Author's Note

This is the first chapter of my erotic novel "Amsterdam: Three Days of Sodom" — a humorous story in 13 chapters about a married couple's descent into depravity during a weekend getaway.

The book was originally written in Russian. This English version is a careful translation, but English is not my native language, so any feedback on naturalness, flow, or awkward phrasing would be greatly appreciated.

If you enjoy hotwife/cuckold themes, group scenes, interracial elements, and sharp psychological tension — welcome.

Enjoy the reading... and stay tuned for more chapters if this one catches your interest.

Chapter One. Tasting

It was a Friday evening. Andrey was at home, happily messing around with his favorite kids —his son and daughter — playing hide-and-seek. As always, the game choice belonged to eleven-year-old Artyom. With Andrey’s six-foot frame, finding him was never exactly rocket science, no matter where he tried to hide. Sometimes — as on this occasion — his older daughter, Irina, joined in. Even though she was already a grown, independent young woman, she couldn’t resist the chance to goof around with her beloved dad: when else do you get to play hide–and–seek at nineteen?

His wife Olya poked her head into the children’s room and whispered loudly: “Daddy, are you in here?”

“Nope, not me, ” Andrey replied, reluctantly crawling out from behind the curtain. “Fuck, some hiding spot that was... What do you want?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, ” Olya said, stepping over to him. She rose on tiptoes and planted a quick kiss on his lips. “I didn’t realize you were hiding in here. And so creatively, too. My friend Lariska just called — she’s invited us to a Chilean wine tasting tonight. A sommelier flew in from Chile; they’re trying to push their stuff onto our market.”

“Really? Chile makes decent wine?” Andrey asked, surprised, while affectionately stroking her head.

“No idea, but apparently they do.” Olya pressed herself against his chest; at her petite height she couldn’t reach any higher. “Tomorrow’s the weekend — we can unwind a little. It’s free booze anyway.”

“Let’s go, ” Andrey grinned, sliding a hand down to cup her ass. “You’re wearing that red sparkly dress, right?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “And what should I throw on?”

“You can go in those sweatpants, ” Olya replied, brushing his hand away. “You look so sexy in them, darling. With those adorable knee bubbles.”

“Daddy? Why aren’t you hiding yet?!” the kids burst into the room, shouting over each other.

“I’m hiding. Behind Mom, ” Andrey answered.

Mom Olya was a modest, shy woman—that was partly why Andrey had fallen for her. Her bashfulness, the way she blushed and hesitated when things turned intimate, turned him on just as much as the unstoppable passion that erupted in her once alcohol loosened her up. It was like a second personality woke inside her: a strong, dominant, insatiable female who threw herself into carnal pleasure as if it were the last fuck of her life.

Andrey loved exploiting that transformation — two women for the price of one. He got the demure beauty most of the time, and then, with a few glasses of wine, the raging nympho ready for battle. Still, considering the nature of the event tonight, he wasn’t particularly worried she’d go off the rails. He’d heard somewhere that at proper tastings you don’t actually drink much, and in public Olya always behaved with perfect decorum.

Sure enough, she put on that evening dress — the red one that shimmered and flashed with multicolored sparks. It suited her perfectly: a pretty blonde with a neat bob, the fabric clinging to the sculpted figure she’d somehow kept after two kids. Her small, beautiful breasts pushed provocatively against the bright material, even though the cut was downright prudish — high neckline, hem just below the knee. At forty, Andrey’s wife still looked fucking stunning.

Andrey opted for his usual dark-grey casual suit. He had no intention of looking like some pretentious wine snob — he wasn’t one. The tasting started at six, so they left the house around five to avoid being late. “Otherwise they’ll drink everything without us, ” Andrey explained his impatience while hurrying his wife along.

In the cavernous lobby of the trading company, Larisa — Olya’s friend — greeted them. As senior sales manager, she’d been saddled with hosting the foreign guest and organizing the entire evening. The tall brunette in a black blazer and a mini-skirt that hit mid-thigh immediately caught Andrey’s eye. And not only his. As Larisa led them toward the conference room where the tasting would begin in a few minutes, every man already inside tracked her hips swaying through the space.

“Ugh, ” Olya huffed, watching her friend with jealous narrowed eyes as Larisa glided from one guest to the next, hips rolling playfully, flashing sweet smiles and chatting. “I’d never wear a skirt that short. It’s downright indecent in the end! Right, darling?”

“Yeeeah, ” Andrey drawled uncertainly, eyes still glued to Larisa. “At the very least it’s... immodest. Hey, listen — is she wearing anything under that blazer?” He cut himself off mid-sentence.

“As if you can’t see for yourself, ” Olya muttered darkly. “Look at those tits she’s grown. Practically spilling out.”

The double doors swung open, and in lumbered Karabas-Barabas himself. A massive man in a light suit, dark-skinned with an imported tan, face overgrown with black stubble and a long beard that reached halfway down his chest. He planted himself in the middle of the room and gave the crowd a friendly once-over. Behind him slipped in a pretty young woman in a short black dress; she murmured something to the guest. Larisa gestured toward the newcomers and announced loudly:

“Ladies and gentlemen! Allow me to introduce our guest: Juan Carlos Esteban!”

“Head of the Colombian drug cartel, ” Andrey whispered into his wife’s ear.

“Shhh!” Olya hissed, though her eyes were wide with admiration as the foreigner gave a modest bow after the introduction.

“Maria, our Spanish interpreter, ” Larisa rattled off, waving at the girl in black. “Everyone, please take your seats!”

In the center of the conference room stood a large oval table ringed with chairs. A gigantic three-meter screen covered the far wall from floor to ceiling. At the head of the table sat a big tray of upturned wine glasses. Next to it loomed an impressive wooden case, more like a suitcase than a box. About fifteen guests were present, mostly men. Only three women: hostess Larisa, interpreter Maria, and Andrey’s wife. Everyone settled quickly. Juan Carlos approached the wooden case, patted it fondly with a hairy hand, and delivered a short speech in Spanish.

Through the interpreter, the Chilean explained that today he would introduce them to five varieties of wine made exclusively from grape strains grown along Chile’s coastline. Moving from words to action, Karabas produced a dark bottle with a white label from the coveted case.

“Casillero del Diablo!” he declared proudly, and with the flair of a seasoned magician pulled a corkscrew from nowhere and opened the bottle professionally.

“He looks like the devil himself, ” Andrey muttered to his wife, passing his glass to Maria, who began pouring at the Chilean’s nod.

“Mm-hmm, ” Olya replied vaguely, listening intently as Larisa leaned in and whispered rapidly in her ear, both of them stealing glances at the bearded sommelier. Olya occasionally gasped “No way!” and shot looks at the Chilean too. By the end of the hushed exchange, Andrey noticed his wife’s cheeks had turned the exact shade of her dress. Olya always blushed like a schoolgirl whenever she heard anything remotely dirty.

The wine was poured — barely a swallow’s worth. Andrey knocked his back in one quick gulp and glanced around cautiously. The other tasters were clearly in no hurry. Most swirled the ruby liquid thoughtfully in their mouths, nodding appreciatively at one another. Only a couple of people, besides Andrey, had downed theirs fast and now sat morosely sucking on the grapes provided in abundance on plates — to cleanse the palate before the next variety.

They kept pouring tiny amounts, but regularly, interspersing the different wines with their origin stories and accompanying slides on the giant screen. Gradually Andrey slipped into a pleasantly mellow mood. Olya sat beside him, chatting with Larisa. The two women whispered and giggled, not forgetting to sip each new offering. Larisa’s cheeks were flushed too, and Andrey couldn’t help noticing that yes—there really was nothing under her blazer. When she leaned across the table, he had a clear view of her full, juicy breasts. Once, a dark nipple even flashed into view.

The bearded bandido snatched the last bottle from the case with his hairy paw and said something soulful, gazing at the interpreter with oily eyes. Maria blushed faintly and nodded.

“This wine, like a love potion, is traditionally drunk with a girl... ‘brderschaft’ style!” she translated, cheeks flaming "bruderschaft"!» — перевела она, щёки её вспыхнули.

After pouring a modest swallow into everyone’s glasses, Masha returned to her Juan and wrapped her arm around his—the one the size of a young calf’s leg. Andrey turned with his glass toward his wife to join in the proper love-potion ritual, and froze: Olya was already entwined arm-in-arm with Larisa, the two women greedily drinking with their eyes closed. The rest of the guests smirked crookedly and sipped without any of that brotherly nonsense.

Andrey knocked back the “love drink” in one go, barely tasting it, and stared at the “sweet couple” with his heart pounding. Larisa set her glass down, cupped the back of Olya’s head with one hand, and pressed her lips to her friend’s wet mouth. At first Olya tensed, almost pulling away, but then she responded. Olya’s hand rose to Larisa’s breast—only to jerk back almost instantly. Andrey could see his wife was kissing with real pleasure now; this had long ceased to resemble any traditional drinking game. Time seemed to stop for the two women locked together.

“Holy fucking shit, ” Andrey thought, feeling his cock swell and harden. He glanced sideways at the foreigner. Juan Carlos Esteban, without the slightest pretense, grabbed Maria by the ass with one massive hand—hoisting her already indecently short dress up to scandalous heights—while the other pressed her head into his beard. Andrey noticed the girl initially resisted, hands braced against his chest. Then her arms went limp, dangling uselessly at her sides, before she finally wrapped them around the Chilean’s head and kissed him back with the fierce, all-in passion only Russian girls can muster.

The guests at the table coughed awkwardly; the kissing couples pulled apart. Juan Carlos Esteban wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered something to the now scarlet Maria. Then he hauled a dozen bottles of various sizes out of the case.

“Juan Carlos says now we can just drink — enjoying the true taste of Chilean wine, ” Maria stammered. The room visibly relaxed; everyone perked up.

Andrey grabbed the bottle of Casillero he remembered (the first one; after that the wines had blurred into one continuous sweet-tart thread). The other connoisseurs clustered around the battery of bottles, picking favorites. Juan Carlos patiently uncorked more from his Chilean stash for each guest, murmuring encouraging words. Maria had stopped translating; she just nodded and smiled, swaying slightly and occasionally clutching the Chilean’s arm to steady herself.

Barabas popped a bottle for Andrey too, grinning and saying something. Maybe he was sending him to the country next door to Chile — Peru, straight to the famous city of Nakhuy: Andrey never found out, since the last time he’d studied Spanish was never. He took a hearty hussar-style swig straight from the bottle, then suddenly realized: where the hell was Olya?

Scanning the room, he spotted his wife heading out of the hall with Larisa.

“Hey! Where are you going?” he called. Half the tasters turned toward him.

“We’re going for a smoke!” Olya shouted back. Andrey caught the strange, feverish gleam in her eyes. “Don’t get bored, darling—we’ll be right back!”

Andrey shrugged: his wife always craved a cigarette when she was tipsy. “Good thing she’s with her friend!” a wary thought flashed through his mind. “Otherwise... who knows what might happen without me around.” Reasonably figuring the best way to kill time was with a generous pour of good wine, he filled his glass to the brim and, sipping the tart liquid, looked around with interest.

Some of the guests were already drifting out of the conference room, each clutching a cherished bottle—evidently planning to savor it properly in the comfort of home. A few minutes later only a handful of men remained, clustered like a solid phalanx around the “booze distribution point, ” chatting animatedly. Andrey, sitting nearby with glass in hand, tried to eavesdrop so he could casually slide into the male circle later. Suddenly a woman’s squeal cut through the air; he whipped around. The men followed suit, conversation dying mid-sentence.

It was Maria screaming: she was darting across the open floor space, dress hiked almost to her navel, while Juan Carlos Esteban chased her with predatory glee, herding her toward the corner. Their eyes told the whole story—his: smug certainty of imminent victory; hers: sweet, doomed surrender.

Everyone watched the wild hunt with fascination. Was Maria some unspoken perk offered by the hosting side? Or was this just how they courted young women in Chile—perfectly normal?

Abruptly Maria veered toward Andrey, hips swaying gracefully as she rounded the table, then launched herself straight onto his lap at full speed. The glass of wine in his hand tipped over, soaking his jacket and shirt collar. Andrey carefully set the miraculously intact glass on the table and instinctively gripped her bare thighs—she still hadn’t bothered to tug her dress down. His fingers met pleasant curves: a thin string of token panties cutting into Maria’s flesh.

She squirmed on his lap, as if trying to burrow deeper from the relentlessly approaching Esteban, whose eyes burned with the silent question: “What the fuck is this guy doing pawing my prey?” Despite the throbbing erection already straining against his trousers, Andrey tried to dislodge the uninvited guest. The bearded hunter’s expression shifted from outraged surprise to outright fury. Andrey’s spine prickled with the primal certainty: if he didn’t let her go, they’d fuck her right there on his knees. And him too—for company.

With regret Andrey pushed the half-naked interpreter away. She immediately fell into the clutches of her pursuer—the hairy “Casillero” himself—and Andrey hurried to the bathroom to clean his clothes and take a piss while he was at it. After restoring some semblance of order, he started back toward the hall but decided to swing past the women’s restroom first—to find out where the hell his Olya had vanished to for so long.

From behind the half-open door of the ladies’ room drifted the distinct smell of cigarette smoke, but it was quiet inside. Andrey glanced up and down the corridor: empty. Apparently only the Chilean wine tasters were left in the building. Fighting the urge to peek inside, he forced himself to turn back toward the hall. And then, clear as day from behind the door, came a voice:

“Stop it, Lara! What are you doing?!”

It was unmistakably Olya’s voice—no mistaking it. Torn by curiosity, Andrey forgot all caution, stepped to the door, and poked his head inside. On the marble counte with the built-in sink sat his wife, back against the mirror. Kneeling in front of her was Larisa. Olya’s widely spread legs gave a perfect view of what the two women had hoped to keep hidden from prying eyes: Larisa was licking her friend’s pussy.

Her hair was a mess, and she was clearly drunk—swaying slightly between Olya’s parted thighs. Larisa’s fingers were buried deep inside his wife’s cunt, and judging by the moans, Olya was nearing the edge. Larisa’s other hand was hidden between her own legs—presumably for the same purpose.

Andrey’s head swam: it felt like he was floating in thick jelly, struggling to process what he’d just seen. His Olya—modest, shy, the mother of two children, a model employee adored and respected at work—was having lesbian sex with her friend in the bathroom! The very idea had never even crossed his mind as possible. He stared wide-eyed, still half-convinced this couldn’t be real. Only his wife’s hoarse voice snapped him back:

“Fuck, that feels so good! Come here—I want you too!”

Olya pulled Larisa up by the shoulders. When her friend straightened, Olya yanked open the blazer. Larisa’s full, juicy breasts bounced free in front of her face. Olya grabbed them with both hands and latched her mouth onto one thick, jutting nipple. Larisa threw her head back, moaning, and started masturbating even more furiously.

No one paid Andrey the slightest attention; the women were completely lost in each other. Suddenly Olya broke away from the breast for a second, then gracefully slid downward and buried her face between Larisa’s legs, gripping her hips. Larisa half-squatted, hiked her skirt higher, spread her legs wider, and pressed Olya’s head hard against her mound. One hand kneaded her own breast, pinching and twisting the nipple. Her breathing turned ragged; eyes closed, she began to moan rhythmically, rocking her hips to meet her friend’s tongue.

Andrey had been stroking his cock through his pocket the whole time, watching this insane scene, but it felt strangely detached—as if it wasn’t really his wife down there between another woman’s legs, licking her out with abandon. Lost in the moment, he accidentally bumped the bathroom door with his fist. A soft knock echoed. Larisa’s eyes flew open and locked onto him.

For what felt like an eternity, she stared straight at Andrey. In her drunken gaze he saw nothing but raw lust. She kept fucking Olya’s mouth with her hips for a few more seconds, then—as if suddenly remembering—started prying her friend off, tugging her skirt down and mumbling something incoherent.

Andrey didn’t wait to see how this unexpected encounter with his wife would end. He retreated back into the corridor and strode quickly toward the conference room. On the way he tried to rehearse the awkward conversation they’d have later about this delicate subject, but nothing came together in his head.

Back in the room he grabbed his bottle off the table and chugged a good half of it in big gulps, as if dying of thirst. Only then did he notice the hall was empty. From the direction of the screen came faint moans. He looked over.

Two of the guests—the third had vanished while he was gone—stood with their backs to him, staring at the screen where women’s cries were coming from. One was grey-haired, paunchy, respectable-looking; the other much younger, skinny, bespectacled. Andrey edged closer and peered around them. He didn’t even need to hide: the spectacle had them so riveted that he could have started a fistfight and no one would have noticed. The sight stole his breath; his cock, which had started to soften, surged back to full hardness. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire, ” flashed through his mind. He even held his breath, as if afraid to scare it away.

Behind the screen, completely naked and without her dress, Maria was bent over a low cabinet, elbows braced, ass up in the air. Juan Carlos Esteban was pounding her so hard that with every thrust from the hairy lover her head lightly smacked the wall. Judging by the red mark on her forehead, he’d already fucked every last scrap of Spanish out of her. His massive, hairy paws swallowed her thighs as he yanked her back onto his pistoning cock.

“Mari!” the Chilean growled, slamming in with such force that the girl lifted slightly off the floor and hung impaled on him.

“Juan!” the interpreter answered, biting her lip and glancing back over her shoulder—as if they were alone, not being watched by several pairs of hungry male eyes.

“Mari!”

“Juan!”

“Mari!!”

“Juan!!”

Andrey’s head spun from this “marijuana” chant. He glanced sideways at the two men beside him: pants unzipped, they were calmly jerking their red, swollen cocks, eyes glued to the young translator getting railed on her boss’s foreign dick. The older one had a short, thick stump; the nerd’s was long, medium-thick, but somehow limp-looking. “Fuck me, what am I even watching?” Andrey thought, mentally scolding himself for his insatiable curiosity.

Suddenly the Chilean grabbed the girl, spun her around to face him, and bent her head down as if she were a rag doll. Andrey caught a glimpse of Juan’s cock and shuddered at the sight—almost feeling sorry for Maria. A massive, gnarled prick, crooked like a Turkish yataghan, jutted out armor-piercing from the wild jungle of the Chilean’s groin right in front of the girl’s face.

“Casillero” impaled Masha’s head on his shaft like a skewer, and Andrey was struck by a vivid association: a coconut being pierced by a long machete to extract the life-giving nectar. Only here it was the reverse—Maria was the one supposed to draw out the “nectar, ” and judging by her diligence, she clearly wanted Juan Carlos to take her back home with him.

The girl swallowed the enormous cock not just to the balls—deeper, right to the Chilean’s liver—gagging, drooling thick ropes of spit that puddled on the floor around her. The Chilean growled and squinted in pleasure; the guests jerked off watching the depravity, and Andrey, muttering “Fuck it, in for a penny...” pulled out his own tool and joined the solo performers, forming an erotic trio.

He hadn’t even properly gotten into rhythm when he felt a cool hand wrap around his cock. Startled, he turned—and there were his wife and Larisa, standing on either side of him. How long they’d been there was anyone’s guess; no wonder his arrival in the room had gone unnoticed amid such a spectacle.

“I’ll explain everything later!” Olya whispered, squeezing his shaft. Apparently Larisa had already told her about Andrey’s sudden appearance in the bathroom. There wasn’t a trace of remorse in Olya’s voice—Andrey was completely convinced of that when he saw Larisa next to her, kissing his wife deeply, making no attempt to hide it from prying eyes.

The same rush he’d felt at the bathroom door came flooding back. His cock, lovingly stroked by Olya, swelled to impossible size. Then he felt a second hand—this one cupping his balls. Larisa had taken hold of his sack, squeezing and rolling it possessively. How his wife reacted to that he never found out—her mouth was busy with her friend’s tongue, which she sucked with obvious delight.

Suddenly there was movement behind Andrey. The hands on his cock froze for a split second, then resumed with fresh vigor. The women broke their kiss and moaned in unison, bending forward with eyes closed. Andrey glanced back: Olya and Larisa, dresses and skirts hiked up, were taking cocks standing up from two of the men. The grey-haired one had mounted Larisa’s hips, while the nerd had slipped his limp noodle into his wife! Though judging by Olya’s moans, the guy’s dick had finally achieved the necessary hardness.

“That’s my wife, ” Andrey said to the young man, still barely processing what the hell was going on.

The bespectacled kid froze, staring at Andrey in panic. Olya impatiently rolled her hips and, half-turning toward the guy, said:

“What are you stopping for? Fuck me already. You started it—” and looked straight at Andrey.

Andrey watched as his wife, like a train gathering speed, moved faster and faster on the young man’s cock while he resumed thrusting. Olya gazed at Andrey pleadingly, giving herself to the stranger right in front of him without pausing for a second. A flicker of something like shame crossed her face, and—as if hiding from his piercing stare—she quickly bent down and started sucking Andrey’s cock with frantic intensity, as though begging forgiveness for everything she’d done.

Andrey was experiencing sensations and emotions he’d never felt before—wild, conflicting, overwhelming. It was as though none of this was really happening to him. “This can’t be real, ” his brain kept trying to block it all out, but the primal instinct dragged up from the depths of his mind by these unbelievable events wouldn’t let him relax for a second. And suddenly Andrey caught himself thinking that he actually liked everything that was happening—right now, to him and to his wife. As paradoxical as the admission felt, it was true, bone-deep true.

He glanced sideways at Larisa: she was on all fours, braced against the floor, while the grey-haired man steadily plowed into her from behind, his eyes glued to what the Chilean was doing at that moment. Juan Carlos Esteban had Maria perched on his lap like a drum, confidently driving toward his goal. The girl, suspended in mid-air on the sommelier’s cock, was in some otherworldly bliss—judging by her face, she hovered somewhere between fainting and orgasm. Suddenly she screamed, clawing into the fur on Esteban’s back, then literally melted to the floor, twitching in uncontrollable spasms.

“Caramba!” growled the unsatisfied hunter of Russian cunts, sweeping his gaze across the battlefield and instantly sizing up the situation.

Andrey didn’t even have time to blink before the Chilean stepped toward him, reached out, and... yanked Olya out from behind him like a carrot from a garden bed. Andrey actually heard the soft pop as the nerd’s cock slipped free of his wife.

“Me voy a la mierda a esta mujer!” the Chilean grinned, baring his teeth. [I’m gonna fuck this woman!]

He led the trembling Olya toward the “sacrificial” cabinet.

“Casillero del diablo!” Andrey shot back—the only Spanish he knew.

Olya and Juan Carlos stepped over Maria, who was already floating on cloud nine, and got into position: the Chilean sat on the low cabinet, pulled Olya onto his thighs facing away from him, hiked her dress up to her waist, and in one smooth thrust buried his gnarled foreign cock balls-deep into Andrey’s wife’s freshly shaved pussy—right up to his hairy sack. With both hands he spread her legs wide, giving everyone in the room a perfect, unobstructed view of the penetration.

“Yes, Lariska, you were right! Everything you told me about him is true!” Olya suddenly cried out, bouncing on Esteban’s cock. “His dick is fucking insane!” She twisted toward the Chilean and breathed straight into his beard, “In the ass! Fuck me in the ass!”—and started riding him even harder.

“Apparently ‘ass’ has long been an international word, ” Andrey thought, watching the Chilean’s maneuvers: he seemed to have understood Olya perfectly without translation. With nothing better to do, Andrey shoved his throbbing cock into Larisa’s mouth, lifting her head off the floor by her hair. Larisa eagerly started sucking her friend’s husband’s dick while still bucking back against the grey-haired man. Together they watched, hearts pounding, as Juan Carlos pressed his massive tool against Olya’s tight rear entrance and began stretching her open. That crooked, ridged cock flashed before their eyes.

“Yessss!” Olya wailed—half whimper, half moan—pressing her ass firmly against the Chilean’s groin. “Fuck, that’s incredible! Don’t stop, Juan! Fuck me properly!”

She leaned back, resting her head on Juan’s beard, wrapping her arms around his head. He bent forward and kissed her ears, cheeks, lips—anywhere he could reach. Her movements were slow and deep, as if she were savoring every second, every inch of that foreign cock inside her. Suddenly the grey-haired man pulled out of Larisa and strode confidently toward the coupling pair—as if he’d been summoned. He bent down and gave Olya’s pussy a few long licks; his tongue was surprisingly lengthy—certainly longer than his thick little stump of a cock.

Olya freed one hand and pressed the grey-haired man’s head firmly against her widely splayed thighs, all while continuing to kiss the Chilean deeply, his cock still buried in her ass. The nerd shuffled over to the trio, glancing guiltily back at Andrey and shyly covering his crotch with one hand. He dragged a chair next to the cabinet, climbed onto it, and yanked Olya by the hair, pulling her mouth away from Esteban’s lips.

Olya looked at the young guy, then at Andrey, and swallowed his long cock almost to the root in one wet, hungry motion. The grey-haired man finally pulled away from her dripping pussy and immediately shoved his thick stump inside her. Olya let out a muffled cry, nearly dropping the nerd’s dick from her mouth, and hooked her heels around the newcomer, pinning him to her hips.

“Holy fucking shit, ” Andrey thought: it hit him like a betrayal—he’d been forgotten, left out of this spontaneous orgy, as if getting a titfuck from his wife’s friend didn’t even count as participation anymore.

He shot a wild look at Larisa, then grabbed her by those generous, heavy breasts and pulled her toward him. Larisa cupped her tits together, let a thick stream of spit drip into the cleavage, and guided Andrey’s cock right between them. “Come on, fuck my tits, ” she purred, eyes wide and round, staring up at him with dog-like devotion as she began to slide her body up and down.

The two Russian men fucking his petite blonde wife had gotten so carried away they weren’t stopping at anything. They lifted Olya off the Chilean’s cock—despite his grumbling (no one understood a word anyway)—bent her over the cabinet doggy-style, and started taking turns pounding her ass. Whoever wasn’t in her “rear guard” at the moment simply fed her mouth or Maria’s; the interpreter had come to and eagerly rejoined the group.

“Who else wants to taste this horny little slut?” the grey-haired man asked, pulling out of Olya’s anus and heading toward Maria.

Andrey left Larisa’s tits alone, let her suck him a little more, then moved toward the heaving pile of bodies. He pushed the nerd aside—the guy was currently balls-deep in his wife’s ass—and took his place, sliding into Olya with delicious heat right up to the hilt. Olya felt the change immediately; she pulled off the Chilean’s cock for a second, turned to Andrey, and gasped:

“Finally, darling! I love it when you fuck me in the ass... And I also want—” But her words dissolved into gurgles and choked moans: Juan had impaled her head on his nuclear-grade dick again.

The grey-haired man came first: he stepped up to Olya and started spraying short, rapid jets of cum across her face. Larisa and Maria knelt beside her and began licking the sticky drops from her lips and nose. Sometimes all three women locked together in deep, sloppy kisses—and that was the final straw for Andrey. He started unloading straight into his wife’s ass, feeling her rectal walls clench and milk him dry. Almost immediately Olya came too, squeezing her thighs together and dropping into a squat:

“Oh fuck, God... it’s so...”

They didn’t let her finish. The nerd hoisted her back up, bent her over again, and started pistoning his now raspberry-red cock—alternating between her ass and pussy—splattering Andrey’s cum down her slender legs. Juan Carlos effortlessly scooped Olya up by the thighs, pressed her back against his chest, and rammed hispiston back into her wrecked asshole. The young guy wasted no time sliding into her cunt, and together they double-penetrated her, slamming her down onto their cocks like they were ready to explode any second.

Olya screamed obscenities, convulsions of pleasure ripping through her, wave after wave of orgasm crashing over her... Larisa darted to the table and brought back wine. Andrey leaned against the wall, happily swigging straight from the bottle, the sweet liquid cooling his throat. Maria was at his feet, gently licking his spent genitals like a devoted pet. Larisa nursed the grey-haired man’s cock with her tongue like a caring nurse while he reclined in a chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. Andrey just stood there, drinking in the sight of two men fucking his beloved wife. He bathed in these brand-new sensations—he’d never felt anything this good in his life.

“Caramba!” the bearded man suddenly roared, slamming into Olya with such force that both she and the nerd cried out. The men came simultaneously, flooding her with cum, while Olya hung limp in their arms, babbling incoherent profanity, realizing she’d just gotten everything she could ever have dreamed of: gang-fucked right in front of her loving husband.

And she fucking loved it.

Later, in the taxi carrying them home—exhausted but utterly satisfied—Andrey held his sleeping Olya tenderly against his chest. A thought suddenly struck him: “When Larisa invited us to that ‘tasting’... what—or who—was she really talking about?”