Naughty Vegas Temptations 🔥
Links for easy navigation: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Jump to Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Chapter 1: The Gym Glow-Up 💋
I couldn’t peel my eyes off Sophia as she powered through her squats at that upscale gym downtown. Sweat glistened on her olive skin, trickling down the curve of her back, soaking into the tight black leggings that hugged her like a second skin. Those glutes—fuck, they were sculpted perfection, rising and falling with each rep, drawing stares from every meathead in the room. She was prepping for her big Miami trade show trip, hitting the weights hard, and I loved how her focus made her unaware of the hungry eyes devouring her.
“One more set, babe,” she grunted, glancing over with that wicked smile, ponytail swinging. Her sports bra strained against her full D-cups, nipples faintly poking through from the chill of the AC blasting overhead. I sat on the bench nearby, pretending to scroll my phone, but my cock stirred just watching her thighs quiver under the strain.
A couple of guys—ripped dudes with tats snaking up their arms—kept circling the free weights, stealing glimpses every time she bent low. One whispered to the other, something about “that ass eating those pants.” My pulse raced. Sophia had always been a knockout—petite frame at 5’4″, long raven hair, plump lips that promised sin—but lately, with our bedroom games turning filthier, seeing her like this ignited something primal.
Back home that night, as she showered off the musk of exertion, I brought it up over takeout tacos, the spicy scent filling our kitchen. “Those gym bros were drooling over you today. Made me hard thinking about it.”
She laughed, dipping a chip, her tank top riding up to flash toned abs. “Jealous much? Or… turned on?” Her green eyes sparkled, feet rubbing my calf under the table.
“Turned on. Imagine them watching you shake it at the conference. Strangers grinding up close.”
She bit her lip, a flush creeping up her neck. “You’re so naughty, Ryan. But Miami’s work—no funny business.” Still, her hand squeezed my thigh, and we fucked right there on the counter, her cries echoing as I pounded her from behind, whispering about all the eyes that’d soon feast on my wife.
The next days blurred—me dropping hints, her half-protesting fantasy chats fueling our marathon sessions. Then, Vegas awaited. No, wait—Miami’s humid embrace, conferences crammed with sales sharks. I booked my own spot at the swanky beachfront hotel, arriving a day early to scope the scene.
Chapter 2: Beachfront Arrival Buzz
The salty ocean breeze whipped through the open-air lobby as Sophia wheeled her suitcase in, her sundress fluttering against those killer legs. Tanned from gym sessions, she looked every bit the vixen—heels clicking on marble, drawing nods from suited conventioneers. I lurked by the palm-fringed bar, badge-less, sipping a rum punch that burned sweet down my throat.
Her team swarmed quick: Lance, the cocky blonde surfer type in his late 20s, built like a lacrosse god with broad shoulders straining his polo; Jamal, darker, bulkier, eyes sharp and hungry, probably pushing 6’2″ of pure muscle. Then Mia, the chatty sidekick. They hugged Sophia like old lovers, Lance’s hand lingering a beat too long on her waist.
“Soph, you slay in that dress—booth bait for sure,” Lance boomed, voice carrying over the lounge music. She swatted him playfully, but her hips swayed extra as they headed to registration.
My dick twitched against my shorts. I snapped a discreet pic, texting: Watched your fans swarm. Lance wants a taste already. She checked her phone mid-chat, shot me a glare from across the crowd, mouthing “stalker.”
That night, team happy hour at the rooftop bar. Waves crashed below, neon lights pulsing. I blended into the shadows, nursing a beer, ears straining. Sophia laughed loud, tequila shots flowing, her dress riding up as she perched on a stool. Lance and Jamal flanked her, toasting “to closing deals and beach booties.”
“Sophia’s the real closer,” Jamal rumbled, his deep timbre vibrating through the humid air. “That sway? Kills me every trip.”
She flushed, crossing her legs slow, the scent of her coconut lotion mixing with booze sweat. I adjusted myself, rock-hard. No touching her tonight. Build the fire.
FaceTime buzzed later. She answered in her room, makeup smudged, tipsy grin wide. “Saw you lurking, perv. Hotel’s insane—ocean view, king bed screaming for company.”
“Show me,” I demanded, voice low. Camera dipped to her cleavage, sweat-sheened from dancing downstairs.
“Come claim it.” But I held back. “Flash those tits first. Let me see what Lance ogles.”
Giggling, she peeled down the straps. Perfect handfuls spilled free, dark nipples pebbled tight. She tweaked one, moaning soft. “Naughty boy, making me tease you.”
“Bend over. Show the ass Jamal called booty gold.” She did, dress hiking to reveal lace panties wedged deep. Juicy cheeks jiggled as she wiggled, the musky hint of arousal hitting even through the screen.
“Goodnight, volcano wife. Dream of cocks grinding you.” Hung up to her protests, jerking off alone to the image burned in.
Chapter 3: Booth Bend and Grind 🔥
Morning sun baked the expo floor, air thick with coffee, cologne, and desperation. I slipped in amid the suits, grabbing a latte from the corner stand. Sophia’s booth popped—banners bold, her in a pencil skirt that sculpted her hips like sin, blouse sheer enough to hint lace bra beneath. Heels arched her calves, ass popping every pivot.
Men swarmed, excuses flimsy as they leaned in, eyes dipping low. Lance manned one side, Jamal the other, but Sophia? Star attraction. She bent for brochures—fuck, that skirt stretched taut, cameltoe teasing through thin fabric. Lance’s stare glued there, Jamal licking lips slow.
Pic sent: Bending for fans. Careful, or panties show. She straightened, scanned, spotted me. Blew a kiss, naughty glint in her eye.
Afternoon dragged into happy hour mixer at the beach club. DJ spun bass-heavy tracks, sand underfoot gritty-warm. Shots circled; Sophia downed Patrón, body loosening. Lance pulled her to dance first—hands on hips guiding her sway, her back arching into him unintentional-like.
Jamal joined, sandwiching her tight. Bodies slick with sweat, grinding slow to the thump-thump. Her head lolled back on his chest, skirt hiking as thighs rubbed. Lance’s crotch nudged front, bulge evident pressing her mound. She laughed it off, but hips rolled instinctive.
I filmed discreet, cock leaking pre-cum in my trunks. Vegas? Nah, Miami’s salt air amplified the filth—sweat salty on tongues, ocean roar masking moans.
Text barrage: Felt their hard-ons? You’re soaked, admit it.
Her reply: Shut up, coming to my room NOW? Need dick.
Denied. FaceTime instead. She stumbled in, dress askew, propped phone on nightstand. “You’re killing me, Ryan. Pussy’s throbbing.”
“Strip. Dance like you did for them.” Music blared from her phone; hips hypnotized, tits bouncing free as bra tossed. Skirt pooled, thong dark-wet crotch glaring.
“Bend. Spread.” On all fours, ass high, she peeled thong aside. Pussy lips puffy, glistening strings of nectar dripping. “Finger it, naughty slut. Pretend it’s Jamal’s fat cock.”
Two digits plunged, squelch audible, her gasp ragged. “Feels so empty… Lance grabbed my ass accidental, felt his meat poke.”
“Deeper. Three fingers.” She obeyed, knuckles-deep, free hand circling clit. Juices smeared thighs, scent probably ripe in that room. Moans built, body shuddering. “Cum for me—and them.”
She shattered, squirting arcs onto sheets, voice breaking “Fuck yes!” I nutted hard, promising weekend explosion.
Chapter 4: Casino Naughty Nights
Day two expo blurred hotter. Sophia owned the booth, demoing gear with bends and stretches that flashed thigh highs. Lance “helped” pick up dropped flyers, face inches from her cleft. Jamal whispered something filthy—her laugh pealed, cheeks pink.
Night? Casino floor pulsed neon, slots chiming, smoke hazy-sweet. Team hit blackjack; Sophia straddled a stool, legs parted casual, cards flipping. Lance dealt beside, hand brushing her inner thigh “oops.” Jamal bought rounds, eyes devouring her low-cut top, cleavage spilling like invitation.
“Soph, you’re our lucky charm,” Lance slurred, arm around shoulders. She leaned in, whispering back, lips near ear. My vantage at roulette—heart hammering, balls aching from denial.
Pool after-party next. Moonlit water lapped, bodies in bikinis grinding. Sophia in string bikini—tiny triangles barely cupping nipples, bottoms vanishing between cheeks. Lance and Jamal cannonballed, splashing her wet. She retaliated, jumping on Jamal’s shoulders for chicken fight—pussy grinding his neck, Lance below slapping water at her tits.
Later, FaceTime from her balcony. Wind tousled hair, bikini top loose. “Pool was wild. Jamal’s so strong… felt everything.”
“Show soaked pussy.” Bottoms yanked aside—swollen, creamy white from lotion mixing cum? No, her juices. “Taste yourself.”
Fingers scooped, sucked clean with pornstar slurp. “Salty-sweet. Lance tongue-flicked water off my nipple—playful.”
“Masturbate again. Call me naughty daddy.” Four fingers now, fisting shallow, ass clenching. She came howling, neighbors probably hearing.
Thought crept: she craved real cock. My fantasy twisted harder.
Chapter 5: Poolside Escalation 💋
Conference winding, booths thinning, but tension peaked. I ditched distance for breakfast stakeout—Sophia in robe at beach cafe, Lance/Jamal joining uninvited. Legs tangled under table? Laughter boomed.
Afternoon free: they hit cabanas. I spied from dunes, binoculars sharp. Sophia oiled up—hands gliding over tits, belly, dipping fingers under bikini to slick lips. Lance watched bold, tenting shorts. Jamal poured lotion on her back, palms kneading deep, thumbs grazing ass crack.
She moaned audible, arching. “Easy, boys—teasing me?” Lance chuckled, “Just warming the naughty girl.”
My keyword hit—her naughty side blooming. Cock throbbed painful.
Evening gala: ballroom sweltering, gowns tight. Sophia’s red number plunged to navel, slit to hip. Danced with team—Jamal’s hands possessive on waist, Lance grinding front. Isolated, her mouth on his neck? Too dark.
FaceTime desperate. “They’re handsy. Jamal fingered my thong—quick dip.”
“Details. Show cum.”
Pussy wrecked—red, gaping slight, his seed leaking? She smeared it, tasted. “Thick, musky. Yours next?”
“Fuck yourself with bottle.” Neck of wine plunged, glugging in-out, her screams raw. Multi-orgasmic, collapsing in puddle.
Chapter 6: Weekend Eruption 🔥
Conference crashed Thursday. Weekend ours—but team invaded beach villa party I “crashed.” Booze flowed, joints passed, bass thumping.
Sophia wild—bikini discarded mid-game, nude Truth or Dare. Lance dared tits flashed; Jamal, lap dance. She straddled him reverse, grinding bare pussy on bulge, juices soaking his suit. Lance jerked openly, her hand stroking him slow.
“Naughty wife,” I murmured entering, but they froze—then Lance grinned. “Husband joins?”
She mounted Jamal first, sinking on thick black shaft—stretch audible, her wail ecstatic. Pussy lips gripped veiny inches, cream frothing. Lance fed her cock, throat bulging.
I filmed, then plunged her ass—double stuffed, her body quaking. Sensory overload: salt-skin slap, cum-tang taste as I licked her post-fuck slit, Jamal’s roar filling her womb.
All night rotated—throats, holes filled. She squirted arcs, begged “more cocks, naughty me needs it.” Dawn broke, bodies entangled, spent.
“Best fantasy ever,” she purred, my cum glazing her back. Miami sealed us filthier forever.
