A Czech Suite at the Plaza

The Plaza Hotel had seen its share of anniversary celebrations, but probably none quite like the one unfolding in Suite 1209 on a Thursday evening in October. Lacey had booked the Presidential Suite three months in advance, back when the idea was still just a fantasy she and Perry whispered about in bed, her hand wrapped around his cock while she described what she wanted to see. Now it was real. The suite was ridiculous — gold trim on the walls, chandeliers that probably cost more than their first apartment, and a couch positioned perfectly for what Lacey had in mind.

She settled into that couch now, bare legs folded beneath her, a glass of champagne in her hand. She wore a black silk slip that barely qualified as clothing, her dark hair pinned up in a way that made her look like she belonged in a pre-war photograph. She'd lit candles — dozens of them — and scattered rose petals across the cream-colored carpet because Perry loved that shit, always had, ever since their NYU days when she'd put tea lights around a dorm room mattress and he'd nearly proposed on the spot.

Perry stood near the bed, six foot five of bald, broad-shouldered confidence, wearing nothing but a black jockstrap that did absolutely nothing to hide what he was packing. His dick strained against the fabric, thick and heavy, the kind of cock that made people reconsider their plans. His nails were painted green — Lacey's doing, part of the anniversary tradition — and his hands looked almost elegant as he adjusted the strap at his hip.

On the bed sat Finn, the Czech kid Lacey had found through a friend of a friend of someone at her spin class. He was nineteen, six foot two, with long brown hair that fell past his shoulders in waves that looked like they belonged in a shampoo commercial or a Renaissance painting. His jockstrap was white, and his cock was the kind of fat, pretty thing that looked almost fake — thick and pink, curving slightly upward, already half-hard just from being in the room with Perry. His ass was round and full, two juicy cheeks spilling out of the back of the jockstrap, smooth and pale like he'd been carved out of marble specifically for this purpose.

"So," Finn said, his accent making the single syllable sound like a question about the nature of existence. He looked up at Perry through his lashes, and Lacey felt a pulse of heat between her legs. "Happy anniversary to... both of you?"

"Happy anniversary to me," Lacey said from the couch, raising her glass. "You're the present."

Finn laughed, a bright, surprised sound, and Perry cracked a grin that Lacey knew well. That grin meant he was about to get what he wanted, and what he wanted right now was written all over his face.

Perry sat down on the bed beside Finn, the mattress dipping under his weight. The two of them made quite a picture — Perry's dark, solid bulk next to Finn's lean, luminous frame. Perry reached for the champagne bottle on the nightstand and poured Finn a glass, and their fingers touched during the handoff, and Finn held on a beat too long.

"You nervous?" Perry asked.

"No," Finn said. Then, after a sip: "Maybe a little. You're very tall."

"Six five. That bother you?"

Finn's eyes traveled down Perry's body, over the hard chest, the defined abs, the trail of dark hair leading to the jockstrap waistband, the obscene bulge beneath it. "No," he said again. "It doesn't bother me."

Lacey crossed her legs on the couch and watched. This was the part she loved most — the moment before everything started, when the air was thick with potential and nobody had touched anybody yet. She'd seen Perry with women before, had watched him fuck two fat women at a party in Brooklyn last year while she sat in a corner chair and called them every nasty name she could think of. She knew what her husband looked like when he was turned on, and right now, looking at Finn, he was getting there fast.

Perry set his glass down and turned toward Finn. He reached up and brushed a strand of brown hair from Finn's face, tucking it behind his ear. His green-painted nails stood out against Finn's pale skin, and Finn's breath caught audibly.

"Your hair is something else," Perry said.

"My mother's fault. She's Czech, my father's American. I got the worst of both."

"Best," Perry corrected. He let his fingers sink into the hair at the back of Finn's head, closing his fist slowly, and Finn's lips parted. Perry pulled — not hard, just enough — and Finn tilted his head back, exposing the long line of his throat.

"Fuck," Lacey whispered from the couch.

Perry glanced at her, and his grin widened. Then he leaned in and kissed Finn.

It started slow. Perry's mouth on Finn's, their lips moving together, testing. Finn's hand came up to rest on Perry's bare chest, and Perry's free hand settled on Finn's thigh. The kiss deepened — Perry's tongue slid into Finn's mouth, and Finn made a sound that was half moan, half surrender, and Lacey watched their tongues slide together, wet and visible, and felt her own mouth go dry.

They kissed for a long time. Perry's hand stayed tangled in Finn's hair, and his other hand roamed — over Finn's chest, his stomach, down to the waistband of the jockstrap where his cock was now fully hard, straining against the white fabric. Perry palmed it, and Finn's hips bucked up into his hand.

"You're thick," Perry said against Finn's mouth.

"You should see yours," Finn breathed.

"Oh, I've seen his," Lacey said from the couch. "Many times. It's a lot."

Finn laughed, breathless, and Perry kissed him again, harder this time, his hand gripping Finn's cock through the jockstrap, stroking it through the fabric. A wet spot appeared at the front of the white pouch, and Perry rubbed his thumb over it, spreading the precum.

"Take this off," Perry said, tugging at the jockstrap.

Finn stood up from the bed and peeled it down — first the waistband, then the straps, stepping out of it with a quick kick. His cock stood straight up against his stomach, fat and flushed, the head slick and shiny. His ass was even better without the jockstrap — two round, full cheeks, smooth and pale, the kind of ass that made you want to do terrible things to it.

Perry stood too, and he pulled his own jockstrap off, and his cock fell forward, heavy and thick, swinging between his legs. Finn's eyes went wide.

"That's—" Finn started.

"Yeah," Perry said. "It is."

Lacey reached for the bottle of oil on the side table — she'd packed it specifically, had put it there while Perry was in the bathroom — and tossed it to Perry. He caught it one-handed, and his green nails flashed under the chandelier light.

"On the bed," Perry told Finn. "On your stomach."

Finn climbed onto the bed and lay face-down, and his ass looked even better from that angle — two fat cheeks spread slightly, his lower back arched, his brown hair fanned out across the white sheets. Perry climbed up behind him and poured oil directly onto Finn's ass, and Finn gasped at the cold.

"Relax," Perry said. He spread the oil with both hands, palms flat, fingers splayed, the green nails dragging lightly across Finn's skin. He kneaded Finn's cheeks like dough, squeezing and pulling, spreading them apart, and Finn's hole was pink and tight and already twitching.

Perry leaned down and put his mouth on it.

Fnn's whole body jerked. "Oh, fuck—"

Perry licked him open, his tongue flat and broad, lapping from Finn's balls up to the base of his spine and back down. He circled Finn's hole with the tip of his tongue, then pushed inside, and Finn grabbed the sheets and twisted them in his fists. Perry ate ass like he did everything else — with total commitment and zero hesitation. His face was buried between Finn's cheeks, his hands gripping Finn's hips, and the sounds were obscene — wet, sloppy, slurping noises that filled the suite.

"Perry," Finn moaned. "Oh my god, Perry—"

Lacey's hand was between her own legs now, under the silk slip, two fingers pressing against her clit through her underwear. She was soaked. She'd been soaked since the first kiss. She watched her husband's tongue fuck into another person's ass and felt a wave of lust so intense it made her dizzy.

Perry pulled back, his chin glistening, and flipped Finn over onto his back. Finn's cock was leaking steadily, a pool of precum on his stomach. Perry grabbed it at the base — it was fat enough that his hand didn't quite close around it — and he bent down and took the head in his mouth.

Finn shouted. Actually shouted, his head thrown back, his hair wild on the pillow. Perry sank down, taking inch after inch, his lips stretched tight, his throat working, and when he hit the back of his throat he kept going. He gagged — a thick, wet sound — and saliva poured from the corners of his mouth, running down Finn's shaft, pooling in the oil-slick mess on Finn's stomach.

Perry pulled up, gasping, strings of spit connecting his mouth to Finn's cock, and then he went back down. Deeper this time. His eyes watered, his throat convulsed, and he gagged again, harder, and drool flooded everywhere. It was disgusting and beautiful and Lacey couldn't look away.

"You like that?" Perry rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His green nails were a blur against his chin.

"I love that," Finn said, his voice wrecked. "Please don't stop."

Perry didn't stop. He bobbed his head, up and down, gagging and drooling, spit everywhere — on Finn's cock, on Finn's stomach, on the sheets, on Perry's own chest. It was the sloppiest blowjob Lacey had ever witnessed, and she'd witnessed a few. Perry's mouth was a mess, his chin dripping, his eyes red from the gagging, and he looked up at Finn with an expression that said he was having the time of his life.

"Your turn," Perry said finally, pulling off with a wet pop. He stood at the edge of the bed, his cock jutting forward, thick and dark, the head swollen and leaking. He pulled Finn to the edge of the bed by his ankles, and Finn's head hung off the mattress, his mouth open, his hair sweeping the floor.

Perry fed his cock into Finn's mouth.

Finn's eyes went wide, his throat bulging, and he gagged immediately, a thick rope of spit sliding out of his nose and down his cheek. Perry pulled back, let him breathe, then pushed in again. Finn's hands gripped Perry's thighs, his nails digging in, and he took it — inch by inch, his throat stretching, drool pouring from his mouth in long, swinging strings that dripped onto the floor.

"Good boy," Perry said, his voice low and rough. "Take it. Take that fucking dick."

Finn gagged again, harder, and a flood of saliva spilled down his face. His eyes were watering, his mascara-free lashes clumping together, and he looked absolutely wrecked. Perry fucked his mouth slowly, deliberately, pulling almost all the way out and then sliding back in to the root, and each time he bottomed out, Finn's throat convulsed and more drool spilled.

"That's enough," Perry said, pulling out. Finn coughed, gasping, his face a mess of spit and tears, his hair damp with it. Perry flipped him over again, onto his stomach, and pulled his hips up so his ass was in the air, cheeks spread, hole wet and open from the earlier tongue-fucking.

Perry grabbed the oil and poured it over his cock, stroking himself, slicking up. He pressed the head against Finn's hole and paused.

"You ready?" he asked.

"I've been ready since I walked in," Finn said into the pillow.

Perry pushed in.

Finn screamed into the mattress, his back arching, his fingers clawing at the sheets. Perry went slow — or as slow as a man with a cock that thick could go — feeding it in inch by inch, pausing, letting Finn adjust, then pushing deeper. When he was finally all the way in, balls deep, his hips pressed flush against Finn's ass, he held still.

"Fuck," Finn said, his voice muffled. "You're so fucking deep."

"I know," Perry said. He pulled back and slammed forward, and the sound of his hips smacking Finn's oiled ass was like a gunshot in the quiet suite. Finn yelped, and Perry did it again, harder, and again, and again, until he found a rhythm — deep, brutal, relentless strokes that made the bed shake and the headboard bang against the wall.

"You like that, you little slut?" Perry growled, his green nails digging into Finn's hips. "You like that big dick in your ass?"

"Yes," Finn gasped. "Fuck, yes—"

"Tell me what you are."

"I'm your— fuck— I'm your whore—"

"That's right." Perry rammed into him, his balls swinging, his ass clenching with each thrust. "You're my fucking whore. My little Czech fucktoy. Look at this fat ass bouncing on my cock."

He slapped Finn's ass, hard, and the crack echoed through the room. Finn's cheek jiggled, red handprint blooming on the pale skin, and Finn moaned so loud it cracked.

From the couch, Lacey had her slip pulled up and her underwear pulled aside, and she was working a vibrator over her clit — a small, silver bullet she'd brought in her purse like it was lipstick. She was watching her husband rail this kid's ass, watching his thick cock disappear into Finn's fat cheeks over and over, and she was close. So close.

Perry picked up the pace, his hips a blur, sweat running down his bald head and his chest. He grabbed Finn's hair and pulled his head back, and Finn's back arched like a bow, and Perry leaned down and growled in his ear.

"I'm gonna cum in your ass," Perry said. "I'm gonna fill you up, you nasty little bitch."

"Do it," Finn begged. "Please, fucking do it—"

Perry slammed into him three more times — deep, savage thrusts that made Finn scream — and then he buried himself to the hilt and roared. His whole body locked up, his abs flexing, his ass clenching, and he pumped his load into Finn's ass, pulse after pulse, his cock throbbing inside that tight, hot hole. He collapsed forward onto Finn's back, both of them breathing like they'd run a marathon, and Finn's cock was still hard, trapped between his stomach and the sheets, leaking steadily.

Perry pulled out slowly, and cum dripped from Finn's gaping hole, running down his balls, pooling on the sheets. Perry slapped his ass one more time, gentle this time, and Finn whimpered.

On the couch, Lacey was right there — right at the edge — and she pressed the vibrator hard against her clit and watched Perry's cum leak out of Finn's wrecked ass, and that was it. That was the thing that pushed her over.

She came so hard she squirted. Not a little. Not a trickle. A fucking geyser. It shot out of her, soaking the vibrator, her hand, the couch cushion, and she screamed — a raw, animal sound that probably had the guests in Suite 1208 calling the front desk. Her hairy pussy convulsed, and another wave hit, and more fluid gushed out, running down her thighs, pooling on the silk slip, dripping onto the rose petals on the floor. She'd never squirted like this before, not in fifteen years of marriage, not once, and here it was, her body turning into a fucking water feature at the Plaza Hotel.

"Oh my GOD," she screamed. "FUCK—"

Perry, still catching his breath on the bed, looked over at his wife and started laughing. Not a mocking laugh — a delighted, awestruck laugh. "Jesus Christ, Lace."

"That—" she gasped, the vibrator still buzzing against her clit, another smaller wave rolling through her. "That was— I don't even—"

Finn lifted his head from the pillow, his hair a disaster, his face still wet with spit, cum still leaking from his ass, and he looked at the soaked couch and the puddle on the floor and Lacey's trembling thighs and said, in his thick accent: "Is that normal?"

Perry laughed harder. He pulled Finn against his chest, kissed the back of his neck, and said, "Buddy, nothing about tonight is normal."

Lacey finally turned off the vibrator and let it clatter to the floor. She sat there, drenched, wrecked, her hair falling out of its pins, the silk slip ruined, the rose petals stuck to her feet. She looked at her husband — bald, sweating, green-nailed, holding a Czech twink with cum leaking out of his ass in a Presidential Suite at the Plaza — and she started laughing too.

"Happy anniversary, baby," she called out.

Perry blew her a kiss. "Same time next year?"

"Book the kid now," Lacey said. "He's got a two-year contract."

Finn, face-down in the pillow, mumbled something in Czech that nobody understood, and the three of them laughed until the candles burned down and the champagne went flat and the Plaza Hotel would never be the same.