Cocky Doms

by Lee Savino

  I raise a brow.

  “Bear has a hot tub,” Sawyer says, setting a drink in front of me.

  “Do you?” I swivel to face the big man and his arms slip around me. It feels so good.

  “Mhm,” he rumbles.

  “Then I’ll just have to get a bathing suit.” The world really is ending if I just volunteered to go shopping for swimwear.

  “You won’t regret it.” Sawyer grabs my hand and plants a kiss on my knuckles. So chivalrous. Then he licks them. Unf.

  Laughing, he drops my hand. Bear rests a hand on my back as Sawyer and I continue to flirt. The night unspools easily, me and them and them and me. What shape does our relationship make? What sort of geometry? A triangle, a circle around me with them in orbit—or do I orbit around them?

  I lean back in my seat as Bear and Sawyer face the screens, arguing over some sport thing. I sip my drink and ponder, and I’m not the only one.

  A woman in a suit leans down the bar in my direction, wide-eyed. Her gaze flicks from Bear’s heights to Sawyer’s blond crown. And me, I’m the valley between them. “Are you with… both of them?”

  I grimace. “It’s... complicated.”

  “Why is it complicated?” Mina asks late that night.

  “Me and two guys? Um, hello.”

  “So? You have enough orifices.”

  I sputter.

  “Besides, you’re overdue for a good fuck.”

  “Mina!”

  “What?” Her voice is gilt with innocence. I know better. There’s no innocence, just sin. “One of the guys you dated couldn’t even find your vagina.”

  I grimaced, remembering. “He kept thrusting against my perineum.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. That is not an entry point, dude.”

  “Maybe you really are a virgin. Are you sure you’ve had sex?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You stop overthinking things. You’re making up for lost time.”

  “Maybe.” I bite my lip.

  “Are you worried that you’re a slut? Because the ‘slut’ is a patriarchal construct to keep women from owning their sexuality. Punish women for behaving in a way that men do, behavior men are rewarded for.”

  “Right. Um, I’m not worried I’m a slut. I’m worried that I’m not worried... when I should be worried.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Why should you be worried?”

  “I don’t know,” I hedge, even though I do. Because this situation, this competition, this relationship isn’t going to last. I heave a sigh and check the time. “Crap, I’ve got to go. It’s late.”

  “Whatever.” Mina isn’t impressed by my avoidance tactics.

  “Isn’t it like three am on the East Coast?”

  “Yeah. Hey, I’m going to be busy the next few weeks. I'm moving to a new place. It's the bomb.”

  “Does anyone say that anymore? The bomb?”

  “I just did. Night, bitch!”

  I hang up and set my alarm, laughing to myself. Mina has the right attitude. Judge the competition, enjoy my orgasms until the time comes for me to leave. Get in, get off and go. Thanks for the memories, I imagine blowing a kiss to the guys and riding off into the sunset. In a convertible, not my little Civic. Maybe I can borrow Bear’s car. Or buy one from him.

  Either way, when I leave, I have a feeling I’ll keep a piece of them. Just have to make sure they don’t take everything from me.

  The next morning I sleep through my alarm, and end up rushing around, rubbing sand from my eyes and digging through my closet for something that doesn’t make me look like a Mennonite. I need more clothes that flatter my figure. Normally I’d shy away from that because my figure is so curvy, but just because my curves are bigger than most doesn’t mean I should hide. Auntie Jen won’t approve, but I’m not sleeping with her. I want to see Bear and Sawyer’s eyes light up when I walk into a room, and if that means dressing sexy, so be it.

  If the modest police stop me, I can tell them I’m playing sex games with two guys. My sexy qualifications are totally in order.

  My phone alarm goes off again. Crap. Almost forgot.

  I rush to text. Daddy, can you pick my panties? There’s blue, red, leopard print, nude…

  Put the blue ones on and show me.

  Unf. Okay, daddy.

  I snap a picture. A year ago, if you would’ve told me I’d be taking pictures of my panty-clad behind willingly and texting them to one of the sexiest men alive, I would’ve laughed in your face before blushing so hard I spontaneously combusted.

  Now red. I strip and comply. Whatever pair he does finally pick, I’ll have to throw the other in the laundry basket.

  Buzz goes my phone. Red.

  Thank you, Daddy.

  You’re welcome, baby.

  Then I go to work, panties already drenched.

  “Do you realize what this ritual every morning does to me?” I ask when I’ve called to let him know I got to work safely.

  “What, baby?” He knows. There’s an edge of amusement to his tone.

  I huff. “Asking you… makes me wet.”

  “That’s the idea. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

  “When?” I demand.

  He chuckles and tells me to have a good day.

  I get through the morning with only two unwanted requests—both from my cousin. Even though I’m not in the wedding party, my cousin thinks it’s fine to delegate tasks to me—picking up and mailing invitations, researching venues, interviewing caterers. I know I’m the boring, capable one, but seriously?

  At least I have the next rounds with Bear and Sawyer to look forward to. Which gives me an idea...

  For my lunch break, I head to the mall. I can’t bring myself to go into Victoria’s Secret, but they have bathing suits at the department store.

  Except the second I close the dressing room door; I can’t do this. The mirror dominates the space, reflecting back all my bulges and imperfections. Why did I subject myself to this? And what is the big deal? What is wrong with me that I can’t even try on a bathing suit without judging myself?

  My cell goes brrrrt with a text. Bear checking in to make sure I get lunch. Have you eaten?

  I smile through my tears and stab the call button.

  “Evie?”

  “Hey,” I can’t hide the tears in my voice.

  “Is something wrong? What is it? Did someone hurt you?”

  His concern, intent with a dangerous edge, makes me smile.

  “No,” I wipe my eyes. “I’m in a dressing room.” My voice breaks a little. “I thought I’d go shopping for a bathing suit. For you.”

  “Baby.” His voice softens. “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah. Just me and the mirror.” My nemesis.

  “What are you wearing?”

  He’s in bossy mode. I respond right away, grateful for something to focus on other than my own insecurities. “A skirt and a top. It’s a little tight so I added a scarf.”

  “Take off your top.”

  “I can’t.” I avoid looking in the mirror. “I don’t want to see myself.”

  “Baby,” his voice is so gentle my heart breaks. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Raise the skirt.” Back to bossy. Thank God. I need to turn my brain off right now. I wriggle the stretchy fabric up to my hips. “Okay, daddy.”

  “Spread your legs. Wide.”

  I rock back on the seat, lean against the wall and spread my knees as far as they can go. “Done.”

  “You’re wearing your panties.” He doesn’t ask. He knows I am. He chose them this morning. “I want you to touch over the panties. Get yourself hot.”

  Oh boy. I stroke over the gusset, stirring a response almost immediately.

  “Ooh…”

  “Feel good, baby?”

  “Yes, daddy,” I whisper. “So good. I... I wish you
were here.”

  “I do too.” His deep voice curls around me, a warm blanket. “But it might be better that I’m not.”

  “We’d probably get arrested,” I sigh into the phone. Bear couldn’t sneak in here without being noticed by some pearl-clutching lady who was also a friend of my aunt’s. But I imagine him here anyway—his broad shoulders filling my vision, big hand guiding mine to obey his commands. I sigh again and my head falls back against the wall. Pleasure swirls under my stroking fingers. If I brush too hard and too long in the right spot, I’ll come.

  “You wet?”

  “You know I am,” I keep my voice low.

  “Stop touching and take off your top. Pull your bra down below your breasts. You can set the phone down.”

  I rush to obey. My bra is part of a lacy set. Since Bear took over my lingerie drawer, I can’t bear to wear the giant utilitarian tank bras I used to solder on beneath my Mennonite chic clothes. When I pull the bra down below my breasts, they push up into snowy mounds. My breasts are pretty amazing. Twin Peaks of Perfection. The Eighth Wonder of the World.

  I’m so pleased with the effect; I snap a picture and send it to Bear. I put my phone to my ear and enjoy his rushed intake of breath.

  “Like that?” I chuckle softly.

  “Yes, baby. You’re so beautiful. Your legs still spread?”

  “Yes, daddy.”

  “Good. Go back to touching. Tell me when you’re on the edge.”

  I go back to circling my clit through my damp panties. Oh, it’s so good. Each brush of my fingertip pushes me closer, but I’m a good girl, so I stop when I’m about to tip over. “I’m here, daddy.” Teetering on the edge.

  “Is your hair down?”

  I wrench out my ponytail holder and shake my mane loose over my shoulders. The auburn cascade frames my exposed chest.

  “Touch your breasts. Pretend I’m touching them.”

  “Yes, daddy.” My voice has that breathy little girl quality it gets when I’m really into a scene. I don’t fight it.

  “Do I make them feel good?”

  “So good,” I want to moan. If anyone comes into the dressing room, they’re going to wonder what sort of clothes I’m trying on. I’ll have what she’s having. But they can’t have my daddy. He’s mine.

  Bear’s voice is a growl in my ear. “You touching yourself?”

  I sneak one hand back between my legs while the other rubs over my chest. How did I not know massaging my breasts would feel this great? A sudden spark of pleasure escapes from under my fingers, makes my legs tighten. I can’t hold back a throaty mmmmm. Bear’s breathing grows ragged in my ear. In the background, there’s a wet slapping sound.

  “Daddy? Are you—”

  “Yes,” he growls. “Got your picture in front of me. Wish you were here on your knees so I could paint those gorgeous tits.”

  “Fuck,” I gasp.

  “Bad girl. Such a bad girl, touching yourself in the dressing room.”

  Dressing room? I forgot I was even on Earth.

  “You gonna punish me?”

  “Pinch your nipples,” he orders. “Pinch them hard. I want them puffy and sore so I can kiss them better.”

  I tug my poor pink nubs. The sensation shoots straight to my pussy, liquid gold, pure pleasure.

  “Daddy,” I gasp.

  “You close?”

  I slip my hand behind the lace and find the perfect spot. “I’m there.”

  “Look at the mirror.”

  I’m so used to obeying his commands, my gaze snaps to my reflection. A wanton redhead sits with her knees spread wide. Her breasts quiver in makeshift bondage, pushed up and on display. Her face and chest are flushed, her pupils dilated, her mouth lush and ready to be kissed.

  “Look at that beautiful, perfect goddess. See what I see.”

  I don’t see cellulite. I don’t see blemishes or target areas of flab. I don’t see my soft belly or dimpled thighs or double chin or jiggly arms. I see a vision of a woman on the cusp of climax, glowing and ready to come on command. Goddess is right. Wanton sex goddess.

  “Mine,” Bear growls. “All mine.”

  With a stifled cry, I shudder in climax, mouth open, looking deep into my own eyes. My lashes flutter and I watch my mirror image’s chest heave, breasts impossibly large and lovely with peaked nipples and pretty areolas. Her hair’s out of control, temples damp from the steamy air. If she were real, I’d kiss her. Two mes, making out? That’d blow Bear and Sawyer’s mind.

  My mirror image sits back with a smug, satisfied smile on her pouty lips. “Wow,” she laughs.

  “Yeah,” Bear agrees. “You good, baby?”

  “Better than good.” Fuck this dressing room. If the clothes don’t fit, it’s their fault, not mine. I point my toes, toss my hair and arch my back, posing with legs and chest on display. I look pretty good, if I say so myself.

  “Dressing room therapy. We do it often enough, when you go shopping, you’ll think of me.”

  Pretty effective therapy. I blow a kiss to myself in the mirror. “Thank you, daddy.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  The next day, I’m back at work, tapping a pen against paper, trying to keep from writing “Evie heart Bear & Sawyer 4 evah” over and over. What is it about orgasms that turn me into a starry-eyed school girl? It’s killing my aloof movie star mojo.

  “How are you coming on the quarterlies?” My coworker and cubicle neighbor pops his unwanted head in. I smile at my blank computer screen. I know this trick. Ben asks first thing about a project I’ve never heard of. Once I’m flustered, he dumps some of his own work on me.

  Not today. I swirl my chair his direction, poised and ready. “Not my assignment.”

  At the sight of me Ben’s eyes widen, and I smile further. Usually I wear bulky blouses and shapeless skirts, or slacks designed to hide my body. Not today. A dress arrived at my house last night, a red and white polka dot number in a vintage style, along with strappy white espadrilles and a note: Live a little. Sawyer getting in on the game of daddy dress up.

  “Evie, you look...” Ben blinks at me, or more accurately, at my breasts. “Good. Real good.”

  “Thank you, Ben,” I purr. I look better than good. The dress has a high neck, showing off my shape instead of baring acres of cleavage. It makes me feel modest, but the way it molds to the sharp silhouette of my waist and chest is anything but.

  I gloat a moment more. “I don’t have time for any of your accounts today. Johnson has me on a bigger project.”

  Ben nods, a glazed look on his face and I feel triumph. This dress is a weapon, and Ben is my first vanquished foe.

  “I need you to forward me the Anderson file.” I spin back to face my computer before he can answer, and clack on the keypad. His footsteps humbly retreat. A minute later, his email pops up with an attachment. Victory is mine.

  Smirking, I straighten my skirt, shifting a little to get comfortable. The dress and shoes weren’t the only gifts. A discreet black box held a bright pink device shaped like a tadpole with a curved tail. When I slip it into my panties (leopard print, Bear-approved) the device presses against my clit and... my butthole. A little weird, but I can play another kinky game. I have two gorgeous men competing to get me off. It’s a modern-day sexual adventure: no feelings, no strings attached. I am a suave, sophisticated sex goddess.

  I reach for a water bottle and the vibrator in my panties comes to life. I flail, and spill water all over my keyboard.

  “Fuck,” I hiss, grabbing my cardigan to swab the spillage.

  “Everything okay here?” My boss’s voice brings me back to reality.

  “Yes, fine, Mr. Johnson.” I flush.

  His eyes dip down to my chest, hugged tight by the polka dots. By the time they make the trip back up, he’s flushed too.

  “I’m working on the Anderson file.” My voice is unnaturally high and loud. Can he hear the buzzing?

  “Right. Good.” Thankfully, he moves away. Glassy-eyed, I st
are at my computer, every once and a while moving the mouse. The vibrator hums merrily along. Just when I’ve gotten used to it, it stops. I wilt against my desk, mopping my brow with the cardigan. How did they get my exact measurements?

  The vibrator stops for a time and I type frantically. A buzz against my sweet spot and I clutch my keyboard, clenching my teeth against overwhelming arousal.

  “Evie?” Ben pops in again.

  “Yes!” I shout, a little wild.

  “You have a delivery.” My coworker backs away slowly and a messenger appears.

  “Lunch order.” The messenger holds up a bag. In it, a sub sandwich and a note. Take a break to eat.

  How did this happen? I swear off men forever and end up in a sexy game, guided by texts and calls and little notes. I have not one, but two daddies.

  I wait until the coast is clear and use a wad of tissues to extricate my vibrating distraction. I drop it into the basket. They’ll never know.

  I’m halfway through my sandwich, entertaining another check in from Mr. Johnson when my trashcan starts to shake.

  “What is that?” My boss peers down just as the vibrator stops. “Did you hear that noise?”

  “What noise?” I ask weakly, resisting the urge to grab the trashcan and sprint for the exit.

  He’s about to walk away when the vibrator starts again.

  “That noise.”

  No, no, no.

  “It’s coming from—” his head swings towards my trashcan.

  “I’m on my period,” I blurt.

  He looks at me in horror, the trashcan rattling at his feet.

  “It’s um, a device to help with, um—” Shit, what’s the word... “Cramps!” I shout in triumph.

  Mr. Johnson’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.

  “But it didn’t work,” I explain, hoping he leaves before my blush moves from my chest and unfurls over my entire body. “So I,” I motion to the trashcan. Mr. Johnson steps back and almost stumbles. “I just forgot to take out the batteries.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, of course,” my boss stammers and hurries away, looking a little green.

  “Sorry!” I call after him and slump over my desk. Now I will have to take a lunch break, to smuggle this demon thing to my car.