My Best Friend and I Convince our Husbands to Sell us to Wealthy Men Pt. 3 [Cuck, Voyeurism, Anal, Impreg, Raceplay]

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We all but raced back to our rooms, all nervous energy and adrenaline. Amalia grabbed my hand tight, our fingers knit together, and we clutched our towels to our still wet bodies, giggling like school girls as we ran down the halls and fumbled with the door they’d shown us led to our room.

On the tour, we hadn’t gone into our room. It had been made to seem like some great surprise. Opening the door now, I could see why: while the entirety of the ship was stately, our room had to be a suite. It was beyond large, with amber wood floors and a large, plush white rug covering most of the floor. There was a single, circular bed, the mattress thick and plush, covered in black sheets and mountains of pillows. Large circular windows looked out onto the ocean and a sky studded by stars. Under the window there was a large, wooden desk, with two small packages on it, both wrapped in white paper with black satin bows.

“Alda,” Amalia whispered, her voice still bright with her giggles. She nudged her shoulder to mine and looked pointedly up to the corners of the room where I could see what had caught her attention: there were camera in opposing corners of the room, both of them capturing different angles of the bed. Loosing her grip on my hand, Amalia snuck off to the adjoining bathroom and I could see beautiful white marble floors, granite countertops, and dual sinks. I could see her look up, and then back to me, and I knew there must be a camera in the bathroom as well.

For the first time, the rush of my excitement was tempered with a certain kind of grim reality. Did those Arabic men really want to watch us using the restroom…? Or maybe the cameras were just for security. They’d just brought strangers onto their expensive ship, after all. But for the first time, I was wondering what we’d gotten ourselves into, truly.

Still… I guessed I could just not pay attention to the camera.

I went to the desk and saw that the packages had tags on them, marked with fancy cursive scripts–one to me, and one to Amalia. I was suddenly full of apprehension, nervous energy rushing through me. Well. It had to be almost two in the morning, and giddy excitement could sometimes turn topside that way. I reached for the ribbon and undid the bow, opening the box to reveal what appeared to be a small scrap of red lace fabric.

It was only once I’d pulled it out that I realized it was lingerie. “Amalia,” I called and she came to the door as I held up the lingerie to my body. They’d gotten my size right, it seemed. It was a beautiful set, all red lace with a pattern of snakes across the cups of the bra. It came with garters and stockings and a g-string set of panties that they had to know would show off my ass. I knew it was chosen specifically for me, because when Amalia opened her box, her set was black and included a hip hugger set of panties but a small triangular bra that would almost only cover her nipples.

“What do you think would happen if we told them we wanted to leave?” I asked Amalia, but it was more out of curiosity than anything else. The gears in my mind were starting to turn. I was already getting changed, anyway, taking off my towel and folding it on the desk. I tried to turn away from the cameras, but it was impossible to not be in their view, so I knew they could be watching, maybe had their cocks in their hands again as they saw my lean body, my tight stomach, the supple curve of my ass as I bent to pull on my stockings.

“They’d probably kill us,” Alda said, but it was clear she was teasing, the way she grinned and drew a finger across her neck. She’d sat on the corner of the bed after pulling on her new panties and was working up the garters. Her lean legs were stretched out and a part of me wanted to kiss my way up and lick her the way that she’d licked me, despite everything… What was that yacht doing to me? Releasing pent up inhibitions. “You don’t want to leave, do you? I want to get fucked, still. Did you see how nice their cocks are?”

“I don’t want to leave,” I said, quickly. And Amalia was right… They did have nice cocks. Even when I was nervous, now, I was still thinking of how badly my pussy ached to be fucked. “They’re not very attractive, though,” I said quietly, hoping the cameras didn’t pick up.

“That’s why you close your eyes,” Amalia teased and we both laughed.

I helped her hook her bra and she helped me with mine. When we finished, we took turns twisting and turning in front of the full length mirror. Amalia looked drop dead gorgeous, her tight body packed into black lace, the hip huggers accentuating the curve of her hips, her ass, the tiny bra letting her full, fake breasts nearly spill out so you could even see the pink hint of her areola.

I don’t remember a time I’d felt sexier than looking in that mirror. These men had just spend $800,000 for the chance to have sex with me. They’d picked out a custom set of lingerie that showed they wanted to see my legs, with stockings that came up to mid-thigh, lace snakes patterned on the material so they twisted up my calves. A tiny g-string showed off the tight swell of my ass and the bra did wonders to accentuate the small size of my tits, with a similar snake pattern curled around their underside.

Amalia came behind me, wrapping her arms around me, touching my stomach softly. “You’re so beautiful, Alda,” she said, and her voice was deep with want in my ear. I wondered if the yacht was affecting her, too. This giddy kind of energy. The feeling of her hands rushed through me like prickling warmth.

“Eight-hundred thousand dollars beautiful?” I asked and we both laughed.

“We should go find wherever the boys are,” she said. “You’re turning me on and I need someone with a cock to fuck me right. No offense,” she said, and I rolled my eyes at her.

We went back and forth, trying to figure out if the men had said where to meet them. Yes, they had, we agreed, but we couldn’t remember where and if we did know, we wouldn’t remember how to get there. The whole evening was a numbing kind of rush of information.

We were still talking when someone knocked on the door, and a servant opened it to take us to who she called The Masters in her first and only use of English. Amalia tried to ask questions, simple ones about the ship, but the woman immediately reverted to speaking only in Arabic. So much for that.

It was a strange feeling, walking back through the ship in only lingerie. Occasionally, servants would cross our path and men and women alike would stare openly. One of the men stopped what he was doing and watched with lewd eyes, mimicking jerking off as we passed. I could see how hard his cock was through his trousers and I didn’t hate the way it made me wet to see how badly he wanted me. We were on full display for these people, out at sea, adrift.

Anything could happen.

Could something be terrifying and exciting at the same time?

The woman led us to a large set of double doors and pushed them open for us, revealing a circular room stately in its composure: it was at the highest point of the yacht and the entire far wall was open to a balcony overlooking the ocean. Gorgeous, black leather chairs decorated the room, positioned around circular tables. At the center of the room there was what looked like an overlarge black ottoman, three feet high, done with the same black leather. The Masters sat at their tables while servants moved pointedly between them, refilling glasses with rich brown whiskey.

“Our beautiful white whores,” Mr. Black said, and his voice was so magnanimous, so rich and deep that even a word like whores could sound like a compliment. He stood up from his chair. His suit jacket had been unbuttoned. He took two of the glasses from his own table where he sat alone and brought them to us, offering them with a smile. “Refreshments.”

I hadn’t eaten in at least six hours by that point, and I knew the alcohol would hit hard, but Mr. Black didn’t seem like the kind of person you made excuses for. Amalia had already taken her glass by the time I reached for mine, the glass cold to my touch, the large, ball ice cube clinking as I took the glass.

“Good girl,” Mr. Black said–he must have sensed my hesitation, however brief. I took a sip and the whiskey went down smooth, sweet in my throat. Before I even swallowed, Mr. Black slapped my ass: hard. Hard enough to leave a red hand print, I was sure. Hard enough to make me yelp and spill whiskey down my chest, soaking into the sheer fabric of my lingerie, which earned a laugh from him. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I laid eyes on you,” he said, advancing on me so we were close enough our bodies nearly pressed together. I could feel Amalia staring at me. I could feel the way his need rushed through me, mingling with my own need, fluttering deep and low in my stomach and making me ache for him.

There was something threatening about his presence, magnanimous as it was. It was the power of him, raw and real. The kind of power money could buy. The kind of money that could make people do… Anything. Make someone’s wife agree to be brought aboard a yacht and used. Make her do anything he wanted to do.

I kept my eyes locked on his as I finished my whiskey, drinking it down in three long sips and feeling the way it went to my head, making me dizzy. Mr. Black took it from my hand with elegance and care–and then he tossed it, easily as that, out of the open balcony.

“I–” I started, but I didn’t know what I was going to say. My head rushed, my thoughts blurred. Before I could decide what I even might say, Mr. Black had his arms around me, lifted me up as easily as if I weighed nothing, his hands gripped tight enough on my ass that I moaned at the pressure of it, at how near his fingers were to my thighs, to the center of me, and I ached to be touched.

“I’m going to make my pretty white slut moan for me, I want you to beg for me,” he growled in my ear as he carried me across the room and tossed me down onto the black ottoman. I laid out on my back, pushed up onto my elbows, my legs spread out, my soft thighs bared before him. God, I wanted him to fuck me. I ached to get fucked, hard…

Mr. Black stripped off his suit jacket. A servant scurried up behind him to catch it as Mr. Black tossed it to the side. Next came his dress shirt, buttons popping open as he pulled it back to reveal brown skin covered in coarse, dark hair. Of all the men, he was the tallest, the most handsome, with his thick black hair combed back from his face and his beard well groomed. I felt lucky he’d chosen me, lucky he wanted me, lucky he was going to fuck me.

“The white slut wants it,” one of the men called and the others laughed and I didn’t care. Whatever fear I’d had in me faded in the face of whiskey and want. I watched Mr. Black with hungry eyes, biting my lip, one hand laid across my taut stomach, fingertips playing down the flat plain towards the waistband of my panties.

Mr. Black was all elegance and grace. He undid his best, his zipper, stripped his pants to reveal his hard, brown cock, the biggest of all the men there and thick enough around I didn’t think I could fit him in my mouth but I wanted desperately to try. I sat up to see him better, honey brown hair spilling across my shoulder, waves of it falling in my face, my nipples growing hard at the sight of him.

I had visions of him coming to me, hands soft on my wanting skin, parting my legs and sliding his thick cock into my aching center. The way he’d stretch me, fill me, the way I’d moan for him and bury my face in the crook of his neck…

Before my thoughts got away from me, Mr. Black was there, his easy smile turning sharp with want. He reached for me, my breath hitched–

Mr. Black grabbed me by the hips and turned me roughly over onto my belly. I yelped at the pain of his grip as he forced me onto my stomach, grabbed my hips and lifted me onto my knees. I tried to lift myself up but he pushed my head down into the leather ottoman, my hair falling in my face, obscuring my view except the blur of the men in their chairs, watching.

I didn’t say anything, I didn’t know what to say, and before I could even think he had the head of his cock, hot and slick with precum, rubbing against my pussy. I opened my mouth but words turned into a deep, guttural moan as he shoved his cock forcefully into my cunt before I was ready. My body rocked forward with his force, my face pressed down into the ottoman.

**INTERLUDE–NOW**

It hadn’t been easy for Charles to get to sleep that night–the two empty wine bottles on the bedside spoke to that fact. It was even harder to rouse him, but his phone kept ringing, and ringing… Finally, Charles roused enough to sit up, grunting groggily as he peered at the alarm clock.

“Three in the fucking morning,” he muttered to himself. By his calculation, he’d only been asleep twenty minutes and his head was pounding, the acid taste of wine still on his mouth. He looked to his side and, for a moment, was shocked by Alda’s absence, her side of the bed still neatly made, and then he remembered.

Shit, he thought. The phone. It could be her.

Charles scrambled out of bed, stumbling over his own feet, banging his knee on the bedside table and hissing in pain as he limped over to the desk and picked up his phone. “Alda?” he answered without looking.

“Mr. Charles,” the deep, heavily accented voice on the other end of the line spoke. A pit opened up in his stomach. It was one of the men on the yacht, it had to be. “Look at your phone.”

Charles didn’t look right away, but strained to hear. Past the voice on the other end of the line, he could hear… Something. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. Someone gasping for breath, panting. The pieces hadn’t clicked together yet, but Charles could already feel himself getting hard at just the sound as he walked back to sit on the edge of his bed and look at his phone.

It had been a video call.

Someone was holding their phone up in what almost looked like the interior of a private club, except he could see a balcony and an ocean in the distance. The camera shook slightly, swiveled, fixed on figures on what looked like an ottoman in the center of the room, like a performance stage. The girl was on her knees, her lithe body pressed down into the ottoman, face down ass up, her brown hair spilled across her face so he could barely recognize…

Alda, he realized. One of the Arabic men was behind her, he had his hands gripped on her hips like a vice and he was fucking her with a rampant kind of fury, thrusting his thick cock into her tight pussy hard enough that the slap of his hips on her ass filled the phone’s speakers. And then there was Alda, moaning, a kind of deep, wanting sound he’d never heard her make before, the way she gasped and begged for him to fuck her tight pink pussy harder, harder, harder…

Charles felt sick, but his cock was so hard it hurt, straining against his boxers.

“Do you see the way she begs for Arab cock?” the accented voice asked, and he was laughing. Other men Charles couldn’t see were laughing with him. “Your wife is never going to want your pathetic white cock again. Mr. Black is going to fill her with his cum, maybe he’ll get her pregnant…” the man taunted, drawing more laughter from his companions. “All white women are good for is breeding Arab babies.”

“Alda! Are you okay?” Charles yelled into the phone, but he knew the answer by the way she moaned harder as the Arabic man buried his cock all the way to the base in her tight pussy. The man reached forward, knotting his fingers in her soft brown hair and pulling hard, making her yelp, making her moan.

The camera pivoted. The man was moving. Charles could briefly see the lounge behind him: three other men sitting in leather chairs, their pants undone, their cocks in their hands while they sipped whiskey. They were jerking themselves off, watching one of the men fuck his wife…

The man with the phone approached the ottoman. The camera panned down and Charles could see the man had his cock out as well, it was thick and hard and as he stepped up to the ottoman, the man fucking his wife grinned and forced her head towards the man’s waiting cock.

“Make her husband watch her get fucked by brown cock,” the man fucking her grunted as he thrust inside of her harder. “Make him watch how we use her whore pussy and her slut mouth.”

The man holding the camera grabbed Alda by her hair and forced her to look up at the phone. Charles had never seen her look that way, her mouth hanging open, her perfect pink lips open wide, her face flushed, her small tits bouncing with each clap of the man’s hips on her ass. She looked like she was completely gone, lost in pleasure.

“Please fuck my mouth, please give me your thick cock,” Alda was asking in a desperate kind of voice, broken around the edges by her moaning. He’d never heard her talk that dirty before, never heard her sound so desperate in his life and the man with the camera was so happy to oblige.

Grabbing Alda by the hair, he forced his cock into her mouth and Charles watched as her wanting, pink tongue lapped at the underside, as she opened her mouth wider so he could slide his cock down her throat. Alda gagged, choked, and he forced himself deeper into her, all the way to the base.

When he pulled out again, his cock was covered in thick saliva, dribbling out in thick ropes and splattering on the floor, across her naked chest, across the ottoman. He gave her a heartbeat to take a breath and then thrust his cock back into her mouth. The man behind her grunted, fucking himself into Charles’ wife harder, knocking her forward onto the other man’s cock so she was full of both of them.

Without even thinking about what he was doing, Charles had pushed his boxer-briefs down around his knees. He had his cock in his hand, hot and wanting and fuck, he was harder than he’d ever been in his life–his cock was slick with precum and every touch sent bolts of lightning through him as he started stroking his cock to the sight of his wife being used like a common whore…

In the background of the video, he could just make out another woman’s voice, moaning. The camera pivoted and Charles saw Amalia next to his wife, her lithe body stretched out on her back, her back arched up, pushing herself closer to the man between her knees, fucking himself deep into her pussy. Every thrust rocked her forward, sent the heavy swell of her tits bouncing.

“Fffuuuck,” Amalia groaned as the man thrust himself between her thighs, burying his cock in her cunt. The man fucking her grinned–he was old, balding, what little hair he had left was the same grey that threaded through his beard. As Amalia moaned and fucked her hips back into the old man, he grabbed her thighs and pulled her into him.

“Fucking white whores,” the old man growled and spat on Amalia, a thick gob of spit that landed on her tits, dribbling down across her ribs. Amalia looked up at the man, want bright in her eyes, reaching to grab onto his arm and dig her fingernails into his skin like she couldn’t get enough of him. It was all the encouragement he needed to fuck into her harder, grunting over her, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping onto her.

The camera pivoted back to Alda just as the man holding it shoved his cock back into her mouth, fucking into her hard enough that Charles could hear her retch, coughing up thick, clear spit that splattered onto his cock and the ottoman. “Good girl,” the man growled, taking his cock out of her mouth and rubbing it on her face, smearing her own spit over her lips, her cheek. He rocked his hips against her face, fucking himself on her when he came, issuing thick strands of pearly white cum that splashed across her cheeks, splattered across her hair, and dribbled down her face.

Back in the hotel, Charles’ breathing had gotten heavier, his heart raced as he stroked his cock harder. The sight of his wife being used, covered in strangers’ cum, the way she moaned and begged for them sent him over the edge into oblivion. He came for her, hard, cum spurting out into his hand, dribbling down his cock and making him slick and sticky with want…

//

I could feel the cum splattered on my face, dripping off my chin…

Mr. Black shoved my face back down onto the ottoman, smearing it over my face as he fucked himself deep into my pussy. I came hard for him, then, my body prickling with electric pleasure rushing through me, my pussy gripping tight around his thick cock as he buried himself to the hilt in me and came.

I could feel him empty himself in me, feel the way his hot cum filled me entirely. I could picture the way it covered the inside of my pussy, and the way he rocked his hips and fucked himself more deeply into me, I could just picture his seed being forced through my cervix, like if he could fuck me hard enough he could get me pregnant…

The thought of it sent me over the edge again, my second orgasm coming before the first had even finished, my eyes screwed up and mouth open around a silent moan.

Before I was ready, Mr. Black pulled out of me, his thick cock leaving me feeling empty when he was gone–I whimpered for him, pathetic in my want, before I fell back onto the ottoman, my whole body shaking, my eyes searching for him. Mr. Black stepped back, grinning still, chest heaving with every deep breath.

“You’re to go back to your rooms,” was all he said, stuffing his still hard cock back into his trousers, still slick with my wetness and his cum. He picked up his shirt, which a servant had taken and neatly folded, from one of the tables and started to put it back on. “Don’t clean your faces or bodies. You don’t deserve to clean yourselves off just yet. Not until we tell you to.”

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/10frtx1/my_best_friend_and_i_convince_our_husbands_to

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