Hot under the pants in Austin part three
Soon the latter three of them were too far away to be seen clearly by the men. But the fisherman and the hunter solved this problem by taking out and looking through their binoculars
Wendy broke the kiss with a wet gasp, her lips curling into a triumphant smirk. She gazed back at the now distant river bank, noticing the two men’s binoculars, before her hand plunged beneath the tea-colored water. Fingers slick with river silt closed around Fletcher’s cock, thick and heavy in her grasp. She jerked it upward, the sudden friction wrenching a choked groan from his throat. With her other hand, she hooked her lime-green bikini bottom aside, exposing slick folds flushed pink. Then, in one fluid motion, she slammed herself down onto him, sheathing him to the hilt inside her molten heat. Fletcher gasped, the sensation blinding—tight, wet pressure clamping around him like a vise. Wendy’s thighs locked around his hips, anchoring him as she began to rock, each deliberate grind forcing his cock deeper, her clovers bobbing against his chest.
Behind him, Kabine’s breath hitched against his ear. Her fingers—cold from the water—dug into the meat of his buttocks, seeking the furrowed welts still tender beneath the surface. She found his entrance, slick with river water and sweat, and plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into his anus without warning. Fletcher arched, a ragged cry tearing loose as Wendy’s relentless rhythm drove him forward onto Kabine’s invading hand. Kabine twisted her fingers sharply, scraping her nails against the sensitive inner walls, then curled them upward, raking the rough pad of her fingertip directly over his prostate. White fire exploded behind Fletcher’s eyes. His hips bucked wildly, torn between the deep, pulsing pleasure-pain of Wendy’s clenching cunt and the brutal, electric violation Kabine inflicted from behind. He felt stretched, split open, owned.
Kabine withdrew her fingers only to slam them back in, harder, deeper, twisting as she went. Wendy rode him with furious precision, her hips pistoning, her clit grinding against his pubic bone with every downward thrust. She locked her gaze on the men ashore, her grin feral, triumphant. The fisherman’s rod clattered to the mud as he gripped his own straining khakis. The hunter’s hand vanished beneath his camo jacket, rubbing frantically. Both men used their free limbs that weren’t holding the binoculars. Fletcher’s vision blurred. Pressure built—immense, unbearable—coiling at the base of his spine. Wendy’s inner muscles clenched like a fist around his cock. Kabine’s knuckles ground against his prostate.
A raw, guttural roar tore from Fletcher’s throat as his body arched violently, hips snapping upward. Thick ropes of seed pulsed into Wendy’s depths, hot and urgent, each spasm wracking him like an electric shock. Wendy threw her head back, laughing wildly as she milked him, her thighs clamped tight. Kabine didn’t relent. She curled her fingers, scraping, demanding more, her other hand pinching a welt on his thigh. Fletcher gasped, shuddering, still spurting weakly as Wendy’s relentless rhythm continued. The pleasure-pain crescendoed into agony. His cock twitched, oversensitive, trapped in her slick vise. Kabine’s fingers pistoned ruthlessly inside him, wrenching dry, painful convulsions. Thirty seconds after the first pulse, Fletcher sagged between them, utterly spent, his seed utterly drained. Wendy finally stilled, panting, her body still wrapped around him. Kabine slowly withdrew her fingers, leaving him hollow, trembling. The men on the bank lowered their binoculars, expressions slack with awe and envy.
“Up,” Kabine commanded, her voice sharp, slicing through Fletcher’s exhaustion. She pointed toward the RV’s ladder bolted to the rear.
“Climb. Roof. Now.”
Wendy released him, swimming backward with a predatory grin. Fletcher’s legs felt like waterlogged driftwood, but the command brooked no refusal. He paddled weakly to the ladder, hauled himself onto the aluminum rungs, each movement jarring his ravaged backside. The welts screamed against the cool metal. Kabine followed close behind, her raspberry bikini dripping onto his calves. Wendy ascended last, her lime-green clovers flashing. The roof was broad, flat, coated in textured white rubber. The distant hunters lifted their binoculars again, faces avid.
"Turn around," Wendy ordered, voice low. Fletcher obeyed, facing the riverbank. Kabine stood in front of him, her hands settling on his hips. "Spread," she hissed. Fletcher’s fingers trembled as he reached back, gripping his own buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart. The exposed furrows glistened, raw and swollen under the sun. Wendy dropped to her knees before him, her purple-nailed hands seizing his thighs. Without preamble, she jammed her tongue deep into his anus—a hot, wet invasion that scraped the tender ridges Kabine’s nails had carved. Fletcher cried out, back arching.
Simultaneously, Kabine lunged forward, swallowing his flaccid cock whole. Her mouth was furnace-hot, sucking with desperate hunger as she slammed her face into his crotch again and again. Fletcher screamed—a raw, tearing sound that echoed across the water—as Wendy’s tongue speared deeper, scraping the raw fissures inside him while Kabine’s teeth grazed his sensitive shaft. Kabine’s hands weren’t idle; her left hand clawed at his inner thighs, while her right scraped his balls. Fletcher squeeze his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth, feeling a mixture of pleasure in pain, and as though sandpaper was being used on his thighs and testicles. Golgotha gripped Black Bear-Musgrave’s scalp to keep himself balanced, and to stop from falling.
On the distant bank, the hunter dropped his binoculars. A dark, spreading stain bloomed across the front of his cargo pants as his body shuddered violently. Beside him, the fisherman’s khaki shorts darkened too, his fishing rod forgotten in the mud as he doubled over, hands braced on his knees, gasping. Neither touched themselves; the brutal spectacle alone ripped their climaxes from them.
Fletcher felt Kabine’s throat convulse around his cock, her desperate swallows pulling seed he didn’t think he had left. Wendy’s tongue, relentless, scraped over his prostate—a white-hot brand igniting fresh agony. *No.* The word screamed silently in his mind. *Not again. Not so fast.* He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. Every muscle in his body locked—thighs trembling, abdomen rigid, buttocks clenched against Wendy’s invasive tongue. He focused on the sting of Kabine’s nails on his eyelids, the raw burn across his backside, the brutal stretch inside him—using the pain as anchors, points to grip against the rising tide of sensation threatening to drown him. Sweat mingled with river water, dripping into his eyes. He refused to cry out.
Kabine sensed the shift. Her dark eyes snapped open, locking onto his face. She increased her suction, hollowing her cheeks, her fingers digging deeper into the scratches on his stomach. Wendy answered with a low growl vibrating against his core, her tongue thrusting harder, faster, probing the bruised ridges Kabine’s belt had left inside him. Fletcher gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. *Hold.* He visualized roots digging into bedrock, veins flooding with ice. The pressure built—immense, volcanic—but he held it back, breath ragged. Sixty seconds crawled by. Kabine’s brow furrowed; Wendy’s rhythm faltered for a fraction of a second, surprise flickering in her sapphire eyes. They redoubled their efforts. Kabine’s free hand snaked down, thumb finding his perineum and pressing hard. Wendy’s fingers joined her tongue, twisting inside him.
The assault was brutal, exquisite. Ninety seconds. Fletcher’s knuckles were white where he gripped his own buttocks, tendons standing out like cables in his neck. A tremor ran through him. He was cracking. Kabine saw it, felt it in the desperate pulse against her tongue. She sucked harder, a final, punishing pull. Wendy’s fingers curled, scraping his prostate with pinpoint accuracy.
Fletcher’s control shattered. A guttural roar ripped from his throat, raw and primal. His hips snapped forward, driving his cock deep into Kabine’s throat. A thick, hot rope of seed pulsed violently into her. She swallowed convulsively, throat working, eyes watering but never breaking contact with his clenched-shut eyes. He shot again, a weaker jet, then another, each spasm wracking his frame as Wendy’s relentless tongue milked him dry from the other end. Kabine kept sucking, swallowing every drop, her thumb grinding into his perineum until he sagged, utterly drained, trembling like a leaf in a gale.
Kabine released him with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Wendy slowly withdrew her tongue, giving his ravaged entrance one final, lingering lick that drew a shuddering gasp. Together, they guided his trembling form down onto the cool, rubber-coated roof. Wendy positioned him flat on his back, his welted buttocks pressing against the textured surface. Kabine knelt beside his head, her raspberry bikini damp against his shoulder. Her fingers, surprisingly gentle now, traced the scratches she’d left on his eyelids. "Breathe, sugar," she murmured, her voice a low rasp. "Just breathe." Fletcher obeyed, sucking in great lungfuls of humid river air, the sun warm on his exposed skin. The distant binoculars were forgotten; the men on the bank were shadows now, insignificant.
Wendy broke the kiss with a wet gasp, her lips curling into a triumphant smirk. She gazed back at the now distant river bank, noticing the two men’s binoculars, before her hand plunged beneath the tea-colored water. Fingers slick with river silt closed around Fletcher’s cock, thick and heavy in her grasp. She jerked it upward, the sudden friction wrenching a choked groan from his throat. With her other hand, she hooked her lime-green bikini bottom aside, exposing slick folds flushed pink. Then, in one fluid motion, she slammed herself down onto him, sheathing him to the hilt inside her molten heat. Fletcher gasped, the sensation blinding—tight, wet pressure clamping around him like a vise. Wendy’s thighs locked around his hips, anchoring him as she began to rock, each deliberate grind forcing his cock deeper, her clovers bobbing against his chest.
Behind him, Kabine’s breath hitched against his ear. Her fingers—cold from the water—dug into the meat of his buttocks, seeking the furrowed welts still tender beneath the surface. She found his entrance, slick with river water and sweat, and plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into his anus without warning. Fletcher arched, a ragged cry tearing loose as Wendy’s relentless rhythm drove him forward onto Kabine’s invading hand. Kabine twisted her fingers sharply, scraping her nails against the sensitive inner walls, then curled them upward, raking the rough pad of her fingertip directly over his prostate. White fire exploded behind Fletcher’s eyes. His hips bucked wildly, torn between the deep, pulsing pleasure-pain of Wendy’s clenching cunt and the brutal, electric violation Kabine inflicted from behind. He felt stretched, split open, owned.
Kabine withdrew her fingers only to slam them back in, harder, deeper, twisting as she went. Wendy rode him with furious precision, her hips pistoning, her clit grinding against his pubic bone with every downward thrust. She locked her gaze on the men ashore, her grin feral, triumphant. The fisherman’s rod clattered to the mud as he gripped his own straining khakis. The hunter’s hand vanished beneath his camo jacket, rubbing frantically. Both men used their free limbs that weren’t holding the binoculars. Fletcher’s vision blurred. Pressure built—immense, unbearable—coiling at the base of his spine. Wendy’s inner muscles clenched like a fist around his cock. Kabine’s knuckles ground against his prostate.
A raw, guttural roar tore from Fletcher’s throat as his body arched violently, hips snapping upward. Thick ropes of seed pulsed into Wendy’s depths, hot and urgent, each spasm wracking him like an electric shock. Wendy threw her head back, laughing wildly as she milked him, her thighs clamped tight. Kabine didn’t relent. She curled her fingers, scraping, demanding more, her other hand pinching a welt on his thigh. Fletcher gasped, shuddering, still spurting weakly as Wendy’s relentless rhythm continued. The pleasure-pain crescendoed into agony. His cock twitched, oversensitive, trapped in her slick vise. Kabine’s fingers pistoned ruthlessly inside him, wrenching dry, painful convulsions. Thirty seconds after the first pulse, Fletcher sagged between them, utterly spent, his seed utterly drained. Wendy finally stilled, panting, her body still wrapped around him. Kabine slowly withdrew her fingers, leaving him hollow, trembling. The men on the bank lowered their binoculars, expressions slack with awe and envy.
“Up,” Kabine commanded, her voice sharp, slicing through Fletcher’s exhaustion. She pointed toward the RV’s ladder bolted to the rear.
“Climb. Roof. Now.”
Wendy released him, swimming backward with a predatory grin. Fletcher’s legs felt like waterlogged driftwood, but the command brooked no refusal. He paddled weakly to the ladder, hauled himself onto the aluminum rungs, each movement jarring his ravaged backside. The welts screamed against the cool metal. Kabine followed close behind, her raspberry bikini dripping onto his calves. Wendy ascended last, her lime-green clovers flashing. The roof was broad, flat, coated in textured white rubber. The distant hunters lifted their binoculars again, faces avid.
"Turn around," Wendy ordered, voice low. Fletcher obeyed, facing the riverbank. Kabine stood in front of him, her hands settling on his hips. "Spread," she hissed. Fletcher’s fingers trembled as he reached back, gripping his own buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart. The exposed furrows glistened, raw and swollen under the sun. Wendy dropped to her knees before him, her purple-nailed hands seizing his thighs. Without preamble, she jammed her tongue deep into his anus—a hot, wet invasion that scraped the tender ridges Kabine’s nails had carved. Fletcher cried out, back arching.
Simultaneously, Kabine lunged forward, swallowing his flaccid cock whole. Her mouth was furnace-hot, sucking with desperate hunger as she slammed her face into his crotch again and again. Fletcher screamed—a raw, tearing sound that echoed across the water—as Wendy’s tongue speared deeper, scraping the raw fissures inside him while Kabine’s teeth grazed his sensitive shaft. Kabine’s hands weren’t idle; her left hand clawed at his inner thighs, while her right scraped his balls. Fletcher squeeze his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth, feeling a mixture of pleasure in pain, and as though sandpaper was being used on his thighs and testicles. Golgotha gripped Black Bear-Musgrave’s scalp to keep himself balanced, and to stop from falling.
On the distant bank, the hunter dropped his binoculars. A dark, spreading stain bloomed across the front of his cargo pants as his body shuddered violently. Beside him, the fisherman’s khaki shorts darkened too, his fishing rod forgotten in the mud as he doubled over, hands braced on his knees, gasping. Neither touched themselves; the brutal spectacle alone ripped their climaxes from them.
Fletcher felt Kabine’s throat convulse around his cock, her desperate swallows pulling seed he didn’t think he had left. Wendy’s tongue, relentless, scraped over his prostate—a white-hot brand igniting fresh agony. *No.* The word screamed silently in his mind. *Not again. Not so fast.* He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. Every muscle in his body locked—thighs trembling, abdomen rigid, buttocks clenched against Wendy’s invasive tongue. He focused on the sting of Kabine’s nails on his eyelids, the raw burn across his backside, the brutal stretch inside him—using the pain as anchors, points to grip against the rising tide of sensation threatening to drown him. Sweat mingled with river water, dripping into his eyes. He refused to cry out.
Kabine sensed the shift. Her dark eyes snapped open, locking onto his face. She increased her suction, hollowing her cheeks, her fingers digging deeper into the scratches on his stomach. Wendy answered with a low growl vibrating against his core, her tongue thrusting harder, faster, probing the bruised ridges Kabine’s belt had left inside him. Fletcher gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. *Hold.* He visualized roots digging into bedrock, veins flooding with ice. The pressure built—immense, volcanic—but he held it back, breath ragged. Sixty seconds crawled by. Kabine’s brow furrowed; Wendy’s rhythm faltered for a fraction of a second, surprise flickering in her sapphire eyes. They redoubled their efforts. Kabine’s free hand snaked down, thumb finding his perineum and pressing hard. Wendy’s fingers joined her tongue, twisting inside him.
The assault was brutal, exquisite. Ninety seconds. Fletcher’s knuckles were white where he gripped his own buttocks, tendons standing out like cables in his neck. A tremor ran through him. He was cracking. Kabine saw it, felt it in the desperate pulse against her tongue. She sucked harder, a final, punishing pull. Wendy’s fingers curled, scraping his prostate with pinpoint accuracy.
Fletcher’s control shattered. A guttural roar ripped from his throat, raw and primal. His hips snapped forward, driving his cock deep into Kabine’s throat. A thick, hot rope of seed pulsed violently into her. She swallowed convulsively, throat working, eyes watering but never breaking contact with his clenched-shut eyes. He shot again, a weaker jet, then another, each spasm wracking his frame as Wendy’s relentless tongue milked him dry from the other end. Kabine kept sucking, swallowing every drop, her thumb grinding into his perineum until he sagged, utterly drained, trembling like a leaf in a gale.
Kabine released him with a wet pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Wendy slowly withdrew her tongue, giving his ravaged entrance one final, lingering lick that drew a shuddering gasp. Together, they guided his trembling form down onto the cool, rubber-coated roof. Wendy positioned him flat on his back, his welted buttocks pressing against the textured surface. Kabine knelt beside his head, her raspberry bikini damp against his shoulder. Her fingers, surprisingly gentle now, traced the scratches she’d left on his eyelids. "Breathe, sugar," she murmured, her voice a low rasp. "Just breathe." Fletcher obeyed, sucking in great lungfuls of humid river air, the sun warm on his exposed skin. The distant binoculars were forgotten; the men on the bank were shadows now, insignificant.
31-35, M