Page 1 of The Dating Ban (Mind the Corbin Brothers #1)

Three Boners

Ivy

T here they are. One... two... three. Three boners pointing straight at me.

It's like a dirty version of Goldilocks.

One cock that's too long (seriously not sure where Michael wants to put that but my mouth is a no, because, hello gag reflex!); one dick that is definitely too thick (Harry does have a bit of a mini barrel there); and then there is the one that looks just right, not too long not too thick.

Maybe I should have stuck with just Graham.

Ivy, what did you get yourself into this time ?

One minute I am flirting with three guys in a bar, next I am kneeling naked on Harry’s bed, ready for my first foursome.

Well, ready might be a bit of an exaggeration.

To be honest, when Harry—or was it Michael—first suggested a bit of group fun, it sounded incredibly exciting.

I imagined them all three worshipping my body, hands and mouths everywhere.

Reality was slightly different. Graham kissed me and undressed me whilst the others stripped off.

Michael led me to the bed and then they just lined up and looked at me.

I was almost expecting them to go, “Rock, paper, scissors!” to decide on who gets to fuck me first.

“I’m not one for the big girls normally, but your big arse is mighty fine,” Michael chuckles as he crawls behind me and strokes over my bum. Excuse me? This big girl might punch you right where it hurts in a minute.

“Baby girl, open up for me,” Harry groans and stabs at my lips with his dick like when you try to get a key into a keyhole in the dark.

I almost swat him away and not just because it is annoying but because he called me baby girl .

I hate that. I mean, to each their own, but I never really did go for the whole baby-daddy thing.

Before I can say something wrong, I open my mouth and he pushes his girthy cock in. He tastes… not great, but I just get on with it hoping that my sacrifice will be rewarded with an orgasm or two… for me, that is.

“Great, and what do I do?” Graham asks before I can feel his fingers on my bum hole. Absolutely not!

I pull away from Mr Barrell-dick and shout, “No!”

“Calm down, baby girl,” Harry coos before trying to push back into my mouth.

“No, nope,” I protest. “Nothing in my bum and frankly, not too keen on your cock in my mouth either.”

“Woman, what did you think would happen at a foursome,” Harry laughs and pulls on his stiff dick a few times. Yeah, what was I thinking?

Michael, clearly bored of the conversation, pushes in me without much formality.

“Fuck!” I exclaim.

“That’s the idea, baby girl. Let Daddy back in your mouth,” Harry laughs and pokes at my lips again .

“Okay, stop,” I groan. All three freeze, Michael with his dick half in my vajajay. “Happy to sleep with all three of you. But no bum sex, no fucking baby and daddy talk and no poking at my lips,” I say.

“That’s bollocks,” Graham protests, and gets off the bed. “Call me when it’s my turn!”

Michael starts moving again and Harry seems to have gotten the message. He slides under me and sucks on my nipples whilst rubbing my clit. Oh, okay, now that’s nice.

In the other room, I can hear the sound of loud commentators, the roar of a crowd, and the occasional outburst from Graham.

“Shit, that’s the Champions League final. Hurry up, mate,” Harry moans, his eyes wondering to the open door, my clit completely forgotten. On command, Michael starts moving faster.

“It’s a penalty,” Graham shouts out. “Penalty for Arsenal.”

“Shit,” Harry groans, slides out from under me and runs out of the room.

I try to laugh it off. “I guess football is more exciting than my pussy, huh?”

Michael flips me over and then grins down on me. “To be fair, it’s a big game.”

I don’t know what answer I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

“Baby girl, I’m so close,” he moans in my ear. Another baby girl .

Michael moves faster but somehow, I’ve lost all interest in being banged. I try to squeeze my muscles to speed this whole thing up a bit and that seems to do the trick.

“Oh yes, yes, that’s it,” he yells as he comes .

Harry calls out “Game’s going into overtime!” just as Michael collapses on top of me, his skin damp with sweat. He stays there for a few moments, catching his breath, before finally rolling off with a satisfied sigh.

“I’ll send in the next one,” he chuckles, stretching before striding out of the bedroom like this is a fast-food drive-through and I’m just an order they’re taking turns on.

But I have had enough.

My face burns with embarrassment as I sit up, my hands fumbling to gather my clothes. My heart is pounding, not from excitement but from the crushing weight of realisation—this wasn’t what I thought it would be. It wasn’t thrilling or empowering. It was just… disappointing.

I pull on my tights and slide into my glitzy dress. I don’t even bother fixing my hair. I just need to get out before one of the others strolls in for their turn.

But I needn’t have rushed. Nobody comes.

I’m not even that quiet when I walk past them in the living room but they only have eyes for the football match.

I glance at them and wonder if I should say anything. All three of them are sitting naked on the sofa, eyes glued to the TV, utterly enthralled by whatever match is on.

It’s such an absurd sight that for a split second, I almost laugh. Three grown men, dicks out, not even bothering to put on clothes, completely uninterested in the very thing they were supposed to be excited about… me.

But the laughter never comes.

Instead, a dull ache settles in my stomach, a quiet humiliation that makes my throat tighten. I don’t say anything. I don’t even bother with a sarcastic remark.

I just slip out the door and leave .

It’s still early. Normally, I don’t go home before midnight, but it can’t be later than ten.

I walk down the street, my coat pulled tight around me like it can shield me from the humiliation clinging to my skin.

London is alive; people laughing outside pubs, a group of friends singing off-key as they stumble down the pavement, couples pressed close in the glow of streetlights.

London on a Saturday night in its usual chaotic, romantic mess.

Meanwhile, I just got ditched for football.

I let out a sigh and make my way to the bus stop. No point wasting money on an Uber when I can stew in my own bad decisions for ￡1.75. The bus arrives in minutes, and I flop into a seat by the window, hugging my bag to my chest.

As the bus pulls away, I stare out at the blur of neon signs and moving shadows, my brain running an autopsy on the night.

What had I expected exactly? That this would be sexy?

That I’d leave feeling thoroughly satisfied, drenched in the glow of a scandalous, unforgettable night?

That Michael, Harry, and Graham, the trio of disappointment, would somehow make me feel like the centre of their universe rather than an extra in their night?

That this would turn into an MMMF romance where I am the goddess in our happily-ever-after?

I snort. Fuck, I’m an idiot.

The worst part? I didn’t even consider how this would play out before I agreed to it. Not really. I jumped straight from Ooh, this could be exciting to w ell, this is happening without stopping to think if I even wanted it.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t. Or at least, not like that .

I blame Pee-Pee. She told me not to think, so I just went for it. Epic fail.

The bus slows at a stop, and a couple stumbles on, giggling, clinging to each other like they’ve just fallen in love at first sight—or at least over their third round of tequila shots. They collapse into the seats in front of me, whispering and grinning as if nobody else exists.

I look away and try to block them out.

I don’t regret leaving. But I do regret going in the first place.

By the time we reach Shoreditch, I feel a little less like I need to disappear into a hole and a little more like I just need a shower, a cup of tea, and to never speak of this again.