by Katie Ford
“No, not high school,” she laughs easily. “College. I just finished freshman year, over at State.”
Good. Ten points. We don’t want a high school teen, although truth be told, that’s not a deal breaker. Age is just one consideration, and being young? It’s a problem that will fix itself.
“So how do you like it?” I drawl, sliding my hand inward, closer to her inner thigh. Her lips open in a surprised “O.” But that sweet body tells another story, because her legs part oh so slightly. My pinky could stretch out and touch her swollen lips.
I continue, acting like nothing’s wrong, that this is totally normal.
“You like it?” I ask again.
She bites her lip hesitantly.
“No,” is her soft murmur.
Hmm, that’s interesting. Why not? Kids usually love college. I definitely did, away from the evil eye glare of my high school teachers. It was the first time I was an adult, treated like an adult, and expected to behave like an adult. Freedom was a breath of fresh air.
But back to Macy.
“What do you study?” I ask casually. And at the same time, I let my pinky explore, ever so lightly. Aw shit, she’s so swollen, those lips soft and puffy. My finger comes away wet, gleaming under the light.
“Unh!” she cries out softly, eyes going wide. But then the girl shakes her head again, determined to finish the conversation.
“Restaurant management,” she breathes, wiggling a little, wetness pooling between her legs. Damn, the filly’s responsive. “My parents want me to go into business or law or banking but ….”
“But what?” I ask, pushing my smallest finger into her folds. I don’t penetrate, although the way she fidgets her hips makes me think she’s dying for it.
“Oh!” the girl gasps, throwing her head back against the sofa. But struggling to retain control, Macy takes a few desperate breaths and says, “I want to be a chef. I’m not good at school, but I love to cook. My parents think that’s a waste of time though.”
Good answer. I rub along those wet lips, my brothers craning their heads to watch the show. And sure enough, her hips move along with my hand, gyrating ever so slightly. We’re quiet for a while as she builds, breath coming faster and faster.
“Do you always do what your parents tell you?” is my gentle question.
Now she’s writhing against my hand as my brothers look on. Shaking her head furiously, her eyes open wide, pretty pink pout begging.
“Tell us what we can do for you,” is my command.
Silence for a moment as she writhes and moans again, a slave to my touch on her sensitive spot. But closing her eyes, with an almost pained expression, the girl opens them again and looks straight at me.
“You’re doing it,” she gasps gently, almost unable to speak. “You’re doing it!” And at that moment, a scream of pleasure bursts from her throat.
Goddamn, I’d literally cut off my right arm to have my fingers inside her cunt right now, to feel the squeeze of her muscles as she comes. As it is, her clit is pulsing like crazy, a torrent of warm fluids gushing into my palm.
But Macy’s going wild on the couch. She parts her legs, pulling open those sweet swollen labia as my brothers look on, and spills again, the honey running in rivers from her puss.
“Oh oh oh!” the female cries, hole spasming wildly, my fingers brushing her clit again and again. “Oh!”
And shit, but a beautiful stream spurts out then from her private place, arcing into the air before dropping onto the carpet. A couple of my bros lurch forward, too late to catch it with their mouths, their hands, anything. Damn, but we have a squirter before us? How did we get so lucky?
And as the girl subsides, I turn to the audience.
Trent meets my gaze head on.
“She hasn’t taken any of us yet. We’ve kept our cocks in our pants, just like we agreed.”
That’s right. When we made the decision, all of us pledged that there’d be no dick in pussy until we were all present. So yeah, Macy’s just gotten an appetizer of what’s to come.
But the sweet little girl is no dunce. Because slowly, she sits up once more, pulling her t-shirt down, the jacket wrapping around those narrow shoulders.
“I can’t believe this has happened,” she says in a stricken voice, looking at the wet spot on the carpet. Oh yeah, that’s her juice. All her.
“No worries honey,” comes my nonchalant reply. “A little cleaning fluid will do the trick.”
But that’s not what she’s worried about. Turning my way, the girl fixes me with a look.
“It’s that,” she stammers. “But also more. I mean, who does this? Who does what I’m doing?” she says with anguish, gesturing to us all.
The wall of man is silent instead, looking back at her. Oh shit, girlie is angry.
“We can give you what you want,” I say soothingly. “It’s not wrong.”
She looks at me then, eyes wide, almost pleading. She wants me to say it again, and I do.
“So you don’t like college?” I ask.
She looks embarrassed when she nods now. But shit, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about. College isn’t for everyone. We all went, but I know plenty of people who are just fine and dandy without that overpriced piece of paper.
And we could care less if our female goes to school. We have plenty of money, there’s no reason for a woman of ours to work, unless she wants. So yeah, if anything the whole no-college deal is a good thing. It’s more about understanding what works best for you and your situation, not what society or your parents expect.
So I’m patient.
“Well, what do you want then?” come my words.
Macy stands up then, slowly folding my jacket around her gorgeous body. Her look is somber this time.
“I want to be a chef,” she says slowly. “I’m serious. I want to write a cookbook and have it published, and show my parents that you don’t need a degree. The next four years of my life don’t have to be spent in the library. They can be spent doing what I love, and I need to figure out how to get that message across.”
I hold my hands up.
“Absolutely honey,” is my smooth drawl. “It’s all about pursuing your dreams.”
“And you guys can help me do that. You said you’d help me,” she finishes in a rush.
I have no idea what this means so I turn to my brothers for guidance, eyebrows raised.
Trent is the first to speak this time.
“We promised to taste test. Wasn’t that the bargain?” he growls.
But that doesn’t sound right. Macy’s dead serious, and getting some guys to taste test food is the least of her problems. Hell, it’s not even a commitment. We eat just to survive, she’d be doing us a favor, not the other way around.
The brunette shakes her head again, refusing to meet our eyes. Getting up slowly, those curvy limbs carry her to the door gracefully, like she’s floating on air. I figure we’ve seen the last of Macy, for now at least.
But instead, the brunette quirks her head back and meets our gaze fully then.
“I need more,” are the simple words.
And with that, she’s gone, out the door and across the lawn, leaving the six of us mystified. Goddamn. Women always get your goat. They say one thing and mean another, and none of it ever makes sense.
But one thing’s for certain, though. We’ll give her whatever she needs whatever she wants. Because she belongs to us now. After that beautiful show, there’s no way this gorgeous girl is getting away. Macy belongs to us now … completely and irrevocably.
CHAPTER SIX
Macy
What do I know about the Morgan brothers? Let’s review.
Devastatingly handsome, charismatic, and hungry as hell.
Commanding, sensual, and so damn good at making a woman forget her own name.
My neighbors from childhood, even if I don’t remember much.
But still, what do I really know?
Matt, the youngest, is
an aspiring writer. The twins have an internet business. Ford does motorcycles. Trent’s a doctor. And Smith’s the boss, a whiz with numbers.
But that’s about it. All I know is that I’m dazzled whenever they’re around, hardly able to think, my limbs moving as they command. And the way it’s been going so far takes my breath away.
Because why would brothers want to share the same woman? Why are they doing this? There are so many ladies out there who’d love even five minutes with one hard, male body. So why all the attention on me? Is it weird?
And in my heart, the answer’s clear. It’s weird. Really, really weird. A team of hot, huge men, with their cocks out together? With just one woman as the center of attention? Makes no sense at all.
But the impossible just keeps happening again and again. Because I let five men watch me shower. And not just shower, but I gave them a show, pulling apart my cheeks so they could see my holes. I came for them, creaming and spasming hard, crying out their names.
“Trent! Ford! Matt!” were my helpless cries. “Will! Tim!”
Holy shit. Because after that shower, it didn’t stop. I wandered into the hallway to meet Smith for the first time, and let him finger me as his brothers watched.
Legs spread, on the couch, devoured by six pairs of hungry male eyes.
Oh my god.
What’s going on?
How can this be happening?
Smith is probably in his forties, for fuck’s sake. He could be my dad.
Well, maybe I can call him Daddy then …
Maybe I can call all of them Daddy, come to think of it. They’re all at least a decade older than me.
The scene runs through my brain on repeat, again and again. Oh my god. It really happened. I totally just did a show for those men. I bent over and showed my asshole. I rubbed myself to climax. I let them see between my legs while I answered Smith’s questions. And I liked it. The truth is that I loved it.
Because I have a secret. Sure, I’ve been addicted to my vibrator since sophomore year of high school. I’ve seen my fair share of porn, read all the red-hot romances with a hand between my legs.
But real boyfriends? Nada. Zip. Zilch. I’ve never been touched down there, and in fact, even the thought makes me self-conscious. Because I’m a big girl, with protective walls guarding my heart. Maybe guys won’t like me. Maybe they’ll be grossed out when they realizes how much flesh there is.
But the Morgans make me feel the opposite. They make me burst with confidence and positivity, like my curves are a turn-on.
So we all have our secrets.
Yes, this crazy little slut who’s made out with six brothers is a virgin.
A true-to-life, real deal virgin.
Hymen intact.
Everything up there in one piece.
But I don’t want to be. I liked the show I put on. I liked displaying my assets, making them groan and moan and spurt in their jeans. I loved having their hands and mouths on me. The feel of Matt’s talented tongue in my pussy was heavenly, Smith’s fingers brushing my sweet spot, the twins devouring my breasts. I want more, more and more. I want them inside me, on top of me. I want them in my mouth and in my …
My stomach growls unexpectedly then, almost making me giggle at this inopportune time.
Trust my gut to remind me of the important things in life.
Because when was the last time I ate? I’ve been so caught up with everything lately, that even eating’s gone by the wayside. And believe me, that doesn’t happen, not to Macy Jones.
Sighing, I dig up some clothes, a pair of jeans and a deep-V-neck sweater before wandering downstairs. My parents are gone as usual, so I throw myself into cooking. It clears my head when I’m busy at the stove. I don’t know, the creative process helps me feel more centered somehow. It works for me, always has.
And food can be sexy. It’s just that people have all these hang-ups these days, what with veganism, fruitarians, low salt, low calorie, low everything. They don’t let themselves savor and enjoy flavors anymore, the incredible feel of something melting on your tongue. Instead, folks are caught up in counting calories and figuring out fat and sodium content to the tenth of a milligram.
Me? Sometimes I just close my eyes and let the food barely touch the tip of my tongue. Sometimes I just let a morsel sit in my mouth, savoring the taste and texture. It’s a sensual thing, arousing almost.
I guess you could say that food has been my boyfriend this year.
Well, at least he’s been nice to me.
College, however?
Not so much.
If I’m being honest, I really hate the college experience. I hate my roommate, for one. Tara is ultra-feminist, and that’s fine, I respect folks who have strong beliefs. But I don’t agree with a lot of what she says. I mean, it’s okay to like domestic stuff. I’m not less of a person if I want to make dinner at night. I’m not dumb or insignificant for taking pleasure in small things like fancy silverware and pretty placemats. Right?
So, ugh. There are so many things about college that just don’t fit. My roommate. The other girls who party hard and never sleep. Plus, the career aspect of it all. We’re supposed to be pre-professional, getting ready for big careers in finance or banking or law. But I don’t want to be a tax expert or run someone’s lawsuit. I don’t want to go to graduate school, period.
And unfortunately, my parents won’t listen. Jim was an accountant, Marsha a commercial real estate agent. Of course, they’re retired now, but while they were working, they both made good money and lived normal, boring lives.
And that’s fine for them. After all, who am I to judge? I reaped the rewards, living a comfortable middle-class lifestyle as a result. But I don’t know. It’s not me. I don’t want to spend my life in a beige cubicle, boxed into a ten by ten square. I don’t want to have my vision deteriorate staring at a computer screen all day. I don’t want to be my parents, who spent decades as dutiful corporate drones.
But what do I want?
I want to cook and eat amazing food.
I want to get my hands dirty, burying myself in tastes and textures from all over the world.
I want to make something of my life that has nothing to do with books and computers.
So it’s confusing. Life is confusing. But here in the kitchen? This is where I feel happiest, most content. I’m just not good with equations and problem solving and making presentations. Heck, I can barely get a sentence together most days, particularly when I’m nervous or overwhelmed. My forte is making flavors work together, the smell and touch and taste guiding me.
Sigh. So what do I do about this college thing? My first year was rough for sure. I made a few friends, but overall, it was just overwhelming. I spent a lot of time in my dorm room, writing recipes and thinking about this cookbook. That was my first goal after coming home, to get right back into the kitchen, test my recipes, and get the book together. I plan to self-publish it and once I do, maybe my parents will listen and let me switch to culinary school. After all, if they’re spending loads of money, it should be for something that makes sense.
If only it were that easy.
If only Jim and Marsha would listen.
I have to try and make them listen.
Bustling around the kitchen, a slight hum comes from my lips, and I dance around making homemade mozzarella and flatbread dough. Making things from scratch is big for me. It takes longer but I can control the flavors so that the dough is infused with just the right amount of parmesan, basil, and garlic. My mouth waters just thinking about how good it’s going to be.
I’m putting together a simple Italian flatbread. Margherita, restaurants would call it, with a tangy-yet-sweet sauce and globs of runny, milky cheese. Big pieces of basil make it even more aromatic and scrumptious, but it’s this special dough that will propel it into the world of culinary orgasms.
It turns me on, just thinking about it. I wish the boys were here to enjoy the food. Just seeing them shovel my food into th
eir mouths the other night was more satisfying than almost anything I’ve ever experienced before. To be able to cook for people who genuinely enjoy my food is its own reward. To pair that with, well, all the things that came next … that’s my dream life.
I’m just not like other people, I guess. The girls I know at college are into extracurriculars, community service, all topped with getting straight A’s to boot. But there’s a cost, for sure. Because on weekends, they drink a lot, getting completely wasted and shitfaced. Then they sleep with guys right and left, sometimes two or three per weekend. Sadly, the memory’s not even there the next morning. That’s right, between the black outs and hangovers, no one remembers anything.
It’s really sad, in my opinion.
Who would want that?
After my experiences with the Morgans, I definitely want to remember everything.
So yeah, that life doesn’t appeal. I’ve never been with a man, of course, but learning about sex will be much like cooking, for me. It will be experiential, full of noise and touch and taste. So far, these sessions with the Morgan boys have been just what I needed, though I’m certain most of the people I know would be horrified if they knew.
Just as my beautiful flatbread goes into the oven, my parents’ car pulls into the driveway. A few minutes later, my mom bustles in, chattering like a chipmunk about how good Liz Anson’s dye-job looked today.
“Real natural, don’t you think?” she asks. Then she sees me, “Oh, hello, dear.”
“Hi,” I say. “I’m just finishing up a flatbread. Are you hungry?”
Mom flits around the kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter and hanging her keys on the hook by the door. My father grabs the newspaper and heads into the living room, ignoring me.
“We ate at the club, honey,” she says apologetically. “I know you love to cook, baby, but there’s no need. It’s more important to get yourself through school to get a good job. Cooking takes so much time. It’s messy and a hassle, too. Why don’t you just eat out?”
The words stab me in the heart. How can she denigrate what I love?