DIRTY X6 (A MFMMMMM Menage Romance) Read online

  “Well, help me then, Mr. Rich and Fancy,” I retort. “My cocktail dress shopping experiences are limited.”

  His eyes fill with heat. “Would this involve zipping you into your dress?” he asks and I roll my eyes. The saleswoman is pretending she hasn’t heard what he said.

  I turn to her. “I’m a size four,” I tell her. “Can you help me find something suitable, please?”

  She smiles a warmer smile at me this time. World over, everyone warms to good manners, or so my mother always says.

  My expression dims as I think of my mother. I haven’t been to Miami to visit ever since I moved to New York after college, four years ago. I can’t afford the flight. Instead we talk on the phone when we can, and my mother worries about how I can afford a cell phone. I can’t – it belongs to the Dominant, who looked aghast when he found out I didn’t own one. I tried protesting, and it did absolutely no good whatsoever. The Dominant can be very persuasive.

  The Playboy clears his throat, and I blink. He’s said something, and I’ve zoned out. “Sorry. I missed that.”

  “Dresses,” the Playboy repeats. He nods towards the saleswoman, who has an armful of dresses in her hand. “And a lot of them. Stephanie, can you hurry this up?”

  “Of course.” She sets the dresses up for me in a dressing room, and I beckon the Playboy. The shop is deserted, and the saleswoman bustles immediately to the front of the store to give us our privacy.

  “I take it back,” the Playboy says as I pull my sweater over my head, and shimmy out of my pencil skirt. “I’m not in a hurry at all.”

  “Yes you are,” I throw my sweater at him, and he catches it with a lazy, come-hither grin. My pussy clenches; she wants to have sex in the dressing room as well. “Wade,” I protest.

  The Playboy raises his eyebrow, before waving one languid arm at the hangers on the dressing room wall. “Try the black and white one,” he suggests, gesturing to a fitted black dress with a wide swath of dramatic white fabric sweeping into an asymmetrical hem. It is sophisticated and artsy, and very, very MOMA.

  “Good eye,” I tell him. I remove my t-shirt, and he moves closer, a predator stalking its prey. Except I don’t want to run. I want to have sex. In the face of the wicked gleam in the Playboy’s eyes, the tiredness in my body has disappeared.

  My lust evaporates when I see the price tag. The dress costs two thousand dollars. I try to calculate how many packets of Ramen I could buy with that. How many trips home to see my mom. “Wade,” I show him the tag. “I can’t.”

  He kisses me, taking both my hands and lacing them above my head, held in place by his hand. He runs a finger up my jaw, and looks into my eyes. “Stephanie, I promise you, I can afford this with no undue hardship. Please, consider it a gift from one friend to another.”

  “We fuck. Are we friends?” I ask him, and he looks surprised. “Of course we are, Stephanie. Life’s too short to fuck someone you don’t like, don’t you think?”

  Like I said, we are very similar, the Playboy and I. I slip on the dress over my shoulders, and Wade helps me zip up. The dress is a perfect fit. “You’ll need shoes,” he announces, and heads off to find the saleswoman. In a few minutes, he returns with a pair of strappy sandals, a small beaded black bag, and a wrap to keep me warm. The dollar signs all keep adding up in my head, and I know I look steadily unhappier. But Wade’s not listening to me. “Come on, Stephanie,” he urges, waiting for me to change into the new outfit. “Let’s go to the MOMA.”

  6

  Of course, we have sex before we get to the MOMA. We pull up into a basement parking lot a few blocks away, and Wade turns to me. “Remove your panties,” he orders, hustling me into the back seat of his car.

  Right now, the Playboy’s really just talking to my pussy. Whatever weak protest I might make about the garage being public is overruled by the fluttering of my insides. I just obey, helpfully sliding my panties down my hips.

  “Was the dress supposed to be foreplay?” I quip, as the Playboy tears open a condom packet and guides his dick into me. “Ahh, that’s good.”

  “No,” he growls. He sounds irritated. “The dress was not foreplay. For fuck’s sake, Stephanie, you have such a chip on your shoulder about money. Let it go.” His cock moves within me as I receive my lecture. Sufficient to say, I’m not paying attention to his words. My left leg is braced on the floor, my hips are at the edge of the seat. One hand pushes against the front driver seat. My other hand is firmly wrapped around the Playboy’s hips, pulling him deeper into my body.

  “Fuck,” I hiss, throwing my head back as his cock rakes my insides with each thrust. Shivers of arousal run through me. Spiking my lust is the idea that we could be discovered at any minute. There are other cars in the parking lot. Anyone can walk in at any moment.

  I feel so very naughty right now. I give the Playboy a grin of complete delight, and he laughs. “That’s the Stephanie I’m used to seeing,” he says indulgently before thrusting deep. He growls and I groan. He is so deep he’s hitting my cervix with each push.

  “So deep,” I hiss. My fingers dig into his side. “So fucking deep. Don’t stop.”

  “I have no intention of stopping, baby,” the Playboy grunts. The sweat is beading on his forehead. His face scrunches up into a tight knot of pleasure. He’s close. “Let’s see if we can get you to orgasm first,” he suggests. His fingers find my clitoris.

  Tap. Tap. Rub. He knows his way around my pussy, that’s for sure. His thumb dances a familiar pattern, and all it takes a few seconds of the steady stroking before I’m at the brink. “I’m coming,” I whimper, clutching at his coat.

  “Wait for me, Stephanie,” he says. He thrusts harder. We are both panting now. Both so close. I’m struggling to hold my climax back; he’s chasing his. “Now,” he grunts, and we both orgasm within seconds of each other.

  When I catch my breath, I reach for my panties, but the Playboy shakes his head with a wicked grin. “Go without, baby,” he laughs. He tucks them into his pocket with a wink. I shake my head at him, amused, then find a box of tissues and clean up, as best as I can. My pussy is sticky with my juice.

  The Playboy removes the condom and knots it, then takes my clump of tissues from me. He hands me the arm that doesn’t have the evidence of our car sex in it. “Shall we?”

  I link my hand in his, and we head to the MOMA.

  * * *

  Attending a work function with any of the guys I fuck is a bit risky. They all know I’m not dating them exclusively. However, there’s knowing, and there’s coming to face with the evidence. I’m wondering if I’m going to run into one of the others here.

  The Playboy works on Wall Street, as does the Dominant. The Doctor hobnobs with the rich and famous. Those are the highest risks. But I luck out. I don’t run into anyone I know.

  I’m introduced as the Playboy’s friend, and I mingle with his colleagues, who actually all seem quite nice. The Playboy is right. I probably do have a chip on my shoulder about money.

  I drink champagne, since the waiters are circulating around with trays of the stuff. I walk around the Matisse exhibit with the Playboy, and it is spectacular. I have a really good time, and I am somewhat startled to realize it’s been forever since I’ve been out on a date. It’s kind of nice, just being wined and dined. And the Playboy is actually really fun to spend time with. He’s attentive and solicitous, and he whispers wicked little pieces of gossip about his coworkers into my ears. He has me laughing all night.

  “This was really fun.” I turn to the Playboy in the car with a smile. “Okay, let’s go get middle-of-the-night tacos. I know a great place not too far from here.” Surveying our outfits, I giggle. “We are going to stick out like sore thumbs.”

  We do. It doesn’t matter. We gorge ourselves on tacos, and I yawn. “It’s midnight,” I groan. “It’s time I turn into a pumpkin. Can you drop me off by a subway?”

  “No,” he says flatly. “It’s midnight. I’m going to drop you to your door.” He i
gnores my protests, and turns the music on. Nina Simone’s voice fills the car, and I lean against the door. Before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep. I wake up when we pull up at my apartment and apologize for my rudeness. The Playboy just smiles at me. “See you soon, baby,” he says. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

  I’m not sure why he’s thanking me. He’s the one who’s bought me a dress, taken me to the museum and shown me a really good time. I lean forward and kiss him on impulse, and head to my apartment.

  7

  “I went on a date last night,” I tell Sasha over coffee and bagels.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Who with?”

  “The Playboy had a work party to attend.” I fill her in on the details, the shopping trip, the museum, the champagne. Something in my expression tips her off.

  “Do you want to date the Playboy? And does he have a real name?”

  “Wade. And no.”

  She looks skeptical, but I have thought this through. “He’s too much like me,” I say. “And I’m not hankering for monogamy, or anything. It was just nice to go on a date, that’s all.”

  “Tell me about it,” she sighs.

  “Let me know if you want to meet the Technician,” I tell her again. She ignores me, the same way she did two days ago. I’m guessing she’s not in favor of meeting the Technician. Pity.

  * * *

  Mr. Buttman also lives in Brooklyn, thank heavens. I head to his apartment right after work, and I’m there by six-thirty. I’m hoping this is a quickie. I need to catch up on my sleep.

  Mr. Buttman is Trent. He’s a kitchen cabinet maker, and he makes an exceedingly good living making custom cabinets for people like the Playboy and the Dominant. You know, rich people with more money than sense. His own kitchen is something of a wet dream. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

  Like all the others, my nickname has to do with the Trent’s kink of choice. Mr. Buttman is my anal sex guy. He has an ass fetish like you wouldn’t believe. Today, he greets me with a wide smile. “I have something to show you.”

  “Your cock?” I ask hopefully. Yes, I’m incorrigible. I’ve had my pussy licked Monday, and been thoroughly fucked Tuesday and Wednesday. You would think I’d be satiated. Not even close. Besides, my ass has been neglected in comparison.

  Mr. Buttman is in his early thirties. He’s got the tight body of someone whose muscles are built by hard work, not hours at the gym. His hands are calloused, and I shiver as I think of them running up and down my body, the rough texture prickling at my skin with each stroke. His hair is short and dark, and I’ve never seen him in something other than a pair of jeans. He’s wearing jeans now, and a faded navy-blue t-shirt. His hair is damp, as if he just got out of the shower.

  “Not my cock, you little slut,” he says indulgently. My pussy throbs at the name-calling. Mr. Buttman’s been part of the rotation for the last two years. I know him well, and once the sex is over, he treats me like a princess. If he genuinely thought of me as a slut, I’d be out of his apartment in a heartbeat. He’s having casual sex with me as much as I’m having casual sex with him, and I refuse to allow a double-standard about the way we see ourselves. I am not a slut, because I’m a woman who craves sex. If he gets to have no-strings-attached sex without society judging him, I demand the same right.

  Okay. Rant over.

  I’m curious about what Mr. Buttman wants to show me, and I look around his living room for a clue. There’s an opened package on his coffee table, and I raise an eyebrow. He nods. “Yup, that’s it. Open it.”

  It’s already been opened, so I don’t need to rip off packing tape. I notice the return address is a location in Italy, and my fingers unfold the top of the box to reveal the contents underneath.

  Of course, it’s a butt plug. But not just any old butt plug. This is the Ferrari of butt plugs. It looks like three butt plugs stacked right on top of each other. The one on top is the smallest, then it widens to a larger plug, and the final one, closest to the base, is wider than a fist. “Is it marble?” I ask, my voice reverent as I pick up the stone piece.

  “Black Italian marble,” Mr. Buttman confirms. “A special order.” He grins. “Comes from the same quarry as the countertops, but the butt plug is more interesting.”

  It is heavy and cool to the touch. I need both hands to pick it up. “It’s large.”

  “You can manage,” he says. “It’ll be training for you. It’s good to have goals, don’t you think?”

  “I have goals,” I protest. “I’m trying to get past my gag reflex.”

  He chuckles. “Okay, I promise you, I’ll help you work on that.” I roll my eyes. Of course, Mr. Buttman, I’ll give you a blowjob and thank you for the privilege.

  “This is wider than a fist.” My voice is nervous, but I’m curious.

  “Just the last one,” he points out. “Come on, Stephanie. Go get ready.”

  * * *

  I clean up in the bathroom, and prepare for a session of ass-play. Let’s not go into the details, shall we? I’ve got to say, if there’s one solid advantage to vaginal sex, it would be that the preparation is far, far easier.

  When I’m ready, I shrug into the black silk robe that hangs on the back of the bathroom door and head out. The robe is one of the ways Mr. Buttman shows his considerate side. He doesn’t want me to get cold. He’s a sweet guy, Trent.

  He’s holding a set of silver anal beads in his hands. I know this particular toy well. The chain has seven beads on it, and there’s a stainless-steel ring at the end. Sometimes, Mr. Buttman likes to insert them all in, and have me pad around the room on my hands and knees, with the ring sticking out of my ass. When I do this, each move I make causes the beads inside my ass to shift position. It’s a very, very, intense, filled feeling, and I love it. I’m hoping he’ll do that today.

  “Foreplay?” I quip, and he laughs. He gestures, and I drop the robe and get on my knees on top of the coffee table, and rest my shoulders on the surface. My knees are tucked in, my rump is in the air. I’m naked. I can smell the scent of my arousal.

  As can Trent. His face nestles among my folds, and his tongue runs down my slit. “Such a dripping pussy, my little slut,” he teases.

  I push my pussy into his face. “Do something about it, then,” I suggest, and he spanks my ass lightly. Whoa. Where’d that come from? Spanking is generally the Dominant’s territory.

  “Settle down, Steph,” he chides. His fingers circle my tight hole and spread the cool, slippery lube into me. I twitch a little; the lube is cold. Another light spank greets my movement, and I raise an eyebrow. All my guys are acting a little different this week. Weird.

  Mr. Buttman lubes up the string of anal beads, and slowly pushes the first one into my anus. I relax my muscles and exhale as my sphincter is stretched open by the bead. “Mmm,” I groan. There’s both pleasure and pain in that noise.

  His fingers slide into my pussy, massaging the thin dividing wall of flesh. He’s nudging the bead deeper into me, and I whimper at how naughty I’m being, letting him push a string of beads into my butt. And this is only a prelude to the actual play, which will involve Trent’s newest imported marble butt plug.

  “This is a very nice visual.” His voice is thick with arousal. “Stephanie, like a slutty little pet, with her tail of anal beads.”

  I chuckle and wriggle my ass at him, and my tail swishes back and forth. He laughs as well, and bites me on my ass. Fuck. That feels good. “Do that again.” I can hear the lust in my voice as I speak, layered in with some pleading.

  He bites again, and then his fingers push the second bead in. I whimper as I start to feel the strange sense of fullness that anal play always creates in me. “Yes,” Mr. Buttman says approvingly. “Good pets whimper, not speak. You want to be a good pet, don’t you, Stephanie?”

  I make a puppy-like whine that indicates agreement, and he rewards me by biting my ass again, then pushing three large fingers into my sopping wet vagina. He rams his fingers in
and out of me. I’m making keening noises of pleasure. Each thrust of his fingers nudges the two beads in my ass, causing spikes of lust to shoot through me.

  The third bead is pushed in, and so is the fourth. My slippery sphincter expands to take them in. I remember, through the haze of pleasure my brain is enveloped in, that the beads are only a prelude to the real play of the night.

  His fingers tug at the stainless steel ring at the end of the chain, and pulls out all the beads, all save the first. I whimper and moan as each bead rakes each inch of my anal passage. I’m so wet that I’m convinced that there is a puddle of my girl juice on Mr. Buttman’s glass coffee table. If there is, he’s quite capable of making me lick it up like a good pet. At the thought of that, my insides clench again, and my pussy gushes some more.

  The beads go back in, five of them this time, before a tug at the ring pulls all of them out. Then, six beads make their way back. Another tug, then my forbidden hole expands and all seven beads are pushed into my rectal passage.

  So full. So good.

  I whimper. I want Trent to touch my pussy. The overwhelming fullness in my anus just highlights the emptiness in my vagina. It is aching for a cock right now. Trent’s thick, hard cock. I can picture his head nudge at my folds, before he rams that beast into me. Hard. Fast. Taking me for his pleasure.

  “What do you want, little pet?”

  I whine again. Puppies can’t speak. I make begging noises and wriggle my ass, and thrust my pussy in the air. I’m sure the message that I want him to fuck me is coming across, perfectly loud and clear.

  It does. I hear the sound of a condom wrapper tear, and his cock is nearly splitting me apart, wet though I am, as he pushes into me. Deep and hard. Just the way I want.