“Not yet. Give us a moment” I breathe, the heat in my belly sharpening into something so greedy it scares me. I think of the people on the other side, their faces, when we do flip the switch and they watch me being worked over by the guys in every way they care to.
I’m feral. That’s the perfect way to put it. I am like a cat in heat, who just wants to get fucked as soon and often as possible once she finds a willing tomcat to satisfy her.
Let them watch. Let them see what I can do to him.
I reach between us and unbutton his jeans, releasing his dick, and wrapping my fingers around its girth, I run my thumb over his cockhead, wet with precum.
He makes a sound against my neck that I will remember for the rest of my life, a low, broken thing, half groan and half breath, the sound of a man whose control has been stomped to shit.
His eyes close. The man who watches everything, registers everything, never lets a thing by him is trusting me with the one thing he never gives.
I stroke him slowly, deliberately, spreading his precum around the head of his erection. I watch his face, bare without the mask, every reaction visible. The way his lips part. The way a muscle jumps in his neck. The way his hands grip my tits, then the couch cushion, and then fly back to my hips, fingers pressing hard enough I know I’ll have marks tomorrow.
I’m loving it.
“Vi.”
My name. It comes out of his mouth rough and barely spoken. It’s not a request, or a command, just my name in his mouth.
I know where he’s going with this.
“Do you want them to watch?”
I glance toward the mirror. “Oh yes. Let’s do it,” I say, my voice raspy.
Rogue flips a switch and the people on the other side realize the glass has become clear, and that they’ve been invited to watch something very fucking hot. Some of them push to the front for the best view.
Damn.
I make eye contact with them as I get to my feet to push my jeans down. Sting pushes his own jeans, currently upon only at the fly, under his ass to free more of himself.
I climb back on top of him with one knee on each side of his hips, rubbing his cock along my slit, spreading my wetness. I know I’ll need as much as I can get because he’s large and it’s not always easy to accept him.
I take a look at the guys behind me and see that Rogue’s taken out his own cock and is working himself with long lazy strokes, as lazy as the half smile on his face. Armen’s hand rests over his crotch, occasionally moving things around for comfort. I imagine he’ll have his erection in hand pretty damn soon.
The people on the other side of the mirror are what are really revving my engine. With my gaze locked on the people closest, I raise my hips and position Sting at my entrance. Then I slide down his hard cock, taking him a bit at a time while my pussy adjusts. The sensation of his stretching me open is pure heaven, but what’s even better are the faces on the other side of the glass.
It's like I’m fucking all of them, at the same time, both the men and the women.
I begin to piston myself on Sting, and it’s nothing like before. The last time at the club, I was responsive. Receptive. A body being played by expert hands. Tonight, I’m the one playing, setting the pace, and the pace I set is relentless. I ride Sting hard and I pour every ounce of myself into the way I fuck him.
Something snaps in Sting’s expression like it’s his last thread. His hands grab the flesh on my hips and he drives up into me with a force that punches the air out of my lungs, and I sayyes, just the one word, and he does it again. And again. And the sound of us fills the room, skin and breath and the wet, relentless rhythm of fucking.
I spot Armen rising from his armchair.
He crosses the room, slow and unhurried, then pulls his mask off and sets it on the table with a click. His hand finds the back of my neck, warm, heavy, grounding. He doesn’t interrupt what’s happening between me and Sting but adds to it. His mouth on my shoulder. His free hand sliding down my spine. The weight of him behind me while Sting is beneath me and the combination of the two of them, front and back, coupled with the audience watching, is so overwhelming that my vision whites out for a second.
“Don’t stop,” I manage, talking to both of them. Or neither of them. Or just myself.
Armen’s mouth moves to my ear. “We’re not stopping, baby. Don’t you worry.”
Rogue is there too. I feel him before I see him, his hand turning my face toward his, his mouth covering mine in one of his delicious, reckless kisses. His mask is off and his curls brush my face. He kisses me while Sting fucks me from below and Armen’s hands work my body from behind, and I am held and taken and wanted from every direction.
Their choreography is a wordless conversation about pressure and position, three men who’ve done this before. Stingpulls out, and I make a sound of protest that I’d be embarrassed about if I had any capacity left for embarrassment. But it’s only a repositioning. Armen lifts me, spins me to face him, and settles me back against Sting’s chest in a reverse sort of straddle.
Armen places his hands on my thighs, pushing them wide. He looks at me with those steady eyes, and waits. I nod. He enters me slowly, filling me in one long, deliberate stroke while Sting pins my arms behind me, and the sensation of being pressed between the two of them, open and wanted, is so intense I have to turn my face away just to breathe.
Sting releases my arms and his hand slides lower, past my hip and between my legs from behind. His fingers find my ass with such patience and precision that I gasp and press back against his hand.
