by Vanessa Wu
Nathan kissed slowly and teasingly up her thighs, and Grace felt as though the little strip of her thong was holding back a flood as she waited for his lips to reach their target. His fingers deftly slipped her thong to one side, liberating the syrup that the fabric had barely managed to restrain. Exposed to their gaze, she gasped, the heat of Nathan’s breath making her desperate. He traced his finger over her lips, effortlessly dipping inside, his fingers nearly frictionless in her hot slick. Nathan bent his head and ran his tongue over her, his lips finding the hard bud of her clit and sucking.
Grace sighed as she lay back and let all of them pleasure her at once. So many hands and fingers and mouths. Her pussy was licked and fingered; her breasts were teased and tweaked, sucked and pinched. Nathan’s dexterous hands pulled her thong over her hips and down her thighs so that, at last, she was completely naked, spread wide for their viewing pleasure and reveling in their ministrations. Nathan had two fingers inside her, massaging her g-spot, as Adam swirled nimble fingers over her swollen clit. Danny had produced a bottle of lube from a pocket and gently guided her just to the edge of the sofa where he was able to access the tight pucker of her ass with a slippery finger. She moaned as he dipped inside her, tensing then relaxing as he probed deeper.
She smiled to herself as she delighted in the adoration the three boys showed her. All of their bravado and posturing gone as they worked together bring her pleasure. Even now, Nathan and Danny were so focused on her needs that their foreheads nearly touched as their expert hands found her most intimate erogenous zones.
In time, Danny had one and then two fingers in her ass. First just the tips, and then deeper, stretching her wide as she adjusted to him. When she was as wide and slick as his fingers could make her, he sat beside her and lifted her onto his lap. He bent her forwards and Nathan held her against his chest as Danny probed her ass with the tip of his penis. Through heavy eyelids, she turned her head to see Adam stroking his cock. Nathan held her tight and safe, her breasts squashed against him as Danny positioned himself against her now soft and open asshole. He pulled her slowly down onto him, stopping as she tensed, and she gasped at the intense stretching as he pushed against the vulnerable ring of muscle.
“Slowly, babe, slowly,” he murmured, drizzling more lube over his cock and around her opening. He eased her down again, pushing forward and, with a pop, his heavy swollen tip disappeared inside her. Grace moaned loudly as he slowly and gently thrust up into her ass, and Nathan held her upright as Danny sat back and let her lean back against him. His cock disappeared deep inside her and she gently bounced, using both Danny and Nathan for support.
Danny’s hands roamed over her body, caressing her stomach and kneading her tits, pulling her back against him, giving Nathan perfect access to her pussy.
“We’re all going to fuck you at once, Gracie,” Danny growled into her ear. “Me deep inside your tight ass, Nathan in your sweet little cunt and Adam’s going to fuck your pretty mouth. We’re going to fill you up with jizz, babe, until it’s spilling out of every orifice.
“Yes, please,” she panted. “I want you to use me.” They weren’t the only ones who’d let go of their bravado. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about. I want you to cover me in your cum, I want to swallow Adam’s and then suck mine off Nathan’s cock.
As she spoke, Nathan positioned himself between the two pairs of spread legs. Danny held her motionless briefly, still impaled on the formidable inches buried deep in her slippery rectum, as Nathan found just the right angle before plunging into her. He pushed in as Danny pulled out, gradually gaining speed until they were both pushing in at the same time. Grace was completely in their control, her body held still by Danny as they both fucked her, the sensation of two cocks inside her leaving her completely breathless.
“C’mon, Adam,” Danny said, his voice strained with lust. “Her mouth isn’t full yet.” Adam stood on the sofa and straddled Grace, dropping to one knee as he slapped her cheek with his hard on. Grace ran her tongue over him, tasting his precum and licking up and down his shaft. She opened her mouth and he slid slowly inside. She could taste him, salty and sweet and she sucked, choking a little as he pushed deeper, his cock probing the back of her throat. She was filled completely, her body used by all three of them. She’d never felt so turned on as they slammed into her, her pussy, her ass and her mouth full; and she slipped her fingers down to her clit, stroking as they fucked her hard.
The sensation was overwhelming, and they were all clearly pushing themselves to the very limits of ecstasy. Danny came first, and she felt his heat filling her. But Nathan held on, pumping in and out, while Danny lay panting beneath her. He stayed deep inside her ass, hardly losing any of his mass even after his orgasm; while Nathan groaned, telling her how good she felt, how much she was turning him on and how he was going to come so fucking hard inside her. Her fingers flew over her clit and, just as Nathan reached his peak, his body tense, his cock pulsing inside her, Grace tipped over the edge, gasping, her pussy clutching at his dick, her ass rippling over the penis still buried inside, her orgasm shaking her whole body from top to toe.
“Fuck, yes!” Adam growled above her as he too shoved his cock in deep, coming in her mouth and then pulling out as she gagged and swallowed, shooting the rest over her lips and cheeks. As the streams of his orgasm abated, Grace licked her lips before doing her best lick clean the gooey cudgel of Nathan’s spent penis. Once she had licked him to a sheen, Adam swapped places with Nathan. She was presented with the spoils of their mutual orgasm and, again, made to suck his cock clean.
Finally Danny slipped out of her ass and lifted her off him, onto the sofa. Grace lay there, limp and shaken with the aftershock of orgasm as they stroked and kissed her body.
“Wow! That was fucking amazing. I mean totally fucking incredible. Are you ok, Gracie?” Nathan was grinning as he leant over and kissed her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back hard.
“I love you boys,” she said. “But I’m exhausted and I really need a cool drink!”
“Yeah, me too,” said Adam, getting up and pouring them all another glass of champagne.
Danny disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a few moments later with towels, cleaning up Grace as best he could. While Nathan thoughtfully went to Grace’s bedroom to get a blanket and gently wrapped her up in it.
“Cheers, boys,” she said, raising her glass to her three naked colleagues. “Here’s to us, to signing the deal of the month and to working and playing together again very soon!”
The Master
Malin James
No one refused the Master. No one ever had.
In the midst of the Cold War, Alin Dalca had emerged from the mountains of Romania to revitalize sport fencing for a new generation. Then, suddenly, at the height of his career, he’d retired from public life.
Why, the fencing world had murmured, though no one ever asked. Dalca was developing a method. He needed privacy. Who was the world to refuse?
The fact that Dalca had not been seen in nearly fifty years had done nothing to dim his influence. Rather, his legend had only grown as he’d taken on students, one handful at a time, producing a lineage of athletes notorious for mental clarity and skill. In this way, Dalca had ceased being Dalca, and had instead become the Master.
Even now, with electrical scorekeeping and revised standards changing the sport again, to train with the Master was considered to be on par with Olympic gold. So when Tom Granger received an invitation to one of the Master’s clinics, he accepted without hesitation, despite rumors and expense. The Master produced masters. That was enough for him.
At least, it had been back at his club in New York. It was a different story now that he was standing in a training room, naked, with three other men, in a remote château deep in the Italian Alps.
Tom watched the other men posture and stretch. They were familiar to him by
name, though he’d only properly met one—the French national champion, Michel Bisset. Tom’s mouth compressed. Yeah, he thought, as his eyes slid over the Frenchman. He knew him well enough … The other two, however—a smooth, young Spaniard named Santiago Cerra, and a mountain of a Russian called Alexei Voloshin—were reputations and nothing more.
Tom rocked on the balls of his feet, pressing them into the fat, black line that ran the width of the room. They were all at their physical peaks; and yet, every fencer had a weakness to uncover and use. Tom’s goal was to find theirs, without betraying his own. Of course, there was more to his interest than the bite of competition. Tom’s sexuality, which could be best described as “omnivorous,” was actively engaged in observations of its own.
Cerra’s face had a sweetness that intrigued him. It made the rest of the package, from his shiny black curls to his boyish cock, all the more compelling. The Russian, on the other hand, was the Spaniard’s foil. Whereas the Cerra was small and slender, Voloshin towered over Tom’s six feet, and packed more bulk than most fencers preferred. And then there was Bisset … Tom’s jaw ticked, though his face remained still. Bisset always looked the same—flat muscle, quick hands, sharp, hooded eyes … Bisset would never change.
The nudity had been the biggest surprise, of course, despite the first class tickets from New York to Milan and a château that looked like a miniature palace perched up on a cliff. After sipping brandy in the study, they’d been taken to a locker room that looked more like a Roman bath with its Aegean mosaics and white tiled floors. There, they were politely told to strip by an otherwise silent boy.
“Please,” the boy said once they were all nude, “take medications and other necessities from your luggage and leave the rest here. All you will need is the equipment bags in your lockers. Retrieve them and come with me. I will take you to the training room.”
That had been almost an hour ago. More than enough time, Tom thought, glancing at the clock set high on up the wall, to get the lay of the land.
The places he’d trained in were fairly industrial. Even Harvard’s facilities could still be called a gym. The château’s training room was something else entirely.
A wall of French doors opened onto a wide, railed terrace, (or would have, if it hadn’t been twelve below zero outside), while full-length mirrors lined the other walls, so that the room and it’s occupants spread out in all directions like precisely shuffled cards. It was oddly disorienting, like standing inside of a giant, glass box. Apparently, it had once been the grand ballroom of the château. At least whatever was going to happen was going to happen somewhere pretty, Tom thought.
Suddenly, the doors at the far end of the room opened and an old man came in, leaning heavily on a cane. A blonde woman followed him and quietly shut the doors.
The fencers jumped back into form like schoolboys caught out in detention—all except for Tom, who had casually kept his place on the fat, black line during the long, boring wait. It gave him the luxury of observation as the Master slowly approached.
He was small, Tom thought. Much smaller than he would have expected. But then, between nudity and mind games, (because that’s what the hour spent waiting had been), everything about the clinic was miles from what he’d expected.
And then there was the blonde—an icy, blade of a woman with a sharp, sculpted face. Nearly as tall as Tom, and impossible to read, she walked one pace behind the Master like a personal guard. He had no idea who she was, but the fact that she wore the archaic black jacket and tight black trousers of a classical fencing instructor made him keen to find out.
The Master cleared his throat.
“Who do you think I am?”
The old man looked at them, head cocked like a drowsy owl. He could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty, and no taller than five-one—the pictured of aged authority addressing a clutch of supplicants. And yet, the wording of the question put Tom on guard. He smiled his affable, American smile and let someone else take the bait. He wanted to see how it played out.
“You are the Master, I presume.”
Bisset …
Tom’s face flickered before returning to neutral, while beside him the Spaniard shifted from foot to foot. The old man ignored them and smiled at Bisset. Tom had never seen a sweeter look on anyone’s face.
“A reasonable presumption, of course,” he said, in a soft Italian lilt. “I am an old man, yes? Standing here before you four young titans. And yet, the Master I am not. My name is Georgio Donati, and this is my assistant, Elle Mason. You may think of Ms. Mason and I as the Master’s gatekeepers. Or, perhaps the tip of his sword.”
A ripple of unease passed over the line. Tom held himself still. Suddenly, something clicked.
“Excuse me, signor,” he said, as curiosity overrode instinct. “Are you the Georgio Donati who beat Santorelli for the championship in ‘76?”
The old man looked at him, quietly pleased, as Elle Mason’s gaze slid over Tom like ice cubes in a glass. Instantly, the warmth of Donati’s gaze vanished beneath the precision in her eyes. They were beautiful and unsettling, pale as a snow leopard’s and not quite human. Tom’s gut twisted, but he held her gaze, waiting patiently for her to look away. When she did, he’d have sworn she was bored.
“Yes, Mr. Granger,” Donati said. “That was I—great skill beaten by greater fortune. But now I serve the Master. I have worked in his tradition for over fifty years, and it has served me well—just as it will serve whichever one of you the Master selects to train.”
“Wait,” Voloshin interrupted, speaking for the first time. “Whichever one … please, can you explain?”
“Yes, what is this talk of one,” Bisset cut in. “And, if you are not the Master, who is teaching this clinic? Is this some sort of joke?”
Donati looked at Bisset, blandly ignoring the Frenchman’s impatience.
“This is not the training. It is a trial. Only one of you will be permitted to train. You will work under myself and Ms. Mason for the next two days, at the end of which you will compete for the single position.”
“We were not led to expect a trial,” Bisset said. Tom could practically hear his brow arching. He could be such an imperious son of a bitch.
“Your expectations are yours to manage, Monsieur Bisset,” Signor Donati replied. “You were one of four invited to the château. If you believed that meant immediate entry to the training, that assumption is your responsibility.”
“Please,” a soft voice said. “What are Ms. Mason’s qualifications. I mean no offense, Ms. Mason, I only wish to know.”
It was Cerra. The Spaniard appeared to be on the verge of saying more, but shut his mouth instead.
“None taken, Cerra,” Elle Mason replied. “I completed the training last year.”
Her voice was dark and brandied, and rough as a cat’s tongue, with the type of British accent that you only hear in films. Everything about her was predatory and strong, from her long-fingered hands to the timbre of her voice. Suddenly, Tom had no doubt as to her qualifications, whatever they happened to be.
“Wait,” Bisset said. “A woman trained with the Master?”
Elle Mason turned the full weight of her lazy indifference on Bisset, who, Tom reflected, had apparently decided to play the role of the French misogynist.
“Yes, Monsieur. A woman. And not the first.
“Enough,” Donati said, tapping his cane. “If you’ve finished your questioning, Monsieur Bisset, a few things before we begin.”
Donati’s tone was mild and sweet, but the timbre of his voice landed with a punch. The little man was not to be fucked with. To his credit, this seemed to occur to Bisset.
“Of course. My apologies, Signor.”
Donati nodded, slightly, before moving on. Even standing still, he seemed to be on the very edge of movement, regardless of the cane.
“You will be workin
g in the preliminary basics of the Master’s method,” he said. “Only fencers with the highest aptitude are taken on. It is … intensive, and not for everyone. Ms. Mason, please explain.”
Elle Mason nodded and stepped forward without, strictly speaking, appearing to move. Tom’s awareness shifted, driven by a subtle twist of lust. Unlike Donati, she possessed a stillness that was unsettling in someone so young. Looking at her closely, Tom realized that she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three.
“As Signor Donati implied, this is a rather unorthodox method. The goal is not to teach you technique, but rather to dominate your opponent—physically, mentally and emotionally.”
Bisset nodded knowingly. Tom rolled his eyes. Bisset was good, but he was also wired tight. He could be played, just like anyone else.
“However,” Elle Mason went on, “for all of the benefit, there is a price to pay. You must obey, without question, all instructions that you’re given.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. It was a subconscious reaction—the word obey had many implications …
“Excuse me,” Tom said, dulling the edge in his voice. “What, exactly, are we consenting to?”
Donati nodded sanguinely.
“An excellent question,” he said, all fatherly sweetness. “Fencing is a sport, yes? If you lose, the only thing hurt is your pride. But it wasn’t always so. This is good for civilization perhaps, but not so for the fencer. Without a sense of immediate consequence, the fencer can lose perspective. Pain, or the threat of pain concentrates the mind. Pain brings with it distraction and anger. By transcending distraction and anger, the fencer attains control. This training method is designed to instill a sense of consequence, while developing the ability transcend it.”
“Yeah,” Tom muttered, “that’s what I thought.”
“Mr. Granger. Something to add?”
Elle Mason was eying him. Her mouth had curved, sharp and cold as the moon. Tom gave her a self-deprecating shrug.