Triple Sext

Is my perfect match on campus one guy, or three?

I had a filthy fantasy, one so hot that the night before going to college, I had the wildest dream about the all-star quarterback falling at my knees.  I was brought back to reality soon. Life at  NYU hasn’t turned out the way that I’d hoped. All the social clubs that I joined were a bust and my roommate turned out to be far from my friend. Instead, she’s a bully that I need to get as far away from as possible.

Then, one day, I got a text.

Not any ordinary text, but one so dirty that it drove my mind wild.

It messed with me.

So, I responded.

And that’s how the texting relationship started and as the texts got dirtier there was only one thing on my mind: who was this guy?

Or was it three?

The message tone changed depending on the time of day.

The ones I got first thing in the morning were so hot that they could turn steel bars into pools of molten metal.

The ones in the afternoon were even better, but just…different.

And the texts I got in the evening were so damn dirty I could barely sleep without having my hands between my thighs.

They were so addictive that I agreed to meet this Casanova of the text world. I had one worry, though. What if it was three guys? What was I going to do with all three of them at once?

Triple Sext is a stand-alone reverse harem with a mixture of bullying, romance, humor and even suspense. There are multiple partner scenes, so make sure that not only is your Kindle ready, but that you have a towel nearby as you read this HEA.

Prologue

Celia

I walked to the mailbox outside of the little campsite that had grown over the last couple of decades. This is where my family lived, where I’d grown up. And in that mailbox, there should be a letter. A letter that would bring us all hope. Hope that we would one day get out of this dry little patch of the Iowa countryside and into something better.

I glanced back at the collection of small trailers, all older than most of the inhabitants inside of them. This is what my family had been reduced to.

It was all because of my father, and if that letter held the news I hoped for, I could help to make it all right again, for all of us.

Not that it was really my father’s fault, what happened. He’d been the unlucky child to inherit the gene for Huntington’s disease that his father passed to him. Out of two sisters and three brothers, my father was the only one to lose the game of Russian Roulette his parents had unwittingly played.

He and my grandfather became ill at the same time. That’s when the family found out about the illness that would take both from us when I was five years old.

My father was 31 when he and my mother had me. Well into the range when the disease starts to show up. His first symptoms were uncontrolled movements, ticks and jerks that confused us all. When my grandfather developed the same symptoms, they went to the doctor.

Over the next few years, they both progressed slowly into the impairments that came with that terrible disease. My grandfather’s gait became unbalanced, and his eyes would move involuntary. Dad lost the ability to speak or swallow. He died from pneumonia, eventually, and I think my grandfather died of a broken heart. He’d given his son the awful disease, though he hadn’t done it on purpose.

My grandfather had been adopted, he hadn’t known his genetic history when he married and had children. Like a good father, however, he felt the full weight of the burden he’d passed on.

The family had pooled their funds together, to try to find treatment for my grandfather and father. It had bankrupted them all because there was no cure for the disease. Each of my father’s siblings had taken on the burden of caring not only for their father, but for their brother too. We stuck together like that.

When the disease was discovered, I was tested for the gene that caused the gruesome death that all people with the disease faced. I was lucky. I dodged that bullet and didn’t carry the gene. I didn’t know it at the time, but I learned about it when I got a little older.

We lost two family members that year, but all I can remember is the man in the bedroom went away, and we all moved into these old trailers my grandfather had kept on some property he owned.

He’d worked hard all of his life, and he took over the business my grandmother’s father had passed on to her when he died. They’d had to sell the trailer park when my grandfather became ill, and the houses they’d all mortgaged. This property was some my grandfather bought to put the old trailers on. They were too old for him to rent out anymore, but he didn’t have anything he could do with them, so he’d parked them up here. The family all moved in not long after my grandfather’s funeral, and we were still here, after 13 years.

Now, I had a chance to make it all right. To make it better. And to get us out of here. If only that mailbox held the right letter. I’d worked hard throughout my high school education, and I’d stayed focused on my goals. I’d earned enough scholarships that most of my education would be paid for. Not all of it, but most. I’d have to make up the rest somehow, when I graduate next month.

I’d waited a long time for this letter, and it was finally time. It was the fifth day of April, surely that had been long enough for the letter to have come from New York?

I heard the squeak of a rusted swing that hung from the only tree on the property. The family had planted plenty, but the darned things just wouldn’t grow out here. We couldn’t even get grass to grow on the property, so everything was always dusty, no matter how many times you might swipe a cloth over thing. I glanced back again, at the six trailers that were faded to a light shade of the color that had once been bright.

My grandmother’s trailer was pink now. Uncle Mark’s was a light beige. Uncle Allan’s was almost mint green, while Aunt Irene’s was a light blue. Aunt Jenna and my momma’s trailers were almost completely white, but there was a hint of the light gray they used to be.

They all worked, they all did their best in the down-graded life they’d found themselves in. It had taken a long time to pay off the medical bills and the funeral bills. The last bill for Dad’s medical care would be paid off this summer. Then, the rest would be saved to send me off to school.

I opened the flap on the gunmetal gray mailbox and looked inside. There was a large stack of letters, but there on top, was the one I’d waited so long for. Ernie, our mailman, knew I’d been waiting on it, and he’d put it there on top for me.

I didn’t do that whole move thing, where people stare at the letter, anxious about what was inside. I didn’t carry it in the house to share with the family so they could share in the news with me. Nope, I opened that sucker up, skimmed the lines for the word I wanted to see, and fell to the ground.

“You have been accepted…”

That was all I needed to see. I’d been accepted, and relief flooded through me as tears of joy began to weep down my face. I could finally do something that would help us all. I was going to NYU. I was going to study pre-med, and if it all worked out, I’d get a master’s degree in neuroscience. I’d be able to lift my family out of this poverty, and into a new life, a life where I might be able to find a cure for the disease that had caused us all this misery.