Thomas

 

I was way out of my groove in this sorry situation, cursing myself for being dragged into silly games so far out of my comfort zone as I ploughed Grace’s cunt with brutal fingers.

I shouldn’t be here. Not with both of them, and most certainly not without a heap of my cash on the table to keep the sway firmly on my side. Brett was different this time around, barely recognisable as the buckling pile of has been I’d forced into a corner so easily.

He was worryingly back in his groove as he slammed his dick into his wife’s retching throat, fucking her hard without a hint of a concern that I was up against him.

I hated how it twisted deep inside, provoking the reaction of that poor pathetic boy I’d been trying to keep at bay for weeks. The boy who hated everything the popular teenage Brett Foster stood for. Hated his bravado and bullish jibes, the confidence he carried in his shoulders like nothing in the world could tear him down.

The years I’d spent convincing myself I could be the one to throw him from his footing were shrivelling away to nothing. Drying up around me as I kept my walls up high.

I forced it down. Choked it tight. Keeping my focus on the woman writhing on the bed between us, playing her with every ounce of concentration I could muster as her pussy responded to my fingers.

Bringing her off was easy. Knowing the right words to send her body quivering was as natural as the breath in my lungs. Keeping my cocky front watertight under the scrutiny of her asshole husband was not.

I told him I’d won the first round, claiming her climax as my own, but even as I forced out the arrogance I knew he wasn’t buying it. He was still in full control as he pulled away from her mouth and left her ragged, his cock barely twitching as her spit dribbled down his thighs.

I told him it was my pleasure to take his place, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t prepared for the full intensity of sharing a woman with another naked man, flesh on display so vulnerably next to his. I wasn’t prepared for the equal footing of the battle between two men striving to give their best game.

Grace was already open wide as I took up position. She tipped her head back to stretch her eager throat, whimpering for more as I pushed into the sloppy wet tunnel he’d left behind.

She was hot. Tight. Noisy. Everything I’d dreamed of as a teenager watching her from across the street with his hand in hers.

And more.

She was so much more.

“Fuck her filthy mouth,” he snapped as I paused to enjoy the sensation. “She’s hungry for it.”

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. The words were on my tongue, ready to be as much of a cunt as I could summon from the depths, but that sad fucking boy inside left me mute.

I thrust my hips hard enough that Grace’s throat clenched hard. She coughed up a huge gob of drool as I pulled out all the way, letting out a groan as I charged all the way right back in. I was expecting a mirror image of our earlier arrangement, but the prick jumped right in and slammed his dick in her horny cunt, setting her so fucking wild that her throat hummed with stifled moans that made my balls tighten.

No.

I gritted my teeth against the pleasure, digging my fingers into my naked thighs in an attempt to regain my composure. It didn’t work. Not with the slap of flesh on flesh as Brett Foster grunted and slammed.

It was her excitement, so fucking beautiful as she writhed and whimpered. Her stretched mouth was grinning around my cock, hands reaching for her husband and urging him on.

I wasn’t going to come for her. Not yet. Not fucking ever if I could keep a fucking handle on it.

My eyes were closed as I paced myself, relief flooding through me as I regained my composure. And then I felt it there, the faintest hint of that sad little boy craving something that made my gut turn.

Camaraderie. The sad fucking thrill of Mr Popular slapping me on the back for a job well done. Mutual respect in a place I’d never wanted it, and certainly never earned it.

I’d never fucking wanted it. Not then and certainly not now. The teenage ghost in me was a sad little asshole, offsetting everything I’d battled to accomplish in all these years after high school.

I wanted to tear Brett Foster down and leave him destroyed, showing once and for all that I really was the better man. I wanted to claim his pretty wife as mine, leaving no illusion that she wanted anything but me.

These were the stakes, right here and now. This was the battle I’d been building up to my whole life.

“Fill the slut up,” he grunted, laughing low like a jock on the sports field. “She’s a cat wanting some filthy fucking cream from your balls. You’d best get giving it to her.”

And she did want it. Her moan was all for my filthy seed as she struggled to take more.

No.

I pulled out before she could claim her prize, slapping my wet dick against her open lips as I shifted to face the guy fucking that sweet pussy. His eyes were dark, hips in a fiery rhythm as he gave her every inch in brutal torment. His thumb was on her clit, pressing hard in the way I’d been doing. He knew the moves. My moves. He knew what buttons I’d been pressing to get such a glorious reaction from his sweet bride.

He’d been practicing. Seemingly every fucking minute of every fucking day.

I’d been burying myself in shitty mountains of work to distract myself from the desire for round two with his wife, and he’d been learning from what he’d seen that night. Pushing himself forward. Bigger. Better. Ripped with composure I’d thought long dead in him.

“More,” Grace whimpered, opening her mouth up like a needy fish, slippery wet and desperate.

I couldn’t give it to her, especially not when that hungry mouth strained to take my balls, her tongue a tease of epic proportions as her body burned my eyes with its perfect glory.

Her tits were divine, my love bite already darkening alongside his. Her nerves were alight, limbs shivering and jerking as her husband fucked her hard.

“Fill her the fuck up,” he barked again, and this time my eyes narrowed.

“I’ll give her what she fucking earns,” I countered, and he shrugged.

“Fuck her fucking throat and she’ll show you what’s earned,” he goaded. “What’s up with you? Too fucking shy to shoot your load? Grow some balls, Heath.”

“It’s not about the climax,” I argued. “It’s about the performance.”

But he didn’t care. His thrusts were hard enough that her face pressed tight to my dick and balls, mouth flapping wide as she reached her crest for the second time.

My cock wasn’t even in her as she exploded with orgasm number two. It was all for him.

I cursed under my breath as the win struck his senses, well aware that no amount of bravado on my part would kill his victory.

The flicker of embarrassment was hard to subdue, Brett’s eyes on me as he pulled from her pussy and presented his still raging hard on proud for my viewing.

“Yeah,” he told me. “It’s about the fucking performance. You’d better get with the game, Heath.”

It was all the fire I needed.

His pretty wife was still gasping as I pulled her body out from under and dragged her up onto mine.

“Next fucking round,” I said.