He Be Uncle Genesis
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The Cuckold's Princess, Part 1: Genesis Of An Obsession. free porn video
The first time I saw the footage, I thought it meant the end for Lori and me, never for one moment imagined it a new beginning for us.
Two men and Lori —well, not quite men: Tom and Vince were little more than boys back then, students in their final year at uni, my supposed friends. What affected me the most seeing her between them was the radiance in her eyes, how she encouraged them with glances, her expressions shifting from coy to sultry. I saw how she relished their hands on her naked body, how aroused she became from their tongues tasting the softest of her flesh; neck, breasts, belly, inner thighs, and buttock cheeks.
They were like caged hunting dogs suddenly set loose — she, their cornered quarry. There was a look in her eyes I had never seen before. Her entire demeanour lit like neon with need. They arranged her, heaved and lifted her, mauling her to suit their whims. I saw how their attention, their groping fingers and trawling mouths enflamed her so that she burned in the intensity of absolute arousal. I did not hear the words she spoke that first drew the pair to her but I saw clearly the desperate need they aroused in her.
As I watched, at the back of my mind I tried to date the footage. I went back to my time at uni with the three of them and decided this must have happened not long after she had turned nineteen. It might even have been the night of her birthday celebration itself. After all, she had gone off with the pair at the end of the night. I thought they were seeing her across the campus, showing chivalry.
I remember how she'd had visited the hairdresser's that very morning to have her hair restyled. The pageboy bob and caramel colouring was a radical change from her previous cascading darkness. It had been a transformation — done not entirely for the party. There were other issues in Lori's life just then.
It was the year Prince James met Lady Araminta, the daughter of the Duke of Umbershire, a girl whose similarity to Lori was uncanny.
The press was full of the royal sweethearts that autumn, images and footage of Araminta inescapable: Araminta leaving the gym; Araminta parking up at Waitrose; Araminta attending a premiere. The camera loved her. No act, no matter how mundane, could sully her. Her smile captured by the camera was a smile for the nation. Social media went gaga. And that is when everyone began to notice Lori.
In those early weeks of the royal courtship, Lori revelled in the attention her looks now brought her. People would point her out as she walked to lectures, call out to her in the streets in town, "Good morning, your highness. How's Prince James?" But soon the joke had worn thin and she began to dread encountering strangers. The final straw was when she was asked to pose with a coach party of Japanese tourists, all forty of them, one and then another. It was then she realised this could not continue and that only way to regain her old anonymity was for her sumptuous, dark locks to be shorn. I thought her new look quite charming.
I was just a mate back then, not yet her boyfriend, merely part of the same clique. But it seems I wasn't as in with the in-crowd as I had imagined. I had no idea her sordid little threesome had even taken place. Five years later, and three into our marriage, I still had no inkling of that episode from her past — until it was served up on a memory stick one dark January morning courtesy of Tom Johnston and the Royal Mail.
When I first saw the package, I immediately recognised his handwriting. It was a shock to see it again as I had not heard from him in over three years. I turned it in my hand and wondered if it was a peace offering and that maybe he wanted to patch things up. You see, he had taken umbrage when Lori and I became engaged. I thought the reason he had taken it so badly was that he was in love with her, not because I had stolen his fuckbuddy.
Inside the jiffy bag I found his note wrapped around a memory stick:
A moment from the past to set the record straight, it said. Best watched alone. Enjoy. Tom
I immediately took the memory stick through to the office and slipped into the USB slot of my desktop.
It was Tom's room at uni. An empty single bed set against the wall on which hung an enormous poster of two glamorous lesbians hamming it up for the camera.
Lori comes into view. Not my wife Lori, the trainee clinical psychologist — no, not that savvy, sophisticated woman. This was the Lori of seven years ago, the still teenage Lori. She walks past the camera, her torso blotting out the room for a second before she sits down on the edge of the bed. She faces the camera full-on. Her youth and beauty stun me.
Vince passes her a bottle of Bud. She smiles up at him as she takes it and lifts it to her lips, sipping from the neck as he sits down beside her on her left. Just then each is blotted out for a second as someone else passes in front of the camera.
Tom sits down on her right and begins saying stuff to Lori that I cannot hear because there is no sound. It also takes me a moment to understand the camera is unmanned, fixed, unvarying in the view it presents. I wonder if she knows they are filming her. I decide she looks too at ease for that. She does not glance in its direction, ever.
She turns away from Tom to smile at Vince, her lips moving but producing no sound. There is silence where no silence should be. Tom says something to her, and she looks shocked. And yet there is smugness too, pleasure in his words, anticipation in her eyes. I can't even begin to imagine what it is he has said to her. And then his mouth is full of long lost laughter.
She looks from one boy to the other, and It's obvious she can't decide. I can see it in her eyes, how she has become like a child who wants it all. She says something to Vince and he says something back. She nods and then lifts her bottle to her lips, tilting it right back to drain it. When it is empty, she leans forward to place it on the floor, resurfaces emptyhanded. Again she looks from one boy to the other, back and forth, smiling for each. And then she takes a deep breath and pulls her top up over her head.
She shakes her head and tosses her top aside to reveal summer-tanned breasts housed and shaped by the cups of a pure white bra. The garment emphasises their sumptuous curves, the dark split of cleavage,
Vince reaches behind her and tackles the bra while Tom unbuttons the top button of her jeans and slides down the zipper. She looks at the ceiling as they fumble with her garments, seems almost impatient with their clumsiness. My eyes are drawn to her legs housed in clinging pale denim, knees designer distressed. I become fascinated by the rough of her bare kneecaps peeping through heavy cotton strands that stretch like twine.
Her bra falls from her. I see her nipples engorged though still untouched. She raises her hips to allow Tom to slip her jeans down over her thighs. It is like she is shedding skin, the soft fruit of her upper-thighs coming into view as the denim descends, passing over her knees, her calves. Her pumps hinder their complete removal, and so with one foot, she eases the other shoe free from the heel, repeat. And then Tom is kneeling at her feet pulling determinedly at the stubborn fabric. When the tight bottoms come loose, the seamed cuffs catch her low-cut socks, taking them away in their wake.
Tom kisses her inner thigh while reaching high for the elasticated waist of her panties, drawing them down. When he has them free, he nests them in his palm, examines the still warm satin. He appears unsure what he has found, continues to stare as if they are a body part she has inexplicably shed. I think he is about to sniff them but doesn't. Instead, he drops them at her feet. Then his face is between her legs kissing, nipping, and tonguing her soft skin, his trajectory upwards.
He is like a truffling hog who has the scent of his fungal-favourite. Soon he is nuzzling deeply into her crotch. Her hands cup his skull as he pleases her with his tongue, her finger entwining in the mop of his hair. I want to see into her eyes, try to understand what she is feeling, but Vince is kissing her and I only see the back of his head.
Tom's mouth leaving her pussy, kissing her belly and then up and onwards to her right breast. Vince makes it symmetry by taking her left breast. Both gorge on her heavy softness. She wears the expression of a saint in rapture.
They lick her flesh, every inch, every curve, every cranny. I see how having her excites them. I imagine their desperate breaths, the pace of their hearts. And yet they do not hurry. Why should they? Would you? But when the time comes, it is Tom who goes first.
She watches as he positions himself, her eyes urging him to hurry, the camera capturing the depth of her need. Then Tom gives a brutal shove of the hips, and so it begins. Her hands on his shoulders, bracing herself for a pummeling. Her legs dangle over the edge of the bed, her toes touching the floor — until she lifts them, that is, and draws her knees all the way back so that I see the soles of her feet, the underside of her toes.
While Tom's arse rises and falls, Vince bides his time happy in the certainty his turn will come. He alternates between licking her breasts and kissing her mouth, commanding she attend to him even though she is breached and hammered by another's cock.
I hate them both, regret ever regarding them my friends. But all the same, I wish there had been a third man present to man the camera, to bring even a little cinematography to the occasion, make art of this surveillance porn, this sorry spectacle.
I stick it out, endure until the end. And even though I've always known I was not her first, I am sick with jealousy to see the reality of her pre-us sex life. She would never talk about her old boyfriends, pleaded it would be a betrayal of privacy to discuss them even with me, her husband. Knowing she had given herself to this pair of slimeballs was hard to accept. How could I have not seen what was going on at the time? How many more times did they have her, as tag-team, individually!
The day of that first viewing, Lori was away in Scotland due to her work. Perhaps it was as well that she was. If she had come home that evening, I was in such a state that I might not have been accountable for my actions. A week alone gave me time to think, put everything into perspective. I also had time to watch the footage some more. And some more.
Lori and I spoke on the phone that evening, but I did not dare to bring the matter up, thought it best to wait until we were face to face. I wanted to see her eyes when I dropped my A-bomb, my very own "Little Boy".
When we spoke on the phone, her final words were to ask if I was okay. She said I sounded strange. I said I was fine, just that I missed her terribly. She told me she loved me and that she was counting the days.
When she had gone, I watched the footage some more, drawn to it like the aftermath of an atrocity. I watched it the day after too; and the day after that. On each viewing it would be Lori's face I would home in on, trying to decipher her inner world from the subtlety of her shifting features, trying to read her mind in the looks she gave them. The early part of the video was what I returned to over and over, trying to rationalise a smile, a look, a hand gesture, the positioning of her legs as she sat.
On the third day, now bored by their opening gambits, sick of watching Lori fucked by Tom, I fast forwarded to Vince's time with her. I saw her eyes bright with expectancy as he positioned himself. The way her hands stroked his upper arms and shoulders as he rammed into her made my blood sing as it coursed through my veins. My cock felt over-inflating. I thought it might rupture and split open.
On each subsequent viewing, I would imagine myself in the room with them, invited by Lori to the occasion of her birthday gang-bang. I wondered how the younger me, the still wet behind the ears me, would have felt sharing the beautiful Lori with my two friends. I imagined her cunt all soppy with a double dose of their jizz, and how my cock would sink into the morass that her cunt would be after they had repeatedly had her.
The finale. Both men kneeling on the bed, one each side of her, their cocks jutting outrageously. Lori lowers her head to take them one and then the other in her mouth, going back and forth to give each just enough before returning to the previous. Her mouth is so accommodating, makes their cocks a memory until they reappear glistening with saliva. I saw how she tried to be fair, to give each their due, but it was obvious Tom was her favourite.
How she licked the length of him, teasing the tip of his cock, and then back down to his balls, over and over, and then remembering Vince. Back and forth, faster and faster, until she drew them both to her so that they are side by side before taking their cocks between her lips, making them one enormous double-barrelled gagging cock.
I wondered if either was thrilled to have his cock pressed next to the other's, wedged inside her mouth. I also pictured her tongue, asked myself whether it would have room to manoeuvre, to please.
When Vice unloaded himself his arm went around Tom's shoulder, bracing himself, his buttocks shuddering as his climax unwound. She was left with only Tom's cock, and I imagined the mire of her mouth, how her tongue would slip and flounder in all that jizz.
A copious mingled cum seeped from between her lips when both were done, their cocks spent. She wiped it from her chin and neck with her bare forearm and then licked what still adhered, cleaned it all away.
It was during that week with the footage that my obsession was born. The revelation of her secret past had implications I hardly dared imagine, and yet there was a thrill as I thought of the new possibilities I wanted to explore. I began to wonder who the real Lori was. Was our love a sham? Did I even know her? And then I began to wonder if she might still be capable of shit like that, right now entertaining two colleagues in her hotel room, reenacting that moment from her youth?
I ran every configuration through my mind, imagining who else might have had her, wondered who might be having her right at that moment in her in Edinburgh hotel. By the end of the week, I had bred a monster that the video footage no longer placated. Soon I came to crave something more. I needed flesh and blood, not smoke and mirrors.
I had no right to judge her past, and I wrestled with the implications of what I had witnessed. Back then she had been single, was none of my business who she'd had. But that did not stop me imagining what it would be like to watch her with a man now.
That Sunday evening, when she was back home, I broached the matter of her past lovers. We were in bed, our lovemaking done, we lay exhausted.
"Wow, tiger. You sure have missed me," she said.
"More than you'll ever know," I said. "Did you miss me?"
"Of course I missed you."
"Do you ever think of our uni' days," I asked.
"Not so much. My life is so full at the moment."
This was my moment. I turned to her as I spoke. I wanted to watch her reaction to what I said. "I wonder what ever happened to Tom and Vince,?
"Who cares," she said, not a flicker of discomfort betraying hoped-for guilt.
"Tom had a thing for you. DId you know?"
"So did a lot of men, after her-fucking-highness."
"But would you have — You know, with Tom or Vince."
"What's brought this on?" She asked. "Why are you digging up the past?"
"Oh, nothing. I was looking through some old photos while you were away. A bit of nostalgia, that's all."
"You should leave the past where it belongs..." And with that, she turned from me saying, "I'm going to sleep now. I have an early start tomorrow."
I lay on my back with my eyes closed re-running the footage. It was hard to mesh the girl in the video with the woman by my side. Perhaps she really had put it behind her, wanted to obliterate the memory of a silly lapse.
And I thought, why should I care about her past.
The future I was planning for her was the important thing now.
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- 31.10.2022
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