Kendall Vs. Twins

“Let's say we like to live dangerously,” Rhino husks into her skin.

He nips along her neck as one hand slides up to cup her full breast from beneath with a promise of more. He pinches the hard nipple bud and twists it out so she lets out a squeak of surprise at his strength on her body.

His fingers hook under the straps of her top and tug them over her shoulders so her tits pop free. His eyes dart up to me, questioning. Why aren't I getting in there? Normally I'd be all over her. Four hands caressing her body, mounding her tits between us, so she lost all awareness of which hand belonged to which wolf. Until she just wallowed in the excess of pleasure building to eruption in her little body being completely dominated by two huge men.

Her ass is grinding back into Rhino's groin and she's already twisting her head side to side from his hands squeezing her pretty impressive tits until it spills between his hard fingers. But I'm just not feeling it tonight. It's been like this for a few weeks now and I can tell Rhino's getting frustrated with my limp behavior.

But I'm not gonna force it, not even for him. I know he prefers to have me along for the ride, sharing is just what we're used to. But he's also more than enough man for one woman to handle. Cindy or Candy won't go home unbruised or unswollen when he's finished with her.

3

Kendall

The hotel I'm at is a few miles from the airfield. But I'm grateful to Derek's generosity, because usually I'd be in one of the motel inns beside the highway, only being a junior at the firm. Sadly I can't take part in the huge buffet breakfast. My nerves are tingling at every pore of my skin and I could well throw up if I do more than drink some hot tea.

I drive to the airfield where I'll be doing the weekend training and we're shown into a hanger to sign our lives away on what seems like a frighteningly excessive number of waiver forms. There's another catering table with coffee urns and a spread of incredible looking donuts and pastries. With no breakfast, my mouth immediately salivates over a cinnamon cruller but I don't dare. No way I want to embarrass myself by bringing it all back up again.

“Right then recruits,” a shaved-head man with a huge barrel chest, taut from the muscle pressing at his army tee, calls us to order. “My name's Dennis McCartney, but you will call me Sarge. I'm your trainer this weekend.”

His accent is British but with a strange tone that must be a slang or dialect. Maybe it's meant to make his 'recruits' more intimidated. A group of girls, obviously on some kind of girl's weekend, giggle as he tells us that we'll be under him for the duration. His eyes land on them and take in their matching pink tee shirts, each printed with 'Shell's Twenty-First' in hot pink script. Twenty-one? They all look about twelve to me. I'm only six years older than them but feel ancient.

The rest of our training group is made up of couples, looking for a fun activity to share. Probably thinking skydiving together will bond them forever. Something to tell the gran-kids when the “how did you meet?” question arises. Those coupled girls aren't quaking under Sarge's stare. They've got a man at their side to protect them. A man that knows the macho rules and will defend his girl from any intimidation.

Why don't I have that? I'm perfectly capable of sticking up for myself but sometimes it's tiring.

“And apparently we've got a celebrity along for the ride.”

Sarge's eyes swivel straight to me and I shrivel. While not usually a wallflower, or shy to stand up for myself, I guess this entire scenario is just freaking me out. I shake my head no, not me. My eyes stretch wide like a doe in the headlights. I just wish everyone would stop staring at me.

“Aren't you Kendall Ross? Taking the course for a charity gig on Sunday where all the TV stations will be filming your third jump?”

Now everyone is gawping at me but none as intense as Sarge. I nod my head in acquiescence. That would be me.

“If I make it to Monday,” I pipe up, determined not to be repressed by the Special Forces ex.

“You'll make it, Movie Star,” he barks at me. “No one fails under Sarge's watch.”

Oh great. Just another layer of pressure piled on top of me.

“And by the time I'm finished with all of you, you'll be fit enough to parachute behind enemy lines. I don't train in this pussy way you Americans get by on. With me you'll drop and roll like any good special forces man.”

I have no clue what he's talking about but it sounds ominous.

“Okay Movie star, you're up,” he grunts.

He points at one of the four ladders set up in a line at the back of the hut and I look at him stupidly. What does he want me to do? The ladders aren't against the wall, just standing unsupported. And the ceiling is twenty feet high so there's nothing up there to hang on to.

“Climb,” he orders and I jolt out of my skin and do as he says.

I reach the platform at the top, hanging on to the triangle struts for dear life and not looking down.

“Okay, jump,” he barks out.

He wants me to jump off the ladder? Is he insane? I'll break every bone in my body before we even get started.

“Just relax as you hit the ground and allow your body to drop and roll over.”

Ya, totally insane.