Three Beasts: A Dark Fairytale MFMM Menage Romance

by Dark Angel

  Of putting her on all fours and just banging the shit out of her.

  Of tying her up and making her beg.

  Well...all that just happened yesterday.

  And then she left.

  "I need to go to Las Vegas," she said to me. I remember it clearly. Of course I played it off. Played it cool. Pretended I didn't fucking care.

  But inside, I was dead.

  I knew why she had to go to Vegas. She's starting her career. Trying to be free from the shadow of my father. She's got some convention.

  She said what she does. Something in hospitality. I don't remember exactly what come to think of it. I'm sure though if I didn't have to contend with thinking about those fantastic fucking tits of hers and how they felt in my hands as I sucked on them, I'd remember. If I didn't have to think how fucking insanely amazing it was squeezing those ass cheeks every other thought wouldn't get drowned out.

  But no. All I can think about is Christina.

  "Hey David," I hear my name called out loud and I see Tracy. She's been coming by the fraternity for a while now. Total fucking slut. The way I treated Christina yesterday is what Tracy is in person. But the difference between the two women is that Christina only acts like that for me.

  I hope.

  Tracy has fucked almost all the guys in the house. I've always wanted to hit that but I've stopped myself.

  Why?

  I mean, I've fucked plenty of women in the three years I've been at Stanford. Why stop with Tracy?

  You're not going to believe this, but I've always had more important shit to do.

  She's wanted to also. She's been trying for so fucking long. But I've always been busy.

  Except I guess...today.

  Because today I'm just sitting on my couch in my room with my door open as I contemplate the marvelous depravity that occurred with my stepmother yesterday.

  What would happen if I told Tracy about it? Would she blanch and run away?

  Probably not. She would still want a piece of my body. My fucking man meat. My chiseled abs. My amazing pecs. My entire body is built for fucking. I think I demonstrated that to you the other day with Christina.

  "You seem to be a bit lonely," Tracy says, walking into my room and closing my door. She's got a wicked gleam in her eyes and her short shorts leave very little to my fucking imagination. I look up at her red tank top — one size too small that makes her tits pop out and I think how any other time I'd be fucking all over that by now.

  But right now, it's like no other women exists for me.

  "I'm lonely too," Tracy says and walks over. I am acutely aware of the smell of her perfume and the rise and fall of her breasts.

  She sits down next to me and I try to give her an interested smile.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I should be all over this shit by now. I am President of this fraternity. I've got more ass in my time at college than most guys will in their whole lives. I should be wrapping my arms around her and parting her legs. I should be stroking her pussy and kissing her fucking neck.

  I should not be thinking about Christina.

  Tracy edges closer and puts her hand on my thigh. She lets it sit there.

  "Do you want to have some fun with me, David?" she asks. Her eyes gleam with lust and her mouth is twisted in a salacious "O." I know I could make her fucking come. Over and fucking over again. She wouldn't be able to walk properly. She'd totter out of my room and go collapse on the couch in the living room, her breathing only returning to normal a day later. She'd have memories that would stay a lifetime. She'd be ruined for other men and would keep coming back to me over and over to ride my fucking cock.

  But I don't do that.

  I don't do anything as she moves her hand to grab my thick, 12-inch cock that's throbbing in my pants as I keep thinking about Christina.

  "Looks like this bad boy is already set to go," she says with a smile.

  She's right.

  I am set to go.

  I'm set to go to Vegas. I need to find Christina.

  And I need to fuck her. Again.

  The rock hard desire that I got for her wasn't sated at all by that one day yesterday.

  If anything, it's gotten worse.

  And I need to fucking quench that thirst before I go crazy.

  Christina

  I unroll my yoga mat. I enjoy stretching by my pool in the evening hours when the sun just starts to dip beneath the tops of the surrounding Santa Monica Mountains.

  The Hollywood Hills are unseasonably hot this spring and I know the best time to beat the heat is in the evenings. Even still, a tiny bead of sweat rolls down my taut abs as I bend into the warrior pose, and then the camel.

  A wisp of blonde hair falls from my ponytail, and I break my concentration to shove it behind an ear. Then I get down on all fours, walk my palms out in front of me, lift my hips to lengthen my spine, and offer my perfect ass up to the sky.

  My phone vibrates with an incoming text message, and I take a break to read it.

  Jenna: ICYMI I emailed you the itinerary for Vegas with some much needed adjustments.

  I think about the acronym ICYMI for a minute. What does that mean again? And since when did being 35 start to feel so old? Then I remember it is short for "in case you missed it." With phone in hand, I walk back into the house.

  Fuck feeling old. I feel young.

  Coming down south was the way I figured all along I’d go to Vegas. I just didn’t tell David.

  I call her. I am not much for texting, and I did look at her email. “Speaking of making me feel old!” I say by way of greeting.

  Jenna just laughs. She’s all young and bubbly and doesn’t mind flaunting it, but aside from working with her, I also consider her a really good friend, so I can deal with it. “Christina, you and I are going to go to clubs and we are getting lap dances. When else will you have the chance to do this stuff? We’re going to Vegas, baby!”

  I can’t help but smile. “Okay, so maybe your enthusiasm is rubbing off on me,” I confess. “It is Vegas and I didn’t mean to ignore you, babe. I just don’t know. I already don’t know what to bring for this…” My words trail off. Okay, so I totally do. My clothing budget has been tight lately, but I do have some non-yoga outfits in mind. “My green evening gown, you know the one—”

  “Yes, I do!” Jenna exclaims.

  Now we’re both laughing.

  “Okay, we’re going to Vegas,” I say out loud. I put my hands on my hips. “I think I needed to say that aloud to myself. I guess, after what happened with Steven…god, you probably don’t want me bringing this up again,” I say with a sigh.

  “Christina, you get to talk about your husband dying inside of another man and leaving the entire inheritance to your step-son as much as you want,” Jenna says sweetly. “And I always want to hear what’s on your mind, babe. We can talk about that dick as much you want. Or as little.”

  So much for feeling old. We’re both in a peal of giggles now and I know she’s referring to the fact that Steven never sexually satisfied me. Girls, we talk about everything, right?

  Can we talk about the fact that I fucked David just yesterday?

  “Well, I’m not looking to get laid in Vegas. Girl time, that sounds totally fair,” I tell her. “Seem fair, Jenna?”

  Jenna pauses. “We’ll see,” she says like she has the absolute answers to everything. “And you’re sure you want to drive?”

  I purse my lips. “Yeah, I think it will be good and scenic.” The truth is, my budget is tight. I need money and I probably wouldn’t even go to this hospitality convention if I hadn’t already paid for my ticket and actually set aside a small budget for incidentals and gas. I hoped it would be fun money, I’d even be able to play some video poker or something, but I need every penny to go as far as it can.

  “Gotcha!” Jenna is cheery, and sweet enough to that if she realizes that I’m fucking broke, she’s not acknowledging it.

  “I’m actually
about to grab a quick dinner and then I’m out of here. See you at the hotel,” I say.

  “Sure thing. TEXT ME!” Jenna says, hanging up with a laugh.

  I gather up my bags and look inside my wallet at the pitiful collection of twenties that I’ve set aside for this. There is no way I can enjoy Vegas when I’m so completely broke that I can’t pay attention!

  Still, I’m doing the best I can with what I have. I fold up the green evening gown and my best lingerie. I grab my makeup bag and bring all the colors that I haven’t worn in years. Steven, my now dead husband, never seemed to appreciate what he thought of as my “past” — I danced at the Spearmint Rhino to pay for college and apparently red lipstick and stripping go hand in hand and are some kind of bad thing.

  I don’t miss the man. He was cruel.

  But I do think about David and I feel a tinge of guilt.

  Guilt because I remember a time he saw me putting on my red lipstick. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it. I can still remember our eyes locking after I saw his pulsing erection in his jeans.

  Guilt because I could have stayed with him one more day maybe. I could have gone from Palo Alto to Vegas straight.

  What made me go up a day earlier with the paperwork?

  Did I really want to see what would happen?

  Well, now I did, didn’t I? And was it worth it.

  I’m starting to sweat just thinking about it.

  The real reason I haven’t even tried to think of dating anyone is because I can’t stop thinking about how hard my stepson made me come. I think I’ll shiver if I even think about it. I know, that’s so wrong.

  I close my car door and grip the steering wheel, ready to head for Vegas. At least this convention will be good for my career. Spending time with my coworkers and friends, that will be nice, too.

  The house is empty now — Steven is dead, and David is at Stanford. I almost wish that I could go to Vegas and never come back.

  But for what? I don’t know, I can’t seem to get excited about the convention or Vegas. Maybe when I get there, I’ll feel differently.

  Christina

  I walk to meet Jenna in the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas, and nod in approval at the swanky décor. I smile at a sign that read 'Eggslut Café.’ I have to give that place a try for breakfast. Who comes up with these names anyways? I check in at the front desk, grab my key card, and walk to the elevators, my black heels clicking across the polished marble floor.

  "I thought it was you!" I hear a voice say. "Perfect timing!"

  I turn around to see Jenna, running toward me with arms outstretched. Jenna is joining me in Vegas for the convention. She has a head full of curls that bounce and sway like a tumultuous ocean every time she speaks. Her personality is unnaturally bubbly but I’m grateful for some excitement right now. She’s like a human cup of coffee.

  I embrace her in a tight hug.

  Jenna says, "Tonight. The Marquee Nightclub. We have to go!"

  "I don't know…" I say, unsure now if I want to just crawl up in my hotel room or if I actually want to do something fun. "I was planning on staying in tonight,” I tell her. I just don’t feel up for much. I look around and I see plenty of Jenna-type girls. Young, bubbly, excited. I feel old and tired.

  "You're kidding, right?" Jenna says in disgust. "No way are you staying in! Who are you, my grandma? We are in Vegas! It's called Sin City for a reason!"

  "Fine. Maybe for just one drink," I reply, squinting my eyes at her grandma comment. “Low blow,” I tell her.

  Jenna hugs me again and I brush off the comment, knowing she’ll say anything to get a rise out of me and get me to come out with her. She wants to spend time with me, and we could have fun. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do, I resolve.

  That night, I comb through my suitcase for the perfect outfit and know I’m making the right choice with my form-fitting sexy green evening gown. It hugs my ass, hips, and breasts in such a way that I feel like my 22-year-old self again, gripping, grinding, and pole dancing my way through college at the Spearmint Rhino.

  I apply a coat of classic red lipstick to compliment my green dress, and take one last approving look at myself in the mirror, and head out. I text a VIP club host before arriving at the doors to ensure I would be on the guest list and avoid the lines. The bouncer shines a flashlight on the guest book, finds my name, stamps my wrist, and grants me access.

  Inside the club, the dark interior is sultry. People a decade younger than me carry drinks onto the dance floor, asses hanging out of miniskirts, thrusting their bodies to Top 20 pop songs. Drinks with names like sex on the beach, high balls, and dark 'n stormy slosh beyond their rims.

  I pony up to the bar and flag a bartender. "I'll have a cosmopolitan."

  Then I spot Jenna wearing a glittery top that reflects the light of the dance floor.

  "Over here!" I yell, getting Jenna’s attention and half jumping out of my seat.

  "Dang, you look hot girl," Jenna says, walking over and giving my arm an affectionate squeeze.

  "What?" I say. “I look hot?” I am not sure that’s what she meant. I mean, I think I look okay but I still feel out of place in this club.

  Jenna bends toward my ear. "Hot!" she yells. "I said you look smoking hot!"

  "Thanks girl," I blush. "You're too kind. These clubs are made for girls your age, not mine."

  Before Jenna can respond, a group of men approaches us wearing matching black t-shirts that read, ‘I'm with Goody' in white print. Their accents are Australian. The way their biceps bulge beneath their tight shirts — they could be from the cast of Thunder from Down Under.

  "What's your shirt mean?" Jenna asks, seductively drawing in one man by the collar.

  "My mate's gettin' married!" the man exclaims. "It's his bachelor party and we're here celebrating. Would you ladies care to join us for a dance?"

  For a moment I think, I can’t, I’m married. But I remember that I have a dead husband and unwavering attraction to my stepson, so I just say nothing and reach for my drink, taking another sip.

  I mean, you can’t make this shit up, you know?

  "Well, I'm in!" Jenna shouts, almost too desperately. She grabs the man's arm, her hand looking small in comparison, throws her head back in laughter, and heads for the dance floor.

  Another man stays behind, surveying me. "C'mon, just one dance," he pleads. "What would that hurt?"

  But I won’t be persuaded, and after a few failed attempts, the man joins his friends on the dance floor.

  I sit at the bar alone, carefully swirling the drink in my glass and absently bending the corners of my drink napkin into careful curls.

  I’m surprised by how persistent the guy was. I mean, I look around and see tons of younger, available girls, and clearly my friend, Jenna, didn’t have a problem with me not hanging out with the bachelor party.

  Just as the DJ introduces a new song, I look over my left shoulder and see an older gentleman with deep penetrating eyes staring at me curiously. His gray hair has a slight curl to it. Even when I gaze back, he doesn't divert his stare, so I give him a quick smile before quickly turning my head in another direction.

  The man begins to fidget in his barstool, shuffling his feet, and glancing my way every few seconds. Finally, he looks around the room to see if anyone is watching, stands up, adjusts his jacket, and walks toward me.

  I wonder why a man—especially a man of his age, I’m guessing he was easily in his 50s with salt and pepper gray hair and wild eyebrows—is this nervous and paranoid about approaching me.

  He grabs the barstool next to me and sits down.

  "What is a beautiful woman like you doing sitting alone in a place like this?" he asks.

  "Is that the best pick-up line you've got?" I reply playfully. "I've heard better."

  The man smiles. "Can I buy you a drink?"

  I laugh. "Sure, why not. There's no harm in one drink, is there?"

  The man orders me a drink and then
extends his hand for a shake. ”I’m Rick, what's your name, beautiful?"

  "My name isn't 'Beautiful' but you can call me Christina.”

  As he extends his hand, I see the flash of his wedding ring, and recoil at the thought of this man married—his wife at home, possibly a handful of kids. Just another dirt bag, I think. I knew his type back from my years at the Spearmint Rhino. The kind of man who would head to the strip club minutes after his wife brought home their first child. But maybe this wasn't the case. Maybe he and his wife have an open relationship—swingers. I bite my lip and decided to hear him out. It is too soon to judge.

  I notice his gaze scanning my thighs, my ass, and my breasts—everything except my face. He doesn’t seem shy about it either.

  "My face is up here," I say with a laugh.

  The man stares at me for a moment, and an awkward silence sits in the air.

  "Right," he says.

  Rick takes a swig of his whiskey and asks, "How much?"

  "What do you mean?" I ask. "You mean, how much are these drinks? I'm sure they're expensive. It's a Vegas clu—"

  Before I can finish, Rick interjects with a soft laugh, "You know what I mean. I like the games though. Would $1,000 work for the next couple of hours? I know women of your…quality…are usually a lot more. Latex is okay, right?"

  I can barely suppress my shock. I ask, almost too loudly, "Why on earth do you think I'm a prostitute?"

  Rick shoves one hand in his pocket, leans back in his stool with eyes wide in shock, and answers, "Well, you are a gorgeous middle-aged woman sitting alone at a bar in Vegas, flirting with me in a playful way.” He runs his hands through his hair, looks around, and strokes his chin before continuing. "I'm so, so sorry. I can't believe I just offered a woman on vacation at a bar $1,000 for sex. I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  "I'm not here on vacation," I reply, because this stuns me and I can’t seem to think of anything else to say. "I'm here on business."

  I can’t help but wonder how is it that a complete stranger is offering me $1,000 for sex. My knee-jerk reaction is that this is repulsive, but then I start wondering. If I let him fuck me for a couple of hours, I would have $1,000 cash in hand. Given Rick’s age, would he even last two hours? How hard can it be…and yes I know what I said? It will be a lot of money, especially with the budget crunch I have right now. But what am I thinking? I’m not a prostitute. Why am I even considering this?