The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

by Linda Alvarez

  John had no idea what he was letting himself in for. Now, I should mention that the fact that the princesses came home each night reeking of various fluids wasn’t something the headmaster had shared with anyone. If word of that got out . . . Yeah. Not so much.

  Given the stories of torn clothing, though, John was expecting some kind of rave, maybe. For all his nasty thoughts, he really didn’t have a clue.

  They disembarked on a wide, whitewashed dock. Two men came forwards and held the boat as the princesses and John jumped out. He trailed behind them into the room so he could keep an eye on them.

  Then he was inside, and saw what the princesses were really up to every night.

  “Oh, goody.” Talia clapped her hands together. “Slave Augustus here. I’ve been itching to blister his adorable ass.”

  “And he cries so prettily when you do,” Simone said.

  “Shall we tag team?”

  “Yes, let’s!”

  They skipped off together, headed for a buff man wearing not much more than some straps criss-crossed around his chest, a posing pouch and a collar, all made out of burgundy leather.

  Swiftly, they tied him down on a spanking bench while another slave gathered implements for them. Because a princess can’t mar her pretty, soft white hands, now can she? Talia was rather fond of paddles herself, but Simone chose a flail, and ran her fingers through the strands while she watched her friend go to work on the slave’s ass, which was indeed quite adorable, and getting hotter by the moment.

  Slave Augustus murmured his thanks after every blow.

  Charlotte and Faris had also chosen to share a slave, but to more direct benefit. Charlotte reclined on a feather bed full of pillows while the slave licked her and Faris played with her nipples.

  Meanwhile, Rosalyn indulged her slightly subby streak with two men, preparing herself (and them) for an exquisite double penetration. She had a cock in each hand and alternated between sucking them – but skilfully not letting them come just yet.

  Subby, yet always in control.

  “What’s wrong, Jonette?” Brianna asked. “You don’t have to be all dom if you don’t want to. April and Philippa are as vanilla as they come.” She pointed to where each princess was squirming and squealing under the attentive ministrations of an accomplished man whose sole purpose was to give her as many orgasms as possible. “The slaves are just here for our pleasure – you can have them do whatever you want them to do to you.”

  “Uh, Brianna?” Gabrielle said, because she was starting to figure things out. “I think maybe he—”

  “Ohhh!” Brianna said. “Are you a lesbian? There are female slaves here, too.” She beckoned to one of the men, who stepped forwards, hands clasped behind his back. He was naked except for a short gold chain around his neck.

  “No, I . . .” John panicked.

  Then he felt his skirt being pulled up and, before he could react, delicate hands plunged between his legs.

  “I thought so!” Gabrielle cried. “She’s a man!”

  Something clattered to the floor, and she snatched it up. “And he has a camera,” she said. “Spying on us. Probably planning to blackmail our parents.”

  And then it was too late for John.

  The princesses (the ones who hadn’t already gotten distracted, that is) pinned him down and, with the help of some of the slaves, had his clothing off, his wrists cuffed to a belt around his waist, and a spreader bar keeping his ankles apart faster than you could say your safe word. He would’ve protested, except for the ring gag they slipped into his mouth.

  “I think we should let the slaves have some fun for once, don’t you?” Brianna asked.

  “Excellent idea,” Gabrielle agreed, having already thought of it anyway.

  Because you know, don’t you, that John was very much the type of man to not just be heterosexual and leave it at that? He had an abhorrence of anything that might remotely involve the faintest whiff of homosexuality. (Unless it came to girl-on-girl action, of course. That was entirely different. Charlotte and Faris over there, kissing and fondling each other while Charlotte bounced on the slave’s cock and Faris ground herself against his mouth? Hot. Very hot.)

  The only thing worse than that? Having anyone he knew suspect him of such perversion. Which is why that camera of his came in so damn handy.

  They got pictures of him being enthusiastically screwed up the ass by a lucky slave. They got pictures of him wearing a penis gag with an anonymous princess (it was Lianne-Marie, but for obvious reasons her features weren’t visible) bouncing up and down on him – because, of course, the princesses weren’t going to let the slaves have all the fun. They got pictures of him crying as he was whipped on an X-frame, having his face splashed with come from a circle of slaves, being forced to suck a whole line of men.

  Worst of all, they got pictures of him achingly aroused by all of it. His penis straining erect, his balls shaved and bulging around a cock ring. Slaves licking his cock and balls and ass while he writhed and struggled.

  A lovely video of him pumping his hips futilely against empty air, ungagged so he could beg to be allowed to come. That was the pièce de résistance, the ultimate piece of blackmail.

  They debated leaving a vibrating butt plug shoved up his sorry ass, but in the end agreed that permanent damage wasn’t really necessary. They did lock him into a chastity belt and toss the key into the lake on the way back, so he’d have that special added humiliation of asking someone for help removing it.

  John slunk off in shame in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again.

  And the princesses? Well, let’s just say they all went home, got married and became the power behind the thrones.

  Except for Gabrielle. She runs a porn empire. She always did have a head for business.

  Those Daaaaaancing Feeeeeeet!

  Nick Mamatas

  Reg found it extremely difficult to choreograph an orgy in these days of Mannerist decadence and increasing ticket prices. There was the challenge, of course, of avoiding heteronormative slot-tab type things: a girl on all fours, a cock in her mouth, one in her ass, a guy under her slacking while she ground her pussy down on him. Even the formulation – one cock, two cock, fill all the holes – tended to dehumanize everyone. Then there were the “show-time”-style stunts: handstands and toes tucked into assholes, streams of semen shooting in fine arcs like an Italian fountain. Clever stuff, hard to pull off, but about as sexy as the cramped interior of a circus clown car. Well, that was probably somebody’s kink . . . but Reg digressed, as he often did when amidst a forest of limbs, some hard with muscle, others flabby and warm.

  “From the top,” he called out after he lost his own erection, and the twists of arms and legs and tits came undone. There were ten in all, seven men and three women, including Reg. Daniela smiled at him and walked over on her tiptoes, her back arched and little lemon tits sticking out.

  “Reg,” she said, “maybe if—”

  “—the genders were even, yes, I understand. But everyone does that.”

  “Or more women than men!” José called out. He was wiping himself down, a towel under the crease of his belly.

  “It’ll work fine,” Reg said. “We just need to loosen up.” He waved his arms. “Qigong, everyone.” And the players lined up and lifted their arms and began their deep breathing exercises. There was just enough room on the cramped stage for everyone, especially with arms outstretched and eyes closed, but Reg kept his eyes open. On the skin of his cast – pink and brown and dark – he could see the traces of his handiwork. Impressions of limbs and hand in the flesh. Then he had an idea.

  Here is how it went. José on all fours, Jeanette squatted on to his back, her ass plump and back curved. Her face was buried in Lindsey’s shockingly hairy bush – shocking as Brazilians were in season; hair was the new “ethnic” and ethnic was in, Reg supposed – and her hands pressed against Lindsey’s fat breasts. José had Don’s odd brown cock in his mouth, and worked his t
hroat till his nose was buried on Don’s pubic hair. Don held on to the back of José’s head for a moment to balance himself. He spread his feet, sunk his weight on to his heels and then bent over backwards. Little Daniela straddled Don’s gymnast torso. Reg waved his arms and the Wong twins, Lee and Henry, took up position on either side of Daniela. She grabbed their dicks and started pumping them, then turned to kiss Lee hungrily, then Henry. Reg himself slipped behind Henry and stuck his tongue up Henry’s ass, lubing it for the cock to come. Only when satisfied did the last two men – the burly bear Kenneth, all blond fuzz and beer belly, and a stocky fire hydrant of a man named Russ, take their places. They grabbed Reg’s ankles and wrists and held the choreographer up and on his side. It took a few long moments for Reg to penetrate Henry, and he nearly lost his erection, but sucking the sweat from Kenneth’s big balls helped with that, and soon enough he was in. Finally, they were all in position. Reg hummed, giving Kenneth the signal. Kenneth blinked twice.

  That was the cue. Lindsey slid to the left, Jeanette still attached to her cunt. Under Jeanette, José grunted but his strong arms and thighs were up to the task of holding her weight. He moved from Don’s cock to his outer thigh, licking it all over and hunting for ass. Daniela put her arms around Henry and Lee and lifted herself up to spread her legs. Russ shifted Reg’s legs to his own shoulders and bent over to suck on Lindsey’s toes. The Wongs reached between that mass of bent bodies and jerked one another off. Freed from Daniela’s cunt, Don’s cock glistened with slick syrup. He lay down for a moment, but Kenneth reached down and lifted the other man up by the cock. Still on his side, wedged between several men, Reg wondered if this was still all too Hollywood, but he would only know at the final bow.

  The sad fact, Reg thought to himself during his smoke break, is that people don’t come to see Broadway fuck shows for the choreography or even for the musky smell of the sex. They like the fog pouring out of the smoke machines and the beams of light arcing overhead, ones that look so solid you could reach up and touch it, hang off it. Older women enjoy the songs and the first act teases – that first flex of bicep or expense of abs. The legs or the flick of a hip. They even dig the improbable show tune rhymes: “Oh when will Mister Lee So Yung/ decide to finally have some fun/ and put my pudenda/ on his agendaaaaa!” Reg often found himself fuming by the stage door as the audience members wandered by humming that crap.

  The other problem is that orgy choreography is just like driving a car or running the United States – everyone thinks they can do it, but most people who actually try are friggin’ morons. Reg liked to tell his cast, “And everyone is half right.” That would get a laugh. Competition was keen, and nobody wanted to take it up the ass any more. Prima donnas, all of ’em. Reg stubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and went back to the dressing rooms to tell Donald to go easy on the mahogany tonight. Speaking of prima donnas.

  “Are you kidding?” Don asked.

  “Nope. I want everyone pale.”

  “Under those lights? I’ll look like a fish fillet.” Don sucked in his little belly. He was an older guy – late forties but looked maybe a decade younger. Only he wanted to look two decades younger. “What’s this all about? Are you going to tell the Wong brothers to ‘lighten up’ too, or are you just looking to make sure I don’t get any more callbacks?”

  “Don’t be an asshole. Just do it.”

  Don muttered something about the union and amateur-hour horseshit, but Reg just walked out, ignoring him but still nervous. About how it was going to go, not about that cocksucker’s empty threats. Soon enough the curtain went up. People laughed when they were supposed to – Daniela sodomizing Kenneth to bring out the falsetto in his voice, Russ facing down the Wongs in a three-way cock duel that ended up with all the players tumbling into the orchestra pit. They gasped at Lindsey hanging from her labia (and unseen, from her waist and ankles) thanks to clamps and string while she drank water and told a few jokes about coming to New York on a two-day bus trip from South Dakota. Lots of applause for Russ’ touching solo spoken-word piece about wishing he could invite his grandparents to see his show, but how they likely wouldn’t understand. (The audience plant, an older woman, nearly missed her cue when she rose from her seat to blow Russ kisses, but that clumsiness just gave the whole thing a bit more verisimilitude.)

  Then the finale. Reg could barely get hard, not even after a bit of surreptitious frigging. Forget the peeled ginger in the bum, it was the applause that did it. He was out there and hard and so it went well. There were giggles and quiet smiles between the players as they dropped to their knees or spread dry mouths and wet snatches. It had been two hours under the lights with nothing but the occasional draft from the wings, but Reg still had goosebumps. He wasn’t the only one. And they fucked. Boy did they fuck. The Wongs coated Daniela like she was a pastry of some sort; Jeanette’s face and chin were drenched. The cunt juice ran down her neck and stomach to mix with her own perspiration. That just made the effect better though, when they all lined up to take their bows.

  Yes, the effect. Ten figures, all standing hand in hand, with big smiles and bow, with the traces of one another’s bodies pressed into the skin. Impressions of arms and ass cheeks, flanks and thighs red from being pressed into the boards. Across the expanse of skin, there was left a picture – a man and a woman, too many limbs and stretched across thirteen feet of glowing actor, entangled in the act of physical love.

  Departures

  David Findlay

  My sister Cecilie was the last one home. By the time she arrived, we’d stacked forgotten aunts and brand-new cousins in the front room and master bedroom, Uncle Ron and his frightened-looking third wife in my old attic room, and me in back of the upstairs library. In the frenzy of relocation someone even moved my mom’s ashes in their ugly urn from the obscurity of her old study to the sill of a stained-glass window overlooking the front stairway. The guests just kept on coming, but I wasn’t going to consider letting anyone else stay in my sister’s room.

  At midnight on the eve of the funeral, Cecilie arrived with an unexpected retinue: a leather-clad room-mate I’d never heard of and a quiet young person of indeterminate gender who held the door for both of them, then disappeared into the bathroom. Cecilie’s wardrobe took up three bags, each of them as heavy as I’d been when I worked security. I helped their grateful driver to prise each case one at a time from the boot and the back seat, feeling a little bit heroic as I bore the brunt of the weight. The room-mate was lovely. Her outfit was so distracting that it took me a moment to realize she was the same height and build as my sister, with the same waist-length blonde dreads and the same cat’s-eye red glasses. Her dog collar and air-soled boots were pink, accenting the shiny black surface of her miniscule outfit. She bounded out of the cab, shook my hand and began bustling packages to the porch while I held my sister. Cecilie and I hadn’t ever really given each other physical comfort before, and I didn’t want to let go.

  “It’s crazy, CeeCee. Glad you’re here.”

  She smelled like lube and lavender, and her hair tickled my ear. In her usual insanely high heels, my little sister was far taller than me. Cecilie pulled slowly away, kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “Bet you’ve got it totally under control, big bro. Isn’t Izzy a peach?”

  The rare compliment found its mark and for a moment I felt like a responsible adult. Izzy? If Izzy was the room-mate, “peach” didn’t begin to describe her. I watched her ass flex beneath the tiny, too-tight skirt as she wheeled one of my sister’s bags across the expanse of lawn to the front porch. Dancer’s thighs, grey translucent stay-ups . . . a guy could get obsessed with that kind of shape. I allowed myself a moment’s fantasy of lifting her skirt and sliding my hands up the back of her thighs, cupping her cheeks, lifting the skirt higher, higher, all the way up until . . .

  “How far up?”

  Izzy was asking me about where to take the baggage, and I’d been caught ogling her posterior before we’d even got her in
to the house.

  “Um, yeah, second-floor landing, then to your right. Cecilie’s the first door on the right next to the little washroom. Or would you like a hand with that?” I had almost caught up when Izzy popped the most massive bag over her shoulder and trotted across the porch. Her skirt crept higher, showing another hint of her muscular, round rear.

  “I’m fine, Graham, but maybe you want to watch from the bottom of the stairs just in case I fall?”

  I looked down, chastened, and imagined the view from a tongue’s length away.

  “Someday when you’re moving slower, maybe?”

  Flirting with my sister’s room-mate(?) new girlfriend(?) was probably not a brilliant idea, given that Cecilie would be a handful to keep in line even if I were on her good side. Maybe Izzy would help? She certainly seemed capable of being a distraction. As I struggled with the other bags, their mute, androgynous companion came out of the bathroom. The three of them unpacked nonchalantly into Cecilie’s room as if it were the most obvious thing in the world that they’d all share her ancient twin bed. I tried not to imagine what they’d get up to beneath the quilt Gran Amble made. I tried to think myself calmly through the question of whether they were actually doing any harm by ignoring customary small-town decorum when every gossipy relative in the world was camped at our place. In Abercrombie, one doesn’t usually advertise three-way gender-queer liaisons as blithely as all that . . . unless you’re Cecilie.

  When everyone was settled down, I brought a six-pack upstairs, spread my bedroll in the copyright law section and stripped down to my long johns. The moon was almost full, and the library was aglow with reflected light. Done with stressing about funeral arrangements, my brain turned to happier thoughts. I imagined Izzy’s ample cheeks spread around my stiffness, grinding on my face. The house creaked as only ancient oak can, and I kept wondering if I heard my sister’s bed over the other household sounds. It took many hours and a lot of beer to get to sleep.