I say ‘Sundays’ with Sarah, but very occasionally she was back just before midnight on Saturday. But it was usually Sunday. Sometimes around one, sometimes not until the sun had come up, but often, like tonight, it was about 2:00 am.

Other things varied as well. Like her state of attire. Sometimes she was almost fully clothed, others near naked. And the method of transport; sometimes an Uber, but she was usually dropped off by them.

But there were also a couple of constants, two givens. First, at precisely 6:30 pm on the Saturday evening, just before I helped bathe and dress her, my penis would be locked in its cage. As she said, I was a cuckold, but she didn’t want me to be a wanker as well. 

Secondly, when she did return home, she would never have washed.  

These were two bedrocks: sacrosanct, inviolate. 

Tonight, I heard them before I saw them. Pounding hip-hop beats from an open-top 3-series BMW, which pulled up twenty yards down the street. Three loud blasts on the horn just to make doubly sure everyone was awake, and even then they kept her in the car for a minute or so until the lights came on and the curtains twitched, before they sent her out into the night.

She had no coat or dress, just a pink bra and panties, hold-ups, and heels. Clip-clop slowly down the street, hips swinging and head held high.

None of the neighbours dared say a word to our faces, of course, but in private, no doubt, they all had their comments.  

Two in the morning.

Three Black men.

In only her undies.

Slut, tramp, slag.

Why does he let her?

He looks like such a masculine man, so big and strong. 

He must be one of those ‘cockholds’.

Oh, another given I forgot. When she comes in, she goes straight upstairs, and I stay in the kitchen, unseen and silent. When it’s time for me to join her, and only then, she calls me.

“Paul, I’m ready for you now. Come to me, my darling.”

I see her discarded g-string bunched up in the hall. With each footstep on the stairs, my anticipation builds. What would, if left to its own devices, have been a powerful erection is instead an increase in pressure in the balls and the bum. A golden surge of delicious denial. An ecstatic agony, throbbing and pulsing, and then, when I enter the bedroom and see her, it feels like it’s going to explode; such is the ferocity of my little pink beast's desire to escape its captivity.

She’s reclined on the bed, legs elegantly spread. Her hair is immaculate, but her face is encrusted with cum.

“Kneel.”

I don’t really need to be told, but that’s hardly the point. I do as instructed, at the side of the bed, so that ‘it’ is at eye level. 

Ruined. That’s the only word. Red-raw, and swollen, puffy and bruised, her outer lips splayed, still stretched and spread by… by them.

A second after the sight comes the smell, the aroma, the fragrance. A powerful masculine musk, mixed with perfume and feminine juice.

A droplet of drool falls onto the bedsheets.

“Such a greedy boy. You’re slobbering like a dog, my dear. I hope you’re hungry tonight.”

Then the first sight of my meal: one bead of creamy white semen emerges.

A drop in the ocean.

"Well, come on then, don’t waste it.”

This is my cue, but I’ve been taught to remember my manners. This is fine dining, not a pig at the trough.  

My tongue gently circles her outer lips before flicking between them, scooping up those first drops, then kissing her cunt with a passion that I cannot control, sucking and licking, my tongue deep inside her, their cum streaming down now, almost too much to swallow. 

My angel’s thighs start to tremble and shake, but she’s not ready yet, not by a long chalk.

“Stop. How does that taste, my love?” 

My glazed face comes up from between her legs. She’s twisting her nipples.  

“Creamy and chewy. It feels,” I pause for a second to find the right word, “lively, as if their sperm are still swimming as they go down my throat.”

My vivid description elicits a smile. 

“There’s a lot more to come, Paul, an awful lot more.”

She takes her phone from the bedside table and turns it towards me. It’s open on WhatsApp. There’s a video message; the sender is 'Olu.'

“Press play.”

Immediately, our bedroom is filled with R&B music and the whoops of the men. Sarah is kneeling in front of someone, her hands are braced on his thighs. His hands hold her head as he thrusts his black penis hard into her mouth. Her head is pushed back again and again as his crown hammers into her throat. She’s struggling to breathe, gurgling and quacking, drool spurting out of her nose as the guy’s pace increases and the whooping gets louder until he suddenly withdraws, revealing his length.

 A first splash of cum jumps out of his tip and onto her chin. Her mouth is wide open, and her eyes raised adoringly.

“Oh!” I gasp in surprise at the second emission: a huge blast of semen right into her face. She recoils at the force of it, or perhaps just in shock. Some goes down her throat, and some into her eyes. She’s spitting and blinking, and then another thick jet splatters her face before he rams it back into her mouth to be drained. With a great roar of triumph, he empties his balls down her throat.

I look up at my sweetheart and see all that semen now dried on her face. She smiles again, and my heart does a backflip.

“Continue.”

She puts her legs up onto my shoulders, resting her heels on my back. This is a sign, a signal; she’s ready, she's close. Out of sight, I secretly shuffle forward so that my captive man-clit can rub on the side of the bed. At the top of her slit, her pink pea is engorged, and at the first flick of my tongue, she moans with delight and jolts with the joy. 

I expertly, lovingly, suck on her bean, and soon her moans become gasps, gasps rise to cries, and then finally screams. Quivering becomes trembling, then shaking, and just as she is going to erupt, she shows me her WhatsApp again, this one from 'D'Angelo.'

Spit roast. That’s the term. Pink meat, skewered at each end. 

She’s riding one of them with gusto while another has pulled up her hair into an impromptu bun and is fucking her gullet again. The cameraman sets down his phone in a place where it continues to film.

“Oh fuck yes, oh fuck yes, oh fuck fuck fuck, YES…" The orgasmic convulsions of Sarah’s vagina force out the last of their sperm from her deepest recesses; these are the most powerful ones that have successfully completed their mission to enter her womb.  

She's bucking and writhing as her orgasm breaks. Juices squirt from her bladder right into my face, making it hard to see the screen, but I can just make it out as the third man climbs onto the bed from behind and pushes his penis into her ass.

Airtight, that's the word. All three of her white holes filled with Black cock.

My cum explodes at all angles through the latticed bars of my cock cell. Sarah’s phone falls to the floor as her hands grip the sheets in her rapture.  

******

“Love you, baby."

“Love you more.”

As we drift off to sleep, both deeply satisfied, a smile plays on my lips as I think of the neighbours.

Slut, tramp, slag.

One of those ‘cockholds’.

I pity them. Their sad little judgments are nothing more than a mask of hatred to hide the frustration and boredom of their colourless lives.