DIRTY X6 (A MFMMMMM Menage Romance)

by Tara Crescent

  Okay. No pretty euphemisms. I love dick.

  His hands reach and grab my breasts. Now, he is all frantic need. His fingers pinch and pull at my nipples, and I hum in pleasure around his dick. My leg wraps around his head, trapping his mouth at my pussy. He laughs into my folds, a sound of male pleasure.

  I rock my hips against him. He grinds his dick into me. Both our climaxes are building, and we are both modulating our arousal so we can come together. Such intimacy. Is there really anything out there that can come close to this feeling? When you are so in tune with your partner that you know each shiver of their body, each clench of their muscles, each gasping breath?

  We both explode. Ropes of cum shoot into my mouth and I swallow, my distaste for the taste of semen held at bay by the tremors of lust that are racking my body.

  “Once more, bella?” The Doctor moves his fingers over my clitoris questioningly, and I half-laugh, half-groan.

  “I need a break.”

  “Dinner, in that case?”

  My head is still swimming, the aftermath of champagne and lust. My stomach rumbles an agreement. Dinner sounds brilliant.

  We eat dinner. There’s more sex. No medical gadgets though, which is quite unusual. Felipe shrugs when I ask him. Weird.

  All my guys have acted slightly different this week, I realize. On the way back to my apartment, I briefly ponder why, but I’m sleepy and tired, and more than a little drunk. My thoughts are scattered and chaotic, and nothing sticks in my head. I fall onto my bed, and sink into blissful, untroubled sleep.

  10

  Like every cliché in the book, the Dominant is a billionaire. Saturday, I make my way to his Upper East Side condo, which occupies the upper two floors of a brownstone, and has views of the park from its floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Of course, the Dominant’s money is inherited, as he patiently will point out to me from time to time. He refers to it as an accident of birth. Stuart is very self-aware. It isn’t that he doesn’t work hard, because he does. He also recognizes that hard work isn’t always enough. If hard work was all it took, Sasha would be a billionaire many times over for the work she puts in at her nursing home.

  The Dominant appreciates the importance of a well-scheduled life, just as I do. I’m due at his place at seven in the evening. But today, I head there an hour and a half early, secure in the knowledge that he won’t be at home.

  I let myself in. We’ve been involved for almost three years, and I’ve had a key for two of them, which, quite honestly, still surprises me. The Dominant has museum-quality artwork all over his walls. He smirked at me once, when I brought the subject up. I’d been on my knees, and he’d been feeding me cheese and fruit, and I’d blurted out my concern about having a key to his place. “What are you going to do with it, kitten?” he had grinned. “Do you actually know where to fence the Picasso?”

  Asshole. But funny.

  As I expected, the Dominant isn’t at home. I’ve planned this. I have cookies to bake.

  It’s the damn iPhone. I should have never told Stuart I didn’t have a cell phone. Of course, he was horrified and had one couriered to my house the next day. And I’ve never seen a monthly bill.

  I’ve tried protesting. That whole ‘accident of birth’ line was in response to one of my protests. So I bake. I’m a lousy cook, but I like the precision of baking. And like me, Stuart never met a cookie he didn’t like.

  I’m going to make two types of cookies today. Lemon-ginger, and orange-cardamom. Other people might make oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip. Me? I’m a cookie connoisseur. I’m attracted to the unusual recipes.

  There’s a note on the round teak table in the foyer, in the Dominant’s handwriting. Instructions, no doubt. I flip the notecard open and read it, learning that I’m to be waiting for him, kneeling in the foyer at seven fifteen, naked. Par for the course.

  I like the Dominant. Sure, he’s sexually dominant. Sure, during a session, he barks out a bunch of orders and expects me to obey. But he’s funny and wry and self-aware, and he doesn’t take anything too seriously. I’ve never seen him in a bad temper. I’ve never once felt afraid of him. Not when I’m tied, completely immobile and at his mercy. Not when he has a riding crop in his hand. Not when I’m blindfolded, not knowing what he has in store for me.

  Never once. There is no fear. Only anticipation of a complete, overwhelming pleasure.

  I whistle while I beat the eggs and the sugar, sift the flour, and grate lemon zest. I keep an eye on the time as I work, since I have no desire to displease the Dominant by failing to obey his instructions. But I don’t expect him to be early. When he comes up behind me and puts his arms around me, I almost have a heart attack, until I realize who it is.

  “You scared me,” I accuse him. “Sir,” I add respectfully, since I’m not sure if our session has begun.

  It hasn’t. The Dominant grins at me. “Relax, Stephanie,” he says, his deep voice caressing my soul. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You are early.”

  He nods. “I smell cookies.”

  His hand reaches for the oven handle, and I bat it away. “Not yet,” I tell him. Sure, that’s all kinds of bossy, given he’s the Dominant, and given that I’m in his kitchen, but I don’t want my cookies messed with.

  He raises one eyebrow. “What kind?”

  “Lemon ginger,” I tell him. “And orange cardamom.”

  He looks suitably impressed. The Dominant is not a baker. While I embrace the precision of baking, he rebels against it. “Tell me about your new job,” he says.

  I recount the conversation with my manager while he pours me a glass of wine. Eventually, the cookies are done, and I pull them out, putting them on a rack to cool. Stuart reaches for a cookie, nearly burns his fingers in the process, but pronounces them delicious.

  At seven ten, I move to the lobby with a grin, taking off my sweater and tossing it on the table. “What are you doing?” the Dominant asks curiously.

  “I’m following instructions,” I smirk. I wave his note in his direction.

  He laughs. “So many punishments, Stephanie,” he mocks. “You really should watch that mouth of yours.”

  “Yes Sir.” The Dominant loves my sass. It gives him an excuse to put me over his lap and spank me.

  He doesn’t wait for me to get naked; he walks away. I shiver. I’m guessing he’s going to the closet where the sex toys are kept, and I’m not sure what he has in store for me.

  I’m not necessarily submissive, any more than I am an anal fetishist, or enjoy playing with food or sex machines. It’s a slice of me, but not the whole me. But once a week, I completely welcome setting aside all my cares, and placing myself in the hands of the Dominant. And it’s no accident that I’ve scheduled the Dominant on Saturday. He often puts my body through the wringer. I need the next day to recover.

  His footsteps sound, and I see him walk towards me. I keep my eyes lowered, naked and kneeling. He’ll most likely order me to look at him, but I know to wait for permission.

  Sure enough, when he speaks, that’s the first thing he says. The Dominant loves watching my desire reflected in my eyes. “Make eye contact, kitten.”

  I look at him. He’s holding a collar and leash in his hands, and I obediently lift my hair out of the way while he buckles the collar around my neck, and then clips the leash to it. “Come,” he orders, and I crawl behind him on my hands and knees.

  He leads me to his playroom. I’m left kneeling in the center while he opens the bright turquoise armoire and pulls out some lengths of rope, and a ball gag. “Stand up straight,” he says, positioning me under the dangling chain from the ceiling. I open my mouth for the gag, and realize there’s a hook sticking out of the ball.

  The chain from the ceiling is hooked onto the gag. The angle of it is that my head is pulled back, my hair streaming towards the floor. He draws my hands behind my back, and I feel him wind the rope around my wrists.

  I sink into peace. The Dominant wo
rks silently, tightening the bonds so that my hands are bound tightly behind my back, at the wrists, and above my elbows. I make muttered noises of arousal and lust, and his eyes sparkle. “This would go faster if there were more of us,” he says, his fingers caressing my skin. “Would you like that, kitten? Would you like being on display in the center of the room? Would you like everyone’s eyes on you?”

  I nod. Yes, I would. The Dominant has shared me a few times before – always with my consent, always with someone I felt safe with, and always in his presence. Every time he’s done that, it’s been an intensely arousing experience. We haven’t done it for a while though, and I resolve to ask if we can do it again once our session is done.

  He moves behind me, and his arms encircle me. His fingers knead my nipples, and I groan, the noise muffled by the ball gag in my mouth.

  Another length of rope is wound around my rib cage. He works patiently, running rope above and below my breasts, making them bulge out of the tight cage he’s creating. More rope is looped from the rope cage he’s created to the back of my neck, raising my breasts so that they stand firm and proud. His fingers keep running over my body while he works. Little reassuring touches that are meant to steady my nerves.

  I’ve been playing with the Dominant for a very long time. I’m rarely nervous around him. My body prickles with anticipation, of course. It always does. But I know I’m perfectly safe with him. Trust is a wonderful aphrodisiac. My pussy is wet with need as his fingers carefully wind the rope in a manner that pleases him.

  “Stand up straight for me,” he orders. I obey, and a strand of rope bisects my breasts at my nipples, before being tucked into the rope at my sides. I can feel my breasts throb. The rope scratches faintly at my tender nipples, and I whimper. The Dominant surveys me with a smile on his face, and then he turns me, his hands pawing at my body, making no attempt to hide his need. “Such a good kitten,” he says approvingly.

  I feel peace run through me. There’s something rather addictive about submission. I don’t have to do anything here other than obey Stuart. It’s freeing.

  His large hands now knead my rope-covered breasts. My skin feels hot, and the only noise in the room is the half-moan, half-whimper that I’m making, each time he grabs at my orbs. He spanks them, and I hiss in pleasure as the smack makes contact with my already reddening skin. Oh, that is good.

  A riding crop in his hands now, and he makes me dance from the blows. Or am I dancing towards the blows? I can’t tell. All I know is that I’m bound because the Dominant wills it. I’m being spanked with the crop because it pleases the Dominant to see my breasts redden and flush from his strokes. His fingers finger my pussy because it amuses him to watch me writhe and try to hold back my orgasm until he gives me permission.

  He keeps me balanced at the fine ledge between pain and pleasure for what seems like hours. When he finally unhooks me from the ceiling rope, he removes the gag, grabs me roughly, sheathes himself and brings me down onto his lap. I bounce up and down his cock, and his hands grope at my breasts again. I hiss in pleasure, and start pleading for my orgasm, and his eyes glimmer with amused lust as he gives me permission to climax.

  I come repeatedly, my voice crying out his name hoarsely. My muscles quiver around him, and he grunts as he too erupts.

  We normally keep going; the first climax is typically just foreplay for the two of us. But tonight, the Dominant unties me, and kisses me, and pleads exhaustion. “It’s been a rough week,” he says. “Let’s just hang out?” We eat pizza and cookies, and we watch a movie instead. It’s all very nice and relaxing, and very different from the usual wringer that the Dominant puts me through. I like it though. Sometimes, it’s nice to just do nothing and spend time with each other.

  11

  I think I’ve done an excellent job keeping my sex life organized. Unbeknownst to me, worlds have been intersecting, and my guys have managed to come into contact with each other.

  The Dominant and the Playboy meet on a golf course. A chance conversation, and they realize they are Mr. Saturday and Mr. Wednesday, respectively. The Playboy meets the Doctor at a Spanish embassy function, and Mr. Friday is revealed. With three days of the week uncovered, they know me well enough to systematically find the other three.

  Six days a week, six different guys. And on this particular Sunday, I am not going to be able to rest.

  Unsuspecting, I eat my planned birthday brunch with Sasha. The first sign that something’s wrong is at the end of our meal. There is no check forthcoming from our waiter. “It’s been taken care off,” he says politely, handing me a note. “I’ve been asked to deliver this to you, Miss.”

  I recognize the Dominant’s distinctive handwriting. It looks like a card. I start to smile, thinking that it is actually quite nice of him to remember my birthday.

  There’s a picture of a cake on the cover, but that’s where the resemblance to a birthday card ends. Inside, there’s a note, but that’s not what my eyes are drawn to. Rather, my gaze drops to the signatures. Six distinct signatures. The Chef. The Technician. The Playboy. Mr. Buttman. The Doctor. The Dominant.

  And above it, only one line. An invitation.

  Do you want to play, kitten?

  Sasha sees my suddenly pale face, and pries the note from my fingers. She reads it and looks at me. “Can you trust them? Are they angry?”

  If they’ve known, they’ve known all week. And all week, everyone’s been great. They’ve cooked for me, fed me, wined me and dined me.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply thoughtfully. “I’ve never led them to believe I was exclusive with any of them.”

  I see the beginnings of a smile start to form on her face. I feel the beginnings of one on mine. If I trust them, and I do, then I’m being invited to a gang-bang.

  The Chef’s words from the start of the week come back to me. This story has a happy ending. He was giving me a hint, right then. I remember the Dominant’s line of questioning from yesterday. The Doctor saving his medical device for a different day, and kissing me and making love to me instead. The Playboy taking me out on a date. The Technician and Mr. Buttman both spanking my ass with wicked grins.

  All week long, they’ve known.

  My blood starts pounding in my ears. Yes. I do want to play. I want to play with utter abandon.

  Sasha grins at my face, and gets up. “This is where you and I part ways, Steph.” Her tone is amused. “I expect a full account of the proceedings after.”

  “You’ve got it.” Sasha is my best friend because she doesn’t judge. My lifestyle isn’t hers, but she’s never, ever, used the number of guys I sleep with as a yardstick to measure my character.

  I see the waiter come back towards us, and I see a car waiting out front. The Dominant’s car. I rise and walk towards it.

  Let the games begin.

  12

  I see that the Dominant is sitting in the driver’s seat of the car. I am slightly surprised. Billionaires don’t usually drive themselves, and the Dominant hates New York traffic.

  “Get in, kitten,” he says as I gape at him through the passenger-side window.

  “Yes Sir,” I reply obediently, opening the door and sliding in.

  He leans over and kisses me. “Happy birthday. Did you have a good brunch?”

  Ah, a reminder that I need to argue with him. “You took care of the check,” I tell him with displeasure.

  “Indeed.” His voice is smooth as silk. I know this tone. ‘Don’t argue with me’. I draw in a deep breath, prepared to battle nonetheless, and he turns towards me. “Stephanie,” he says. “For fuck’s sake. Can I buy you breakfast on your birthday without having a conversation about it?”

  “No,” I reply. I grin at him. “You can always make me breakfast though.” I rarely spend the night, but the few times I’ve stayed over at the Dominant’s place, he’s always cooked breakfast. He can’t bake worth a damn, but the man can cook. His French toast is to die for.

  He laughs. “I’ll kee
p it in mind, kitten.”

  I contemplate a further discussion about the brunch tab; I let it go. I can always bake more cookies as a thank-you. “I didn’t think you’d be driving.”

  “Before I threw you in the deep end of the pool, I thought I’d check if you could swim.” His voice is amused. “You know what’s in store for you?”

  I shiver. “Is anyone annoyed?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “We are all rather impressed at your stamina.” He shoots me a look. “What’s the matter? No Mr. Sunday? You reserve the day for church?”

  “Only if by church, you mean Laundromat,” I quip and am rewarded by his laugh. “So, all six of you at the same time? How does that even work?”

  Six men. Three holes. I’ve a fair idea how it works. However, the Dominant is quite happy to spell it out for me. “You’ll open your mouth and suck cock, kitten, while we pound your cunt and your ass. Until we are spent.” He chuckles. “You must know we placed bets on when you’ll be too tired to continue.”

  “You have?” I grin at him. “What’s your guess?”

  “No, that would be cheating.” His expression gets serious, and his fingers caress my cheek. “You know you never have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  I know. I nod.

  “This is supposed to be fun for you. If it isn’t, at any time, you will let me know. Okay?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “All your safe-words will be in effect, and everyone has been told what they are.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  We’ve pulled up in front of his building. He reaches out to cup my chin. His eyes are gleaming with anticipation. I’m sure mine are as well. “In that case, Stephanie,” he kisses me with sweet heat, “enjoy your afternoon.”

  13

  It’s a peculiar kind of girl who thinks a gang bang is an awesome birthday present. But, as I’m fond of saying, I’ve never pretended to be normal.