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Chapter 8: Unholy Trinity

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Taking place after Graduation Day and Before the Velvet cake I present to you Chapter 8: Unholy Trinity


Stepping onto the Miami set that day, my universe and the whole dynamic of my video shoots were about to pivot dramatically. The director beckoned me towards a shirtless figure by his side. Blond like myself, the man seemed a half-decade my senior, sporting a physique superior to mine, mirroring my height. His lower half was clad in jeans, leaving the rest to imagination. "AleXxX," the director introduced, "Meet Johnny." Our handshake and small talk were brisk, punctuated by the entrance of a redhead in her forties, her nudity unabashed, disrupting the moment. "So, you're the other guy fucking me on today?" Her bluntness halted me; not from shock, we all knew why I was there, but it was the pause that amplified the anticipation as my gaze roamed her sculpted form. Instinctively, my hand glided across her hip, guiding her into a spin to appreciate her from every angle, the unspoken offering laid bare before me. Breaking the silence, my affirmation was clear, "Oh yeah, I'm the one." Her grin was all the incentive needed, "I can't wait."

For a year, my role had been straightforward: MILFs and the candid, unscripted encounters that came with them. Yet, as with any tale that dares to captivate, monotony crept in. The audience grew weary of the predictable. It was time for a new chapter, a twist in the narrative. Enter Johnny.

In the circles we run, what's on the agenda tonight is often whispered about as a devil's threesome, a scenario some might dodge, others might approach with a handbook of do's and don'ts. "Any ground rules?" Johnny queried, eyeing the setup with a mix of curiosity and readiness. "Keep her the center of attention," was my straightforward mandate. "As long as she's the main event, I'm game for whatever comes our way." The unspoken agreement hung in the air: an understanding that my personal space remained mine alone, we could merge our efforts for the thrill of the fiery redhead, who seemed more than ready to embrace the intensity of the moment.

The blueprint for these episodes was always cut from the same cloth: me, hitting the streets, chancing upon a MILF, and coaxing her back to my place or hers, culminating in us fucking in every conceivable manner. Today's script didn't deviate. "I need to grab my kids from soccer practice," she fibbed, crafting a convenient excuse to dodge my invitation. "It's a nice day out," I countered with my trademark grin, "Your kids will enjoy the extra time outside." Then, Johnny unleashed his own brand of persuasion. "I happen to coach soccer," he chimed in, "Show us your tits and I'll ensure your kid's the first name on my team sheet." The banter flowed effortlessly, and before long, we were in the mock-up studio of my so-called living room. She harped on about needing to dash off for her kids, clinging to the motherly facade. Whether she truly had kids or not was up in the air, but given her sculpted figure and flawless skin, I had my doubts.

Typically, I thrive on directing her to unravel my belt and reveal my cock, a ritual that stirs the power dynamics, setting my dominance aflame and priming me for the spectacle ahead. Yet, Johnny's arrival shifts the vibe. It's hard to put a finger on it, but the atmosphere feels different. It's not unwelcome, just unexpected, nudging me off my usual script without actually saying it.

So, I improvise. A quick unzip, and my nine-inch cock is out, resting provocatively against her cheek. "Your husband have a cock this big?" I taunted, the words laced with a mix of jest and challenge.

"What's that?" she goes, all mock innocence and wide eyes about the size of it.

"It's your ticket to walking funny for days," I shot back, cocky as ever.

"Go on, put it in your mouth," I urge, lost so deeply in my role I nearly forget the set around me, the crew in my peripheral vision, the camera uncomfortably close, and Johnny, clearly out of his element and not yet ready to dive into the depths with me.

In a realm less tethered to today's constraints, I could have reveled in the dynamic at hand, tearing into the fiery redhead in ways that would've left us both wrecked but gloriously alive. Yet, today's reality ***ted me not as the lone protagonist but as a collaborative ***, orchestrating an experience where every participant shines.

There she knelt, eyes drilling into mine, a defiance in her stare. The task wasn't just a blowjob; it was a challenge, a statement. Not a lot of suction from her; she was all about the engulf, swallowing as much as possible in a single, audacious move. I stood, captivated, as my cock vanished down her throat smoothly, effortlessly. "Your husband is one lucky guy," I let the words roll off my tongue, fully immersed in the role, the edges between the act and the actual blurring. "In fact," I push further, "Johnny needs to get in on this while I fuck you," I say, hoisting the redhead from my lap, launching her across the coffee table with the ease of tossing aside a discarded toy. This maneuver isn't merely for spectacle; it's tactical, placing me just right behind her. It keeps the cameras rolling, capturing a fresh angle to devour as we transition into the next act. Meanwhile, Johnny, hiding just out of frame, can leverage the redhead's skills, priming himself to finally emerge into the spotlight.

“Hard to believe you're a mom, your ass is amazing," I grunt as I thrust into the fiery-haired woman before me. Feeling Johnny's presence, his cock nestled in her mouth, she manages a muted "Thank you," her voice a wrecked whisper under the weight of our combined attention.

My eyes catch every moment; the director's do too, as we both notice Johnny poised for action. With a nod so subtle it nearly escapes notice, he directs the camera crew to expand their frame, ensuring our forthcoming threesome is caught in all its explicit detail. Under her breath, the redhead utters another note of awe, "Oh my god, these two big cocks are amazing."

It's strange, the baggage of labels and insecurities we carry through life. But on set, none of that weighs me down. I glance over at Johnny, his ten-incher standing proud, thinner than mine but longer. "That's a good cock," I think to myself, not in terms of personal interest, but in terms of the art. And certainly, it's good for her.

With the director content with the footage so far, he throws out the question, "Boys, what's your take on a DP?" I shoot him a thumbs-up and reply with a grin, "I call dibs on her asshole." Johnny nods, understanding his place in this performance. The director turns to the redhead, "You good with that? Extra $100 in it for you." 

"Let's do it," she replies, her voice laced with a sultry confidence that only adds to the anticipation of what's to come.

Picture it: Johnny sprawled out on the mattress, our MILF redhead straddling him like she's mounting a conquest.  I hover behind them, observing as the ten-inch chasm between them vanishes into thin air, merging them into one entity of desire. "Lean forward," the director commands, and she obeys, bringing her face mere inches from Johnny's, her breasts pressed against his chest. I linger in the background, lubricant in hand, prepping myself for my impending role. 

As the director's silent tap signals my cue, my mind drifts to an odd association: 215 miles away, in Sarasota, Florida, there's a clown college. The absurdity of the image mirrors the challenge ahead; cramming into tight spaces, only this time, it's not for laughs.

“Go slow, please," she whispers as I inch towards her, aiming for that tight entrance. It's never an easy feat, especially with the girth I possess. Ordinarily, I'd opt for a swift entry, but Johnny's losing steam, leaving no room for negotiation. With a cautious push, I press forward, eliciting a gasp from her lips. "I don't think that'll fit," she protests, her voice tinged with doubt.

"I need some motion or I'll go soft," Johnny interjects, urgency coating his words. So she complies, hips swaying in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. "Is that better?" she inquires, seeking validation. "Yes, that feels good," he affirms, desperation lacing his voice.

"Focus on him," I instruct, my tone firm yet reassuring. "And when the time is right, I'll join in. We'll get through this like ripping off a band-aid." It's not just a statement; it's a request for consent, a desperate bid to avoid the label of an asshole. And thankfully, she grants me that permission with a nod and a tentative affirmation, her words cut short by the resounding "pop" that fills the studio as I breach the initial threshold.

"Son of a bitch!" she screams, her body reacting instinctively to the sudden invasion. I soothe her like a wild steed, coaxing her to calmness. "Take it easy, girl," I murmur, fingers tracing circles of comfort on her trembling flesh. "The head's the worst part. Just don't let it slip out, and we'll ride this out together." My touch a blend of sympathy and reassurance.

Our bodies intertwine, a tangled mess of flesh and desire, as I inch closer to my desired destination. The laws of motion govern our movements, pushing Johnny from his space, only for him to retaliate in a bid to reclaim what he perceives as his. It's a territorial tug-of-war, like we're nations at odds over a sliver of vital territory. And caught in the crossfire, the redhead lets out a primal scream of pleasure, a raw acknowledgment of the intensity we're entangled in. "That feels fucking amazing," Her words, unfiltered and genuine, cut through the air, marking the tremors of her own personal revolution. 

"I’m fucking cumming," she cries out, each syllable punctuated by the seismic tremors rippling through her body. And I'm there, arms enveloping her, hands tracing patterns across her big perfect tits, teasing and tantalizing her hardened nipples. Leaning back, I draw her into the curve of my body, an archaic gesture of unity encroaching Johnnie's presence. 

"Rub her clit," I find myself dictating to Johnnie, a directive to elevate the experience, to push boundaries and explore the depths of pleasure.

The room becomes a crucible of sound and sensation, her vocal expressions a raw, unfiltered echo of the pleasure that courses through her. The camera, relentless in its gaze, captures us more than individuals; we are components of a complex mechanism, driven by desire and the pursuit of the ultimate climax.

The grand finale of our performance unfolds in a way that fits the genre perfectly. The redhead is on her knees again, her enthusiasm undiminished as she eagerly services Johnny and me with her mouth. We are in sync, our two big cocks reaching that climax in unison, our contributions melding on her visage in a moment of anarchic artistry. In the afterglow, Johnny and I exchange a high-five, a gesture of camaraderie. But as we bask in this moment, each of us marking it with our own signature across her face, my mind can't help but reel from the stark contrast between that world and the one I inhabit now.

In my current existence, society en***s rules about age differences and limits on the number of partners one can have at once. Yet, the life I've left behind, though fraught with risk, often felt like an endless dive into the fountain of youth. Consider the redhead who recently reveled in the attention of a man a decade her junior, and then there's the next red tape: my shoot with the Asian brunette, also eight years younger. Who in their right mind would shy away from such encounters?

But here's the real kicker, the revelation that's hit me hard. I wouldn't have called my scene partners "teasers," but in reflecting on it, the strategy resembles introducing a "teaser mare" to spur on the stallion's competitive instincts. A tactic from the *** kingdom that leverages competition to ensure the alpha's performance peaks. This parallel from my former existence, where competition was a catalyst for proving dominance and prowess, makes me wonder. In a world where every interaction was a test of my alpha status, ensuring that every participant and observer knew who led the pack, is it any surprise that I find myself grappling with a sense of disbalance in a new world where monogamy seems synonymous with monotony? In this vanilla life, the absence of that perpetual competition, the lack of a constant challenge to my dominance, leaves a void that's tough to fill. 

Reflecting on the significance of each chapter I write, I find that in a vanilla world sex is a once a day thing at best. This is a contrast to where six times used to be a bare minimum in the life I used to live. Other chapters like the gifted brunette explore multiple female partners which easily explain why six was the bare minimum, but I still wanted to explore the idea that healthy competition can raise the libedo and push me to go above and beyond.
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