ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories)

by Jane Prescott

  We are a tangle of arms and legs as we intermingle with each other, lips and tongues sucking, biting and tasting each others bodies. I’m not sure who’s stiff shaft I have in my hand as I squeeze and rub the glans with my thumb, sticky with fluid, but it didn't really matter as soon I have one in the other hand too. Stiff maleness throbbing between my fingers, it is heaven.

  I feel a tongue slithering down my body, who’s I don't know, and neither do I care. Its destination clear as it passes my navel, poking it quickly before moving on, down over my mons until it reaches the end of its journey. My legs are prized apart and the tongue dips into my wetness, causing me to moan loudly in pure pleasure as lips suck on my clitoris and the folds of my labia. The tongue lathes the full length of my slit. The pleasure is intense and I open my legs wider as he presses deeper into my mound.

  Fingers tweak at my nipples, stretching them and twisting them, painfully delicious, these two guys are opening me up to new sensations I never thought I could ever experience.

  A firm pair of hands hold me by the waist and pull me over, so I’m straddling someone, when I look down I see it’s Antonio, his faced buried between my breasts that are hanging down, smothering him, his erection probing at my pussy. I push back onto his spear and it slips easily into my wetness.

  We start a rhythm together in unison, slowly at first, but steadily building up speed, two people joined in passion. I had almost forgotten about Dante, until I feel his presence behind me, his erection poking at my ass cheeks. Suddenly, on his downward stroke, Antonio withdraws completely from me, but I’m not left empty for long before he is quickly replaced with Dante, from behind, his erection sliding deep into my vagina, until I feel his groin pressed on to the naked skin of my ass.

  Dante takes over, where Antonio leaves off, pressing himself deep into me until I feel his pubic hairs pressed against my skin. Now he starts a steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, slipping easily between my wet and welcoming pussy. He continues his pace for a few strokes, before withdrawing, to be quickly replaced by Antonio, they go on like this, each pounding in turn, driving me closer and closer to my orgasm.

  This is just amazing, I’ve never experienced so much sexual intensity, being fucked by two men at the same time is such a turn on. They each take it their turn to enter me, alternatively, one thrusting for a few strokes before being replaced by the other. These two guys have got this off to pat, and I barely feel the change over, it’s done so quickly, it’s only the different angle of entry that tells me they’ve swapped. I ride with each of them, pressing myself onto whichever one of them is inside of me. Feeling the pressure build up inside as I feel my orgasm approaching. My whole body is racked with spasms of pleasure as jolts of electricity surge through me, causing me to scream out in pleasure, as these two men satisfy my every need.

  They both reach their own peak, almost immediately after me. Antonio buried deep inside of me, as he fills me with his seed, and Dante spurting out over my back, his hot cum, sticky on my skin.

  We all collapse into a heap, I slump to the side of Antonio and Dante at my other side. I feel sticky cum dribbling down my legs and back, and we fall asleep together, arms around each other, completely satiated and content.

  Chapter 6 An Invitation

  I wake up to an empty bed, sun streaming through the window casting a golden glow in to the room.

  I wonder where the guys have disappeared to, when Antonio pops his head around the door, a huge smile on his face.

  “Ah Nessy, you wake at last,” He says, “we must have really worn you out last night, yes?”

  He enters the room still smiling, this guy loves to smile, crossing to the bed kisses me full on the lips.

  “Hmm, my bella donna, you are beautiful.”

  “Stop your flattery,” I scold him, “I look awful when I first wake up.”

  “Never, my grande bella ragazza, you are always beautiful to me. Now you shower and dress and I will make you a good Italian breakfast, yes?”

  “Yes,” I reply, “I’m absolutely famished.”

  I shower and dress and join Antonio on the porch outside. It’s a beautiful day, the sea is shimmering and a few people are walking on the beach. As promised, Antonio has put together a breakfast of pastries and hot coffee. It smells delicious and I tuck in, the pastries are warm and flaky and full of warm chocolate, and the coffee is good and strong.

  “Where’s Dante?” I ask, between mouthfuls of food.

  “He sends his apologies that he could not be here when you awoke, but he had to got to work early,” he tells me.

  “Aw, poor Dante,” I reply, “having to work on such a beautiful day.”

  I finish off my breakfast while Antonia chats to me, he really is a fun guy and has me laughing on many occasions as he recounts his relationship with Dante, these guys really are very close.

  Breakfast finished and it’s time for me to go. The girls will be wondering where I am and I’m sure Antonio has other things to do.

  “Before you go,” Antonio says to me, “there is something I must speak to you about.”

  His face has a serious solemn look and I wonder what the problem is.”

  I nod my head, urging him to continue.

  “Ideally, I would have preferred to speak with you whilst Dante was still here, but I cannot wait, my feelings are too strong.”

  I’m intrigued, he clearly has something on his mind and I can see it’s causing him some anguish, but what he says to me hits me like a bombshell.

  “We would like you to stay here with us, Nessy, with Dante and me, living together.”

  I am dumbstruck, and at first I wondered if he was playing some cruel joke on me, but one look at his face dispelled that notion.

  “Me, and Dante,” he continues, “are passionate about our love making, and you are bubbly, and big, and beautiful, everything we look for in a woman. I know we have only known each other for a few days, but we have both fallen madly in love with you. Now, you tell me, Nessy, will you stay with us?”

  I cannot believe what I’m hearing. This handsome hunk, well two hunks really, are asking me to live with them, be a part of their lives.

  “I can’t,” I manage to say.

  His face is crestfallen.

  “You see, Nessy, when we made love to you, it was on the hope that you would stay with us. When you made love with us, you knew that you would be leaving us.”

  I am stunned and speechless. He’s right, I had used them for my own needs and they had been so loving towards me.

  “I can’t just leave my life behind,” I say to him.

  He shrugs at me, a look of disappointment on his face.

  “What is there at home to keep you, Nessy? What is it you do for a living in your home country?”

  “I’m a window dresser, why do you ask?”

  “Why can you not be a window dresser here?”

  “It’s not just my job, Dante,” I stutter out, “It’s the people in my life, I can’t just up and leave them.”

  “We will be the people in your life, are we not enough?”

  “Antonio, I’ve known you guys less than a week, how can you ask such a thing?”

  “I am trying to explain to you how much you mean to us. In that short time we have come to love you, but you have not come to love us, not in the real meaning of love.”

  “I’m so confused,” I tell him. “I have to go.”

  “Look,” he says, “just wait a while. I am in work at the hotel soon, I will take you back, okay?”

  I nod my agreement and Antonio smiles as he goes off to change for work.

  I sit there watching the waves gently lapping at the shore, wondering if I could really live here with these two, in this paradise.

  Soon Antonio is ready and we are riding through the streets on his scooter, with me on the back, my arms firmly clasped around this handsome hunk of a man.

  Chapter 7 All Good Things Must Come to an End

  I told my girlfriends
the whole tale and they did everything they could to cheer me up. We went out on the town shopping, buying expensive Italian designer clothing. Eating at the finest restaurants in town, as I tried to drown my sorrows in alcohol.

  “You’re seriously not considering staying, are you Nessy?” Hannah asked, with a genuinely sad look on her face. “Nessy, we’re a team, you can’t break us up for some... some Italian gigolo,” she finishes, realizing she’s insulted my two Italian friends.

  I don’t respond to the insult, I know she didn’t mean it.

  “Yeah, Nessy, you’ve only just met these guys. How could they say such things out of the blue, like that?” Lin also pleads with me.

  “I don’t believe you two,” I say, holding up my palms to silence them both. “I’ve had a fantastic romantic holiday, but that’s all it was. You know what Italians are like, they’re passionate and alway over exaggerating everything,” I assure them.

  Inside of myself, in my dream world, I would love to stay. However, it is just that, a dream. I love my home, my job, my parents and family and most of all I love my friends.

  I sip at my drink and I’m about to take a bite from my comforting chocolate doughnut, when I notice both my friends faces take on a serious look.

  “Hey, I meant it,” I say, putting down the doughnut, “I’m not staying.”

  “You break our hearts, Nessy,” a voice behind me says.

  My two lovers have arrived, they pull up chairs to our table and sit with us, Antonio looks sad, but resigned.

  “We were hoping you would stay with use, Nessy,” Dante says. “We could truly make you happy here, with us, and we would be happy with you,” he takes one of my hands in his.

  “But, it is clear to us that you have others who love you also, and would miss you if your stayed,” he nods his head in the direction of my friends. “We would not want to take you from that, it would make you miserable and we would never want you to be unhappy.”

  “The invitation is now closed,” Dante finishes.

  “We would like to treat you girls to a last day together, if we may?” Antonio asks us.

  We look at each other, puzzled.

  “It’s entirely up to you?” Hannah says to me.

  “Then I say, yes,” I decide.

  We have a wonderful time, the boys know their town inside out, and backward ways around, and they show us everything. The girls love it too, and when some of Antonio’s friends join us, we finish off at the beach house, continuing the party well into the night.

  That was the last I ever saw of my lovers. The remaining holiday was spent without them and just with my friends, and whilst I had a great time, my mind was always wandering to them. Everyday I looked out for Antonio in the dining room, but I never saw him again. That was probably for the best, because although I had decided not to stay, I wasn’t certain that my resolve was that firm, being around those two hunky guys might well have changed my mind.

  THE END

  Secrets Revealed

  Kid summers are the best summers.

  Kid summers are when they can fully appreciate the grass around them, when the outside is infinitely more alluring than any electronic they may have aglow in the house, and when the stickiness of the days makes them appreciate the tanned skin of their bodies all the more.

  Maybe that’s what their parents were thinking when they first decided to take them upstate. The trio, before they were even a trio, didn’t really know. Looking back, they would all later agree that their parents were in the grip of some kind of nostalgia for their own days of fleeting youth. They wanted the grass, the fresh dew on the blades of it in the morning, the reminder that there is still a place somewhere on this Earth where the sun rises on a peaceful morning.

  They thought they found that place at Sylvester’s.

  Sylvester was the Americanized version of the name that Schmuel Yavitsky had adopted for himself after about thirty years of living in the states. Like many Soviet immigrants who had truly managed to carve out a life for themselves in a new place, Sylvester made a business out of nostalgia. He bought a few acres of land upstate, planted some bungalows, and invited the Russian community at large to reunite with him. For money.

  And boy did they come.

  But this is not Sylvester’s story. It is the story of how Sylvester brought them together.

  Nate, Alex, and Christina. Three independent kids who didn’t know how to be brought together. Nate was the one with the American dad, the one who had gotten married to the Russian lady looking to stay in the country and somehow lucked out. His parents weren’t crazy, and they ended up caring about each other. Even if his dad was always saying vaguely racist things about his mom, and his mom thought his dad was just a little bit stupid. He was American, after all.

  Alex was long, lanky, and had what the Russians would typically call “the face that’s asking for a brick.” With brown eyes, and a mischievous dimple, he was the kind of kid who had no idea he was full of burgeoning sex appeal, and when he got older, had no idea how to handle it. Girls would come easily to him—so would many boys, but he never thought it had anything to do with his personality. When you got close to him, it felt like he would live fast and die young—so you had to hop on early to be along for the ride.

  Christina was the kind of girl boys write poems about but are way too afraid to ever approach. She had long, wavy brown hair cascading down her back in careless ebbs and flows, and sharp green eyes with little furrowed eyebrows that always made her look angry. And she often was angry, or at least seemed that way, mostly because her parents’ marriage was a broken thing, with her mom in constant fear of her dad. They were at Sylvester’s because it was the one time the whole summer that her dad went away for work and she got to see the mom she knew before life had beaten her down—sunshine, smiles, and a warm, gentle neglect that left her mostly to her own devices.

  It started with Christina, really. If we peek inside the sky-blue bungalow at the very edge of the little—community, shall we call it?—we can see her putting on her bright-pink running sneakers and cutoff shorts. She’s ten, but she’s got that swell of young breasts starting to form, and more often than not, when she catches sight of the way her T-shirts bulge or feels the fabric scrape against her sensitive skin, she feels the hot flash of shame deep inside of her chest. Today, she straps the armor of an undershirt underneath her top, laces the sneakers, forgoes the hairbrush, and sneaks quietly out of the bungalow.

  The rooms in Sylvester’s bungalow have no locks. As she makes her way out of the room, careful not to wake her mother—it’s only seven in the morning, after all—it occurs to her how much she loves the little veranda that graces the front of the building. It’s the kind of place where, in another life, she and her mother would have baked cookies and teacakes, poured great big samovars of boiling water and leaves, and drunk tea, inviting all their neighbors to partake. Her father does not like guests. And so, even though her heart is large and giving, and she possesses all the skills to entertain in her arsenal, it is never to be. And so, with a flash of hopeless rage, Christina looks for some other way to assert control over her day.

  The swing set over in the main grassy area catches her eye. Flopping the sneakers against the wet ground, she marches over to the two wooden swings, admiring herself for noticing how the early morning sunlight hits the ground and seems to light it up; she imagines the plants are talking to her, the grass is greeting her, and the weeds are empathizing with her, because they are rebels just like she is. She plants her little ten-year-old butt in one of the swings and kicks high off the ground, feet slipping a little because the ground is slick. Her vestibular apparatus is working perfectly, so all she feels is like she’s flying, and the higher she sails up into the morning air, she more invincible she is. There is nobody to tell her no.

  There is, however, the crackle of the early-morning radio announcement to the whole bungalow community. Sylvester himself is announcing a morning run and “aerobics r
outine,” which translates into the first gossip-mongering event of the day. Christina doesn’t mind. It’s mostly grandparents who have brought their grandkids to let them run buck wild for the summer, believing in the unceasing power of fresh air. They’re banded together in Nike sweatpants, shiny navy blue material, and Adidas sneakers, trusting in the everlasting fashion that they are imparting upon the world. They have gathered on the corner of the grassy knoll and are awaiting Sylvester to lead them on the morning jog; they watch Christina sail up into the air, and she shuts her eyes and she pushes herself higher and higher, wanting to escape their eyes, even as she imagines all the things they are saying about her.

  That she’s a cute little girl.

  That they admire her youth and energy.

  Well, she’s not cute and she’s not young. She was born old and has a sense of heroic tragedy about her. It’s about to come into play in just a few hours.

  Lunches at Sylvester’s are a sad affair, although they do not feel that way to his guests, many of who come from war times when they had to dig through trash for scraps just to survive. Christina loves it all. The sardines from a can, slightly soggy crackers and cheese. Great big vats of hot gruel and stale bread. She imagines this is what it’s like to live in a combat zone, and the sense of romanticism transforms this sunny summer existence into one where she is literally living in a different time. If she eats now, faster and faster, she will be able to run out and have a few hours before the “military drilling” begins, and she loves it. It’s like she’s living her own secret life.

  After lunch, she patrols the wooded areas of the community. Sylvester’s houses a basketball court, a pool table under a gazebo, and lots of cherry trees where no cherries actually grow. There are a few berry bushes buried away somewhere, and Christina knows her mom will be amongst them in an hour or so, picking away. She smiles, imagining her slightly pudgy mother fingering the black roundness of the small fruits, enjoying the gentle sensation of their flesh against her hands.