Here I am, in a room that smells of desire and danger, surrounded by three men whose names I don’t know and don’t care to learn. Their eyes roam over me like they already own me, and I, with hands trembling from a heat I can’t explain, start to slip my dress off my shoulders. They told me to undress, or they’d do it for me. It wasn’t a threat—it was an invitation, and I… I’m complying. The brush of fabric against my skin sparks a tingling that betrays me, while my mind spins, caught between the urge to flee and the craving to stay. Was this their plan? Or was it me, unknowingly, who orchestrated this moment? I don’t know, but as my fingers undo the last button, a part of me is already deciding which one of them will first feel the warmth of my mouth. Let me tell you how I got here, to this edge where fear and pleasure melt into something I can’t resist.
It’s been a year since it all began, a year since his words, from the other side of a screen, slipped into my life like sweet poison. He wrote to me one night, a simple, direct message that promised nothing and offered everything. I didn’t know it then, but that man—older, with a calm that hid storms—would become my soulmate. Not the kind from cheesy movies, with flowers and empty promises. No. This was rawer, more real, more ours. He understood me, and more than that: he surprised me. To the world, I was always an enigma, reserved, with a smile that kept secrets, but inside, I carried a perverse hunger, desires I never dared voice aloud. And he… he was my mirror. A perfect gentleman to others, but in private, his cravings were as dark and ravenous as mine. Do you know how rare that is? To find someone who doesn’t just accept your shadows but caresses them, feeds them, sets them ablaze. That’s what made me fall for him. Yes, I fell hard.
Over that year, our conversations became a ritual. We talked almost every night, though some days distance, schedules, or life itself stole our time. But he was never far from my thoughts. His words lingered, an echo that warmed my skin. I still remember the first time he told me he loved me. It wasn’t some casual “I love you,” thrown out like a habit. It came in the middle of a conversation that had us both on edge, our breaths ragged. I’d sent him photos—pictures of me with other men, stolen moments from my past that I shared without shame. And he, far from judging, looked at them with a delight that made me tremble. “I love seeing you like this,” he wrote, “free, desired… I love you.” His words weren’t just love; they were a confession, a pact. Every time he spoke of his pleasure in imagining me in the hands of others, something inside me ignited, a fire that consumed me and made me love him even more.
After so many conversations, so many nights stolen from the distance between us, we knew we had to meet. It wasn’t just a want—it was a need. I wanted to be his, to surrender completely, to be his submissive without rules, without limits. Because, though I can dominate too, my pleasure knows no boundaries. I crave everything, every corner of desire. But if I’m being honest, I lean toward losing control. I’ve always dreamed of someone taking me without asking, using me, binding me, filling me until there’s nothing left of me. And he… he understood.
I remember one conversation, one of many, but special. We planned to meet in Antigua, in a house by the sea. We weren’t going to meet like others do, whispering promises of love. We wanted to devour each other. We wanted sex—raw, intense, until dawn found us exhausted. The love was already there, solid, real. But our way of loving was this: bodies that seek, demand, and surrender without holding back.
For months, I dreamed of that moment. Every day of waiting was torture, a slow-burning fire that consumed me. But nothing prepared me for what he told me next. Nothing prepared me for the way he planned my welcome.
It’s normal for men to have friends, to share cold beers or yell at a game on TV. But asking a friend for a favor like this, one that crosses every line, isn’t common. One night, in the heat of our fiery chats, he told me: he had a friend, a taxi driver in Antigua. “I’ll ask him to pick you up at the airport,” he wrote, “and take you somewhere where he’ll have you before bringing you to me.” The idea hit me like a bolt of lightning. Scandalous? Maybe. But my body reacted before my mind could, a heat rising from my core, a smile I couldn’t hold back. Yes, you might think I’m shameless, a woman who gives in to her darkest desires. And I am. That proposal didn’t just excite me—it set me ablaze, leaving me breathless.
December came, and he was already in Antigua. He sent me photos of the house by the sea, the place where our bodies would finally meet. “I’m waiting for you, love,” he wrote, and I swear my heart pounded so hard I could barely pack. I rushed to the airport, my skin humming with anticipation. The flight, though short, felt endless, every minute a torment of longing. “They’re coming for you, love,” he texted when I landed. I stepped into the chaos of the airport, scanning the crowd, until a taxi pulled up and a man said my name. I smiled, as I always do, and got in.
It was my first time in Antigua. The air smelled of salt and freedom. The taxi ride stretched longer than I expected. The house, he’d said, was near the sea, but the road grew lonelier, the city lights fading behind us. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to. The tingling on my skin told me this was part of the plan. Finally, the taxi stopped in front of a secluded house, shrouded in shadows. “Get out,” the driver said, his voice curt, almost commanding. I smiled again, stepped out, and followed him, my heels clicking on the gravel.
I walked in. But he wasn’t there. Two other men were waiting, their silhouettes sharp against the dim light. Neither was my man. The taxi driver shut the door behind me with a click that echoed in my chest. Then a voice sliced through the silence: “Strip.”
And that’s how I ended up here, kneeling before three strangers who watch me with a hunger that unravels me. Their eyes rake over me, like I’m a prize, an offering, while my mouth surrenders to one of them, my tongue tracing paths that make them gasp. I don’t fully understand what’s happening, but deep down, I hope this is the welcome we talked about, the perverse prelude he promised me.
The air is thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and desire that makes my head spin. The one in front of me, the driver, grips my hair tightly, guiding me with a roughness that sends shivers through me. There’s no gentleness here, only urgency. Beside me, the second man, the one with the crooked smile, kneels and runs his hands over my skin, demanding, squeezing my hips, sliding to places that make my back arch. The third, the quiet one, positions himself behind me, his fingers digging into my waist as he pulls me forward. I’m trapped between them, my body exposed, vulnerable, but pulsing with a pleasure I can’t deny.
They lift me, almost effortlessly, positioning me like they’ve rehearsed every move. The one behind me takes me with an intensity that rips a moan from my throat, his force filling me until my mind clouds over. At the same time, the man in front of me doesn’t let up, his grip on my hair tighter, his rhythm relentless. And then the third joins in, claiming me in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s a chaotic dance, a double invasion that shakes me to my core, pushing me to the edge of something I can’t name. My hands clutch at whatever they find, my nails digging into skin, and each thrust drives me further beyond myself. It’s rough, it’s raw, it’s everything I craved without knowing it.
Suddenly, a sound cuts through the frenzy: a phone ringing. The man in front of me, still holding me, pulls out his phone and answers. It’s a video call. My eyes, hazy with ecstasy, lock onto the screen, and there he is. My man. His face, calm but burning, watches me from the other side. The stranger speaks, his voice hoarse from exertion: “We’re giving her the welcome you asked for.”
I hear him, my love, reply with that calm that drives me wild: “I’ll be waiting.” The call ends, and I, caught between these bodies, give in even more, knowing he’s watching, knowing this is ours.
I’m exposed, open, sweat sliding down my back, mingling with the stifling heat of the room. Each thrust is a jolt of pleasure, and when one of their hands lands with a sharp smack on my skin—a spank that rings in the air—my body responds with a shudder I can’t control. They spank me again, and again, the sting blending with the ecstasy, and I, lost in this wild dance, want it all.
It’s rough, yes, but exquisite. The double penetration undoes me, their bodies moving in a rhythm that allows no pause. One fills me from behind, his intensity tearing moans from me I can’t hold back, while the other, in front of me, takes me with a ferocity that makes my back arch. Their movements aren’t soft, aren’t gentle, but there’s a precision in their brutality that drives me wild. Sweat covers us all, glistening beads sliding down their chests, my thighs, a testament to this absolute surrender. I love how they do it, how they use me, how every touch, every smack, every invasion pulls me closer to an edge I don’t want to avoid. My hands grip their arms, my nails leave marks, and they growl, fueled by my response. Another spank, harder this time, and my laugh mingles with a moan. This is what I craved, what I dreamed of in those lonely nights in front of a screen.
Suddenly, they lift me and spin me around, positioning me on my knees on the floor. The floor is cold against my burning skin, but it doesn’t matter. The three of them stand before me, their bodies taut, their breaths ragged. One pulls out a phone, and the camera’s light blinds me for a moment. They’re recording. The thought electrifies me, knowing this moment will be captured, that he, my man, will see it. The first one steps closer, his hand on the back of my neck, guiding me to him. His heat envelops me, and when the moment comes, his release hits in a torrent that I take eagerly. I swallow, obedient, as his eyes stay locked on mine, the camera’s flash catching it all. The second takes his place, more impatient, his grip rougher. He holds me tightly, and when he finishes, the salty taste mixes with the heat of my own arousal. I swallow again, my gaze defiant, because this, though it submits me, also empowers me. The third, the quiet one, is the last. His hand trembles slightly as he holds me, and when he spills, I make sure nothing is left behind. The camera keeps rolling, and I, kneeling, sweaty, my heart pounding like a drum, feel invincible.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by their uneven breaths. The driver, still holding the phone, lowers the camera and nods, as if everything went according to script. “Get dressed,” he says, his voice sharp but tinged with satisfaction. I stand, my legs shaky, my skin still humming with the echo of what just happened. I find my dress, crumpled in a corner, and slip it on with slow, almost ritualistic movements. The fabric brushing against my sensitive skin feels like a final caress. “Get in the taxi,” he adds, pointing to the door. “It’s time to take you.”
The taxi starts, and the rumble of the engine wraps around me as the driver, silent, weaves down a road that snakes toward the sea. My body still hums, marked by the heat of what just happened, but my mind is fixed on him, my man, and what’s to come. The city lights have faded behind us, and soon, through the window, I see the ocean’s reflection under the moonlight. The car stops in front of a beautiful house, its white walls glowing against the night, the sound of waves crashing in the distance. There he is, my love, standing at the entrance, his tall, confident silhouette unmistakable. I step out of the taxi, and in an instant, his arms envelop me. I feel his heart beating against my chest, a rhythm that grounds me. The taxi’s engine fades into the distance, and the world shrinks to just the two of us.
There are no questions, no words about the trip or how I feel. Only desire—raw, urgent—pushing us toward each other. We climb the stairs, my steps following his, until we reach a room where a wide bed waits. I undress in front of him, slowly, letting the fabric fall to reveal my skin, still flushed from the spanks, marked by the hands of others. His eyes trace every inch of me, and a dark smile crosses his face. “I like what I see,” he says, his voice thick with possession. He doesn’t ask if I enjoyed it. He doesn’t need to. He knows I did, that every second of that welcome was exquisite, a prelude to what we’re about to share.
His hands find my body, and when his fingers slip between my thighs, stroking me with a mix of tenderness and authority, my breath catches. “Now it’s my turn,” he says, his tone firm, almost a command. He guides me to the bed, and I, eager, climb onto him, my legs parting to take him in. His gaze, intense and joyful, doesn’t waver, and in that moment, as I settle over him, I feel his hardness, his heat, filling me with a force that draws a moan from my lips. It’s different from the others—deeper, more ours. Each movement is a claim, a union that erases the distance of a year spent in words and screens. His happiness, despite what just happened, wraps around me like a certainty. We’re here, together, and this surrender, this connection, is only the beginning.
As our bodies meld, his eyes never leave mine, and I know this is who we are: a couple destined for perversion, for exploring every corner of desire without restraint. I move over him, feeling every pulse, every brush, and a calm washes over me. This is our life now, a dance of total surrender, of boundless pleasure, and there’s nothing I want more.
