Just Like That

“Fucking hotel internet.” He’s leaning over his laptop. It’s no crackerjack of modern technology. The black plastic is all over thumbprints, the screen resolution is lower than an ancient GameBoy. “Is this thing working?” he asks. “Can you hear me?”

“I see you, honey,” says the woman on the other end.

“You see me?”

“No,” says the woman. “But I see your new friend.” He’s peering at the laptop, clearly expecting the camera to be centered at the top of the screen. It’s not. The webcam sitting on the hotel desk at the side is an enormous, archaic plug-in model that looks like the eye-stem of a Dalek, and it’s pointed straight in my direction, where I’m sitting on the bed. I raise my hand, smile, and wave. “Hi there,” she says.

The man I’ve arranged to meet is a muscular black dude in his late thirties. He’s got a great chest and hot arms, and the view of his ass to which he’s treating me right now is unbeatable. But it’s his thighs that are oddly his most attractive feature. They’re hard and toned and the size of tree trunks. He stands back a little and finally remembers where the webcam is. “So you can see me?”

“I can see you,” she replies. I’ve had only the slightest of acquaintance with this woman for the last ten seconds, but something in her tone makes me think, She must be the most patient of wives. “I can see you both.”

The man plops down on the hotel bed next to me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. “What do you think?” he asks.

“He cute,” she says. Now that he’s sitting down, I can see his wife at the other end of the Skype session. She’s a pretty woman with caramel-colored skin and springy hair pushed back and up with a headband. She looks to be a decade younger than her husband.

“You’re cute,” I say, genuinely.

“He flirty, too,” she wisecracks.

The man reaches out to ruffle my hair, as if I’m some harmless, adorable tyke he’s brought home from the orphanage. Then he cups the back of my head and draws me in for a kiss. His lips surround mine like the downiest of pillows. I sink into them without finding the foundation beneath. He tilts back my head, and lets his mouth travel down my neck while he unbuttons my shirt. When my chest is exposed to the cool air of the hotel suite, his tongue reaches out and licks my nipple. I open my eyes. His wife is leaning back in her chair in front of their home computer, arms crossed, head tilted. She’s not wearing the look of the skeptical. She hasn’t assumed an expression of mere tolerance—this isn’t a whim merely of his that she indulges. It’s a game they both plainly enjoy. She’s watching her husband lick his way down my torso with absolute, utter approval. Her head is bobbing back and forth slightly, following some internal rhythm, as she nods with unspoken blessing.

Her husband hooks his thumbs into the front of my jeans and unfastens them. I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs. While his hands explore the mound between my thighs, I pull off my socks and toss them where my jeans lie in a heap. “Oh, you get bonus points for that,” says the wife, unexpectedly. “I can’t get him to take off his own socks when he come to bed.”

Her husband isn’t paying a bit of notice—and I confess, it’s increasingly tough for me to split my attention between the Skype screen and the sight of this man spreading my legs and pulling down my boxer briefs. I make a decision to focus on what’s happening in front of me, rather than three hundred miles away. His breath is hot on my crotch. He’s licking my balls like a dog cleans itself, right through the cotton fabric. I’m hard as a rock beneath the palms of his meaty hands.

He’s in charge for the moment. He pushes my legs apart, then up. I feel steamy breath on the outside of my hole, as he buries his face in there. I’m balancing on the upper half of my back as he growls like a dog as he chews at my flesh through the shorts. Then I collapse back down onto the mattress. It shudders beneath me, and I shudder too when he pulls down my shorts to release my hard dick.

“Damn, look at that!” I hear the woman’s voice say. “Show me, baby!”

Her husband pushes me at an angle, so I’m facing the cam. I grab my dick and stroke it for her, pumping it lasciviously. I slap it in my hands a couple of times. The husband slithers off the bed as silkily as a negligee, until he’s between my knees. He pushes me down so that I’m lying there, relaxed and legs spread, dick standing straight up while he wraps his lips around it.

“I can’t see!” I hear her say. He drags me around to a better angle, like a sack of seed. “Fuck, baby,” she says. I can hear the desire in her voice. “Suck that big white dick.”

He’s already on that command. He stares up at me while he runs those soft lips up and down my shaft. My nuts contract and pull up from the intensity of the stimulus; they relax and ease down again at the warmth of his breath and the sensation of his hot, sloppy spit dripping onto them. His eyes are lidded, heavy. The gaze he’s giving me is worshipful. Whenever he reaches the base, he lets out the slightest of gulps as his throat grapples to accommodate my girth. He’s totally into his work, and I prop myself up on my elbows and watch him go at it.

“Show me,” she says. I push her husband off my meat and stand to my feet. I lean back, and thrust my hips forward, so that my dick’s a saber slicing across the computer screen. Her arms aren’t crossed any more. She’s leaning back in the office chair, with her hands out of sight. I know exactly where they are, though. “You married?” she asks. I hold up my left hand and let the platinum band speak for itself. “Damn, she some lucky bitch.”

“I’m going to fuck your husband,” I tell her. When I stand up, he puts his head down on the mattress as he tries to get oxygen back into his lungs. He’s standing up bent over, right now.

“You better fuck him,” she agrees. “You better fuck his ass hard.”

“Yeah?” I ask, entering into the conspiracy with her. “You want to see him fucked hard, huh?”

“You better make him yell,” she says.

“You like my dick better than his, don’t you?” I ask her, thwacking it in the palm of my hand.

She grunts approval. “You way bigger.”

The husband’s not that small. He’s seven inches or so. And all seven of those inches are fully erect. He’s jacking himself frantically while his spouse and I talk about him like he’s almost not even in the room. I grab the bottle of lube on the bed and squirt some directly onto his hole. It must be cold, because he flinches. “You like watching a real man top your husband, huh?”

“I like watching a real man top a hot cunt,” she says. Her jaw works from side to side. She’s turned on, I can tell. “You know that’s all he is. A cunt.”

“A cunt for me to cum in, huh?”

“If he worth it. If he earn it.”

I angle the guy so we’re at a diagonal to the camera. I want her to see my entry in. I rub the plum head of my dick against his black hole. Then I push it in. He yelps. “Not so fast,” he begs.

“You shut the fuck up,” she snaps at him. He closes his mouth and whimpers. “You just shove it in, white boy,” she tells me. “Don’t pay no mind to what he do. You listen to me.”

I listen to her. I thrust to the halfway point. He yells. There’s not a lot of resistance to my shove; he honestly can’t be feeling as much distress as he’s letting on. I’ve gathered they’ve done this dance before, many times, though. So I let them set the beat. “Fuck him,” she snaps. “Fuck him all the way.”

I shove the rest in. His head snaps back; his eyes wince closed. There’s a rictus of pain across his face that she clearly can see on the camera. She makes noises of satisfaction to herself, then calls out, “That’s right.”

So I fuck. I grab the guy’s hips and let rip. No buildup, no grinding, no gentle humping. I’m not trying to make him feel good at all. My dick, on the other hand, feels fucking fantastic.

I’m pounding away. Our balls are slapping with every impact. He’s a big hound who’s letting out little puppy yelps every time I stab into him. He starts to keen at the back of his throat, whining like a hit dog. He pretends like he’s in agony, that he’s had enough. His dick tells me otherwise. I grab onto his balls and yank them back, and feel his cock poke hard against my knuckles.

“Ride that cunt!” I hear from behind me.

Oh, I’m riding it. His hole’s juicy and sloppy and slick. Every time I shove in, I’m trying to get a reaction from him. I want him to fucking feel it. I’m probably squeezing his nuts too damned hard, but I don’t really give a fuck about that, either. Every cowboy needs a saddle horn to grab onto. I’m not tearing him a new asshole. His current model is good enough for that. But I am fucking it like I own it, like I have the right to damage it forever if I want to. He’s going to gape once I’m done; that hole is going to try to close, and find itself permanently shaped it to accommodate the contours of my dick.

And she is loving it. Loving it. She’s chanting along in rhythm of my thrusts. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-him! Fuck-him! Fuck! Fuck!” It’s like some deranged cheerleader’s anthem at the Buggery U homecoming game.

Blood is roaring in my ears when I shoot. I pull him to me and climax, balls-deep, into his hole. It’s one of those orgasms where the expression on my face is just as twisted-up and painful as what he’s going through. He knows what’s happening. His butt raises hungrily to take my seed. He doesn’t want me to pull out. He’d do anything to keep me inside, shooting that sperm, filling him up. I hear her yelling and cursing in the background, but the words aren’t processing through the scarlet tide of blood slowly receding from my brain.

After a moment, I pull out. As I predicted, his hole is gaping. It stays open. Empty. Begging. She can see it plainly on the monitor. I step back from my handiwork. He stays slumped over the bed. There’s cum on the floor and on the front of those muscular thighs—his, it would seem. I don’t know when he shot his load. I don’t really care.

I turn to the computer. “Fuck him like that, you mean?”

“Yeah,” she says, mouth set and severe, but eyes dancing with happiness. “Fuck him just like that.”