Page 19 of Her Hat Trick Daddies
The screens on these smartphones might be small, but it’s enough to get things done. So, I perch myself on the end of my queen-sized mattress stroking my dick in my tightened fist, allowing the hot thrum of need to roll through my system.
I’m pretty good at making do with whatever’s on hand, especially when I leave the expensive lube at home, the stuff worth every damn penny. A little lotion from my suite’s bathroom should get the job done, though.
The video I’m watching is pure filth—four men wrecking one woman strapped down to a bed spread-eagle. She’s face-up, completely bare, her body nothing but an offering. One man fucks her throat, thick cock slamming past her lips with ruthless rhythm. Another pounds into her soaked pussy, hips snapping hard, flesh slapping flesh.
But it’s the other two that really do me in, one at her feet and the other at her chest. One sucks on her toes, all of them, his mouth stretched wide, worshipping her like he’s starved for her taste. The other one licks and nips at her breasts as he fists his cock, muttering filthy praise under his breath. “I can’t wait to fuck these babies. God, I love a perfect fucking set.”
The sounds—moans, slaps, wet gags, low grunts—make my hand work faster and more desperate, chasing that edge. Mybreath stutters when the guy in her mouth groans, jerking as he unloads, half of it spilling into her mouth, the rest streaking across her lips, chin, neck in thick, pearly ropes.
That’s it.That’s the push I need.
I come hard, gasping, the release hot and messy, coating my fingers, slick trails pooling across my stomach and thighs.
I moan, the sudden bliss of release loosening my tired muscles.
I feel better—less tense, less tightly coiled. But let’s be honest, getting off is still a pretty poor substitute for the real thing. So yeah, I go in for round two. Tired of the first clip, I start scrolling, aimlessly, until one catches my eye. Freshly uploaded, barely any views. Another group sex scene.
The quality is trash, though. Grainy, low-res, like it was filmed in someone’s basement with a flashlight. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? It’s an amateur site. The raw, unpolished feel is part of the charm… or at least the expectation.
Anyone can upload their triple-X adventures. This site may not be my top choice, but it’s convenient, anonymous, and doesn’t ask for anything. No logins. No usernames. No strings. Just one click, and you’re in. Simple.
But I freeze, thumb hovering over the screen. Something about this one feels different, something unsettlingly familiar. The way a body shifts, the angle of a thrust, the flex of muscle under skin. It stirs something in the back of my mind, a warning bell I can’t place.
I bring the phone closer to my face, heart pounding a little harder.
And then I fucking see it.
The mask.The scar.
Clear as day, stamped against the skin of one of the men on the screen. A punch of recognition so strong it knocks the air from my lungs.
The same jagged, gnarly line carved into my left hip and upper thigh—the one I earned during my Division One days when a brawl broke out in front of the goalpost. I remember the chaos. Another player’s skate had gone airborne just as I was shoved into the mess. My body slammed into it—pad, jock, and all—and the blade sliced through everything like paper. Jersey. Pads. Underwear. Skin.
There was blood everywhere.
The doctors said it missed my femoral artery by inches. Lucky, they said. I didn’t feel lucky. It took seventy-seven stitches to sew me back together, and it still aches when the weather changes. Seven’s not my lucky number. It never was. I’ve had injuries. Plenty. But nothing like that.
And now I’m staring at that scar,my scar,on some random amateur porn video.
What the actual fuck?
My stomach flips, nausea rising fast and sharp. I should close the tab. I know I should. But I don’t. I just sit there and stare.
And then the others come into view.
Shane, with his telltale tattoo stamped on his left bicep, the way his hand grips her hip, the curve of his smirk even under the half-shadow.
And just behind him, caught in a flash of movement, is Andy. The jester mask. That same swagger. That same twisted little grin I know way too well.
Fuck. Double fuck. Fuck my fucking life.
I should be spiraling. Maybe I am. But I let myself have a few seconds, just a few, to take inher. The woman I’ve tried not to think about, but never really stopped thinking about. Couldn’t stop. The one I’ve convinced myself I’d never see again.
The woman in the red sequined mask.Phoenix.
There’s something painful about knowing everything about someone’s bare body and nothing else. That’s what I get for being a dumbass and diving headfirst into a no-strings-attached fuckfest at a masquerade ball, where real names weren’t part of the equation. Just masks, hands, mouths, moans. A night that’s been living rent-free in my head ever since.
I’ve tried looking for her, but all I had to go by was blonde hair and blue eyes. It was impossible.
