Hidden Phone, BBC Creampie Videos

Desmond had started counting the hours. At thirty-two he still left the apartment at seven for the same mid-level accounting job he had held since they married, still came home to the same quiet two-bedroom, still set his keys in the same ceramic bowl by the door. Simone, twenty-eight, used to be waiting. Now the gym bag sat by the door more often than she did, and the scent of her skin when she finally walked in was soap and chlorine instead of the perfume he bought her last birthday. She had always liked the gym. Lately she lived there. Her shoulders had rounded with new muscle, her ass had lifted, and she moved through their rooms with a loose, satisfied roll of her hips that made his stomach tighten for reasons he refused to name.

The phone was worse. Three weeks ago she had locked it. Not the casual swipe she used to leave open on the coffee table, but a six-digit code she typed with her body turned away from him. She took it into the bathroom. She slept with it under her pillow. When he asked, lightly, whether she was expecting something important, she only smiled and said the gym app tracked her lifts and she didn’t want to lose the data. He had tried the obvious combinations once while she was in the shower—anniversary, her birthday, his—and the screen had stayed dark. He told himself he was being paranoid. He told himself a woman who still kissed him goodnight and still let him fuck her on Sundays, even if she seemed distracted, was not sleeping with someone else. The jealousy sat in his chest anyway, a low constant burn.

That night she announced she was taking a long bath. She had already stripped to her panties in the bedroom, the black cotton ones that rode high on the new curve of her ass, and she paused only long enough to drop her phone on the nightstand before she walked into the bathroom and closed the door. The lock did not click. Water began to run. Desmond stood in the doorway and stared at the dark rectangle of glass. For the first time in weeks the screen lit when he touched it. No passcode. Just her home screen, the gym app icon glowing, a text notification from a contact saved only as J already sliding out of view. His pulse kicked hard enough that he felt it in his throat. He picked the phone up with both hands so he would not drop it.

The hidden folder was not even buried deep. A plain gray icon labeled Private sat in the second row of albums. He opened it because he had to know, and the first thumbnail was Simone on her knees on a hotel carpet he did not recognize, mouth stretched around a cock so thick the corners of her lips had gone white. The man attached to it was black, heavily muscled, head cropped out of frame. Desmond’s thumb moved before he could stop it. The video started with sound. Simone’s voice, wrecked and grateful, telling someone named Jerome that she needed it raw, that she had been thinking about his load all day at the gym. Jerome’s answering laugh was low. He pulled out of her mouth, slapped the wet head across her cheek, and told her to get on the bed and show him her holes.

Desmond sat on the edge of the mattress. His cock was already stiff against his thigh, painful, the kind of hard that made his balls ache. He hated the heat of it. He opened the next video anyway. This one was longer. Simone on all fours, face turned toward the camera so there was no mistaking her, eyes half-closed, mouth open. A second man—Tobias, she moaned the name when he pushed into her ass—held her hips and fed her every inch without a condom. Jerome knelt in front of her and fucked her throat in the same rhythm. When Tobias came he stayed buried, grinding, and the camera dipped so Desmond could see the thick white pulse of cum forced out around the dark shaft and running down the inside of her thigh. Jerome pulled out of her mouth a minute later and painted her tongue, her lips, her chin. She swallowed what she could and smiled with cum still stringing from her lower lip. “More,” she said, voice hoarse. “Both of you. I want to feel it leaking out of me on the way home.”

There were six videos. Desmond watched pieces of all of them, thumb shaking, cock leaking into his boxers until the fabric clung. In one she rode Jerome reverse, hands braced on his thighs, while Tobias stood over them and jerked thick ropes across her tits and the stretched rim of her asshole. In another she lay on her back with her knees pinned to her shoulders and both men took turns emptying themselves in her pussy, pushing the previous load deeper with the next stroke until her cunt was a glossy, overflowing mess and she was begging them not to stop. Her face in every frame was the face Desmond had never seen in their bed: slack with pleasure, greedy, ruined. He was furious. The betrayal sat behind his eyes like pressure. And his cock was so hard he could not think past the need to touch it. He shoved his pants down, wrapped his fist around himself, and stroked while the latest video played on a loop—Simone’s asshole winking open, a heavy creampie sliding out, her fingers scooping it back inside while she laughed and told them she was their slut.

The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled into the bedroom. Simone stood in the doorway wrapped in a white towel, hair wet and clinging to her neck, and for a second she only looked at him. Then her eyes moved to the phone in his left hand and the fist working his cock with his right. The towel slipped an inch. She did not reach for it. Something in her expression shifted—not shock, not fear. Recognition, and then a slow, knowing heat.

“You found them,” she said. Her voice was calm. She walked closer, water still beading on her collarbones. “I wondered how long it would take. You’ve been staring at that phone like it owes you money.”

Desmond’s hand stopped. Shame and anger fought in his chest, but his cock jumped in his grip, slick at the tip. “Simone. What the fuck is this?”

She let the towel fall. Her body was the one he knew and also not: fuller breasts, tighter waist, the faint red marks of someone else’s fingers still fading on her hips. She was wet between her legs already; he could see it when she stepped between his knees. “It’s me getting what I need,” she said. “Jerome and Tobias. They fuck me raw. They fill every hole until I’m dripping. And I love it. I love being their BBC slut more than I have ever loved anything we do in this bed.” She reached down, wrapped her hand over his on his cock, and squeezed. “You’re hard as steel watching it. Don’t lie.”

He tried to speak. The words tangled. She pushed him back onto the mattress, climbed over him, and turned so she faced the phone still propped against a pillow. Reverse cowgirl. She reached between her legs, lined his cock up with her soaked pussy, and sank down in one slow glide. He was smaller than the men on the screen; they both felt it. She rolled her hips anyway, taking him to the root, and picked the phone up so the video filled both their views.

“Watch,” she ordered. On the screen Tobias was buried in her ass again, cum already leaking around him, while Jerome fed her his cock and told her to swallow every drop. Simone ground down on Desmond and moaned, not for him. “See how thick he is? He stretches me open until I can’t close. Your little cock just sits there. I can barely feel you. But you’re going to watch me get used while I ride you, and you’re going to stay hard, because this is what you get now.”

Desmond’s hands found her hips. He thrust up despite himself, chasing the tight heat, the wet sounds of her cunt sliding on him. She laughed, low and mean, and bounced harder, forcing the phone closer to his face so he could not look away from the way Jerome’s cum striped her tongue. “They came in me last week,” she said, breathless, riding him in short, cruel strokes. “All three holes. I walked out of that hotel with their loads still inside me and I didn’t even shower before I came home and let you kiss me. You tasted them and you didn’t know.” She clenched around him. “Pathetic. Stroke isn’t even the word. You’re just a warm place for me to sit while I remember how a real cock feels.”

He was close already, the humiliation and the visual and the grip of her body winding together until his balls drew tight. She felt it. She reached back, nails digging into his thigh, and slammed down, grinding her clit against the base of him while the video showed Tobias pulling out and painting her gaping asshole white. “Do it,” she hissed. “Cum in your wife’s used pussy. Add your little load to the mess they left. I want to feel how much smaller it is.”

Desmond broke. He drove up into her and came hard, pulse after pulse, groaning through his teeth while she kept moving, milking him, never taking her eyes off the screen. When he finished she stayed seated on him, his softening cock still buried, cum already leaking around the seal of their bodies. She set the phone down only long enough to open her messages. Her thumbs moved quickly.

“Videos are from Thursday,” she said, almost casual, still full of him. “I’m addicted. I texted them this morning that I needed another round this weekend.” She glanced back over her shoulder, smirking at the wrecked look on his face. “Just told Jerome and Tobias you know. Told them you might want to watch next time.”

She settled her weight more firmly, keeping him inside her while the read receipts appeared.

He stayed hard inside the wreckage of what he had thought was his.