by Kari Gregg
She blew out a sigh, slid back on her haunches. She stretched. "Friday nights, Mitch. That was our deal," she said. Stretching her abused muscles, she winced. "I won't be able to walk by Sunday."
Mitch cupped her cheeks in his hands, whispered a kiss over her lips. "I'll make sure you can walk." He slanted his mouth over hers, sampled hers lightly. "Stay."
Chapter Twelve
Liv stayed.
They showered, together, with Liv taking turns sucking both their cocks hard again. Then, they'd bent her over the toilet and consecutively fucked her ass. Mitch was a gentleman, Sam his guest, so he let Sam have the first go. Mostly because Sam was right. Fucking without a condom did make a mess. Granted, the other man hadn't seemed averse to sucking Mitch's semen out of Liv's well-lubed pussy earlier, but Mitch didn't want to push Sam too far. So he gave Sam the first crack at her very fetching ass, the sound of Liv's grunts as she took Sam's longer dick an aria to Mitch's ears. Then, he'd lined up and fucked her himself.
The roots of his hair had tingled when Sam had snaked his hand underneath their straining bodies to play with Liv's clit. Partly because of the needy sounds Liv made when another orgasm slapped through her. Partly because Sam's softening dick brushed Mitch's pistoning hips, giving Mitch's feverish brain fantasies guaranteed to make his dick spit and spurt into Liv's thoroughly-used asshole seconds later. After, they hit the all-night pancake house on the highway. He and Liv were bone-deep exhausted, but the much younger Sam vibrated with kinetic energy that demanded food. Specifically, a small army of sausage links, a double Mexi-Cali omelet with extra cheddar, and funnel cakes piled high with pineapple and whipped cream. Mitch figured if he turned into a plague of freaking locusts after sex, Sam's metabolism must hover somewhere in the vicinity of Neptune. That or he never got laid. No way could a grown man eat that much on a regular basis and live, much less keep his body as wiry and lean as Sam's. Mitch's arteries cemented just sitting in the same zip code with the guy.
Liv took it in stride, though, pushing her unwanted waffles across the clear glass tabletop to Sam.
Mitch gaped at her, then at Sam when he dug in.
She laughed. "Better on his hips than mine."
"Your hips could use a little more meat on them. If I fuck you the way I want to, I'd split you in half." Sam chased the waffles with orange juice, then reached under their booth to slide her skirt higher.
Mitch's eyebrow arched, reluctantly impressed.
With Sam's bottomless pit of a stomach driving them on, they'd dressed haphazardly after fucking in the bathroom. Mitch had pulled on gym shorts and the sweatshirt he'd let Liv borrow that first Friday. Liv had yanked her little black skirt back on, but her bra, panties, and the sheer blouse were still Missing in Action somewhere in his pit of an apartment. He'd tugged one of his t-shirts over her head. Sam looked as polished and put-together as the frigging Ad Exec he'd told them he was. Or rather, the Ad Man he intended to be once he'd paid his dues. Not a hair out of place.
And as his fingers walked her black mini-skirt up her thighs—
The guy's fork didn't miss a beat.
Liv grabbed his wrist. "Sam," she growled in low warning. Her gaze darted to a guy in flannel at the front counter, whose gaze, Mitch noticed with a sharp zing of arousal, had narrowed on the three of them in the rear booth. "They'll kick us out." Sam shoveled a bite of waffle that dripped syrup into his mouth. "No they won't. The only one who cares is that guy," he said once he'd finished chewing and nodded to Mr. Flannel at the counter, "and we already know you like to put on a show. Stop bitching and spread your legs."
"Do it, babe," Mitch said. After three spine-melting orgasms, he wouldn't have believed he could get hard again, not tonight, but Liv shot him a resentful glare before indeed spreading her thighs wide for whatever Sam had in mind.
Mitch leaned back in the booth and dully shifted his dick to a more comfortable position inside his shorts. Sam smoothed Liv's skirt high, exposing her beautiful cunt to his talented fingers.
And to Mr. Flannel.
And thank God for clear glass tabletops, Mitch had a front row seat to Sam's fingers rubbing and pinching her pink flesh. Sam worked her clit with his left hand while, unbelievably, he continued to use his right to shovel food. Mitch had never been so grateful Sam had caught him fucking Liv in the parking lot. The gods of deviants and perverts had been smiling down on him, not a doubt in his mind.
Liv's head fell back, her chest rising and falling.
Mitch rubbed at his aching dick through the nylon of his shorts, wondering just how far Sam would push this.
He didn't have to wonder long.
Sam's hand rose, fingers glistening. He stretched and draped his arm around Liv's shoulders. Her eyes snapped open as he palmed her tit through the t-shirt Mitch had given her.
He forked a sausage link past his lips. "Hike your skirt to your waist." Her eyes rounded.
Glancing around, her gaze fastened on the guy at the counter.
"Never mind him. The waitress went out back to smoke. You have exactly fifteen minutes to make this happen." He speared egg, cheese, and peppers into his mouth next.
Her gaze jerked to meet his. "I do?"
He nodded, his mouth full. He chewed, swallowed. "Masturbate." She squirmed.
Seconds later—holy fucking shit—the black skirt ringed her waist and her bare ass cheeks kissed dirty red vinyl. Her thighs spread wide again, like they'd been springloaded.
"Finger-fuck yourself, honey." Mitch stroked his dick, teeth gritting as he watched Sam's fingers pinch her nipples to prominent points. "Lift the shirt," he told Sam.
Sam obediently skimmed her shirt up and bent to fasten his ravenous mouth over her tit.
Mitch slid his hand under the waist of his gym shorts, dragged his dick out. He wrapped his fingers around it and began a slow, laborious pump. Liv, finally getting with the program, thrust her hand under the table and with a shaky moan, stuffed two fingers into her pussy.
"Touch me," Sam muttered against her swollen nipple.
Mr. Flannel retrieved his cell phone from his pocket.
Liv didn't see it or if she did, she didn't care. Her attention had focused on releasing Sam's hard dick from his jeans and her rapidly thrusting fingers in her cunt. Oh well.
Mitch worked his dick with mounting speed, his pleasure building inside him. They each stroked and pumped each other.
Two vids on the net, then.
Three, if the pancake house's security cameras were angled right. Mitch could live with that.
Liv's hips arched into her busy fingers.
Sam grunted as her other hand stroked him. "He's filming us." Mitch's grip tightened, working his cock with frantic abandon.
Liv groaned, her body curling in on itself as her fingers shoved in and out of her cunt.
Sam dropped the fork, covered her hand with his. Sam helped her pump his cock.
Mitch's eyes focused on Sam's dick. He couldn't tear his gaze away. Liv's dainty fingers fisted around his hard, fat dick. Sam laced his fingers between hers, his skin darker than hers but not as dark as Mitch's. At first, only Sam's heavy breathing reverberated in the silence. His hard pants soon competed with the wet, sucking sound of Liv's fingers, still plundering her pussy. Then, the frantic slap-slap-slap of their joined hands working Sam's cock. The feral sounds of sweaty masturbation melted into one other, completing the horny symphony.
Liv came on a shuddering groan.
Mitch's jaw clenched.
Sharp pleasure gathered in balls.
Mitch shouted when the orgasm tore into him, his hips lifting as he spurted over his frantically jerking hand.
Seconds later, gluey ropes of semen sprayed from Sam's cock, too. Before Mitch could re-gather his senses, Sam pushed Liv's bare ass under the table. "Clean us up," was all the other man said.
And he reached for his fork.
Un-fucking-believable.
Mitch's chest rose and fell in harsh pants, but Liv licked h
is still-shaking fingers, then took his cock into her mouth to suck him clean in one ravenous gulp. Oh Jesus.
When she tucked him back into his shorts, he could've wept.
Sam chuckled and gave her hair an affectionate pat when she swiveled to lick thick semen from his dick next. "Good girl," he said. Sam polished off his eggs.
* * * * *
Sam left a twenty on the table and stopped to say something to Mr. Flannel on the way out.
By the time they got home, the guy had emailed the video to Sam and they fell asleep, streaming it in a loop on Mitch's laptop. Liv hadn't tripped out much, even after Sam had told them Mr. Flannel planned to file-share. Extensively. "Do you know how many guys are going to beat off to this over the next year? How many men are going to wish it was their fingers pumping your pussy? Imagine it's their dick you're sucking clean? You're going to star in the sweaty fantasies of hundreds, maybe thousands, all of them jerking their meat while they listen to you come. Try to think of it as a public service."
When that hadn't worked, both of them had taken turns licking her until she was an incoherent, shaky mass of raw nerves, until she didn't have the energy to even moan. Then, they'd sandwiched her between them and drifted off to sleep to the groans and frantic slapping that emitted from the tinny laptop speakers.
When Mitch awoke the next morning, Liv was still in front of him, sweet ass tucked into his crotch, but Sam was no longer on the other side of her. He sighed, briefly entertained the idea of fucking her awake, but a quick look at his alarm clock told him that he should let her sleep. They hadn't gotten home from the pancake house until after three in the morning and they'd stayed up, playing, an hour or two afterward.
So he quietly slipped away, left her to sleep. Covering her with his blanket, he briefly considered rooting around in his dresser for clean gym shorts, but the noise would wake her. Besides, he needed caffeine in the worst way. He followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen.
"Good afternoon," Sam said, handing a mug to him.
Mitch groggily accepted it. Through bleary and exhausted eyes, he watched Sam settle back at the spot he'd cleared for himself at the dining room table. The other man must've made a run to his apartment for fresh clothes because he wore a new pair of jeans and a long-sleeved oxford of dark hunter green. His hair was still damp at the ends, but neatly combed, his jaw clean-shaven. Wire-rimmed glasses that Mitch hadn't known the guy needed dangled from one finger as he turned the page of his newspaper. He scanned the paper before he shoved the glasses on his nose, settled to read whatever had caught his interest.
Mitch leaned against the kitchen counter and scrubbed at his face with his hand, the rasp of his morning stubble like sandpaper in the quiet. When he lifted his coffee cup to blow, then sip, he smelled Liv's cunt on his fingers. His dick hung hard and heavy between his legs.
Sam looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a magazine.
Mitch, meanwhile, knew that he looked like he'd spent the night rutting and wallowing in his sexual excesses.
Which he had.
But still.
Granted, he wasn't as young as Sam was. Mitch hadn't asked, but he'd pegged the younger man as in his early twenties. Mitch had bounced back from a night of feverish sex a lot quicker then, too.
At thirty, Mitch felt like he'd been rode hard and put away wet. Looked it, too. Sam shook his newspaper. "You're thinking too hard over there." Mitch grunted. Drank his coffee. "Just wondering why it is you look so pretty after last night and I look"—he rolled his eyes—"like I do." Sam snorted. "I make it my business to look pretty. Being pretty is what I do best." Mitch's dick jerked at the hot stare Sam shot over the newspaper. "Looking tough and mean is what you do best."
Mitch chuckled, sipped his coffee.
"I like you with the stubble and the stale scent of sex still clinging to you. I even like your hair sticking up, but you wouldn't have wanted me to stick around today if I hadn't cleaned up." The corner of Sam's lips curved. "Did you pick me for Liv or for yourself?"
It was too fucking early for conversations like this. So Mitch gulped down his coffee, cursing under his breath when it burned the roof of his mouth. "What is this shit?" He wiped a hand across his lips. He dumped the rest of his mug into the sink, poured a fresh cup. Sniffed.
He frowned.
This definitely wasn't his Maxwell House.
"It's Hazelnut, a special blend I have mixed at a shop downtown." Great.
Mitch sipped cautiously.
Yup.
Still tasted like shit, but what the hell, it had caffeine in it, right?
"You didn't answer my question, Mitch."
He frowned into his coffee cup. "What?"
Sam folded the newspaper, set it aside. "I thought I was for Liv. You told me I was for her, but after the waffle hut last night . . . ."
Mitch glared at him. "What about it?"
Sam arched an eyebrow. "You stared at me while you beat off. I didn't notice in the restaurant, but video doesn't lie. You never took your eyes off me." Mitch snorted.
Sam was being diplomatic.
He'd seen the video, too—Mitch hadn't unglued his stare from Sam's cock, hadn't even blinked. After, watching the video over and over once they'd gotten home, Mitch's mind had reeled at how beautiful Liv had been. His hands had shaken when she'd bared herself and finally shucked her skirt over her hips. His stomach had tightened as he'd watched her finger-fuck herself to quick, brutal orgasm, ass bare and naked for the whole world to see.
But last night, at the restaurant, his attention hadn't focused on Liv. His rapt interest had been on Sam and his wondrous cock.
Mitch jerked his shoulder. "So?"
Sam pushed to his feet and walked to him, stopping a couple feet away. "I'm as straight as they come, Mitch. I've never been with another guy. I never wanted to." Mitch gulped the absurd coffee, smothered the disappointment that gnawed at his belly. Granted, Sam had turned out a lot more adventurous than Mitch had originally pegged him, but even last night, he'd known the other man wouldn't welcome any advances from him. "It's okay, Sam. I chose you for her. I'm attracted to you, sure, but I won't act on it."
"See, that's the interesting thing. Maybe . . . Maybe I want you to act on it." Sam grabbed the coffee pot and refilled his own mug. He swiveled, leaned against the counter beside Mitch. "I never thought twice about another guy. I was never attracted. Never saw the lure of it. But after watching you with Liv yesterday, after watching you watch me . . . ."
Mitch's heart stuttered. He drank his coffee. "You're going to have to spell it out for me, Sammy."
The younger man sighed. "Is Liv okay with it?"
"With my being bisexual?" Mitch drank his coffee. "She flipped out at first, but she's coming to terms with my freakier side. She's unleashed her own inner freak or you wouldn't be here. If I really wanted it, I think she'd be okay."
"Good. It won't screw everything up then." The other man turned, placed his mug on the counter. Blew out a sharp breath. "I want to try something. An experiment." Abrupt arousal balled Mitch's stomach, drew his nerves tight like a strung bow. His hands shook. He put his coffee down before he ended up wearing it. "All right." When Sam dropped to his knees in front of him, staring at his dick like it was a puzzle he needed to solve, Mitch's pulse thundered in his ears. "No, Sam," he said. On his knees—and God Almighty, what was Mitch doing, messing with this?—
the younger man blinked his disconcerted blue eyes at him. "What?" Mitch bent, grabbed his arm, guided him back to his feet. The guy had been with countless women and Mitch didn't knock his expertise in that area, not at all. If anything, he appreciated it. For Liv. But when it came to other men, Sam was a virgin. Untouched.
Untutored.
As fresh and unspoiled as a thirteen year-old schoolgirl.
That burden stirred his gut and laid heavily on him, all at the same time. Mitch trembled.
He lifted his hand to cup Sam's clean-shaven cheek. "I want you. You were right a
bout that. I want you pretty bad, but not enough to be a whore for you," he murmured, satisfied when Sam's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "My cock isn't a toy. It's attached to a person: me. I can be your experiment. If you want to play, try me on for size, I'm yours." His grip on Sam's jaw tightened. He let his eyes go hard, cold. "But you'll kiss me first."
Chapter Thirteen
Sam's blue eyes glittered with equal parts hunger and fear. "I don't know if I can," he said.
Mitch dropped his hand, reached for his coffee. "Then the experiment's over."
"No!"
When Mitch glared at Sam's grip on his forearm, Sam released him. "I—I don't—
But you're a guy."
Mitch shrugged, chuckled at the sheen of panic in Sam's stare. "So are you." He slurped his coffee. "You don't like foreplay?"
Sam cursed under his breath.
Mitch took pity on him, grinned. "Is there no part of me—other than my dick—
that you want to touch?"
Mitch knew he'd never, ever in a million years look coolly polished and refined, not like Sam did. Sam who toned his comparatively lean body in a gym. Mitch worked construction. His body had been built by years of grueling work—thick muscle, hard bricks of muscle, muscle that Sam hadn't known existed. A pretty boy like Sam, a nervous virgin, had to be attracted to him for his muscle. Hadn't Sam described him as tough and mean?
"Touch me, Sam. Anywhere you want." When Sam's eyebrow quirked, Mitch snickered. "Except there. My dick's out of bounds until I say so," he said and reached out to slide his fingers down Sam's shoulder. "But you can touch me anywhere else. I'll take it from there."
Lord, he'd forgotten how good breaking a virgin to his hand felt, how the uneasy innocent edge of their desire warmed his belly. Sam's nervous stare flitted over his chest. The tense rigidity of his body—he vibrated with that now-familiar kinetic energy. Focused, this time, on Mitch.