Three way, p.1
Three Way, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Introduction
Share
Three for the Money
Endings
Third Party
The New Fiancée
Nine Ball, Corner Pocket
Two Guys and a Girl
Circle of Friends
1-900-FANTASY
In Town for Business
If You Can Make It There, You Can Make It Anywhere
Trepidation
Cast of Three
Pink Elephants
The Space Between
Harvest Time
Craving Faces
The Scarless
All McQueen’s Men
State of Grace
Jezebel
About the Authors
About the Editor
Copyright Page
For SAM
Acknowledgements
To my constant support team: Violet Blue, Eliza Castle,
Mike Ostrowski, Barbara Pizio, Thomas S. Roche,
Alex Mendra, Kerri Sharp, and, of course,
Felice Newman and Frédérique Delacoste
Foreword
A while back, a friend and I were playing “Sex Chicken” (What? You’ve never heard of Sex Chicken? That game where you throw overly personal sexual questions at each other repeatedly until one of you gives up, goes down on your knees, and declares the other a sexual god? Huh. Me neither… I’m starting to think he made it up…).
Anyway, we were playing this game that he might or might not have made up and at one point he asked me, “What’s the one sexual thing you want to do that you’ve never done?”
As soon as he asked, I had a sudden, vivid image of my answer: Me, on a bed, kissing a dark-haired girl, her lips as soft and sweet as honey, her curls falling down to cover my face, while a man kisses the back of my neck, pressing himself against me, hard and hot, his hands roving my body.
I responded, before I could even think about it, “A truly fantastic threesome.”
His face went from interest to horror to something unreadable. “You’ve never had a threesome? That just makes me sad.”
No, I quickly clarified. It’s not that I’d never had a threesome. Because I have. (I’m tempted to go all Good Will Hunting here and follow that with “Big time!” but I’ll refrain.). But things have always gotten in the way: Timing. A lack of complete chemistry. A dog that wouldn’t stop howling from the next room. A boyfriend who couldn’t handle watching me kiss my best friend. A girlfriend who couldn’t handle watching me kiss her best friend. An awkward fall and a subsequent trip to the ER.
So, yes, I’ve had threesomes, but I’ve never had one of those fantastic, blow your mind, get completely lost in the moment trysts that transport you into another mental, emotional and physical dimension. The kind of threesome that seems to only happen in movies and in the best erotic stories, but I know that’s not true. I’ve heard stories of real-life ménage adventures that rival the best fiction. Alison Tyler tells some of the best ones. My best girlfriend has an Italy threesome story that makes me wet every time I hear it. The gorgeous gay boys across the street have a friend who joins them regularly for all-nighters that make all three of them leave the house with ginormous smiles the next morning.
That’s what I want. I want the dark-haired girl who kisses me, deeper and deeper, her fingertips just brushing my nipples, while the sexy man slowly begins to open me. I want two pairs of eyes gazing at me with lust, two pairs of lips murmuring dirty things in my ears. I want to be touched and touched again, surrounded by mouths and hands and bodies, caught in the middle of something beautiful and sensual, wrapped in something slutty and naughty and delicious. I want to wake the next morning with one of those ginormous smiles, and make my friends wet with my very own threesome story.
Until I find that, I have this book to carry me through. The reader, the writer, the story—a threesome of delight that is almost as good as the real thing.
Shanna Germain
Introduction
I had my first threesome when I was nineteen.
Ah, you can just see me, can’t you? You imagine a worldly, smoldering vixen, so clever that she actually managed to choreograph a ménage à trois before she could even legally drink.
Not the case, of course.
Actually, I had my first taste of a threesome when I was eighteen. But according to Playboy, if it’s two guys and one girl, the correct term is “gangbang.” Also not the case, of course.
My first tentative tango with more than one partner came before I’d even been one on one. I went out with two close guy friends to an off-campus apartment and we wiled away the night drinking tequila and telling dirty fantasies. At some point, I found myself sandwiched naked between my two buddies, and we slept together like that, all night long. No sex, okay, but excitement that was undeniable. Excitement that left me craving more. Because that’s what ménages à trois are all about: MORE.
At nineteen, I was ready for the sex. My sultry blonde editor, Ava, invited me to her house on a stormy night, during which she and her handsome male roommate enlightened me on many of the things three people could do in one bed during a blackout.
Since then, I’ve never looked back. Why should I? Three means more of everything. Maybe I’m greedy, but when it comes to sex, I like more. More fingers. More tongues. More limbs. More tangling and wrestling on the mattress. Here are snapshots of my first real threesome: Ava and me taking turns sucking Josh’s rock-hard cock; me licking Ava’s breasts while Josh fucked her; Ava telling Josh exactly how to go down on me—and, oh, was she experienced; candlelight flickering over our naked bodies; limbs entwined like something out of a sleekly seductive porn film.
More than a decade later, I still remember exactly what I was wearing that night: gossamer-light skirt, silky peach panties, black top, huge silver hoop earrings. I know the subtle scent of my perfume, the deep red of my lipstick, and how I looked the morning after when I went to the local grocery store to get coffee. My friend Kelly worked there. He was my on-and-off-again fuckbuddy, and he sidled up to me like a panther, seeming to tell from my scent that something had changed.
“What are you doing?”
“Caffeine injection,” I smiled sleepily at him.
“But you look different. Where were you last night?”
“With Ava…”
“And?” he pressed.
“Josh…”
I learned from the look on his face how turned-on guys get by the thought. That evening won me mileage for months with Kelly, gave me such an upper hand that I was giddy with delight from the heights. I still am, to tell the truth. Who did I think I was, playing around with these older and much more knowledgeable playmates? Who do I think I am now, juggling threesomes and foursomes like some perverted acrobat in Cirque du Soleil?
I guess I’m just someone who always wants a little bit more….
But luckily for us all I’m not the only one—because the authors in this collection follow the same school of thought. From Thomas S. Roche’s sizzling “Two Guys and a Girl,” to Dante Davidson’s steamy “1-900-FANTASY,” the stories in this collection are among my all-time favorites. I’ve chosen pieces that are classic threeways, as well as more unusual ménages à trois, such as creative genius Tom Piccirilli’s “Craving Faces,” which features a threeway between a man, a woman, and the woman’s tattooed alter ego. (Prepare to be impressed.)
In “Third Party,” Dawn M. Pares focuses on the rules for a three-course situation, while Marilyn Jaye Lewis reminisces on a threeway from long ago in the deliciously naughty “Three for the Money.” Several pieces feature slippery orgies, such as “Circle of Friends” by Rebecca Henderson, but all have one thing in common: they prove that three (or four or five) is definitely the charm!
Alison Tyler
San Francisco
Share
M. CHRISTIAN
Favorite thing: hot and hot and hotter, sitting there and other places. Two playmates, lovers, pals; in bedrooms, hot tubs, at parties (where everyone else is doing the same or more or less all around). Let’s do this, I say: Let’s do something hotter than fucking, let’s do this—hotter than sucking. People fuck and suck for others, often. Folks do what they do with and for each other when they fuck and suck: they step up on stage and bow to the audience and expect applause when they’re finished. Now, I say, let’s do something dark and loaded and nasty. Something you don’t do for someone else. Something you do for yourself. Share this, I say, share this and I’ll share what I do for myself. Let’s do something private, in public: for me and for you.
Ever seen a man masturbate? Would you like to? Would you like to touch me while I stroke my cock, pull on my balls and watch and touch you? Would you like to see me take a bit of lube on my hand and slowly stroke myself till I’m hard, hard, hard? See my cock, so hard and smooth. I like my cock: I like the way it feels when I stroke it. I like the smoothness of the skin, the firmness of the shaft. I like my cut head, the way it feels when I go from base to ridge to tip. My cock doesn’t have a pet name; he doesn’t lead me around because he is me. “He” is a part of me that responds when I get excited, when I excite myself. Do you want to do something? What do you like to do when you get excited? What do you want to do when you see me doing this—stroking my cock, looking at your lovely body, all rosy and warm, all hot and sticky and hard in all the right places? Please, feel free to touch yourself. Show
At home with my sexy wife, at hot tubs and in other bedrooms with my playmates and friends, at parties with more playmates and friends and maybe strangers whose names I’ll never know. Share and share alike. You are lovely, I say/mean, as their fingers stroke and fondle, as their eyes glaze but never leave mine and my straight and tensed body, my straight and firm cock. You are so sexy, I say, kissing, touching with other hands. Sitting, maybe standing next to each other in the heat of our bodies, letting our skins dance against each other, bathing in our sweat and steam. I love to do this as you do this, I say, and lick and fondle their nipples, arms, chests, breasts, backs. So hot, I mumble, so hot, so hot—putting my hand on theirs, not on them, not there directly, but just hand on hand—to feel, to be there for them as they rub and stroke and pull and twist. I lie there next to them, hands on hands on the spot of their excitement, lying there with them as they bring, and I bring, ourselves up and over.
So… nice, such a special sharing. We have the best that we can have; the best that we can share of something that is really ourselves; something we can do so, so, so well because who knows us better?
Share and share alike, together.
Three for the Money
MARILYN JAYE LEWIS
Yesterday, I went to a funeral uptown. When I left my apartment in the morning, it had been the proverbial spring day, birds chirping, daffodils blooming in the park—the works. Naturally, by the time I came up from the subway station an hour and a half later, it had begun to rain. Funerals are a bit like rain dances in that way; people gather together in mourning, and the earth itself cries.
The dead guy, Marten Santos, had been notoriously rich and depraved while he was alive. He had never tried to pass as righteous, though, never pretended to be perfect. We all knew about his peculiar tastes and erratic passions, and loved him for that. Nevertheless, he’d been raised a strict Roman Catholic and so the funeral was a stuffy, conservative affair, held at Our Lady of Divine Sorrows. After the funeral, as the teary-eyed pallbearers removed the casket from the church and solemnly loaded it into the back of the hearse, Our Lady’s bell tolled mournfully, sounding all the more poignant in the gray drizzle of rain. He was a man who was going to be missed by a lot of good people.
In life, Mr. Santos had been one of my favorite tricks. When he died suddenly of a heart attack three days ago, the newspaper said that he was pushing seventy. During the year when he’d been one of my regulars, he claimed to be fifty-five. It says a lot that after all these years I was moved enough by a sense of loss to attend his funeral. But then, he hadn’t always been a trick. With Mr. Santos, I’d done the unthinkable and allowed a favorite john to become a lover, or nearly so. The shame of that slipup on my part, and a difficult scene he put me through in a cheap hotel room, had caused us to part on uncomfortable terms. Still, it made me no less fond of him.
I don’t turn tricks anymore, I haven’t for years. I’m almost forty now. I work in a respectable office and I earn a respectable living. I present a very hard-assed, successful-bitch version of myself to the world and it’s helped me to succeed and keep my past where it should be, in the past. The frantic, frenetic survival skills acquired by all New Yorkers makes the town a forgiving place. As long as you don’t wind up at the heart of a sordid public scandal in a court of law, where New Yorkers show their ugly sides and revel in seeing your past mistakes slung at you like so much mud, you can do just about anything to get ahead in this town and not have to worry too much that it’ll come back to haunt you.
Mr. Santos and I first met in an upscale espresso shop on the Upper East Side. This was back in the ’80s, when a whole lot of people had money to burn. Mr. Santos was friends with the owner, Hajid, who was one of my regulars, too. Hajid liked getting blow jobs behind the desk in his office. His office was in the basement of the coffee house. It was decidedly downscale in that dark, damp, vermin-infested cellar. However, a simple blow job, as long as I was willing to have my pants around my knees and keep my naked ass out for his viewing pleasure, lasted only about ten minutes and garnered me two hundred tax-free dollars, so I found ways to make even that ratskeller seem erotic.
The evening I met Mr. Santos, I was actually just having coffee. I wasn’t engaged in business. Hajid and I were on friendly terms. He introduced me to Mr. Santos, with a nod and a wink, and Mr. Santos pulled up a chair. He got right down to the business of getting to know me better. He ended the meeting by paying my modest tab and then asking me for my phone number, which of course I gave him since it was obvious he was loaded—even more so than Hajid.
Our trysts started out simple and straightforward. Mr. Santos would always arrange for me to meet him in other rich people’s high-class apartments. The people he knew went on extended vacations, traveled on business to faraway places, or had primary homes in other countries. Mr. Santos was married back then, and apparently he and his other married male friends formed a cozy circle of infidels, each leaving the rest of the crew a key to his empty apartment for extramarital liaisons in his absence. I don’t think the wives ever had a clue what was taking place in the sanctity of their homes while they were off on holiday.
I was never to touch anything, never allowed to get too comfortable in the jaw-dropping luxury of our trysting places. Mr. Santos liked anal and that was pretty much the sole basis of our get-togethers, at first. Without fanfare, he would unzip his trousers; let them fall unceremoniously to his ankles, along with his boxers. He’d slip on a rubber; slather it with the lube that he carried in his pocket in handy individual foil packets. Then I’d bend over anything steady and he’d slide his cock up my ass.
He fucked me like a man who had important meetings to get to, so he usually came pretty quickly. I didn’t have to say anything weird, or dress in anything unusual. I simply had to show up with an absolutely clean asshole, bend over and let him ream me; that was all he required. For that, I got five hundred dollars cash; five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills, folded in the middle, which he’d place under my nose while I was still bending over—before he’d even pulled his cock out of me, I’d get paid.
There was something about the way he paid me that tended to make me feel a little humiliated, but he didn’t seem to think twice about it. By the time I’d turn around, he’d have the used condom off, his trousers pulled up, and would be heading to the toilet to flush the condom down. He never said anything like, “Here’s your money, you whore,” or “Take that, bitch.” He just had a funny habit of leaving it parked under my nose while my ass was still stuffed with him.
I remember when we had our first real conversation. It was a day when he seemed to be at leisure. He wasn’t pressed for time, wasn’t hurrying. It was a day when he wandered around the spacious apartment we were using, looking for the perfect place to bend me over, making small talk, making jokes. “Bend over that chair there, let me see the view. Pull up your skirt. No, we can find something better.”
When he finally decided on the perfect spot—an ergonomically correct artist’s stool—he lifted my skirt himself, pulled my panties down (an intimate gesture he’d never once done before) and then said, “You know what this reminds me of?”
My naked ass in the air, my thighs spread in anticipation, my head hanging down, I said, “No, what?”
“Church. This reminds me of church.”
He didn’t elaborate and I had no idea what he was talking about. But the thought of church seemed to make him feel even more jovial. He sank to his knees and rimmed me, his hot, wet tongue expertly stroking my puckered hole. It felt sensational. I actually moaned and felt like touching myself.
Having his nose in my ass seemed to arouse his passion, for that day he fucked my ass especially vigorously, nearly knocking me off the stool several times. The mounting pressure of his thickening hard-on sucking in and out of my ass made me cry out. When he came, he pulled his cock out a little aggressively, gave me a resounding smack on my upturned ass, and said, “Here you go. Thanks, kiddo.” And the money was once again placed in front of my face—on this occasion, I’d been staring at a parquet floor.
