Greta's BBC Gangbang Filmed by Husband

Greta was a thirty-year-old white wife, and she had stopped pretending the hunger was smaller than it was. She wanted big black cock—thick, heavy, more than one—and she had said so out loud in their kitchen while her husband Owen listened with the camera already in his hands. He was thirty-four, a man who liked watching her want what he could not give her alone, and he had helped her send the message. Four men. Their house. His lens on a tripod, in the open, for the two of them. She had kissed his knuckles and promised she would be loud.

Four Black men, all in their late twenties, arrived just after four. Kofi came in first, twenty-eight, shoulders filling the doorway, a calm heat in his face. Winston followed at twenty-nine, long-legged, already watching her mouth. Jamal, twenty-seven, set his keys on the table. Andre, twenty-seven as well, shut the door and turned the lock they had all agreed on so no one else would wander in. Every person in that room was a grown adult who had said yes with a clear head. The living room smelled like clean cotton and the lemon soap from her shower. Owen set the camera on the tripod at the end of the couch, checked the red light, and framed the rug where she stood barefoot in a thin white dress. Anticipation sat electric between them, bright as that red light, and nobody looked away.

Greta went to him before she went to them. She kissed him hard, open-mouthed, hands on his chest, and he kissed her back with the heat he always saved for the moment just before he stepped aside. "I need it," she said, rough, meant for him and for the microphone. "I need to be gangbanged. I need all four of them inside me. Film every second."

"I'm right here," Owen said. "Every second."

She turned. The men stripped without hurry—belts, shirts, pants—until four massive cocks hung heavy and dark, thickening as they looked at her. Kofi's was thick and slightly curved. Winston's was long enough to make her throat tighten on sight. Jamal's flared wide at the head. Andre's rested against his thigh before it lifted, heavy as a promise. Greta's breath went thin. Her panties soaked through, clinging, and a slick shine crept down one inner thigh. She didn't hide it. She wanted them to see how wet the sight of them had already made her.

She dropped to her knees on the rug and reached for Kofi first. The head of him was hot against her tongue. She licked a slow stripe up the underside, then took him in, lips stretching, saliva gathering while Owen's camera drank down every slurp. She worked him until her jaw ached, pulled off with a wet sound, and turned to Winston. He was longer. She gagged herself on him, spit shining on her chin, eyes watering, and the noise she made was filthy and glad. Jamal filled her mouth so wide she had to breathe through her nose. Andre held her hair—steady, not cruel—and let her set the depth until she chose to choke and come up gasping, a string of spit still tying her lip to his shaft.

She took Winston back down until her nose brushed his stomach, gagged, and stayed there because she wanted the camera to catch the way her throat worked. When she pulled off, she was drooling, smiling, ruined already and nowhere near done. Her whole body trembled with how badly she needed to be filled.

She rotated, eager, one enormous cock after another, both hands stroking whichever she couldn't fit between her lips. "God," she moaned, "you're all so fucking huge. I can taste every one of you." The men answered with low groans. Kofi slid two fingers past her panties and found her dripping. He pushed the cotton aside and sank those fingers into her pussy, crooked them, and she jolted. Winston knelt behind her, spit slick on his hand, and pressed one finger, then two, into her ass while she sucked Jamal down. The stretch pulled a broken moan out of her throat around the cock filling it.

"Use me," she said when she came up for air. "Every hole. Please. I'm begging you to fuck me silly. Don't wait. I want all of you. I arranged this because I need it, and I need it now."

Jamal's fingers joined the ones already in her pussy. Two men opened her there while Winston worked a third finger into her ass, slow enough that she could push back onto him and show him she wanted the burn. She shook. Her clit throbbed against a broad palm. Her moans grew louder, filthier, less like words and more like need. Owen stayed behind the camera, breathing hard, tightening the frame when her eyes rolled. She looked into the lens, wrecked and certain.

"All of them," she said. "At once. Fuck my pussy. Fuck my ass. Fuck my throat until I can't talk. I am pleading with you. Stuff me. I want to be used until I'm trembling and still asking for more."

Kofi drew his fingers out, glistening, and offered them to her mouth. She sucked them clean, nodded, and spread her knees wider on the rug. "Yes," she said. "Now. Please. All of you."

They laid her back on the wide couch, dress shoved to her waist, panties pulled off and tossed where the lens could still see them. Kofi went into her pussy first, one long push that stretched her open around that thick curve, and she cried out—not from fear, from the relief of finally being filled. Winston lifted her legs and pressed into her ass while Kofi held still. The double fullness made her eyes flood. "Yes," she sobbed, already crying with pleasure, "both of you, oh God, both holes, don't stop."

They found a rhythm. Kofi drove deep into her cunt. Winston sank into her ass between those thrusts, two massive cocks working her until the wet sounds filled the room. Jamal knelt by her head and fed his cock into her open mouth. She sucked him greedily, moaning around him, tears slipping into her hair. Andre traded with Jamal so her throat never stayed empty. Owen kept the camera steady and let it see the way she reached for more instead of away. The couch creaked under them. Sweat slicked her thighs. Every thrust shoved a helpless sound out of her, and she kept her eyes open when she could so the lens would catch the tears and the smile tangled together.

"Harder," she begged whenever her mouth was free. "Deeper. Fuck me silly. I can take it. I want it. Please, don't you dare go easy."

They rotated. Andre replaced Kofi in her pussy and pounded her until the couch shifted on the rug. Jamal took her ass, thicker, then harder when she pushed back and wailed for it. She came the first time with Kofi in her throat and two cocks buried in her, a sharp sobbing orgasm that clenched around both of them and made Winston curse. She didn't ask them to pause. She asked them to keep going.

Then they gave her two cocks at once in each hole, the thing she had begged for on her knees and in the message before that.

Kofi and Winston pressed together at her pussy, heads nudging, and she reached down to spread herself and help them in. "Both," she said, voice breaking. "Both in my pussy. Stretch me together. Yes. Now." They sank in side by side, an overwhelming fullness that made her cry out and grab the cushions. Tears ran freely, pleasure so big it tipped into weeping. She came again almost at once, shaking, chanting yes, more, don't pull out. Jamal and Andre took her mouth in turns while those two cocks fucked her cunt together, and when she could speak she begged them not to stop until she was stupid with it.

They eased out, slick and shining. She rolled, presenting her ass, still crying and still smiling through it. "Now there. Two in my ass. I want it. I can take it. Please fill me with both of you." Andre and Jamal worked in slowly, spit and her own wetness easing the way, two massive cocks opening her ass at once while she sobbed into the cushion and held herself open. The stretch was enormous. The pleasure was a bright relentless throb that made her orgasm again before they found a full rhythm. Kofi slid under her and pushed back into her pussy, one cock in her cunt and two in her ass, and she screamed, then nodded hard, wanting every inch.

"Throat too," she gasped. "I said every hole. Two at once. I want two cocks in my mouth. Both of you. Come here."

Winston and Kofi knelt at her face. She opened wide, tongue out, and took them together as far as her lips could stretch, sucking both heads, licking between them, gagging happily when they nudged deeper and then together again. Spit poured down her chin onto her breasts. She looked ruined and radiant. "More," she managed, slurred around them. "I'm not done. I'm begging you. Harder in my ass. Deeper in my pussy. Use me until I can't hold myself up."

They did. Positions blurred—two in her pussy while one pounded her ass and another claimed her throat, then two in her ass again while her cunt ached until someone filled it, then back to her mouth, two cocks sliding over her tongue while she cried from pleasure she couldn't count anymore. She orgasmed until her legs shook and her voice went hoarse, and still she asked for deeper, for harder, for them not to finish until she was a mess.

When they came, they covered her and filled her. Kofi buried himself in her pussy and pulsed, thick heat flooding her until it leaked around his shaft. Winston came in her ass, holding her hips while she whimpered and thanked him in a broken voice. Jamal pulled out of her throat at her gasped word—"paint me"—and striped her breasts and stomach. Andre finished across her cheek and open mouth. She stuck her tongue out to catch what she could, dazed and laughing when more of Kofi's load spilled from her pussy and mixed with Winston's over her ass.

She looked up, overflowing, and asked to be filled again. They stroked back to hardness and gave it to her, slower, filthier, pumping fresh loads into her cunt and her ass until both holes were flooded, then painting her tits, her belly, her thighs in a glossy coat the late light caught. She was a quivering, cum-dripping mess, stuffed and covered, crying softly with the aftershocks, still whispering more until the word finally changed.

"Enough," she breathed, and they stopped at once. Hands gentled. No one pushed. She lay there overflowing, chest heaving, and a small satisfied sound left her that was almost a laugh.

Finally spent, Greta slid off the couch and knelt on the rug in front of her husband. Cum slid down her thighs and shone on her breasts, her stomach, her chin. She looked lovingly into the camera lens, then past it, at Owen.

"Your turn," she said, soft and sure. "I want the last load on my face. Leave it there. Thank you for filming me."

Owen stepped out from behind the tripod. The camera kept running, red light steady, exactly as she had asked. He stroked himself, eyes on her smiling, cum-glazed face. It didn't take long. He groaned, and the last thick load spilled across her cheeks, her lips, her nose, striping what was already there. She didn't flinch. She smiled wider and let it sit.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for filming my BBC gangbang."

The four men stood back, dressed enough not to crowd the frame, and left the last moment to the two of them. Cum cooled on her skin. His load shone across the rest. A clock ticked once in the hall. Then even that seemed to stop. The room went quiet. The camera hummed. Greta knelt in the late light, face painted, breathing slow, and nobody spoke. The silence held, full and finished, and she closed her eyes inside it.