Two Bad Groomsmen_An MFM Menage Romance

by Sierra Sparks

  “Guys, this place is friggin’ awesome!”

  “Yeah…” starts Nix. I can see a vein bulge at his throat.

  “It’s going to be epic. No need to worry Nix.” Now I am definitely sure he got a boatload of puss in the night.

  “If you keep on talking like the mom of the group we are definitely bugging you about that hostess,” quips Holland with a piece of toast ready to dry his mouth in hand. Damon looks around and quietly stones his facial features. Silence.

  “Ha-ha…fooled ya!”

  “Yeah, we’re definitely getting that number for you bro,” says Tatum. He is quite adjusted to all this. Well, I believe I had something to do with that sweet release of pressure a while back. Cue wink.

  “It was just one night guys. And, for next time’s checklist, if you wanna know something else about my nighttime activities, I suggest you come to my face privately and ask me. Yeah?”

  Silence.

  “Sure.”

  “Of course.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He looks at me, and I nod. Tatum’s hand is under the table convincing me. It’s one heck of an understanding they have if you ask me.

  “We should get going guys. The Expo’s about to start,” Tatum spurts after swallowing his last piece of toast and checking his watch. It’s just around half–past eight and the chairs are emptying around us.

  “Got the gear?” Nix asks.

  “All right here.” Holland pushes under his feet.

  We rise and leave, ready for the competition of their lives.

  *

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. To the 10th annual Inked Expo!” Mad cheers and roars swivel from the organized crowd around us. There are displays of art done on canvas, in ink, paint, with brushes, and anything that can solidify faster than spit in sand. The holy grail of art is right here, right now.

  “The competition, as by now all of you know,” booms the voice up ahead in the really clear PA system, “this takes place in a series. We start with the usual bottom, multi-level tier till we get to the top.”

  “Now as most of you can see, this year we’ve decided to spice things up a little. The main event shall be held in the middle, and today’s competitions shall be on the outskirts. Think of it as a maze. Might get your blood flowing in the right direction too,” the voice, though male and unidentifiable, snarky and full of wit, laughs.

  “Our judges will be going round and assigning badges to the artists they deem fitting to go up the rank. To our canvases,” a term to which Tatum told me they refer to the clients, “relax and be sure that you are in the best of hands. We do urge you to sign the legalities, however, so that all goes fluidly.” At this point there are some quiet hums and shushes. Understandably so, no one wants to go to the hospital from an ink accident, but still some assurance wouldn’t hurt, I suppose. “All the best of luck to our artists, and to our canvases, be safe. May the best of the best prevail.”

  “And now for the announcement in French,” willows a female voice. “That’s some excellent tag team up there,” says Holland. I look around and see him fixing his cup holder tightly by his table. The rest of the guys are doing the same. Around us, there are plenty of cardboard boxes propped up with amazing art on all fronts. Even ours steals from the action a little bit.

  “Nix, did you do all this?” I ask, taking every bit of it in after Holland and Tatum pit them up. He nods and laughs with Holland. “You just can’t resist showing off, can ya Pastor?” Damon is wiring up the lights and looking my way. I think. I am still staring at the painting on the boxes that act as our wall. “Ah well, I had some inspiration. Tate here added a touch to the original, so don’t go spooked on me like – ah shit, she’s spooked.”

  How can I not be when I am looking at an artistic impression of myself?

  It’s me. It’s really me.

  My arms are round a wolf’s head, our eyes open and looking into each other. The exact tattoo of my swan is clearly painted, and the wolf is breathing fire through his eyes, as I breathe ice through mine. The ethereal elements meet at the top of our heads, and combine to form a diamond shaped like a heart. It is magic.

  “Unreal…” I whisper.

  “She’s not spooked…maybe mesmerized and a little faint.” I think that’s Tatum. Arms fold round me, and I kiss them. “Thank you baby,” I whisper.

  “You are totally welcome.”

  “Alright, alright you bleeding hearts, let’s get started. It seems we have a few customers curious enough.” And Damon is right. Teens accompanied by their tattooed parents, siblings, lovers, and all the like with at the least one tattoo throng our stand and loudly awe at the art displayed. A few of them dare to brave the table surgically cleaned, and lie on them, telling the guys where to place the hurt.

  My job is fairly simple – watch the clients walking past and smile. I don’t mind it at all; on the contrary, I actually like it. It gives Tatum a chance to work without constantly staring at my chest or thighs or face or lips. He has a serious issue when it comes to concentration and his appetite. The sexual kind.

  I take my time to study the hall and all in it. Ten years of hard work and resilience on inking people; and the piece of art simply walks off. It must be unsettling to work for hours on someone, and in most cases in some places I would never want to see, and only have a photograph to show for it. But I turn around and see Tatum’s smile as Holland makes a quick joke, Damon’s quizzical stare at the three of them while Nix settles a young canvas down from the pain by playing some music from his iPod, and I see streamlined joy in them. They love this.

  And I love being a part of it.

  Two women, one in a tank top and a shorts with a burrito in hand, and the other in a tight denim skirt with a tee that has Linkin Park’s logo on it walk past, talking to themselves in tones enough to be overheard, and they say that a few badges have been slipped into a few artists already. It’s been a couple of hours, and I check myself – the judges should be here any time soon.

  I say hello to a few more canvases walking by and looking at our art pieces on the wall. Besides my painting, there are pictures of previous work done from the shop before my time. There’s even one of them in which Tatum poses with the face of the guy whose tattoo is his face on his face. Uncanny? I think not.

  An incessant amount of buzzing goes on, almost as close as that of Tatum’s toys last night. With each stroke he makes on a canvas, with each hour that passes, I look back at him and feel what must not, not in public anyway. Why must he torture me like this, with his constant stare down my eyes, with enough list band heat to make a comeback of what we had last night?

  Words must not be spoken. It is his only rule in bed. I for one thought that I had a say, a thought, a give in the matters of his pleasure. But he is the kind of man who washes his hands over a bowl of water, rinses it over a towel and spits in it. That kind of macho man, with exquisite taste in home décor and a fine ass for pumping his seven inches of raw steel into me for confession.

  It’s almost midday now, and my feet slightly hurt. The boys have given over three tattoos each permanently, and I have assisted in plastering around fifty–five temporary ones on the eager hearts. Tate should have seen me at it…smiling as I shaved off hairy arms and wiped with solvent, then placed the stickers on some really off places I might not be proud of now, but will be after rinsing my hands with soap.

  In all this time, I have seen no judges.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that this first round has had its fair share of serious competition. One might even say that the stakes were high and the tensions thicker than most on special nights. Artists, canvases, and my wife,” he stops short to lean on his third party; out of fun or spite, I have no clue, “I present to you the winning teams.”

  I rush back in to the guys, where Damon and Tatum are. They have no more canvases. Only Nix and Holland are busy on their tables. “Guys, did you get any badge?”
/>   “No, we didn’t,” answers Damon. His face is stone. I turn to Tatum. I feel sick.

  “No Waryn, we really didn’t. All afternoon we just worked and had fun. But…nothing.”

  All this work for nothing? How can it be? We were really good, really truly good…

  “Benjamin Quasars. The Ink Jizzers, and wow if I may add, good to see new entrants with bravado this year like you guys. Moving on, Pointless Shards…” the booming voice goes on and on announcing the winners who will progress to round two. I am weak, and not just in my knees. I sit on the table next to Damon and do what most would do in this light of a situation – ask for a beer.

  Under our seats we had a few cans. I pop open the can and sip the salty-sweet barley. Well, at least we had a good run in here. Vegas is all it really is hyped to be. I haven’t even gambled yet, but no matter, I have him. Him in that seat folding his arms and smirking his ass off. Him with his hands tightly folded around something red, shiny and yellow. Him about to burst in energy with laughter and an amplifiable seizure.

  “Tatum…what’s that?”

  “…and finally, with new entrants all the way from Philadelphia, Sinful Scars! Congratulations to all our…”

  “We got to the second round?”

  “Fuck yeah baby!” His arms sling around me and I am hoisted into the air. No more weight in my knees. One more kiss on my lips perhaps caused that. Carefully I land on my feet and high five Damon. He, for the first time since I met him, is showing off his wide teeth.

  “We were just playing with you Waryn. Just for effect ha-ha.”

  “Clearly you were. And you guys!” I pinch Nix and Holland in the back.

  “Ow!” they cry out in unison. No canvases with them luckily, but their gloves are still on. “We were just playing along you know. Nothing personal.”

  “He gets a kiss and we get pinched. I blame society, man.” Holland is still massaging that sweet pinch spot. Good.

  “Now,” the blaring voice goes on, “for those of you who haven’t moved on up to the next tier, I urge you to never give up. Talent is raw and can still get better with enough practice. Enjoy your stay and do enjoy the pleasures of Sin City of you will, and we hope to see you again next year.

  To the victors, take your rest. This next round will be for the six of you. In your respective rooms, you will choose two representatives to take you on in this next challenge. The intricacies will be communicated promptly. Rest. Eat. Enjoy. This next bit will happen at seven at sunset, in the plaza hall. See you then, and may the best of the best prevail.”

  Then the announcement is done in French.

  “Who else won? And why are they doing the announcement in French too?” I ask. Damon turns to me as he takes off the cords leading to the lights. “Bull’s shop won.” He falls silent after that.

  “They have some really shit art Waryn, don’t worry about them.” Nix sounds confident, but the look they exchange between themselves is one I cannot miss. “We’ll get them in this round, guys. Let’s get some chow first, yeah?”

  “I’m in on that action. I feel beat!” hollers Nix

  “Me too.” Damon gets in.

  “Okay Waryn. Buffet line isn’t getting any smaller. Let’s go.”

  I help carry the bag with the cabling and we walk off. Then Holland turns to me. “It’s in French for the pleasantries. There are no French competitors.”

  *

  “Six of you will take sides and fight to become the best in this competition. There are three canvases, and each pair must work on a canvas. Whatever the piece of art will be is up to you. But you have three hours to come up with something worthy of a say at the end. May the best pair prevail starting…”

  Nix and Damon are by their table, hands ready to roll and canvases calm on the tables. Bull is also here, but on the far corner. He shares a look of disgust with the two. Tatum is by my side the moment Bull turns his cheek to me. It is a filled gathering, more like a boxing arena. Ah, the memories. The four other teams have their green hair and nipples pierced; the whole breaking bad way.

  “Now!”

  It is a battle for the ages. The canvases quickly have a side conversation with their artists and plans are formulated. Steaming rants abound in the audience as tracing paper is used to make of what is to be done. Ooh man, whatever Damon and Nix have planned better win this. I want to see the look of humiliation on Bull’s face when my boys win. I need to see it.

  “Three hours of waiting up and seeing how this will end is kinda tiresome. I know the boys have got it, but must we really stay here? Holland is already on the other side giving them his support,” I start with Tatum. We turn and see the man waving his arms about trying to soothe words of comfort into his dynamic duo.

  “Come with me.” His hand grabs mine and leads the way.

  Electrifying.

  The doors open gently for him and we walk into the brightly lit hall. Chandeliers and bellboys match in splendid color and elegance. There is a thing to the theme of the entire place; more Victorian than contemporary in my opinion. Then again, I can take an idea of where we’re going. The stairs are empty, and I can see his head tilt to the maintenance closet. He tries the lock. It doesn’t budge.

  “We could still go to our room Tate. I left some really tasty chocolate bar on the-”

  In his hand is a key. And it fits in the hole.

  My hands are the only thing holding on to dear life. My feet in the air, and my crotch bare and in his mouth, he swings around on his knees and tongues me deep. I hold my breath and let my bosom hang loose. His heat, his energy, all this pent up want and lust for a quick taste of my…

  Oh my…

  Tatum…

  I can no longer feel my knees. Gravity works for him all too well in this complex situation. His shoulders tire before I can scream from down under, and he lets me down. Disappointing.

  “On the drier. Now.”

  I do as asked. I hear his buckle fall to the floor, and his whole breathing closer into me. His arms shield mine and help me to grab on. The gentle piercing I recall is not what I get. Entry is forced, and the sloppiness coating my lips gives him the allowance to slam into me with swift ease.

  “Uh!” he moans.

  I bite my lips in fear of screaming out. I have never gone this raunchy before with a man I feel…yearning for. I want Tatum to drive me like a Bentley denied. I need him to pound into me like I owe him more than my life. And just as I expect him to, he satisfies my wish.

  He pumps till I have no more left in me to offer. He kisses my back, my neck, and I can feel his lips salted by the light of our actions; our taboo actions that keep making me hornier and want him more than Christmas. His cock is still home inside my walls, and with a sense of grace, he grabs my thighs, lifts my legs off the ground and leans me forward on the white tumble drier.

  “Oh God.”

  What more can a girl say?

  *

  “Congratulations to our two finalists! Sinful Scars and Cracked Ink, welcome to the final pavilion of your artistic lives. We loved tha artistry performed in the last few hours, with the epitome of it being the angel and devil wings for Sinful Scars, and the Halcyon wolf and sheep for Cracked Ink. This will be a battle for the best, and the winner takes it all. Only one of you will be representing your team, and there will be only one canvas this time, and only one hour. Contestants, may the best of the best prevail. Are you ready?”

  “Ready!” hollers Bull.

  “Ready!” booms Damon.

  “And, go!”

  Sweat, tears and blood go into this last round. It’s been mere hours since the second round where Damon and Nix successfully got into this macho competition of brute strength and legendary finger-work. Since our tryst in the closet, I feel less than satisfied. Tatum though, with his eyes beady and almost dark under the skin, is more than whelmed.

  The canvas is a big oaf, more than two hundred pounds of a heart attack waiting to happen. His back is bare. And the weight
of the competition is to show texture. Using a snake as inspiration.

  Bets have been waged. Men and women alike are on the sidelines, waiting and watching as the two men battle it out.

  “Damon’s gonna pop guys,” says Nix. He is visibly tired, but can go on some more I hope. Holland is by his side punching him in the shoulder. It keeps them both awake with something to yell over.

  He was right. Damon is in a place he hoped never to be in for the whole of his life – next to the man he hates the most. But the lemons he’s been dealt with are fair in their own way, and he is actually getting in on the art quite well.

  The camera zooms in on what he’s doing, and I presume it must be uncomfortable having your work on a lens. The snake he’s doing on the top half of the guy’s back almost resembles a dragon from the fiery pits of the mountain it flies from. Geez…those eyes.

  Tensions palpitate. Sweat streams. There is darkness in the area we are at. It can cover lots of things done here. Lots of things…like grabbing my boyfriend’s cock and whipping it out accidentally through his shorts. Maybe even dropping my purse on the floor and getting on my knees. No one’s around to see anyway, and everyone’s eyes are on the screen above. Things like kissing his tip gently, with love and care. More things like seeping and slurping it off till it’s all moist and wet. Perhaps, things like sucking him off as he pretends to be watching the title battle, and making sure he can’t do squat about it till he grabs my head and pushes his seed down my throat.

  Things he can be sure make me damn proud and happy.

  I get up and lick the rest of his juice from my lips. Salty and full of desperation; just the way I like it.

  “What was that for Waryn?” he asks. His breath is still shallow. Mine is quite calm.

  “All this simply excites me baby. Glad you liked it.”

  “Liked it? I need to eat again now. You’re damn sure I loved it.”

  “Let’s watch and see if-”

  “Ladies and gentlemen! I believe time is up for our contestants!” a voice, closer than before, booms.