Page 20 of Her Hat Trick Daddies
Her body. Damn, that body. A body that owns most of my nights. A cunt I could’ve written sonnets about, if I wasn’t too busy jerking off to the memory of it. And those lips. Fuck, those lips. Soft, lush, kiss-bruised, stretched wide around Shane’s cock.
If we’d had more time that night, I would’ve had mine buried in her mouth too. One hand twisted in her hair, the other gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at me while she swallowed every inch.
And yeah, I would’ve paid it back. Thoroughly. Happily. Worshipped her until she forgot anyone else was even in the room.
And the sounds she made when she came still wreck me—high, breathy, desperate, like she was trying to hold them back and couldn’t. I remember the blush, too. How it crept from her cheeks down over her chest, spreading across those gorgeous tits like a goddamn sunrise.
And her eyes. God, her eyes. Pale blue. The color of the sky on the first real day of summer.
I’d give up millions just to see her again. Not through a shitty, grainy screen. Not hidden behind masks and lies. Not with this ache sitting heavy in my gut every time I remember.
In person. Real. Name and all. Touch her again. Make her mine in a way that counts.
Not just watch her get split open by my friends on a desk and a couch under shitty fluorescent lights, caught in a clip so bad it makes me want to punch whoever thought putting a camera in that room was a good idea, and the asshole who uploaded it. Hell, I’m half a second from launching my phone across the room for even letting me see it this way.
I stayed shirted through round one of my jack off session, but all that tension? It’s back with a vengeance, rooted deep in my gut and slowly crawling up my spine. So, I throw on my boxers, then sweatpants, hands already flying across my phone.
I text Shane. Then Andy. We need to have a talk.
David: Shane, need you to get to my room. Now.
David: Andy, got time to meet me in my suite? It's important. Room 601.
It doesn’t take long for Shane to hit me back. We’ve been best friends since college, and damn, I’m glad the left winger and I ended up on the same team after all these years.
Shane: On my way.
Andy replies a few seconds later.
Andy: Sure. Everything OK?
No. Not even close. But there’s no way I’m spelling this shit out over text.
David: Just need you in here. Shane’s coming too.
A few minutes later, Shane shows up, crunching on a green apple like he’s got all the time in the world. Down the hall, our right winger is closing in, a grim look already written all over his face.
“What’s going on?” Shane asks, eyeing Andy as he steps inside.
I don’t say anything yet, just step aside and wave them in. Only after the door clicks shut—Do Not Disturbsign already swinging from the handle—do I lift my phone and hold it out for them to see.
“Holy shit,” Shane blurts, hand going limp enough that his snack slips free. The apple, already half-eaten and uneven from all the bites, tumbles to the floor and rolls across the carpet, coming to a lazy stop a few feet away.
Andy says nothing. But the color drains from his tanned face, paling beneath that thick, dark beard. After a tense beat, he snatches the phone from my hand.
“What site is this?”
“EverybodysXXX.com,” I tell him.
Neither of them reacts to the name, which tells me everything I need to know. They’ve been on the site before.
“You didn’t record that,” Shane says, more of a statement rather than a question, before turning to Andy. “Tell me you didn’t, either.”
“No way, man. I wouldn’t do that.”
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
“So, who did?” I ask, words that have been clanging through me like an off-key chime.
