One Too Many

by Jade West

  I was ready to take him inside me, hitching hard and aching for more. I held back the words, even as they gathered on my tongue. The ridge of him was a promise against my tender clit, his hips circling to set me hissing.

  This was me. I knew it. I felt it. I wanted it.

  What I didn’t know so well was the ease with which he pulled away at his whim and left me hanging like a needy slut. I fought the urge to protest as he got back to his feet and left me panting breathless, but he didn’t leave me yearning long before his strong hands slipped under my arms and tugged me to the edge of the bed right after him. I flopped like a fish as he let my head drop over the side of the mattress, and my instincts were on point again as the swollen head of his dick slapped my cheek. My mouth opened wide in a heartbeat, welcoming the length of him as he pushed his way in.

  I spluttered at the intrusion but he didn’t ease up. He shifted his hips to dig deeper, burrowing into my throat until I retched on him, and even then he kept on thrusting, stretching my gullet just as he’d stretched my pussy.

  “Spread your legs and show your husband what he’s missing,” he ordered, and I didn’t even think about it, letting my thighs loll open so Brett could see the wet mess the other man had made of me.

  Clearly it wasn’t enough for Thomas Heath. His grip was brutal as he yanked my knees up high and rolled my hips for more exposure.

  I wondered what was so appealing about showing my husband the result of his filthy touches. Why it was so important to show off the guilty arousal of a woman driven insane.

  The wondering didn’t stop me sucking in the best way I knew how, struggling to lap at the length of him with a noisy mouth as he swept across my tongue and plunged in deeper. I knew how to suck dick. I liked sucking dick. As it turned out, it wasn’t just my husband’s either.

  What I didn’t like so much was how Thomas Heath seemed oblivious to my greatest efforts, driving me to a slobbering wreck of slurps and slavers as I struggled to bring him off. Nothing I did made any difference. His dick was solid and steadfast, fucking my face without so much as a hint that he was losing control.

  I couldn’t imagine him ever losing control. Not in bed and not in life. Not ever.

  Not even when I reached up to grip his thighs and coax him harder did he show any signs of losing his cool. He kept hold of my legs, raising them so high that I felt my pussy splutter along with my throat every time I jerked with effort. I was a pot on the boil, spitting and dribbling down the sides, and he kept on stirring without so much as breaking a sweat.

  “She’s got a fine dirty mouth, your pretty wife,” he told my husband, and I despised myself for the burst of pride in my chest at such seedy praise.

  I despised myself equally for the desperation in my whimpers as I practically begged for a mouthful of his cum. I don’t know how a paying customer’s salty seed was reward enough to drive a girl wild, but I’d have run a naked mile with my tits bouncing high just to taste him.

  My eyes were streaming with tears from retching, and I’m sure my smoky eyes had bled makeup across my wet state of a face. My slobber was dangling in thick streams from his dick to my open mouth before landing foamy against my upturned cheeks and dribbling down into my sweaty hair, one slimy retch at a time.

  This wasn’t me. Wasn’t sex I knew. Wasn’t anything I’d ever imagined, loving the way he made a whore out of me.

  He was laughing as he tugged his dick all the way clear and took a handful of my curls to tip my face up toward Brett. I’m glad my eyes were too blurry with spit, tears and makeup to focus clearly, and glad any expression of pain on his face escaped me enough that I didn’t have to feel like an adulterous bitch as I snaked my fingers down to my still humming clit.

  “Delicious,” Heath growled and folded over at the waist to lick my hacked up spit clean off me. His tongue was hot and flat against my cheek, sweeping across my open mouth where he sucked up all my filthy drool and smacked his lips with a grunt of approval.

  I felt sick. Actually nauseous as my flickering fingers picked up a notch between my legs.

  I’d never get over this. Not ever. Not with the whole fifty grand ploughed into sex therapy for the next ten years. Not even if Brett washed me clean and told me I’d lost my mind under pressure. Not even if I believed it myself.

  “Beautiful like this, isn’t she?” the filthy guy said to my poor husband, and I felt anything but. “I love a woman who knows how to worship cock. Is she ever so enthusiastic with yours down her throat?”

  My cheeks scorched so hard I wanted the ground to open up underneath me. I did try hard with Brett, always. But Brett was so much easier to try with. I knew how to suck Brett’s dick. Knew the flicks of my tongue he liked the best. Knew how to work my mouth along the length of him with a smile on my face. Knew how to cup his balls just so with my hand to push him over the edge.

  I didn’t need to slaver like a dirty slut for just a hint of a reaction, but I would. If he needed it, I would. But that didn’t matter, not in that moment burning between us, not with the evidence of my efforts for Thomas Heath smeared dirty across my face.

  “Tell me,” the filthy guy continued, and I didn’t know if he was talking to Brett or me this time. “Does she enjoy having her ass stretched as much as the other holes?”

  I could barely even breathe as my fingers kept on strumming, real tears joining the ones coaxed by Thomas Heath’s dick and rolling down my humiliated cheeks.

  It should never have been like this.

  I should never want anything as much as I wanted Thomas Heath to tear me open.

  Looking up at him was enough to mash my love and hate into one pile of confusion. I’d need untwisting in the aftermath, my whole body scrubbed clean with bleach and reason.

  And then he spoke. My poor husband spoke.

  “She likes it,” he grunted. “Just don’t fucking hurt her.”

  “Give me some fucking credit,” the other man laughed. “Your wife is begging for my touch. She’ll miss me when I’m gone, so I’d suggest you pay attention. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  My eyes were still closed, brimming with bursting tears as his strong hands twisted me again, this time back onto the bed, where he flipped me onto my front with enough strength that I squeaked out loud.

  My tits pressed to the slippery plastic under me, reminding me of a grimy bouncy castle I’d fallen onto my front on back at a kid’s birthday party long ago. My neck was straining as he kept hold of my clammy curls and tugged my head back to face my husband at close distance.

  And Thomas Heath’s voice was as commanding as ever when he barked out instructions that my body obeyed without question.

  “Show me that tight asshole of yours, Mrs Foster,” he told me. “Spread those cheeks nice and wide and beg me to stretch that dirty little hole.”

  I still couldn’t bring myself to open my eyes and meet the glare of my husband. My lip was trembling with the heartache of wanting another man so bad. My fingers were slow as they swept back behind me and took hold of my sweaty ass cheeks, trembling as they parted them wide.

  I felt the dribble of spit land right on target from his mouth above, warm as his thumb used the wetness to slide through my tight little ring and squirm around.

  “This might hurt a little,” he hissed, and pressed the head of his dick in hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Brett

  I’d have been well and truly fucking mortified if the whole experience wasn’t so surreal. This wasn’t my wife inside the hotel we’d made our home in these past twelve months. This wasn’t the woman who’d spent her whole adult life in my arms, laughing as we shared a bottle of wine after a hard day’s work, cooking a Sunday roast after a sleepy morning in bed with her legs tangled in mine as we argued who was going to get up to make coffee.

  This woman was a wanton wreck of desire for another man, a man who’d paid us for every scrap of his sordid pleasure. A man who hated me. Hated whatever he saw in me. Whatev
er he thought I stood for.

  Hated what we had, here, between us.

  But he didn’t hate Grace. Even through his slick asshole composure I could see the glint in his eyes as he watched her. Touched her. Teased her to the edge of fucking insanity and drove her beyond any sane limit she’d ever known.

  I watched them with a sickness to my stomach I didn’t think I’d ever heave up and out, even though my dick kept on throbbing. My hands gripped those armrests tight, fighting back the urge to pull my own hard on free and give in to my own fucked-up temptations, but I couldn’t for the life of me shake off the suspicion there was more to this cunt’s offer than one night with my wife. He knew me, from fuck knows where, I had no idea. But watching the way he ravaged my Grace like a dam bursting after a whole fucking lifetime, I knew in the pit of me he knew her too.

  He still hadn’t shot his load, not in all these hours. We were still in total refund territory, which was a joke in itself, and one I had no doubt he’d been well aware of when he set up the terms.

  The guy was inhuman. Some fucking porn star with balls made of steel. He wasn’t even flustered. Barely a sweat, grunt or gritted teeth as he worked his dick into whichever of my wife’s needy holes he wanted.

  She was anything but a porn star. She looked broken, lip trembling with shame and hurt as her body begged him for more.

  I’d never have signed up for this. Not for five hundred grand. Not for a million. Or ten million, or all the hotels in the fucking world. And yet my knuckles stayed white as they gripped my seat, my dick straining as I cursed my own sonofabitch body for wanting more. And I did want more. My eyes were open wide as the cunt in front of me lined up my Grace to fuck her tight little asshole, my mouth watering at the thought of her taking him deep and whimpering for more.

  The most painful thing about the whole sorry experience?

  Not that I hated wanting more, or that Grace was hot for another guy, even through tears. The most painful thing about the whole experience was that he’d known the whole thing was coming. Like a chess master playing with other people’s lives, always one step ahead, shunting the pawns along with checkmate in mind. And that’s what worried me, right now, in the pit of me.

  Checkmate.

  I didn’t even know what it looked like, but I knew we were heading right there, slipping down the path of his construction, ending unknown.

  My wife wouldn’t look at me, eyes shut tight against the shame as she reached around and spread her pretty ass cheeks wide. He spat right down on the puckered ring I knew so well, even if I couldn’t see it, warning her it was gonna hurt as he lined his dick up for entry.

  He wasn’t fucking lying.

  She grunted and grimaced, tits jiggling free underneath her as she squirmed forward. He had her by the hair, grip firm enough that she wasn’t going anywhere.

  I knew this bit at least — the moment where her body protested the invasion. Her motions were like watching behind the scenes footage of one of your favourite childhood movies, your best loved characters living out your best loved scenes from a whole other angle. A far less fucking magical one, but still it got you fired up, like you were peeking in on some secret world you’d been missing out on your whole life.

  That’s what this was.

  Seeing my Grace’s mouth drop open as his cock stretched her asshole and slammed in to the balls. Seeing the way she rippled as she clenched and loosened, clenched and loosened, adjusting to the girth with a wide open mouth.

  I’d seen it, felt it, lived it a thousand times over, but not as he lived it, so detached from the fucking show as he stared down at her with a smile on his face.

  He wasn’t fighting, not straining against the urge to unload deep in that dirty hole. Even as Grace fell into her regular rhythm of humping back and demanding more, demanding longer, demanding hard, hard, deep fucking deep, he wasn’t struggling to hold back long enough to give her what she needed.

  His eyes met mine over her panting head, and they weren’t even close to the edge.

  I was closer to jizzing in my pants than the guy was to spurting his cum in Grace’s gorgeous asshole.

  Her pleasure as she realised he could go on forever was a real fucking wonder to behold.

  The smile crept slowly on her face, at odds with the state of the rest of her. It was wild, free, lost to everything but the joy of bouncing back on another guy’s dick without time restraint. She bobbed back against him like a fucking trooper, knees shunting and sliding on the plastic sheet underneath, nipples like bullets as those tits bobbed along with her.

  And then she came.

  Feral, like a wild cat roaring, spitting, cursing. Wailing to him, us, how good it felt, how good he felt, how she was fucking destroyed by the perfect thrusts of a perfect dick inside her asshole.

  I’m sure my face was as grim as his was grinning when he pulled himself free and let her fall flat to the mattress. His cock was still as hard as ever. Thick in his grip as he tugged it a few extra times for good measure.

  It had to be medication. A whole fucking handful of those little blue pills to see him through the evening. I knew that was macho bullshit reasoning even as it occurred to me. The guy didn’t seem the type to lean on props like that, his smug smirk was all real, and I guessed that’s why it was on his face so often. The kind of bulletproof arrogance that comes with knowing you really are the dog’s bollocks in life.

  He leaned back against the windowsill, catching breath he didn’t need to catch as he stared across at us like we were filthy spinning tops waiting to tumble and fall, and it was then that I wondered again where the holy fuck I could know this guy from. He wasn’t the kind you’d miss in passing, even if he was across a bustling street during rush hour commute.

  “I think you need a minute,” he told my wife, and she nodded her head gladly. She’d rolled onto her back, limbs spread wide as she gathered her ragged breathing. She was fucked. Beyond fucked. I counted our blessings as I noticed the faint glow of morning light behind Heath’s shoulders in the window.

  Seven o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.

  I didn’t move a muscle as he headed around the bed and strolled nude in my direction. He shot me a glare before he switched off the sensor, firing it up again right after him as he stepped past me toward the bathroom.

  “Piss break,” he said. “Talk amongst yourselves to relieve the boredom.”

  I didn’t even acknowledge him. My eyes were all on Grace as he stepped into the en-suite. The door creaked closed behind him but didn’t click shut.

  Her eyes were all on me when the first splash of piss in the toilet bowl sounded out, and this time she didn’t close them as the tears came down.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Grace

  “Hey,” he said, as I fought back the sobs. “I hope that’s not on my behalf. Worse things in life than enjoying a dick in your ass, Grace.”

  His voice was low and the humour was forced, but it didn’t matter. I blinked the tears away and managed a smile back.

  “This is so fucked up,” I whispered. “I don’t even know…”

  He tipped his head toward the bathroom. “He’s fucked up. We’re just people living our lives, trying to save our dreams on the coast.”

  I wished I could reach my hand out for his just to feel his fingers squeeze mine. Just to squeeze his right back and say I was his, just as much as he was mine.

  “This isn’t who I am,” I told him, hoping that would cover some of the head-fuck of the last however many hours.

  “This isn’t who either of us are,” he said back. “Baby, I have a hard on in my pants from watching a freakish porn star asshole fuck my wife all night long. It isn’t gonna go on my gravestone.”

  I loved my husband’s voice so much, thanking God for Thomas Heath’s bladder break and the moments it granted us.

  “Maybe he could do a reading at our funerals if he outlives us. The night I fucked Grace Foster into insanity and paid her fifty grand
for the pleasure.” My laugh wasn’t more than a breath, but my smile was a ride of endorphins.

  “Maybe I’ll have to pound his face into oblivion before he gets the chance.” He flashed me a half smile back and I rolled close enough to mouth I love you, knowing he would see it.

  His eyes were still warm for me when he mouthed it back. A stolen moment in the silence while the man who’d made me come a billion times this evening flushed the toilet and turned on the basin tap.

  We didn’t have long and I knew it. Seizing the moment and making it count was my only option, my heart racing under the pressure of making this as right as it could be. Whatever that even meant.

  “I can’t make him come,” I whispered, speaking the truth out loud. “Whatever he’s used to, I’m not enough. Not good enough, hot enough, tight enough, crazy enough. Whatever, I can’t.”

  His face was a picture as he stared back at me, and I struggled to believe he hadn’t seen my failings as clearly as I’d been feeling them for the past few hours.

  “Grace–” he began, but I shook my head.

  “I can’t make him come,” I continued. “But I can make you come. So do it. Stop fighting it and take your dick out. At least get some pathetic little scrap of fun from this shit storm we’re caught up in.”

  “I’m not jerking off in front of that cunt,” he protested, but it was empty man-pride and nothing else. Even as he said it his knuckles whitened back up on the armrests.

  “You wouldn’t be,” I argued. “You’d be jerking off in front of me. At least give me that. Surely I can get one guy off this evening, hey?”

  I flinched as he slid forward in his seat, scared shitless that he was going to cross that crappy red line and this whole sorry affair would be all for nothing. But he didn’t.