The doubt deepened when, later that morning, as I rummaged through my purse for sunscreen by the Seine, a small bottle of sleeping pills tumbled out—prescribed for my “jet lag,” but really my insurance for nocturnal escapades. Abhishek’s gaze locked on it, his face paling. “Sleeping pills? You didn’t mention those.” I laughed it off, tucking them away with a kiss on his cheek, “Just in case, love—honeymoons can be exhausting.” But the seed grew roots, his surprise turning to a sad, unspoken worry, his touches hesitant as we strolled hand-in-hand through the Louvre, my mind already drifting to the texts buzzing on my phone from Jamal and his crew: “Can’t wait to stretch that pussy again, slut.” The flirtation had escalated since our first encounter—their eyes devouring me at breakfast, one brushing my ass in the elevator, whispering promises of “black cock heaven.” My schoolgirl fantasy of African gangbangs—born from that first porn video of ebony shafts destroying a white girl, her holes filled, cum dripping—burned hotter, my pussy wetting my panties at the thought.
That night, as the Eiffel Tower sparkled outside our window, I prepared my plan, the air thick with tension from Abhishek’s lingering doubts. I poured him a glass of warm milk, stirring in a crushed sleeping pill with a sweet smile. “Drink this, honey—it’ll help you relax after our long day.” He eyed it warily, his phone in hand where I’d carelessly left it unlocked earlier, but he nodded, bringing the glass to his lips. I watched intently, my heart pounding, as he pretended to sip, his eyes meeting mine with a flicker of something—hurt? Suspicion? But he set the empty glass down, kissing me goodnight. “I love you, Sana,” he murmured, his voice sad, laced with the depth of unspoken fears. Little did I know, while I showered, he’d glanced at my phone, the screen lighting up with a text from Kwame: “Tonight, slut? Our suite, all seven of us ready to wreck that married pussy.” Surprise hit him like a gut punch, tears welling as he pieced it together—the bites, the pills, the secrets. He didn’t drink the milk, pouring it down the sink when I wasn’t looking, his hands shaking with a mix of sorrow and a strange, unwelcome arousal stirring in his cock at the forbidden image.
Midnight came, the city asleep, and I checked on Abhishek—his breathing steady, eyes closed in feigned slumber. Satisfied, I slipped into a skimpy black dress that hugged my tits and ass, no panties, my pussy already dripping in anticipation. I tiptoed out, heart racing, to the suite next door where the seven African gods awaited—Jamal, Kwame, and their five friends, all towering, muscled ebony Adonises with cocks that promised destruction. The door opened to a dimly lit room hazy with weed smoke, R&B pulsing low, their eyes hungry as they circled me like predators. “Look at the married slut,” Jamal growled, yanking me inside, his massive hand groping my tit through the dress. “Ready for your fantasy, white whore?” I nodded, breathless, my pussy throbbing as they stripped me bare, the dress ripped off in seconds, my body exposed—tits heaving, nipples hard, thighs slick with arousal.