This was probably four or five years ago, back before the pandemic, back before life and lifestyles changed, likely forever.
Those were they days, weren’t they? Playing without fear, without masks, without having to choose sides of political bullshit when all we want to do was fuck indiscriminately.
Ah yes, the way we were.
Each year, February to be exact, I would head south to one of the great migrations in America, the annual pilgrimage to Daytona Beach, Fla. The Daytona 500 is more than a race, more than a sporting event. It’s a gathering of like-minded souls, sure some are car enthusiasts, some of rednecks, some are people from snow-covered states longing for sunshine and salt air.
But for everyone, it’s a bacchanalian escape in the last days of winter, a getaway from kids, bosses, in-laws or just boredom. And for years and years, it was a destination for horny, sexy people wanting to run around half naked and fuck like rabbits until the sun came up.
So anyway, I was between marriages at the time. Early 40s with a good job, a new red convertible and a planned weekend with a couple I’d met online. Those were the best days ever, when social media was still innocent, when complete strangers developed relationships on sex sites and adult dating sites, far-flung people from all over who met kindred souls on the internet.
I’d gotten to know this married couple from Texas, halfway across the country from me. We’d exchanged pictures and stayed up late having sexy conversations, playing on webcam, talking about and doing things we’d never let anyone in real life know about. And it was all online, safely separated from reality with no intention of ever actually meeting.
Until one night when I told them I was headed to Daytona in a couple weeks. They seemed suddenly very curious, at least she did. Over the next few days, she quizzed me about it, the atmosphere, the people, the vibe of hanging out for a week at the greatest beach in the world.
To make a long story short, she convinced her husband to let her go, alone, on one condition: We would keep in constant contact with him through social media, webcam, video, whatever means necessary.
She flew into Orlando, where I picked her up at the airport. We headed straight to a Marriott halfway between there and Daytona, chattering the whole way up the road.
She was more beautiful in real life than I anticipated, late 30s, tall and tanned, blonde with a perfect body, which she showed off in a white sundress, no bra, no panties, and once she flopped into my convertible, absolutely no inhibitions.
She sucked my cock on the highway, let me play with her wet, shaved pussy, her talking dirty just as we’d done online for a year leading up to the wild week in Daytona.
As we blew past families headed to Disney and truckers headed to the citrus farms of Central Florida, we gave them all a show. At some point along the drive to the hotel, I asked her “shouldn’t we call your husband or facetime him or something?”
“Hell no,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to get out from under him for years. This week, he doesn’t exist unless we want him to watch.”
We laughed and continued to play, the top of her sundress completely open, her perfect 36c tits on show for anyone to see, my shorts on the floor of the car as two sex-crazed adults headed up I-4 on the way to a wild week in the sun.
We would fuck everyday, two or three times at least, pushing our boundaries, blowing through previous limits, once or twice letting her husband watch (in protest and shock) but otherwise ignoring his calls.
One night, we facetimed him without saying a word to him, his wife tied to the bedposts, her naked tail in the air begging me to fuck her in the ass while he screamed and cried and threatened us. It turned us on even more as we cucked him mercilessly, 1,000 miles away.
Another night, she put her cellphone on the floor directly beneath her spread legs, fucking herself with a wine bottle as she called him names and ignored his pleas. It ended with her squirting streams of cum onto the cellphone blurring his vision and leaving him to wonder what was going on, listening only to her animal sounds as we made her cum over and over using anything and everything we could find in the hotel room.
By the weekend, he was a broken man.
That was after days on the beach, more than once from Playalinda, a nude beach a few miles down the coast, where she entertained several men, letting one group pull a train on her in the sand dunes as I videoed the whole thing, sending it to him as we drove back to the hotel, drunk, exhausted, covered in sand and sweat and cum.
We made it to the track once or twice, finally leaving the 500 that Sunday after about half the race was completed. It was our last day together. Monday morning, I would take her back to the airport, back to reality, back to her broken and cyber-cucked husband.
But one last night was the final blow, so to speak.
We’d come back to the hotel showered, napped, had a nice meal and a few bottles of wine while we planned our final act for poor hubby.
We went back to the room. It was maybe nine o’clock. We were dressed nicely, me in khaki slacks and a starched button-down oxford, her in one of her sundresses, tanned and dripping in gold around her neck and wrists. We were both barefoot.
It was a classy evening with even more wine, cheese and crackers and mostly small talk among ourselves, recounting the week, toasting each other, all the while ignoring the man on her cellphone screen watching it all.
It was probably 10 o’clock when the knock came at the door. I smiled, picked up the cellphone and walked to the door. Opening it, there stood our waiter, a tall, muscular black man, wearing a stark white t-shirt and loose-fitting pair of pants tied at the waist by a rope or something.
I could hear muffled protests on the phone as we walked into the room and I panned the scene for him. His wife now naked on the bed upside down, her head hanging off the edge of the bed, her mouth wide open.
The waiter was coal black, a big man with rippling abs, arms and legs. And as his pants slid off and hit the floor, he had an 10-inch horse cock, long and tapered, cut with a bulbous mushroom head. I mounted the phone on a tripod across the room, hearing high-pitched screams of protest and terror as the waiter’s cock slid into the mouth and throat of his wife, the head of it clearly bulging her neck as she moaned and gasped for air.
For the next hour, he used her every hole, slamming her with loud grunts, her overcome with pleasure and pain, soaking wet from head to toe, all the while begging for more. It ended in a wave of cum, both of us splattering ropes of white, hot sperm on this beautiful woman from Texas.
Before he left, he pulled her up by the hair, cum dripping down her face mixed with tears and mascara. She smiled to the camera and gave a dainty little wave. Then I turned it off, hearing him crying on the other end.
The next morning, I took her to the airport, dropping her off at the terminal, watching her wincing a little as she walked away, blowing me a kiss as she turned, flipping the back of her sundress up for me to see she was wearing no panties.
She had her phone in her hand, and I heard her voice before I drove away.
“Hello honey,” she said in a girly, sing-song voice. “How was your week?”