Menage with the Dragon Shifters Read online

  He cried out but remained still, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. Nova leaned in and ran his tongue over the slash.

  “Holy shit!” Soro watched with wide eyes as the deep gash healed almost immediately.

  They returned to their human forms. “Now you belong to us, and we belong to you. For eternity,” Lila explained.

  “Does this mean I’m now a dragon?”

  “Yes. It will take a few weeks for the change to take place, but you’ll know when it begins.”

  Nova came to stand next to him and placed his hand on his shoulder. “You did great!” He shouted the last word as his cock disappeared down Soro’s throat. His eyes were wide in surprise because Soro hadn’t yet taken him this way.

  Lila winked and knelt between Soro’s thighs, cupping his balls as she lowered her mouth to him. “You boys are insatiable, I swear!”

  Not much was said after that, so consumed were they with seeking and achieving pleasure. Pleasure so great they could never have imagined the happiness it would bring and how it would strengthen their bond. For they knew that as long as the others drew breath, they would never be alone.

  SURPRISE!

  I like providing my readers with a little extra content… because, who’s ever satisfied with one short story? As my gift to you, I’ve included another short story in this book. All you have to do is flip a couple pages until you get to the next story. Consider this as my way of sharing my appreciation for you choosing to read my stories. Thanks!

  “As a thanks for checking out my book, I’d like to give you access to my Fiction Insider’s List, along with a FREE eBook! As soon as I come out with another hot & sexy new-release or have a book sale, you’ll be the first to know!” – Celia Styles

  (Simply Click the Link Below)

  2 Hot Guys – 2 Hot Girls – One Woman’s Pleasure - Enough Said

  By Celia Styles

  Once a month, Janet Cleary hosts a “Martini Morning”, where all of the bored suburban housewives get together, gossip, and drink. We tell our husbands that it’s a book club, but in reality the only book that gets discussed is Fifty Shades, mostly because it’s the only book that makes more sense the more drunk you get.

  Janet’s house is the biggest in the neighborhood: the neighborhood being the suburban paradise of Wild Flower Meadows, full of nice large lush green lots, McMansions with faux-Tudor exteriors and earth-tone interiors, where the smallest car is a Nissan crossover and the status is determined by who crafts the most elaborate bento box for their child. Well, maybe not the last—after all, I wasn’t the only childless one in the group—but there was definitely a certain degree of oohing and ahhing over what you posted on Pinterest. Janet, with her pixie haircut and Julia-Roberts smile, was thankfully not into bento boxes but she did decorate her house every Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and made all of her baked goods from scratch.

  On this particular morning, I was one of six other women there, sitting on the plushy soft couches of what was called the “rec room”. The ottoman held a large, clear plastic tray, which held the martini mix and vodka, in case martinis at noon wasn’t strong enough for you. Another bowl held pimento-stuffed olives, while yet another contained little pickled onions. The room was large and spacious, airy and kissed with sunlight—and despite it all I felt cramped. I’d somehow gotten stuck with Jessica Riley as a conversation partner. Jessica and I were complete, polar opposites—she was blockbuster, I was art house; she was a vegan, I liked my steaks rare and bloody. She had the body of a walking stick; my curves were the definition of "luscious". We were friendly enough—she, at least, wasn’t obnoxious about being a vegan or about her pet causes (she volunteered at the SPCA)—but having a conversation was like trying to talk to the dead.

  Marley Hennig, my best friend, was across the room chatting with Gary, the only guy in the group—not gay, alas. Gary was a new stay-at-home dad who’d been invited to our group by Sarah Jacobson; we felt bad for him, mostly. Their newborn cried all night and slept all day, to hear him tell it, and indeed, the little worm-faced creature was asleep in the carrier, while Gary, wearing a five o’clock shadow the way most women wear eyeliner, seemed relieved to be having a conversation that wasn’t about diaper blowouts or spit up. Marley wasn’t classically beautiful, but she used to dance professionally, so in addition to her expressive eyes she knew how to move herself and speak through her body as well. The effect was always strongest on guys—and those of us who were watching her conversation with Gary were quite amused—but I noticed myself falling under her spell, too.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Jessica said, pouting.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, blinking. “I was just thinking about the martinis.”

  “You should really try the ones at Milligan’s,” she said, smiling. Or pretending to smile. I couldn’t tell. It was all the same in suburbia: pretending to be perfect was just as taxing as being perfect, so you might as well be perfect.

  It was another dull Martini Morning, but I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to go. In about another hour, when the booze started working its magic, we’d all start with complaining about our husbands—going through each of their faults in mind-numbing detail. "He always leaves his socks in the hallway!" one of us would say. And the others would chime in with, "Mine does that, too!" or "At least it's not his underwear!" and we'd all pretend to be scandalized. Because despite the space we had around and between our houses, the pseudo-wildlife in the park, and the Starbucks just ten minutes away, living in the suburbs was a stifling existence. The conformity it brought was comforting for a while--but when you realized you'd been trapped, it was too late. The metaphorical fuzzy handcuffs turned out to be made of cold steel after all, and all you could do was brace yourself and wish it would be over soon.

  Still: getting drunk was cheaper than therapy, even though we all seemed to tacitly agree that talking about cheating husbands was taboo, because no matter what you said, people heard: She's a harpy, a shrew, who drove him away. She was too demanding, taking all and giving nothing, no wonder he looked elsewhere. So socks-in-the-hallway became a substitute for "strange receipt in the pocket", leaving the toilet seat up became an emotional code for "he never listens", and forgetting a birthday was a sign of impending marital doom.

  I was on my second martini, waiting for the booze to hit me, and I looked over at Gary. He was sitting alone again, and I was wondering where Marley went when she appeared in front of me, holding a glass with two olives. "Some morning, huh?" Marely asked, sitting down next to me. "Hi Janet." Marley pursed her lips and sucked the olive inside her mouth with a little pop. "What's wrong, babe?" she asked me.

  "Nothing," I said. "Just enjoying the view," I said, raising my eyebrows at her décolletage. Marley had a nice, svelte figure and wasn't shy about showing it off, and my staring at her was mostly out of a wish that I could get it together enough to wear something like that.

  Marley sighed. "If you're not going to be honest with me I can't be your friend," she said.

  "I’m being honest," I said, even though I was lying through my teeth. "It's nothing that you want to hear."

  Because the fact was, Alan had been cheating on me since the day we met. I hadn't wanted to look or see the reality of the facts before--I'd been eager to buy his excuses, that "Tiffany" was a business partner, that "Britney" was a supplier. I still wanted to believe in the romance that led us into falling into the bed together, drunk on cheap frat house beer, giddy with hormones. We made the mistake of thinking that hating our parents was enough to build a relationship on. Seven years later, the shoddy foundation of our lives together had completely crumbled, leaving nothing but the naked truth of our lives.

  Truth be told, even I managed to convince myself that things weren't so bad--that there was nothing a little therapy and marriage counseling couldn't fix. He let me run things the way I wanted. I had time and money to paint, and had even managed to sell a few paintings. I joined a gym, vol
unteered at the library, and had what was pretty much the perfect life. Minus the good husband, but hey, everything comes with a price, right? And the price I paid was not having a man who honored his wedding vows.

  I could have lived with all of that if it weren't for the terrible family reunion we went to one month ago. It was the first time that Alan and I were together in weeks. Alan wore a rictus grin on his face as he kissed his aunts, uncles, and other relatives that he was somehow related to. I would have enjoyed watching him choke on his own politeness if I hadn't had to endure the unending sneering condescension. The Goodman clan was Old Money; his great-great-great-grandmother was one of the first Pilgrims who supposedly landed on Plymouth rock, and Alan was their Golden Boy, literally--blonde-hair, blue eyes, with smiling, beatific patrician features, the youngest child and only son left to "carry on the family name". I was not Old Money; I was Hardly-Any-Money--my mother was from Mexico and God-only-knew who my father was, much less where he came from or what he did. In other words, I was not good enough to be a Goodman and they all made sure I knew it.

  But I knew what I was marrying into when I said "I do" at my wedding. Alan had never really liked the toxic affections of his family. No, what really took the cake for me was overhearing Alan's sisters talking about Deborah, the girl that Alan was seeing on the side--how she was so much of a better match for him than I could ever be. Her family name was Waterhouse, which meant that she was "a suitable match" for him. She wasn't fat. She had a "real" job.

  I drove myself home after overhearing that, and cried for the next three hours. Alan didn't come home for three days; when he did, I'd managed to recover my composure, but I'd also decided that enough was enough. I'd had it. I was leaving.

  But the problem with old habits is that they don't get old because they're easy to kill. And Alan could be a real gentleman when he wanted to be, and when we did sleep together he was an attentive lover, reading my body like an open book and touching, palming, reacting to my body. When he came back, I shut him out, but even I had to use the bathroom at some point--and he'd spread rose petals on the ground, and started running a bath, and gave me the most delicious foot massage I'd ever had while I soaked. Alan begged me to forgive him, told me that the reunion had made him realize what a gem of a woman he'd married, swore to me up and down that he'd changed his ways. I told him I didn't believe him.

  But I stayed.

  Because that night, we connected again. He reminded me of how we met (bad beer at a frat party, neither of us could stand the stuff, went to get real beer at a local bar), the sex games we used to play. They were happy times for me, too. "I want to get back to that point," he said, as I got out of the bathtub. "I want to feel the way we used to."

  I wasn't so sure about that, but he peeled off my robe and said, "Don't you see? I'll always come back to you. You're the only one for me."

  Well if I'm the only one for you then why are you always fucking other chicks? I should have asked him that, but at that moment he kissed me the way he did when we had sex for the first time, running his tongue against mine--promising me, for the moment, anyway, that he would be mine and only mine.

  The bathrobe fell away. He turned me around in the bathroom mirror and said, "I see you and your amazing curves and I wonder how I could be such a fool." His hand cupped my breast, his thumb toying with my nipple, sending little thrills that made my breath catch. "I see your amazing body and the work that you do and I am so grateful that you are my wife," he said, sliding a hand between my thighs.

  Then he took a blindfold from his pocket and tied it around my eyes. I should have pushed him away, but I knew what was going to happen next, and the animal part of me wanted it, badly. I was indecisive, and in my moment of indecision he guided me to our bedroom, which had been perfumed with patchouli oil and sandalwood incense. He guided me towards the bed and helped me to sit down. He began to kiss me again, and I found myself kissing him, pulling him down on the bed with me, glad--grateful, even--that he understood me so well that I didn't have to tell him what I wanted.

  His fingers began to tickle my clit, and my hips rose up and began to grind against his body. He'd always had a nice body, and I'd always liked the way he smelled, musty and yet clean. I felt him put his hand on my stomach, and then move up to massage my breasts, while his other fingers drew circles on the inside of my thighs. Suddenly I felt his tongue against me, fluttering against the shaved skin, sending little electric shivers of pure ecstasy pulsing up my spine. I bit my lip as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm, just one last touch away from the moment when everything would just let go--

  He groaned as he slid inside me. I'd never liked this part, because, well, truth be told, he never did it very well. It wasn't a matter of anatomy--he had no sense of rhythm or movement and it always felt like he was pounding my pussy the way a hammer does a nail. But I was still sighing from the flood of ecstasy that was coursing through my veins, and the warm and tingling sensations in my body left me too happy to care about what he was doing. And anyway, marriage was compromise, right? Give a little, take a little--I could forgive him this.

  It was like this for a week. Champagne, lobster, roses--the works, and I was almost, almost won over by it. Then a week later, when I was out getting the groceries, I heard a mysterious buzzing in the glove compartment. It was a cell phone I didn't recognize, with a text message that clearly wasn't from me, reading "Hey wanna fuck tomorrow? Tell the cow you've got a deadline."

  A quick scroll through the cell phone's history revealed that he'd been playing me for a fool that entire week. "Gotta keep the wife happy, boss won't like it if he thinks I’m getting distracted with a divorce." There was a frank discussion of our lack of a pre-nup, which he definitely regretted. "At least there are no kids."

  At that moment I was sorely tempted to go out and buy a positive pregnancy test. It would basically guarantee that I would get the house when I filed the divorce papers--and I did like the house, with the clean, orderly rooms, and my studio where I painted.

  And then I came to my senses and realized that I was being an incredible idiot: the house didn't matter. If anything, I wanted to burn the place down--burn down anything, everything that had to do with this sham marriage I was in and start over somewhere where people's idea of a fun time didn't include getting wasted by noon. I wanted out--out of the house, out of this skin, out of my life so far. There had to be something more, something else.

  That was the moment that the Martini Morning crowd's obsession with Fifty Shades of Grey finally began to make sense to me. It wasn't the sex, or the terrible story, or the stupid plot, or the insanely creepy Christian Grey. It was a woman writing about a dream life and a dream world, escaping the drudgery of her own life.

  Well, I was sick of dreaming. I would make it happen, damn it.

  ***

  My plan was more or less in place. It took a few weeks to arrange everything, but I got it done. All that was left to do was leave. But I dallied, because truth be told it was a nice life I'd be leaving behind. I don't know why I waited--Marley genuinely believed in the two-cars-white-picket-fence idea of a perfect life and that was something I didn't want to take from her. The goal, I decided, would be to get this over with as quickly as possible, like ripping off duct tape.

  But plans change, especially in light of stupid idiotic husbands who think it's a good idea to bring their lovers home while their wife is supposed to be out drinking, because the wife is such a lush (who drove her to booze, anyway?) that of course she'll be passed out by eleven and not come home at noon to see a strange car in their driveway and a woman's coat in the mudroom. I went upstairs quietly--I'd walked those stairs enough times to know which ones creaked and which ones didn't--and opened the bedroom door to find him pounding the pussy of Deborah Waterhouse, a thin blonde woman with tiny breasts and no ass at all. They were so caught up in it that I debated whether to take a picture of them and send it to Alan's boss. But at the moment I began reaching for
my phone Deborah screamed and grabbed the sheets--our sheets, the ones I'd chosen to complement my aesthetics and Alan's tastes--to cover herself.

  "Honey," Alan stammered. "What are you doing home so early?"

  "The same thing you're doing with this bitch. Fucking around," I retorted.

  "Now, now, I know you're not happy, but there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this--"

  "I know, I heard. She just fell out of the roof."

  "Are you kidding?" she said. "I don't weigh enough to break beams. You, on the other hand--"

  "Get the cunt out of my house," I said, trying not to break down. Holding on to the one thought in my head--revenge--and working out how to change my plans around this fact--how would a true cool bitch do it, how would a "bad girl" use this to her advantage? I couldn’t be a meek little Stepford wife anymore. Move past the pain, get angry.

  “I hope you know you just ruined his life,” I said, watching Deborah dress. I don’t normally go for humiliating other women, having experienced plenty of it myself, but if anybody deserved to feel bad it was a woman who would fuck her married lover in the wife’s bed. “Your panties are inside-out,” I told her.

  She turned red and put on her jeans and ran out the door, sobbing, holding her shoes. “A real man would’ve stood up for you!” I shouted after her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Alan snarled, snapping himself out of bed. “That’s no way to treat a lady!”

  “This—” I shouted, pointing at his naked, lanky body, and the shriveled, wilted cock that only a week ago had astounded me with its size, “—is no way to treat your wife!”

  He remembered himself, and reached for his shirt, tying it around his waist. “You wouldn’t understand,” he grumbled.

  “You know what, you’re right. I don’t understand how I could have been as faithful and devoted a wife as I have been to such a loser and a horndog as you.” I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. Quiet, little Evelyn Goodman actually had some balls after all—that was a good thing, because my plan would require that I do things that I’d never done before. “If I have one regret in my life, it’s not marrying you, actually. It’s letting you think that you can get away with treating me the way you do.”