“Deal.”
And that, as they say, is exactly how the deal went down.
It’d been a while since Jeannie had played at being extraverted Patty, but she hadn’t lost her chops. When Gene stripped her of the blue dress she’d exchanged with her twin for her pink one, she remembered to arch her back and pose for him, just as Patty might do. When he peeled off his white tee and dropped his blue shorts to his feet, she saw he was identical to his brother, right to the fair, sparse down on his balls. Certainly, his cock was every bit as impressive and as rock solid as her husband’s.
His lips on hers were soft, and his tongue, as it tasted her lips and then her mouth, was luscious and questing, so like Pat’s, so familiar, but not Pat’s, so different. She was excited, and secretly shamed by how extra wet her pussy was when his tongue slid along her slit, in agonizingly slow strokes, and then dipped inside. He moaned. She felt it more than heard it, a low, deep exhalation that warmed her inside and out.
“I love it when you lick my – um, my cunt,” she said.
“Then I’ll eat you until you can’t come any more,” he said.
Inwardly, she groaned at the idea. But as he laved and nibbled and sucked her to one orgasm after another, Jeannie groaned out loud, with gusto.
In the other bridal suite, Pat rolled Patty on to her belly. They were both naked and highly aroused from foreplay.
“I want your ass, Jeannie,” he said. “I know how much you love it.”
Patty shivered. Who’d have thought her fearful sister would’ve embraced this dirty act with such gusto. Still, she wasn’t about to be found out and so, though anal wasn’t her favourite, she giggled with delight and parted her legs wider, to welcome him.
She hoped he’d take his time but he lubed his cock and leaned close, rubbing the head up and down her crack until it “caught” at her back entrance.
“You want it?” he asked.
“I want it.”
“Tell me.”
“I want it.” Patty paused, then added, “A lot.”
“What do you want? Tell me. You know I like to hear you talk dirty.”
“I want your – um – prick in me, in my bum, in deep.”
“Me too! I love to do your bum – Jeannie.” He leaned in, pushing his way slowly inside her until she was full to the hilt with him.
“Do it,” he said. “Do it like you know I like it.”
Oops! Jeannie hadn’t told her about this. He liked something that her sister did, something special, when he fucked her ass. Damn!
“If you aren’t in the mood to do it that way, that’s OK.”
She was off the hook if she screwed up. Patty’d only had anal sex once with Gene and that had been pretty straightforward, so to speak. But she thought she could guess what her sister might do that was so special. After all, how can a girl do much of anything different when a man’s weight is crushing her? What she did for Gene was the only way she could think of. She said, her voice husky, “Lift up, then.”
He raised himself on to straight stiff arms and the tips of his toes.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“Ready!”
Rotating her hips clockwise, she pushed up at him, skewering herself on his rigid flesh until the wet lips of her cunt kissed his dangling balls. She paused, then sank down again, rotating counterclockwise, until only the head of his cock was still trapped inside her.
“Oh fuck!” he groaned. “Fucking fantastic.”
She was surprised at the thrill that traveled her body at the sound of his breathless praise. Surprised and inspired. After she’d raised and lowered herself half a dozen times, undulating each time the obscenely split globes of her ass made contact with crotch, his lust seemed to take him over. He pushed her flat and pounded into her, fast and furious. The sex seemed to teeter on the very brink of craziness. Whether it was the taboo nature of the act itself or the depth of the sensations it created, she didn’t know, but Patty was seized with a desperate need to come. She managed to slide her hand down between her body and the bed and rub her clit so that, a mere moment later, when Pat began to roar and jerk in ecstasy, Patty was ecstatic, too.
The next morning, the girls met in the pool’s changing rooms and switched bikinis, so that Jeannie was once more in pink; Patty in blue.
They settled in their customary chairs by the ocean to wait for their men.
Jeannie said, “You were right about your husband.” She pouted. “He is better in bed than mine, dammit! Not bigger, mind you, but yes, better. He ate me until I screamed for mercy.”
“Funny,” said Patty, “because I was about to tell you the same thing. Your Pat is a dynamo, Twinnie. He fucked my ass like there was no tomorrow. It was so exciting! I have to apologize though.”
“Why’s that?”
“By the time he flipped me over and fucked my cunt – but I called it my pussy, don’t worry – I was so out of my mind I raked my nails down his back. He’s got marks.”
“Oh well, they’ll fade. Here they come!”
The girls watched their young husbands approach. Pat wore trunks and a white tee, and Gene was dressed similarly, though, as usual, his trunks had a blue streak on them, while Pat’s had a flash of pink. As they neared their wives they stripped off their tees, rolled them into balls, and tossed them to the sand. Together, the boys dashed into the ocean for a final swim before departing the island.
“What the—” Jeannie’s grin morphed into an open-mouthed expression of astonishment.
“Oh. My. God.” Patty’s face mirrored her sister’s. For it wasn’t Patrick’s back that bore the mark of Patty’s ardour – it was Gene’s.
Which could only mean one thing.
It seemed twins, at least these two pairs of twins, think alike.
The Escape
Jett Zandersen
Her lungs seized as she heard the creak of a floorboard near the door’s entrance. The moonlight coming through the French window cast shadows that moved whenever the breeze swept through the muslin curtains – the tendons on her hand contrasted as she froze above the keyboard.
A voice permeated through the tension. “What are you doing here?”
There was no point running. She had tried that a week ago when she awoke from being drugged. The guards had shrugged and chuckled when she jumped out the window and dashed across the lawn, running madly despite the cuts and bruises from the recent struggle. After an hour of darting through thickets and forest, she knew she was trapped on an island. Somewhere. Escape would not be easy.
Letting out her breath, her shoulders slumped and she felt like bursting into tears. She was so close. All she needed was the code to the tunnel that brought supplies from the mainland. And then she’d be free. Another day of what she had already endured would tip her over the edge – and she couldn’t give in. There was no point lying either, to the voice in the darkened doorway. The man she knew as “Caspar” could read her mind even when her lips mouthed other words. The lips that he watched as she bit them in concentration when they played chess or poker, supervised by a retinue of guards and the presence of the operation controller, Mr White. Perhaps that’s why Caspar had lost the occasional game, if only to grant her some freedoms in the bets he made. If she won, she got a privilege, such as not being handcuffed to the table, or being able to butter bread with a knife. If he won, she would tell Mr White a name or a code. She never gave up her secrets easily though. After a game, Mr White made Caspar leave the room, and when he returned she always had a new bruise, another bandage. But she gave a name. Even though they all knew it was fake. And then the next day would be another game of chess or poker.
As he walked into the moonlight, she remembered in her dressing gown pocket the iPod she had won back yesterday. Well, won might be a bit wrong. Is it possible to win against exploiting a weakness? Like learning from a dossier that an agent had a broken rib from a mission two weeks prior and then nailing the first blow there so that thereafter he was f
orever gasping a rasp of breath rather than fighting at full power.
She had been trained in fighting of course, not only with fists and weapons, but with femininity. A look that lingered a little longer, a flash of skin, the gentle stroking against a lengthened neck – anything to see whatever lit up in a captor’s eyes. And then a little more skin, a little more stroking until his mind was blanked out by anything else except wanting that primal activity. To fling her down and mate. Or even to think that someone as beautiful as she could ever be interested. And then in a weakened state, she got what she wanted. A key, a name, an escape.
But this time, every trick she had tried was useless, even on one so young and hauntingly handsome. This man, Caspar, was cold. Literally. Two days ago in frustration she had grabbed the glass bishop and lunged forward to stab his hand. But he caught her with his other hand, which felt like a block of ice. She looked at him confused. He took her hand and put it to his cheek, also cold, then to his neck to feel his pulse, so faint and slow she would have thought him in hibernation if not for the glint in his blue eye – an icicle that flashed light in a deep crevasse. He placed her hand back behind her side of the board.
“Your tricks won’t work on me.”
But then that afternoon before the moon took its turn in the sky, she had heard some music playing down the hallway. She recognized the tracks as from her iPod. When it got to Mozart’s “Ruhe sanft, mein holdes Leben”, she felt her chest cave in at the isolation of beauty, like the gilded cage she was kept in – an exquisite mansion on a lush forested island in what looked to be the Dalmatian Coast.
The music remained floating in her mind during the latest poker game. After dealing the cards, she had arranged her hand and started humming and swaying a little to the beat from a recent mission at a Berlin nightclub (“Slow”, Chemical Brothers remix of Kylie Minogue). She raised the stake and waited for his as-always instant reaction. But this time, he wasn’t even looking at his cards, but following with every trace her body made in the space. The way he imagined her soft white skin twisting through the air, her hands so warm touching herself, running her fingers through her hair, the drops of sweat running down her body.
She kept her poker face, not only because she had a straight flush, but because she saw the faintest throb upon his neck underneath the white shirt he wore buttoned up tight. She could see his chest rising higher, the definition of his body, lean and muscular – obviously Mr White’s most prized specimen. Were they testing him? Able to resist anything physical, they were testing the ultimate downfall of any man.
Mr White coughed and Caspar shifted instantly: “I’ll raise you another Capote novel if you tell me Station Enigma’s entry code.”
She sniffed and hummed a little more trying to give the air of nonchalance. “No, I want my iPod back.”
Mr White came up behind Caspar and whispered in his ear. It would be easy. There were only songs – they had scanned for anything else.
Caspar nodded. They laid their cards down, saw that she had the stronger hand and paused before Caspar left the room. Mr White looked at him severely instead of the usual approving nod, then stamped over and threw the iPod at her.
“We’re not done with that name.”
“But—”
“He may play to the rules, but I don’t …”
And that’s why when she reached into her pocket later in the moonlight, Caspar had to stifle a gasp at the hand mark left on her wrist, that had been twisted backwards so hard until she screamed so loud that the guard dogs started howling.
She plugged her iPod into the computer to find a song, and he started to walk towards her to stop, but as soon as he heard the music, his feet anchored to the floor. If he got any closer to her, he wasn’t sure if …
She walked out from behind the desk to be in front of the poker table. Everything was dark except for the moonlight glinting off the polished brass statues and rococo mirrors. The sound of the crickets disappeared as his consciousness diverted to what he had tried shifting from his mind since she was brought here a week ago, still in her jogging gear, eyelashes closed in slumber and peace before the hell began. Not exactly the vindictive assassin he had been led to believe. He had leaned over her, wanting to stroke her thick red hair, to make her wake up so he could see if her eyes were green like in her dossier, but Mr White came in and grabbed his arm.
“No touching. Ever. This is your test.”
Back in the games room, she knew that any words spoken would break the spell she had running between the beats and notes. So she closed her eyes like she always did. So she couldn’t be reminded of her reality.
As the intro continued, she swayed some more, now twirling the dressing gown tie and letting the silken sleeve slide down so most of her left shoulder and arm were exposed. With the other hand, she dipped her finger in her mouth and then traced delicately over her collarbone, sliding her hand under the gown to touch her breast, raising it up so he could see how the soft flesh tipped up over her fingers.
His mouth dropped open slightly and he could feel moisture gathering above his lips – he licked and tasted salt. The shirt collar against his neck felt like a stricture with his carotid artery throbbing. He knew though enough to stay where he was, and yet he could not walk towards the computer and yank away the iPod. Just once, he wanted to know what it felt like to feel. To react. He was sure he would be strong enough to stop when he needed to.
But oh, when her hand reached down and undid the gown and her gentle swaying shifted her body from exposed to hidden, he had a glimpse of her frame before the light was taken away by the silk. She turned around and both hands reached up to her neck, then to her hair where she undid a ribbon and the hair cascaded out, freshly washed. She reached over to the table and scattered the chips then looked back to see his reaction. A slight nostril flare at the orderliness being messed up, but still he remained, his eyes focused. He was testing himself.
She walked to the other side of the table so it was between them and sat down to remove some cards from the pack, raising an eyebrow for him to join her. His neck was still throbbing but he knew a game would help to take his mind off things, so he walked to the other chair and faced her. Still moving to the music, she let the gown slip down so she was sitting there with only the occasional shadow of curtain to cover her breasts. He looked at the blue veins that crisscrossed her skin and felt his fingers moving in sync as he imagined tracing them, perhaps with his tongue.
She pulled the ribbon from the gown and placed it on the corner of the table. “Well?” She breathed out to pout her lips as she asked.
He shifted his mind back to the cards she was shuffling. “What?”
“Eight-up, five-cards. If I win, you let me go.”
“And if I win?”
“You get to do … whatever you like.”
He paused and breathed in through his nose, feeling the air warm as it drifted into his lungs. “Agreed.”
She cut the deck and motioned for him to restack it for her to then deal, revealing a ten of hearts for the deck between them. Picking up her cards, she fiddled with a nearby chip and bit it in her mouth, then leaned forward and pulled the gown away, tossing it over to the side.
He felt all his clothes getting tighter, and he thought about her on the chair, whether she was wet, whether her legs stretched out like long stems ready to wrap around him. When he picked up the ten and put down an ace of spades, she reached for his hand and brought it to her lips. She sucked on his index finger and felt the blood rush to her neck.
He pulled his finger away and traced the outline of her cheekbone. He felt her fingers inch down his hand, letting her creep up to his wrist and feel a pulse both strong and fast. He pulled his hand back slowly and tapped on the cards sternly “Your turn.” The track moved to another song.
She bit her lower lip in concentration: “I’m raising the stakes.”
She put her cards face down and leaned over the table like a panther prowling in a c
age. Holding his gaze, she reached for his cards and put them face down too. Then she reached for his shirt collar and undid the top button. His eyes shifted to the inset of her neck, the line like a swan’s where her face met the rest of her exquisite body. His mind flashed with thoughts of slipping his hand in that space and tilting her head so he could feel her warmth on his lips. To thaw out just one time.
While his gaze was shifted, she rolled over the table and on to the edge so her breasts were two inches away from his face, but her legs were crossed. She felt the warm air from his breath tickle her and again she closed her eyes for what she was about to do. She knew she had to be slow, or else he would stop and that would be her last chance. Every move she made had to be plotted like a chess move.
She began by throwing her head back so that her ribs stuck out from beneath her skin and her hard nipples pointed to the ceiling. She could hear his eyelashes fluttering like he was in a deep sleep with his senses overawed. Her hands pressed hard against her body, flexing her muscles so that he could see her strength even after this week of torment. She tightened her hand and pricked her nails into her skin. She knew that some guys got off on that – the infliction of pain. But just as she was about to let the blood run forth, his hand grabbed her and her eyes opened suddenly.
He looked at her, the faintest crinkle of concern crossing his face. His cheekbones cast shadows over his expression and he reached with his other hand to sprawl out her fingers so they were a soft cover instead of a tense claw. She looked at her hand and changed strategy in her mind. So he’s not into that … maybe he is into the more vanilla variety. It was at this point that she realized that her eyes were open. Instead of seeing grizzly stubble and sweating brows thrust in her face and god knows where else, she saw his eyes devouring her, but as if she were a rich chocolate cake, too sweet to be eaten at once, but to be nibbled in small mouthfuls – each lick its own flavour sensation.
Her crossed legs had angled one foot pointing near to his right ear, so she leaned over and started stroking his earlobe with her toe, up and behind his silky thick brown hair. He reached up behind his ear to catch her ankle. He felt the delicate bones and traced up the inside of her calf, then to where her legs crossed over, all sticky from sweat. She held her legs together tightly, but he pushed with both his arms to pry them open, while looking into her eyes. In the periphery of his vision, he saw her thighs glisten with sweat and he let his fingers drift up, slipping. The music’s trance ended with the track and they both froze as they heard voices outside the window. It was the guards doing their nightly rounds.
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