Camille was naked before I could invent an apology, and Andre was still inside my ass.
She was softer than him and meaner in the eyes. Full t**s, a trimmed cunt already shiny, the ring matching his. She climbed onto the bed like she had paid for the view. She had. She kissed me while her husband held still, wine on her tongue, one hand on my jaw, the other sliding down to feel where he was buried in me.
“I picked you,” she said against my mouth. “He just opened the door. You stared at his c**k and I stared at your mouth. Tonight you’re ours.”
Andre pulled out slow. The drag made me whimper. I felt open, used, a string of slick cooling on my thigh. Camille looked at the gape, at the shine, and laughed once, pleased.
“On your back.”
I turned. Andre knelt by my head and fed me his c**k,
