ROMANCE: THREESOME : Billionaire Brothers' Party (MFM Menage Romance) (New Adult Contemporary Threesome Short Stories) (3 page)

The sun was setting and the motel was slowly coming to life with lights. Returning to the foyer to drop off her key, Celia saw Ian catch his breath as he laid eyes on his favorite guest.

“You look stunning Miss,” he breathed.

“Thank you, I couldn’t have asked for a better fit really,” she did a twirl, “Here’s the key, Ian, thank you for the memorable… afternoon,” she winked.

“Happy to have you any time Miss, and err… your Grandma is a very special woman to have you go to this trouble. Don’t be a stranger round here,”

Celia had to bite her tongue to stifle her laugh - what a story she would share.

Returning to the car, Celia stuffed herself, and her costume, into the passenger seat and let Diane sweep her away from the motel into the hills.

*****

They followed a pitch-black trail deep into the forest and it was some minutes in total darkness before the trees thinned and the car emerged on the shore of an enormous lake. Lights from various shore-side properties glistened across the lake’s black mirror surface, but nothing outshone the vision that Diane was driving toward.

Squatting on the edge of the lake was the largest stone and timber-built house Celia had ever seen. It looked like a picture book Swiss chalet complete with multiple chimneys and balconies on its first and second levels overlooking the water.

“Wow, who owns this?”

“My boss and party host, Anton Bertoli, and his son. The son uses this for his family holidays over summer to show off all the money he has, while Mr. Bertoli uses it for sex parties. The son thinks it’s some bloody fishing and hiking retreat for his dad,” Diane laughed, “Truth is, most of the son’s fortune has been built by the parties his father hosts; nothing like making a deal over the back of a delicious babe, or in Mr. Bertoli’s case, dude,”

Celia looked stunned.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m just gossiping. Mr. Bertoli is 80 per cent gay, but for appearances he married a wonderful lady and had three beautiful, but dim, boys. I’ll introduce you to both if you like.”

“Oh, ok, sure… And are you joining in tonight?”

“Perhaps, I usually take care of Mr. and Mrs. Bertoli on nights like these by making sure they have a good time and everything is as they need it.”

“So you’re the party planner for this?”

Diane shrugged, “Not really, that’s more Mrs. Bertoli. I just make sure things turn up and my bosses get what they need,”

For the rest of the ride Diane chatted away until the car pulled up into the underground garage and Celia was ushered into the private resident elevator.

Diane gave Celia a final head to toe fix before the elevator pinged, signaling the ground level.

As the doors swept open, an expectant crowd in similar medieval costume gathered in the vaulted living room in front of a real crackling fire.

Among one of the tallest, Trent stepped out of the crowd and motioned to one of the servers with a drinks tray.

Diane bustled forward with the introductions, “This, ladies and gentlemen is Celia, Trent’s very special guest.”

There was a ripple of waves, warm smiles and welcoming “hello’s”, but the real treasure was seeing Trent’s dish-like eyes sweep over her costume.

Celia wore the most opulent of dresses she could ever imagine. The dress was made of rich crimson velveteen overlaid with golden embroidery that set off her warm chocolate skin tones. The arms were loose and funneled open from the elbow, the many petticoats and padding in the back of her dress made the skirt blossom outward. Against the historical accuracy of the time, a leather corset had been matched with the dress and pulled in tightly to scoop out a deeper waistline, flattening her tummy and pressing her ample breasts up into the deep square neckline to make it look like her breasts were on their own shelf.

The effect was mesmerizing, and even looking in the mirror she knew that Ben had outdone himself in the choice of costume.

With Trent’s gaze fixated on her, Celia gave a fake curtsey.

“You look incredible - absolutely, incredible,” Trent stepped forward, cupped her cheek and drew out a long kiss.

A server appeared at Trent’s elbow and proffered a frosty glass, a vodka, lime and soda, Celia’s favorite.

Taking a deep sip, Celia let her eyes wander around her partner and the room. Trent was wearing a Robin Hood-esque costume with wide black belt over a deep green tunic, black boots underneath a calf-length pair of dark pants and some of the manliest forearm guards she had ever seen. The costume made him scream of sexiness, and his bare upper arms rippled as he moved.

“Looks like you’re coordinating with Diane tonight,” she smiled appreciatively.

Trent laughed, “Yes, that was a happy accident. It’s the last time I try to get the host, Anton, to describe to me what to wear,”

Trent guided her over to the crowd by the fire where the men were wearing richly colored tunics over dark colors while the women wore stunning gowns.

The man at the centre of attention could only be Mr. Anton Bertoli. He was a little older than the rest of the guests, perhaps in his early sixties and was describing a culture clash that led him to befriend and fall for his latest boyfriend, a gorgeous Indian guy in his early 30s. Decked in a plum tunic with thickly embroidered sleeves, fur waistcoat and pillowy flat-cap Anton was the picture of wealth.

Scoping out the crowd, Celia soon found Mrs. Bertoli. Wrapped in a slightly redder shade of plum, Mrs. Bertoli’s dress was simple and elegant. The dress had a built in corset that puckered her breasts upwards, while the folds in her skirts winked at hidden layers of gold. She smiled warmly along as the crowd chuckled and guffawed at Anton’s story, she seemed so at ease that Celia thought something had to be wrong. That was before Celia saw where Mrs. Bertoli was hiding one of her hands; the fidgeting of a male guest wearing a St George soldier tunic gave away that Mrs. Bertoli was more than occupied keeping her neighbor entertained. The man was slowly folding down on himself as Mrs. Bertoli’s hand moved ferociously within his costume. Only moments from realizing what was going on, Celia saw in awe as the male guest stifled his moan and twitched next to his host. After a moment of stillness, Mrs. Bertoli extracted her hand, dipped one long finger into her mouth, smiled, and stepped away from her spent guest. It was an impressive show if ever Celia was to see one.

A little while later…

A deep ache thumped in Celia’s pelvis as she straddled a man dressed in a monk’s habit. Her lips were sore from his bristly beard, but she renewed her passion as she fought her ample skirts to give the hardness that poked through his cloak a chance to enter her.

The dress had proved successful and a hindrance. The guy in the habit, Remy, had given her ass a playful squeeze during the evening’s introductions, and she had wasted no time finding him.

Celia had not bothered with panties for this costume, and counted her blessings that it was one less layer to remove to get Remy’s hard knob into her aching pussy.

Remy’s cock sat up from between the brown fabric folds trembling, it curled slightly to the side revealing a thick throbbing vein.

Finally feeling the cool evening air on her creaming hole, Celia lined up her slit and dropped violently down into Remy’s lap, the curve of his length stretched her opening deliciously.

They sat on an oversized wingback armchair, and Celia wrapped her hands over the back and dipped her hips down to suck in more of the rigidness.

Remy grasped at her dress and buttocks, leaning forward to kiss Celia’s bouncing breasts.

Mid-thrust, a wiry hand clasped onto Celia’s forearm and the shrill call of Diane broke her concentration.

“Celia, you most come with me. There’s a special game that you must play,”

Diane all but hauled Celia off of Remy’s lap, and while he was slightly annoyed, another woman, sans skirt, leapt into the chair and using Celia’s slick juices to lubricate her own entry bounced enthusiastically on his cock.

Celia’s skirts fell back in to place - another hindrance to put up with.

Lead through the cavernous house, she was asked to stop in what may have been a rumpus room. Thick candles were mounted on every surface on the edge of the room and extra large hung mirrors reflected the mellow light into the scene before her.

Seven men sat around a roughly hewn circular table.

“Welcome Celia, to the Table Of Plenty,” Anton stepped into view from behind a seated guest, “This here is our special turntable,” with that, Anton gave the table surface a push and the tabletop spun.

Celia could see four soft leather loops bolted onto the table and the glint of a painted red arrow near the edge. The area in the centre was worn completely smooth.

“You are invited to the table and asked to submit to being tied. Once tied, the table will be spun and whomever the arrow points at will get the chance to fuck you.  Are you interested?” there was a short riding crop in his hand.

The naughtiness was too much to ignore, “Yes, I am. What do you need me to do?”

Stepping up onto the table, the seated guests handed her a towel to pop under her head and gently secured her wrists and ankles to the loops so Celia was spread-eagled on the table. Anton had asked her to keep her dress on, as it would only tantalize the guests further.

The ceiling featured a massive mirror that encompassed the whole table, and the large mirrors on the walls also reflected her image. Her heart thumped keenly in her throat with excitement, her dress already dampening with the thought of being ravaged on a table by strangers.

“Are you ready?” Anton’s face appeared in the corner of her vision, “Remember anytime you say ‘suffice’ you will be unbound from the Table of Plenty,”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

With that, Anton instructed all his guests to lay a hand on the table and spin it clockwise.

*****

After several rotations the table came to a smooth stop. Celia couldn’t look up past her breasts to see who had been indicated, but there was a gentle cheer near her feet.

There was a rustle of fabric, and Celia felt the table dip just slightly as one of the mystery guests clamored on top.

A young muscled guy with a shaved head appeared from beneath Celia’s breasts, his arms glistening with body oil. He was clothed from the waist down, but when she poked her head up she could just make out the head of his cock protruding from his pants. The guy looked nervous wrestling with her skirts.

“Hey,” Celia whispered in his ear, “Why don’t you put it in my mouth first.”

The guy broke a wry smile and whispered a “thank you” before looking up at his audience, “I reckon the beauty is hungry. I’m thinking I’ll give her a taste?”

The men cheered and toasted, revealing drinks hidden from the surface of the turntable.

Climbing over her chest, the shaved headed guy straddled her face, tipped forward and let his cock slip into Celia’s warm wet mouth.

“She’s a good-un,” the guy was playing up the theme, but his reactions were real and he was letting the thrusts of his pelvis come naturally.

He let out a moan and worked his cock deeper into her mouth, the bulbous head of his length swelling as she pressed her tongue into him.

The guy drew his now engorged cock from Celia’s mouth and cried out “Excalibur!” to the laughs of the audience before shimmying back down the table and pulling up the many skirts.

Now able to see in the ceiling mirror, Celia watched her lover push her skirts back and climb on top. He gave a perfunctory swirl of his finger on her hardening clit, and thrust into her slit, the welcome return of rigidness pleasing her more than she could say since being interrupted by Diane.

With her arms strapped to the table, Celia was turned on by watching the oiled back muscles of her suitor flex with every thrust, the power of his desire making her writhe uncontrollably. After several thrusts, the guy dug his hands into Celia’s shoulders and came, his length jerking against her g-spot. The guy slipped out, and gave Celia’s damp forehead a kiss.

Disappointed, Celia watched him descend and high-five his comrades before leaving the table to let another sit.

“Are you ready Celia?” Anton asked.

“Yes.”

The table spun, harder this time, and it seemed like the revolutions weren’t going to stop before the room’s spinning came to a slow halt.
“Apologies for that Celia, we have some very eager guests who seem to want to be with you tonight. I promise you won’t be spun that hard again,” Anton’s voice was edged with iron, and although she couldn’t see it, she was sure he was giving someone a visual dressing down.

Celia was enjoying the safety that Anton was giving. It felt like anything could happen in this room and she’d be safe.

This time, the arrow had selected a knight to join her. The guest was disrobing some of his cumbersome costume and pulled back the hood to reveal a tremendously handsome face framed by tousled blonde hair. It was a face that would give Trent a cause for concern.

The knight was wearing nothing but black, his tunic featuring an elaborate “M” and “A” done in medieval style script. The knight peeled the tunic off, uncovering a chiseled, suntanned body. He adjusted his pants by loosening the tie cord and climbed onto the table.