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Jamaica, the cuckolding of a couple

The air in Montego Bay was thick, heavy with the scent of hibiscus and salt, a welcome change from the stale, recycled air of their home office. For Greg and Marsha, this trip to Jamaica was supposed to be a lifeline. At sixty-two and sixty respectively, they were supposed to be entering a golden era of travel and relaxation, but Greg’s work had become a jealous mistress. He ran a family trucking company, and a persistent shortage of drivers, a problem that had only gotten exponentially worse since Covid, demanded more and more of his time and attention. Marsha felt like a ghost in her own life, her days blurring into a monotony of waiting for a husband who was always present in body but lost in logistics and dispatch calls. The first few days were a tense truce. They walked on the beach, but the silence between them was a chasm. They had dinner, but the conversation was stilted, circling the void of their disconnection. Then they met Marcus. He was the hotel’s activities director, a man who moved with a liquid grace, his dark, smiling face a constant presence around the pool. As he talked with Greg and Marsha by the pool that first day, Marcus thought to himself. He enjoyed meeting older white couples, the ones where the husband was distracted and the wife was starved for attention. He could have his pick of young, hard-bodied women on the island, but he preferred to fuck older wives. They were always so appreciative, so amazed by his sexual talents, so hungry for a real man. He looked at Greg and Marsha and he already knew. He saw it in Greg's eyes, the flicker of helpless longing as he watched Marcus talk to his wife. He knew that Greg would willingly give his wife to him to ravish, that he secretly wanted to be cuckolded. This one was going to be easy. His attention was a warm, unexpected sunbeam on Marsha’s wilted spirit. He called her "beautiful lady" and asked about her life, not as a prelude to something, but with a genuine curiosity that made her feel seen for the first time in years. She was flattered, and a part of her, a part she thought had long since withered, began to stir. She wondered why this vibrant, handsome man would be interested in a 60+ year old woman like her, but the thought was quickly followed by a thrilling, forbidden spark of arousal. Like so many women, Marsha realized that she secretly wondered what it would be like to be taken by a virile black adonis like Marcus. Greg saw it all. He saw the way Marcus’s eyes lingered on Marsha, the way his smile was just for her. Where another husband might have felt a surge of jealousy, Greg felt a terrifying, exhilarating jolt of recognition. For years, a dark, secret fantasy had played out in the quiet moments of his life: the fantasy of being cuckolded by Marsha, of watching her taken by a powerful, dominant man, a man with a big black cock. And in the aftermath, he would be commanded to his knees, to lick the cum from his wife's well-used pussy and then clean the magnificent cock of the bull who had claimed her. The reality of Marcus was making the fantasy terrifyingly, wonderfully possible. Driven by this desperate hope, Greg convinced Marsha to visit the clothing-optional beach the next day. "It'll be liberating," he'd said, his heart thudding. Marsha, emboldened by the island heat and Marcus's attention, agreed, but with a condition. She would only untie her top while laying on her stomach, a small concession to her lingering modesty. They found a secluded spot, and Marsha lay on her towel, untying the strings of her bikini top. They had been there for maybe ten minutes when a figure walked by. It was Marcus, totally nude. Marsha kept her face turned away, but through her sunglasses, she secretly marveled at him. His body was lean and muscular, but it was the sight of his cock, thick and long even in its soft state, swinging heavily between his legs, that made her breath catch. Thoughts, unbidden and shocking, flooded her mind: what would it feel like? What would it be like to experience that? He stopped at their towel. "Beautiful lady," he said, his voice a warm, familiar rumble. "Greg. Keeping cool?" Both Greg and Marsha had a hard time not staring at his cock, which seemed to have a life of its own as he stood talking to them. "You're getting a little red," Marcus commented, his gaze on Marsha's back. Before either of them could respond, he picked up their bottle of suntan lotion. "Here, let me help." He squeezed a dollop onto his hands and began to rub it into Marsha's back. His touch was firm, professional, but as his hands roamed over her skin, they seemed to wander. They moved down the sides of her body, his fingers almost, but not quite, groping the soft swell of her breasts that was pressed against the towel. He moved down to her legs, his strong hands working the lotion into her calves, then her thighs, rubbing closer and closer to the edge of her bikini bottoms. Marsha’s breathing got deeper, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as she got more and more excited. Greg’s cock started to harden beneath his own swimsuit, a traitorous response to the intoxicating scene. He was terrified Marsha would see his excitement and know his twisted thoughts. "Roll over," Marcus suddenly said. "Let me get your front side." In a bit of a daze, compelled by his confident tone, Marsha rolled over, briefly flashing her breasts before instinctively covering them with her hands. Marcus started rubbing the lotion on her shoulders and the skin of her chest above her top, his fingers slowly, deliberately, pushing the thin fabric of her bikini down a little more with each pass. He then moved down to her legs, starting at her feet and then slowly, agonizingly, moving up her inner thighs. As he got closer to her pussy, Marsha unconsciously spread her legs, offering him silent permission. His fingers slightly grazed her mound through the thin fabric, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips. Marcus suddenly stopped, his hands stilling on her thigh. "That should be enough," he said, his voice suddenly casual. He told them he had to leave, and they watched him walk away, his powerful retreating form a silhouette against the sun. They were both breathing heavily, excited and deeply confused about what had just happened. After a short time, the tension too much to bear, they decided to go back to their room. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Marsha grabbed Greg, pulling him into a fierce, desperate kiss. They fell onto the bed, their hands tearing at each other's clothes, and had excited, frantic sex, both of them thinking about Marcus without admitting it to each other. The thought of him, of his hands on Marsha, of his powerful body, was too much. Greg came quickly, his orgasm a sharp, almost painful release. Marsha tried to continue, her hips still moving, but Greg quickly went soft, his body spent. Marsha lay back, frustrated and disappointed, telling him she wanted more. Seeing her need, and driven by his own fantasy, Greg slid down her body. "Let me," he whispered. He decided to eat her cum-filled pussy. Marsha tried to stop him, her hand on his head, a last vestige of their old life, but she relented, her fingers tangling in his hair. Greg started to lick her, savoring the flavor of their cum mixed together, but in his mind, he was pretending. He was wishing it were Marcus's cum he was tasting, wishing he was cleaning her after another man had taken her. Marsha lay back, her eyes closed, her mind wandering to Marcus. She was thinking about how it would feel to have him over her, to have that big cock inside her, filling her completely. As she imagined it, a powerful orgasm rolled through her, and she pulled Greg's face hard into her pussy, grinding against his mouth as she cried out. As they lay there in the afterglow, the sound of the waves a distant murmur, they both started to question their thoughts about Marcus. The fantasy had been brought into the light, and now, nothing would ever be the same.

That night, they went to the hotel's main dining room, both of them still reliving the day's events in a silent, private loop. As they ate their dinner of jerk chicken and rice, not really talking much, the ambient noise of the room faded into a dull hum. They were lost in their own thoughts, a shared but unacknowledged secret hanging between them. Then, a familiar presence materialized at their table. Marcus. "Beautiful lady. Greg," he said, his smile easy and confident. He leaned against the empty chair beside them, chatting amiably about the resort, the food, and the local music. He mentioned a club just down the beach, a place where the locals went, and told them they should check it out after dinner. "The real Jamaica," he called it. As quickly as he appeared, he abruptly cut their conversation short, giving a small nod and melting back into the crowd. Both Greg and Marsha watched him walk away, the effortless sway of his hips a magnetic pull. Greg glanced at Marsha and saw a glaze in her eyes, her cheeks slightly flushed. He wondered what she was thinking, secretly hoping that her thoughts would match his. Marsha sat there, once again thinking about what it would be like with Marcus, a fresh tingle starting between her legs. She was getting excited all over again before she turned back to Greg and found him staring at her. She felt a flush of embarrassment, wondering whether he had any idea about her depraved thoughts. Finally, Greg broke the heavy silence. "So... would you want to try out that club?" he asked, trying to sound casual. Marsha's heart leaped at the thought, but she tried not to let Greg see her excitement. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Maybe... I guess we could try it out." She was secretly hoping that she would see Marcus there, not realizing that her husband shared her very same thoughts. They finished dinner and walked to the club, the night air warm on their skin. They wrapped their arms around each other as they went, a gesture of marital unity that felt both comforting and deeply fragile. Once there, they found a booth in a dark corner, giving them a view of the small, pulsing dance floor. Greg went to the bar to get them drinks. He was no more than gone a minute when Marcus walked up to the booth, his smile seeming even brighter in the club's dim light. As they chatted, Marsha's mind wandered back to that forbidden fantasy and she once again felt that familiar tingle between her legs, not wanting to admit her overwhelming desire. After getting the drinks, Greg started back to the table, but he stopped when he saw Marcus sitting with Marsha. He paused in the shadows, watching them, wondering what might happen before he finally walked up to the table. After greeting him, Greg, sensing a chance to see his fantasy come true, blurted out, "Marcus, you should join us." After demurring at first, Marcus agreed to stay, sliding deeper into the booth next to Marsha, his thigh pressing against hers. After talking for a bit, the music's infectious beat calling to her, Marsha wanted to dance. "Greg, let's dance," she said. They went out to the floor for one song, a fast-paced reggae number. When it ended, Greg said, "That's enough," and guided her back to the booth. Marsha expressed her desire to dance more, but Greg, wanting to create the opening, said no. Marcus then turned to Marsha. "Marsha, would you do me the honor?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk. She looked at Greg, a silent question in her eyes. "No, I should probably..." she started to say, but Greg, sensing his chance, cut her off. "Go on," he said, his voice a little too tight. "Dance with Marcus." As they moved onto the floor, the music slowed to a heavy, sensual rhythm. The crowd around them seemed to press in, everyone dancing with a hypnotic, sexual energy. Marcus coaxed Marsha to join in, his hands on her waist, guiding her movements. As Greg watched from the booth, his wife slowly started to lose her inhibitions. Marcus slowly pushed Marsha further into the sensual dancing, starting to pull her body against his. Marsha resisted at first, her hands on his chest, but slowly, she allowed herself to be controlled by this adonis. As he moved against her, Marsha realized with a jolt that she could feel his large, hard cock through his pants, rubbing against her belly with every beat of the music. It was even bigger than she had imagined. They continued their dancing as Marcus continued his seduction, his hands roaming her back, his lips whispering things in her ear that Greg couldn't hear. Greg watched them, getting more and more excited as he saw their bodies move as one, his own cock growing hard and insistent in his pants. The music finally ended, and Marsha, in a sexual daze, let Marcus grab her hand and lead her back to the table. Once they were seated, Marsha, still caught in her haze, put her hand on Greg's leg, leaning against him to kiss him deeply. As she did, she realized with a shock that he had a raging hardon. Marcus sat down, sliding closer to Marsha, his leg pressing intentionally against hers. An electric jolt shot through her body at the contact. They talk for a bit, but they have to lean close to each other to be heard over the music, their heads nearly touching. Greg just watches, a silent observer to the charged intimacy. Marsha is nervous, a confusing mix of fear and excitement coursing through her, not sure what was happening but powerless to stop it. Another song starts, and without asking, Marcus stands and pulls Marsha to her feet to dance again. She hesitates, turning to look at Greg with a silent plea, but he just smiles and tells her to go. They dance again, and Marsha becomes more relaxed, the alcohol and the rhythmic music lowering her defenses, allowing Marcus to grind against her to the beat of the music. Another slow song starts, and Marcus immediately pulls her against him, his body flush with hers. Marsha allows him to hold her tight, once again feeling his manhood against her, realizing with a start that it is even larger and harder than before. She once again feels a tingle between her legs, moistening as her body flushes with heat. Marcus feels her body yield against him, freely allowing him to hold her tight, and he slowly grinds against her, a clear, possessive gesture. The song ends and Marcus pulls her back to the table. She stumbles behind him, lost in her confused thoughts. Marcus catches her, one hand landing firmly on her breast to steady her, his fingers slightly squeezing the soft flesh as she regains her balance, once again sending a flush of pure excitement through her body. His hand lingers for a moment too long before they start back to the table again. Greg has been watching them, his excitement growing, his cock hardening as he watched them dance. He sees Marsha stumble and instantly realizes that Marcus is groping his wife, the sight so potent he almost cums in his pants right there in the booth. Once they are all back at the table, Marcus makes his move. "The club is getting a little loud," he suggests, his voice calm and reasonable. "You both should come back to my house, just down the street. We can relax in my hot tub and have some more drinks." Greg quickly agrees, his heart pounding with anticipation. But Marsha hesitates, a flicker of panic in her eyes. "I... I don't have my swimsuit," she says, her voice small. Marcus assures her, his smile smooth as silk. "Don't worry about that. I have a suit that will fit you perfectly, left by an old girlfriend." The lie is so blatant, so confident, that it disarms her completely. Marsha agrees, her last line of defense crumbling. They get up to leave, with Marcus guiding Marsha through the crowd, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back as Greg follows them, a willing participant in his own seduction. Once they reach his house, a small, beautifully appointed bungalow set back from the street, Marcus goes to a closet and returns with two bathing suits. He hands a tiny, scrap of a one-piece to Marsha and a small, tight pair of trunks to Greg, then shows them to a guest room to change. Marsha holds up the suit. It's a very revealing, high-cut one-piece, made of a thin, shiny black material. "I can't go out in this," she whispers to Greg, her voice trembling. "You can see everything." "Don't worry," he says, his own voice thick with anticipation. "It'll be dark, and we'll be sitting under the water." She reluctantly agrees, her desire to please Marcus, and the thrill of the situation, overriding her modesty. Greg puts his suit on; it's basically a speedo, a tight little number that does absolutely nothing to hide his raging hardon. They step out onto the patio and get into the hot tub, the bubbling water a warm, welcome embrace. Marcus comes out a moment later with three drinks, handing them to them before he starts to undress. Marsha can't take her eyes off him as he slowly reveals his body, pulling his shirt over his head to show his sculpted chest. He unbuckles his pants and lets them drop, and without a moment's hesitation, takes off his boxers. His big, thick cock hangs down, heavy and potent between his legs. Marsha gasps at the sight as Marcus climbs gracefully into the water, settling himself opposite them. "So, how does the suit fit?" Marcus asks Marsha, a playful glint in his eye. "Let me see." She looks at Greg, her expression pleading, but he just gives her a subtle, encouraging nod. She slowly stands up, the water cascading off her body. Greg is surprised to see that the suit, when wet, is basically transparent, fully exposing the dark areolas and hard points of her nipples. But what surprises Greg most is that Marsha has shaved her pubic area, something she had never done for him, leaving the smooth lips of her pussy fully visible through the clingy fabric. Marcus has her turn around, and as she does, she realizes that both men can see everything. A wave of dizziness hits her, and she stumbles again, falling back against Marcus. Her hand lands on his thigh, and as she steadies herself, her hand brushes against his big cock. She can't help but lightly grip his manhood as she regained her balance. She quickly releases him, stumbling back to her seat, her face burning with shame. Marcus just smiles at her, her mind spinning at how big and solid he felt. She was both embarrassed about groping him, but also aching to hold him again. Confused, she apologizes profusely, but he assures her that he's more than okay. "But," he adds, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble, "if you really want to feel my cock, you should just ask." He stands and moves in front of her, his magnificent cock swaying just inches from her face. She can't take her eyes off it. She glances at Greg, and sees him staring as well, but she notices his hand is in his lap, under the water, and he is slowly, unmistakably, stroking himself. Her eyes questioning, Greg barely nods, giving her the final permission she needs. She slowly reaches out and grips Marcus's thick shaft, her wedding ring glinting in the tub's underwater lights as her hand starts to almost imperceptibly stroke him. She feels the incredible weight and thickness of his cock in her hand, a living, growing thing of heat and steel. It slowly hardens, lengthening under her touch, becoming a formidable testament to his desire for her. Once again, her eyes find Greg's. He has moved closer to her, his own eyes dark with a lust that mirrors hers. He leans in and kisses her deeply, his tongue possessively exploring her mouth as his hand squeezes her breast through the transparent wet fabric. The dual sensations—the thick cock in her hand and her husband's familiar kiss—send a dizzying wave of pleasure through her. They break their kiss, and Greg pulls back just enough to watch, his hand still resting on her tit. Then Marcus reaches down, his large hands circling her arms, and pulls Marsha to her feet. She stands before him, water streaming from her body, her hand still wrapped around his now fully erect cock. He tilts her head up with a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. He leans into her, his lips finally touching hers. The kiss is different from Greg's. It's not familiar or comforting; it's a slow, deliberate claiming. His lips are firm and demanding, and as he deepens the kiss, his tongue parting her lips, Marsha feels a final, crumbling surrender. She is no longer a wife on vacation; she is his. Marsha resists the kiss at first, a last, desperate attempt to hold onto the woman she thought she was. But her resolve crumbles in an instant, giving in completely to the overwhelming desire that has been building for days. Marcus pulls her flush against his body, his hard cock pressing insistently against her belly through the thin, wet suit. His hands grope her ass, squeezing the firm flesh, pulling her even closer. Greg can do nothing but watch, a prisoner in his own fantasy. He openly strokes his own smaller, but rock-hard cock under the water, the sight of Marcus claiming his wife the most erotic thing he has ever witnessed. With an effortless display of strength, Marcus picks Marsha up, lifting her out of the water and setting her on the edge of the hot tub. His hand moves to her inner thigh, parting her legs as his fingers press against her mound. Marsha doesn't resist him in the slightest. She willingly spreads her legs wide, leaning back on her elbows as he slips his finger under the tight leg of the suit, easily penetrating her slick, waiting wetness. As his finger moves inside of her, a slow, expert exploration of her most sensitive depths, he reaches up with his other hand to pull down the straps of her suit. The thin black fabric falls away, baring her breasts to the humid night air. Her chest rises and falls, her breathing deep and ragged as she becomes lost in her desire. Marcus once again leans in to kiss Marsha, and this time, her resistance is completely dissolved. She meets his tongue with her own, a willing participant in her own seduction. He breaks the kiss, his lips moving down her neck in a trail of fire until he sucked a hard, pebbled nipple into his mouth. Marsha gasps at the feeling, a sharp, exquisite jolt of pleasure that goes straight to her core. He continues to pull the wet suit down over her hips, and she raises herself slightly, allowing him to expose all of her. She is completely naked, open, and vulnerable before him. He moves closer, positioning himself between her widespread legs. His hard cock, fully engorged and impossibly thick, touches, then parts the lips of her married pussy. She gasps, a sharp intake of breath, and looks over at Greg, only to find him staring, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and ecstasy as he furiously strokes his own cock. Marcus presses further in, the thick head of his cock stretching Marsha open in a way Greg never could. She feels a deep, burning pressure, a delicious ache of being filled to her absolute limit. Finally, with one final, deliberate push, Marcus was completely inside of her. His fullness is overwhelming, a staggering, all-consuming presence that steals her breath and shatters what was left of her world. After a moment, letting her adjust to his staggering size, Marcus starts to slowly pull himself out of her. He withdraws until only the thick, bulbous head remains inside her now adulterous pussy. He pauses for a heartbeat, then buries himself inside of her again in one long, powerful stroke. The sudden, deep fullness is too much. Marsha has a thunderous orgasm, her body shaking and convulsing in a pleasure so intense, so profound, that she has never experienced anything like it before. A loud, guttural cry tears from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. Greg can't believe what he is seeing, his long-held fantasy coming true right in front of his eyes. His faithful wife, the mother of his children, is willingly spreading her legs and opening her pussy for this man, becoming a slut for his big, black cock. The sight is too much. His own cock erupts, a thick, powerful stream of cum spraying across Marsha's heaving tits. His knees buckle, the force of his orgasm forcing him to sit back down in the hot tub, but he never takes his eyes off of his wife as she is thoroughly, completely fucked by this man. Marcus continues to pump his cock into Marsha as she recovers from the shattering force of her first orgasm, his pace a steady, powerful rhythm that pushes her toward another peak. He leans down, and Marsha lifts her head to hungrily kiss him, their tongues plunging between their lips, lost in this shared, illicit pleasure. Her hands now grip Marcus's rock-hard ass, her fingers digging into his muscular flesh as she pulls him into her, completely giving in to her lust, wanting him deeper, wanting all of him. His body tenses, his powerful muscles locking up. With a deep, guttural groan that seems to come from his very soul, Marcus's cock erupts deep inside of Marsha. She feels it as a sudden, intense heat, a thick, powerful pulse that floods her insides. He continues to pump, his hips jerking with each spasm, spewing his hot, thick seed deep into her core. He is filling her again and again, marking her, claiming her. He is pumping his cum into her now unfaithful, defiled womb, and the thought, so depraved and final, sends a last, shattering wave of ecstasy through her, her body arching to accept every last drop of his potent offering. Marcus is spent, his body settling onto Marsha's, a warm, heavy weight that feels both comforting and possessive. They share a soft, sensual kiss, lacking the desperate hunger and lustfulness of their earlier kisses, but a much more intimate, tender connection. After a few minutes, Marcus lifts himself off of Marsha, his softening cock slipping out of her messy, well-fucked pussy with a wet, sucking sound, causing Marsha to moan at the sudden emptiness as she lay there, sprawled and boneless on the edge of the tub. Greg, still watching from the water, looked over his wife. Her breasts were shining with his own drying cum. Looking lower, he could see her labia, red and swollen from the vigorous fucking, a thick trickle of Marcus's milky cum seeping out of her and running down to pool on the tiled deck. Greg moved over to her, and kissed his now impure wife, his lips tasting of chlorine and her. He then slid down her body, licking his own cooling cum off of her breasts, sucking on her still-hard nipples. Continuing down, his lips slid over her sweaty, trembling body. As he approached her leaking pussy, Marsha, suddenly aware of his intention, reaches down to stop him. "Greg, no," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I'm dirty and nasty and full of his cum." Greg is not deterred, fully knowing what was waiting for him, his hunger growing as the potent odor of his wife's debauchery filled his senses. He gently pushed her hand away. Reaching his goal, he slipped his tongue between her wet, swollen lips, savoring the complex, salty taste of the lovers' fluids. Consumed by his desire, Greg pressed his tongue further, scooping out the nectar that he had longed for. After her initial resistance, Marsha lay back, a deep sigh escaping her as she allows her husband to lick her clean, to suck out the cum of her infidelity. His licking is arousing her again, a slow, insistent fire building deep within her. She reaches down, pushing her husband's face further into her, whispering to him, "Get it all. Suck out all of his cum from me." The lewdness of it all further excites her, pushing her towards another climax. The sensation is overwhelming, and Marsha cums loudly, her body convulsing as she floods Greg's mouth with a fresh gush of her own juices mixed with Marcus's cum. As she orgasms, Marsha tries to pull Greg up her body, needing to be filled again, her body demanding more. Seeing this, Marcus, his cock once more engorged and ready, pulls Greg out of the way with a dismissive shove. He steps between Marsha's legs and buries his big cock into her with a single, powerful plunge. Marsha cries out in pure ecstasy, loving this, knowing that Greg's ordinary cock could never give her this pleasure. She screams out for Marcus. "Fuck me, fuck me harder!" Marcus looks down at her, his expression one of dominant triumph, more telling than asking. "You like this big black cock, don't you?" he grunts, his voice raw. "Tell me how much you like getting fucked by a real man." Marcus's command hangs in the air, a challenge that Marsha's body is already answering. Her soft admission is a flicker in the darkness, but Marcus demands a bonfire. "Louder," he growls, his voice a low, dominant rumble that vibrates through his chest and into hers, punctuated by the powerful, rhythmic slap of his hips against hers, "tell me what you want". The command breaks something loose inside her. The final thread of her old self, the quiet, demure wife who worried about what the neighbors might think, snaps. Her body, overwhelmed by sensations it has never known, takes over. Her back arches, pushing her breasts up, her head thrown back in abandon. A raw, guttural sound tears from her throat, building into a scream that is pure, unfiltered need. "YES, I LOVE YOUR BIG BLACK COCK! FUCK MY MARRIED, WHITE PUSSY!" she cries out, the words a shocking, ecstatic confession. Her voice, usually so soft and measured, is now a loud, desperate plea. "PLEASE DON'T STOP, KEEP FUCKING ME, I NEED YOUR CUM INSIDE OF ME AGAIN!" Greg is utterly astonished, frozen in place. He's watching his wife, the mother of his children, the woman who blushed at suggestive jokes on television, transform into a creature of pure, unashamed lust. He's never heard her talk like this. In their thirty-plus years of marriage, their lovemaking was a quiet, tender affair. The most she would ever say was a soft moan, a whispered "that feels nice," or an occasional, breathy "yes" when she was close. But here, now, she is wild and demanding, her vocabulary suddenly filled with the most explicit, depraved words he could imagine. She's like a sex-starved slut who has been starving for decades and has just been presented with a feast, and she is begging for every last drop. The sight is a terrifying, electrifying confirmation that his fantasy has not just come true, but has surpassed his most depraved imaginings. They continue fucking, Marcus's powerful strokes driving Marsha relentlessly towards another peak. With a final, deep thrust, she has another orgasm, screaming with a pleasure that borders on pain, her body going completely limp, boneless and spent in his arms. Marcus, with one last, possessive plunge, buries himself to the hilt and cums inside of her, his hot seed flooding her already saturated womb a second time. He pulls out of her, his cock slick with their combined fluids. He looks over at Greg, who is still watching from the water, and tells him, "Take care of your wife." It's not a suggestion; it's an assignment. Greg knows his place now. He climbs out of the tub and moves between Marsha's legs, her body limp and pliant beneath him. He gently kisses and licks her clean, his tongue tenderly exploring her swollen, sensitive flesh. Marsha can barely respond, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Be gentle," she tells him, "I'm so sore from the pounding Marcus gave me." She is reveling in the sexual satisfaction that she never knew was possible, a deep, aching fulfillment that is both painful and exquisite. Marcus just watches from the side of the tub, a small, triumphant smile on his face as Greg dutifully licks Marsha clean. He's thinking to himself, knowing that tonight is just the beginning. Another white couple has consented to the desecration of their marital vows, all caused by the power of his incredible cock. He finally speaks and tells them that he's had enough for the night and is going to bed, but that they can sleep in the spare bedroom if they want. As he leaves, Greg helps Marsha out of the hot tub, drying her exhausted body with a soft towel and then helping her to the bedroom where she collapses onto the bed, utterly spent. Looking down at his wife, Greg's eyes roam over her body. He sees the remains of his own cum drying on her tits and stomach, and he sees more of Marcus's cum seeping out of her swollen, red pussy lips. He spreads her legs, intent on reclaiming his wife, on reminding her that he is her husband. As he pushes his cock into her, he is dismayed at how loose she is, obviously stretched by Marcus's enormous cock. He wonders whether he can ever satisfy her again, or if she will now crave another, larger lover. His thoughts overwhelm him, and he cums after just a few strokes, spewing his token load of sperm into her already flooded depths. As her husband fucks her, Marsha just lays back, barely feeling his modest penis inside her stretched, well-used pussy. She is secretly thinking about the wonderful, overwhelming fullness she felt with Marcus, a feeling she already knows she will crave again. As he finishes, Greg rolls off of Marsha, and they both drift off to sleep. Each thinking about what has happened and wondering what is next.

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