Blake Hart
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Slut For Cabo – Part 12
🕑 Added 2025-05-10 15:00:12 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
Two days after the threesome with Jake and Al, my parents carried on as if nothing had changed—prayers, beach walks, and dinners at the same restaurant. Yesterday’s lunch had left me suffocating: Mom praying for my “godly wife,” Dad sneering at the Pride channel, both of them still obsessed with Christian colleges.
But Jake’s words from our hotel room talk burned brighter: You’re good enough just as you are. His kiss, the frat’s laughter, the promise of Room 312 tonight—they were my rebellion. My flight home loomed at dawn, a deadline that made every second electric.
I’d told my parents I had a headache and needed to pack early, buying time to sneak out. At midnight, I crept toward the door, dressed in a tight black tee and shorts, heart pounding with anticipation. The hallway was dim, but as I neared the elevator, voices echoed—Mom and Dad, muttering about “noisy hippies” and heading to the lobby to complain. Their shadows loomed, moving in my direction, close enough to spot me.
I ducked behind a cleaning cart, breath shallow, when a familiar chuckle stopped me. The same housekeeper I’d encountered before—mid-40s, dark hair, tired eyes—shook her head, half-judging, half-amused.
“Tú otra vez, gringuito,” she whispered, glancing at my parents’ silhouettes. “Siempre escondiéndote. Tus papás, ay... tanto Dios y tanta pureza. Ven.”
She unlocked a service door and gestured me through.
“Sal, cachondo,” she said with a smirk. “Ándale, gringuito. Quick, come, go out there.”
As I slipped past, I heard her mutter, “Muchacho calenturiento... pero con esos papás, ¿quién lo culpa? Ay, Dios...”
I didn’t know much Spanish, but I got the message—and she was completely right.
“Gracias,” I whispered, slipping down the service stairs, just barely hearing her greet my parents: “Hola, señor, señora,” as they passed.
◆◆◆
The hotel’s neon glow guided me to Room 312. I knocked, and Al flung the door open, shirtless, his grin wicked. “Isaac, fuck yeah!” he roared, yanking me into a sweaty hug that smelled of beer and freshly showered.
The room thrummed—low lights casting golden shadows, a bass-heavy beat pulsing from a speaker, bottles of tequila, beer, and lube tubes scattered on a table. Nate sprawled on a couch, his jock build bare save for boxers and a t-shirt, his scar-flecked eyebrow quirked. Carlos leaned against a wall, tattoos glinting, sipping a drink. Sam sat cross-legged on the floor, dreads loose, his nine-inch flaccid dick a quiet promise under his shorts. Jake stood by the bed, tank top hugging his chest, brown eyes sparking with pride as they met mine.
“Wild boy’s here!” Jake called, tossing me a beer. I caught it, popping the cap, the cold fizz calming my nerves.
Carlos raised his glass, smirking. “Ready to bond, Delta style?”
I swigged the beer, bold. “Born ready.”
Jake stepped close, his breath brushing my ear. “You’re in charge, Isaac. We’ve got you.”
I nodded, skin tingling, already half-hard. Nate cranked the music, and Sam clapped, his deep laugh rumbling. “Let’s start easy—silly games, Delta way!”
The vibe was playful, the frat’s warmth wrapping around me. Al suggested “shot roulette,” passing a tray of tequila shots—some plain, some spiked with hot sauce. We took turns, laughing as Nate sputtered on a spicy one, his jock bravado crumbling, wiping tears as he cursed. Carlos dared Sam to balance a bottle on his head. His broad frame wobbling, dreads swaying, drawing cheers when it fell. I dared Jake to chug a beer upside-down, his throat bobbing, foam dripping down his chest to his abs, his wink sparking that familiar flutter in my gut. The game eased us closer, trust and fun growing with every laugh.
“Strip poker!” Nate shouted, pulling out a deck. We sat in a circle on the floor, betting clothes, the room filling with hoots. I lost my shirt first, peeling it off to whistles, my chest bare under their eyes. Al lost his shorts, revealing tight briefs, his bulge teasing. Sam shed his shirt, his chiseled abs gleaming, while Carlos ditched his shorts, his tattooed thighs flexing. Jake kept his tank but lost his shorts, his dick half-hard under boxers. By the end, we were mostly naked—Nate’s jock bulk, Carlos’s lean frame, Sam’s massive dick swinging, Al’s wiry energy, Jake’s toned chest—our laughter loud, the air charged but safe.
“Body shot relay!” Al proposed, grinning. They laid me on the table, my boxers still on, and took turns licking tequila off my skin. Jake started, his tongue dragging slow across my collarbone, sucking the salt, his eyes locked on mine. Al licked my abs, his tongue dipping into my navel, teasing. Nate’s lips grazed my hip, bold but playful, while Carlos’s tongue traced my inner thigh, inching close to my bulge. Sam’s lick was warm, his dreads brushing my chest as he sucked salt off my neck, his deep hum vibrating through me. I was hard, leaking, their touches building a slow fire, but the silliness kept it light.
“Let’s up the ante,” Al said, eyes glinting. “Truth or dare, spicy edition.”
The game shifted, heat rising. Nate dared Carlos to kiss Sam’s neck, his lips lingering, Sam’s head tipping back with a low hum. Al dared Jake to suck my fingers, his tongue swirling slow, eyes burning into mine, making my dick throb. I dared the group to strip fully, and clothes hit the floor, their dicks already hard—Nate’s thick, Carlos’s sleek, Sam’s nine-inch beast, Al’s curved, Jake’s familiar and perfect. I shed my briefs, hard and unashamed, their eyes hungry but kind, like I was their star.
“Isaac, dare,” Jake said, voice low.
“Make me the fucking center,” I growled, voice dripping with raw hunger, striding to the bed like I owned every inch of Room 312. My dick jutted hard, dripping pre-cum, my bare skin prickling under their stares—Jake’s brown eyes smoldering with barely restrained want, Al’s wicked smirk promising filthy chaos, Nate’s jock grin daring me to push further, Carlos’s tattooed fingers flexing with need, Sam’s dreads framing a quiet, ravenous gaze, his nine-inch dick twitching, already half-hard. The air thrummed with bass and lust, tequila’s tang mixing with the glint of lube bottles on the table, the weight of what was coming thick as the sweat beading on my neck.
I dropped to the bed, knees sinking into the sheets, ass arched, body a blatant challenge. “All of you, now,” I demanded, eyes raking over them, fearless. They froze, breaths catching, a circle of wolves—respectful, but starving. Jake’s hand twitched, Al’s tongue darted out, Nate’s scar quirked, Carlos stepped closer, Sam’s hum rumbled low. The room held its breath, their hands itching to claim me.
Who’d make the first move?
