Video that inspired the chapter

Picture it: the room's air, thick with the scent of sweat and sex, where two people, freshly untangled from the throes of passion, fumble for cigarettes that aren't there. The punchline? They're momentarily orphaned by a third, vanished into the night's haze for a smoke. The tape, boldly labeled "My first three-way," isn't quite living up to its promise, but I'm quick to remedy that. I coax her back inside, urging her onto the bed, naked and ready to reset the scene.

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"Get on the bed. Get naked," I urge, offering redemption through another take.

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Standing on the sidelines, watching Paradise as she descends like a pagan deity into the lap of her companion, it's like being the odd one out in a game I rigged. Doesn't do much for me, spectating. But give me a moment, a brief interlude, biding time until the rush of blood grants me another turn and I'm back in the game. The camera, an unblinking eye, captures the descent into ecstasy: Our third, a vision of perfection, sprawled like a figure borrowed from Greek myth. Paradise, with the precision of a sculptor, parts the veil of her friend's desire, her tongue a slow-burning flame igniting the core of her being. And I, the curator of this sensual exhibition, let my hand embark on a tactile odyssey across landscapes of skin and curve. From one set of breasts to another, teasing each nipple along the way, then gliding downwards. My hand roams, feeling the undulations of hips, the roundness of buttocks, lingering on the soft warmth of their folds. This sensory journey isn't just for them; it's a reawakening for me too. And, sure enough, as my hand makes its intimate discovery, I find myself resurrected, ready to plunge back into the fray.

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Standing there, a colossus of flesh and desire, my arousal an audacious declaration of intent, I survey the scene with a predator's focus. I watch as Paradise plumbs the depths with her tongue, her dedication unwavering, primal. The sidelined siren beneath me throws a challenge, her voice a blend of desire and defiance. "When are you going to fuck me?" she demands, her query drenched in raw need.

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Seizing the moment to meld pleasure and duty, I direct Paradise to twist into the iconic sixty-nine, her compliance a key turning in the lock of opportunity. This maneuver grants me passage to the once overlooked, my entrance a claim staked with urgency and heat. "I want you to lick her clit while I fuck her," I command, the words leaving no room for hesitation. My thrusts, deliberate and deep, are the bassline to Paradise's high notes, her tongue and fingers a duo dedicated to elevating our playmate to the heights of ecstasy.

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Each penetration, a stroke of genius; every lap of Paradise's tongue, a stroke of artistry. My rhythm is relentless, a piston of flesh in the well-oiled machine of our threesome. The release, when it comes, is seismic, a torrent of sensation that leaves our companion gasping, yet voraciously hungry for more.

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I pose the question, a whisper against the backdrop of heavy breaths, "Do you have another one in you?"

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Her response is swift, electric, a rally cry for the insatiable. "Fuck yes, I do," she declares, her body a beacon of pure, undiluted lust, her words slicing through the haze of satisfaction, promising yet another descent into the realm of excess.

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My arousal is a live wire, zigzagging through the room as I choreograph the climax of our sordid ballet. In the center, a chair faces the hotel room's expansive mirror, a silent witness to the unfolding debauchery. Paradise, with her seven-point allure, claims her territory on the left, while the freshly gratified nine, anchors herself to the right, both presenting a view that could easily score off the charts.

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I initiate the ritual with a slap of flesh against flesh, my erection a baton orchestrating this symphony of skin. The slap echoes, a promise of what's to come, as I pose the question, laden with anticipation, "Who wants it first?" Their response is a harmony of eagerness, a shared "Me," that blurs the line between competition and camaraderie.

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The rhythm is set, a cycle of thirty seconds of fervent thrusting before switching partners, ensuring the distribution of pleasure is as equitable as the situation allows. The mirror reflects a spectacle, a voyeuristic delight, as I oscillate between them, the visual feedback amplifying the thrill. As I thrust between the two I marvel at the differences on how they feel gliding across my cock, their softness, their texture, their depths, their tightness, even their wetness seems unique, the differences only highlighted by the rapid alternation between them, a sensory overload that only heightened the experience.

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Paradise broke the rhythm with her climax, a primal scream that skews the balance of pleasure. The urge to switch is halted by the clasp of her spasming warmth. I press on, my thrusts unwavering, deliberate, deep into Paradise until the last tremor of delight wracks her. As her tremors fade, there’s no pause for tenderness; I'm immediately drawn to the other, still eagerly bent over the chair.

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My pace is unyielding, each movement deep, loaded with intent. "I can't take anymore," she breathes, a whisper of surrender. Paradise, in her boundless empathy, spurs her on, "You got this." The chair takes a beating, a symbol of frustration and bliss entwined, her climax punctuated by a litany of swear words.

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Standing alone in the aftermath, the satisfaction of my partners tangible, my own climax remains elusive, held at bay by the sheer spectacle of the moment. I'm chasing a selfish prolongation of this joy, unwilling to let go, to descend from this high. Every touch, every sound, a desperate grasp at eternity. The thought of release feels like a betrayal to the moment, a weight pulling me back to the mundane.

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The camcorder, once a vigilant observer of our escapades, falls victim to the chaos, crashing to the floor. The lens inadvertently frames a candid, unscripted moment: her enveloping me entirely, the visual a stark, raw depiction of our connection.

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In the thick of unrelenting passion, my entire being is honed in on one goal: reaching the peak of my own pleasure. It's a Herculean effort, each thrust deep and deliberate, my body moving with a primal urgency. The impact of my big balls against her clit sends ripples through us both, her responsiveness a catalyst for my intensity. The 'nine' with an ass of a ten reaches her peak once more, her body's reaction so intense that I'm momentarily displaced.

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In this heated chase, Paradise assumes control, her lips work tirelessly, taking me into her mouth with fervor, I surrender, releasing into her eager mouth, a few errant drops painting her face. In this moment of blissful release, the world outside this room, this bed, ceases to exist.

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As the tape grinds to a halt, reality crashes through the flimsy walls of my hotel room sanctuary like a wrecking ball. The scotch burns down my throat, a liquid fire chasing the chill of introspection. A stroll down memory lane, sure, but as bland as bread without butter. Somewhere in this mess, there's a clue, but the big picture is just shadows and smoke. The black tape starts its dance again in my right hand, while a blue one keeps up its lazy orbit in my left; my own private circus act, no claps or cheers but the sound of my heartbeat.

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The spinning tapes hold more than just illicit memories; they're the physical manifestation of a day divided. A morning drenched in the promise of a ménage à trois in a hot tub, a chance I let slip by, gnaws at me with the tenacity of an insatiable itch. Why push away what most would grab with both hands? The answer's slippery, dodging between my thoughts like it's playing hide and seek. Control. The word hits me, clear as the burn of the scotch on my lips. The blue tape is chaos, a wild card threesome, an erotic gamble slipping through my fingers where I'm not calling the shots. The black tape? That's my stage, every whisper, every gasp under my direction.

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The realization sinks in, heavy as a stone in my stomach. My need to steer the ship, so deep-seated I'd pass up the script of a lifetime just because it wasn't written in my hand. The hot tub scene was ripe for the taking; a sizzling bartender, her enticing friend, an audience ready and waiting. But the moment they tried to pull the strings, to carve out their own plot, the magic fizzled out. They wanted me as a prop in their play, not the other way around. Life's a game of second fiddles, but in that bubble, it felt like I was the sun, and everything else just planets in orbit. Blissful ignorance, maybe, but sometimes, not seeing the puppet strings is what keeps us sane.

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