Tamara & Tenille II
Boring," I say, setting my wine glass down on the granite countertop with a sharp clink. The condensation weeps onto the stone. Through the kitchen window, the afternoon sun glares off the driveway, blinding and white.
"They'll spend all afternoon with Tristan's golf gear in the garage. Sorting drivers like they're sorting diamonds. Wiping down clubs that are already clean."
Tenille leans against the island, her arms crossed under her chest, pushing up the soft, tanned mounds of her cleavage. She watches the men through the glass, too. Trent and Tristan are already out there, the garage door yawning open, swallowing them into the shadowy mouth of the workspace.
Boxes of sports equipment are scattered around their feet like holy icons.
"Uh, uh, honey," Tenille says, a smirk curling her lipstick-red mouth. She turns to me, her eyes sparking with a mischief that makes my stomach tighten. "I have a plan."
She pushes off the counter, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor. "Follow me."
We retreat to the master bedroom, the air conditioning humming a cool, artificial breeze against my skin. Tenille opens her closet, revealing a rack of clothes that looks more like a high-end boutique than a suburban wardrobe. She pulls out a black latex bodysuit, shining in the dim light, and tosses it onto the bed.
"We need power," she says, stripping off her casual sundress without a shred of self-consciousness. Her body is a landscape of curves and surgical enhancements, expensive and flawless.
"Power dressing. Heels. Garters. The works."
I nod, the heat already flushing my neck and chest. I peel off my yoga pants and t-shirt, standing in just my panties. Tenille hands me a pair of sheer, black thigh-high stockings with intricate lace tops. The fabric is whisper-thin, cool against my fingertips.
We dress in silence, the only sounds the rustle of fabric and the snap of elastic. I roll the stockings up my legs, smoothing out the wrinkles until they sit tight against my thighs.
The feeling is instantly erotic—the constriction, the friction against my skin. I fasten the black silk garter belt around my waist, the clips biting slightly into my flesh as I attach them to the stockings.
Tenille steps into her bodysuit, peeling it up her legs and over her hips. It squeaks as she pulls it tight, accentuating the arch of her back and the swell of her ass. She turns, watching me in the full-length mirror as I step into my own pair of black leather pumps. The heels are six inches of needle-thin steel, arching my feet until my calves are taut and trembling.
"Perfect," she murmurs, stepping into her matching stilettos. She towers now, an amazon in black leather and latex.
"Now, let's go interrupt their playdate."
We walk through the house, the sound of our heels on the tile—click, click, click—announcing our arrival like a drumbeat. The scent of our perfume, something heavy with jasmine and musk, trails behind us.
The garage is cooler, smelling of motor oil, rubber, and dried grass. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a stark, clinical light on the scene. Trent and Tristan are in the centre of the concrete floor, surrounded by golf bags and scattered headcovers. They are wearing polo shirts and khakis, the epitome of suburban boredom.
They look up at the sound of our entrance. Their eyes widen, jaws going slack as they take us in. Tenille and I stand shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, framed by the sunlight, legs for miles, stockings gleaming, heels sharp enough to cut glass.
"What the..." Trent starts, but his voice dies in his throat.
"Strip," Tenille says. Her voice drops an octave, losing its friendly lilt and becoming something hard, insisting on being followed to the word.
Tristan is the first to move, his hands flying to his belt buckle, the metal clinking as he unhooks it. Trent follows, his eyes locked on my legs, specifically the leather of my pumps. They shed their clothes quickly, shirts tossed onto workbenches, pants kicked aside. Soon, they stand naked, their cocks already beginning to thicken and rise in the cool air.
We stalk toward them, our heels echoing off the concrete walls. I circle Trent, while Tenille moves on to Tristan. The men stand still, breathing shallowly, their muscles twitching in anticipation.
"Kneel, boys."
Trent drops to his knees, the concrete surely hard against his skin, but he doesn't flinch. I step forward, placing the pointed toe of my leather pump directly on his chest, right over his heart. I press down, feeling the hard beat of his heart against the sole of my shoe. The leather is smooth and unyielding.
Next to me, Tenille has her foot planted squarely on Tristan's shoulder, forcing him to arch his back. She drags the sharp heel down his pectoral muscle, leaving a faint red scratch in its wake. He shudders, his eyes closing.
"Look at you," I say, dragging my foot down Trent's torso, tracing the definition of his abs with the tip of my shoe. "So bored with your clubs. But you're not bored now, are you?"
"No," Trent breathes, his eyes fixed on the black leather pressing into his stomach.
"Good." I slide my foot lower, grazing the coarse hair of his pubic region before resting the arch of my shoe against the base of his cock. He's fully hard now, the shaft jutting out angrily, desperate for contact.
Tenille laughs, a low, throaty sound. She hooks her heel behind Tristan's knee, pulling his leg wider. "Open up," she orders.
She lifts her foot, hovering the stiletto over his face. "Suck."
Tristan leans forward, his hands bracing on the concrete behind him. He sticks out his tongue, lapping at the leather toe of Tenille's shoe like a dog. He takes the point of the shoe into his mouth, his lips stretching around the leather, sucking on it with a wet, hungry noise.
I watch for a second, the heat pooling between my thighs, before turning my attention back to Trent. "You too," I say. "Show me how much you love these heels."
Trent doesn't hesitate. He grips my ankle, his hands warm and calloused, and lifts my foot to his mouth. He runs his tongue along the arch, tasting the leather, the dust of the floor, the salt of my skin. He kisses the heel, then takes my toes, encased in sheer nylon, into his mouth one by one. He sucks on the big toe, his tongue swirling around the digit, pressing the nylon against my skin. The sensation is strange and electric—wet heat through the fabric.
"Look at him," Tenille says, watching her husband worship her foot. "Such a greedy little slut for it."
She pulls her foot away from his mouth with a wet pop and lowers it to his cock. Tristan's dick is thick and veined, the head dark purple with blood. Tenille uses the sole of her shoe to slap it lightly—thwack, thwack. Tristan groans, his hips bucking forward.
I follow her lead. I pull my foot from Trent's mouth, the nylon glistening with his spit. I press the sole of my pump against the shaft of his cock, sandwiching it between my shoe and his stomach. I begin to rub, the leather providing a slick, smooth friction. Trent gasps, his head falling back.
"Fuck," he hisses.
I work the arch of my foot up and down his length, the leather sliding effortlessly over his skin. I can feel the pulse of his heartbeat through the sole of my shoe. It's a power trip, controlling him completely with just my foot, reducing him to a writhing mess on the garage floor.
Tenille is doing the same, using both feet now, trapping Tristan's cock between her arches and jerking him off with a rhythmic, merciless pace. The sound of leather on skin fills the garage, a squeaky, rhythmic friction that mixes with the men's heavy breathing.
"Enough," Tenille says abruptly, pulling her feet away. Tristan whimpers at the loss of contact, his cock twitching in the air. "Let's swap."
She steps over to Trent, her heels clicking on the concrete. I move toward Tristan. The switch sends a fresh wave of arousal through me. Tristan is bigger, more muscular, his chest heaving. His cock is longer than Trent's, curving slightly to the left.
I drop to my knees in front of him, the concrete digging into my skin through the sheer nylon. The smell of him is intense—musk, sweat, and the faint tang of pre-cum. I grip his thighs, feeling the hard muscle under my palms.
"Open wide, Tamara," Tenille purrs from behind me. I can hear her sinking to her knees in front of Trent without looking.
I lean in and inhale deeply, taking in the scent of Tristan's arousal. I stick out my tongue and press it flat against the base of his cock, right above the balls. I lick a long, slow stripe up the underside of the shaft, tracing the thick, ropey vein that runs the length of him. The skin is velvety soft, hot to the touch, but the muscle underneath is rock hard.
I reach the head, the glans flared and smooth. A bead of clear fluid wells up at the slit. I lap it up, tasting the salty bitterness. It's delicious.
I take the head into my mouth, my lips stretching to accommodate the width. I suck hard, my cheeks hollowing, creating a vacuum that makes Tristan's hips jerk off the floor. I use my tongue to swirl around the ridge of the corona, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves where the head meets the shaft.
"Fuck, yes," Tristan groans, his hand tangling in my hair.
I pull back, letting his cock fall from my mouth with a wet sound. A string of saliva connects my lower lip to the tip of his dick. I look up at him, his eyes glazed over, his mouth open.
I go back down, this time taking him deeper. I relax my throat, breathing through my nose, and slide him until the head hits the back of my tongue. I gag slightly, the reflex triggering tears in the corners of my eyes, but I push past it. I want him all the way down.
I bob my head, establishing a rhythm. Up, down, up, down. My hand wraps around the base of his shaft, twisting in opposition to my mouth. I can feel his balls drawing up tight against his body, heavy and hairy in their sack.
I release his cock and dip my head lower. I take his left ball into my mouth, rolling the testicle over my tongue with firm pressure. It's a strange, egg-shaped object, firm and vulnerable. I suck on it, pulling it away from his body slightly, listening to his breath hitch. I repeat the action with the right one, bathing them in spit, coating the coarse hair with my fluids.
"Make him beg for it, Tamara," Tenille's voice cuts through the air. I glance sideways; she has Trent's cock deep in her throat, her nose buried in his pubic hair. She's gagging loudly, spit dripping down her chin onto her latex bodysuit. Trent is gripping her head, fucking her face frantically.
I pull back from Tristan's balls and return to his cock. He's leaking profusely now, the pre-cum flowing in a steady stream. I use the fluid as lube, stroking him with my hand while I tease the frenulum—that little V-shaped spot on the underside—with the tip of my tongue. I flick it rapidly, back and forth, like a metronome.
"Ah, fuck, I'm gonna cum," Tristan gasps, his thighs tensing under my hands.
I stop instantly. I pull my mouth away and release his cock, sitting back on my heels.
"No," he whimpers, his hips thrusting into the empty air. "Please, Tamara."
"Not yet," I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "We're just getting started."
I wait a moment, letting the peak of his arousal subside just enough to take the edge off. His breathing slows, though his cock still throbs angrily, purple and desperate.
Then, I dive back in. This time, I use my teeth. I graze them lightly along the sensitive skin of his shaft, scraping gently from the base to the tip. He hisses, a mix of pleasure and pain. I bite down softly on the head, squeezing the glans between my front teeth.
"Jesus Christ," he groans.
I take him deep again, fast and hard. I fuck him with my mouth, using my throat like a cunt. I can feel the thick veins of his cock rubbing against my lips. I hum, sending vibrations through his shaft.
He's getting close again. I can feel it in the way his balls tighten, in the way his breathing turns ragged. I grip the base of his cock hard, squeezing with my thumb and forefinger to stem the flow.
"Stop," I command, pulling off.
He lets out a frustrated roar, his head slamming back against the concrete floor. "You're killing me."
I smile, a wicked, predatory curve of my lips. "Good."
I edge him three more times. Bringing him to the brink with a flurry of tongue and suction, then denying him the release, leaving him panting and sweating on the cold floor. His entire body is trembling, his muscles coated in a fine sheen of sweat.
Beside me, Tenille is doing the same to Trent. The air in the garage is thick with the smell of sex—sweat, spit, and pre-cum. The sounds are wet and sloppy, the gagging and moaning echoing off the walls.
Finally, I decide he's had enough. I want to taste him. I want to drain him completely.
I take Tristan's cock into my mouth one last time, but this time I don't stop. I suck with a ferocity I didn't know I possessed. I stroke his shaft with my hand in time with the bobbing of my head, twisting my wrist on the upstroke.
"Fuck, Tamara, I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."
I moan around his dick, urging him on. I feel the first spasm deep in his core. His cock pulses against my tongue.
And then, it happens.
The first rope of cum hits the back of my throat with force. It's hot, thick, and salty. I swallow instinctively, but he's not done. His cock jerks again, a second blast coating my tongue. I pull back slightly, wanting to taste it, to feel the texture.
He cums in slow motion. I watch his face contort, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth opening in a silent scream. The vein on the side of his neck throbs visibly. His hips buck upward, driving his cock deeper into my mouth.
The third pulse is weaker, but the volume is incredible. My mouth is flooded. The fluid is viscous and heavy, coating my teeth and gums. It leaks out the corners of my mouth, running down my chin and dripping onto my chest, splattering against the black latex of my top.
I feel the heat of it on my skin. I feel the rhythmic contraction of his urethra against my lower lip as he pumps the seed out of his body. It's a primal, violent release. His whole body shudders, the muscles in his abdomen rippling like waves.
He keeps cumming, smaller spurts now, just dribbles of milky fluid that mix with the massive pool already in my mouth. I hold it there, savoring the taste—the brine, the bitterness, the sheer masculinity of it. I look up at him, my eyes wide, showing him the white pool resting on my tongue.
Tristan looks down at me, his chest heaving, his eyes unfocused and glassy. He sees his cum in my mouth and groans, a low, broken sound.
I swallow. It's a big gulp, the thick fluid sliding down my throat in a warm, heavy lump. I lick my lips, cleaning off the residue, then scoop the splatters off my chest with my fingers, sucking them clean one by one.
Beside me, Trent is crying out, his own release triggering. Tenille milks him, her hand flying over his shaft, aiming his cum onto her waiting tongue and face.
The garage falls silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of four people spent and satisfied. The smell of cum is overpowering, hanging in the stagnant air.
I sit back on my heels, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. My knees ache, my jaw is sore, and my pussy is throbbing with a need that hasn't been touched yet. But looking at Tristan, sprawled out on the concrete, looking utterly wrecked, I know this was worth it.
"Happy anniversary," I whisper, my voice hoarse.
Tristan laughs weakly, reaching out a hand to stroke my hair. "Best... golf game... ever."