”

  “Do you want Bertrand to put it in you?”

  “No,” she said. “I want you to do it.”

  I was thrilled. It was my turn to nudge Bertrand aside. He’d been nearly oblivious to us, though. At some point while he’d been feasting on Paulina’s pussy, he’d taken his cock out of his trousers and had begun jerking himself off under the white chef’s apron that he was still wearing. “Move,” I told him gleefully. “This is my spot now.” I showed him the yellow squash.

  “Oh yes,” he said quietly, the reason for the squash dawning on him. He moved aside. In fact, he went and got his glass of wine and then came back and pulled up a kitchen chair.

  At last, I was getting a good look between Paulina’s legs. Her pussy was indeed as gorgeous as the rest of her. I understood, now, Bertrand’s uncharacteristic oral need. The outer lips were only lightly covered with black hair; the inner lips were glistening wet, and deep red now and fully engorged. It was a pussy that was without doubt ready for fucking. Bertrand had done his job well.

  But her hole looked really small. I looked at the yellow squash; surely she wouldn’t want the neck going in her first? “Are you sure you want this?” I said.

  She was propped up on her elbows, watching us. Her feet planted on our countertop, spread wide apart, bracing her. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “OK.”

  Bertrand took a sip of his Font-Mars and savoured it in his mouth. For some reason, I was very aware that he wasn’t swallowing.

  I pushed the wide, bulblike end against the opening of Paulina’s vagina. She was very wet, so lubrication was not the issue. The squash simply seemed too big compared to the size of her hole.

  “Push,” she said. “Come on.”

  I pushed, steadily. And she pushed against me.

  “Ah,” she cried out. “Keep pushing. Don’t stop.”

  I kept pushing; I didn’t stop. She bore down on it and, sure enough, her hole started to open. She began to pant lightly. I looked at Bertrand and said, “This thing is huge.”

  He still hadn’t swallowed his wine. He only nodded his head in agreement. From the look on his face, he seemed to be in heaven.

  “Ah,” Paulina cried again. But she was taking it. Her hole had opened but it was a snug fit. Then all at once it had been sucked right up her. Even the neck of the squash had gone up.

  “Now what?” I cried. “I lost it.”

  Bertrand swallowed finally and looked startled.

  Paulina was a step ahead of us, though. She grunted determinedly, bearing down. “Grab it,” she said haltingly. “Get it before it pops out.”

  Bertrand and I watched as the hole pushed open. Her pussy looked incredible. Straining, spreading, then the neck of the squash began to emerge. “Grab it,” she said again. “Don’t let it pop out. I want to get fucked with it.”

  I managed to grab the squash by its neck but it was slippery now. I had to dig my nails into it to keep it from sliding back up her. I fucked her with it slow at first, amazed that her pussy was so resilient. Easing it down her canal until the widest part of the squash was wedging her hole completely open, I then held it there, stuck in her. Its bright yellow colour looked even brighter squeezed on all sides, as it was, by the deeply engorged lips. When I did that, she cried out; she sputtered a bunch of “Oh gods” and “Oh, yes. Fuck.” And Bertrand groaned appealingly into his glass of wine.

  Then I pushed the squash deep into her, as deep as I could get it while still holding on to it. I fucked her with it fast and hard, until her cries sounded more like she might hyperventilate. But I only stopped the fucking motion to ease the widest part down the canal again to thoroughly open her hole. Paulina groaned low: “Oh. Yes – God.” And she held it there, its widest part stretching her open; her knees raised and completely spread. Nothing obstructed our view. Bertrand said softly, “I can’t believe this. This is incredible, isn’t it? Christ, dinner will never be ready at this rate . . .” While Paulina panted and grunted and sounded like she was giving birth.

  And then I realized what this was all about for Paulina: she’d wanted to experience giving birth but they’d forced her to have a Caesarean delivery. I had an idea. I eased the squash out of her completely. “Hey!” Bertrand said, and Paulina looked at me in shock, her hole gaping open, empty.

  “Wait,” I said. “Don’t panic. I have an idea. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  I came back with a baby eggplant. “Want to try this?” I said, holding it out to her.

  Bertrand looked at Paulina and me wide-eyed, clearly hoping that she was going to consent. She did, without even batting an eye.

  The stem end would have to go up first this time. There wouldn’t be any fucking; she was simply going to give birth to the thing. She braced herself. The stem end easily opened her right up, but the bottom of the eggplant was significantly wider than the squash had been. She took a few breaths – she was really concentrating. Bertrand had done away with sipping his wine and was now swallowing it in mouthfuls. “It’s not going to go,” he said. “That thing’s too big.”

  Paulina breathed sharply and said, “No – I’ll do it. I will. Ah!” She pushed hard. But then she squirted us, accidentally. A quick stream of piss flew out of her. “Sorry!” she said urgently. Her voice sounded high-pitched now and overwrought. “I’m sorry! ”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bertrand assured her. “In fact, do it again if you have to.”

  His insatiable lust amused me, but still, I was on a mission. This was about giving birth to an eggplant; it wasn’t about his fondness for water sports. “Make yourself useful,” I told him. “Go pour yourself some more wine.”

  “But I don’t want to miss anything,” he protested.

  “We’re right here. We aren’t going anywhere. This is going to take a minute.”

  But it didn’t take a minute. Suddenly, she’d opened up and the rest of the eggplant went in, and then the hole closed immediately around it once it was securely up the canal.

  “Holy Christ
,” Bertrand said.

  “Wow,” Paulina said, breathing heavily. “Wow.” Then she added, “I’d like a little wine.”

  Bertrand did the honours and brought us our glasses of wine. He topped us off with more Font-Mars and then we clinked our glasses in a toast. “To the baby eggplant,” I said. “Cheers, Paulina.”

  She took a few sips of wine and then set her glass aside. She stripped off her stockings then scooted her bottom to the very edge of our kitchen island. She planted her heels wide apart and propped herself up in a half-sitting position. She bore down hard, until her anus was pushing open. She pushed and then pushed harder still. She grunted and groaned. She held her breath at times; then let her breath go and panted hard. She spit on her fingertips and began rubbing her clit. But it wasn’t coming. She let her clit alone and pushed some more.

  I privately worried that the thing was stuck in there and would never come out; then what would we do? Take her to Beth Israel? It was the closest hospital . . .

  “Oh shit,” she finally squealed. “Yes.”

  And we saw it, big and purple and round, crowning in her hole.

  “Oh God,” she groaned deeply, her whole body relaxing. But then it disappeared again. It still wasn’t coming – it had slipped back up the canal. For a moment, Paulina did nothing. She was pacing herself, it seemed; she caught her breath. Then she bore down again and there it was, pushing her vagina open, really coming out now. She cried out and the pitch of her cry made my heart race. And then, for a few moments, she didn’t move and the eggplant sat there, right in her hole, opening her impossibly wide. I realized then that I was holding my breath, my mouth was filled with wine; I couldn’t swallow. I looked quickly at Bertrand and understood him a little better then. His eyes were glued to the sight of Paulina’s stretched vagina; he wasn’t swallowing either but his right hand was back underneath his apron.

  Paulina gave a final grunt, a final push and, to our relief and delight, the eggplant popped out and headed straight for the kitchen floor.