American Queen

“No.”

He’s going to make me do it. Just like the crawling. Each step of tonight is a crossroads—past what, I don’t know—but Ash is making sure that I’m the one taking each step. That I’m acutely aware of my own role in this.

I meet his eyes, every pleading, angry thought written on my face, and I feel his hand slide up my thigh and give it a reassuring squeeze. His eyes are so clear and so green, his pupils dilated into huge black pools of hunger. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push, but keeps his eyes on mine, his hand gentle and sweet on my thigh.

He’s giving me a chance to safe out. One word, and I could end this misery for all three of us.

But oh God, I can’t bear to. Sometimes misery is better. Sometimes the forbidden fruit is just too sweet not to bite.

I lift my hands and begin unbuttoning the shirt, and both men exhale simultaneously. I should hate the rush of power that gives me, the rush of lust, but I don’t. It feels right. As right as kneeling, as right as crawling. As right as standing before a class or thumbing through books older than the college I teach at. Like I was born for it.

I take my time, not to be intentionally seductive, but because my hands are shaking so much that each button is a struggle. It’s worth it though, when I finally tug the shirt free from my shoulders and I see Ash’s control almost break. He shifts underneath me, his hand squeezing my thigh so hard I know I’ll bruise, and he bites his lower lip.

“Touch your tits,” he orders after he regains his composure. “Slide your hands over them and then pull on your nipples. Yes, like that. Fuck.”

He shifts again, that erection looking so mouthwatering even inside his pants, and I want it. I want it in my mouth, I want it in my pussy. I want to ride it until my legs shake, I want it so deep inside me that I can’t feel anything else. When will we have sex? Surely tonight. Surely he can’t bear to wait any longer, because I know I can’t. I started birth control the moment we started seeing each other so we wouldn’t have to wait a moment longer than we had to.

“What is it, angel?” he asks, eyes lifting from where my hands are on my breasts to my face.

I don’t answer right away, and he gives me a light pinch on the ass. “You can always answer me honestly, Greer. I won’t ask if I don’t want to know.”

“I want your cock,” I blurt. “I want to be fucked by it. Please. Please fuck me. Please, Sir.”

His eyes glow with something like amusement, but his voice returns to the nonchalance of earlier. “My cock is a privilege, angel. Being fucked is a privilege. And all privileges have to be earned.”

I must visibly deflate at this, because he strokes my arm. “When I take your pussy, it’s going to be special. We only get one first time together, and I know exactly when I want that to be.”

“What’s wrong with right now?” I whine.

That earns me another swift smack on the ass. “Turn around and face Embry. He wants to see those gorgeous tits of yours. He wants to see your face when you come.”

I’m past protesting, past hesitating. I can blame it on the lust, blame it on Ash and my submission, but the real reason is both simpler and more complicated than either of those. The answer is I want to. I want Embry to see me. And whether it’s a test or a gift, Ash is giving it to us.

When I flip myself around so I’m facing Embry, a change comes over the room. It’s no longer Embry as the outsider. Now Embry and I are looking at each other, my breasts and my cunt on display for him, my pleasure a performance for his pleasure. And underneath me, I feel waves of power and desire rolling off Ash, as if controlling Embry as well as me arouses a different side of his dominance. As if watching me perform for Embry is more erotic than when I perform for him alone.

The phone rings again, and Ash tells me, “Get to work,” before he answers the phone. And then he picks up, and he’s talking and Embry is talking too—albeit in a choked, forced voice—and I start grinding against Ash’s leg, my eyes on Ash’s friend the entire time. As he watches and attempts to talk along with Ash, I slide my hands up my stomach to my breasts, squeezing them hard, the way he squeezed them that night in Chicago. The way he touched me like he’d never get to touch a woman again. His eyes follow my hands, his teeth digging deep into his lip, and when I start fucking Ash’s thigh again, his hand curls into a fist on his knee.

I imagine I’m fucking him, I imagine I’m fucking Ash, I imagine I’m fucking both of them. I imagine them fucking each other, I imagine all three of us in a tangle of sweat and thrusting, all barriers stripped away, every hot inch and sweet hole available without question.

And it’s this final image that sets the gears of my climax whirring, spinning tighter and tighter until I can feel it poised in front of my womb, a ticking thing ready to explode. My hands drop down to Ash’s knee for balance as I lean forward, drop my head, and chase the orgasm I’ve been waiting for all week. I hear the phone call end, and through the tendrils of hair hanging down around my face, I see Embry sitting on the edge of the sofa, that fist unclenching and clenching over and over again.

“Give it to me,” Ash says. “To us.”

And so I do. I press hard against Ash and ride the swell as I rub against him, crying out as I feel the wick light and the bomb detonate deep inside my womb. Shudders radiate out, pulsing quakes as I tremble on top of Ash’s thigh, as I pant and gasp and continue rubbing myself against him to milk every last ounce of pleasure out of this. It goes on and on, all the pent-up longing from this week, all the angst over Embry, just adding fuel to the fire. And when I do finally stop moving, my body wrung out, I become aware of Ash’s hands in my hair, tugging my head back.