by Kari Gregg
When Sam's cock shot and spurted, his hips helplessly bucking, Mitch shoved his fingers in and out of the man's ass with brutal rapidity, taking Sam's orgasm higher. Sam writhed and groaned, his hands fisting and tearing at the twisted sheets of their bed.
When he finished, when the frantic whip of his body eased, Mitch released Sam's dick. Mitch removed his fingers from Sam's ass. Sam watched him with sated but exhausted blue eyes as Mitch squeezed lube into his shaking, semen-spattered hand. He rubbed his cock with it, desire gnawing at him like rabid rats.
"This is going to hurt, honey. I'm sorry," he said, shifting into position between Sam's widespread legs. He pushed the head of his dick to his butt hole. "I'm sorry," he repeated, wanting to thrust so bad he thought he'd die if he didn't.
"I love you," Sam said.
Mitch squeezed the head of his dick into him.
Oh my God, he was so fucking tight. Mitch's breath locked in his chest. The muscles of his arms corded. He shook, losing himself, just for a moment, in the absolute glory of Sam's searing hot ass.
Sammy's eyes snapped shut, his features etched with sharp pain. He cried out, his body stiffening.
Shoving down selfish desire, Mitch withdrew.
Sam's body deflated, as though all the air had been let out of him. He blew heavy pants through his parted lips.
Mitch pushed inside him again, just the tip, and his cock went in a little easier this time. Sam's butt was as tight as a drum, infernally hot. Mitch's hands fisted on Sam's hips, the pleasure so intense it rocked him to the core.
Sam's spine arched. He threw his head back, teeth clenched. "Christ." Mitch retreated. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pushed back into Sam's ass, working his dick farther in. "It'll get better when I'm deeper," he said, and instead of retreating from his ass, he pulled out only to the rim before fucking deeper still, another inch in.
Sam grunted, lines of pain bracketing his mouth. His body went rigid under Mitch, but Mitch couldn't stop now. The greater kindness wasn't stopping, but spearing his dick into Sam as far as it would go, as quickly as he could get it there. So he arched his hips, pumped into Sammy's butt, groaning at how good it felt.
"Fuck," Sam cried out, ass cheeks clenched against the pain, his eyes damn near wild with it as Mitch shoved his dick into him. "Jesus, it hurts!"
"I know, baby." Mitch's groin kissed Sam's ass as his body hilted Mitch's cock. Mitch stilled, gasping for air. "You've got all of me now. It's done. Relax, Sammy, breathe through it."
Sam shuddered beneath him. His fingers clenched to spasmodic fists in the covers on their bed. "Oh God—"
"The pain will fade. I promise, but you've got to calm down so your body will accept me." Mitch moaned, the taut pressure of Sam's clenched ass shredding his control. "Loosen your muscles. Don't fight it."
Sam groaned, riding out the pain instead of resisting it. Mitch stroked his hips. He forged a path with his mouth over Sam's trembling shoulders and his bare neck. Mitch focused on soothing Sam—the hurting virgin he'd taken for his lover—because if he didn't, the orgasm that was screaming through his dick was going to rip him to pieces.
Sam's body relaxed by achingly slow degrees. He blew out ragged pants, stretched out beneath Mitch like a pagan offering, his butt hole puckered around Mitch's invading cock. "It's okay. Just do it," he said, his voice strained and gasping.
"Please."
Mitch knew he wasn't ready, that he wasn't there yet. Sam just wanted it to be over. He was so desperate to end the pain that he'd risk more of it to see this through, but losing his virginity didn't have to finish as an ordeal. Every man's started as one, just as every woman hurt the first time. Mitch wanted more for Sam. Mitch kept touching him, his fingers working the knotted muscles. He brushed his lips over Sam's sweat-slicked skin. "It'll pass, honey. I swear it'll pass. Just wait." Bit by bit, Sam responded to the comfort Mitch offered him. His shoulder shifted to meet Mitch's kisses. The violent rise and fall of his gasping chest slowed. The muscle under Mitch's fingers loosened rather than bunched.
"Kiss me, Sammy," Mitch said and Sam obediently twisted to give his mouth to him. Mitch swept the man's lips, skating his own lightly back and forth. He focused on the kiss, drew it out, traced Sam's lips with his tongue, and licked at him. Sam sighed, opening his mouth wider to let Mitch in.
Sam's mouth surrendered to him.
Just as Sam's body did.
Mitch eased his hips back and inch by careful inch, slid his cock back into Sam's butt hole.
Sammy shivered.
"Okay?" Mitch asked against his lips, bending to taste him again.
"Okay," Sam whispered, lifting his mouth for more.
Mitch's dick retreated, every nerve ending in his body shrieking with delighted lust, and he groaned out brutal pleasure when he slipped back inside. Sam's ass stretched around his dick, fitting him like a glove. And hot? Oh Lord, Mitch was on fire, the burn of Sam's body so sweet he felt the scorching heat blaze down to his balls.
"I love you," Sam said against his lips, kissing him over and over and over again. Mitch pumped his hips.
He filled Sam's ass, his senses scrambling.
His.
Sam was his.
"God, you feel good," Mitch muttered on a hoarse groan, crushing his mouth to Sam's. Mitch's hips shifted to begin the slow ride. "Tell me again." Sam's breath quickened. "I love you, Mitch." His spine arched into Mitch's belly, a surprised moan tearing from his lips.
Mitch nipped at Sam's sexy mouth. "Again," he said, fucking his dick into Sam's heat, wallowing in the spiraling sensations.
"I love you," Sam said, but his eyes had closed, the pain that had lined his face erased by the first slap of fierce pleasure.
When Sam angled his butt to take Mitch's cock deeper, Mitch could've howled with feral laughter. Sam's hole stretched, tight as a rubber band, massaging his cock at every thrust, base to tip. Mitch knew Sam felt the tingling burn of it by his increasingly labored pants. "Keep saying it," Mitch murmured, giving himself up to the joy of fucking Sam.
Sam chanted his love, taking Mitch's cock deep into his sweet, sweet ass. Mitch loved the tight clench of Sam's cheeks as they ground into him, loved Sam's frantic cries as Mitch stabbed deep. Sweat trickled down his back, collecting at the base of his spine. Mitch played with Sam's dick, his sac. It was too soon after his last orgasm and the pain too much to make Sam come again, but Mitch could bring him pleasure, tutor him on the horny delights that awaited them both.
But not this time.
Mitch's stomach had knotted. His heart pounded against his ribcage and the heavy weight of his balls slapping against Sam's crack made control impossible. His shattered.
He fucked his throbbing cock into Sam's butt hole once more, twice, then stiffened as he sprayed what felt like a gallon of hot cum into Sam's blistering hole. Mitch groaned, his body bucking and jerking at the intensity of his release, finally collapsing over Sammy.
When he could think again, breathe again, Sam smiled at him. "I love you, Mitch."
"I know, baby." His lips curved in gluttonous satisfaction. "I love you, too."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Their lives fell into a regular pattern.
Liv stayed at the apartment almost every night. Mitch had added scouting properties for a house for the three of them to his regular workload. Usually, he was the last home. He'd find them in the kitchen, cooking together, or if he was really late, Sam and Liv would be naked and fucking. If they were screwing, Mitch joined in. If cooking, he beat a hasty path to the shower before they brained him with a stainless steel wok for not knowing what a garlic press—or some other damned thing—was. The kitchen was Liv and Sam's territory.
Mitch acceded that ground if not gracefully, at least gratefully. He cleared the table after dinner and loaded the dishwasher, though. Sam worked at the dining room table after dinner—he was always working on a presentation for a client—while Liv read a book or relaxed in the tub, emerging from the bathro
om soft and warm and smelling of raspberries. They did the household chores together, watched TV. He and Sam played basketball. In the day, for the most part, their lives were exceedingly ordinary.
Their nights were full of outrageous sin. Every sweaty fantasy any of them had ever entertained was brought to carnal, screaming life. They spent one night focused on stuffing Liv's cunt with as much cum as Mitch and Sammy could shoot into her—then had taken pictures of her sloppy pussy to use as wallpaper on Mitch's laptop. Sam had tied Mitch up, blindfolded him, then sucked his cock while Liv had beaten Sam's ass with a belt. Somehow, Liv managed to get her head between Sam's legs to gobble down his dick while Mitch fucked him—Nothing was too much, nothing taboo. And Friday, after work, he and Liv revisited Hell.
"Where are you two off to?" Sam asked from the desk he'd made of the dining room table when they got ready to leave.
His beautiful blue eyes sparked with questions Sam hadn't dared push too far before, but living together, the three of them lovers in every way, hadn't made Mitch more willing to answer those questions. Not when Sam had first asked them. Not now, either.
What could he say?
How could he explain it?
That he returned to his father's trailer every week to oversee the progressive rot of Gary's body to cancer, mirroring the rot in the son of a bitch's soul? Mitch was a grown man. Not a scared little boy. He shouldn't need to stare that bastard down any longer. But he did. Mitch couldn't hold his head up unless he proved to the mean son of a bitch who'd fathered him that he couldn't hurt Mitch any more. Proved it to himself. Week after week, after mother fucking week.
Sammy slipped his wire-frame glasses off, folded them neatly atop a manila folder. "I could use a break. If you want company—"
"No!" Bad enough that Livvy endured the weekly torture session with her own family's crap. When Mitch shot a panicked glance at her, Liv's fingers had tightened around her purse strap, stress lines grooving the sides of her mouth. Not all of the secrets were his to tell and she didn't look any more eager to share them than Mitch did. Take Sammy?
To Gary's trailer?
Mitch's skin crawled at even the idea of Sam anywhere near his father. He didn't want them in the same zip code.
"We don't want your fucking company," Mitch said, his voice a cruel lash in the strained silence that followed. "And stay put this time, goddamn it. I won't put up with another drunken hissy fit because you didn't get your way. Balling you doesn't mean I won't kick your candy ass to the curb, boy."
Sam's eyes widened. He sucked in a stunned breath.
Mitch froze, his heart halting in his chest.
His mind whirled.
Jesus!
He'd sounded like Gary.
He'd sounded exactly like his father.
Fury, shame—and God help him—evil satisfaction clogged his throat at Sam's wounded gasp.
Mitch couldn't deal with this shit.
Not this and Gary, too.
Hands shaking, he snatched his truck keys off the coffee table. "We'll be back in a couple hours." His balls shriveled to raisins at the icy condemnation in Liv's eyes when he turned to her. "Come on, if you're going."
She glared at him.
Fuck.
Mitch lurched to his truck. He shoved the keys in the ignition and fired the engine. But he didn't touch the gearshift. His heartbeat rabbited. There wasn't enough air in the truck—he couldn't breathe. His whole body vibrated, like he was flying to pieces. His eyes focused on his gaping apartment door. "Shit," he said and pounded a clenched fist on the steering wheel. "Shit, shit, shit!" He laid his forehead against the steering wheel, tried to slow the gallop of his heart. And trembled.
The passenger door opened.
He smelled her perfume when she climbed into the truck, closing the door behind her. He flinched when her fingers threaded into his hair.
"That wasn't me," he said, fighting the urge to cringe. His stomach rolled sickly.
"I don't know what just happened, but that wasn't me in there." His eyes shut.
"I told him your father's dying. That seemed the simplest explanation." His body stiffened to a painful knot. "Is he—?" Leaving me? Is he packing his things? Has he had enough of my shit yet? Have you? Mitch squeezed the steering wheel. "Is he okay?"
"Are you?"
He laughed.
Oh, hell no.
Still chuckling—he wondered if he wasn't just a little bit crazy—Mitch drove to the trailer park. No stopping for Gary's whisky. If his bastard father thought he could haul his ass from his hospital bed and throw Mitch out, let him try. He'd never bow down or scrape to Gary McAllister again.
He dropped Liv on a side street.
Gary was asleep when he pushed through the front door of the trailer. The nursing assistant Mitch's retirement was paying for glanced over a fat paperback novel from her position in the rocking chair. "He had a bad day," she said and returned to her reading.
He looked it.
Maybe it was wishful thinking on Mitch's part, but Gary's body seemed to have shriveled in the past weeks. The nurse had tucked a blanket around him, but the snug fit only emphasized how little of his father was left. Mitch imagined he could snap the skeletal outline of his femur or the twig-like arm that pushed against the cocooning wool, between his two fingers. Gary's collarbone jutted in sharp angles beneath skin that had leeched to an unhealthy gray. Nothing left of him but papery skin and jutting bones.
Mitch leaned down, staring at the devastated wreck of a human being that was his father.
And hated.
"Where's Rita?" he murmured to distract himself. So he wouldn't slide the pillow from beneath Gary's head and push it over his face. Or rip away the IV that kept him alive. Before he pulled his fist back and beat the bastard to death with his bare hands.
"At the store." The nurse didn't glance up.
Mitch's hands clenched.
Gone.
So he couldn't vent the rage building inside him by tearing into his stepmother, either.
"Do they need anything?"
The nurse shook her head, but Mitch knew that they lacked for nothing, at least materially. Now that his father had round-the-clock care, Mitch called the day nurse every morning. And how pathetic was that? Mitch checking daily on the father who despised him? He couldn't even convince himself that he did it because he was that eager for the old man to die, couldn't make himself believe the lie. No matter how much he wished to God it was true, Mitch didn't call—like a carrion vulture circling—in hopes that this was the day, finally the day, Gary would die. He called because his father's loathing and everything Gary had ever done to him hadn't dented Mitch's need to make sure the son of a bitch was taken care of. Mitch didn't want the dickhead to suffer.
But Mitch wanted to reach down his father's throat and rip his fucking lungs out, too.
Familiar pain clawed his guts with razor-sharp talons.
It hurt.
Jesus, it hurt.
Mitch jerked from the hospital bed, shoved shaking fingers through his hair. Christ, he had to get out. Now. Screw what it said about his sanity, his integrity, or his control. If Mitch didn't leave, right now, he'd kill Gary. Or worse. It was the worse that sent him racing to the door. He ran to the truck, yanked the driver's side door open with clumsy hands. He scrambled inside. Heart thundering in his ears, Mitch fumbled with his keys. Couldn't make his hands work right. Luck more than skill slid the right key to the ignition. Gasping, sucking for air, he wrenched the truck into reverse, tires screeching as he backed out. The transmission whined and groaned when he fought the gearshift, blindly searching for first. Four trailers down, Liv streaked out of her dad's trailer. Her mouth opened. Her lips formed his name, but Mitch couldn't hear her over the mad pounding of his pulse in his head.
Go.
He had to go.
He pushed the accelerator down.
The truck's engine screamed.
He shot out of the trailer park like a bu
llet.
Mitch steered downtown, stomach balled to a painful knot as he drove. Too fast. He was driving too fast, too crazy. Somebody needed to stop him. Where were the fucking cops? Goddamn it, he could kill somebody! But there weren't any cops. He didn't kill himself or anybody else. He didn't know he was going to Artie's until the truck jolted to a stop on the street in front of his partner's brick ranch. Mitch shoved the truck into park, chest heaving. Didn't turn it off. Didn't snatch the keys from the ignition. He couldn't. He needed to grab the steering wheel. Face forward, fighting for air, he grabbed it, felt it bite deep into his palms—the steering wheel stayed solid. Nothing else was. His body shivered and quaked. His vision blurred. He had to hang on to the steering wheel with all the strength he could muster, for all was he worth, please God, but it wasn't working. Because he was still coming apart.
The door at his side ripped open.
"Mitch!"
His eyes squeezed shut.
He clenched his teeth.
Oh Jesus.
Her arms crept around his neck. Her smooth cheek rested on his and the fruity shampoo she liked, her clean and unsullied scent washed over him. Crippled him.
"It's all right, Mitch. It's okay."
His heart sprinted. Damned thing was going to break through his ribs, gallop out of his chest. Any second now. It'd pound free of his chest and then, he'd be okay. He'd pass out. Or maybe he'd die. Didn't matter which as long as Mitch didn't hurt anymore.
"Liv," he said through gritted teeth, voice tight and winded.
"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Her lips brushed the corner of his gasping mouth, her fingers slid through his hair, and with Liv anchoring him, Mitch thought he just might make it. If she hung onto him, maybe he wouldn't vibrate apart.
"Calm down, Mitch. Please. You're scaring me." Her sweet breath tickled his skin. "You need to breathe."
Pain balled inside him, clamped down, and twisted his guts.