Next Monday,
June 1stI meant May 1st, I will be posting my first monthly Spanking Newsletter, at my other blog Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. I can’t believe I skipped the entire month of May, thinking it was June next week.
I almost missed,“The Wedding”, not because I was late, but rather, I didn’t want to be there at all. My parents played the family card—easy to do when still living at home at age twenty—not to mention, they were paying for a table. Don’t ask. I have to also say, I was not drunk, nor coerced. Maybe I overreacted, but I have no regrets.
My second cousin Sophia, the bride, told me on more than one occasion, that I carried my virginity like a shroud, doomed to don sackcloth and ashes should I ever yield to temptation and lay with a man before marriage. Her pack of hyena bridesmaids looked hideous in their bilious orange dresses: Fitting I suppose, in warped retribution for all sorts of mortal sins. Chief among them, I doubted any girl at the altar taking the Sacrament was in possession of virgo intacta. The men now… that’s when I noticed the wheat-blond and chestnut-brown heads bent close together at the end of the groomsmen row.
Zing! Went my lady parts. And when they faced the applauding throng on the way out? Let’s just say, it was a good thing I wasn’t seated on the center aisle pew, or else there would have been an embarrassing incident. I saved that for the reception.
Fast forward through the meal, the toasts, the first dance—if it wasn’t for a case of raging lust, I would have cadged a ride with my older brother, who split after the garter toss, muttering as he left, “As if I’d choose anyone here to cross-pollinate with. It’s an excuse to keep the money local and among relatives. One big circle jerk.” I pretended not to hear him.
It was while the bridesmaids were making fools of themselves performing a choreographed dance-off they thought was clever and sophisticated, when they suavely made their move. I nearly spewed my soda when they sidled up and whispered in my innocent ears, “Do you like sandwiches?” Innuendo is pointless if it goes right over your head.
Seeing me blush, they apologized and introduced themselves as younger brothers of the groom. Only slightly older than I, nevertheless, I was out their league. Seeing the raucous party setting up games of balloons and chairs, the paired off couples and hordes of children underfoot, I felt daring and suddenly tired of my shroud; so turned to my comrades and replied, “Yes, I do like sandwiches, with firm meat and mayo slathered on a toasted bun. Is there somewhere we can all eat our fill?”
What’s better than a handsome man in a tuxedo? Two handsome men bursting out of their tuxedos.
The live band chased us through the back passageways of the banquet hall, the notes spurring on our reckless flight, my purse an anchor to my previous life. We found a storage room. Chair wedged under door handle, round table legs erected in a flash, me, trembling body lifted, a man under each arm, firm bottom plopped on tabletop. Mike leaned in for a kiss; I shied at the first gate. “Sorry, I’ve not much practice.”
Patrick caressed my exposed nylon covered knee. “Are you a virgin then?”
I bit my lip and whispered ‘yes’.
Expecting high-fives and crude remarks, they shocked me by cupping my face and stroking my hot cheeks with their thick thumbs. “In that case, if you still mean yes, we’ll take care of you and make your first time special.”
The band played on: YMCA. I shifted between the hooded eyes; their expressions were at once frightening but needy. No… they were compassionate yet demanding. I channeled my inner fantasies. “Do you take this woman before you, and make her yours?”
Feather light lips brushed against mine, each in turn murmured, ‘yes’: So I surrendered. “Yes, Mike and Patrick, I want you both to make love to me.”
Ten fingers teased my curves while my mouth was plundered by two tongues rotating between kissing and nibbling my bare shoulders. Cool silk rustled as it eased down, the top of my breasts exposed, nipples suckled through the white cotton cups. Squeezed, teased, my moans of surprise swallowed by urgent mouth; my scruff held immobile. Half-naked now, each man locked onto a nipple, my hands tousling soft strands, imagining twins of my own: longing clenched hard.
‘I believe someone requested a toasted bun?’ The question slithered through my arousal. My eyelids felt heavy. Raw hunger blazed from their faces. The expressions ripped my reticence away. Unsteady, I stood up, helping hands tucked under my elbows; I turned, and bent over the table. I hissed as my rigid nipples brushed the laminate surface, a hand between my shoulders pressed me firmly down, breasts flattened. I writhed. Unbidden, my dress bunched at my waist, I raised my hips and presented my bottom.
The dual smacks caught me off guard. The instant sting had me shimmying. Again they struck; this time, one then the other, a rhythm they continued as I squirmed on the cool surface. Steady spanking over silk, they warmed my bottom and fired my passion. Lifting my dress, the wet thong no protection, the impact of flesh-on-flesh was both louder and more exciting; the knowledge that once they peeled away the skimpy fabric, they’d see what no man had ever tasted.
Hot, I was so hot. The sudden silence had me begging for more. Instead, brought vertical, my shoes discarded like my morals, the dress soon followed, and I was kneeling on their folded jackets, face-to-face with two pulsing penises. “What should I do?” asked in a tremulous tone, brought forth deep growls of ‘stroke and suck’ from my captors. My thighs widened as I grasped the warm appendages in each fist. My first reaction was sheer amazement that this was tucked away behind every pair of jeans. Then, the silky softness registered, followed by the give of the surface skin. Clear liquid seeped from the vertical slits in the helmet shaped tips. Delicately, I lapped.
Fingers twisted in my hair. I could feel the restrained trembling. I hollowed my cheeks and inhaled. Sweet and sour, the musky aroma watered my mouth: I switched, similar, yet distinct, each cock felt and tasted different in my mouth and hands. Hearing the groans and gasps from above me, I smiled with feminine delight as they tutored me on the esoteric art of the blowjob. I was a quick study.
My turn. On my back, head over the edge, cock thrusting in and out; my hips wide, tongue licking my pussy. No fantasy could ever have prepared me for the sheer decadence of oral sex. My muffled climatic scream vibrated around a leaking cock as two fingers probed inside me, and my erect clit was lashed to orgasm.
Soft conversation: A metallic ringing of coin on concrete. Pants hitting the tabletop, followed by shirts and underwear. Dazed, I could only watch as Mike sheathed himself with a condom and settled between my soaked thighs. Patrick lifted and cradled my shoulders so I could see the moment I willingly—eagerly—gave him my innocence. A fist gripped and guided, the other fingers pressed my left knee further open. Thick flesh wedged inward, stopped by my barrier. Soothing touch kissed my skittering pulse as it raced through my neck. I met his eyes: I closed mine.
Hands fondled hips and pulled me under, the sharp sting of breached virginity forced a yelp; the reluctant inner muscles yielding to masculine determination drew a groan of disbelieving astonishment when his rough hairs met mine. I wiggled and spread as wide as I could, the sensation of tight fullness felt perfect. Patrick supported my head as I dangled—once more sucking his cock, this time with reckless passion as Mike withdrew and then eased back inside. Each time was quicker and deeper, my lovers playing my flesh like a guitar, strumming my emotions and riffing on my body.
They switched: my empty pussy aching to be filled again. This time, I was rolled over, feet on the floor, bottom uppermost. Thumbs pried open my crack, teased my pucker: I flinched, then relaxed as the next covered cock slid into my wet depths. The hard tube in my mouth was not so gentle this time, rough hand lifting my chin up, the swollen head touching my tonsils. My coughs and sputters seeming to accelerate their fucking. A slapping noise. Stinging heat in my ass, repeated blows firing lust. The thrusts more ragged, the groans louder, breaths panting; a reprieve, only the slick tip held on my outstretched tongue, blurred fingers pumping. Me, up on my elbows, waiting for the nectar. An orgasm rippled around the embedded flesh touching my cervix.
My eyes crossed, suddenly there were two cocks stretching the corners of my mouth. My bottom burned, my pussy needed another come; I reached down and stroked my hard pearl. Who came first I did not know, but my mouth filled with hot, viscous fluid that tasted of home cooked pasta and pesto. The other added more flavor—the tangy spice of sex. I rolled the thick substance around my cheeks and molars. I came violently, my hips slamming the edge of the table as I shook. In order to breathe, I swallowed. Once, twice: I gasped for air—and cried when the tight grip of propriety was wiped away along with my virgin’s blood.
They cuddled me. The band played on. Our hearts slowed. I traced patterns on their slick chests. “Thank you.”
When we returned, I was shocked to see that everything looked the same. Something this momentous deserved a memorial toast. I had some wedding cake instead.
Spank Me Hard! ... Please? 