Perverted Threesome: Taboo Erotica - Krissy Lewis - ebook
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We know you're going to just read the free sample preview anyway. You should. This book is hot. A trashy, sleazy, *full-length* (100+ Pages) post-censorship erotic novel. But, if you really want, here's the briefest of excerpts:****"Arthur, you're acting like an animal."He paid no attention to her. He managed to spread the lips of her pussy, somehow stuffed the partially erect organ into the opening. He began to pump furiously now, ramming against her. Surprisingly, the limp cock began to rise and was soon a stiff rod, probing her depths, ramming murderously into her."Arthur, you're hurting me," she said calmly and without the slightest emotion. "You don't have to be so rough. Take it, but don't tear me up doing it.""Peggy ... I love you ... "She began to move in rhythm with him, but it was more to keep from being hurt than for any personal satisfaction she got out of the act. Besides, with her movements she knew she could bring about his orgasm much faster than if he were left on his own. She pressed her hands on his ass and spread her legs to accommodate him.He grunted and panted over her, sometimes sounding like a lusting animal. He pawed at her breasts, roughly and crudely. He tried to kiss her tenderly but managed only to ram his teeth against hers as he paid more attention to his crotch than his kissing.And when he did finally come, it was a slow, unemotional thing, a grunting and a twitching of his body. Her only sensation was the hot liquid which seemed to ooze from him rather than spurt. 

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Perverted Threesome

Krissy Lewis

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

Jeff swirled the glass's contents again, listening to the tinkle of the cubes. He knew he was drinking too much. A fog bank was beginning to envelop him. But he didn't care. A man could hide in a fog bank when he was tired, or depressed, or hurt. And Jeff was all of those things tonight.

He suddenly remembered he was at a party, that he was supposed to be having fun. If loud talk and laughter were any indication, everyone else was having a good time. Feeling completely out of step, he downed his drink with a single swallow. A hand reached out for his empty glass. A good-looking redhead stood before him. She wore an extremely low-cut dress, and she filled it very well. In fact, some of her seemed to be pouring out of the top, giving Jeff a sudden urge to reach out and put his hands on the golden mounds. But he suppressed the desire quickly, and looked into the woman's lovely face.

"A thirst like that calls for a refill," the woman smiled. She sniffed at the empty glass. "Scotch and water, right?"

Her milk-white complexion was a startling contrast to the redness of her lips. Her eyes, of greenish cast, were filled with a teasing invitation.

Jeff nodded, smiled. "Your sniffer is in good working condition," he said. "Scotch and water is right."

"I'll get you another one," she replied.

He wanted to say that he did not want or need another one, but she was already moving away, her curvaceous hips swaying enticingly. He looked after her, wondering if that look in her eyes meant what he thought it did. He had told himself a hundred times that he was no longer in love with his wife, Maria, and if he wasn't, why not take a chance with this delectable redhead?

Peggy Copeland was the hostess. He felt a vague impulse to hurry after her, just to be at her side, be close to that exposed bosom and taunting green eyes.

He looked morosely at the toes of his shoes. He was a big man, six-foot-three, still lean from the farm life he had known as a youth. But some of the muscle was slowly disappearing after twenty-nine years. He was not a handsome man; his features were too irregular for that. However, he had a fine smile that started slowly and grew until his face shone with it. He had definite appeal to women, although he was never fully aware of it. Women recognized the drive in him, the fierce urgings of pure masculine virility.

Generally, he did not care to socialize too much and he had not particularly wanted to come to this party. He had looked forward to a quiet evening at home with Maria-until the Colonel had stopped by his desk this afternoon and said, "Jeff, there's another party this evening at Cope-land's. We've got to go to this one. But I promised Maria I'd take her to see her aunt this evening. We won't stay long. You cover for us, until Maria and I get there."

The Colonel commanded, Jeff jumped. He could not even take his own wife to a party. Rebellion twisted his soul.

The blonde sitting on the sofa across from him was trying to reach a drink on the end table. She bent far to her right, stretching out her arm. Her efforts hiked her sheath dress well above her knees. One foot came up off the floor, and the hem had nothing to impede it. Jeff watched the hem climb higher. The top of her hose was exposed, then a good portion of smooth white thigh. He saw the bottom edge of frilly pink panties.

Peggy Copeland came back with his drink. She looked at the blonde with a half-annoyed look. "Pull your dress down, Cissy," she said. "You're a big girl now."

Cissy shot a startled glance at Peggy, then reluctantly and wordlessly tugged her dress back into place, seeming quite hurt that she had to cover herself.

Peggy looked at Jeff, smiled a little and said, "Cissy's at the age when she feels she has to advertise a little more strenuously because of her inferior merchandise."

Cissy stiffened, her eyes flamed. "Well, really ... " she said haughtily. Now her eyes had turned into twin icicles that stabbed across the room at the lovely hostess. She got up and moved to the far end of the room.

"That didn't look like inferior merchandise to me," Jeff remarked, following the girl's movements with a look of mild admiration in his eyes.

"Oh, she's always showing her butt and it's getting to where it's disgusting. I don't know why we even invite her."

Jealous, Jeff thought. Women were always jealous of other women, especially if they were half-way pretty. But he wondered why Peggy Copeland should be jealous over this Cissy woman; Peggy had a lot more going for her than Cissy did.

Jeff's thoughts were interrupted by Peggy's words and her slight tinkle of laughter. "She knew you were watching her. That's why she started to show you what she had. She would have pulled that dress off if you had asked her. I know her. She gets a few drinks in her and little fires start up inside her. Look." Peggy dipped her head in the direction where Cissy had gone.

Cissy was sitting on a man's lap, busily engaged in nibbling at his ear.

"Maybe she's hungry," Jeff smiled.

"Yes, she's hungry-hungry for every man she sees," Peggy said. "Just thought I'd let you know about her in case you thought she had picked you out. Sorry to deflate your ego."

"You didn't," Jeff said. "Actually, I had barely noticed."

Peggy handed him his drink. "Oh? Well, then, forgive me. I thought the look in your eyes meant something else."

He looked at her differently then. He wondered at the weariness in her green eyes. She was a beautifully proportioned, full-bodied woman, and there was a sultriness about her that somehow fascinated Jeff. He shrugged and said, "I guess you know more about these people than I do."

Peggy looked about the room, a certain tiredness in her eyes that told Jeff she was not too happy about the party. "I know them all as well as they know themselves," she said. "I've seen them at their best and I've seen them at their worst."

She watched him drain his glass. She shook her head. "You must have just come in off the desert," she said, eyeing his empty glass. "Problem that big?"

He reacted with a quick flash of irritation. "Who says there's a problem." He thought she was referring to his drinking. "I can take it or leave it. This stuff has no hold over me." He rattled the cubes in the glass.

"Then you must be bored," she smiled.

His irritation was mounting. He did not want to be here in the first place. He would rather have stayed home. Sure, he had problems, but he did not feel as if he wanted to lay them out on the table for Peggy to examine and analyze.

"Oh, don't be so touchy," she smiled. "I'm just trying to be helpful. Sort of a hobby of mine. Also my duty to see that our guests are happy. That's the job of a good hostess, you know."

He looked away from her prying probing eyes. "I'm doing all right," he said flatly.

"By the way, do you know what kind of party this is?" she asked suddenly.

He knew it was a loud and liquid one. Every now and then, he heard a squeal or titter from one of the women and knew that some guy had put an exploring hand into play. But this party I was no different than the others he had attended.

"Just another party," he said. "Plenty of booze and food and everyone trying to make out with someone else's wife or husband. Tomorrow they'll all wonder if they did something they should be embarrassed about. Either that or they'll be trying to remember the phone numbers that were whispered into their ears." He knew he should not talk so harsh to the woman who was trying to make the evening a success. It was an insult to her. Everyone liked to feel their party was something special.

She smiled at him. It was a warm smile, and the tiredness in her eyes gave way to a moment of sparkling deviltry. "I'm sure you're going to enjoy this party. It's going to be a little different."

He wanted to tell her that that is what all hosts and hostesses thought. He wanted to tell her he could drink much more comfortably at home. He could sit in his big chair with his shoes off and really enjoy his drinks. He did not. He said, "I'm sure it'll be a nice evening. I'm sorry, but I guess I'm just a little tired."

"I'll get you another drink if you promise you won't pass out on us," she said. Then, recalling his touchiness, she added, "I'm just kidding. I'm sure a big man like you can hold his liquor."

Grant Copeland was behind the bar, mixing drinks. He was a fat man, his face flushed and moist. He had sensual lips, and the mass of his face dwarfed his eyes. Right now, he reminded Jeff of a perspiring, well-fed, happy pig. He did not seem to belong with the pretty Peggy Copeland.

She mused aloud. "My husband told me you were important people, and to keep a glass in your hand at all times. I wonder what that old walrus is up to."

Jeff did not know what she was talking about, and he couldn't have cared less. There were undercurrents in this room that could sweep a man off his feet. He wished the Colonel would come. And Maria. The Colonel would not stay long at this party; he did not approve of excessive drinking. When the Colonel left, Jeff and Maria, too, could leave.

Peggy's eyes were back on him. "No comment?" she asked.

"I didn't think I was important to anybody."

"You could be-to me," she purred.

But Jeff left the remark hang in midair. His eyes had caught sight of two people descending the stairs. He jumped to his feet, his face suddenly animated. He instinctively took a couple of steps forward, then halted abruptly.

"My wife and her father just came in," he said.

Peggy's eyes fastened on the descending pair. Maria stopped at the foot of the stairs, her gaze going uncertainly about the room, searching. She made quite a picture, delicious of line from shoulder to ankle. She wore a form-fitting dress, flaring at the knees. The high neckline was wickedly daring. The material faithfully outlined the proud thrust of her breasts and caressed the curves of her hips. Every male eye in the room swung toward her. She was a lot of woman, Jeff mused. But a statue-a statue of ice.

Peggy looked at her husband. He was staring at Maria in rapt attention, his mouth partially open. "Has Grant met your wife?" she asked Jeff.

Jeff frowned. "I think so. She's been to the office several times. He might have met her there."

Peggy's laugh had a bitter tone. "So that's what he's been working for. I wondered why he kept insisting we invite you." She exploded into laughter that seemed to come only from her lips, not from anywhere inside her. And her eyes were cold, unlaughing.

The sarcastic laughter followed Jeff as he moved across the room toward his wife.

Maria accepted Jeff's arm gratefully. Informal gatherings frightened her. She took a drink just rarely. Her need for protection should have made him feel strong and masculine. Instead, it angered him. The puritanical daughter of Colonel Drake, the girl with no vices. Yet she would wear a dress like this-exposing more flesh than it covered. A man could love her with his eyes-and many did-but no more.

Her father frowned about the room. "Grant said a quiet party." The Colonel was a short man, reaching only five-foot-five; he made a practice of standing very straight, trying to give the illusion of greater height. He had reached the rank of colonel during the Second World War and never let anybody forget it. He spoke as though he were still on the drill field, an illusion supported by his bull-doggish face. He condoned no mistakes from anyone. His money and position bulwarked his attitude.

Jeff grinned and replied, "Grant understated it a little."

The Colonel switched his frown to Jeff. "Have you been drinking?"

It was not unusual for the Colonel to treat Jeff like a small boy even though Jeff towered over him and this was one of the fool questions the old man was always asking. Jeff replied recklessly, feeling a moment of bravery. "Only what they've been putting in my hand."

Grant Copeland broke the tension by rushing up and seizing the Colonel's hand. "Colonel," he said, beaming and pumping the old man's hand vigorously, "I was afraid you weren't going to make it." He looked briefly at the Colonel, then let his eyes virtually play over Maria, taking in her full length with long, caressing looks.

Grant brushed aside Jeff's attempt to an introduction. "I already met your wife. At your office. Do you think I'd ever forget anyone as pretty as she is? What can I fix for you, honey?"

Jeff viewed Grant's attitude as bordering on mental adultery. He thought he might as well come right out and ask Maria to go to bed with him.

Maria glanced hesitantly at Jeff. He gave her no help. He was angered by her dress, angered that he had to be at this party in the first place, and now he was angered at Grant Copeland's leers and quite obvious demeanor. Maria looked like a woman made for love, but the truth was that she did not know the meaning of the word.

"Bourbon and coke," she murmured, glancing at her father. Then quickly added, "Weak please."

Grant gave her a knowing wink, then said, "Colonel?"

"Something nonalcoholic. My stomach's been acting up."

Grant Copeland was sympathetic of the Colonel's upset stomach. He had to be. Colonel Drake was his biggest customer.

"Jeff," said Grant, "introduce the Colonel and Maria around while I get the drinks." He was talking to Jeff, but his eyes were on Maria.

Obediently, Jeff led his wife and father-in-law around the room. He could not remember a single name. He did not care, nor did anyone else. One man was tracing a woman's throat line with his lips while one hand toyed with the hem of her skirt and the other rested on her breast. Jeff saw the disgust steal into Maria's face and he found himself taking pleasure in her look. He felt a malicious enjoyment in deliberately steering her about, seeking out couples who were amorously entwined. It might do her good to see how other women could loosen up, he thought. Thaw some of that ice in which she seemed permanently encased.

At the far end of the room, Peggy Copeland was waiting for them. The Colonel took her hand and said, "My pleasure, Mrs. Copeland. You have a beautiful place. Your husband and I do a lot of business together." The two simple statements were connected, the Colonel slyly letting her know it was some of his money that had made at least a portion of the Copeland house possible.

"I know," Peggy said. She and Maria surveyed each other, eyes serious in their appraisal. They reminded Jeff of two cats, circling each other warily. "I think he has hopes of expanding his business, possibly into another channel," Peggy said, and walked away.

"I don't like her," Maria said flatly.

"That figures," Jeff mumbled. "There aren't two women in the world who like each other." As for himself, he had trouble trying to figure Peggy out. He felt as though she were laughing at him out of some secret wisdom.

Sipping his soft drink, the Colonel frowned heavily at the drunken revelry in the room. Jeff, glancing at his father-in-law, figured he would be good for only another ten minutes or so at the party. The depth of the old man's frown indicated time was growing short.

His guess overshot the mark by five minutes. The Colonel put down his glass. "My God, I can't stand this noise any longer. I'll make my apologies to Grant. You two stay a little longer, if you like. There's no sense offending him."

Maria wanted to leave with her father, but he wouldn't hear of it. "It won't hurt you to stay," he snapped as he marched off.

Jeff saw Grant come out from behind the bar and escort the Colonel up the stairs. Glancing at his wife, Jeff realized how much he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. The desire raced through him like a surging tide. He twirled the empty glass in his hands, looking down at it longingly.

"You've been drinking too much," Maria said sternly.

Oh, damn, he mourned inwardly. She was in one of her critical moods tonight. She would condemn everything he said or did. That was typical of her, her pattern. Find something that irritated her, then work it to the hilt. Nice.

"Not half enough," he muttered. "I can still hear and see."

She pursed her lips as she looked at him scornfully. "I don't like these people," she remarked primly.

That was typical, too. She did not like very many people. Maybe nobody, for all he knew. Outside of her immediate family, he could not think of anyone she really cared for, not even him. At least that is the impression he got.

"Oh, they're just having a little fun, Maria. Maybe we ought to try it sometime."

She flashed an annoyed glance at him. Before she could say anything, Grant came back down the stairs. His house had a huge basement which he had converted into a virtual ballroom.

"Hey, Grant," someone called, "When does the real fun start?"

"I'm ready, if everyone else is," Grant replied. He rubbed his hands.

A swelling chorus of approval met his suggestion. Couples stood up and separated, some quite reluctantly-the men going to one side of the room; the women, to the other.

"We've got two newcomers," Grant announced over the subsiding din. "We'll have to tell them how to play the games."

One of the men, a pudgy, round little man at the end of the line, called out. "Put them on their own. They'll find out soon enough." He leered at Maria. Maria returned his look stonily.

Jeff thought Maria was going to refuse to join in the game. It was not like her to be for anything. Against, always against. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "You heard what the Colonel said. We don't want to get him sore at us."

As Maria reluctantly walked across the room, a voice suddenly whispered in his ear. "My husband told me you were real important. So I guess it's all right for tonight-and he gets your icebox of a wife."

Jeff whirled. It was Peggy Copeland.

Peggy looked at Maria, then at Jeff. Peggy's face was filled with a sort of indescribable glee, as though she were running a dagger into Maria's lush body.

The knife-point of perception pierced the fog of Jeff's liquor-fogged mind. This was no ordinary parlor game, he began to realize. There was too much hungry expectancy in the male faces. And on the female faces, too.

There was a heavy drama unfolding that Jeff felt helpless to stop. It was only moments, but in those brief moments, Jeff felt an uneasiness creep through him that he could not explain.

Grant Copeland had stepped to tine center of the room. "When I turn out the lights, go find your opposite. You've all had a chance to look everyone over so you should have made up your mind by now. If you haven't, just poke around in the dark and find someone." He laughed raucously, something like an asthmatic hyena, Jeff thought. "If you get a hold of your own husband or wife, start over." He paused for a moment, then added. "And one more thing, you people all know how we operate. So if you happen to get a hold of someone of the same sex, well that's the way it goes."

Jumpin' Jesus! Jeff had heard of parties like this. Key parties they had called them once. He never dreamed he would ever be right in the middle of one, though. His mind was fuzzy, his thinking the same. He did not know if he should grab Maria and run or just wait around to see what happened.

"Everybody ready?" Grant called out loudly, glancing quickly at Maria as he backed slowly toward the wall. His hand crept toward the light switch.

Jeff had a moment to glance toward Peggy Copeland. That strange glee was still on her face. She reached down and lifted the hem of her dress. She raised it slowly, deliberately. Jeff watched in fascination as the dress rose higher and higher. She had lovely legs, wonderfully long, beautifully proportioned. He waited for her panties to come into view. He seemed momentarily hypnotized.

"Jeff!" Maria called.

He looked at his wife. She was deathly white. He saw her body sway.

"Hold it!" he yelled to Grant. "My wife's sick."

He put his arm around her to steady her. They had not gotten into line like the others, having remained glued to the spot when Grant Copeland had begun his speech.

"Get me out of here!" Maria whispered fiercely.

They moved toward the stairs. Grant blocked the way, protesting. "Wait a minute, Jeff ... "

"Get the hell out of the way!" Jeff snarled.

Grant looked at Jeff's face for a split second, then quickly moved aside. There was a look of puzzlement and hurt in the contorted features.

They were half-way up the stairs when the hooting and derision began. Insulting remarks were flung after them. Jeff tried to sift them out, still wondering what had taken place, and so quickly. "Maybe he hasn't shown her what it's for yet," and "They're going home to ask the Colonel if it's all right," and "I was looking forward to having that big rod of his in me," and yet more.

The lights went out just as they reached the top of the stairs. Sounds of raw, animal passion floated up the stairwell. Jeff felt the insidious, demanding pull of lust, the inner passion come alive inside him, tugging at him, trying to make him turn around and bolt down the stairs. He heard a woman scream in abandoned delight. He shivered, a haunting kind of inner tremor that brought a peculiar taste to his mouth.

Maria jerked his hand. She did not speak. He moved out of the house with her. When they were in the car, she said, "You actually liked that, didn't you? You wanted to stay."

God, how he wanted to tell her the truth! The open wantonness intrigued him. A flash of a naked Peggy Copeland rushed through his brain. A naked Cissy, too. He drank in the sight of luscious, naked female bodies in that instant while he prepared an answer for his cold wife. He saw golden mounds with dark circle and raised nipples in the center. He could almost taste them. He thought of spread legs with hair-covered cunts and how the silky hair would feel to his lips.

"No," he managed at last. "It took me by surprise is all. I didn't realize what was going on." But his mind was entangled in a forest of female legs and buttocks and breasts and little patches of silky hair and he could almost smell the sweet aroma of the honey of love as he inhaled deeply.

"In your condition, it's a wonder you even had enough sense to stand on your feet. I saw you ogling that awful Copeland woman," she said furiously.

Jeff's calm demeanor turned into an anger of its own. "You've got to admit she's got nice tits though, don't you?" he chided. "Sort of gives a guy an appetite."

"Must you be so ... vulgar?"

"You don't know how vulgar I'd like to be sometimes," he clipped. "But I don't want to argue with you tonight, Maria."

She had needed him a few moments ago, someone to hang onto, to remove her from an unpleasant situation. He had responded. Maybe she, in turn, would respond to him, to his need. A slight tremor of anticipation ran through him. He knew talking about it would do no good, but he held her hand almost all the way home. Although there seemed to be a steady flow of electric passion from his hand to hers, there was no response from this minor gesture of affection; he consoled himself with the fact that she did not pull her hand away altogether.

He let her in ahead of him, then followed her into the living room. "Maria, you know I've never looked at another woman," he said plaintively.

Her expression softened. She traced a finger along his jawbone. "Yes, I know it, Jeff. I'm sure of that."

It was her first overt act of tenderness in almost a month. Hope sprung up inside him. He said hoarsely, "Maria." He reached for her.

She backed away. "Tonight has given me a splitting headache. I've got to take something for it. And the liquor on your breath doesn't help any, either." The softness had disappeared from her eyes.

He fixed himself two drinks as he waited for her to return from the bathroom. The anger was building in him again. She was always eluding him on one pretext or another. Headaches were number one on the list.

He put down his glass as the door opened. Buttoning her robe over her full breasts, she came out of the bathroom. He caught her hands and said, "You don't have to button that. In fact, you don't even need the robe."

She seemed more startled than evasive. Her eyes opened wide and she struggled to free her hands. "No, Jeff ... please."

"Come on, Maria, relax."

"You expect me to relax after what I've been through tonight? Never!" When she said "never" he knew the game was lost, for the word was coated with ice-and finality.

"Oh, Maria, for Christ's sake!" he blurted. Then, almost pouting, he added, "I have rights, you know. I could force you."

"Force? Hah! You go right ahead and try ... just try!"

Jeff had learned his lesson about using force on her. It was a total disaster. It had been like making love to a dead person. No joy, no satisfaction. Only dull, unemotional, mechanical orgasm that seemed a complete waste as the spasms were brief and almost painful. What was most painful, however, was the fact that she had tortured him for a full two weeks-to the day-as though she had set up a prearranged penalty program for him. After that, he had never tried it again. She had won. Any little excuse now was good enough to wave him off, to dampen his emotions.

Staring at her now, he saw her as she was ... a frigid woman. Until this moment he had lived in the misdirected hope that things would get better. Four years was a long time for a man to carry around such a burden. He saw now there was no more hope.

Yes, she had won. Triumph moved her face and it seemed to glow with the inner victory. "Maybe tomorrow I'll feel a little better," she said. She closed the door of her bedroom behind her. He heard the click of the lock. That was all he could ever expect from her-a promise that was never fulfilled. The house was suddenly stifling. He picked up the whiskey bottle, then put it down. If he stayed here, he would drink himself into a stupor.