My Boyfriend’s Boyfriends

I must have been groaning out loud, though nobody could hear me through the deafening music. We were all three rocking frantically, both men ramming their cocks until Ollie couldn’t hold it any longer and he jerked and bucked, still frantically sucking my nipples, spurting spunk, and then Rick brought up the rear as he yelled out loud with his final thrust.

Someone turned the music off and a leisurely handclap started.

We lay in a muddled heap for a moment, and then I tore the scarf off. At first the flickering candlelight made me dizzy, then I made out Sven, Rick and Jon gathered round a small glowing screen over by the piano. Ollie looked as if he’d passed out beside me.

‘Baby, that was amazing.’ Sven sat me on his knee and held out his video camera. ‘Not only do we have our own private porn film, but the guys want copies for themselves. What do you say?’

I grabbed my red negligee and feebly tried to cover myself. They all looked at me, eager as puppies.

‘OK. Just make sure you show it to the wives.’

Pussy Hunt (#ulink_609f7ded-d417-537b-9c39-4b9eb5c68747)

Janine Ashbless (#ulink_609f7ded-d417-537b-9c39-4b9eb5c68747)

‘Stay in the car for the moment,’ says Dane, opening the driver’s door.

I obey, watching as he walks out around the front and greets the others. Ours isn’t the only Land Rover parked here in the trees and, like Dane, the other men are all dressed in camouflage greens. It’s momentarily hard to tell everyone apart. I squint through the windscreen, trying to identify faces I’ve only really seen in photos. There’s Lewis – I remember him from his daughter’s wedding. That was almost my first weekend away with Dane, over a year ago now. And that blond guy – he looks familiar. I think he was the one who sang karaoke to Nickelback’s ‘Rockstar’ at the reception. But it was all a bit of a blur then, and I’d only had eyes for Dane at the time. If the others were at the wedding, I don’t remember.

They’re grasping hands, and thumping each other on the back, and sharing cigarettes. There’s none of the awkward social fumbling I’ve seen when other male friends meet up. These guys are close. They’re supremely relaxed in each other’s company, I think, hearing the bark of their mingled laughter. Seven men. All ex-members of the same special forces troop. Dane went to a funeral back last February. He didn’t talk much about it, but that was one of theirs. Drove, drunk, into a motorway bridge, I gather.

My mouth is dry, but I can feel myself sweating a little. My heart’s running fast. I thrust my hands down between my thighs and feel the warmth there. I clench my thigh muscles rhythmically, because there’s nothing else I can do for my nerves.

I’m not sure which scares me more: the thought of them saying yes or the possibility they might reject me.

Then Dane half-turns, and beckons me out.

I step from the car and the smell of the summer woodland, overlaid with diesel fumes and cigarette smoke, hits me, along with the sound of birdsong. I feel ungainly as I walk forwards, into what has become a semi-circle of men turning to watch. I should slink seductively, but I’m too tense. I lick my lips, wrecking the scarlet lipstick I’ve painted on so carefully.

They’re all remarkably similar-looking, in their military get-up. Big, tough-looking men. They haven’t let themselves go, though most have been retired from active duty for ten years or so, like Dane. He runs a military fitness business now, honing soft managerial types and skinny wannabe-tough-guy youths. He works hard and makes lots of money. And every six months he drives up to the Lake District to meet up with his old comrades in a bit of private woodland, and they shoot the crap out of each other with paintballs, and piss lager into bonfires, and smoke themselves cross-eyed.

So to some extent they all look like him: weathered, fortyish, high foreheads, lined about the eyes, deep notches forming like bookends around their mouths. I don’t mind that. I’ve always liked older men. Dane’s got fifteen years on me and a lifetime of experiences he won’t discuss, but that just makes him more interesting as far as I’m concerned. He’s like a puzzle box of nested secrets.

I see all those open, smiling faces close up, becoming guarded.

‘Zadie,’ grunts Lewis, with a tiny nod of his head. I’m surprised he remembers me, but at least it’s an acknowledgement, albeit a reluctant one.

‘Meet the boys, Zadie.’ Dane drops an arm around my shoulders and rattles off a list of names, but I’m not able to take them in. Or meet the guys’ eyes.

‘Hey,’ I mutter.

The ginger one isn’t as polite. ‘Come on, Dane,’ he complains, grinding out his cigarette end. ‘No wives, no girlfriends – you know the rules.’

‘Fuck off, Dec,’ says Dane amiably. ‘It’s my turn to set the Game. Well, this is it. We’re going on a Pussy Hunt.’

There’s absolute silence for a moment. I feel six pairs of eyes locked on me like sniper scopes.

‘Huh,’ says someone.

‘What sort …?’

‘A Pussy Hunt,’ he repeats. ‘A proper one. I reckon we give her twenty minutes’ head start. She’s pretty good across rough country. The first man to catch her – or the last man standing – gets her pussy.’

Someone snorts. Slow grins break across those hard faces.

‘Shit …’

‘You dirty bastard, Dane.’

‘Whose idea was that?’ asks Lewis, mildly incredulous.

He lifts an open hand to me. ‘Hers.’

That’s not exactly true. But he’d made very sure of his ground before he suggested the scheme to me. He’d known about my porn stash since the early days of our relationship: Three and More! The Gang’s All Here! Greedy Bitches! – all that stuff. I like the idea of one girl, several guys. That’s my thing; it’s the notion of being the centre of attention, the star of the show. It took Dane to suggest bringing it to reality, though.

I think I shocked him at first, with my use of porn and my sexual enthusiasm. His ex-wife had barely believed in sex, the way he tells it. He was like a kid in a sweetshop with me, and we pushed each other to extremes. I’ve never come so close to getting arrested as that night in his car – getting it on in the service-station car park, astride his lap, steamy and sweating and giggling like crazy; then pinned by police headlights.

He drew all my deepest dirtiest fantasies out of me. I’d tell him wild stories as he licked my pussy: the rugby-club changing room, the van full of policemen taking me into custody, the ship full of pirates with me a captive damsel. Silly fluff, really. But he’d never laughed at me. Grinned, yes: that considering, narrow-eyed grin of his. Taken thorough advantage of my arousal, yes. Suggested other scenarios, yes. Driven me to the brink and over with whispered suggestions about fucking me in the public bar of our local, or on the bus … or, yes, at Lewis’s wedding reception.

Then he’d introduced the fantasy of the hunt through the woods.

Then, one day, he’d remarked, ‘We could do that, you know. For real. If you wanted.’

I’ve never even had a threesome, until now.

‘You sure about this?’ asks a guy with a scarred lip, almost accusingly.

I swallow. Am I sure? It doesn’t seem real yet. Here I am, standing in front of seven fit, hard men, and they’re all looking at me and picturing what it would mean to chase me down and fuck me. ‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice all hoarse and strained. ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

‘That’s my girl,’ says Dane, giving me a hug. Then he flips a small rucksack off his shoulder and presses it into my arms. ‘Go get changed into this lot,’ he tells me, jerking his chin to indicate the stone hut we’ve all parked in front of.

They watch me go. I can feel their eyes on my back and my ass and my legs. I slip into the dark interior of the bothy. It’s pretty rough and basic – stone floor, plank bunk-beds, sleeping bags and six-packs of beer dumped for later use. I drop the rucksack on the rough table and explore the contents.

The change of clothes has taken me by surprise. I had intended to run in the sports gear I’m wearing now, the same kit I wore when I met Dane. Yes, I’m one of the soft managerial types. A local government officer. My Saturday workouts were what led to us starting our private one-to-one exercise regime.

Now he’s presented me with costume, and I struggle to make sense of it. A narrow black skirt, almost knee-length, in some nasty shiny fabric. A white button-fronted blouse, but over a cami-top of red lace. Knee-high black suede boots – with no heels, thank goodness. I couldn’t run in heels. A short scarlet jacket, very 80s style. It all looks a bit like formal office-wear, but also a bit cheap. And quite dated.

It doesn’t convey anything to me, but older men always have baggage.

Military men have shit-loads of baggage. I know that. I’m from an officer’s family.

I can hear them talking outside, their voices deep. Each rumbling syllable sinks to the pit of my stomach. When I squint out through the half-open door, I see one of them shake his head dubiously.

Dane can handle the discussion. I get changed, deciding not to bother with bra or panties. What would be the point? I touch myself between the legs, exploring the pussy Dane lovingly shaved this morning. I’m as soft as a plush toy, but there’s a secret slipperiness hidden there. My body is eager for this.

The clothes fit snugly, but well. My fingers tremble as I do up the buttons on my blouse. That’s when Dane comes in to check on me. I hear the deep intake of his breath, and he blocks the light from the door as he enters. ‘Hey, Zadie.’

‘Hey.’