It began with her black lace bra video—the way she slowly tugged those straps down, teasing what was barely contained. I commented, playing into her husband-watches dynamic, promising I'd give him a view he'd stroke to for weeks. She bit. Hard.
Our messages became a filthy war of words. She demanded: “Write what you'd do to me. No holding back.” I painted her pinned against a hotel wall in Cape Town, fingers knuckle-deep, curling viciously until she drenched my wrist, then slamming in thick and unrelenting while her stag watched, breathing ragged. She retaliated: me bending her over her desk like a desperate handyman, stretching her pussy to its limit, her screaming my name as he filmed every brutal thrust.
The stories turned savage. I'd describe choking her lightly while pounding, making her squirt arcs across the sheets. She'd write about riding me reverse, ass slapping my thighs, tits heaving, coming so violently her whole body seized—then demanding I fill her while he jerked off in the shadows. We jerked and fingered ourselves to each other's messages—her sending guttural voice notes mid-orgasm, me edging for hours to her obsession with “that fat stretch ruining me perfectly.”
Those digital climaxes were brutal teases. Then she hit me: “Cape Town. Tomorrow. He says wreck me. Do it.”
I booked the CBD hotel—soundproof walls, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the night city. She stormed in: skirt hiked high on her thighs, blouse half-unbuttoned, eyes feral with weeks of pent-up need.
Door slammed. She shoved me back, mouth crashing into mine, tongue invading, hand yanking my belt open. “You've been raping me with words,” she growled, stroking my cock hard. “Now fucking destroy me.”
I ripped her clothes off, threw her on the bed. Legs forced wide. Fingers plunged in—no warmup—curling fast, thumb grinding her clit until she bucked wildly, swearing in Afrikaans, squirting hard across my arm in her first violent orgasm. “Fuck—yes—like that!”
She grabbed my cock, lined me up. The stretch was obscene—she hissed as I forced in, inch by thick inch, her walls spasming. “Bigger—fuck—ruin me.” I didn't go slow. Deep, punishing thrusts from the start, slamming that spot until she came again instantly, clenching so tight it hurt, nails tearing my back, whispering “He'd cum just watching this destruction.”
All fours. I gripped her hips bruisingly, pounded relentlessly—the bed-frame slamming the wall, her ass rippling with each impact. She begged “Harder—break me.” I reached under, pinched her clit—she exploded a third time, screaming raw, pussy gushing, body shaking uncontrollably.
Missionary now: legs hooked over my shoulders, folded in half. Eyes locked in pure animal lust. “Breed me—fill me like the stories.” I fucked her like a machine—deep, brutal, relentless—until I erupted, flooding her depths with thick ropes as her fourth and fifth orgasms chained together, violent convulsions milking me dry, her screams echoing, body arched off the bed in total surrender.
We collapsed drenched, gasping, trembling—multiple, soul-shattering climaxes that left us floating in wrecked bliss, higher than any fantasy. She kissed me bruisingly, bit my lip, and rasped “Chapter two. Soon. He wants more.” Snapped a pic of my cum leaking from her swollen pussy and fired it off to him with a devil emoji.
From typed filth to this carnage? Reality fucking annihilated us. Gloriously.
