Special Delivery: Special Delivery, Book 1 (36 page)

“Jesus,” Randy whispered from somewhere far away.

Mitch sank onto the mattress beside him, pulling Sam to him with a tenderness all the more stark for how roughly he’d just used him. Sam opened his eyes and smiled wearily as Randy came to lie on the other side beside him.

He was coated in spunk: Mitch’s, Randy’s and his own. He was sore. He was exhausted. And as the three of them snuggled together into a quiet embrace, he realized he’d never felt so sated or safe in his life.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Sam had a great deal of sex the next few days.

Randy called in sick to the distribution plant and arranged for someone to cover his run to Reno the day after that. He had the weekend off already, he told them, but couldn’t get out of anything past that. Mitch pointed out by then they’d need to be heading east.

“We’d best get started then,” Randy said. And they did.

They were gentle with Sam the next day, the morning especially—at least, they were kind to the insides of his ass. Randy took Sam on a private tour of his kinkiest toys, some of which Sam recognized from the catalog at the Denver shop. Sam dismissed a great deal of them, but he was intrigued by the sex swing, and he fell completely silent at the spreaders and the paddles.

They did a lot of role-play, but also some general goofing around. Sam’s favorite game was when Mitch hooked up his iPhone and fucked him to the entire repertoire of Kylie’s Favorites: the
very
best was when they’d dressed him in a cowboy hat, boots and nothing else, and had him take turns riding them while “Cowboy Style” played seductively on repeat. They had him wear an apron and fondled him while he served them. They blindfolded him and tied him to the bed, taking turns touching him, trying to get him to guess who it was, trying to trick him. Sometimes he got it right, but sometimes he couldn’t tell.

They lingered in the house a lot. Randy cooked, and Mitch lounged, his fingers curled in Sam’s hair as he surfed through the television channels. They ate, and they talked, about music, about where Sam and Mitch had been traveling, and Randy’s adventures. They were careful not to talk about the future.

One night, after dinner, Randy introduced Sam to a spreader.

He began by bringing out wine and suggesting Sam take off all his clothes, because he felt like taking him to his room and giving him a good, rough spanking. Sam agreed readily, but once there, he balked. Waiting at the foot of the bed was a bench, and beside it were several cuffs, and a crop, and a long metal bar with closures on each end.

Sam almost bailed, and he probably would have, but Mitch leaned against the door, watching. He looked lazy, but Sam knew he was there to reassure Sam, to remind him this could stop anytime, but also if he chose to go forward, Mitch would be here to make sure he was safe.

It was enough. Nervous, Sam let Randy bend him over the bench, let him bind his hands beneath it, but he clenched his fists as Randy fitted his ankles into the spreader. It was strange to not be able to close his legs, and for the first few seconds he panicked and almost called out for the game to stop. But when Randy’s hand slid down between his open cheeks, his touch gentle and masterful all at once, Sam went pliant and waited for what was to come.

It was, surprisingly, not bad.

It was nerve-racking at first, because he couldn’t move, couldn’t close his legs, couldn’t even shift his position, but once they started touching him, he realized it was the same as always with them, except now his submissiveness was decided for him. They touched him, they probed him, and they talked about him, and Sam shut his eyes and lay there, letting it happen.

They blindfolded him, and that was the only time Sam spoke up, to say, nervously, he didn’t want a gag, but Randy stroked his cheek and promised to give him other things to do with his mouth.

It should have been scary, should have been too much, too far, and probably for a lot of people it would be. But kneeling at the bench, spread, trussed and blind, Sam found not just pleasure but a strange sort of Zen. What was there to be embarrassed about now? After this, what could make him blush? After letting himself become so helpless, what was there to fear?

He welcomed them both into his body, not always knowing who they were, though sometimes he could tell by the tenor of a touch or by technique who was inside him, who stroked him. Mostly, though, they blended together. They spanked him with hands and paddles. They nudged him open and filled him with God only knew what—toys large and small, vibrating and still, ridged and smooth. At one point, Sam did have a tail after all, and even in his sexual euphoria, he laughed.

They put themselves inside him too, first one at a time and then together, and when he finally came, it was with a cock in his mouth and another in his ass. He had become, he realized with quiet pleasure, his very own
Twink Kink
, though at no point was he unwilling in his capture.

On another night, Sam asked, “When the two of you were dating, who fucked who?”

Their embarrassed, awkward reaction was almost more fun than their answers. “We didn’t date, we fucked,” Mitch said, as Randy added, “That was always the problem.”

Sam had to have this answer. “What was the problem? What do you mean?”

Randy’s lip curled. “Why do you think we had to go and get a third?”

This confession led to stories of their myriad sexual adventures over the years, and as they all became aroused, Sam had a wicked idea. “Let me see you do each other.”

They balked and made excuses, but Sam pleaded and eventually seduced them, drawing them together and sucking first one and then the other, kissing their stomachs and their chests, whispering how much he wanted to see them do it, of how hot it would make him if they did, and before long he had Mitch on his knees, Randy arranging himself behind.

He understood, as he watched, what they meant by saying it didn’t work. They were the same ends of a magnet, neither one wanting to give. Both complained they hadn’t done this in a long time and demanded the other take it slow. Both seemed more nervous at the prospect of being entered by the other than any reservations Sam had exhibited. But each wanted to do the other, and they dueled all the way to the end, each trying to have the fuck go their way, each trying to direct the other and the other angry at being directed. In the end, neither of them came, and Sam collapsed onto the mattress, laughing.

“Okay.” Sam held up his hands. “I won’t ever ask you to do that again.”

Randy, who had cursed and complained the whole time Mitch plowed him, sighed in relief and moved away. “Thank God.” He pulled the sheet over himself. “I don’t know how you stand it, Peaches, giving or receiving with that bastard.”

“I’ve never given.” Sam smiled as he watched their awkward recoveries.

Randy lifted an eyebrow at him. “You mean with Mitch, or ever?”

“Ever,” Sam confessed.

The game changed.

He didn’t know why he was nervous about fucking them, but he was. He wasn’t sure he could manage both, but they were eager for it to happen, and for all their hesitation at bottoming for each other, they were surprisingly eager to do so for him. They were unfazed when Sam fumbled with the condom, having never put one on himself, and they helped him. Randy was almost playful as he lay back, patient as Sam eased inside him, enjoying Mitch’s help and whispered encouragement. Once he got over his awkwardness, Sam enjoyed it too. He felt oddly powerful, almost heady with his discovery, and soon he had Randy breathing fast along with him and clutching at the sheets. But Randy cut him off before either of them finished, saying he wanted to see the flip side too.

It was different with Mitch. Mitch flatly refused to be on his back, and Sam was glad because he didn’t think he could do it if he had to look at Mitch’s face. He wasn’t sure he could at all, at first, which was even more awkward, because he thought it was probably some fucked-up head thing, and he retreated so much Mitch had to sit up and reassure him. “You were beautiful with Randy, Sunshine. It’s okay.”

“I feel silly.” Sam tucked his chin down. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll feel better for having done it.” Randy nudged him to his knees. “Come on. Think of how good it will be for Mitch.”

Randy was right. It
was
good, once he did it. When Mitch began to respond, Sam felt even more powerful than with Randy, and because it was Mitch, their joining was like a circle closing. He lost himself in his thrusts, braver with Mitch than he’d ever been, and to his surprise, he came. Still riding the high of his new experience, he jerked the others off, but as they drifted into sleep, he lay awake, staring up at the ceiling thinking, the smell of sex and man all around him. The next day, as they touched and joked in the shower and the kitchen, and as they dressed to go out, finally cajoling Sam into his sexy jeans, complete with the leather thong Mitch bought him in Denver, Sam acknowledged he thought of them differently too. He’d been inside them. Somehow that made everything different.

He was so used to being the one who got fucked he never thought about what it felt to go the other way. As they led him up and down the Strip, as they took him back to the Watering Hole, everyone seemed shocked to find not only Mitch and Randy but the
three
of them still together. Sam had affected them in the same way they’d affected him. They were all inside of one another.

But soon it would all end.

On Saturday, Mitch announced he’d arranged a load for Chicago, heading out on Monday. The announcement put something of a pallor on their evening, and they lingered at the house, ordering pizza, watching movies and going to bed without anyone even suggesting sex. They did, however, all go to bed together.

On Sunday, they went to Zion National Park.

To Sam’s complete surprise, they went on motorcycles. There were two in the garage, and in days past, apparently Mitch and Randy had driven them everywhere. That day they took Sam too. He clutched Mitch’s waist and huddled inside his helmet against the wind as they rode out of Vegas and across the desert, all the way into Utah, to Zion, which Sam discovered was a dazzling array of rock and tunnel and vistas that took his breath away. As the sun streaked over the mountains, Sam stood at the top of a multicolored ridge, for once heedless of the edge, rendered speechless by the silent, brilliant, almost alien beauty before him.

Mitch came up beside him, and without a word, handed him a small plastic bag.

“What’s that?” Randy asked, watching as Sam unzipped it.

“My mother.” Sam took some of the ash between his fingers and let it go. He watched the gray dust drift down, then upended the whole of it they’d brought along, letting the cascade filter into the valley below. Mitch, who had placed his hand on Sam’s back, stroked him gently, then turned and walked away.

When Randy finally spoke, his voice was tender. “I didn’t know your mother was dead.”

Sam nodded. “Three years ago.”

“Good mom?”

“Yes.” Sam felt more vulnerable than usual as he spoke about his mother. “I miss her.”

“I’ll miss you.” Randy took his hand.

They were subdued on the return to Vegas, as they poked around a late dinner and made awkward conversation. It wasn’t the way Sam wanted to end this, whatever it was. After some wine, he found the courage to ask for one more thing, one more adventure from them.

“I want you both to fuck me,” he said, as Randy cleared away the dishes. He took a deep breath and added, “At once. In my ass.”

Randy dropped a dish in the sink, and Mitch went still. Sam waited to hear what they had to say.

Randy leaned against the counter. “Well.” His voice was a little unsteady. “It’s been a while for that one.”

“You have to be careful,” Mitch said quietly, but Sam could hear his eagerness too. “We have to take our time. If it hurts, you have to stop, Sunshine.”

“I want to do it.” Sam’s confidence grew now that he’d gotten the worst out of the way. “I want to do it with the two of you.”

It was more difficult than Sam anticipated, and it almost didn’t work. It took them an hour to prep him, with dildos and fingers and a dictionary full of dirty talk, and another fifteen minutes to sort out the position, which ended up being Randy on his back, Sam crouched over the top of him, and Mitch driving the entire business from behind. As they fumbled, Sam wished he hadn’t brought it up.

Mitch pushed him forward, captured his and Randy’s erections together and carefully nudged them inside. Sam’s breath caught, his eyes rolled backward, and his whole world changed.

It wasn’t just that what penetrated him was large. It wasn’t that it was two cocks. It was that it was Mitch and Randy, and this was the last time with the two of them, the beginning of the end. Mitch had to be in Chicago by Wednesday, which meant two days of hard driving. Two days—that was all. So little left after so long, and though he didn’t regret anything they’d done, not even the fights, it suddenly all felt squandered, as if only now he was truly aware of how precious it all was. Ten days. He’d been gone from Iowa ten days, but it felt like a lifetime. Ten days ago he was miserable and angry and lost. Now here he was, on his hands and knees, body buckling as two men who loved him, and whom he loved back, each in different ways, pushed their way inside him.

He let go. As they found their rhythm, as each of them got lost in the erotic connection, Sam let go as he never had before and suspected he never would again. He was aware of nothing, not the sounds he made or the way he moved or what he asked them for in incoherent, sexually charged tongue, but only how they moved inside him, how they touched him, Mitch gripping his hips, Randy sliding his hands up Sam’s chest. He gave himself to them completely, with no guilt, no shame, no reservation, and in that surrender he found a quiet, shining pearl he had never known existed—himself.