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  Risky Threesomes: 2 Women, 1 Man, 0 Rules

  No Limits Erotica, Volume 1

  Nadia Nightside

  Published by Midnight Publishing, 2015.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  RISKY THREESOMES: 2 WOMEN, 1 MAN, 0 RULES

  First edition. April 23, 2015.

  Copyright © 2015 Nadia Nightside.

  Written by Nadia Nightside.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Risky Threesomes: 2 Women, 1 Man, 0 Rules (No Limits Erotica, #1)

  Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

  Your opinion influences other readers and matters quite a bit to me! If you enjoyed this sexy story, please leave a review on Amazon and let others know what you thought. I want to write what you love!

  Further Reading: The Paid & Laid Series

  About the Author

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  * * * * *

  Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

  * * * * *

  Risky Threesomes: 2 Women, 1 Man, 0 Rules

  Looking at the screen before her, Anne felt a long drop in her stomach. Quite by accident, while performing her daily cleaning duties around the house, she started reading a message from her husband, Peter, to his best friend, Jerry.

  I feel like all our life is just about the baby now. And that’s great. That’s what it should be, right? The baby is important. And god knows Anne looks hot pregnant. She’s like, barely showing, except when she wants to. She’s still gorgeous—you know how she looks. Her face is just glowing all the time, and so she’s even prettier than before. And her ass is still so toned, and her tits, oh my god. Right? They’re bigger than ever, and they were already so huge.

  But no, it’s more complicated than just how she looks. I mean, she’s fine with me jerking off. Encourages it even. But she never really seems to initiate anymore. It’s got me bummed out. I’m just not sure how into it I am anymore. Into her. This whole relationship. If our sex life had a pulse, it would be on life support.

  Fuck, that sounds awful. I shouldn’t think like that.

  Anyway. Dumb shit I say. I'll talk to you later. I promise to cheer up.

  Tears sprung up unbidden from her eyes and she turned away from the laptop, closing it back down. She set down the dust spray and cloth she had in her hands, reaching for a tissue. Before she knew it, she was bawling openly at her husband's desk.

  “That bastard,” she hissed. “That bastard. That bastard!”

  She continued like this, the chant of “that bastard” resounding from her mouth over and over again, a sort of mantra to ride out the sweeping tide of hormones that pushed through her system. Slowly, after several minutes and several soaked tissues, she started to calm down, wiping her pretty face clean and sitting back in Peter’s desk chair. The chair rolled backward for a bit and she could not help but laugh. She was heavily pregnant now—nearly six months—and anything on rollers slid much more than it used to. She felt fat and flabby all the time, even though Tatiana assured her that she looked as hot as ever—if not hotter.

  Anne did have to admit she was keeping up very well in her prenatal yoga classes, and was eating healthier than ever, but she had already been a regular attendee to yoga before the pregnancy, and always had made a habit of eating well, so in a weird way she felt like that didn’t count.

  Anne worked as an graphics design artist, and had built enough goodwill and contacts in the community around her that she was able to make a steady income off of it. It had taken a few months of penny-pinching, of course, and for the first few weeks Peter scowled, never very much liking the idea of Anne working to support the household (as he, bless his heart, had some trouble at times expressing what he wanted without at least a little bit of frustration behind it). He was a man's man, and wanted to be the only one that she needed to depend on. Anne appreciated the feeling behind that—he just cared about her, and wanted to take care of her—but she was also her own person.

  As such, she worked from the home. Being a creative individual, she was prone to procrastination and self-loathing, as so many creative types often are, and frequently found herself dallying about the house, looking for messes to clean. This was how she had, in complete innocence, starting cleaning out the keyboard of her husband’s laptop. It wasn’t her fault that just because she had pressed a little too hard on the keyboard the computer went off sleep mode. And it certainly wasn’t her fault that curiosity struck her almost immediately, pulling her to find what the screen might reveal.

  She stood up from the desk and took a breath. Tears completely dry now, she walked toward a nearby wall, leaning forward to stretch her calves. A good little stretch always got her mind in order.

  Let’s try and view this from an objective perspective, she thought. There is a problem that exists, and it exists for both myself and Peter. As such, it was created both by myself and Peter, acting in tandem.

  Right? Okay.

  So, it’s not fair to place the blame solely on him, even if he is going off and yammering on to his friends about how apparently she was worthless as a wife, and...

  No. Nope! He didn’t say those things. He just said she didn’t initiate. That’s it! That’s the whole deal.

  He was rather complimentary of her, in his own way. Anne wasn’t exactly proud that her husband was bragging to his best friend about the set of tits on his wife, and her tight ass, but...

  Well. She sat up straighter. It did make her feel sort of nice. She spent half her time pregnant feeling like a house, so it was a welcome notion that her husband still objectified her appearance a little bit. You know, in the appropriate way. Bragging to a friend? That was okay by her.

  She couldn't have married a man like Peter, burly and brash and just a tad sexist, if she hadn't known he was going to want to view her in terms of appearance and ability as a housewife. She couldn't help it, really, if her knees melted when he took her in his thick, strong arms and called her a “babe” or a “beauty” or even some dirtier names that made her really squirm. It was just biology.

  Her tits were rather huge, she noticed, looking down. And keeping their shape, even this late into the pregnancy. They swelled against the tight white tank top she had on, her cleavage a valley of mythical proportions.

  An alarm dinged in the kitchen. Time for her afternoon vitamins.

  In a few moments she had taken the pill bottle off from the top
of the fridge and downed her daily supplement. She had a particular kind of vitamin deficiency that made it difficult for her to bear children naturally. Luckily, the doctors had caught it early—thus the pills.

  This week’s batch was different, with a whole new set of warnings and side-effects on the side. She hadn’t bothered much to read them. It was always the same—dryness, racing heartbeat, take with food and water, et cetera. Before, the pills had been in a plain white bottle, yellow with a small red trim. Now they were large—about the thickness of a pencil eraser and long as a paper clip—and purple.

  It was a Wednesday, so this was the third day of taking the new pills. They had seemed to be working quite fine. Her vim and vigor had never felt more vimorous or vigorous, she had joked to Tatiana. As they had every time she took the pills for the previous two days, she felt her blood starting to pulse a little quicker, her nipples becoming slightly erect behind her shirt.

  On the wall just past the kitchen was a photo, framed, of her in Peter's arms. It was on their honeymoon in the Ozarks, when they had rented a tiny cabin. He spent the entire five days fucking her rotten. She'd barely been able to walk. It was like now that they had been married, he felt free to unleash his masculinity on her. She worshiped him all week, sucking him off at a moment's notice, eager to show her hunk of a husband what a good wife she would make him.

  But after that, although they talked and tried, the passion had slowly...fled. Dissipated, maybe. Bit by bit, their sex life had gone down to almost zero, maybe one act a week between them. Sometimes, all that act ended up being was her cheering Peter on as he jerked off. He enjoyed that—hell, Anne enjoyed that—but it just wasn't the same as those first beautiful few weeks of marriage where she had let him know that she was little more than a whimpering, needy feminine wifepet who needed her man's strong arms and cock to feel right in the world.

  Was it any wonder, she thought suddenly, that he was feeling disillusioned? She was too.

  All her husband, her mate, was really asking, she realized, was for her to be a little more forthcoming. To make sure he didn’t have to masturbate for his only sexual output.

  Quite suddenly, the thought of him jerking off struck her as quite depressing—for her. All that spilled seed, not finding its way into her clearly fertile, life-giving, curve-filled body...

  As he intimated in the email, she had no trouble at all with Peter jerking off in bed beside her at night. Why not? He was horny, and she would be tired or just in a different mood. But now, thinking of him needing to cum, and her unable to help him...it seemed...unnatural. Her pregnant body swelled with needy hormones, manifesting in a physical desire to give every last drop of her husband’s cum a good, natural, warm home inside of her body one way or another. Mouth. Cunt. Asshole. She suddenly didn't care where, so long as it was in her.

  Yes, she could do that. She could make sure of it. That was in her power. The thought of Peter being dissatisfied with Anne terrified her. Nothing proposed a more absolute desolation of her soul, her entire being, than that. She needed her husband. She needed her man so that she could think straight. Her child needed a father.

  She would do anything to keep Peter happy.

  So, she thought again. I don’t initiate, is that it? I can fix that problem. I can fix it right away.

  * * * * *

  Work had been hard that day.

  Peter owned and operated a small construction firm on the outskirts of Alder City. With the success of the tech start-up companies in the city, and all the low mortgage rates offered to young couples, they were doing a booming business with building houses in the new suburbs around the city. His own house had been built by his very hands—a fact that, Anne had told him, made his wife feel very taken care of.

  Peter liked that, taking care of his wife. Letting her know that business was handled. When she had started up her own business, it had been a struggle not to become resentful. Didn’t she know he had everything well in hand? Didn’t she know there was nothing to fret over?

  But she did it to give herself something to do, and Peter could understand that easily enough. He was a busybody himself. That’s how he had come to be running a construction firm at the relatively young age of thirty-one. Lazy people didn’t run businesses.

  It was about seven in the PM when Peter finally drove up to his house and up the driveway. He already knew he would get an earful for the lateness of the hour. Anne had been getting more and more crabby lately at the end of the day, and he was already preparing his apologies.

  And wasn’t that some shit? He was out there trying to work and get home a payday for her, and she would be understanding but also inevitably annoyed that he wasn’t around, and annoyed that she didn’t really have much right to be annoyed. And he’d have to tell her that was all okay.

  Of course, that was all true before she got pregnant, but the extra hormones in her body had only increased these feelings of loneliness and desperation.

  Although, he thought briefly, the last two days she had been a little more affectionate, and a little less crabby. That was nice.

  Looking very much forward to seeing you tonight, Sir.

  That had been the message she sent to him earlier in the day, around five. He supposed he’d have to get used to such sarcasm. There was no way that Anne had meant it when she called him Sir. Not that he couldn’t daydream about such things anyway...

  For a while in their marriage, he'd thought she was truly into that. Calling him Sir. Calling him Master, even. But her interest faded, and he stopped bringing it up. It seemed to make them both uncomfortable when he pressed the issue.

  He sighed, stepping out of his car into the crisp night air. It was whatever. Part of being a partner. Not much price to pay for a beautiful wife. And god, she was beautiful. That face, with lips so full and plush, her eyes sparkled so beautifully when she smiled...and those tits, growing ever bigger by the day, preparing for their progeny’s arrival. And her hair! Whatever vitamins she was on were really doing their work on her hair. She was letting the golden locks grow longer and longer, not able to trouble herself with the extra visit to the hairdresser, and content with just tying it up in a ponytail most of the time. But when she let it down at night or early in the morning, he just wanted to take her close and hold her, to let her feel his hardness press against her thigh. Then, maybe, she'd whisper in his ear for her to take her, take her like she was born to be taken by a strong man, take her like she needed...

  He pushed the thoughts away.

  For maybe the seventy-sixth time, he reminded himself that he wanted to fix up the lawn this weekend. The weekend was a land of many such bastardized promises—a time of hope and renewal that was inevitably shortchanged by binging on woodworking and listening to podcasts in his garage, and not getting much of substance done outside of a few new carvings or pieces of furniture to sell at a craft sale.

  The way he thought he’d fix the lawn, in this case, was just to go to the hardware store and pick up some gravel and walkway stones. Gravel to make a path, after he’d dug out the grass. And then the stones to pave the way. Maybe they’d be in the shape of animals or something. Would the kid like that? Probably he’d like whatever they told him to like for a while. Or she. They didn’t know the sex yet, which was on purpose. They wanted it to be a surprise.

  Their home was small, but nice. A small tilted blue roof over three bedrooms (one was Anne’s office), a living room, a dining room, a bath and a half, and a kitchen with a nice sized pantry. Enough for a small family like they hoped to have. It had a considerable backyard, as Peter was always hoping to cash in on his desire to start a garden. The lot he built the house on had come with a barn, and a few months back he had finally cleared it out. That was a similar task to what putting down stones in the front yard was now—the sort of thing he had to remind himself about over and over until it was done. That was just the way he accomplished everything. It was frustrating, sometimes, for himself and others, but he took assuranc
e in knowing that it almost always came through.

  When he opened the door, what he expected to see was Anne fretting around in front of the kitchen, sorting through papers and arranging the trash to get ready to go out. It was a Wednesday, and Wednesday was the night they usually took care of that sort of thing.

  What he wasn’t expected to see was what he actually saw, which was his hot pregnant wife dressed in black-and-silver lingerie, complete with stockings, high heels, elbow-length gloves, and a tiny corset that somehow accentuated both her monumentally perfect bust and the gorgeous round belly she now possessed.

  Slowly, he shut the door. Whatever was about to happen, he didn’t want the neighbors to see.

  “Good evening, baby,” she moaned. “I’m so glad you’ve come home to me.”

  Peter gulped. His wife was looking...well, hot.

  She was always beautiful. Always. Like with any beautiful woman, that was really the first thing you noticed about her. It was certainly what he’d noticed about Anne first when he met her four years ago in college, at the college graduation party of a friend. But he had stuck with Anne because of her great compassion for others. She would drive through the night in the middle of an ice storm to help out a friend too drunk to drive—and had, without once complaining. Helping out others was both her reward and duty for operating in the world, she said.

  But right now...right now, she was simply hot. Like, model hot. Movie hot. Porn star hot. His cock pushed hard against his pants, wanting to come out instantly.

  She strutted toward him, her massive tits jiggling in hypnotic manner in her tight lingerie. God, when did she get this lingerie? He’d never seen her wear it before. In fact, he would have been hard-pressed to remember the last time he saw her wear lingerie at all. She was more of a sweat pants and tee shirt girl, which was fine by him, as all her pants and tees fit rather tightly on her slender, busty frame.