They used every toy in the room—vibrators on my clit, dildos stuffing my holes alongside their cocks, making me airtight in ways I’d only dreamed. Cum started flowing—Jamal pulling out to spray my face, thick ropes hitting my eyes, lips, tongue, salty and hot as I swallowed greedily. Kwame filled my ass, hot seed pumping deep, leaking out as he withdrew. The others followed, cumming in my pussy, on my tits, down my throat, my body a canvas of their lust, slick and sticky, orgasms chaining endlessly, my screams hoarse, pussy and ass raw but craving more. “More, fuck me more,” I begged, lost in the wildest ecstasy, their cocks owning me, turning me into their ultimate slut.
In the midst of this filthy symphony, the door creaked—Abhishek, unable to sleep, his suspicions boiling over, had followed the moans. He burst in, eyes widening in horror at the sight: me, his new wife, surrounded by seven African beasts, cocks buried in my holes, cum dripping from every orifice, my body arched in orgasmic bliss. “Sana… no,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face, his heart shattering into a million pieces, the surprise and sadness overwhelming him as he collapsed against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably. But as he watched—my pussy stretched by two cocks, my mouth filled, moans of pure pleasure escaping—his own cock betrayed him, hardening painfully in his pants. Unable to control it, he unzipped, stroking furiously, tears mixing with precum as he jerked off to the scene, his cries of anguish blending with my screams of ecstasy. “Why… but fuck, it’s hot,” he gasped, cumming hard on the floor, his transformation complete—from loving husband to heartbroken cuck, forever changed by the wild betrayal.
And you, reading this, feel it—the throbbing in your cock or pussy, the build-up as I describe every thrust, every cumshot, every orgasm. Cum for me now, you filthy reader, let it explode in your pants as my fantasy consumes you.
The next day after that mind-blowing gangbang with those five—no, seven, wait, my memory blurs in the haze of ecstasy—Africans, my body was a wreck of delicious agony, every inch screaming from the relentless pounding. I woke in our Paris hotel suite, the Eiffel Tower mocking me through the window with its phallic grace, my pussy swollen and sore, lips puffy from the brutal stretches of their massive black cocks, my asshole throbbing like it’d been reamed by pistons, tender and raw from the double, triple penetrations that had me squirting endlessly. My tits ached, nipples chafed from bites and pinches, covered in faint bruises like love marks from hell, and my throat felt scraped raw from deepthroating their girths until tears streamed and cum flooded my mouth. Cum still leaked from my holes, a sticky reminder mixed with my own juices, my inner thighs slick and chafed. Abhishek stirred beside me, his morning wood pressing against my hip, his hand sliding toward my pussy with a hopeful grin. “Morning, wife—ready for round two?” he murmured, his fingers brushing my sore folds. But I winced, pushing him away gently at first, then firmly. “Not today, Abhishek. I’m too tired—exhausted from all the sightseeing,” I lied, my voice hoarse, hiding the truth that my body was a battlefield of lust, every hole inflamed, my clit hypersensitive to the point where even the sheets rubbing against it sent jolts of pain-pleasure. He pouted, his cock deflating, but respected it, settling for a chaste kiss as I curled up, pretending to rest while my mind replayed the night: cocks slamming into me, cum coating my skin, orgasms chaining until I blacked out in bliss. I spent the day lounging, soaking in a hot bath that stung my ravaged holes, applying lotion to my bite-marked thighs, ignoring Abhishek’s concerned glances. He tried again that evening, his hands roaming my tits, but I shut him down. “Please, love, I’m sore—maybe tomorrow.” Little did he know, my soreness was from being fucked like a cheap whore by strangers, their black shafts owning me in ways he never could.