Chapter 3: Not a Three-Way

[al****]

I appreciate the support so far as I continue to write about my life, each story drawn from different chapters of my life to better understand myself and what might be missing in my new world of vanilla, the writing to potentially give me a roadmap to finding the balance I seek. For those that interested in the order of events: 

Black Tape 1: An Origin Story
Colored Tape 2: Words of Power
Black Tape 3: Not a Three-Way 
Black Tape 4: Seven ate Nine (Coming Soon)
Colored Tapes 5-15: The Reflection's Riddle (Coming Soon)
Black Tape 16: The Gifted Brunette
Colored Tape 17: Graduation Day
Colored Tape 18: Unholy Trinity (Coming Soon)
Colored Tape 19: The Velvet Cake (Coming Soon)
Colored Tape 20: The Hard Goodbye (Coming Soon)
Colored Tape 21: Blue Tape: Broken Rules, Kept Promises

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     Perched on the hotel couch, scotch in hand, I find myself toying with a little black tape, spinning it between my knuckles with a kind of absent-minded expertise. The label on the tape, scrawled in hasty handwriting, spells out "My first three-way". It's funny, the stock I put in firsts; the virgin voyage into sex, the inaugural blowjob, that raw, electrifying makeup sex on the hood of my car under a torrential downpour. These are moments I try to replay, to recapture, but the thrill of the first time is a fleeting ghost. No replay can summon that initial adrenaline surge, and with each passing year, the specifics blur, morphing from vivid memory to something more akin to a recounted tale.

This tape, this piece of magnetic ribbon, is more than just a recording. It's a portal, a bridge back to a time of unbridled exploration and the intoxicating uncertainty of youth. Sliding the tape into the camcorder, I hit play, and suddenly, I'm there again, in that room, on those sheets. It's a strange form of time travel, one that allows me to revisit, to feel, if only for a moment, the raw intensity of those firsts that have since faded into the backdrop of my life's tapestry.

"I want to have a three-way," I say, the words rolling off my tongue with a playful smirk, yet underscored by a thread of steely intent.

She doesn't bat an eyelid, as if the idea had been simmering in her mind, ready to spill over. "How about Jordan?" she counters.

Jordan was a knockout, a showstopper from head to toe. With legs that seemed to stretch into eternity, a physique that struck the perfect balance between fitness and femininity, and a chest that screamed for attention, she was a vision. Despite having the makings of a high-end model, her personal demons had relegated her to the glittering poles of the local strip club, where she reigned supreme during the busiest hours.

The thought of the three of us together was undoubtedly appealing. But instead of nodding in agreement, I threw a curveball. "I'm thinking Paradise."

Confusion flickered across her face. While Jordan was the undisputed star of the night, Paradise was more of a daytime indulgence, the kind of performer you'd watch while nursing a lunchtime beer. The girl behind the camera was stunning in her own right, easily a nine on any scale. Jordan might have been a perfect ten, but Paradise? She was a seven at best. My choice could have been interpreted read as some untapped tenderness for the girl with the camera, or maybe it was driven by the knowledge that Paradise was the type who'd eagerly indulge in the more deviant whims I harbored.

Whatever the underlying reason, it took just a phone call and an hour's wait before Paradise arrived, brimming with readiness for whatever the night held. She barely crossed the threshold when I thrust the model release forms at her, camera in hand, my demeanor all business. "Are you drunk, high, or on any intoxicating substances?" I ask with a clinical detachment. Her response is a playful "Not yet," as she scrawls her signature. Then comes my follow-up, "You know you're going to be filmed while we fuck?" Her answer is more than words; she drops to her knees, eager, pulling at my jeans. "That's why I'm here," she says, her intent as clear as the lens of the camera.

I've refined my approach, not just in handling the formalities but also in the methodical way I approached the act itself. I'm not just looking for pleasure; I'm curating an experience. Starting with a blowjob was a calculated move, ensuring that the camera captured the most impressive version of myself. My lack of underwear is another strategic move, facilitating the swift transition of my arousal from the confines of denim to the warmth of her mouth.

"Make her gag," comes a voice tinged with bitterness from across the room.

The balance in a threesome is a precarious thing, a tightrope walk between equality and favoritism. Paradise's eager response to my unspoken challenge does little to alleviate the growing imbalance. "I like to gag," she confesses, her words a mix of vulnerability and bravado.

My focus is now laser-like on Paradise, driven by a morbid curiosity to test her limits. "Open your mouth," I command, "Wider." I'm relentless, pushing forward, trying to bury myself in her throat. She's managing well until her lips start to involuntarily contract around me, like a fish gasping for air out of water. She's signaling retreat, but I'm anchored in place, nudging just a bit further. "Breathe through your nose," I advise, but her head shakes in a clear no, a silent plea for release, a gesture I respect. I let her go, she collapses onto the mattress, gasping for air, tears streaking her face a testament to the intensity of the moment.

"I thought you liked gagging?" jeered the jealous voice from the sidelines.

Without missing a beat, Paradise fires back, her confidence unshaken. "I like it when it goes all the way down my throat like that." Her words, unapologetic, bold.

Her chest heaves, each breath a battle fought and won, her breasts rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm. "You do, huh?" I respond, a grin playing on my lips. "Get back over here," I command, my voice an embodiment of both desire and authority.

She rises, a phoenix from the ashes of her own exertion. Her hands find me again, cradling me like a treasured artifact. In her grasp, I'm something more, something grander. Her movements are deliberate, a slow journey upwards, her hands transitioning to wipe away the remnants of her tears. Then, reversing course, her mouth eagerly follows the trail her hands have blazed.

What unfolds is a relentless effort, a dance of depth and breath. Each attempt at deep-throating, a test of her limits, three-quarters of the way becoming her temporary battleground. She gags, retreats for air, then dives back in, a cycle of challenge and perseverance. Her playfulness is evident, her focus unwavering, driven by a desire to please that aligns perfectly with my own wants.

Her tongue traces a delicate, maddening pattern around the crown of my arousal before she takes me in again, deep, three-quarters of the way. My hand guides her, a gentle yet insistent pressure at the back of her head, urging. As our eyes hold a silent, intense conversation of power and surrender, tears well up in her eyes, a raw, visceral reaction, before I release her, and she collapses back onto the bed, a beautiful wreck.

She lies there, a portrait of spent desire and resilience. Her back arches slightly on the mattress, legs splayed in a candid display of vulnerability. Her right-hand flutters to her chest, catching her breath in ragged gasps, while her left hand, with a tender touch of her knuckles, wipes away the trails of tears from her eyes. Standing over her, I'm struck by the sight; my thick cock, wet with her saliva, and her pristine folds, almost demure in its appearance, yet screaming for attention.

The journey inside her becomes a struggle, the tightness of her is a fortress, resistance despite our mutual slickness. It's a clash between desire and the unyielding nature of her body, but persistence ultimately triumphs. As I finally breach her barriers, it sets off a tempest within her, a storm of sensation and emotion.

Her body tells its own tale of ecstasy. The hands that once brushed away tears now take on a new purpose. One hand, a firm presence against my chest, acts as a guardian, moderating the depth of my intrusion. She's evidently overwhelmed, grappling with the intensity of sensation. It's her show now, her rhythm to set. She takes the lead with an eagerness that speaks volumes. Her back arches, a graceful bow that reduces her points of contact with the mattress to just four, her body now a pendulum of motion gyrates on my cock.

The view is spellbinding. Her body envelops just a portion of me, a visual feast. The rapid, shallow movements send ripples of gratification through me, each stroke is an exquisite balance of pleasure and restraint, where every touch, every movement leaves us both teetering on the brink of something transcendent.

It's a dangerous game, flirting with the edge. The urge to climax builds like a storm, threatening to break. I feel an eruption brewing, a surge of intense pressure. She's close too; her right hand leaves the mattress, venturing down to her clit to add another layer of stimulation. Now balanced on just three points, her body becomes an instrument of bliss, while her hips continue their dance. I let out a calculated release, just potent enough to regain composure amidst the wave of sensation.

"Get on all fours," I command, my words breaking her spell as I gently pull out. It's a pivot, redirecting the course of our encounter.

As Paradise bends over in front of me, the reason for her presence tonight becomes unmistakably clear. Her ass is a masterpiece of tone and shape, a bubble butt that seems to whisper my name. And there, a coy little butthole, inviting in its own right. In this moment, the world narrows down to the singular vision of my cock sliding into her tight embrace, her perfect ass rhythmically meeting each thrust. The rest of the room, the third presence, blurs into insignificance as I indulge in this sensory feast.

My hand lands on her ass with a signature slap, leaving a temporary imprint of my possession, a fleeting brand of the passion we share. It's a balancing act, hanging on the precipice of release. We're not breaking any records for ferocity or s***d, but there's something about the deliberate, slow strokes that amplifies every sensation, allowing me to savor every inch of her.

Whether our climaxes were a shared explosion or a chain reaction triggered by one igniting the other becomes a trivial detail in the grand scheme of things. In the end, it hardly matters. I flood her with my warmth, load after passionate load, each spasm of her climax pulling me deeper, almost as if she's trying to absorb every part of me. When it's over, there's barely any evidence that I came, it's as if her body has claimed every drop as its own. 

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To Be Continued in the next chapter

[al****]

I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters bout me and the women in my story.

This is the updated Chapter 3: Not A Three-way

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Perched on the hotel couch, scotch in hand, I toy with a little black tape, spinning it between my fingers with deliberate precision. The label reads, "My first three-way," scrawled in hasty handwriting. It’s funny how much value I used to put in firsts: virgin voyages into sex, that inaugural blowjob, raw makeup sex on the hood of my car under a torrential downpour. Firsts once ignited fierce and unforgettable. Now, those moments blur, time dulls the fire, and memory warps vivid details into whispers, turning cherished experiences into hollow anecdotes I repeat like a bad joke.

This tape, this piece of magnetic ribbon, is more than just a recording. It's a portal, a bridge back to a time of unbridled exploration and the intoxicating uncertainty of youth. Sliding it into the camcorder and hitting play is like ***ring through a window into another world. For a brief, shimmering moment, I'm back in that room, reliving the electric charge of those firsts now woven into the fabric of my life.

"I want to have a three-way," I say, the words rolling off my tongue with a playful smirk, yet underscored by a thread of steely intent.

She doesn't bat an eyelid, as if the idea had been simmering in her mind, ready to spill over. Holding the camera steady, she counters, "How about Jordan?"

Jordan was a knockout, a showstopper from head to toe. With legs that seemed to stretch into eternity, a physique that struck the perfect balance between fitness and femininity, and a chest that screamed for attention, she was a vision. Despite having the makings of a high-end model, her personal demons had relegated her to the glittering poles of the local strip club, where she reigned supreme during the busiest hours.

The thought of the three of us together was undoubtedly appealing. But instead of nodding in agreement, I threw a curveball. "I'm thinking Paradise."

Confusion flickered across her face. While Jordan was the undisputed star of the night, Paradise was more of a daytime indulgence, the kind of performer you'd watch while nursing a lunchtime beer. The girl behind the lens was stunning in her own right, easily a nine on any scale. Jordan might have been a perfect ten, but Paradise? She was a seven at best. My choice could have been interpreted as some untapped tenderness for the girl with the camera, or maybe it was driven by the knowledge that Paradise was the type who'd eagerly indulge in the more deviant whims I harbored.

Whatever the underlying reason, it took just a phone call and an hour's wait before Paradise arrived, brimming with readiness for whatever the night held. She barely crossed the threshold when I thrust the model release forms at her, camera in hand, my demeanor all business. "Are you drunk, high, or on any intoxicating substances?" I ask with a clinical detachment. She has an unrefined, small-town look, like someone who’s spent most of her life in dim-lit bars where the jukebox is stuck on some forgotten '80s hit. Her response is a playful "Not yet," as she scrawls her signature, the curve of her mouth always on the edge of a smirk or a sneer. Then comes my follow-up, "You know you're going to be filmed while we fuck?" Her answer is more than words; there’s a wildness in her eyes, a tiny tattoo ***king from her chest as she drops to her knees and starts to ***l off her shirt and bra, tossing them aside with an unspoken confidence. "That's why I'm here," she says, her motive as clear as the equipment capturing our every move.

I've refined my approach, not just in handling the formalities but also in the methodical way I approached the act itself. I'm not just looking for pleasure; I'm curating an experience. Starting with a blowjob was a calculated move, ensuring that the visuals captured the most impressive version of myself. My lack of underwear is another strategic move, facilitating the swift transition of my arousal from the confines of denim to the warmth of her mouth.

Excitement spikes through me like a live wire. She barely cleared the hotel room's threshold and is already on her knees, with a confidence that screams, "Thirty seconds and my tongue will turn mortals into puddles." But I'm no mere mortal, and she's about to get a crash course in overestimation. She takes a quick breath, gasping out, "It's really big," as though it's some new revelation, before diving back into her task. Her eagerness is almost adorable. I take a twisted pleasure in letting her think she's in charge, while my mind is miles ahead, plotting the next ten moves behind the scene.

"Make her gag," comes a voice tinged with bitterness from across the room.

The balance in a threesome is a precarious thing, a tightrope walk between equality and favoritism. Paradise's enthusiastic response to my unspoken challenge does little to alleviate the growing imbalance. "I like to gag," she confesses, her words a mix of vulnerability and bravado.

My focus is now laser-like on Paradise, driven by a morbid curiosity to test her limits. "Open up," I command, my swollen, rigid flesh pressed hard against her face. She obeys, mouth open wide, waiting for what's next. I push in, her tongue brushes, tentative, testing. I steer her, show her the way. "Wider," I say, flat, matter-of-fact. Control. Always control. 

Her lips pulled wide, straining. "Good girl," I whisper. "No suction, just your throat. That's all I want to feel. Understand?" She nods, but time stretches like taffy. Seconds drag into infinity. I move inch by inch, like I'm scaling a mountain. Every time I hit resistance, I fall back, gather s***d, and ram through. Always pressing further, striving to immerse myself completely inside her. 

She's holding her own until her lips begin to convulse, clutching at me like a fish floundering on dry land, struggling for breath. She's signaling retreat, but with my hand hooked behind her head, I'm grounded, inching my way forward.

"Breathe through your nose," I advise, but her head shakes in a clear no, a silent plea for release, a gesture I respect. I let her go, she collapses onto the mattress, gasping for air, tears streaking her face marking the sheer ferocity of the moment. Her chest heaves, each breath a battle fought and won, her breasts rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm.

"I thought you liked gagging?" jeered the jealous voice from the sidelines.

Without missing a beat, Paradise fires back, her confidence unshaken. "I like it when it goes all the way down my throat like that." Her tone is unapologetic, bold.

"You do, huh?" I respond, a grin playing on my lips. "Get back over here," I command, my voice an embodiment of both desire and authority.

She rises, a phoenix from the ashes of her own exertion. Her hands find my shaft again, cradling me with care, as if still learning the weight of it all. Her movements are deliberate, a slow journey upwards, her hands transitioning to wipe away the remnants of her distress. Then, reversing course, her mouth eagerly follows the trail her hands have blazed.

What unfolds is a relentless effort, a dance of depth and breath. Each attempt at deep-throating, a test of her limits, three-quarters of the way becoming her temporary battleground. She gags, retreats for air, then dives back in, a cycle of challenge and perseverance. Her playfulness is evident, her focus unwavering, driven by a desire to please that aligns perfectly with my own wants.

Her tongue traces a delicate, maddening pattern around the crown of my arousal before she takes me in again, deep, three-quarters of the way. My hand guides her, a gentle yet insistent pressure at the back of her head, urging. Our eyes hold a silent, intense conversation of power and surrender, her eyes welling up with unfiltered emotion. I ease my grip, and she crumbles onto the bed, a perfect wreck.

She lies there, a portrait of extinguished ambition and resilience. Her back arches slightly on the mattress, legs splayed in a candid display of vulnerability. Her right-hand flutters to her chest, catching her breath in ragged gasps, while her left hand, with a tender touch of her knuckles, wipes away the trails of tears from her eyes. Standing over her, I'm struck by the sight; my thick cock, wet with her saliva, and her pristine folds, almost demure in its appearance, yet screaming for attention.

The journey inside her becomes a struggle, the tightness of her is a fortress, resistance despite our mutual slickness. It's a clash between desire and the unyielding nature of her body, but persistence ultimately triumphs. As I finally breach her barriers, it sets off a tempest within her, a storm of euphoria and fervor.

Her body tells its own tale of ecstasy. The hands that once brushed away tears now take on a new purpose. One hand, a firm presence against my chest, acts as a guardian, moderating the depth of my intrusion. She's evidently overwhelmed, battling the depth of the impact. Desperate to steady herself, she tries to impose her rhythm, each movement a defiant declaration. Her back arches in a practiced curve, minimizing her contact with the mattress to a mere four precarious points, her body now a pendulum of motion gyrates on my cock.

The view is spellbinding. Her body envelops just a portion of me, a visual feast. The rapid, shallow movements send ripples of gratification through me, each stroke is an exquisite blend of pleasure and restraint, where every touch, every movement leaves us both teetering on the brink of something transcendent.

It's a dangerous game, flirting with the edge. The drive to climax swells like a storm, threatening to break. I feel an eruption brewing, the pressure mounting with intensity. She's close too; her right hand leaves the mattress, venturing down to her clit to add another layer of stimulation. Now balanced on just three points, her hips continue their dance. I let out a calculated release, just potent enough to regain composure against the torrent of sensation. One powerful surge floods her, making me swell, sending her into a state of bliss. Every inch of me feels her climax. I fight every urge not to let go, to pump her full of my own gratification.

"Get on all fours," I command, my words breaking her spell as I gently pull out, determined to hold back.

It's a pivot, redirecting the course of our encounter and as Paradise bends over in front of me, the reason for her presence tonight becomes unmistakably clear. Her ass is a masterpiece of tone and shape, a bubble butt that seems to whisper my name. And there, a coy little butthole, inviting in its own right. In this moment, the world narrows down to the singular vision of my cock sliding into her tight embrace, her perfect ass rhythmically meeting each thrust. The rest of the room, the third presence, blurs into insignificance as I indulge in this sensory feast.

My hand lands on her ass with my signature slap, leaving a temporary imprint of my possession, a fleeting brand of the passion we share. It's a fine line, hanging on the precipice of release. We're not breaking any records for ferocity or s***d, but there's something about the deliberate, slow strokes that amplifies every sensation, allowing me to savor every inch of her.

Whether our climaxes were a shared explosion or a chain reaction triggered by one igniting the other becomes a trivial detail in the grand scheme of things. In the end, it hardly matters. I flood her with my warmth, load after passionate load, each spasm of her climax pulling me deeper, almost as if she's trying to absorb every part of me. When it's over, there's barely any evidence that I came, it's as if her body has claimed every drop as its own. 

As the echoes of climax fade, a profound calm envelops me. Gazing at the girl beside me, her serene presence feels like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place. The earlier storm of delight and power plays has dissipated, leaving a tranquil focus that sharpens my resolve and reminds me of the night's true purpose. I'm now invigorated, ready to tackle the original task with fresh, unclouded determination.

Edited October 13 by alexxxwild