Iron Soldier

by Katie Ford

  “Of course,” replied the disembodied voice. “You’re in Suite 301, right?”

  “That’s right,” I confirmed. “Thank you so much.”

  “Is it okay for hotel maintenance to come into your room if you’re not there?” the voice spoke again.

  “Of course,” I replied. With work the way it was, there was no guarantee that I’d be in my room at any given time. Besides, my stuff would be safe, I wasn’t worried about that.

  So with a hop, skip and jump I hung up and dashed into the en suite, shutting myself in the marbled luxury. Oh wow, a tub and a shower, I hadn’t expected that. But no time for a bubble bath right now, my agent was waiting downstairs for a late dinner.

  Instead, I blasted the water in the stall, admiring the gold trim on the doors, the clear glass looking out onto a mirrored expanse. Stepping into the small space I could see my image refracted again and again, like funhouse mirrors, and I watched, distracted, as my nude figure picked up the shampoo and began massaging my hair. Man, just seeing myself from so many angles made me dizzy.

  But I shook my head and closed my eyes, willing the headache at the base of my skull to dissipate. Luxuriating in the steam, I began soaping up, running the scented bath gel over my smooth limbs, my body slippery and wet, toned and tan. It’d been a long day and I could definitely use a rib eye at dinner, maybe a glass of wine, and then early to bed for my four a.m. call time the next day.

  But my mind kept wandering, the water so hot, pounding on my body, making me dream about an alpha male who’d give it to me good … or maybe two alpha males.

  Because twins are my thing. This is going to sound so wrong, but I’ve been obsessed with twins ever since my mom married Gordon Jones. Or married into Gordon’s family, more accurately. My new stepdad had two sons, Pax and Peyton, and I’d had a crush on them since … well, about forever actually.

  It’s crazy to be fantasizing about your twin stepbrothers, but did that stop me? Hell no, they can’t put you in jail for dirty thoughts. Instead, I lathered up, luxuriating in the warm steam, letting water pound my body sensuously. Droplets ran down my curves and I pretended they were the twins’ fingers, sensuously tracing the curves of my breasts, running over a sensitive nipple, tickling my tips, tweaking, pulling until they were hard and pointy.

  Oh god, that felt good and I moaned, parting my lips slightly, closing my eyes, letting my thoughts run. My hands drifted up and down my belly before caressing the curve of my hips, gently massaging my thighs before dipping down between my legs, brushing against that intimate part of me.

  And what do you know, I was running already, sweet nectar already pouring from my inner sanctum, oozing as I ramped up the heat, stroking myself while dreaming of Pax and Peyton.

  My nub hardened immediately, that little clit tensing with energy, begging to be stroked, to be touched and caressed by a man’s massive hand. And for kicks, I imagined four hands stroking, lifting a leg for better access.

  Oh yeah, that was it! Parting my thighs, my channel came into full view, the dark pink moist and engorged, steaming with its own sensuous, private heat. With a sigh, I reached for the shower head and yanked it off its setting. It was my favorite kind, a goose head that you can manipulate this way and that, twisting and turning for your pleasure.

  With zero hesitation, I pulled that baby close up to my twat, blasting the spray so that it pointed straight at my pussy, pounding my clit with the warm water, letting my cunny get a liquid massage, squealing a little from the tickling sensations, panting and heaving as the pound did its work.

  My knees went weak and I almost collapsed in the shower but I wasn’t done yet … not even close. With a sly smile, I pulled the shower head closer and began stroking my clit with it. Oh god, yeah. It felt so good, that warm, hard metal against my little nub, smooth and slick, firm strokes making me cream as the water pulsed.

  It was so delicious that I almost passed out but I wasn’t done yet. I wanted to come, hard with no mercy, my little cunny clenching with jerks, and there was a plan. I’d brought my friend into the bathroom. Oh yeah, I’d packed a wall dildo for the trip, the kind with a suction on one end, perfect for mounting on a glass shower partition.

  At first, I licked the rubber, sucking it a bit, running my tongue up and down that massive shaft before massaging it with my fingers. Technology is amazing now, it was just like real cock, hard and yet soft at the same time, a stiff rubber base encased in the softest spongy material, bouncing back against my questing fingertips. It even smelled slightly musty, like a real cock and balls, hard yet loose in all the right places against my tongue. This would be amazing.

  With shaking hands, I plunked it onto the wall about waist-high, maybe a little higher. I’ve always liked my men taller than me, a lot taller actually, so when they fuck me standing I’m on my tippytoes, trying hard to balance, to stay upright while a monster goes at me from behind. And this was no different. I measured a couple inches up from my pussy and smacked the dildo against the wall, sticking it with a loud suck. Oh yeah, showtime.

  Turning, I spread my legs, cuddling that penis between my thighs, rocking a bit, moaning, letting it rub against my snatch, pretending it was the real thing. Oh yeah, fifteen inches … just like my stepbrothers.

  But I was too turned-on to wait much longer. Leaning forward at the waist, I braced my hands on the shower seat and began backing my pussy up against the toy, feeling the hot, spongy head probe my lips, pressing up against that puffy, engorged flesh. Oh yeah, it felt good, real good. With a deep sigh, I began slowly pushing backwards against that hard length. Damn, it was so realistic I could almost feel a hard vein pulsing, like a real man about to blow his load.

  And here’s where my second friend came in. I’d brought along my massive black dildo, my favorite ten-inch toy. Mr. Mongo has been with me a long time, carried me through many a lonely night, coming with me on multiple business trips. As I backed my pussy onto the wall shaft, I slowly licked Mr. Mongo, my mouth encasing that monster length, the width stretching my lips tight, making me gag a little before I forced it down further, almost choking myself, my cheeks growing full before my throat opened and I swallowed the hard pole.

  Because this is what gets me off. I can’t come from just one dick, I need two. I need Pax and Peyton with me, their double dongs doing me, probing, penetrating, making me sigh and shudder. I need a double bang to get the magic going, and this time was no exception.

  With the water blasting, I pushed my hips back until I was fully impaled on the wall dildo, that massive dong reaching up my inner channel until it bumped my cervix, hitting me again and again as I fucked it, going in and out all the way with each stroke.

  Meanwhile, I began tonguing Mr. Mongo, forcing it in, in, in until I’d swallowed the monster, fully embedded so that only its base stuck out between my lips. It must have been obscene, I know, to see that massive black length in me, its outline visibly moving down my throat as I opened my esophagus, struggling mightily as I pummeled my behind against the wall.

  And slowly, the sensations built and began to surge. With a rhythmic swaying motion, I rocked up and down, my pussy beginning to shatter while mouth-fucking myself, the cream dripping down my thighs, rising up against that hard shaft while my lips stretched and pulled, the better with which to take acreage.

  And my cunt began to burn, a slow, relentless slide, starting with a tingle in my clit to become a shake in my pussy walls, electric jolts running up and down my spine before exploding in my twat, causing my knees to weaken, my arms losing all power as my puss spasmed and clenched, clamping down on the dick inside like it was the tastiest popsicle, the huge rod the source of all ecstasy.

  I choked out a scream, my voice muffled, my screams drowned out by the pounding beat of the water, droplets running into my eyes as I double-fucked myself, dreaming all the time of twins with charcoal hair, deft, agile fingers, and massive cocks that pleasured me until I was a screaming mess.

  Oh god, oh god,
oh god. The release was like a nuclear blast, my juice shooting out, coating the glass in my personal nectar, the sweet ambrosia copious and flowing. My pussy gave it up, spasming and shaking, sending shivers through my spine, tingles all the way to my fingers and toes, my whines of ecstasy high-pitched and hoarse.

  Slowly, I began to come down from heaven as my breathing evened, pulling the cock from my mouth, inch after inch appearing, glossy and appetizing, so huge yet mouth-wateringly delicious.

  And as I straightened, the wall dildo pulled out of me on its own, a loud squelch signaling its retreat, drenched in my personal juice, sweet and tangy-smelling.

  And me? Well, I was done for now, my breasts heaving, my cunny still twitching after the massive pound. The only problem? My climax wasn’t enough, I needed more. I needed Pax and Peyton, my stepbrothers … in the flesh.

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pax

  I sat back on the sofa, aimlessly flipping through the channels. Lounging, I spread my arms along the backrest, stretching my legs out.

  “Wanna beer?” asked my brother.

  “Sure,” I grunted and wordlessly Peyton tossed me a Coors.

  Yeah, we’re not fancy dudes. Even with NFL contracts we’re still simple guys, a can of beer hits the spot, no need for a magnum of Dom. Not that we’d pass on the champagne, it’s just there was no need to be P. Diddy. No way I’d be caught in an all-white get-up, white shoes, white shirt, white suit, although traveling by helicopter is pretty sweet.

  So it was with a grunt that I lay back on the couch, thinking back to our last game. It’d been a blow-out, the Chargers rolling over the Dolphins like a bunch of high school girls. That was how bad the Dolphs were, their defense pathetic, their offense even worse. I wouldn’t be surprised if their head coach was fired, it was downright embarrassing to score absolutely nothing in a game.

  But now, time for relaxation. I flicked through channels randomly, bored by most things. Reality TV, Jeopardy, the Real Housewives, damn this sucked. No way was I watching some middle-aged hags screaming at each other over the latest designer bag, I’d rather claw my eyes out first.

  So I flicked to what always got my goat going. A re-play of last Sunday’s game, pro football dissected in endless slow-mo, pundits opining on each move, camera zooms from every angle. It was so sweet, the green grass leaping to life, the perfectly manicured field, the players like little men on the screen, banging and getting banged, knocked over like so many toy soldiers. I knew how it felt.

  And Peyton grunted as we watched a quarterback get sacked, hitting the turf face first as a dude the size of a tractor plowed him. The poor sucker was going to have more than grass stains on that uniform, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was now covered in a massive, full-body bruise.

  But that’s what they pay us the big bucks for, right? Not everyone can do this job and my bro and I were picked because of our speed, size, strength, coordination, and smarts. At this level, you can’t just be some loser with fancy feet. You’ve got to be able to psych out the opponent, memorize hundreds of plays, all balanced with an innate feel for the ball, for the field, for the talents of your teammates.

  I scrutinized the play carefully, my mind whirring, only to sit up straight when the camera flashed to an announcer. It’s something, or rather someone, who’s been on our mind for a while now, the face on-screen familiar and yet totally strange.

  Because it was our stepsister Ana. Or Stacey, as she’s called now, with the long, blonde hair and perfect Crest smile. Our little sister, who’d burst into our lives when we were eighteen.

  It’d been a surprise. Back in the day, my dad was a real hound dog. Ever since our mom died, he’d dated like a man with a mission, taking out two, three women per week. And trust me, it’s not easy to accomplish in suburban White Plains, known more for its family atmosphere than a hotbed of available singles.

  But Gordon Jones was like a tomcat gone wild, howling after every female with his hormones on fire, sniffing like a hungry horndog. He dated old women, young women, heck even girls who looked like they were in their teens, everyone desperate to get a piece of Gordy.

  And it wasn’t because he was particularly rich or successful, it was that he was available. In a small town like White Plains, there aren’t that many unmarried guys, so women threw themselves at our dad left and right, clamoring for attention. It was insane. Who would have guessed a mid-level manager could get more dates than Johnny Depp? But if you’re a decent guy in a small town with limited options, it’s all about supply and demand.

  Anyways, Pey and I didn’t have much to say about it. We were already on the cusp of becoming men and guys don’t talk about feelings, especially not when you’re eighteen year-old bruisers. Better let my dad run his own life, we didn’t want to know.

  Besides football had always been our obsesssion, our first love, the source of satisfaction, release, triumph, everything for us. So we just threw ourselves into game after game, thinking of nothing but the next play, the next move, how to improve, how to bring the opposition down, grind them into the dirt.

  That is, until Ana showed up in our lives. We were at breakfast one morning, eating our usual meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, juice, more scrambled eggs, all of it topped off with a carton of orange juice. It takes a lot to maintain muscle mass, and Peyton and I were going at it like starving men, wolfing down plate after plate after our morning work-out.

  “Boys,” said my dad, putting down his fork. “I have news.”

  “Mmmph,” I grunted, my mouth full. Man, these waffles were tasty, it just needed more butter and more syrup. Yeah, that’d do the trick.

  “I’ve met someone,” announced my dad.

  Silence except for chewing noises and the crackle of bacon browning on the griddle. My dad met new women each week, this was nothing new. But he pressed on.

  “She’s really special, I hope you’ll welcome her with open arms.”

  At this, Peyton looked up.

  “Sure Dad, no prob,” he tossed off between bites of food. We weren’t worried. After all, he dated like a madman, this woman probably wasn’t any different from the others.

  “And she’s moving in,” continued my dad. “Next week.”

  At that, we looked up. What the? My mind whirred furiously. Had he brought someone by who was particularly pretty? I tried to remember but there was merely a blur of faces, no one stood out especially. Oh, there was that one woman who cackled when she laughed, she got on my nerves, but whatevs. It wasn’t permanent or anything.

  “What do you mean, moving in?” I asked slowly, finally opening my mouth. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what people in love do,” said my dad simply. “In fact, Virginia and I have been dating for three months.”

  I rolled my eyes. My point exactly, it’d only been three months. That was hardly enough time to get to know each other, much less move in. But my dad pressed on.

  “Virginia’s the one,” he said in a rush. “And we’re getting married!”

  This time, my brother and I choked, food flying from my mouth as I spat out a mouthful of scrambled egg.

  “What?” I gagged. “Why? When?”

  “Really Pax, do you have to ask why? We’re in love,” he said airily. I guess even old people fell in love, anything was possible. But Gordy continued. “Virginia’s the one, I hope you’ll welcome her with open arms.”

  “But why?” demanded Peyton ruthlessly. Like peas in a pod, my twin and I. “What the hell is this about?”

  My dad shot him a warning glance.

  “It’s about life,” he stated. “I’ve been lonely since your mom passed, it’s time I found someone to take care of, to take care of me. We all need a companion.”

  “Hmmph,” grunted my twin.

  My dad just sighed and looked around the kitchen. Okay, it wasn’t exactly clean, not like when our mom had been alive. In fact, the place was downright sloppy, dishes in the sink, dirt caked on the f
loor, a wet dishrag on the ground. But that stuff could be solved by hiring a cleaner, not marrying a wife.

  “You boys need it,” announced my dad. “And I need it too,” he hinted darkly.

  That made me sit back, realization suddenly dawning. Could it be? Did my dad need to get laid and this chick Virginia was the answer? I shared a glance with my twin and could see that he was thinking along the same lines. Oh yeah, dear old dad needed a bed buddy, and he probably couldn’t afford to keep taking women out on countless dates. So marriage it was. Holy cow, we didn’t realize dating and relationships were so complicated.

  “When are you getting married?” I asked, more curious now than anything. If he needed to blow his load on a regular basis, the sooner the better as far as we were concerned.

  “This weekend,” Dad replied simply. “Virginia’s handling the details, you guys just need to show up.”

  I shook my head, it was happening so fast. But you know what? I didn’t blame Gordon. The need for food, water, shelter and sex are commandments, and if that’s what would float his boat, get his goat … then so be it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stacey

  It was shocking, my mom getting married.

  “Ana, I’m getting married,” she announced one day, not even looking up from her laptop. Her nails clacked, fingers flying in a fury, and that’s how I found out I was going to have a new dad … and two new stepbrothers.

  I was surprised, beyond surprised really. My mom is a workaholic, someone who travels a lot as a bank executive, and it’s been a good living for the last ten years. It was a shock when my dad divorced her, leaving nothing in his wake. He’d been a sneaky bastard, emptying their joint bank account, their safe deposit box, heck, even taking some of the jewelry my grandma left her.

  But my mom is tough. She was a bank teller back then and despite her broken heart, the endless crying jags, she showed up at work each morning like nothing had happened, her suit perfectly pressed, ready with a firm handshake and calm smile. Some women are born resilient, and Virginia was the best.