When she looks over at me again, I catch her eye and smile. She turns away and pretends to be incredibly interested in a leaflet outlining the supermarket’s ethical shopping policies. Move along, dear, nothing to see here....
Still, I’d love to see the expression on her face if she knew what I’m intending to do with all this food.
When I get home, Matt has just returned from training and is making himself a mug of tea. His hair’s still slightly damp from the shower, and he smells of the patchouli-scented soap he always uses.
He puts an arm round me, and we share a kiss. Pulling away, he asks, “Did you get everything?”
“Yeah. I’m just going to put it all away; then I’m off to work out for a while.”
“Let me give you a hand with it.”
That’s what I love about Matt. Anything to make my life a little easier. As he bends to stow the cream on the lowest shelf inside the fridge door, I take a sneaky peek at his ass, which is outlined in his close-fitting tracksuit bottoms. I never tire of admiring his big, muscular body, the thighs that seem hewn from the sandstone of his native Rhondda Valley. Like most professional rugby players, he is classified as “obese” by the body mass index. Yet there’s barely an ounce of fat on his six-foot-two frame. He’s solid and powerful and in his deliciously masculine prime, and if I stand looking at him any longer, I’ll be very tempted to drag him off to bed this minute, too impatient to wait for what we’ve planned this evening.
Matt turns round and catches me staring. “Hey, Eva, that fruit’s not going to put itself in the bowl, you know.”
The grin that suggests he knows exactly where my gaze has been fixed does nothing to damp down my rising desire. His appetite is as hearty as my own, and it will only take a word from me, but somehow, we both manage to control ourselves.
Between us, we finish stowing the groceries, and then I turn to leave the kitchen. As I do, Matt picks out one of the strawberries, biting down on it slowly with his small, white teeth. If I give him the opportunity, he’ll tease me like this for the rest of the day, getting me so hot and bothered I can barely think straight. I head for the basement, for what I know will be a vain attempt to pedal away some of my frustration.
The afternoon passes in sticky, feverish anticipation. Matt lounges on the couch in his T-shirt and boxers, playing some mindless shoot-’em-up adventure on his game console. I’m supposed to be reading through manuscripts, but the slush pile can be unrewarding enough at the best of times, and today it’s just too hard to concentrate. Eventually I give up and go to get ready.
I take a quick shower, then shave my legs, armpits, and all but a tiny tuft of hair from my pussy, making sure my lips are lickably smooth. Swathed in my toweling dressing gown, I sit at the dressing table and apply makeup. Normally, I don’t bother with much more than a slick of lip gloss and a little mascara, but now I outline my eyes with smoky kohl and brush the lids with dramatic shades of purple and gold. Blusher contours my cheeks, and matte plum lipstick completes the look. My reflection stares back at me, familiar but deliciously exotic. Just the effect I’d hoped for.
Matt’s going to love this outfit, I think, looking at where I’ve laid it out on the bed. He told me to pick out something cheap and nasty, and this symphony of artificial fibers—found at the kind of market stall that sells fluorescent-pink fishnets and three-fora-pound packs of thongs—really fits the bill. It’s a black babydoll nightdress so sheer that the dark, puckered points of my nipples are clearly visible through it. The matching split-crotch panties are so scratchy and uncomfortable, I’d never be able to wear them for any serious length of time. Hopefully, I won’t have them on for very long. The strappy black sandals are a different matter. My feet are dainty in comparison to my frame, and the longer I’ve known Matt, the more convinced I’ve become that he has a fetish for them. He often talks about making me walk round the house all day, naked but for these heels. One day, I ought to tell him how little persuasion that would involve.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, reveling in how slutty I look. That woman at the checkout would be disgusted, I’m sure, by the way the nightdress fails to conceal my heavy breasts, my fleshy thighs, the prominent swell of my belly. But I’m not wearing this for her benefit. I’m wearing it for Matt’s, and he loves every last voluptuous inch of me.
Even so, his reaction when I pluck the console handset from his grasp verges on the comical. “Fuck me!” he exclaims, his Welsh accent pronounced even more than usual, as he takes in the sight of me, in all my nylon-clad magnificence. “Do women still really wear those things? I thought the last one withered and died when they stopped making Carry On films.” He rises from the couch, his rapidly rising cock already threatening to push through the fly of his underwear. “You look amazing, mind.”
“Is everything ready?” I ask, trying not to laugh at his eagerness. Funny how I’m dressed like the archetypal submissive sex symbol, yet suddenly I have all the control. That will change soon enough, but for now, I’m happy to let Matt bustle round, taking all the supplies I bought earlier into the guest bedroom.
Plastic sheeting already covers the bed—which has been stripped of all coverings, bar the bottom sheet—and the carpet. This is going to get messy, and the sheeting will cut down on the amount of cleanup later.
Without being prompted, I take up my position, lying back on the cool, slightly clammy plastic. As Matt watches, I spread my legs, revealing my freshly shaved pussy through the split in the cheap panties, its beauty emphasized by the ugly nylon ruffles. A dish of peaches lies on the bedside table. I bite into one, just as sensuously as Matt did earlier with the strawberry. Sticky juice spills out, dribbling down the side of my mouth. It tastes so good, but it does nothing to sate my appetite.
Matt peels off his T-shirt, then advances on me, cock rigid and poking free of his shorts. Taking the top off the tub of custard, he drizzles a slow trail down my neck and over my breasts. Almost before I’ve registered its coldness, Matt’s hot mouth is on my skin, licking it up.
Moving lower, he mouths my nipple through the nightdress, mashing the nylon wetly to my body and making me moan.
Not satisfied with that, he grabs the neckline of the babydoll and tugs sharply, ripping the thin fabric in two. When my breasts are bare, he reaches for the clotted cream, massaging a big, gooey handful onto each one.
That’s when the doorbell rings.
“Who the hell’s that?” I ask.
“Dunno. I’ll just check.” Matt rises from the bed and looks out of the window, down on whomever’s standing on the drive below. “It’s Will,” he announces before opening the window wide and yelling, “All right, Will mate. We’re up here. Let yourself in. It’s not locked.”
“You can’t be serious.” Even as I speak, I can hear the sound of the front door opening. Will is the team’s star fly-half and is Matt’s closest friend at the club, and they’ve long worked on the principle of Mi casa es su casa, popping in and out of each other’s homes pretty much whenever they feel like it. I’d never had a problem with the arrangement—until now.
Matt goes to the half-open bedroom door and calls down the stairs. “Come on up, why don’t you?” Turning back to me with a grin, he says, “He must have finally finished the last level on Zombie Aftermath. He said he’d bring it round when he had.”
“And you’ve let him in the house with his stupid video game when we’re—” I don’t get the chance to let Matt know what I really think, because at that moment, Will pushes open the door and walks in to see me on the bed in my torn, slutty nightdress, naked tits lavishly smeared with clotted cream. His initially startled expression gives way to something suggesting he’s already more comfortable with the situation than I am.
After a long moment, he quips, “Tell me, do those things taste as good as they look?”
“Why don’t you find out, mate?” Matt replies. “Eva doesn’t mind, do you, love?”
Mutely, I shake my head. The tru
th is that now, I’m getting used to the fact that Will has blundered in on our messy games, and I really don’t mind if he joins in. Matt and I have often discussed the idea of bringing a third person into our bed, but until now, it’s never been anything more than a fantasy. After all, how do you seriously go about organizing such a scenario? And all other considerations aside, Will is properly gorgeous, built on leaner lines than Matt but just as beautifully muscular, with limpid dark eyes and an angular bone structure that has so far escaped unscathed from the hurly-burly of rugby.
As Will kicks off his deck shoes so he can climb onto the bed beside me, I’m just a little surprised by the obvious lust in his eyes. For as long as I’ve known him, all the girls he’s dated have been blond and tiny. I got on well with Adele, his last girlfriend; she might have been no more than eight stone wringing wet, but she was feisty and funny. And she wasn’t one of those women who pushes a salad round her plate and calls it eating, so of course we were going to get on. Given the evidence, I’d simply assumed Will’s tastes invariably ran to type, but as his hands caress my big, cream-covered tits, I’m starting to think I might have read him wrong.
“Mmm, gorgeous,” he sighs, pushing my breasts together so he can admire the deep, enticing cleavage between them. “God, Eva, I’d love to slide my cock between those.”
“So why don’t you?” I ask. “But you might want to take some of those clothes off first.”
His scramble to get naked is so frantic I almost laugh. But the sight of him, stripped and ready, stills that impulse. He’s tanned the same dark-honey shade all over, and his cock rises up, smooth and hard, from a patch of hair that’s been trimmed down to almost nothing, making him look larger than he already is.
For the first time, I realize I’ve not been paying any attention to Matt in all this. I glance round to see he’s drawn the stool that normally sits beneath the dressing table close to the bed. The best seat in the house, for a performance he’s long dreamed of. He sits, munching on the half-eaten peach with obvious relish, as Will straddles my body, hard-on bobbing proudly in front of him.
Appetizing as it looks in its natural state, it needs a little extra lubrication if it’s going to slide smoothly between my tits. Reaching for the chocolate sauce, I squirt a generous amount over my cleavage. Will presents his cock to me, and I wrap the soft, heavy flesh of my breasts around it.
The action is greeted by a chorus of groans—one from Will, as the coolness of the sauce meets his hot length, and another from Matt, watching and wanking his own erection.
Will starts to fuck my cleavage, slightly awkwardly at first, but soon getting into a rhythm. Whenever the head—glistening with a mixture of pre-come and chocolate sauce—pops out from between my tits, I lick it, enjoying the salty-sweet taste. From the blissful expression on Will’s face, he could happily let me do this until he comes, but I’m thinking of my own needs.
Catching hold of his slippery cock, I suck it until most of the sauce is gone. Will’s lost in the sensation, loving the feeling of being lodged in the tightness of my throat. All I can hear from Matt is the steady shuffling of his palm—no doubt slippery with peach juice—up and down his shaft.
Eventually, to Will’s obvious disappointment, I stop and let him slip from my lips. “Condom, please, Matt,” I say, wiping a trickle of chocolate from the corner of my mouth.
Obediently, Matt hands over a foil-wrapped package. Mint-flavored, I can’t help but notice as Will rolls the thin green latex into place. Not that I’ll be tasting it, of course. There’s a pulse beating strongly between my legs, a molten heat in my swollen pussy lips. In the crudest, most basic terms, I need to be fucked, and I’m not too shy to let Will know that.
“Let me have you from behind,” he says. “I need to see that lovely big ass of yours jiggling as I fuck you.”
I’m not one to turn down a request like that—not when I know it means his cock will slide into me all the more deeply—so I get up on all fours, just like he asks.
“Okay, better lose this, sweetheart.” With that, Will rips the already tattered nightdress the rest of the way off. He leaves the panties on, though. Maybe he likes the way they draw attention to the urgent red pout of my sex poking out from between my legs.
Before he enters me, he slaps my ass. Not hard enough to hurt; he just wants to see my cheeks wobble under his palm. I’ve always known Matt loves my curves, but having Will admire them, too, is a real boost. But then I can’t imagine that any woman, no matter what her size, could fail to feel anything less than totally desirable in the presence of her partner and his best friend, both of them totally aroused and ready to fuck her.
Will’s hands roam over my hips, my thighs, cupping and squeezing, feeling and adoring. My fingers somehow find themselves at my crotch, idly stroking my clit. Giddy pleasure ripples through me—the first step on the ascent to orgasm. The sight of me playing with myself like this spurs Will on to part my lips with those long, clever fingers that handle a rugby ball so adeptly. I feel his cock pushing inside me, making its hefty presence felt. Matt is urging him on, telling him to fuck me really hard. Team player to the end, Will does as he’s told.
Once I’m used to the feel of Will’s thick shaft sliding back and forth, his hands gripping my ample hips as he thrusts into me over and over, I beckon Matt close. He may be having a good time just watching, but I want him to take a more active part in the proceedings.
Matt doesn’t object when I grab his cock and feed it between my lips. Indeed, he picks up the pot of clotted cream and slathers a handful along his shaft. The chimes of a passing ice-cream van float in through the open window, playing a tinny version of “Greensleeves.” I’m sure nothing that van sells tastes as good as the way Matt does now, the sweetness of the cream mixing with the briny essence of hard, excited man-flesh. If this is greediness, I think, if this makes me a bad girl, then bring it on, because the truth is, I could gorge on this delicious confection forever.
Will’s in me so deeply his groin bangs against my ass cheeks with each thrust. I’m so full, at both ends, yet I’m ravenous for more.
It’s Will who peaks first, yelling like he’s scored a match-winning try as he comes. The audible proof of his orgasm, twinned with the wicked persistence of my tongue, can’t help but push Matt over the edge. My taste buds register the bitter tang of his come—another distinct flavor on top of everything else I’ve swallowed this evening—but it still doesn’t satisfy me. Only when fingers—Will’s, Matt’s, I’m too far gone to be sure, and anyway, I no longer know if it matters—rub at my clit does my world dissolve into the sweetest, creamiest of climaxes.
We collapse together—a panting, satisfied man on each side of me and hands still gently stroking my breasts and belly as we search for, and fail to find, the words to adequately describe just how good that was.
While Will’s in the shower, cleaning off the last of the chocolate sauce before he leaves for home, Matt turns to me.
“I suppose it’s confession time,” he says.
I wait for him to elaborate, unsure what’s coming next.
“Will actually finished the video game two days ago. He was going to bring it round then, but I told him to wait until tonight.”
“So you set this whole thing up between you?” I don’t know whether to go ballistic at Matt or, given the fantastic threesome we’ve just enjoyed, applaud him for his ingenuity.
“Not really. He had no idea that when he turned up he’d find us in bed, but I thought that if he did, he’d be well up for joining in—and I was right.”
I stop his words with a deep, tongue-probing kiss, and this time, it’s a display of pure gratitude. As I said, I have a big appetite—and Matt seems to have discovered the perfect way of satisfying it.
In the Early Morning Light
BY KRISTINA WRIGHT
This is how it begins. Me lying in bed just before dawn, woozy from a lack of sleep, praying (though I am not religious) for twenty more minutes of
rest. Thirty minutes would be better. I roll over on my side, because I can’t get comfortable on my back, and my breasts are too swollen to sleep on my stomach. Still not comfortable, I close my eyes anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I feel his arm curve over my hip as he nestles into the space behind me. His hand strokes my belly—soft, warm and doughy, with a scar above my pubic area that is not as red and raw-looking as it was a few weeks ago—and I sigh in frustration. I just want to sleep.
I don’t like him touching me. I don’t like anyone touching me. My body is not my body—it hasn’t been for months and months. First it belonged to the creature growing inside it, stretching it to maximum capacity. Now it belongs to the baby I birthed just nine weeks ago—the baby still sleeping in the next room the way I want to be sleeping right now. The baby who will be awake soon, screaming and wriggling and demanding, latching onto breasts that don’t produce enough milk to nourish him, despite their size. I try to remember if I made any bottles of formula before I fell into bed at 3 AM. I can’t recall.
I want to squirm away as he moves his hand up to cup one tender breast, but there is nowhere for me to go, and besides, I’m too tired. Too tired to move, too tired to give him what he wants, too tired to think. Bone tired. No one ever told me I’d be this tired.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my voice barely audible for fear of waking the baby. “I’m tired.”
“Me, too, sweetheart. Me, too,” he says gently, though he doesn’t stop touching me, doesn’t move away.
His fingers pluck at my nipples—gently, because he knows they’re sensitive and sore from being put into service several times a day. He loves my breasts and thinks they’re beautiful. I loathe them, because they’re swollen and misshapen and riddled with stretch marks and are inadequate to feed my child. But his gentle touch stirs something inside me, and my breast responds, sending a few drops of precious fluid over the tip.
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