The Grass Is Greener [McQueen Was My Valley 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Perry’s eyes lit up at the indication he’d be allowed to fuck Sasha. Sasha grinned lazily and leaned back against the wall while Rowan got behind his friend and squeezed his well-hung dick at the base, urging it toward his wife. “Do you know,” said Sasha, “how adorable you are, Perry?”

  He smiled crookedly, the condom already magically rolled onto his penis. “I’ve got half a notion, missus.” He liked calling Sasha that since she’d been married. She thought he enjoyed the forbidden feeling he was fucking a married woman.

  Rowan growled against his lover’s neck. “Get up on her, you adorable tool bag.” With a lunge of his hips against Perry’s, Perry was seated deep inside Sasha. He grunted as Rowan allowed him to cover Sasha’s torso with his, and her free hand went around his narrow waist to clutch him to her.

  She licked his lower lip. “Do you like this, my sweet nature boy? Do you like penetrating deep inside Mrs. O’Shea’s cunt while Mr. O’Shea spanks your beautiful butt?”

  This, of course, was her cue for Rowan to do exactly that. Snatching up the riding crop, Rowan slapped the curve of Perry’s ass. She knew from experience how pleasantly it stung. The tingling would be emanating through his balls and down the length of his cock.

  Rowan jerked on the leash. “Fuck my wife, slave. That’s all you’re good for, giving her a good fucking now and then. You’re just a regular slab of meat, you are.”

  Sasha could see in the mirror that Rowan’s ass flexed, too, in anticipation of a good fuck. His jeans were down around his knees, as he had surprised Sasha and Perry getting frisky, so hadn’t had time to disrobe completely as they had. It was always a glorious turn-on to watch his muscular silhouette performing, in action. Sasha’s pussy clenched around Perry’s cock again and again as she watched Rowan fill his palm with motion lotion from a little bottle they kept in the green gemstone box. He smoothed the shiny clear stuff over his erection, lavishing special care on the head, obviously taking great enjoyment in the sensation of his own hand as he angled the cockhead toward the insouciant ass presented to him.

  “Oh, good God,” Sasha moaned. She allowed Perry to straighten up his back enough to also watch Rowan in the mirror. She knew by the smile that flitted across Perry’s face how much he enjoyed watching his lover caress himself. In his eagerness to be impaled by the big cock, Perry rotated his hips enticingly. “Rowan, just do it. You’re driving us both over the edge here.”

  Rowan had that devilish smile, and Sasha knew he wouldn’t play nice. “Oh, you want it, do you? I don’t care what the slave wants, wife. I’m going to mount him like a prize steed and he doesn’t have a single word to say about it.” And with a single thrust of his sexy hips, he had entered his lover. Sasha knew the exquisite shiver that ran up Rowan’s spine as his eyeballs rolled back and his jaw went slack. Goosebumps appeared on his upper arms and his stiff nipples pebbled. But no sooner had he entered his slave than he snatched up the leather crop again, smacking the ass as he fucked him. “There!” Smack. “You don’t like being violated like this? I don’t care.” Smack. “I love to watch you squirm and protest.” Smack. “There, that’s a good boy.”

  Perry was no longer smiling. “Motherfuck!” he cried, probably overwhelmed with the simultaneous pain and pleasure bestowed upon him.

  Sasha let go of her leash, allowing Rowan to dominate. She liked watching Rowan snap back the slender rhinestone-studded leash and slam his hips into Perry at the same time. Perry’s torso jerked up, his slick shoulders plastered to Rowan’s chest. Perry’s eyes were squeezed shut as though under torture, although Sasha knew well that it was exquisite torture.

  “I’m going to plunder your asshole, you helpless slave, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. Do you want this?” Smack. “Do you want my big cock sliding up your asshole, tickling your sweet spot, right…here?”

  “No!” cried Perry. Sasha knew he lied. It was much more fun to protest, to pretend that one didn’t enjoy the harsh treatment. Even though the tip of Rowan’s cock was tickling Perry’s sensitive prostate, Perry would moan and kick up a fuss. Sasha could tell by the twitching of Perry’s cock deep inside her that he was turned on by the way Rowan’s cockhead nudged and massaged the sweet gland. Still, it was sexier to stage a big protest. It gave Perry an excuse to squirm even more erotically, gluing Sasha to the table with the power of his hips.

  “Oh, you don’t want this? Or this? Or this? Then why is your long, fat penis pulsating inside of my wife? And each time I smack your saucy little ass you’re this much closer to spilling inside of her? She’s beautiful, yes?”

  “Yes!” Perry shouted, and Sasha knew by the shuddering of his hips that Rowan’s screwing and slapping had at last sent him beyond the point of no return.

  It was always wonderful having two shuddering, gasping men on top of her. Perry convulsed like an epileptic as he released his load. The clenching of his rectum must have sent Rowan over the edge, too, for Sasha could tell by the way he held his hips tightly to Perry and just quivered that he was coming, too.

  “Motherfuck!” Perry yelled. “Tony Danza!”

  Sasha almost giggled. That was their safe phrase, their term for cease and desist. Sasha had yelled it one night a couple of months ago. She had been bound to a heavy chair while Rowan was bestowing a forced orgasm upon her with his talented tongue and Perry was suckling her nipples. It had just been too, too much. Orgasms like that would break something inside of one. Then they had laughed and the spell had been broken, just as Sasha was starting to do now. “Tony Danza” was a funny name for them since no one had been able to figure out what her friend Jane had been talking about during her final words.

  Only this time…

  She cried out, “Tony Danza!” and tried to shove Perry off of her. Perry was pinned, though, by the weight of the shuddering Rowan as he clasped the warden to his chest and drained his cock inside of him.

  So Sasha yanked on the leash. Between her yanking and her squirming, she was able to get out from under Perry, and he collapsed on top of the sideboard on his forearms, panting and gasping for air.

  Wearing nothing but her high heels, Sasha didn’t even grab Rowan’s plaid flannel shirt as she raced to the office where she had stashed some boxes of her personal crap. On her knees, she tore through a box of books, movies, and music CDs.

  “Aha!” She raised the Elton John CD on high. Madman Across the Water. Last time she had tried to play this, she had gotten an error message. She would try again. She raced into the living room to insert it into the CD player.

  It could not have been a coincidence that El Zeub had been blathering about Elton John when she had seen him in Cass Cameron’s office. He had been talking about the song “Levon,” which was on this disc. But also on this disc was “Tiny Dancer.”

  “What’s up?” Rowan had just come from the bathroom and was yanking on a wifebeater T-shirt. “You went zooming in there like a bat out of hell. Sudden need for Elton John?”

  “Rowan,” Sasha said, her voice heavy with importance. “It wasn’t Tony Danza that Jane was talking about.” She shoved the CD case at her husband. “It was ‘Tiny Dancer.’”

  Understanding swept over Rowan’s face as Sasha bent to peer at the error message in the display window. “Holy shit.” Swiftly she grabbed her cell phone from the coffee table and punched Sol Greenspan’s speed dial number. “Sol. Get over to our cabin right away. I’m pretty sure I discovered more evidence about Sean Hinton.”

  She hit the eject button on the CD player and waved the disc at Rowan. “This is no music CD, Rowan. I have a creeping feeling this is a video DVD, which is why the error message. What if Jane was trying to say ‘Tiny Dancer’ to you, instead of Tony Danza?”

  Rowan nodded at the DVD player, indicating she should try it. They rarely watched movies. The few times they were all at home together were certainly spent doing more exciting things than watching movies. In fact, they hadn’t had a TV until last month, so Sasha didn’t know how to operate it.
“Perry, help!”

  Perry hadn’t heard the new theory, so Rowan explained it to him as Perry inserted the disc.

  Sasha added, “When El Zeub came to see me for medical advice, he specifically asked me if I had any Elton John CDs! He didn’t just ask me if I liked Elton—he made sure to ask me if I had any Elton CDs!”

  On the TV screen, a blurry image of a couple of sunny windows appeared, validating Sasha’s opinion. “Holy shit,” said Perry, slowly sitting on the couch arm. Rowan, not taking his eyes off the screen, bent and swiped Sasha’s sweater from the floor, handing it to her. She put it on also without taking her eyes from the screen.

  The scene came into focus on a desk between the two windows. Glossy eight by ten framed photos behind the desk showed official-looking men in ties shaking hands, framed certificates, and…John Maliano. Sasha squealed and pointed. “That’s John Maliano’s office! I recognize it! Is there any sound?”

  They could hear scrapes, as though large furniture was being moved around. “There must be,” said Perry, working the volume control. They heard people clearing their throats.

  Then Maliano himself walked into the frame.

  Wearing a three-piece suit, he sat on the edge of the desk, as though about to have a fireside chat. “Hi. I’m John Maliano, Congressman of South Carolina’s Sixth Congressional District. If you’re watching this video, it means I’m dead. If I’m dead, I want you to know that a sick, twisted individual named Sean Hinton was responsible for my death, and here is his Panama bank information.”

  The camera zoomed on some papers Maliano held to the camera, long enough for anyone to get the gist of what they contained. Maliano continued, “You will find all sorts of deposits to his accounts, money laundered from what looks like a real estate holding company in Florida, but it’s all traceable back to my campaign. I hired Hinton, who was behind the bombings in Atlanta, Detroit, and Cheyenne, always claiming it was some splinter jihadist terrorist group. This was to give me justification for many of the anti-terrorist bills I pushed through so contracts could be made for special interest groups who profit off war.

  “However,” Maliano continued, cool as a cucumber, “lately I’ve been suspecting Hinton of going off the grid. He made some threatening remarks to my wife, Jane. Now, Jane will only show this video in the event of my death.” His face turned sour now. “In the event of both of our deaths, we just pray eventually someone will find it and use it to prosecute Hinton.”

  “Holy shit,” Sasha whispered.

  Perry hit the pause button. “You know what, Sasha? Dickhead wanted to lure you away from the hotel so you’d be spared! That’s why he called you out to the middle of the desert to fix his leg that wasn’t broken!”

  “That’s exactly right,” breathed Rowan, squeezing Sasha close to him. “We knew he had some crush on you. But he did expect to blow up the Triple Play, and probably along with it the DVD you didn’t know that you had.”

  “Yes,” whispered Sasha, trying to remember everything now. It was all a jumble in her brain. “Now that I think on it, Jane must’ve put that DVD into my purse at the Winterhawk when we were arguing over where to get coffee. She was trying to shove some money at me and I didn’t understand why, since I could afford a couple cups of coffee. I didn’t find the case until I arrived here at the Triple Play. I couldn’t figure out why I had an Elton John CD. So you know, poor Tony Danza had nothing to do with it after all.”

  “And we were blaming him all this time,” Rowan remarked.

  Perry smiled. “Besmirching his character.”

  Sol rapped on the door then. Sasha had completely forgotten she’d called him, so she had to step into her miniskirt without time to pull on her tights before opening the door to a swirl of snow. The irritated, cynical lawyer stomped inside. He wore one of those red buffalo plaid hunting caps and a matching red plaid jacket. The ear flaps kept his balding head warm. “This better be good, Sasha. What’s going on here—am I going to need to bleach my eyes? Perry, how can you sit around without a shirt on? Oh Jesus, are you wearing a dog collar? You don’t even have a fire going.”

  Taking Sol by the sleeve, Sasha showed him the frozen image of Maliano onscreen. “Sol. This is a film of Congressman Maliano admitting that he put Sean Hinton up to all of the bombings, not just the Triple Play and the Winterhawk ones we nabbed him for. Atlanta, Detroit, Cheyenne, it’s all here.”

  Rowan said, “You can’t get any more ironclad evidence than a tape of an actual person admitting to stuff. As long as the evidence backs him up.”

  Sol held up both hands. “Whoa, whoa. Are you sure you want to show me this? Hinton is already going to go away for life just for the Winterhawk bombing alone. What I mean is, will watching this make me culpable for anything? Will this video make a helpful difference? Why should I go to jail for a crime that somebody else noticed?”

  Rowan clapped the lawyer on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sol. All it’ll do is give closure to the families of all his victims. Good thing, not bad thing. Watch.”

  So Perry played Sol the tape from the start, and Rowan and Sasha drifted back to the sideboard. Sasha wiped it down with disinfecting wipes while Rowan poured a few whiskeys. “I know this will put a bad stain on the memory of your friend Jane. We don’t have to go public with this, Sasha.”

  Sasha eagerly took the finger of booze Rowan handed her, and gulped. She winced as the fiery liquid burned her throat, but it was a welcome distraction. “No. It’s obvious Jane wanted me to find the tape, that she wanted to blow the whistle or somehow put a stop to her husband’s shenanigans.”

  “Some people won’t know that. Your part of the story will be very small. Some people just hear the headline. ‘Maliano Responsible for Bombings.’ They won’t see the small print where Maliano’s wife tried to stop it.”

  Sasha shook her head. “No. We need to hand this to the prosecutors. At the very least, the victims of Atlanta, Detroit, and Cheyenne might rest a little easier, knowing the guy responsible for bombing their loved ones to high hell has fried. He’s already in Terre Haute indicted on five federal counts. This tape will just seal the deal. Shouldn’t be that hard to follow the money trail. You know what, husband?” She liked calling Rowan “husband.” She set the glass down and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You saved me from that whacko. You must have really loved me even back then.”

  Rowan squeezed her and kissed the top of her head. “Love? I’ve loved you since I first set eyes on you in that coffee shop. It was very sudden and unexpected. Maybe I didn’t even want it to happen, but it did, despite my efforts. You’re my whole life, Sasha. You and Perry. Don’t ever go away.”

  Sasha placed her face against Rowan’s warm chest. She had never felt so protected, so secure, so loved. She had taken a gamble, a risk, and won. The grass was greener on the other side of the fence. She had just needed to step outside her comfort zone, to allow herself to be loved. She could handle anything from here on in, with her two men by her side.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” whispered Sasha. “I’m not stupid.”

  THE END

  WWW.KARENMERCURYAUTHOR.BLOGSPOT.COM

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Karen’s first three novels were historical fiction involving pre-colonial African explorers. Since she was always either accused or praised (depending on how you look at it) for writing overly steamy sex scenes, erotic romance was the natural next step. She lives near Napa, California where she shoots archery, collects minerals, and other “guy” things.

  For all titles by Karen Mercury, please visit

  www.bookstrand.com/karen-mercury

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

 

 

 
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