DIRTY X6 (A MFMMMMM Menage Romance) Read online

  Dirty X6

  A MFMMMMM Menage Romance

  Tara Crescent

  Contents

  Copyright

  Free Story Offer

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  A Note from Tara

  About Tara Crescent

  Also by Tara Crescent

  Text copyright © 2014 Tara Crescent

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book was originally released as Never on a Sunday.

  Free Story Offer

  Get a free story when you subscribe to my mailing list!

  Boyfriend by the Hour

  This steamy, romantic story contains a dominant hero who’s pretending to be an escort, and a sassy heroine who’s given up on real relationships.

  Sadie:

  I can’t believe I have the hots for an escort.

  Cole Mitchell is ripped, bearded, sexy and dominant. When he moves next door to me, I find it impossible to resist sampling the wares.

  But Cole’s not a one-woman kind of guy, and I won’t share.

  Cole:

  She thinks I’m an escort. I’m not.

  I thought I’d do anything to sleep with Sadie. Then I realized I want more. I want Sadie. Forever.

  I’m not the escort she thinks I am.

  Now, I just have to make sure she never finds out.

  Synopsis

  I have SIX demanding, sexy, dirty-talking, alpha men who want me. How can I resist?

  There’s the CHEF, who does things with whipped cream that I can’t forget.

  The TECHNICIAN torments me with kinky toys and gadgets.

  The PLAYBOY is deliciously wicked, toe-curlingly sexy and oh-so-charming.

  There’s MR. BUTTMAN, with his filthy, forbidden fantasies. The DOCTOR, who wants to examine every inch of me. And of course, there’s the DOMINANT, who demands my complete, willing submission.

  It’s impossible for me to choose between them.

  So I don’t. I live out my dirtiest, steamiest fantasies. I surrender to every wicked demand. What could possibly go wrong?

  They find out about each other.

  My editor Jim takes the comma-filled words that emerge from my keyboard and shapes it into a story worth reading. As always, my undying gratitude.

  Cover Design by Lunatic Design.

  1

  Oh, you can kiss me on a Monday

  A Monday, a Monday is very, very good

  Or you can kiss me on a Tuesday

  A Tuesday, a Tuesday in fact I wish you would

  Or you can kiss me on a Wednesday

  A Thursday, a Friday, and Saturday is best

  But never, never on a Sunday

  A Sunday, a Sunday 'cause that's my day of rest

  Never on a Sunday, English lyrics by Billy Towne. Greek: "Ta Paidiatou Peiraia" by Manos Hadjidakis.

  My name is Stephanie Rice. I’m twenty six. I have shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes. I’m five feet five inches tall, and I weigh a hundred and ten pounds. If you ask me if I am a cat or dog person, my reply would be both. I drink coffee, not tea. Chocolate is a food group. I’ve never walked past a cookie I didn’t want.

  I’m a badly paid marketing coordinator who lives in Brooklyn in a cunningly divided studio apartment that I share with a college friend, Sasha. Our apartment has no kitchen, just a tiny refrigerator, a microwave and a sink. Once I’ve paid the outrageous sum of money that our landlord demands for rent, I have four hundred dollars a month left over for food, a subway pass, and everything else. I therefore live on Ramen noodles and hope for a raise.

  Oh, and I’m a self-diagnosed sex addict.

  Right now, I’m fucking six different men. I’m quite organized about my sex life. Each man fills a different niche, and I’ve assigned each of these men a day of the week.

  Monday is the Chef. Tuesday, the Technician. Wednesday, I fuck the Playboy. Thursday, Mr. Buttman has his way with me. Friday, I meet the Doctor. And Saturday? Saturday is my time with the Dominant.

  Sunday, I do laundry. A girl does need clean underwear, after all.

  2

  After work Monday evening, I make my way to Chinatown, to the fifth floor walk-up that is the relatively spacious apartment of the Chef.

  The Chef’s name is Mark, and he isn’t really a chef, though unlike me, he can actually cook. He’s some kind of middle manager for a biotech company. I call him the Chef because he likes to play with food. Last Monday, he rubbed cinnamon oil on my nipples, my pussy lips and around the tight ring of my asshole, and he watched me wriggle as the heat from the oil warmed my entire body. He had me begging and pleading and when he finally bent me over his desk and fucked me, I came in an explosion of scalding pleasure.

  I wonder what the Chef has in store for me today.

  “Stephanie,” he greets me with a smile as he opens the door. Every time I see the Chef, I’m struck by how hot he is, in a rumpled kind of way. He’s tall and lean, with curly hair that’s an endearing mix of ash-blonde and grey. His chest hair is the same color, though right now, he’s wearing a grey t-shirt.

  Even thinking of his chest hair sends a shockwave of desire through me.

  He sees the heat in my eyes, and he grins. “So naughty, Steph,” he whispers in my ear. “Are you wet already, you bad girl?”

  I don’t know if I was wet before he called me a bad girl. I do know I’m wet now. Name-calling is such a turn-on for me.

  I step inside his apartment, handing him my coat. It’s spring, but the weather’s variable enough that I refuse to go anywhere without a hat, a scarf, gloves and a coat. I grew up in Miami. The cold weather is always a shock. “Should I take off the rest of my clothes?”

  I’m direct. I like the Chef; I like all the guys I’m fucking. Life’s too short to sleep with a guy you don’t like, don’t you think? But there’s no hiding the fact that I’m here for sex.

  The Chef’s lips twitch. “What an impatient little chit you are,” he grins. I’m quite aware the Chef thinks I’m very, very young. He’s ten years older than me, a fact that he frequently reminds me of. “Okay. Go to the bedroom and get naked, Steph. I’ll be right along.”

  He walks towards the refrigerator.

  I strip efficiently, and fold my clothes neatly before I pull back the comforter and lie on the Chef’s double bed. My eyes are drawn to his nightstand, where a thumb-eared copy of The Life of Pi rests. I’ve never read it, though I’ve always meant to. “Is it a good book?” I ask the Chef as he walks into the room, carrying a tray in his hands.

  He glances at the book in my hands, and nods. “It is a very good book,” he replies. “Plus, it has my favorite line of all time in it. This story has a happy ending.”

  I look puzzled, and he explains. “Think about the power of it, Stephanie. Right in the middle of life, if someone was ab
le to say to you – this story has a happy ending. If you knew with certainty that things will work out, how liberating would that be?”

  He’s something of a philosopher, the Chef. “Can I borrow it when you’ve finished?” I ask him.

  He nods. “You can borrow it today,” he replies. “I’ve read it before.” He sets the tray down at the foot of the bed, and gives me my instructions. “Lie on your back, Stephanie.” His voice is more intent now. “Spread your legs for me, pretty girl. Let me see that pussy.”

  I don’t sneak a peek at the tray to see what is in store for me. I’m tempted but I also enjoy the surprise. I wonder how intense it’s going to be. Last week, the Chef had hinted that today was going to be more challenging than the cinnamon oil.

  “Nice day outside,” the Chef remarks, sitting down on the bed between my legs. “And in spring, I always find myself craving fresh vegetables. What about you, Steph?”

  He has a baby carrot in his fingers. He runs the vegetable through my folds, coating it in my juice, before taking a bite of it. I shiver. It’s very intimate, watching the Chef eat the carrot that has, just seconds ago, been in my pussy.

  “Your turn now,” he says, and dips another baby carrot into my pussy. He runs the carrot through my slit, before circling my clitoris tightly. I groan and writhe, and he shakes his head disapprovingly. “Stay still, pretty girl.”

  To make sure I can’t move, he places the tray on my stomach. I frown at him. The tray has a bottle of wine on it. An opened bottle. I can’t move without sending the liquid splattering everywhere. “That’s not fair,” I complain.

  He winks at me, and places the carrot at my mouth, rubbing my juice all over my lips before letting me eat. I lick my lips clean, tasting my juices as I do so. I’m no stranger to tasting myself, and I quite enjoy the flavor.

  A couple more slow repeats of the baby carrots, before he pours the wine into a flute. He places the glass on the tray. “Don’t drop it,” he warns.

  He reaches for a carefully trimmed rib of celery, and pushes it into my pussy. I hiss and almost arch, before willing myself to stillness. “Mark,” I whine. “Move this tray.”

  He laughs and ignores me. “How many ribs do you think I can stuff into your cunt?” he asks me. “Guess.”

  I try to think about how wide each rib is. A head of celery is as thick as a fist, and I can’t take all of that in my pussy. “Six?” I estimate.

  “Six,” the Chef scoffs at me. “Oh, please. You can do so much better than six.” He inserts two ribs at the same time, and I bite my lips as he pumps the three ribs in and out of my pussy.

  “Four,” he counts as he adds another rib. My pussy stretches to accommodate his handiwork. “Five.” Another stalk is pushed in.

  “Mark, my pussy’s really full,” I point out.

  He frowns at me. “An artist needs to work without interference, Stephanie,” he complains. “Open your mouth.”

  My pussy gushes at the thought of what he’s going to do. Sure enough, a large cucumber is pushed into my mouth, almost to the back of my throat. “If I see bite marks on that cucumber,” the Chef warns me, “I’m going to be very, very unhappy with you.”

  I mumble something around the makeshift dildo in my mouth.

  The Chef inserts another rib into my pussy. We are up to six now. He smirks at me as he reaches for the seventh stalk. I make a whimper of protest and pain as he slides it in. “What was that, pretty girl?” he asks with mock concern. His hand encircles the bundle of celery, pulling it out before pushing it back in. I moan, but my body is loving this. I am dripping wet, and judging from the satisfied gleam in his eyes, the Chef has noticed. “Do you want another?”

  “Mmm,” I groan around the cucumber. I’m not sure if I’m asking for another, or if I’m begging him to stop.

  He isn’t stopping. He reaches for another stick, and he holds it up in front of me. “I think we’ll need some extra lubrication for this one,” he laughs. His fingers pinch the side of my mouth, making room around the cucumber to push the stalk of celery inside. I snort a little. Lubrication, my ass. He just wanted to see my mouth lewdly wrapped around the vegetables.

  His eyes twinkle. The stalk of celery, dripping with my drool is slowly and carefully pushed into my pussy. “And that’s eight. Off by two, Stephanie. Tsk, tsk.”

  “Sorry,” I try to rasp around my gag. It comes out as an incoherent grunting of sound.

  “Now,” he says. “Celery is only one ingredient of the salad I’m making.” He pulls one rib out, and dips it into the glass of wine. He swirls the stalk in the liquid, before placing it at my lips. “Suck it clean,” he orders, pulling out the cucumber to give me room to work.

  I obey. I taste a faint remnant of my pussy on the stalk, but I taste the wine on it as well. I lick it clean, and Mark nods in approval, before pulling out another rib.

  Eight times, I clean a celery rib. Eight times, I taste an intoxicating mix of pussy and wine. When my pussy is empty, the Chef moves the tray from my abdomen. “Sit up,” he says, and I raise myself, leaning against his headboard. He hands me the glass, the one that he’s dipped each stalk of celery in. At this point, there’s probably as much pussy juice in that glass as wine. “You must be thirsty,” he says. “Drink.”

  My lips curve into a smile. The Chef has a wicked imagination. I sip at the wine he offers me, and he waits patiently until I drink every last drop.

  “So this salad has cucumber and carrots and celery in it,” he reaches for a large bowl. “And olives.” His eyes make contact with mine. “If you take all the olives in your cunt, Stephanie, I will reward you.”

  I nod compliance. I want to be rewarded. The Chef knows how to eat pussy like a champion.

  It starts. The olives feel different. As he pushes each olive inside me, my pussy seems to expand to accommodate them all. I feel filled. Heavy. Very, very aroused.

  He counts each olive as he slides it in. He’s patient. His fingers graze over my clitoris from time to time, almost as if by accident. I know better. The Chef likes to keep me wet and willing. Not a problem, I’m practically a waterfall.

  “Thirty-five,” his voice is steady. “Thirty-six.” I groan with each one. The olives move within me as he carefully makes room for each new one. I feel an ache in my lower stomach. “The last one. Thirty-seven.”

  “Please,” I pant out. I’m desperate for my reward.

  “Open your mouth,” he orders. Ah, I get to suck his cock. His clothes are shed quickly, and flung carelessly across the room. His cock springs out, long, veiny, with a fat head that has a drop of precum oozing from the slit. I lick my lips.

  I love the taste of precum. But semen? Not a fan. So far, I’ve managed to conceal from the Chef that I don’t particularly like to swallow, but last week, he saw my expression of distaste. I’ve no doubt I’ll be swallowing tonight.

  “Open those pouty lips, pretty girl,” he says, and I obediently open my mouth, and stick my tongue out. He rests his cock on my outstretched tongue, and I wait, patiently, for him to ask me to proceed. “Swallow,” he says, and I do.

  His cock stretches my mouth. His legs are on either side of my face, and he fucks my mouth with single-minded efficiency. I’ve been trying to learn to deep-throat, and every time I’m over at the Chef’s, he works with me to improve my oral skills. Of course, this is hardly an altruistic gesture. He’s getting a pretty damn amazing blowjob in the process, if I do say so myself.

  I can tell he’s getting close. His balls tighten. I brace myself for semen to flood my mouth, but the Chef pulls out and comes all over my breasts instead. I’m slightly puzzled. I’d have sworn that he would make me swallow.

  “Do you want to come, pretty girl?” he asks me with a grin on his face.

  I nod. “What’s the catch?”

  He makes a hurt face. “How you misjudge me, pretty Stephanie,” he says, his voice injured. I roll my eyes at him, and he gives me a wicked, toe-curling grin. He reaches towards the tray, and t
akes a cluster of grapes from it. He plucks a grape and coats it in his cum, before placing it at my lips. “Eat,” he orders.

  Damn it. I’m not getting out of swallowing. I open my mouth and eat the semen-coated grape. The sour taste of his come contrasts with the sweetness of the fruit, and strangely, it doesn’t taste as bad as I’m expecting.

  He dips another grape into the sticky ejaculate on my chest, but this one, he places in a bowl. Systematically, the entire cluster of grapes are coated in his semen. Some are fed to me, but most are placed in the bowl.

  “Now,” he moves down to my pussy, and starts coaxing out the olives from my hole. These get added to the bowl.

  It appears that the Chef is making a salad.

  Sure enough, when my pussy is empty once again, he gets up and grabs the tray. “Stay put,” he says. “I’ll be right back with your salad.”

  I lie on the bed, waiting. I want to touch myself. He’s inserted celery and olives in my pussy, dragged carrots through my folds, and made me blow him off before coming all over my chest. I need to orgasm. Should I touch myself? The Chef isn’t the Dominant. I am allowed to touch myself; I don’t need permission. But I can touch myself anytime. I’m at the Chef’s apartment because I want to be touched by someone else.

  I hear his footsteps, and he’s back in the room. The salad is in a clear glass bowl, and I admire the artistry of it. The purple grapes and the black olives glimmer amidst the pale green of the celery, the green and white rings of cucumber and the bright orange splashes of carrot.