Linda Alvarez, Lacey Savage, Cheyenne Blue, Carol Queen, Elspeth Potter, Nalo Hopkinson, Catherine Lundoff, Olivia London, Isabelle Gray, Shanna Germain, Kate Dominic, Lawrence Schimel, Susan St Aubin, Maxim Jakubowski, Marilyn Jaye Lewis, Andrea Dale, K.D. Grace, Kristina Wright, Dorianne, Kendra Wayne, Nick Mamatas, David Findlay, Kate Dominic, Lisabet Sarai, Saskia Walker, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sommer Marsden, Kris Cherita, Matthew Addison, Cecilia Tan, Jacqueline Applebee, Alana Noel, Achy Obejas, Mary Anne Mohanraj, Lewis DeSimone, Carol Queen, Adriana V. Lopez

The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

Introduction

Whether or not we’ve ever actually had sex with more than one person at a time, I’d be very surprised if it’s not something just about everyone has fantasized about at some point. For many of us, I have no doubt that it’s a fantasy to which we return, in one variation or another, again and again.

For me, the thrill lies in being the focus of so much attention — sexual attention — and, in the realm of make-believe at least, the more the merrier. Three is decidedly not a crowd, and nor is more.

Unfortunately, the reality of these encounters seldom lives up to the fantasy. I think this is mostly because a sexual relationship between just two people is already sufficiently complicated, without the exponentially increasing complications brought by each additional lover. The chances of being with two or more other people and everyone being sexually attracted to each other, and in the mood for sex, are — let’s face it — generally very slim indeed.

This book makes no claim to being a guide to how to “open up” your relationship, or otherwise engage in group sex. However, many of these stories may very well inspire you to try something similar — with your partner, if you have one (or partners, if you have two or more), or by finding a couple (or group) if you’re solo.

These stories explore different variations of the menage a trois and group sex in erotic fantasies from diverse writers — some male, some female — who conjure for us from their intimate imaginations almost every possible permutation of sex between more than two people. More than simply who is taking part, however, and what they are doing to each other, these writers explore, most importantly, why their characters are having sex.

This anthology contains a greater number of longer stories than any other collection I have edited. Partly this is due to the sheer size of a Mammoth book, which allows for much greater scope than a standard collection printed with fewer pages to keep costs down. A Mammoth undoubtedly provides a much broader canvas on which longer stories, and more of them, can be told. More importantly, though, the dynamics in a relationship between three or more people are complex and demand space to be set out and fully explored.

While I have chosen a few stories that are straightforward raunchy fantasies — sometimes we just need to get off, there and then — I have also selected some highly literary explorations of menages a trois or group sex, which are emotionally insightful, beautiful and — sometimes — heartlessly cruel.

Sometimes, in these tales, an additional partner is included in the context of a “traditional” relationship between two people — either as a one-off to act out a certain fantasy or celebrate a special moment, or as a more permanent arrangement.

Sometimes the sex is spontaneous, a welcome surprise for those involved, who embrace the pleasure that’s offered to them; at other times it is premeditated, a gift offered by one or more people, or something planned and longed for.

The stories come from a number of different sources: some were solicited from writers with whom I’ve worked before, or whose erotic writing I have read and admired; some were stories that I’d previously read and couldn’t forget; finally, some of the writers I’d invited to contribute recommended their own favourite stories, or writers. Even with quite so many pages to fill, there was no shortage of excellent material.

Finally, I made a public call for submissions to fill the last few slots, hoping to be pleasantly surprised, both in terms of subject matter and fresh, new writers. And I was delighted by the material I received, even if I did have to sift through a lot of chaff to get at the few golden kernels that lurked in the pile — a metaphor, in a way, for the search for additional sex partners and the intense thrill of unanticipated pleasure which success can bring.

These stories are fantasies. Sometimes, the fictional characters engage in behaviour that is unsafe in terms of sexually transmissible diseases. While I hope these stories turn you on, if you feel inspired to act out your own fantasies involving sex with multiple partners, I urge you to practise safer sex.

For now, though, follow these writers along their many winding paths of erotic adventures with multiple partners, and allow your imagination to be beguiled.

Linda Alvarez

Forgiveness

Lacey Savage

“You want to fuck another man, don’t you?”

My husband isn’t a great communicator. But whatever his faults — and he has many — I’ve never been able to accuse him of being anything less than direct.

That night, he might as well have asked whether I remembered to drop off his dry-cleaning, or if I’d paid the gas bill before the date came due. His face remained smooth, unperturbed, marked only by the fine lines that had just recently started to appear at the corners of his eyes. He waited for my response with the kind of fathomless patience he’d exhibited when attempting to housebreak our puppy, Sam. Alas, Sam never took to peeing anywhere but in people’s shoes, so we gave him away less than a month after rescuing him from the shelter. Richard had expected an eager, panting creature desperate to please. What he got was a stubborn animal.

Unfortunately for Sam, Richard already had one of those. And I was already housebroken.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I took a bite of my dry salad. In the booth behind me, a woman moaned after every bite of her fragrant lobster bisque.

I swallowed the mouthful of tasteless lettuce and cursed the stupid diet I’d decided to follow a week earlier. Seven days of eating like a gazelle, and I was no closer to fitting into my never-worn little black size four dress than I’d been when I could happily devour chocolate sundaes with whipped cream.

My mouth watered. Just then, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more than a dollop of rich whipped cream. Except maybe for my husband to stop talking. We’d always done better together when we didn’t speak.

“Don’t lie to me, Dana.”

I sighed and set my fork down. “You really want to talk about this, Richard? Now?” I indicated the restaurant around us with a sweep of my hand. From the sparkling chandelier that scattered fragmented golden light over my bland salad, to the affluent clientele dressed in tailored suits and skintight gowns adorned with glittering jewels, Antoine’s wasn’t the kind of place where a scene would go unnoticed.

As always, Richard had picked the restaurant. He read a stellar review in last weekend’s Times and decided it would be the perfect spot for us to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. I agreed, already fantasizing about showing up in a black, backless little number that barely came down to mid-thigh. I pictured myself two sizes thinner, fabric draped around my curves like a second skin. I wanted to be the hottest woman here. A goddess, a sex kitten. The object of every man’s fantasy.

All right, so my dreams have never been rooted in reality. If I’d realized that happily-ever-after endings were as unlikely as fat-free chocolate cake, I never would have walked down the aisle.

Besides, it was either go to the fancy restaurant, or tell Richard I’d rather stay home in my pyjamas with a carton of ice cream and the vibrator I hid in the refrigerator crisper.

“Why not?” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with the white linen napkin before setting it back on his lap. “You won’t discuss sex at home.”

“You never ask about it at home.”

“You never talk to me at home.”

I pursed my lips, instantly on the defensive. So what if I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a civil conversation? I also couldn’t pinpoint exactly when we’d started leading separate lives, only that I liked it.

No. That wasn’t quite right. I’d grown used to it. I told myself that it was well past time I put my childish ideas about love and marriage behind me and came to terms with the fact that married couples ignored each other, slept on their side of the bed careful not to touch, and bickered when someone failed to replace the toilet paper roll.

“What if I let you?”

I paused with a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth. The mini tomato I’d speared fell off and rolled on to the floor. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What if you let me do what?”

Richard leaned forward, elbows on the table, dark eyes spearing mine. “Don’t play coy with me, Dana. I’m smarter than you think.”

“I-”

“Save it. I saw the way you eyed the waiter when he walked over here. You stared at his crotch like he’d hidden an icecream cone down his pants. It’s shameful, really. He must be half your age.”

“Asshole,” I said pleasantly, reaching for my glass of champagne. “If you’re considering a mid-life crisis, leave me out of your kinky fantasies. I give you my blessing to buy a fast car and look up your secretary’s skirt.”

My voice hitched on that last bit, and Richard scowled. Just like that, I’d turned back the clock six years. Only it hadn’t been his secretary then; it had been his personal trainer. And he didn’t just look up her skirt. He’d burned a few extra calories fucking her on the fitness circuit after hours.

He stared at me, eyes black and hollow. “That was a long time ago. And you’re not going to believe a word I tell you anyway, so I don’t know why I bother.”

I shrugged, saying nothing.

Richard hesitated, cleared his throat. “Look, Dana … I don’t want to look up Amy’s skirt. I want to look up yours.” He reached across the table for my hand, and the touch of his warm fingers on my wrist made me jump. “Only you won’t let me.”

For a tenuous moment, my breath caught in my throat and I had no reply. I’d grown so used to avoiding Richard’s advances that I’d become an expert at it. Four years ago, I bought my first set of flannel pyjamas. I now owned twelve in different colours, all sporting playful kitten designs. They were the kind with thick elastic bands, and I wore granny panties beneath them. I stuck curlers in my hair and smeared green goo on my face before heading to bed. I’d done everything except tattoo “No Entry” on my crotch.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like sex. I thought of it constantly, wished for it incessantly. Nor was Richard’s appearance the problem. I’d thought him irresistible once. His thick hair had been black then and hung down to his shoulders; now he wore it cut short, and grey showed at his temples. His suit jacket hugged broad shoulders, and although he didn’t spend all his time at the gym like he once had, he still rose early to swim laps around the pool.

I waited for the urge to pull back my hand. For so long, the only reaction I had to my husband’s touch was stark, pulsing anger. Sometimes, the spark of fury ignited my imagination and I’d picture him fucking his whore. That’s when the slow burn of maddening rage would combine with sullen waves of revulsion to form the kind of temper that landed people in jail.

None of those turbulent responses came this time. Instead, the sultry warmth Richard’s fingers had kindled in my wrist shot up my arm. My nipples tightened, fuelled by the intensity in his gaze.

Left momentarily speechless, I licked my lips. He focused on them, parted his as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

When he finally spoke, his tone took on a sharp edge. “How long will you hold my mistake against me?” His grip tightened on my wrist. Pain flowered in a savage burst that chased the lingering flash of awareness from my skin. “Another year? Two? Twenty? I need to know.” He sucked in a breath. “I need to know, because if you won’t put the past behind us, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” I yanked my hand away and slammed my open palm on to the table. The silverware clattered. A few heads turned in our direction and I could hear curious murmurs from the diners around us. “Leave me? Fine, then. Leave me.”

He furrowed his brows and slanted a glance at our neighbours. “Why not?” His voice was a low, violent whisper that hit me with the force of a slap. “You left me long ago.”

Abruptly, Richard leaned back in his chair and signalled the waiter. “You want to punish me, Dana? You’ll do it tonight. You’re going to get it out of your system, teach me a lesson, show me the error of my ways. And in the morning, you’ll let me prove to you that I’ve spent the last six years regretting what I’ve done.”

The waiter hurried over, and I had to bite my tongue while he cleared our plates. Knowing Richard watched me, I looked the boy over again. He was young, maybe twenty-three, maybe slightly older. Dark stubble cast a shadow over his lean cheeks and square jaw. He’d slicked back his hair, allowing a light brown strand to escape and curl over his forehead for that 1950s movie star allure. He probably thought it made him look cool. I thought it only made him look younger.

I homed in on his behind as he walked away, admiring the smooth flex of the cheeks beneath the bulky fabric of his uniform pants. A sigh flew from my lips as I contemplated the myriad wicked things I could do to that ass if I only had a dollop of that whipped cream I’d been craving.

He disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, and I turned back. The Saturday night crowd was surprisingly loud for such a posh place, only Richard and I sat in silence, the weight of our stillness a marked contrast to the laughter and buzzing energy around us. I waited for him to say something first, to chastise my lecherous behaviour or let me in on his plan, but he simply watched me. The impulse to squirm in my seat made every muscle in my body coil with tension, but I didn’t move an inch.

Whatever happened, I was suddenly glad I hadn’t stayed home tonight. This evening would decide the fate of our marriage once and for all, and I was relieved to know the end was near. We couldn’t go on like this.

I couldn’t go on like this.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

I glanced up, startled. I hadn’t noticed the waiter approach.

“Yes. Hold up a minute.” Richard pulled out his wallet and opened it to reveal a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills.

I watched the waiter’s eyes widen. “I’ll bring your check.”

Richard smiled. It was a nasty, predatory smile that sent a shiver crawling down my spine and a rush of wanton anxiety pooling between my legs.

“This isn’t for the restaurant. It’s for you.”

The waiter’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. His gaze flicked from Richard to me.

I shrugged. I wanted to tell him that this was all for my benefit, that he was no more than a pawn in a game that would end badly for all of us. I didn’t, though. I took another sip of champagne and let the bubbles take the edge off my nerves.

He turned back to my husband. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s your name, son?” Richard asked, pocketing his wallet.

“Brent.”

Richard crooked his finger, beckoning Brent closer. The boy dropped to a crouch and leaned forwards, eyebrows raised in interest.

“Do you like women, Brent?”

The waiter’s smile faltered a little. Suspicion replaced the delight that had lit his eyes just moments earlier. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll get right to the point, then. How much do you make working here? Eight bucks an hour?”

“Nine fifty, sir.”

“Nine fifty … That’s not bad, Brent, not bad.”

Richard paused and looked over at me. My stomach tightened. Without tearing his gaze from mine, he said, in that same bland voice I was beginning to hate, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to sleep with my wife.”

Looking back, I can’t help but think it should have taken more convincing. More theatrics, maybe. I’d expected Brent to be shocked, and he was, but the surprise wore off quickly, the lure of cash dislodging any misgivings he might have had.

We didn’t even have to wait until Brent’s shift ended. He faked some sort of fast-acting illness and followed us out to the car, while the restaurant manager scowled and shouted orders to the other waiters to pick up the slack.

The drive home is a blur, fragmented by flashes of memory: Richard’s big hands cradling the smooth leather of the steering wheel; the minty scent of Brent’s breath from the back seat; New York’s city lights bouncing off the tinted windows of our BMW as we zoomed through Manhattan towards our loft. And my silk covered legs, crossing of their own accord, pressing down on the throbbing pressure building at the apex of my thighs.

The security guard in the lobby, a big black man whose uniform jacket was at least two sizes too small for his substantial muscles, nodded at Richard as the three of us whirled through the revolving doors. His gaze flicked over Brent, but he was too well trained to let his curiosity show.

While we stood in front of the bank of elevators waiting for the one that would take us to the penthouse, I leaned into Richard and whispered, “All right, you’ve made your point. Send the boy home.”

The only answer he gave me was a narrow, cryptic tilt of the lips and, as the elevator doors split open with a ding, a chill crept through my veins. He’d given me no reason to think he was bluffing, but I knew him. Richard coloured within the lines. He followed a set of rules that would make the morality police proud. Even when he cheated on me, I’m sure he did it missionary style and used a condom. Good Catholic boys everywhere would have been proud.

But this … this was different. For both of us.

Brent stepped into the elevator after Richard. When I hesitated, Richard grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me inside just before the doors closed in my face. His rough handling knocked me off balance, and I stumbled on my high heels, pitching forwards. I fell against Brent, who steadied me with a gentle hand.

“Whoa, careful, ma’am.”

I cringed and backed away until there was nowhere else to go. “Call me Dana, please.”