by Cris Anson
Annabelle stared, entranced. Her nipples were so sensitive, so engorged, that they felt abraded by the silken slip with every breath. The aching center between her legs begged for attention and she let her hands wander down her belly to stroke it. Her breathing roughened. Her hips moved in sync with the woman on the bed.
Suddenly the man on his knees stared directly at Annabelle, and she realized she had moved so close to the tableau that the golden light fell on her as well, making her equally visible to them. He raised one hand and beckoned. Mortified, Annabelle lowered her eyes, leaned forward to rest her head on the glass—and discovered there was no barrier between her and the trio on the bed.
In shock she jerked her head up. The man’s dark eyes burned into her green ones. His hand—and his rampant cock—reached for her.
She wet her dry lips with her tongue. Lord, but he was perfection, curly blond hair reaching almost to his wide shoulders, a thick splash of hair matting his muscled chest between the flat brown nipples, a thicker nest encircling his cock.
For a long moment Annabelle stood rooted to the spot, her gaze clinging to that magnificent specimen of manhood, her temperature spiking and her pussy juices overflowing her panties and trickling down her thigh.
Oh she was tempted. But no, she wasn’t a wanton. It was like watching an adult movie, that was all. It was the day before Halloween, Mischief Night, and this was a Halloween party. She was there as the guest of her boss, for heaven’s sake, and she’d better find the gumption to walk away and find the end of this tour because how would she explain to Mr. Smith that she’d participated in a sexual foursome?
Pivoting on one stiletto, she managed to grope her way down the hallway, through a couple of twists and turns in the pitch-blackness until she stumbled onto a small sign, lit by a night-light, that proclaimed, “This way out.”
Relieved, but with a touch of regret, Annabelle grasped the doorknob and walked into a dimly lit room that looked like a solarium. Glass walls, glass ceiling, large plants and ferns and tropical trees in huge pots, wicker furniture with plump, brightly colored cushions. Men and women in all kinds of costumes standing in small groups and holding glasses. A bar, a bartender.
Just what the doctor ordered.
She sauntered—she hoped that’s what it looked like—to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, tall glass. Some of the men looked at her with avid interest, some of the women nodded or smiled, but no one acted as though she had a scarlet letter pasted on her chest.
Annabelle felt as though she’d passed some kind of test. She took several gulps of the refreshing drink.
And saw Mr. Smith approaching her.
But holy Hannah, not in her wildest imaginings did she visualize the pagan god striding toward her. His black hair, untamed and curling down to his neck—he must use a gel to keep it in place during work hours, she thought—was somewhat held down by a beaded Indian headband. His face and muscular, hairless torso were decorated with streaks of white, ochre and several other shades of a powdery substance. As to a costume, the only thing covering him was a tan leather loincloth held up by another beaded band riding low on his slim hips. She could see the unbroken line of his golden olive skin from chest to hip to thigh to moccasins on his long feet. She gulped. No tan line.
He was magnificent.
And he was standing in front of her, devouring her with his eyes.
“Mr. Smith,” she whispered, the awe in her voice evident.
“You are a goddess,” he responded, and bent his head down to brush a kiss on her unresisting mouth.
She opened her mouth, her mind, and her body language to him. Accepting her unspoken invitation, he deepened the kiss, delving delicately with his tongue. She felt the glass being removed from her hand then he pulled her to him, breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and wrapped strong arms tightly around her. He smelled like fine cognac mixed with leather and earth and man. It intoxicated her more than any liquor she could imbibe.
A tiny part of her mind wondered briefly if her costume was dry-cleanable, as the war paint on his chest was probably transferring itself to her dress—after all, she was rubbing against him like a cat. Then feeling the impressive bulge of his cock under the leather loincloth, she forgot all about the complexities of clothing. She did that to him! To the untouchable, unemotional Mr. Lowell Smith.
She felt herself being waltzed backward. Blinking her eyes open for an instant, she realized he was steering her behind a thick patch of bamboo, in effect screening them from other guests. She closed her eyes and just let herself feel.
Feel the strength of his embrace, the rigidity of his cock, the thrust of his tongue now more urgent, her back against the wall and her legs being hoisted up and around his hips, skin to skin…
His hand fumbling between their bodies, fingers burrowing under the elastic of her skimpy silk panties, reaching for her clit, stroking it, dry-humping her while she writhed and angled herself closer and yet closer to him so she could—
And she did. A fierce climax overwhelmed her, shooting shards of lightning into every cell, every gene in her body, his talented mouth capturing her moans, two fingers inside her pussy, thumb rasping against her clit. And a voice trying to distinguish itself from all the thunder and fireworks exploding inside her head, a voice coming from one side of her, another pair of hands grasping her shoulders and shaking her—
“Miss Fortier! Annabelle! What are you doing?”
Chapter Two
“Mr. Smith! God, there are two of you!”
Mortified, Annabelle dropped her legs to the floor, pushed away from the Indian and found she was too wobbly to stand unaided. Her gaze bounced between the Indian and the pirate, seeing the subtle differences between them that the war paint had obscured. Or maybe it had just been her fervent desire that it be Mr. Lowell Smith and not some poseur who may or may not be brother or cousin or merely look-alike but could still answer rightfully to “Mr. Smith”.
Which, if she’d admit it to herself, was how she’d addressed him when he’d approached. Formally, as though they were still in the office.
Well, it was his own fault, she decided. If Mr. Smith wasn’t so damn prickly and rigid about office protocol, she’d have been calling him Lowell and this damn imposter, even if he was another Mr. Smith, wouldn’t have tricked her into having a mind-bending orgasm under false pretenses.
Oops. Oh yeah, orgasm. Remembering how richly her juices had flowed, she surreptitiously pulled her thighs together and squeezed her Kegel muscles tight, hoping to forestall any more moisture seeping down her legs.
The two men stood on either side of her, glaring at each other while gripping one of her arms.
Ye gods and little fishes, what was she going to do now? She’d bet her next month’s rent that the oh-so-proper Miss Manners didn’t have an answer for this particular social contretemps.
“Beat it, Lowell. We’re busy.”
“You were out of line, Chaz.”
“The lady made her choice. I didn’t have to tie her up to—”
“Dammit, will somebody please clue me in here?” Annabelle shoved against the Indian’s rock-hard chest. And noticed how smeared his war paint was. Glancing down to her own chest, she winced. Felt heat rise in her cheeks and up into her hairline. Could her actions have been any more obvious?
As if she’d ordered them to do so, both men looked down at her chest. The handkerchief squares that had been applied at strategic points of her costume seemed to have been dislodged in her rubbing frenzy, and small tears appeared where the corners had been sewed into the fabric. Wild streaks of paint decorated her costume. The silky garment exuded static cling, molding to the contours of her breasts. Her nipples jutted out like sore thumbs.
To say nothing of the wet patch covering the spot where the tops of her legs joined.
Mr. Smith—Lowell Smith, that is—lifted his gaze to her, the stern look on his face totally in keeping with the rakish pirate look. “You made a mistake,
Miss Fortier.”
Annabelle blinked. “It was a perfectly logical assumption—”
“I’m going to teach you how to tell us apart.” Placing both hands firmly on her shoulders, he pushed her downward until her knees buckled and she found herself kneeling at eye level to his crotch.
His bulging crotch.
She’d never seen him in anything but Italian-cut suits, but those tight leather trousers and poet’s blouse with billowing sleeves and a deep vee front made him look as gorgeous and as rippled as Mr. June. Better, because he was here. In the flesh.
Holding her in place with one hand still on her shoulder, he loosened a jaunty red scarf he’d tied around his neck then swiftly covered her eyes with it, tying it in a tight knot at the back of her head.
“Wait a minute, what do you think you’re—?”
The rest of her words were captured by his mouth, softly nibbling at her lips with light scrapes of his teeth interspersed with mild suction.
Oh God, was it Lowell? Or was it Chaz? Wasn’t that the name he’d called the other man? She reached out her hands for tactile clues, her mind equating pirate—leather and linen. Indian—almost naked.
Her hands were grabbed and swung behind her and tied at the wrists, all while Lowell—Chaz?—kept up a sensual assault on her mouth. Lowell hadn’t introduced him, hadn’t explained why they looked so much alike. Why didn’t he clue her in to the rules of this game he was playing?
She concentrated on the feel of the very masculine tongue making such delicious forays into her mouth, licking its way around the edges, touching her tongue, stroking the roof of her mouth. Concentrate! Was the feeling similar to when the Indian had ravaged her mouth?
No. This was more tender, more coaxing. Lowell. It had to be Lowell. She gave herself up to the reality of finally, finally kissing her boss, and leaned forward to make her silent statement.
“Don’t move.” The command was roughly whispered, as if he didn’t have total command of his voice. Lowell’s voice. She was sure of it.
Wasn’t she?
She heard the rustling of fabric and lifted her head to concentrate. Without vision, her hearing had sharpened. The slight squeak of leather rubbing against itself, the whoosh of a softer fabric. Was he disrobing in public? What kind of party was this, anyway?
Remembering the vignettes in the Haunted House, she answered her own question. This was a place where anything goes. Did she really want to be here? In this particular situation? She flexed her arm muscles but her wrists didn’t budge. Tied like a Boy Scout’s knot. A voice disrupted her thoughts—a deep, sexy rumble that made her body shiver in anticipation.
“Now pay attention, Miss Fortier.”
Definitely Lowell’s voice.
“Open your mouth.”
Okay, what would he do, pour champagne down her throat? Surprise her with an ice cube? Run his fingers across the edges of her teeth? Feed her a strawberry?
She felt a large hand cup the back of her head. At the same time something warm and smooth and round slid between her teeth and into her mouth. Instinctively she closed her lips around it.
Ohmigod, she was sucking on Lowell Smith’s cock!
She hoped.
The feel of it, rock-hard and velvet-smooth at the same time, thick in circumference, the vein rubbing against her tongue, made her giddy and horny. Hornier. He pushed in as far as he could go without forcing then withdrew slowly. He held the tip at the entrance, prompting her to lick the drops of pre-cum from the opening, to feel the bulbous head, the thick ridge, the veins standing out.
Oh man, she wanted to touch him, to cup his balls, to run her fist up and down that hard shaft. If he thought he was punishing her, he certainly was!
Again he pushed inside in a controlled stroke and withdrew totally. She felt bereft.
A silent moment passed when nothing happened. Then he cupped her skull again and glided his cock inside her mouth. It wasn’t the same. Oh, it was still huge and hot and rigid, but the flavor was different. The scent was different. It wasn’t Lowell.
Her heart lurched. Two gorgeous hunks—totally nude, she presumed—had her on her knees and sucking their cocks with each other’s complicity. Annabelle forced herself to take a mental time-out and consider her predicament. Tomorrow in the office, what would Mr. Smith think about her wanton behavior tonight?
Well hell, he really wanted her to do this, or else why would he have invited her here tonight? He was the one who’d forced her to her knees, blindfolded her, allowed his look-alike to join them in a ménage.
In subtle indication that she knew who was who, she slackened her cheek muscles and turned her head to one side. The cock slipped out. A low curse followed.
“Something wrong, Miss Fortier?”
Lowell’s voice. To her side. She was right. The one who’d cursed, whose cock no longer enjoyed the ministrations of her mouth, who’d stood in front of her, had to be Chaz.
She lifted her chin. “It wasn’t you.”
No response came from Lowell. Annabelle tensed.
Finally, he said in measured tones, “I think we should adjourn to a sitting room.”
He slid his arms to her waist and raised her to her feet. She felt the soft linen of his shirt, heard the rasp of leather against leather, and realized he hadn’t gone naked, he’d just moved the garments out of the way enough so they wouldn’t inadvertently brush against her and give away his identity.
Well, the Mr. Smith she’d known at work wouldn’t walk naked through a roomful of strangers anyway.
But wait. Didn’t he say he was a member here? So he’d known what to expect, had probably been naked and seen others naked in this very room. Her pussy began to tingle all over again.
A few twists and turns as he guided her through what sounded like small groups of people variously talking, breathing hard, grunting, murmuring or kibitzing, then the soft clink of a door closing and the sounds faded.
“Now, Miss Fortier, we will continue.”
Large hands cupped her jaws. Thumbs traced her lower lip. Light kisses dropped across her cheeks, her nose, her temple. A tongue stroked her mouth, teasing her. Annabelle had no doubt it was Lowell. By now she knew his scent, his touch, the rasp of his tongue. She tried to lean toward him, to capture that tongue, to feel his lips pressing hers as though he couldn’t get enough of her. But he held her face just so, keeping her at arm’s length so to speak, teasing her with just a taste, just a touch.
She moaned softly. “More.”
“Patience, Miss Fortier.”
Shivers raced through her at the husky timbre of his voice.
“Behind you is a bed,” he said. “Take one step back and sit down on it. But first…”
Annabelle felt two sets of knuckles grasping both sides of her costume at its shoulder seam. Fabric ripped then slid down her torso, her legs, in a caress. She felt her nipples pucker even more as two indrawn breaths were taken. Hopefully they liked what they saw, her shimmery white bra cupping her 34-C breasts, the slender waist dipping in then swelling out to curvy hips covered in a matching, very wet-crotched thong.
She took the step back and sat. The luxurious feel of satin sheets tickled the backs of her bare thighs as she sank into the pillowy mattress.
Her arms still tied behind her, she kicked her feet free of the costume and wiggled a bit to get comfortable and balanced, feeling the plump globes jiggling into each other as she did. Murmurs of approval greeted her action.
“Exquisite,” said Lowell.
“Agreed,” replied Chaz.
Suddenly sensations bombarded Annabelle. A feathery touch down one arm, a soft wet suckling at one breast, fingertips skimming the inside of her thigh, teeth nipping the delicate skin where shoulder met throat. With each second, Annabelle’s awareness of her body heightened. Tiny electric shocks zinged through her, centering on the spot they studiously avoided, the spot where she most wanted their mouths, their fingers. Their cocks.
She felt her bo
und wrists loosen, and the tie fell away. With a sigh of relief she moved her arms around to shake some circulation into the pins-and-needles feeling.
Annabelle shivered again to remember that two men were plying her with sensual stimulation. She’d occasionally wondered how she’d feel as the filling in a man sandwich, but had never lusted after it, never daydreamed about it.
They were fast changing her mind.
Her right hand was grasped then moved, her fingers positioned to encircle a hard, hot cock that jutted upright. The Indian? She could feel no evidence of leather or linen as a hairy thigh brushed against her arm. Then her other hand was similarly positioned, and a similarly bare leg moved against hers.
God. Two cocks, thick and long and burning, in her hands. She wanted to dip her head and capture one with her mouth. Slowly she began an up-and-down movement, both her palms sliding over the bulbous mushroom heads then back down the shafts to their roots. Felt the wiry pubic hair tickle her wrists.
Behind the blindfold she tried to discern which cock was Lowell’s then quickly gave up. What did it matter? Both felt so deliciously decadent, especially as their owners continued to bombard her skin with feather-light caresses.
One of them found the front clasp of her bra, opened it, slid the straps down her shoulders. He knelt, his cock popping out of her grasp. She wiggled her arm out of the bra strap that had restricted her movement and reached for any part of him that she could touch. His head nestled between her breasts as her hand settled on his hair. His curly hair. The Indian.
His teeth closed around her nipple, biting and scraping softly. Instinctively her back arched, pushing her breast further into his mouth, and her left hand squeezed around the cock she still held—Lowell’s cock—forcing a groan from him.
Annabelle reveled in the power implicit in that sound. All her senses were on red alert. Her breathing had accelerated to short, panting breaths. Her nipples zinged with every pull of the Indian’s mouth, every stroke of Lowell’s fingers skimming her slit through the wet fabric of her thong. She widened the space between her knees, inviting him, or both of them, inside.