‘Love’s infinitely imaginative. Never black and white, but all shades of grey.’
‘You’re such a philosopher, Pierre.’
‘And you’re a real bombshell.’ He tickled her ear with the tip of his tongue.
‘So, what was the silly spat about this time?’
Pierre hesitated. ‘It was about you actually. We love you, Martha.’
He bit her neck gently. It was much better than Melissa, Martha sighed, as she felt her womb expand in pleasant ripples and wondered if, after all, a throbbing penis might feel rather good. Peter’s hand slipped open the top button of her blouse, experimentally pinching first one nipple and then the other.
‘He’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Unlike Melissa, Peter always comes back.’
Martha still found it surprisingly hard to talk about Melissa and the memories stabbed like hot knives. Only yesterday, when she’d gone out to get a loaf of bread, she thought, she’d seen Melissa’s bright cap of blonde hair disappearing round a corner. It wasn’t Melissa, of course, but it was still intensely painful.
Pierre expertly unfastened the rest of her buttons, before bending down to flick each of her nipples in turn with his tongue.
‘God, I’ve wanted to do that for ages.’
‘Pierre, I really don’t know ...’ Martha’s voice tailed off.
Pierre was easing her French knickers down her legs and reaching under her skirt to expertly comb her luscious thick thatch, igniting tantalising ripples all across the surface of her skin.
‘Martha, I love you. Shall I spell it out, L-O-V-E? Real love.’
‘Pierre, that’s all very well, but ...’ she objected, as he placed his finger on her lips, drawing her down beside him on the couch as he smothered her mouth with his.
‘I give you full permission to fuck me,’ he whispered taking her hand and placing it on his cock. ‘I bet you never had sex with a bisexual man who loves you?’
‘Pierre, for goodness sakes, you can’t possibly love me – and what about Peter? This is the worst kind of treachery.’
‘Peter won’t mind.’
She stroked his beautiful cock. It was plump, upwardly curving, the perfect fit to massage her velvet walls. Martha was instantly seized with such passion she straddled Pierre’s hips and gently lowered herself towards the Gallic missile as Pierre rubbed her clit. The penis nudged her open, the arousing friction making her wetter than she could remember, and then in it went; in and out, in and out, in a delicious pump action. And, all the while, Pierre was smiling at her until, just as he was about to come, he pulled her forward and kissed her lips and face.
Martha couldn’t believe she’d done it afterwards and the worst part of it was, she’d meant to ask Pierre why they’d been arguing about her, but in the heat of the moment, she’d totally forgotten. She was still wearing her shoes and skirt and she was ashamed of herself, so ashamed in fact, she clambered off the couch and, running across the landing, slammed her apartment door. God, what had she done?
Martha felt so guilty she stopped answering her door and the chocolates and flowers piled up on her doorstep. She’d rapidly become like a spy, peering furtively around corners and creeping around the flat. The trouble was she dreaded the thought of bumping into Peter and Pierre because she felt she’d betrayed them.
One lovely crisp autumn morning Martha was just crossing the road, when she caught a glimpse of Peter coming out of Selfridges. It was impossible to miss the tall rangy posture and the stunning blond hair. She tried to hide but it was too late; he’d already seen her.
‘Martha, there you are, I was sure it was you!’
‘More gifts for Pierre?’
‘He’s been a bit moody lately, needs cheering up. He told you about the horrendous argument, didn’t he?’ Peter linked his arm through hers. ‘I think it was a bit of the old wedding jitters to be honest – anyway, we had such a fabulous making-up session.’ He stroked her cheek as he looked her up and down. ‘Shit, doll, we were getting so terribly worried about you. We haven’t seen much of you for days. Look, let’s have a coffee in the bookshop.’
‘I don’t want a bloody coffee,’ Martha snapped.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Oh hell,’ Martha cried, bursting into tears.
‘Martha, Martha, don’t cry.’ Peter kissed her. The kiss was long and lingering and she felt herself dissolving.
‘I hate myself because I’m jealous,’ Martha said.
‘OK, well we can easily solve that one. You know how me and Pierre enjoy lovers’ tiffs. The making up’s so jolly. Come on, you ought to tell me about this jealousy thing. How could you be jealous over two old bisexual fags?’
‘Peter, I wish you’d be serious.’
‘What’s the matter? Is it Pierre? If it is? He told me all about it, and I’m cool about the whole thing. I wasn’t about to chain him to the bed and cut his balls off, well not unless he wanted me to. We’ve talked about it a lot. Loving you that is ... and we never keep any secrets from one another. We share our most intimate and dirty fantasies, everything. And, it wasn’t as if it was a case of a fast fuck, was it? You’re our extra-special friend, Martha, and we only want to make you happy. Now ...’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Paint on a smile and we’ll go home.’
‘Pierre.’ Peter called. ‘I brought our favourite girl home.’
Martha was filled with a heady mixture of conflicting thoughts as Pierre walked into the room. She flushed bright crimson when she saw him.
‘Good thing too. Where have you been hiding, petit oiseau? We were about to call the police.’
‘I told her it was cool, the sex thing. The best possible thing,’ Peter explained, beginning to shrug out of his clothes.
‘Ah that.’ Pierre sighed, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her hard on the mouth.
There was nothing to say, Martha thought as she enjoyed the kiss. Nothing at all.
‘Let’s eat her. What do you think?’ Pierre was staring intently into her eyes. ‘My God, you smell divine, honey – all strawberries and cream.’
‘Ah, please don’t,’ Martha said weakly.
Peter grinned. ‘Don’t what? Eat you? Oh, I think we should.’
‘We both love you so much,’ Pierre said. ‘Personally, I love your buns; I’m always studying them when you’re in your tight jeans.’
‘And, I love these,’ Peter exclaimed, squeezing her breasts; first one and then the other.
‘I ...’ Martha said, her voice trailing off.
‘This is long overdue. You know how much you want it, Martha.’ Pierre was unbuttoning her blouse and slipping it from her shoulders.
Pierre turned her and, slipping his arms around her from behind, he smoothed his hand over the bulge beneath her skirt. Even the gentle stroking was enough to awaken her, to begin her juices flowing.
‘Take out Martha’s haircombs, Pierre. I love her hair, don’t you?’ Peter whispered.
Pierre unfastened the combs and, loosening her hair, he teased it across her shoulders in soft waves. Martha sighed. She was full of a curious euphoric sense of rightness, as with a sharp pang she knew she’d loved Pierre and Peter from the first moment she’d seen them. Passionately, deeply.
‘I’m now going to undress you for Peter’s delectation,’ Pierre said. ‘Because you won’t do it, I think we’ll have to do it for you.’
Pierre began kissing her ear, sucking her earlobe into his mouth, tracing his tongue over the erogenous places that Melissa had never seemed able to find. Martha was filled with delightful feelings as the arousal exploded all over her skin at the same time in multi-orgasmic fizzes, and she started dissolving in a flowing wave of ecstasy.
‘Don’t stop,’ she breathed.
‘We’re going to make you stop thinking about Melissa and we’re going to fill your head with us.’
‘Ooh ...’ She sighed as Pierre clasped her breasts, palpating them, before smoothing his rough hands down across her belly, rubbing her
sex through her panties and sliding his finger up and down her cameltoe.
Peter unzipped her skirt and, dropping to his knees, wriggled it down over her hips. Pierre was still fondling both her breasts and her cunt, pinching her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, making everywhere sensitive for Peter.
Peter clasped her buttocks, drawing her to him, and bit her nipples with his teeth as he alternately tongued them and rolled them around and around. At the same time, Pierre was stroking between her thighs, feathery caresses across her skin and up between her legs, making her warm and wet and flowing.
It was hard to hold back from such sexual attraction. Much better to surrender and think about the consequences later on. And it was so difficult to focus on which sensation to immerse herself in first; the fluttering orgasmic tingle in her nipples, or her fevered cunt, aching now for the touch of Peter’s skilful doctor’s fingers.
‘Adorable Martha,’ Peter crooned.
‘Yes, lovely Martha,’ Pierre echoed, as she arched her back like a cat, cried out, and Pierre’s hands worked over her in wonderful firm strokes, full of the Gallic charm of seduction. There was nothing, Martha speculated, nothing in the world so delightful as being made love to by two equally fascinating men at the same time.
Peter had wriggled her panties right down to her ankles and was kissing her belly, moving insidiously as he created a fiery trail down over her trembling flesh and between her legs. Shit! He was now kissing the tender insides of her thighs and, God help her, she was thrusting her hips out to meet his tongue, her passion inflamed by Pierre who was still squeezing her nipples violently as his squat penis thrust between her butt cheeks and tantalised her anus; retreated, came in again and she surrendered to the sweet invasion of finger and cock, lips and tongue.
Her legs gave way and she crumpled, however, Pierre held her, his hands supporting her as Peter’s fingers forced her legs further apart and, separating her fleshy sex lips with his hands, he pressed his nose and mouth and his questing tongue into her. He had a fantastically mobile tongue. It slithered all the way up and down, practically into her vagina and back out again.
Peter’s fingers stroked her lubricious folds as the tongue came back and bit her clitoris gently and expertly enough to spark her orgasm and then, absolute heaven, he followed the triumphant orgasm up, by sucking her. A gentle sucking fucking by Peter, she smiled. Soft, feminine and patient.
Pierre carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed, holding her tightly from behind in his lover’s embrace. She rose and fell in sublime ecstasy pushing her hips forward, greedy for the penetration of Peter’s appetising, feminine cock.
It was like eating a box of chocolates, knowing it was sinful to consume the lot but knowing you couldn’t help yourself.
Peter slithered up the bed, eyes half-lidded with lust, his cunt-flavoured mouth, teasing her.
‘You’re gorgeous, Martha.’ Their hands clasped above her, so she was sandwiched between them, the tantalising friction growing.
Martha raised her leg to cover Peter’s thigh and drew him in, felt the dick probe, enter, recede. And then Pierre pushed, gently at first, very gently opening her other hole with his fingers as he pushed in his cock, coaxing it.
The tips of her fingers and toes, even the roots of her hair seemed to be responding to the stimuli as Peter began to thrust and they entwined their man’s fingers and held each other as they fucked her, pressing her tighter and tighter between them.
When she orgasmed it was as if her flesh was fused with both of them, pushing and dissolving into both Pierre and Peter in a molten volcanic explosion embellished with cries and moans and purrs, before the comforting downward descent into after love; of butterfly kisses and caresses like a gentle summer breeze. The most perfectly consuming sex.
Martha was best man at the wedding – or should she say best lesbian woman. She wore a stunning crêpe de chine dress, held the rings and felt fêted and adored, as Peter and Pierre introduced her to their select circle of friends.
‘Oh, this is Martha. We don’t know how we’d live without her ... She’s our best friend in the whole world and we adore her.’
Martha walked upstairs to the hotel room and, easing off her shoes, she sat on the bed. She’d miss Peter and Pierre when they went on honeymoon. She wondered if things would change now they were married. Her eyes misted nostalgically. She’d caught Peter’s bouquet, a perfect spray of roses, rosemary and love-in-a-mist. She held it to her nose, experienced the resurfacing of just one melancholy thought, one tiny prick of jealousy.
‘Here she is.’ Peter laughed as he pushed open the door. He looked splendid in a white suit and crisp satin shirt and her heart stirred, gave a leap. And then Pierre grinned over his shoulder. Pierre in a tailored morning suit, Gallic, darkly handsome, sexy as ever. She held out her arms, and they ran to her, hugged her.
‘You did such a perfect job and the cake was simply divine. Clever girl.’
She started to cry, she couldn’t help it. The marriage separated them, broke the circle and she wondered how that circle could ever again be complete.
‘We’ve got something for you, babe.’ Peter grinned. ‘Give her the envelope, Pierre.’
Pierre slipped an envelope out of his pocket. ‘I forgot, should have given it to you earlier, honey, but I was so nervous.’
Martha drew out the air ticket and frowned.
‘You’re coming with us to Bali and on the beach we’re going to marry you. We intend to make an honest woman of you, Martha,’ Peter said, beaming. ‘What do you think of that? Of course, you’ll say yes because we’d die if you jilted us.’
Martha felt a rising sense of incredulity as Peter placed his arm around her waist and Pierre held her hand.
‘You didn’t shut the hotel door,’ she whispered, as Peter brushed her lips with his.
‘Fuck the door,’ Pierre said. ‘We’ve only got half an hour until the taxi picks us up for the airport. I hope we packed you the right clothes. However, I doubt any of us will be wearing much in Bali.’
‘You dirty bigamists,’ Martha said with a sigh, as Peter began to unbutton her dress and Pierre, gazing up at her, wriggled her panties down her legs.
The Fuck-Me Cabbie
by Kay Jaybee
‘That’s him over there.’
‘The one stood on his own? Brown hair, tight jeans, cute arse?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Does he have a name?’ I put my drink down onto the sticky plastic-topped table before us, not taking my eyes from the back view of the man leaning against the bar.
‘Well, the men call him Mr Greedy.’
‘And the women?’
My friend smiled at my expression, she knew me very well. ‘They call him the Fuck-Me Cabbie.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’ The satisfied lilt to Jenny’s voice made me drag my eyes away from the self- styled Adonis at the bar, to the air of happy memory plastered across her face. ‘He claims to have had sex with nearly every female passenger he’s carried in his taxi between the ages of 18 and 50.’
‘Is that so?’ I picked my cola up and took a long thoughtful draft as I rocked back on my chair.
‘So he says.’
‘And you believe him?’
Jenny said nothing, but her smirk spoke volumes as she peered at me over the top of her glasses.
‘And was it worth it? Is he that good in reality or is it all arrogant attitude?’
‘I can’t argue with the arrogant bit, but the man’s bloody hot. Annoying, but true.’
Running a finger around the rim of my empty glass, my eyes returned to the cabbie, mentally willing him to twist round so I could get a proper look at his face. As if picking up on my mute signal, he turned, a pint glass in his hand, and stared directly at me. Unashamedly, I stared back.
It was his eyes that struck me most. They screamed non-stop endless desire; a desire which would somehow never be satisfied. The square cut to h
is chin and his bulky, yet toned frame, simply bellowed sex, as if a neon sign was permanently flashing above his head saying “Get it here – NOW.”
The other signal he gave out, perhaps even stronger than the aura of lust, was conceit. He’d been told once too often that he was good in the sack. This cabbie needed taking down a peg or two.
‘Go and talk to him.’
Jenny’s eyes flickered at me mischievously, ‘What are you thinking?’
‘He needs cutting down to size.’
‘How?’
‘You’ll see.’ I kept eye contact with him. He didn’t need to say anything to let me know what he was thinking. ‘I want you to tell him there is a threesome on offer. Do not tell him who’ll be involved, but feel free to let him make his own assumptions. It’s not our fault if he jumps to the wrong conclusion, is it?’
Jenny looked momentarily disappointed, ‘Won’t it be us?’
I couldn’t help but smile at her. Jenny’s neat chest had been poking at the flimsy covering of her T-shirt and bra ever since we’d started discussing the taxi driver.
‘Of course it will be us. But it might not be him ... Are you game?’
‘I’m game. Tell me.’
Pointedly ignoring the cabbie, I shifted our chairs closer together so that no one could overhear what I was about to divulge to my companion.
Regarding me with renewed interest, Jenny was obviously eager to get our plotting underway immediately, but was still a little unsure about my plan, which I had to admit, was a bit complicated. ‘Do you think he’ll go for it? He’s not known for sleeping with a woman more than once. No return fares as it were.’
‘I’m sure you could lay it on strong. After all, he’s had you, but not me. You’re a beautiful woman, honey; use that to our advantage. Sod feminism for once! Paint him a picture he can’t refuse. Tell him about our casual relationship, and I’ll see you and him at the back of the car park in an hour. And don’t forget to switch your phone to vibrate.’
Jenny stood up, readying herself to approach our quarry, her short floaty skirt swaying suggestively around her long legs. I re-focused my blue eyes onto the cabbie’s gaze, communicating what I hoped was an expression of mutual understanding. Then, with a deliberately seductive glance at Jenny, I trailed a polished fingernail down my pale neck, with the intention of planting the idea of all three of us being together firmly in his mind.
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