by Amy Brent
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly in and out, focusing on the pleasure Wynn’s cock was already giving me. I knew from experience that gritting my teeth and holding my breath was not the right thing to do. Anal sex is about muscle control, relaxation, breathing, going slowly. Holden had done this many times. He knew what he was doing. I trusted him completely.
When the head of Holden’s cock slid into my ass, I gasped a little. Not because it hurt, but because it felt really crowded back there with Wynn’s cock already in my vagina. Holden asked if I was okay and I said yes. Keep going. Proceed. Please…
Holden slid in a little more, then a little more. When he was just at the right spot, I said, “There… right… there… oh… wow… do I feel… full…”
“Are you okay?” Wynn asked.
“Yes, just go slowly…” I said.
We started slowly at first, moving as one. As Wynn moved his hips up and down to fuck my pussy, Holden moved his hips in and out to fuck my ass. It didn’t take long. Soon, we were all in rhythm and I was convinced that if my heart didn’t stop, I was going to have the best orgasm of my life.
“Jeez… you’re so… fucking… tight…” Wynn said, his fingers digging into my hips. “Damn… Holden… gimme some room…”
Holden was trying not to laugh and not to cum. I knew my pussy was tight, but my ass was super tight, clenched around his shaft. And it had to feel incredible when the head of his cock slid in and out of my ass. His fingers pressed into my ass and he sped up a little, still being careful not to go to deep.
“Fuck… I can’t… fuck… hold it… anymore…” Holden said, his motion becoming erratic as the orgasm started to build. “Fuck… I’m gonna… cum…”
“Me… too…” Wynn said. I smiled. I was making them both cum at the same time. There had to be some kind of merit badge for such an auspicious accomplishment. I could only imagine what that little graphic would look like.
“I’m… oh… shit… shit… cumming… yes… yes… yes…” I moaned and forced myself not to jerk too quickly. I had two very large cocks inside of me. One wrong move on my part and we’d all end up in the emergency room trying to explain what happened.
Luckily, all three orgasms hit at once.
Our bodies twitched and jerked in unison.
Two seconds… three… four…
After a moment, we all blew out the breath we had been holding and collapsed in a sweaty, goopy heap on the bed.
A few minutes later, without saying a word, we all fell fast asleep.
For a very long time, I would remember this as the best Saturday night of my life.
Chapter Eleven: Lane
Sunday morning…
I chartered an early morning private Learjet to fly me directly from the tiny Northwoods airport to the equally-tiny Madison airport because I hated to fly commercial.
Call me a snob all you want, but when you’re the least bit famous and people see you in an airport, for some reason they think that gives them the right to accost you with hugs and slobbery kisses and demands for selfies and all number of other things. They think because they buy your books or watch you on TV that you owe them something in return. I know, you hear celebrities bitching about it all the time, but that truly is the downside of fame. Hell, I can’t even go to a dive bar and pickup cheap biker pussy anymore without TMZ waiting outside. And I loves me some cheap biker pussy… ;o)
I once had a professionally-dressed woman who appeared to be in her fifties (she looked like a lawyer or an accountant) approach me at LAX and stuff a pair of dirty panties into my hand. And when I say dirty, I mean dirty. And the funny thing was that she had written her name and cellphone number on the waistband in red permanent marker. Dolores something or other. Sorry, Dolores. I like a good pair of aromatic panties as much as the next guy, but I dropped those nasty things in a trashcan on my way out of baggage claim and found the nearest restroom so I could wash my hands. Several times.
The trip to Madison would have been a total bore if not for a travelling companion I did not expect. It was just after five AM California time, Sunday morning, and still dark outside. I was sitting in the charter service office waiting to board the Learjet when the manager came over and asked if I would mind having a companion on the private plane as far as Chicago. When I asked who this passenger was, he pointed toward a thin girl standing outside on the tarmac with a black duffle bag slung over her shoulder that was nearly as big as she was.
She was one of these goth girls who looked to be in her early twenties at most, with hair so black it shined blue under the lights and skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her eyes were heavy with black mascara and fake lashes. She wore crimson lipstick and black fingernail polish. She was dressed in ratty, skin tight black jeans tucked into unlaced combat boots, and a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. There was the huge face of a Blue Man on the front of her shirt. Her pale arms were adorned with colorful tattoos: a parrot, the virgin Mary, a dancing skeleton. She had a dozen or more bracelets on each wrist and rings on every finger. Everything about her appeared to be pierced or painted. I doubted she’d ever make it through a metal detector without setting it off.
“What’s her story?” I asked. She glanced my way and we briefly locked eyes, then she looked away and started chewing on a thumbnail.
“Her father is a rich doctor in Chicago,” the manager said, a pleading tone to his voice, probably because he didn’t want her hanging out all day in his terminal scaring off his wealthy clients. “She was backpacking to Los Angeles and ran out of money. He’s willing to pay your tab all the way to Madison if you’ll let her hitch a ride as far as Chicago.”
The cost to charter the jet from Northwoods to Madison was nearly ten-grand. Not a lot of money in the grand scheme of things (I know, I’m a rich asshole), but why waste it when you don’t have to. Besides, she looked like she might be an interesting girl to get to know.
“Well, what do you say, Doc?” he asked, his eyes hopeful. I could have told him to drop on his knees to beg me and he probably would have.
I stared at her for a moment more, then shrugged and said, “Why not. As long as she behaves herself and doesn’t bug me along the way.”
“No, no, she’ll be good, I promise,” he said, sighing relief. “Okay, let me introduce you. We’ll be ready to take off shortly. Let me introduce you.”
Before I could tell him that wouldn’t be necessary, he waved her over and asked her to introduce herself. She stuck out her hand and told me her name was Gina, but I should call her G. When I started to tell her my name, she squeezed my hand and smiled.
“Oh, I know who you are,” she said. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her breath smelled like vodka. I couldn’t tell if she was tired or high. “You’re Dr. Lane Curtis.”
She reached into the duffle bag at her feet and brought out a dog-eared copy book of my book, Trade Offs: How Men and Women Use Sex and Love To Get What They Want, and handed it to me.
“I fuckin’ love your book,” she said excitedly. “Can I get an autograph?”
“Uh, sure,” I said, opening the book’s cover as I reached inside my jacket for a pen. When she leaned in close to watch me scribble my name in the book, I caught the strong whiff of marijuana wafting off her clothes and hair. Vodka and pot, ah, the smells of my misspent youth. They almost made me smile. Then the grown up in me kicked in. Sunday morning an hour before sunrise and she was already high as a kite. She looked me in the eye and smiled. I scribbled my name in the front of her book and handed it back to her.
“Thanks,” she said, tucking the book back into her backpack. She glanced past me and nodded. I turned to see the manager waving at us from the door, saying that the plane was ready to take off.
“I hope they have vodka on this fucking plane,” she said, hefting the duffle bag over her shoulder and leading the way. She smiled over her shoulder at me. “I could use a fucking drink. How about you, Doc?”
“Sure,” I said, shaking my head
as I followed her out the door and across the tarmac to the Learjet. The manager walked us to the plane and told us to have a good trip. G grunted at him and I gave him a nod. He was smiling now, happy as a clam. I got the suspicion that G’s father was paying far more for this trip than he should have. Perhaps there was an additional fee for ferrying wayward children back to the fold.
The Learjet was a six-seater, with three plush leather seats down the right and three down the left. I paused to talk to the pilot for a moment, then took the first seat on the right. G parked it in the last seat on the left. The middle seat on each side swiveled around to face the rear and a small table could be raised between the two seats.
After takeoff, the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign and the lone flight attendant, a pleasant looking woman dressed in a pressed blue suit, came over to ask if her only passengers would like coffee or a soft drink, and a breakfast croissant with strawberry jam.
I ordered coffee and G asked for a vodka and tonic. When the flight attendant asked to see her ID and G could not produce one, G got belligerent for a moment, then huffed and asked for a Coke. She huffed again when she was told that Pepsi was all they had on the plane.
G and I moved to a table setup facing each other and waited for our drinks. “So, how old are you, really?” I asked.
She scrunched up her nose. “I’m seventeen, but I’ve been drinking since I was twelve. I know that my old man’s paying a fortune for this flight. They should give me whatever the fuck I want to drink.”
“Well, unless I miss my guess you’ve got a bag of pot in your duffle that you can fire up soon as the plane lands.” I saw a lightbulb go off in her head. “And don’t even think about firing one up in here.”
“Fuck you,” she growled, shooting me a suspicious look. “How do you know what I’ve got in my duffle?”
“You reek of pot,” I said, saying it without meaning to offend but not really caring if I did. She got an angry look in her eye. “It’s in your clothes and hair. And your breath stinks like vodka. You might want to ask if there’s a shower on the plane so you can clean up before we land. I don’t expect your dad would be too happy if you came home smelling like a frat party.”
“Fuck him, too,” she said, spitting the words like they tasted bad. “He’s not even going to be at the airport to pick me up.” I saw the look of a hurt little girl in her eye, but she was masking it well with heavy mascara and anger.
“Here you go,” the flight attendant said sweetly as she set a tall glass of ice and a can of Pepsi in front of G, and a cup of steaming black coffee in front of me. She offered me a small tray that contained creamer and packs of sweetener. I stirred a packet of sweetener into my coffee and smiled as G gave the flight attendant a ‘fuck you’ look, which the flight attendant ignored.
“Will there be anything else, Dr. Curtis?” she asked, giving me a smile. She was fortyish, blondish, attractive-ish. She wore a wedding ring and large diamond on her hand. I didn’t cheat with married women, so I told her I was fine for now.
I picked up the coffee cup and watched G. She was only seventeen-years-old, not old enough to be served alcohol on the plane and certainly not old enough to be seduced by me on the way to Chicago. I figured I’d finish my coffee, get back into my seat, and doze the rest of the way so I’d be refreshed when I made it to Holden’s house. Besides, it had been a long time since I had attempted a conversation with a teenager (not since leaving practice), especially an angry one painted like a zombie.
“Fine, fuck it, whatever, don’t think my dad’s not gonna hear about this” G said, waving the flight attendant away.
“I doubt your father would take your side on this one,” I said, smiling as I blew a cooling breath over the surface of the coffee. “Even shitty fathers don’t want their kids getting wasted on a plane.”
“Whatever,” she grunted, pouring the Pepsi over the ice and leaning back with the glass resting on her flat belly. She was thin, overly so. I wondered when she last ate.
“Sure you don’t want a croissant?” I asked.
She took a noisy sip of the Pepsi and shook her head, then turned the conversation back on me. “So, the famous Dr. Lane Curtis. Why the fuck are you going to Madison?”
I took a careful sip of coffee and smacked my lips. “I’m going to meet with a friend to talk about writing a book together.”
“What kind of book?” she asked, suddenly interested. “Another psychobabble bullshit book?”
I frowned at her. “I thought you liked my psychobabble bullshit book.”
She mugged her lips and let her thin shoulders go up and down. “Oh, I liked it okay. I’m just not sure I buy into all that psychobabble bullshit. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “You don’t believe that psychobabble bullshit can help people overcome issues and lead better lives?”
“I think people do what makes them feel good… or feel good about themselves,” she said, giving me dreamy eyes that would have been oddly sexy if we were both high and she had been a few years older. “Is that what you do, Dr. Curtis? What feels good?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I said.
“All those times TMZ has caught you coming out of clubs in the middle of the night with Victoria’s Secret models? All those sex parties that you supposedly throw in the woods at that retreat of yours.” She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “Do you think with your brain all the time, Dr. Curtis, or does your cock take over every now and then? Do you do what benefits everyone involved? Or do you just do what feels good to you?”
I stared at her for a moment, realizing there was much more behind the painted eyes than a goth seventeen-year-old. And she knew more about me than I liked. Damn you, TMZ. Damn you, Google.
“If you think I’m full of shit and my book is just a bunch of psychobabble, why would you buy it?” I asked.
“I didn’t say you were full of shit specifically,” she said, shrugging with her eyes as a little smile curled the edges of her lips. “A friend of mine recommended your book. I won’t talk about why, other than to say that she thought I had issues your book might help with.”
“And did it?”
“Did it what?”
“Help with your issues?”
She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then blew out a long, slow breath. “Let’s just say I’m thinking clearer than I was at the time. That’s why I’m going back home… to face my demons… And, partly that’s because of your book. So, thank you.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear,” I said, toasting her with my cup. “And you’re welcome. Please, tell me more.”
“Well, I read your book. And I did a little research online about you.” She took a slow sip of Pepsi, then licked her lips slowly as she stared at me. Something in her mood seemed to change. The tension seemed to drain from around her eyes. She visibly relaxed as she leaned back with the glass between her hands. “There are tons of rumors on the web about you and your, shall we call them, sexual escapades?”
I tried to keep my expression blank. “I’ve never met a seventeen-year-old who used words like ‘sexual escapades’.”
“And I’ve never met a man who is infamous for gangbanging actresses and models,” she said bluntly, watching for my reaction. “Not to mention staging Roman orgies at his retreat in the woods.” She let her eyes drift around my face as she waited for me to answer. I clenched my teeth together and gave her a blank stare. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Dr. Curtis. Why are you really going to Madison of all places?”
“I told you, I’m going to meet a friend to discuss writing a book together.”
She huffed at me. “And let me guess. This friend is a hot female with big tits and a tight pussy? Who probably has another hot friend or two who are willing to all fuck your brains out at the same time?”
I almost snorted coffee through my nose. I set the cup on the table and picked up a napkin to wipe my lips. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
She
kept smiling. “I don’t kiss my mother,” she said. “But I can give one amazing blowjob with it.”
My head began to shake on its own. I held up my hands and patted the air with them. “I don’t want to hear about that,” I said. “You’re underage and I’m rich and famous. I know how this works.”
She leaned into the table and stuck out her tongue, swirling it slowly around her crimson lips. Her tongue was pierced with a little silver ball and stud. “Come on, Doc. I know all about you and the shit you do. It’s fate that we’re here together at this moment in time.”
“G, seriously…” I said, my hands still up between us.
“Lane… can I call you Lane?”
“No.”
“Lane… my pussy is dripping like a broken faucet. Just let me suck that famous cock of yours. Who’s going to know?”