The hotel room smelled like anticipation before they even crossed the threshold — red wine uncorked, sheets already turned down, low jazz humming just loud enough to mask the pounding of hearts.
She walked in first, my vixen, in that same black lace bodysuit from our last night, crotch already unsnapped like an invitation. Leanne followed, crimson slip clinging to her curves, no panties, the faint outline of her arousal visible when she moved. Then him — her husband — last through the door. Camera in one hand, the other clenched at his side. Eyes darting everywhere but never quite settling. He looked like a man who’d rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times and still wasn’t ready.
I stayed seated on the edge of the bed, legs spread, shirt open, cock already half-hard against my thigh. I didn’t stand. I didn’t greet them. I just watched them watch me.
“Lock the door,” I told him. Voice calm. Low. Commanding.
He obeyed, the click echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. Then he turned, face flushed, breathing shallow.
“Chair.” I nodded toward the armchair in the corner — positioned perfectly so he’d have an unobstructed view of the bed, close enough to hear every wet sound, every gasp, but far enough that touching would require him to cross the invisible line I’d drawn.
He sat. Camera raised. Lens trained. Hands trembling just enough to notice.
My vixen stepped between my knees first. She cupped my face, kissed me slow and filthy — tongue deep, moaning into my mouth while her fingers traced the bulge in my jeans. Leanne watched, biting her lip, then glanced at the husband. His Adam’s apple bobbed hard.
“Tell him,” I murmured against her lips. “Tell your husband exactly why your pussy is already dripping before I’ve even touched you.”
She broke the kiss, turned her head toward him, eyes glassy. “Because I’ve been thinking about this cock all week, baby. About how it stretches me. How it wrecks me. How last time it filled Leanne while I came on her face… and you watched the video on repeat.”
His camera dipped slightly. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped him.
I stood then, slow, towering. Peeled my shirt off. Unzipped. Let my cock spring free — thick, heavy, veins standing out. Both women inhaled sharply.
“Strip each other,” I ordered. “Slowly. Make him wait for it.”
They obeyed. My vixen tugged the straps of Leanne’s slip down first — fabric whispering over skin, nipples hardening in the cool air. Leanne returned the favor, peeling the bodysuit from my vixen’s shoulders, down her breasts, over her hips, until it puddled at her feet. Naked except for stockings. They kissed again — soft at first, then hungry, hands roaming, fingers sliding between thighs, showing off how wet they already were.
I circled behind them, one hand on each ass, squeezing, spreading. “Look at him,” I growled. “Look at your husband while you touch each other for me.”
They did. Eyes locked on him. Leanne’s fingers dipped into my vixen’s cunt, pulled out glistening. She brought them to her mouth, sucked clean, never breaking eye contact with him.
His free hand twitched toward his lap — then froze. I’d told him earlier: No touching yourself. Not until I say. Or we stop.
“Bed,” I commanded.
They crawled onto the sheets on all fours, asses presented toward him like an offering. I knelt behind Leanne first — rubbed the head of my cock along her slit, teasing, not entering. She whimpered, pushed back.
“Not yet.” I slapped her ass — sharp, red bloom appearing. Then I turned to my vixen. “Spread her for me. Show him how ready she is.”
My vixen reached back, parted Leanne’s lips — pink, swollen, dripping. I slid in one slow, deliberate inch. Leanne’s back arched. A long, broken moan.
The husband’s breathing turned ragged. Camera shaking now.
I fucked Leanne deep, steady, letting every thrust make obscene wet sounds that filled the room. My vixen straddled Leanne’s back facing me — grinding her clit against her friend’s spine while she watched me ruin her. Then she leaned forward, kissed me over Leanne’s shoulder — sloppy, desperate — while I kept pounding.
“Look at him,” I rasped between kisses. “See how hard he is? See how much he wants to stroke himself while another man fucks your best friend?”
He was — painfully obvious through his pants. Face crimson. Eyes glassy.
I pulled out of Leanne — slick, shining — and moved to my vixen. Flipped her onto her back, legs wide. Entered her in one hard stroke. She cried out — loud, unfiltered — head thrown back. Leanne crawled up, straddled her face, grinding down while I fucked. The room became symphony of wet laps, moans, flesh slapping.
Every few thrusts I’d slow — almost stop — make them beg.
“Tell him who owns this cunt tonight,” I demanded.
My vixen, voice muffled under Leanne’s pussy: “He does… fuck… he wrecks it… he makes me squirt while you just watch, baby…”
Leanne came first — grinding hard, gushing over my vixen’s face, down her chin, onto the sheets. The husband made a choked sound — half groan, half sob.
I pulled out, positioned both women side by side on their knees at the edge of the bed — facing him. Alternated — deep in Leanne, then in my vixen, back and forth. Hands in their hair, pulling heads back so he could see every expression of bliss he wasn’t causing.
When they were both trembling, close again, I stepped back. Stroked myself slow.
“Beg me to finish on her,” I told the husband. “Beg me to mark your wife while you film it.”
His voice cracked. Barely a whisper. “Please… cum on her… mark her for me…”
I did — thick ropes across my vixen’s breasts, stomach, dripping down. Leanne leaned in, licked some clean, kissed her — sharing.
They collapsed together — kissing softly, bodies slick, ruined.
I looked straight at him, camera still rolling, lens fogged slightly from his breath.
“Chapter three,” I said quietly. “You got every second. Now clean her up with your tongue while I watch.”
He hesitated — one heartbeat — then set the camera on the side table, lens still pointed, and crawled to the bed.
The wreckage burned brighter than ever.
And we weren’t done. Not even close. 😈
