ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (144 page)

                      ‘Big Jim!’ I cried, over and over.  ‘Fuck me, fuck me Big Jim!’ “

Here Ezrah breaks off, unable to read any further.  His head is reeling with what he has just learned, and he cannot bear to speak it aloud, despite the fact that both Selema and Jeb are staring at him with the biggest eyes in the world.  They are new eyes, eyes that see Ezrah in a way that they have never done so before.

That full bottom lip.  The dusk on his skin, sure as a sunset, and the curl of his hair, coarse and strangely soft at the same time.  They bate their breath, holding it as if not breathing will keep the terrible secret inside.

“Ezrah,” Selema begins, reaching out a hand to him, but he pushes her away and drops the papers behind him on the chair.  One of his fists lunges out and punches the wall, startling Jeb and Selema with its violence.  And then, most terrifyingly of all, a low chuckle emanates from Ezrah’s throat as he leans his forehead against the wall, resting both palms against the flat surface, a man forever condemned.

“I guess I don’t have a sister after all,” he finally says, and picks himself up off the wall.  “It’s the oldest story in the book, is it not?” he says, shooting Selema a terse glance before he walks over to the attic door.  “The story of no parents at all.”

*                    *                    *

“It’s not so bad, Ezrah,” says Jeb an hour later, wrapping his arms around the darker man.  “Your mother took her revenge, and it sounds like her revenge was sweet after all.”

“She asked me not to read it, and now I know why.  I know why, and I wish for any God who ever existed that I had followed her dying wish.”

“Shh.  The truth is better.  The truth is what makes you free,” Jeb says, touching a tender hand to Ezrah’s face.  The great manly cowboy does not often show his feelings, but it has been a day of trials and tribulations for them all, and Ezrah allows himself to sink into the familiar embrace of the red-haired man, hoping that that particular version of home will erase, for however brief a period, this nightmare.

“It was not the truth,” comes a small voice from the edge of the bed.

Both men look up, startled.  Selema is perched there, looking at the hands turned palms up in her lap.  The bed undulates beneath his weight as Jeb makes his way over to her.

“What is not the truth?” he asks sharply.

She does not look at him as she speaks.  “What I told you before, it is not the truth, at least not the whole truth.  Before he died, Big Jim told me, he told me what happened in this house.  Not about my mother, but about why he left.  I never knew about…Ezrah’s mother, but I knew that the Master of this house had a special interest in the slaves.  Even…”

“Even what?” Ezrah asks, making his way to the foot of the bed to sit by her side, her, this woman who was family to him and then snatched away in the blink of an eye.

Selema sighs deeply.  “He said that the Master started lookin’ at me wrong.  The way you should never look at a child, no matter how ‘advanced’ they are.  He told me that he did not want what happened to my mother to happen to me, and until today, I never knew what that meant,” she finishes, choking back a sob.

Ezrah and Jeb flank her on the bed, and each man wraps an arm around her.  Their sidelong glances reveal a throaty little sparrow in her sweetheart-cut dress, the blossom of her breasts blooming into a stem of a neck, cocoa-buttery and lovely.  A pulse beating beneath it rapid as a hummingbird’s. One look passes between the three of them, and a silent contract is signed.   Selema is not nervous.  Instead, she rises from the bed, turns, and stands before them cool as a lake, with one ripple going through it—desire.

                      She might not have imagined it as such, this excitement of hers bleeding into something far more dangerous, pulsing through her veins like fire, the ebb and backwards flow of it taking her body by storm.  She reaches her arms up above to release the butterfly pins that hold her curls in place; they tumble down on her neck, framing her face in a kind of primordial beauty, the type in which there is no place to hide, no modern inventions of clothing or rouge, just the truth of yourself in plain sight.  The lushness of her plump bottom lip gives her a childlike air, one that is somehow not at war with her full woman’s body.  Everything is in its place, perfectly as it should be.

                      Selema kneels and extends her arms forward, palms up, a silent question that is amplified as she lowers her eyes.  She might as well be shouting.

                      The men stand before her, hesitant.  Jeb unbuckles his pants, and Ezrah follows suit.  There has never been a third player in their games, but as Selema wraps a hand around each cock, they realize how wonderfully sinful it is to include another.  It takes a bit of concentration at first, working the penises in tandem, but Selema manages.  She is kneeling between the two men, pumping them with her hands, slowly at first, then faster and faster, alternating that plush mouth of hers from Ezrah’s cock to Jeb’s, allowing her lips to wrap around the meaty flesh of them until they are rocking their hips against her, spurred on by the hungry little noises she is making in the back of her throat.

                      They are loved, in the strangest and most familiar way possible.  Aroused by the ministrations of the sensual woman below them, the old childhood friends push down the shoulders of her gown until the banana-shaped breasts beneath it are visible, the darkness of her large nipples stark in the light of day.  She is fantastically ripe, wanton with her green eyes looking up from either cock.

                      The moment of reckoning is fast upon them; it is the disarray of her gown, bunched around her waist, the tangle of tongues Jeb and Ezrah allow themselves above her head, flicking each other’s nipples as they have long ago learned that they like that allows them a cathartic release from the day.  They spatter her breasts with their cum, the double load coating their slope, releasing the satisfied moan of the two men who have finally been allowed a treat like no other.

                      Laying panting on the oak floor together, Ezrah and Selema meet eyes.  “I think,” he says, spreading the wetness on her left breast over the pucker tip of her nipple, “that I am very glad you are not my sister.”

                      And with that, Jeb and Ezrah chuckle and proceed to rid themselves of any remaining clothing or shame.

*                    *                    *

                      “I am always pleased to see you, Mrs. Roberts, but it seems like today, there is much on your mind,” says Richard Lee to the neighbor who has come to visit.

                      It is no mistake.  There is plenty on this woman’s mind, but only one thought that bears any thinking about in truth.  He has drawn her in with his kindness, their long philosophical talks, and she is unwilling to live in her hell any longer without gaining something out of it for herself.

                      Hours later, as she lays beside the red-haired man who succumbed to her charms, she knows that she will never chronicle what has happened here tonight.  Big Jim was one thing, but cuckolding her husband with another white man leaves Richard open for a fight he should not have to fight.  She knows that she will not write this, how their slow-burning courtship managed to outweigh everything, including his faith in God.

                      Never will she write how she asked to see his wife’s new china pattern and how he took her arm to lead her through the house.  How the delicate dishes crashed to the floor as they came together in a union that was long-awaited, how he pressed her tiny body against the glass walls of the cabinet and how feverishly she allowed herself to wrap her limbs around him.

                      Jeb and Ezrah’s mother, after all, is entitled to her secrets.

THE END

Highlander Desires

              It was generally agreed among the people of Bodhuvan village that Fingall MacAllarran was their favorite eccentric.

              Mártainn the Blacksmith - no longer the blacksmith for many years now due to a bad back, yet widely regarded as the village blacksmith thanks to his smithing sons - was fond of telling anyone who asked of Fingall that he was a “fierce, strange man.” To get Mártainn to tell tales would require that the asker loosen his tongue by plying him with whiskey. This would often result in good stories if the whiskey were meted out carefully and less coherent stories interspersed with songs and anecdotes if one weren’t careful about portioning.

              “Strange in his ways, that one. For all the years I knew the man, he never got a girl with child so as we know. There was many a lass wouldn’t mind a night of sport with that lad, I’d have wagered.” He told the crowd of younger men and women who gathered around him one wild, rain-drenched spring night. All of them had heard of Fingall, but few believed the stories were entirely true.

              Still, Mártainn had a way of telling tales that inspired the men through vivid scenes of battle and captured the imagination of the ladies with descriptions of Jocelin’s beauty, so all would sit and listen without interruption while the storm raged outside.

              Mártainn settled back with a drink in one hand, his pipe in the other. A big man, he buried the drink between his bearded lips, set the drink down, and stroked his great white beard.

              “You know him to be strange,” he reminded them, “but let me tell you how my friend became so strange in his ways. I can only tell you the parts of this tale he told me or that which I saw myself.”

###

              Mártainn and the brothers Fingall and Dhugall were spending their free time on the day before their lives changed in much the same way as men in the Clan MacAllarran would do; they were fishing in the Loch.

              “It tell you there’s no chance Ross will move against them.” Dhugall was saying in his usual argumentative way. He and Fingall loved their verbal sparring almost as much as they loved sharpening their skills with an axe. Both men were among the most respected fighters in the clan. While Mártainn could swing a two-handed axe with the best of them, in those days he was more focused on mastering his craft as a smith than he was in taking part in raids. Still, the three were friends and he enjoyed whiling away the hours with the brothers.

              That is, except when they were arguing.

              “You don’t know what the Clans will do, and you never did.” Fingall replied, his voice rising with irritation. “MacKay has gone too far and you can trust there will be hell to pay for it.”

              His brother laughed. The pair shared many physical qualities; tall, muscular, strawberry-blonde hair. The younger of the pair would never be mistaken entirely for his brother, though, thanks to an ugly scar across his right cheek and a signature laugh that resembled a donkey’s bray. “You think all of the lords of the Isles and Highlands are going to unite against him? It’s almost as though you wanted to fight.”

              Though the sun was high and bright, the mood of the elder brother darkened considerably. “You know I don’t want that.”

              Dhugall stared at Fingall. “I know you don’t, and were it any other than you I’d…”

              “You’d what?”

              “Well, you know what some say. No one will say it to your face, but you always sound full of fear, speaking coward’s words. Though,” he quickly noted, “you have proven your worth in battle many a time.”

              Fingall shrugged. His brother was the only man he would suffer to say such things without injury. “None would dare speak it to me, so it is of no concern to me. My heart is not the same as my skill and courage.”

              Mártainn sought to heal the rift between the two and their contention of the possibility of an approaching war, mostly to get them to be quiet. After all, the fish weren’t biting. He slapped Fingall on the back. “Take a wife at last! You won’t be young much longer and if you do, I promise your temperament will be much improved. You see how your brother and I are more relaxed, do you not?”

              “I’ll not marry until I find the right woman.” Fingall replied firmly.

              “Aye, a scolding wife can be a burden, MacAllarran, but a young, pretty, one provides certain... benefits.” He winked at Dhugall and the two shared a laugh.

              Fingall rolled his eyes in response, but chuckled despite himself. “At the rate you take advantage of these benefits, you’ll breed a village to rival Bodhuvan in five years.” He got up, brushed himself off, and slung his fishing pole over his shoulder. “You lads while away your hours at leisure here. There’s work to be done.”

              His brother leapt up to join him, leaving Mártainn alone to fish. The aspiring blacksmith with his short black beard sighed and watched them leave as he kept to fishing alone.