Jennifer's Eggnog (4 page)
“Hope you’re fucking my girl as good as I’m fucking yours,” she
heard Trent call out. She might have laughed at his braggadocio, had she not
been so preoccupied with the deep-spearing thrusts of Lawrence’s dick.
“I’m drilling the shit out of her.” The great bear of a guy
spat out the words, staring into her face as he shafted into her core. “And she
fucking knows it.”
“Good…” Jennifer could only imagine the heat on Trent’s face as
he forced his response. “’Cos I’m fucking your bitch to all fucking hell. Right,
Kim?”
Kimmie’s thoughts on the subject came in the form of inarticulate
cries – the kind that could only be produced by a frenetically pumping cock.
The two well-churched guys were locked into a macho fuck-contest, the only goal
of which was to extract louder screams from the other’s fiancée.
“Trying to be extra-manly?” Jennifer panted under Lawrence’s
lusty attentions. “After you two rubbed cocks?” Her current lover shafted even
harder and she heard additional squeals from Kimmie. She bit down on the screams
that threatened to erupt from her own mouth and fuelled the guys’ rage even
more. “Bit close to home, boys? For a moment back there I thought you two
wanted to ass-fuck each other.”
“Maybe I’ll ass-fuck you, baby!” Trent spat out the rejoinder.
“That a threat or a promise?”
“Both. Hey buddy, whadda you say we butt-fuck these bitches?”
“Well?” Jennifer snarled into Lawrence’s sweating face,
reckless words pouring from her lips. “Are you? Gonna ram that dick into
Kimsy-wimsy’s tight little untried butthole? Stud?” Lawrence’s face hardened
visibly into resolve.
Moments later Jennifer’s tits squashed into cold marble, as
Trent bent her over the island. Lawrence was shoving Kimmie down beside her,
the swap having been completed swiftly. From their handlers’ grunts of
machismo, it was clear that both girls were in trouble. The look of alarm on
her friend’s sweet face was priceless.
“Gonna be a tight fit,” Trent breathed, his voice hoarse.
“Tell me about it.”
Both guys were casting glances about for something to
facilitate rear-entrance to their respective girls, pinning their fiancées’
wrists behind their backs as they searched.
“Hang on. Hold them both in place.” Lawrence clutched both sets
of wrists, as Trent did reconnaissance, returning with items from the fridge.
“Double cream and brandy sauce. That do it?”
Lawrence’s grin was broad, his face stupidly handsome. “Good
call, bud. Real fuckin’ festive.”
The boys had taken back all control and Jennifer loved it. So
did Kimmie, truth be told. Her fearful look did nothing to obscure her panting
good-girl need. They both stayed firmly in place as their two strapping males
scooped up Christmas lube and inserted it into their girlfriends from behind.
There was a shock of cold and a lewd squelch as Trent shoved his cream-globbed
finger into Jennifer’s anus. Next to her Kimmie yelped, her face fraught with
anticipation as Lawrence similarly applied the brandy sauce.
“Ohhhh God…” the pretty brunette whimpered.
“Brace yourself, Kimmie-girl!” Jennifer clasped her friend’s
hand and kissed her mouth, letting their tongues wriggle together. Saliva still
linked their lips as she whispered, “We’re gonna get it so fucking good…”
Christ, they did.
Kimmie was swallowing a sob, even as Jennifer felt the slippery
head of Trent’s cock pop her ring and his shaft urge its creamy way insider her
ass. Her clitoris pulsed as he worked his way up her, her rear tunnel expanding
however painfully to accept his sliding pole. Her fingers clenched Kimmie’s,
her friend squeezing back, as both girls took their boyfriends’ dicks where
they never had before.
“All the way,” Lawrence was muttering, “all the fucking way…”
Goddammit, these horny bastards were going to sink themselves right to the
balls! Kimmie was wailing like a siren, her fingers clutching for purchase on
the smooth work surface. Trent was huge and deep inside Jennifer and pushing
deeper, not stopping till his bristling sac pressed against her thighs. Then
his hands closed upon her, gripping the crooks of her arms. Punishment time was
upon her and her best friend. This would be no Silent Night…
It proceeded with a steady shunting in and out, Trent’s great
wedge driving into her tight-stretched gap. Momentum built, his hands clutching
her to brace, and soon he was plunging great cream-lubed strokes inside her.
Kimmie next to her was taking it just as hard, just as deep. There they were,
two respectable Sunday-school teachers on a ski-break, bent over a kitchen island
being anally ploughed. Their caring fiancés had been turned into lust-demented
studs, each trying to outdo the other’s rump-reaming efforts – packing hard
man-meat up their slut-girlfriends’ rear passages, till both those sluts
screamed.
“Take it, bitch!”
“Fuckin’ take my cock!”
“Right up that ass!”
“Yeah, right up that hot fuckin’ back-door!”
The studs rutted and talked their trash, stretching out
assholes and spearing deep, pounding like savages until they erupted, pumping
their fiancées’ asses full of hot cream and crying out in strangled ecstasy.
Jennifer rubbed out an orgasm, fingers working hard on her
clit, and she encouraged Kimmie to copy her as the boys extracted their cocks.
Neither organ, she noticed hazily just before she came, had wilted significantly,
however much cum was dribbling from her anus and that of her friend. Holy crap,
that eggnog was insane stuff.
“Fetch more,” she said, and the boys knew without asking what
she meant. Even the orgasm-raddled Kimmie seemed okay with the idea. Sex fever
remained upon them all and they chugged the stuff raw, never mind any painful
buttholes. After that they made for the shower stall and fitted in there
together. The water was hot and the froth was copious, and everybody soaped
everybody
else
and did not care. All that mattered was spiked nipples and re-engorged
cocks.
Desire unhinged them from reason, morals and inhibitions, and once
the suds were washed away, the evening spiralled deeper, ever deeper into
sexual madness. It was a long road to morning and they’d suck the juice out of
every filthy minute.
Merry fucking Christmas…
* * * *
Jennifer woke with her face stuck to the carpet.
Damn it all
– eggnog drool. Gross.
She peeled herself free and raised a pounding head – to stare
on the ruins of Christmas. Daylight was pouring its unforgiving light on the
remnants of a night’s debauchery and it was one crazy sight.
Trent was lying face-down on the sofa as naked as she. Kimmie
and Lawrence, on the floor, were a sticky and contorted mass of limbs. The
brunette’s fiancé, it appeared, had attempted to eat half the dessert buffet
off her chest and stomach before passing out on top of her.
With a shock of confusion Jennifer noticed the third nude girl,
the petite one with bobbed black hair, hog-tied with Christmas lights, her
pussy stuffed with chocolate eclairs as she slept peacefully. “Oh my God, who
the hell is
that
?”
Lawrence looked up blearily, his face smeared with caramel.
“Ehhh… I think we sent out for pizza – yeah, that was it.” Jennifer gazed at
him in horror. “The lights were her idea,” he explained. “She was really loving
that eggnog.”
“Who – Who
had
her?”
Lawrence shook his head as though to clear it of static fuzz.
“I’m pretty sure we all did. Yup, Kimmie too.”
“Oh sweet Jesus…” Jennifer looked at him and the feebly
stirring Kimmie in a daze, wondering if she’d ever make Heaven now.
“Oh God…” Trent was finally coming around, his voice loudening
with disbelief. “Oh God… Oh God… Oh fuck… What’s in my ass? Somebody tell me –
what the fuck is in my ass?” Jennifer had a vague and horrifying recollection.
It involved brandy-cream, the zucchini and what had seemed a great idea at the
time.
Brewing up a batch of the notorious Lewis eggnog – that too had
seemed like a splendid joke. And bringing it all to Lake Tahoe. No, not all… She
remembered with a sub-zero chill the two bottles her parents had accepted for a
supper party with the Pastor and his wife.
Oh dear God…
Kimmie was floundering her way back to full consciousness,
gazing upon her own creamed and sponge-caked body. Jennifer groaned silently.
This was going to be one hell of an awkward breakfast. She looked mortified
upon her fiancé and her friends. What was there to even say?
“Ehhh…” She smiled weakly. “Hair of the dog, anyone?”
THE END
Jake Malden is a freelance journalist and writer based in London. He
has been experimenting with erotica both on the page and off for some years and
has a growing number of titles available on Amazon. His interests, aside from
the staringly obvious, are theatre, cinema, literature, fitness-training and
travel (particularly back to his native Ireland). He is an enthusiast of
juicing, in every possible sense.
Find
out more about Jake Malden and his writing here.
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The Gavin McClain Stories Vol.1
Excerpt
from The Tempting of
Neely
J
Her hand reached out to Ray to reassure that she wasn’t
repelled by the sight or by his rashness. It kept going till her fingers
brushed his hand, easing it away, so that her fingers slithered over the hot
taut surface and closed around him as far as they would go. Till she took firm
hold of Ray Archer’s ‘throbbing fuck-stick’. So much was happening so fast, she
thought she’d faint from the drumming in her head. But maybe this way she could
help her boy, diffuse the crippling tension that existed between them. “Let me
do it,” she said. “I want to.”
Ray leaned back on both elbows and stared in amazement of his
own. She was sure the look she shot him was piteous—that the girl within was
belying all her womanly efforts. His erection genuinely throbbed under her
grip. She could feel the hot flesh pulse as she drew her hand up and down that
thick shaft. It was wonderful, watching her own slim fingers gliding all over
the implacably hard male sex organ, feeling its contained power beneath her
palm—from the cushioning of the balls all the way up the thick-veined column to
the summit and back again. She could feel the pulse of life within it. This was
a thing
alive
, she marvelled, with its own amoral agenda, a throbbing
engine driving the man. Only, she had sparked it. She was the one who had
brought it growling to life. The thought terrified her, yet filled her with a
strange pride. An exultant sinful pride. Ray’s jaw had dropped, his breath was
a shallow panting. She, Neely Jordan, was responsible for this man’s torment.
Surely only she could properly relieve it.
“You like that, baby? I’m not doing it too hard?”
She gasped anew as Ray reached and wrapped his big hand around
hers, squeezing it tighter to his cock. “Hard as you fucking like, darling,” he
said with a breathy grin, shunting her hand briskly up and down, so that they
wanked his pole as one. “There, isn’t it nice to do things together, babe?” His
voice was full of playful lust. “Having fun yet?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
Oh God.
She wasn’t sure which she
felt more—benevolent or slutty—but she was having, she thought with a flash of
guilt, the most tremendous fun of her life. Her voice shook with excitement and
she could hardly keep the smile from creeping onto her lips in response to his
boldness.
“Do it on your own,” he told her, releasing his grip. “Hard
like that. I want to feel you do it.”
For Daniella all was darkness. The sleep mask he had slipped
over her eyes encased her in velvet black. Every other sense was heightened.
The soft whirring of the fan and rustle of his clothing, as he
crossed his legs perhaps, or shifted in his seat. The scent of honeysuckle
through the open window and the sharp tang of cologne whenever he drew close.
The prickle of cooling sweat on her exposed skin every time the fanned air
brushed her. And the tautness of knotted bonds around both her wrists and her
ankles. Hell, she almost felt his eyes on her. They were patrolling her body for
sure, calm and alert. Enjoying her. Consuming her.
But more intense than all was the soft, insistent buzz between
her legs, a sensation over which he had complete control. He had plucked her
panty crotch aside to insert the slim vibrator lovingly inside her, and those
panties, the one garment he had left her wearing, held it in place as it burred
and fizzed. Currents of maddening sensation emanated from her loins to all
quarters of her body, pricking her nipples, electrifying her spine so she
writhed, her sweat
‐
soaked
back and bottom slipping against the smoothly varnished chair. The buzz
increased, sensation building, her pussy clutching the vibrating pencil within,
so that her panties and thighs were drenched by the steady flow of responsive
juice. Her head tilted against the back of the chair, breath ragged, as the
tension in her body curved upwards into an exponential spike.
And then it stopped. The buzzing within her ceased utterly. Her
body stiffened for a moment, before she crumpled into lethargy, satisfaction
cruelly denied her. How many times was that—four, five—he had brought her to
the brink of screaming, flailing orgasm, only to flick the switch on his remote
and cut off the throbbing supply? Her head drooped and she hung there panting,
hands working fruitlessly against the tough, nylon bindings—not to effect an
escape, just to liberate her fingers so she could finish off manually what the
vibrator had failed to achieve. Her pussy spasmed, aching and unrelieved. How
could he know? How could he read her that minutely, bringing her so close but
no more?
“I’ll leave you there till you pee yourself, sweetheart,” he
had told her gently, stroking her hair, “and I really don’t want to have to mop
up after you.” Bastard.
Bastard
.
The only hope was to be silent and patient. To sit there
sweating on the hottest damn day of the summer, cunt
‐
juice and perspiration pooling about her
thighs in the concave seat. Serving as his entertainment, as he sat opposite
her in his own chair—the fan next to him, while she stewed in the heat. “I’ve
got a few calls to make and stuff to check on my laptop,” he had told her,
having deftly secured her hands to the back of the chair. “It’s all very
tedious. You’ll be something nice to look at while I attend to it all.”
And calls he had made indeed, sitting the other side of the
living
‐
room from
her, doing bloody business. Dressed to impress in the heat of an August day for
God's sake, like it mattered—since he'd obviously wanted her blindfolded from
the start. Occasionally he'd rise to strut about her chair, so close that the
silk of his shirt brushed her skin. Then he'd return to his seat, chatting to
business contacts and sipping audibly from a glass; his sophisticated choice of
drink seemed now a galling affectation. And meanwhile his other hand played her
body with the pressure of one finger. Toying, sexy bastard.
He was making her hate how much she wanted him …