Unbeknownst to me, Abhishek’s suspicions festered like an open wound, the bite marks, the sleeping pills, the mysterious texts he’d glimpsed fueling a storm of hurt and curiosity. While I napped, he slipped out, his heart heavy with betrayal, wandering the hotel corridors until he spotted them—the African gods, lounging in the bar, their laughter booming. With a mix of rage and twisted intrigue, he approached, introducing himself as “Sana’s husband,” his voice steady despite the tears welling. They exchanged knowing smirks, but to his surprise, they welcomed him, buying him a drink, their charisma disarming. “Your wife’s a firecracker,” Jamal chuckled, clapping him on the back. Abhishek, tears in his eyes, confessed his pain—the discovery, the video he’d witnessed in secret—but instead of confrontation, a dark plan formed. “Let me join you,” he whispered, his cock stirring traitorously at the memory of watching me get fucked. “I want to shoot it—make a professional porn of her, release it in Africa, show the world what a slut she is.” The Africans laughed, intrigued, agreeing to the scheme—cameras ready, lights set in their suite, a revenge porn to immortalize my degradation. Abhishek cried as they plotted, his heart breaking, but his arousal growing, the cuckold within him awakening fully.
The fifth day passed in tense normalcy—sightseeing at the Louvre, Abhishek’s touches distant, my body healing just enough to ache for more. Then, on the sixth day, as evening fell, my phone buzzed with a text from Jamal: “Midnight, our suite. Bring that married pussy—seven cocks waiting to wreck you again.” My heart raced, pussy flooding instantly, the fantasy reigniting. I played coy with Abhishek, feeding him another “spiked” milk—sleeping pills crushed in—watching him “drink” it, his eyes sad but compliant. “Goodnight, love,” I whispered, kissing his forehead, waiting until his breathing steadied in feigned sleep. Midnight struck, and I slipped out, dressed in nothing but a trench coat over lingerie—black lace bra pushing up my tits, thong barely covering my shaved pussy, garters hugging my thighs. My holes still tender but craving, I knocked on their door, adrenaline pumping.
They pulled me inside, the room transformed—professional cameras on tripods, lights glaring, a makeshift porn set with mirrors reflecting every angle. “Strip, slut,” Jamal commanded, and I obeyed, shedding the coat, my body on display—tits heaving, nipples hard, pussy glistening through the lace. I dropped to my knees, hungry for their cocks, as they surrounded me, unzipping to reveal their monstrous black shafts—thick, veined, ranging from 10 to 13 inches, heads glistening with pre-cum. I started with Jamal, my lips wrapping around his head, sucking deep, tongue swirling as he groaned, “Suck that black dick, married whore.” I bobbed, gagging on his length, saliva dripping, then moved to Kwame, his cock even thicker, stretching my jaw as I deepthroated, my hands jerking off two more—Malik and Obi—their shafts pulsing in my grip, pre-cum coating my fingers. The fifth, Tyrone, slapped his cock on my cheek, demanding attention, and I alternated, mouth stuffed, throat fucked, tears streaming as they face-fucked me in turns, their balls slapping my chin. “Choke on it, you cum dumpster,” they growled, pulling my hair, forcing deeper until I couldn’t breathe, my pussy dripping onto the carpet.