Cooking up a Storm (16 page)

She handed him the one-shouldered gown.

‘Step in,’ he said, holding it for her with the confidence of a man who’d dressed a few female siblings. His body brushed hers as he slid the silky tube of cloth up her body. First his head, then his shoulders, and finally his full front pressed lightly against her back. He was tall. The tip of his erection caught the middle of her spine. Even through two layers of cloth it felt hot and strong.

He adjusted the single sleeve over her shoulder. Abby looked down at herself. Elastic cinched the smooth cloth beneath her breasts. The gown flowed past her ankles and on to the tops of her feet. Other than the length, it fitted perfectly. Heavier than silk, the material felt lovely against her bare skin — lovely and sensual.

Peter kissed her bare shoulder a little ‘hello’ with light, tender lips. When Abby sighed with pleasure he wrapped his arms around her ribs and hugged her. His hips moved, a restless side-to-side swish. She pressed backwards so he could meet his need for more forceful friction. At once, he took the invitation, bending his knees and rubbing the thick, hard swelling over the curves of her bottom.

‘Shall I take you now?’ he murmured against the side of her neck. ‘Just for starters?’

‘Can the others see?’

‘Yes.’ He mouthed her earlobe, flicking it with his tongue. ‘But I can send them away, if you prefer.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I want them to see.’

He shuddered and she knew she wasn’t the only one with an unsuspected exhibitionist streak. His arms tightened and he lifted her off her feet. ‘Pull up the gown,’ he said, still holding her off the ground.

She gathered it up until the stiff gold hem reached her waist, then helped him raise his own skirt with her other hand. His erection found a home between her dangling thighs. Enchanted by the unfamiliar feel of her new toy, she reached down to touch the head. A drop of warm silky moisture beaded its tip. She spread it slowly across his tautened skin. A second drop joined the first.

Groaning, he shifted so that one arm ran lengthwise up her chest. His forearm filled the valley between her breasts. ‘Lean forward,’ he said in a tight, husky voice.

She did and immediately felt as if she were flying. She remembered hearing a rumour that Peter came from a family of acrobats. She’d thought it nonsense at the time, but the easy way he supported her weight told her it might be true. With a quick laugh of pleasure, she hooked her ankles behind his thighs.

‘Good,’ he said, and cupped his second hand around her mons.

They both sighed as he shifted her slightly and pressed his cock inside her. Oh, he felt so good — not long, but thick and solid, as if he could support her on the stiffness of his cock alone.

He took one careful step, then another, turning her to face the back of the stage. The flying sensation increased, especially when the backdrop painting of a seaside temple came into view. She could almost hear the sparkling Mediterranean waves breaking on the shore.

‘Fast or slow?’ he asked. His longest finger wriggled between the top of her labia, catching her just where she needed catching.

‘Fast,’ she groaned, aroused beyond waiting.

He began to move her because she could not move herself, merely swoop out and back, out and back. He held her so securely she had no fear of falling and yet the inherent precariousness of her position was exciting — a true leap of faith.

‘Ooh,’ she said when he shifted to a particularly effective angle and ‘oh, yes’ when he increased the speed of his rubbing finger.

Wanting to participate somehow, she reached down and covered his hand. He began to tremble, not from fatigue, she didn’t think, but because her touch excited him. Perhaps that was why he’d devised this strange lovemaking position. Perhaps, if his partner couldn’t touch him, he had better control. She stroked her fingers between his knuckles to test her theory.

‘Oh, God,’ he said, and thrust faster.

Her climax rose quickly but she wouldn’t have cared if it hadn’t. She loved feeling this young Hercules going wild with lust. He lifted her to the very tip of his cock and shoved her back to his root. He whimpered when she caressed the arm that supported her front, and moaned when she licked the thumb that crooked her left shoulder.

‘Don’t,’ he pleaded, but he had little cause for worry. She was almost there. Her breasts swung back and forth with each swoop of her body, their slight weight stimulating her sensitive nipples. She clamped her hand over his and ground his finger into her clit. She shattered with a harsh cry.

Her response pushed him past some crucial edge. He began slinging her back and forth so quickly she had to clench her teeth. He grunted with each thrust, his fingers like iron, his muscles rigid. His cock swelled inside her, and swelled, and swelled. His grunts ran together into a moan. He thrust one last time and held her, hanging in the air, her body thrumming in sympathy with his. Then he burst, a long violent shudder that made his knee give way for one heart-stopping second. With a gasp she echoed, he locked the knee straight and finished squeezing out his climax.

‘Wow,’ he said, carefully righting her and setting her on her feet.

Before his toga could flutter back to his knees, Abby turned and embraced him. Rising up on tiptoe, she plastered a big, wet kiss on his startled mouth. With a strange awkwardness, considering his grace of a moment before, he put his arms around her. His mouth opened over hers, shy at first but growing bolder. He licked her tongue with his, then sucked it hard when she returned the favour. Judging his distraction sufficient, she began to explore his body with her hands. She started with his muscled back and moved to his mile-wide shoulders, then to the hard, flat slabs of his bum.

Her touch had precisely the effect she expected. His cock jerked against her belly and grew. By the time she broke the kiss, Peter’s peter was flying so high the skirt of his toga hung in folds behind its upward slope.

‘Nice,’ she said, giving his cock a friendly one-fingered twang.

Peter grinned and ran his tongue around his rosy, kiss-stung lips. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her stage left. ‘The others are waiting.’

The others, Ivan and Horace, walked out from the wings with matching red faces — and matching bulges pushing out the front of their togas. Horace’s was just visible beneath the high, round swell of his belly. He had much better legs than she expected. Thin, rangy Ivan proved to be quite long in the tool department. Abby was no judge of inches, but he certainly extended beyond the average. She couldn’t help staring a bit.

‘Care to hop up here?’ Horace said, patting a massage table she’d been too distracted to notice. It sat close to the wing, away from the Roman props.

Peter frowned at Horace and lifted her on to the table himself. Abby shivered with anticipation. Peter made his living as a professional masseur. She’d never felt self-indulgent enough to patronise him, but this was bound to be good.

‘Shall I take my gown off?’ she asked.

The three men exchanged glances and nodded in unison. Abby concluded the massage was going to be a group effort. With Peter’s assistance, she removed the gown and lay face down on the table. He had her choose an oil that she liked the scent of, then poured some into each of the men’s hands.

Their first touch had her purring with pleasure. Three pairs of hands slowly rubbing oil over her naked skin. Surely this had to be heaven. Peter and Ivan stroked the sides of her torso while Horace massaged her legs. Peter had coached them well. Each one’s touch was sure and soothing and very, very sensual. Horace would be in for a surprise when he reached the top of her thighs. She was sopping. Fortunately, she was also too relaxed to be embarrassed by it.

‘Oh, look,’ Horace said as his fingers found her overflowing well. ‘She’s enjoying this.’

Two more hands joined his at her pussy. They pushed her thighs apart and explored her with a forest of warm, curious fingers. Someone gently pinched the hood of her clit and drew it back to reveal the bud within. Its swollen state provoked a trio of approving hums.

Abby was beyond humming. She moaned with need and — as if they shared a single brain — the three men each slid one finger into her dripping sheath.

‘My goodness,’ she gasped at the extraordinary feelings this inspired. Each finger moved with the others, but massaged its own separate spot inside her. The fingers were as hard as a penis, but much more agile. The ache of wanting intensified inside her. Her clit was throbbing, and her sheath. But, as good as this felt, they’d never bring her to climax like this.

Ivan must have read her mind because he worked a hand under her hips and began to massage her pulsing bud. His touch was very focused, very precise, as if the satisfaction of her desire were his personal design project.

She squirmed and sighed, knowing her climax was close. The three joined fingers moved inside her, a steady, tantalising rhythm. She wanted more, though. She pumped her hips to take them deeper. Their breath hitched in unison. They were all watching, waiting for her to come. Their eyes were burning weights on her sex. They could see everything, every twitch, every trickle of fluid, and it made them breathe as hard and fast as she.

She turned her head to one side and saw Ivan’s cock throbbing beneath his toga. She reached out, but couldn’t quite touch.

‘Give it to me,’ she pleaded.

Ivan started and stepped closer, close enough for her to fumble beneath his skirt and grab hold of him. Oh, he was hot. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft and squeezed him in time to their thrusting fingers. She wasn’t trying to bring him off. She just wanted to feel what she’d done to him, how hard he was, how hot.

She pushed her hand down to his root then pulled it up to the crown, stretching him slightly away from his body. He made a sound, soft and yearning. His knees jiggled but he pressed no closer. Such a good boy he was. She swept her thumb across the moist curve of the head, and measured him again. He grew in her hand, lengthening, stiffening. Yes, his heat was all hers, his iron-hardness, his dewy skin. She was the reason for all of it.

Knowing this drove her past the point of no return.

‘Now,’ she said. Ivan’s cock jumped in her hand. Her pre-orgasmic tension coiled tighter, making her pull hard at their fingers, making her buttocks tighten, making them work more frantically to please her until — yes, yes — the tension twanged open in a bright brass arc of feeling. Her hips shook uncontrollably as they worked her, coming, coming, until the last drop of sensation had been wrung from her sex.

Ivan touched her wrist. She must have been holding him too tightly but, oh, he felt too lovely to regret it. She stroked him once before letting go, then sighed and closed her eyes. Hands turned her on to her back. More oil was rubbed into her front in long, slow strokes that never once lifted from her skin. If the process hadn’t been so arousing, she’d have fallen asleep. They stroked her legs, her arms, her breasts. For a while, Ivan massaged her face and neck — a wonderful treat — but then he disappeared.

It didn’t matter. Peter and Horace were each suckling one of her breasts as they stroked the rest of her with sleek, warm hands. They said nothing, but their admiration for her body was clear. They wanted to touch everything, every fold and curve.

Abby opened her eyes to watch their heads jostling together over her chest, one blond and leonine, one dark and beginning to bald. How strange it was, and how strangely appealing. Peter was making the loveliest crooning noises, primitive little sounds he probably couldn’t have held back if he tried. Horace was nearly silent, but she’d definitely discovered his particular talent.

She’d thought Storm had a clever mouth. Horace, however, was an oral maestro. His mouth made love to her breast; his lips cajoled her areola; his tongue whispered sweet, dirty nothings to her nipples. Everything he did suggested something that might be done elsewhere, doubling and tripling the pleasure of every lick and pull.

Her sex clenched with hidden ripples of ecstasy. She could have lain there all night.

But then the sitar music rose in volume, signalling the arrival of the next entertainment. With gratifying sighs of reluctance, the two men released her breasts and helped her into a sitting position. Peter climbed on to the table behind her to support her back. His chest was hard as a board, but he was warm and reassuring. It was easy to relax into his arms. As she did, Horace slipped away on some errand of his own. A minute later, the stage lights dimmed to a single golden spot.

The music swelled still further, wailing, seducing. She imagined a marketplace brimming with foreign spices, a glaring sun and then shadows, cool, enticing shadows, and women whose great liquid eyes were rimmed in kohl. She imagined pleasure without end, pleasure that thought of nothing but its own continuation.

Peter’s cock was hard against her back, an echo of her thoughts. He drew his hands down her breasts and cupped her nipples in his palms.

Melting, she thought of male slaves, naked in the Mediterranean heat, mute and anguished with desire as they attended to her bath. They could wash her. They could watch the perfumed water sluice down her golden body. They could even kiss her soft, clean skin. But they were only allowed to bring her pleasure, never to take their own — unless she, their mistress, deigned to take them between her legs, or in her mouth, or…

A figure draped in black danced out from the shadows: Ivan. She knew him despite the veiling, despite his unexpected grace. His dance was dignified, seductive, androgynous. One moment she thought she was watching a proud desert chieftain dancing for his fellows, the next a haughty woman, the queen of the houris.

His feet were bare, his trousers sheer and full. The veil covered his upper body until he pulled it from his head and began teasing it like a snake charmer around his torso. His chest was lean and lithe, muscled but without much bulk.

His spectacles were gone. He had painted his face, lightly, just the eyes and mouth. Those two touches brought out the beauty of his features, transforming him into a mysterious, exotic stranger. Abby literally could not look away. His burning, kohl-rimmed eyes said he knew she loved the way he looked. He knew she loved the fan of muscle over his ribs as he moved in sinuous, weaving curves; he knew she loved the narrowness of his waist, the wiry strength of his arms.