ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (231 page)

              I did as he asked, and continued to suck on it.  I made sure that his cock hit all the right places in my mouth.  I could taste some of the precum coming out of his cock, and after tasting a bit of it I wanted more.  Kendall continued to fuck my mouth while Jason moved my body.  He pushed himself so that I was in the middle and Jason was at the foot of the bed.  Jason started to take off his clothes, but instead of doing it in a slow manner in order to tease me, he almost ripped everything off.  He wanted to fuck.

              Soon he was naked too, and his cock throbbed against me.  I wondered where he was going to put it, but soon he was behind me. He pushed his cock into my pussy, pushing it as deep as he could.  I moaned, but it was muffled by Kendall’s cock in my mouth.  I started to move against Kendall, and while I did that Jason moved in and out of me.

              It felt amazing being penetrated in these two holes, and soon I was grinding my hips in pleasure in order to take more in.  Soon Jason was completely inside of me, penetrating me hard and rough.  I moaned, and as I did I felt Kendall’s cock push deeper into me.  I gagged for a second, but then I was able to suppress that feeling as he continued to plunge his cock into my mouth.

              They continued at this pace for a while, and I loved how I was getting fucked. I continued to moan with each thrust in my mouth.  At one point they were both moving at the same time, each of them pushing deeper and deeper into my body.  I wanted them to continue, but soon I could feel their orgasms about to come.

              Kendall was the first to come.  I sucked on his cock for a moment, flicking my tongue against the head and swirling my tongue along his shaft.  Kendall moaned, and at that point I felt his cock twitch within my mouth.  Soon he released, his seed filing my mouth up.  I swallowed and licked my lips.

              I then felt Jason push into me, moaning in ecstasy as he came inside of me.  The warm liquid filled me up, and at that moment I moaned in deep pleasure.  I felt my pussy tighten up before I released, my orgasm causing my whole body to vibrate.

              After I was done, Jason finished up and pulled out of me.  The three of us lay on my bed.  I looked at them, and I had to admit they looked pretty darn cute even when they weren’t trying.

              “That was better than last time,” I said.

              “Yeah, it was amazing,” said Kendall. “And you know what else?”

              “What is it?” I asked.

              “You’re special Andrea. We’ve talked about it and we want to continue to do this with you,” Jason replied.

              I blushed and nodded.  Even though it wasn’t conventional, I didn’t care.

              The three of us fell asleep on my bed shortly after.  When I got up, I started to type the report while they slept.  It was easy to do, and while I did that I thought about what just happened, and I smiled contentedly to myself.  Things were going to be better.  I knew that I could certainly get used to this relationship with these two works of art.

THE END

Pregnant with the Bad Boy’s Baby

              Omsk

                      They say that the morning sickness hits you at all times during the day and that surely, the person who invented the term was a man because he had never experienced it himself.  Such misogyny is always a fact.  I rise from clutching my porcelain throne and slide back some stringy sections of my hair.  I am drenched in sweat, the kind that everyone refers to as glow or would, if anybody could still look me in the face.

                      I know that Mama stopped a while ago.  She does not meet the eyes of the neighbors anymore, either, but that is because they all whisper every time she walks past.  I can hear her now, coming in through the door, the parcels from the bazar rustling.  In the kitchen, I know she will lift the kapusta from the newspapers, cook the rice on the stove, fry the meat, and wrap it in the kapusta leaves to leave on low simmer for hours so we can have goluptsi.  But at the smell of the meat in the pan, my nausea rises again and as I lunge again for the toilet, I think about how best to let Mama know that pork meat now makes me sick, as well.

                      It would break her heart to know I can’t eat most of what she cooks these days, if she had a heart to break.  Mama raised me well, raised me to avoid her mistakes, and now look at what I did.  Finished, I open the bathroom as quietly as I can and slip into the living room, where I sleep.  The burnished wood of our large armoire is smooth as silk underneath my fingertips; how long we had to wait for it on the market, how prized it is!  Mama was so proud that we did not have to accept it as a gift from someone.  I open the door of it to reveal the mirror, which reflects me from the hips up.

                      My reflection tells me that soon, it will be time to visit Baba Glasha in the country.  My hair hangs in strands down my shiny face, and my breasts look like they are about to burst my shirt wide open.  The tight, cheap cotton is stretched against my body, against the swell of my belly, which is growing with every day. 
Stupid
, I think, staring at the sweaty mess in the mirror. 
Stupid, stupid girl.  How could you?  What will become of you now?

                      Mama enters the living room with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a plate of ponchiki in the other.  The crystalized sugar on the fried ball of dough looks appetizing enough, and I smile weakly at her as she sets them down on the table in between our two overstuffed armchairs, standard issue and covered in huge, light pink roses.  “Kushai, Lilia,” she tells me, “Eat.  You need something to settle your stomach, dorogaya, my dear.”

                      At this unexpected tenderness, my heart swells and tears rise to the surfaces of my eyes.  Lately, I have been crying at everything, but now, I simply remember how my strong Mama fell apart when I told her that I was pregnant.  She sat in shocked silence for a good five minutes before rising to her feet, going to the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of Volidol, calming drops, and pouring a good forty of them into her special cup.  As she drank down the strong mixture, I felt an acute sense of fear.  When she looked up, all she said was, “Kto on?”  Who is he?

                      I couldn’t look at her.  I twisted my hands around themselves, wrung them like dishtowels, again and again.

                      She looked at me and nodded.  “Yego.”  His. She had never met Arkadii, but she had heard the neighbors whispering that they had seen us together on the coast, that I had snagged myself a rich one, indeed, and what did that make me.  My Mama knew better, but it didn’t make her any less upset.  Here I was, repeating her mistakes in my own special way.  There was a good long silence after she said that, where she stared out the window into the communal yard, lit up by streetlamps and shrouded by trees.  I could hear our ancient clock ticking from the hallway, mentally counted the long swings of the pendulum in my head to keep from screaming, to keep my heart from erupting from my chest.  When it finally struck ten o’clock, Mama drew in a long sigh and without looking at me, began to clear off the table.  As she reached up to place the drops back into the cabinet, I looked at her tired back, at the girth that comes only when the weight of the world is unceremoniously dropped on your shoulders.

                      “You’ll go to Baba Glasha’s when you begin to show,” she was saying softly.  I had almost missed it.  “That way, you can live out the rest of the term where nobody can see you, out v derevne, in the country, and when it’s born, we can decide what to do with it.”  Baba Glasha, the woman who had basically raised my mother after her parents were killed in a car accident, lived all the way in the boondocks, where she still rose at the crack of dawn to feed her chickens and milk her cows.  It had been a blow to her when the little girl she had raised ran off with a soldier who later left my mother for another woman, but she stood by her nevertheless; Baba Glasha was as familiar to me as the taste of kefir, sour buttermilk that was the perfect balm on a hot summer day.

                      “I’m scared, Mama,” I found myself whispering to her later that night as she sat on the balcony, counting out the ropes of garlic that she was drying.  Without looking up at me, she said, “You should be.  What a stupid thing you did, Lilia.  What if Elena Ivanova finds out?  Do you know what she could have done to you?”

                      Of course I knew.

                      A terse stalemate had occurred between Mama and I after the first month.  We never spoke of it, but it was still there.  It was in the fish oil she left standing near my bed with a spoon, in the waistbands she let out of my skirts in preparation.  It was in the whispered phone calls to Baba Glasha and in the ponchik she was handing me now.

                      I sat down at the table and transferred the fried ball of dough from one hand to the other, licking sugar crystals off my fingertips.  Something wrenches in my stomach; something is not right.  I stand, waiting for it to pass, but the next hit takes the breath right out of me and I gasp out loud.  There is a pain low in my belly, and I drop to the floor, clutching my stomach for dear life.  My Mama comes in with napkins in her hands and sees me on the floor; as she rushes to my side, the napkins fly up into the air and scatter like so many paper birds taking flight at the first sign of trouble.

                      I hear somebody moaning, and it takes me several blurred minutes to realize that it is me, that I am lying on the floor in my Mama’s arms, that she has grabbed our phone and stretched the cord out tight, her frantic voice calling for help and saying our address.  It is several blurred minutes until I realize that her hands are stained with my blood and that there will not be a Baba Glasha for me.  Instead of the relief I should feel—finally, a solution to the problem—all I feel is an acute sense of fear that is almost stronger than the pain where the baby has been growing, because I had already settled myself into this path, and what comes next is more terrifying than I can imagine.

Krim, Odessa, 1967

                      Ah, Krim, Krim, pearl of the sea!  Krim, with its wide-sweeping landscapes of craggy mountainous rock and waters of gut-wrenching beauty.  The beach peppered with the multicolored array of suits and umbrellas, lovely tanned women in wide-brimmed hats and sunburnt men with hair on their chests.

                      How strange to think about the person that I was in this glorious time.  A young, gently-bred woman from an intelligentsia family.  My mother, bless her heart, despite her sad story, had an education in Russian language and literature, and her love of our language passed itself on to me.  I was well on my way on completing my asperantura, my graduate studies, in Russian folklore and popular culture, and I had found myself on a reporting internship in Ukraine’s most famed destination—a beautiful little spot that had clear beaches, fun for families and the singles alike.  Young girls would save up money at their secretarial jobs for months and then beg off from work for a precious two weeks, just to pack their bags and go dikarem, or without actual hotels to come to.  These girls would either find a hostel to stay in once they arrived, preferably one not too far from the beach, and get as nut-brown as the summer days would allow them.  Wearing their white high heels and fresh flower-sprigged dresses, they would sip juice and kvass in the cafes by the seashore, hoping to meet some eligible man.

                      And the men.  Well, it depends on your point of view, the idea of whether or not they were actually available.  The engineers brought their families and sunned themselves on the beach, then went back to the rooms they rented from the locals while their wives cooked cabbag-y borscht on the tiny shared stovetops to save money.  The children might get ice cream in delicate little wafer cups and run around for hours, sticky and stuffed with sugar.  For these, it was an innocent time, perhaps some of the happiest days of their lives.  There was a different side to these vacations for others.

                      There were the gigolos, the pretty boys who preyed on older women in their thirties who would believe any lovely words that were said to them.  There were the summer flings and the graduate students who bunked out in camps together, keeping everything rated PG, as the American system goes, during the daytime, and then kissed each other by the flickering light of the campfires they built.  But perhaps most dangerous and understated of all was the system that was in place for the authorities.

                      To describe the situation is not so easy; it is far easier to live it.  It was a time of great connections for the USSR, a time when still, the West was regaled as the high and mighty, grand poo-bah of the world, while our own shops went unstocked.  It was not like before, certainly, where there were lines for bread and ration cards, or the time of my mother, when if the store downstairs suddenly had a shipment of salami, everyone would line up to get it, regardless of the quality or brand.  But it was a time when imported goods—clothing, canned food, delicacies—were hard to lay your hands on.  In almost all circles, women who wore brand-name clothing or served canned sardines were the ones dating powerful men.  Some of these men simply had connections overseas—an uncle who had started his own business in the states and could afford to send mascara that actually came out of the tube wet, or Revlon blush that actually stained pale, weather-worn cheeks a ruddier hue.