Chapter 94: Sisterly Seduction
Bruce lay next to Susannah, staring into her soulful eyes. His thumb traced the arch of her cheekbone, wiping away a lingering trace of moisture that wasn’t from the springs. The depth in her brown eyes held universes of loss, and in that moment, a fragile, hard-won peace.
“How do you always know just what to do?” she asked, her voice a husk of sound in the quiet room.
“Because I love you, Suze,” he said.
“That simple?” she asked, nuzzling her head into the hollow of his shoulder, her curly hair tickling his skin.
Bruce pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sometimes it is that simple.”
He held her until her breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. He waited another five minutes, feeling the weight of her trust in the slackening of her muscles against him. Then he extracted himself with the care of a man disarming a live round, pulled the sheet up over her, and padded naked to the children’s door.
Hope was a small, peaceful mound in her crib. Roland had kicked off his blanket, one arm flung over his stuffed dog. Bruce rearranged the cover, brushed a curl from the boy’s forehead, and stood watching them for a long minute. The hum of the compound at night was a living thing—the distant generator, the sigh of the ocean, the whisper of the climate control. It was a sound of safety, purchased at a price he’d never stop paying.
He pulled on a pair of loose linen pants, not bothering with a shirt. In the main kitchen, he found his cigarettes and the bottle of good bourbon. He poured two fingers into a heavy crystal glass, threw it back in one smooth, burning swallow, and refilled it. The liquor hit his stomach, a warm counterpoint to the cool night air that beckoned from the veranda.
He pushed open the French doors. The moon was a sliver of bone in a velvet sky, but the string of golden lanterns in the sprawling oak painted the outdoor lounge in pools of flickering light. The scent of night-blooming jasmine was overpoweringly sweet.
They were there, just as some part of him knew they would be.
Anya and Freya sat on the weathered floral chaise lounge, a wicker table between them holding a bottle of reposado tequila, a salt shaker, a bowl of limes, and a full ashtray. Each held a glass. Each had a cigarette smoldering between their fingers. Anya, with her goddess features and wary violet eyes, looked like a fantasy rendered in moonlight. Freya, all tall Nordic curves and blazing green eyes, looked like a pagan offering.
They were waiting for him.
He stepped into the lantern light, glass in hand. He smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his mouth. “Ladies. Can’t sleep? Or am I in trouble?”
Anya took a drag of her cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that coiled into the lantern glow. “Trouble’s a point of view,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. She’d grown less silent since her rescue, but her words were still carefully chosen.
Freya grinned, a flash of white in the dimness. “We saw you leave the springs. Saw you go to Susannah. We felt… the shift. The calm after the storm.” She licked salt from the back of her hand, knocked back a measure of tequila, and bit into a lime wedge without wincing. “Now it’s our turn.”
“Your turn for what?” Bruce asked, leaning against the oak’s massive trunk, taking a sip of his bourbon. The smoke from their cigarettes mingled with the jasmine, an earthy, provocative perfume.
“For you,” Anya stated simply. She stubbed her cigarette out, never breaking eye contact. “The springs were for Briana. Her claiming. Susannah… she needed reclaiming. We understand.” She stood, a fluid uncoiling of her petite, devastating form. She was wearing only a sheer black silk kimono, tied loosely. It gaped open as she moved, revealing the perfect, small swell of her breasts, the dark shadow of her nipples. “But we have needs, too. We’re not as broken as her. Not as haunted as Susannah. We’re just… hungry.”
Freya stood as well, taller than Anya by a head. She wore a simple white cotton slip, thin enough to see the dark circles of her areolas, the silhouette of her heavy breasts, the magnificent thickness of her thighs. “We watched you fuck her in the water,” Freya said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Watched you stretch that new girl open with that monster cock of yours. It made us so wet we had to come change our panties.” She paused, letting the crude image hang. “Then we heard you in Susannah’s room. The bed hitting the wall. We got wet all over again.”
Bruce felt a familiar, dark heat stir in his groin. The blunt hunger in their words, the unapologetic desire, was a different kind of intimacy. It was a demand, not a plea.
“So what are you proposing?” he asked, his own voice gone rough.
Anya stepped forward, closing the distance. She untied the belt of her kimono and let it slither to the flagstones. She stood naked before him, the lantern light gilding her skin, catching in the ink-black veil of her hair. Her violet eyes were wide, fearless. “Fuck us. Out here. Where anyone could see. Fuck the serenity out of us. We don’t need gentle. We need you to remind us we’re alive, and we’re yours.”
Freya pulled the cotton slip over her head and tossed it aside. Her body was a glorious contrast—pale skin that glowed like moonlight, breasts so full and heavy they swayed with her movement, an ass and thighs that were pure, powerful sculpture. She came to stand beside Anya, a study in opposites. “Yeah,” Freya breathed. “Fuck us like we’re your dirty little secret out here in the dark. Make us scream so loud they hear us in the main house.”
Bruce set his bourbon glass down on the wicker table with a final click. The decision was made before the sound faded. He reached out, one hand cupping the back of Anya’s head, the other tangling in Freya’s blonde hair. He pulled them both to him, crushing their mouths to his in a savage, dual kiss. He tasted tequila and lime and smoke and the pure, hot essence of their want.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “On the chaise. Anya, on your hands and knees. Freya, underneath her. I want you face to face. I want you tasting each other while I work.”
A shiver of pure anticipation went through them. They moved without hesitation, a well-practiced team. The faded floral fabric of the chaise was cool against their skin. Freya lay back, her blonde hair fanning out. Anya climbed over her, positioning herself on her hands and knees, her face hovering just above Freya’s. Their breasts brushed. Freya lifted her head, capturing Anya’s mouth in a deep, lesbian kiss, her hands coming up to grip Anya’s small, perfect ass.
Bruce undid the tie of his linen pants and let them fall. His cock, already thickening, began its transformation under his will. The flesh swelled, lengthened, thickened into the formidable, intimidating weapon they craved. Veins corded along the shaft. The head, a broad, purple dome, gleamed with pre-cum in the lantern light. He stroked himself twice, his hazel eyes devouring the sight before him: Anya’s tiny, tight pussy and asshole exposed above Freya’s wet, pink folds.
He stepped forward, the rough flagstones cool under his feet. He positioned himself behind Anya. With one hand, he guided his monstrous cockhead to her entrance. She was already slick, her arousal dripping down her inner thighs.
“You ready for this, little one?” he growled.
Anya broke her kiss with Freya, turning her head to look back at him over her shoulder. Her violet eyes were glazed, her lips swollen. “Stop talking and fill me,” she hissed.
He slammed into her.
There was no gentle penetration. He drove half his length into her petite frame in one brutal thrust. Her cry was muffled into Freya’s mouth as Freya kissed her again, swallowing the sound. Anya was obscenely tight, a silken, clenching fist around his girth. He gave her no time to adjust. He pulled back and shoved forward again, sinking deeper, feeling her body struggle to accept him.
“Oh fuck, she’s so tight,” Freya moaned, breaking the kiss to watch. She reached between Anya’s legs, finding her own soaked slit. “I can feel you moving her, Bruce. I can feel her shaking.”
Bruce set a ruthless pace, fucking into Anya with deep, pounding strokes. The chaise creaked and scraped against the flagstones with each impact. The sound of flesh on flesh, wet and slapping, filled the secluded nook. Anya’s small breasts swung wildly. Her cries were continuous now, little punched-out grunts with every inward drive.
“Taste her, Freya,” Bruce commanded, his voice guttural. “Taste her pussy while I fuck it.”
Freya didn’t need to be told twice. She pushed Anya’s hips up higher, then ducked her head underneath. Her tongue stabbed out, licking at Anya’s stretched, leaking entrance, lapping at the junction where Bruce’s cock pistoned in and out.
The dual sensation broke Anya completely. Her back bowed, a shattered scream tearing from her throat. “YES! Fuck! Right there! Don’t stop!” Her inner walls clamped down on Bruce’s cock in a violent, rippling orgasm, her juices flooding over him and onto Freya’s eager tongue.
Bruce rode out her climax, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, grinding against her cervix. He was close, the pressure coiling at the base of his spine. But he wasn’t done.
He pulled out of Anya’s convulsing pussy with a slick, obscene pop. She collapsed onto Freya, whimpering. Bruce grabbed Freya’s thick thigh, pushing her legs wider. He was slick with Anya’s cum, his cock glistening. He notched his head against Freya’s entrance. She was wider, more built to take him, but he was still an immense stretch.
“You’re next, goddess,” he rasped, and he plunged into her heat.
Freya’s head slammed back against the chaise, a guttural “UNNHH!” erupting from her chest. He filled her completely in two deep, relentless thrusts. Where Anya was a tight fist, Freya was a deep, velvety oven, searing hot and welcoming. Her heavy breasts jounced with each powerful drive. Bruce fucked her with a focused, driving rhythm, one hand braced on the chaise, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises.
Anya, recovering, pushed herself up. She watched, mesmerized, as Bruce’s massive shaft disappeared into her sister’s body. Then she lowered her head, her mouth finding Freya’s nipples, sucking and biting as Freya writhed and screamed.
“Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Breed me, Bruce! I want it!” Freya chanted, her words dissolving into incoherent shrieks.
Bruce was past words. The sight of them, the filthy, wanton sounds, the tight heat of Freya’s cunt milking his cock—it was too much. With a final, brutal thrust that lifted Freya’s ass off the chaise, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. A raw, animal roar tore from his throat as he came, his cock pulsing, jetting stream after hot, thick stream of cum deep into her womb. The force of his release triggered hers; Freya’s body arched off the chaise in a silent, ecstatic seizure, her cunt clamping and fluttering around him in relentless waves.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his hands, his head hanging between his shoulders as he emptied himself inside her. The only sounds were their ragged, gulping breaths and the distant chirp of crickets.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A gush of their combined fluids followed, soaking the fabric beneath her. He straightened up, his body spent, gleaming with sweat in the lantern light.
Anya was curled beside Freya, one hand idly stroking Freya’s stomach, her violet eyes watching Bruce with a look of satiated, fierce devotion. Freya just smiled, a lazy, utterly claimed smile, her hands resting on her belly.
Bruce reached for his cigarettes on the table, lit one, and took a long drag. The smoke curled up through the oak leaves towards the sliver of moon. He looked down at his two wives, a mess of limbs and sweat and sex on the ruined chaise lounge.
“Still hungry?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
Freya laughed, a low, rich sound. “For now? No.” She reached a hand out for him. “But come lie down. You’re ours for a little while longer.”
He took her hand, stubbed the cigarette out, and lowered himself onto the narrow space beside them. Anya immediately molded herself against his side, her head on his chest. Freya draped a possessive leg over his thighs. They lay there in a tangled, sticky heap under the lanterns and the ancient oak, the night holding them close, their hunger momentarily sated, their bond a tangible, living thing in the quiet dark.