Best Women's Erotica(33)

“Trying…” he whined.

“Gotcha,” Dick said. “Slower. That’s cool.”

So it was like a game: could Dick fuck me hard enough to make me come without setting Peter off too soon? I got closer and closer; Peter got closer and closer. Dick wasn’t letting on how close he was, but he seemed to have it under control. Very fine control. He and Peter made eye contact over my shoulder, and the next thing I knew it was like they were doing some kind of male-bonding mind-reading thing, speaking only in little grunts and whimpers.

I have no idea how long this went on. The movie we’d loaded up on-demand had ended a while ago. Then Dick got a bright idea. “Would you mind a reach around?”

For a moment I didn’t get what he said, but then I felt his fingers slipping over my swollen clit. No, I didn’t mind, but what came out was, “Yes, oh, yes,” and I guess it was clear I meant “Yes, that’s good,” because he kept on doing it. He had my clit between two fingers, and every time he pushed into me from behind, my clit was pushed into them. Kind of like a little tiny cock fucking a small pair of legs…

That was the thought that sent me over the edge. And once I went over the edge, Dick didn’t hold back, fucking me like a train piston and setting Peter to screaming he was coming so hard. Dick didn’t take long either, and it was like I was coming the whole time he was still fucking hard, only waning off as he softened and they both shrank out of me.

Dick took the first shower while Peter and I lay in a sweaty heap on the bed. “That was fucking amazing,” I said. “But seriously, was it too gay for you?”

“No,” Peter said. “It was awesome.” Then he fell asleep, so that was the totality of our processing on that for a while. We went back to just having sex like before after that, but kept up with watching the threesome videos, eventually talking about how we couldn’t drag someone else in every week without it getting weird. Maybe for special occasions, you know? Not that we could do much for our actual anniversary when it came, since we were so broke.

But I said it was all going to change, right? The next thing we got into watching was “security camera” sex videos. Now, you can be sure most of the ones you see on the Internet are fake, right? I mean, sometimes they even zoom in and stuff, which a real, static camera wouldn’t do. Also the sites have these disclaimers about all models being over eighteen, which kind of killed the idea for me that there could be real unwitting participants in it.

That is, until I found us. The description was something like, “Brunette vixen gets DP’d by nerd and hunk in hotel room.” Okay, yeah, Peter is a nerd, but I didn’t even think of us until the video actually started playing, and then it became obvious there had been a camera in the set-top box. Yeah, I know, I should have been outraged.

But damn, that night was the best sex Peter and I had since the night of the threesome itself.

While we were lying in an exhausted pile afterward I got to thinking, and, well, once I’d put it all together, it really wasn’t that hard to get started. Peter and I own a couple of websites now, including Threesomes-R-Us.com, Girl-Sandwich.com, and Two-Cocks-One-Girl. com. We haven’t even made that many videos and we don’t have to, because people keep coming and watching the ones that are there for money, plus there’s ad revenue. Peter is still in denial about being bi, but still gets off on the sensation of another man’s cock on his, as long as it’s inside my body. That’s all right. I’m the boss now, and he’s happy. I hire the guys who do it with us for the shoots.

I pay them by the inch.





SKINHEADS

Jacqueline Applebee





I was only a little girl when I started following the fascists home. I didn’t know what that word meant back then; I just knew that’s what people called the gang of skinhead white boys who walked through Belmont Park, scattering all in their path. I guess it was the power they seemed to radiate that snared me: the lean but muscular legs and arms, the arrogant, sneering faces. I loved the way they used to stare at people, intimidating anyone who came close.

North London in the 1970s was not the healthiest place to be a black child. At that age I never appreciated the danger I put myself in every day after school. I didn’t know the white boys I was attracted to hated people like me. In fact they hated just about anyone who wasn’t like them. I only knew that my first stirring of desire for the opposite sex sparked at the exact same time when most boys at school wore the worst fashions ever seen. I was surrounded by swathes of beige nylon trousers, polyester shirts and stripy school ties. The skinheads dressed differently. They wore tight white shirts, tighter washed-out denim jeans held up by black braces. But the thing that got me scurrying around behind them, when sense told me to stop, was the boots. Pairs of brightly polished Doc Martens would stomp ahead of me, disappearing out of sight to where my little brown legs could not follow. Ever since then, I’ve hankered after boots with at least fifteen holes.