What Happened in Calabasas?

"So how've you been?"

He sighed. It was a heavy question. Where would he even start? His failing wine bar? His messy breakup? His recurrent migraines? His months-long involuntary celibacy? He had no clue. For a year now his life had been nothing short of a clusterfuck, something like flying glass shards everywhere ready to pierce him in the eyes or in the nads.

The current situation wasn't much help either. The inquirer and him were on the way to Calabasas for a wedding of two people he honestly hated, and the inquirer in question was a woman he'd been hopelessly attracted to for the better part of 4 years.

When he'd first met Layla in college, she was all he could think about for a while, the forefront of his fantasies: killer, burgundy-cased smile, large and glistening kohl-lined eyes, flawless black hair that cascaded down her shoulder to her breasts in angelic tresses.

And her breasts, oh man, were they every man's dream. Perky and plump, much too big for the rest of her relatively petite frame, they were often the first thing that captured his eyes. She often dressed to display them, too; drunkenly, she'd confessed to him that she loved her tits, and made sure everyone else did as well. The rest of her body wasn't a shame, either - a cute, bubble butt, toned thighs, thin, attention-grabbing waist. She was every man's wet dream, and she knew it.

"Hello?" his torturer asked, snapping her fingers. "Carlos? You kind of zoned out there."

He looked at her, snapped out of his stupor. True to character, his eyes found her tits first, only partially covered by her scoop neck tank. He brought his eyes up to hers quickly.

"It's... not been great, honestly." He confessed. They'd always been honest with each other, having been close ever since they met; for him at least, partially honest. That was part of what made it so torturous. He could tell her every little detail about his life, except his toe curling attraction to her, the way she creeps into his fantasies, the way he screams her name when he masturbates, the way he wishes the women he fucks were all her.

And the worst part, the cherry on top, the reason why his feelings have so beyond repressed that Freud would have loved him, was that she was engaged. To no one else but his very own brother.

His own blood and flesh, he thought sullenly. Betrayal.

She looked sympathetic, and placed a comforting hand atop his on the gearshift. "How are you coping up with the divorce?"

He snorted sardonically, trying not to dwell too much on how soft her hands were. "Awful. She wants the apartment. She wants the cat."

Layla winced. "The cat?"

Carlos shook his head sadly. "I knew when I married her she was possessive. I thought it was cute back then. My mistake, I guess."

It's not a lie. He'd always liked that his ex-wife was possessive, even if it got a bit extreme sometimes. It explained her hatred for Layla, possibly because she knew her then-husband's, er... soft spot, for her. It was fucked up, sure, but he liked that someone was willing to fight for him. Even if it was the wrong person.

"Hey, that wasn't something you could have foretold. Cut yourself some slack."

He shrugged, and from the corner of his eyes he could see Layla frown. She'd always hated when the mood was off, or things weren't right between them.

"Let's play a game," she suggested, just as he wondered how she'd take matters into her own hands. He grinned.

"Like what? Truth or dare?"

Layla huffed. "As if we're teenagers."

"Got a better idea?"

Silence, for a beat. And then a begrudging, "... No."

Carlos chuckled again. "Okay. I'll go first. Truth or dare?"

"Dare," she hadn't waited even a second. It was true to her character; she was a spitfire beauty, always ready for a challenge, an adventure, always chasing something exciting. Truths were too boring for her.

"I dare you..." his eyes wandered to her the ziploc of cherries from which they'd been snacking on in Layla's lap. "... to tie a cherry stem with your tongue."

"That's all?" Layla laughed. She popped a cherry into her mouth and wiggled her tongue around a bit. In a few moments, she opened her mouth to present her artwork. The neatly tied stem left Carlos impressed.

"Didn't think you could do that," he admitted, laughing.

Layla grinned. "Luis taught me."

Luis. Fuck. The mention of his brother -- her fiancé -- had him sitting straighter, the smile vanishing from his face so rapidly, it was comical. He'd nearly forgotten about Luis.

While Layla and Carlos had met in college, Carlos's older brother Luis and Layla only got acquainted at graduation. Some would call it a whirlwind romance, but Carlos knew it was a union motivated most definitely by lust. When either of them were drunk -- or on some fateful occasions, when both of them were drunk together -- they would regale Carlos with painfully detailed stories about sex with the other. It went beyond torture, into dangerous territory, something like dangling treats in front of a dog but yanking it away once he reached for it. It was a reminder for Carlos that his deepest desire would always, always remain just beyond arm's reach.

"Your turn," he choked out, a pitiful attempt to dissuade his self-harming thoughts.

"Truth or dare?" Layla asked, looking up at him sweetly.

"Truth."

"You always pick truth. Too much of a pussy?"

Carlos shook his head. "More so a man of control. Pass me some water?"

Layla laughed, playfully rolling her eyes as she popped off the cap and passed him the bottle. He took a generous swig, making sure to focus on the road ahead.

"Whatever. Uh... when was the last time you jerked off?"

Carlos nearly spat out the water in his mouth, falling into a fit of coughs. The car lurched to the side as he attempted to save himself from choking. Layla instantly grabbed the bottle and stabilised the wheel, looking at him with wide eyes.

"What kind of question is that?" Carlos coughed.

"What?" Layla admonished, defensive. "We're adults. Plus, I couldn't think of anything else."

Carlos shook his head as he gripped the steering wheel. The last time he'd jerked off... was thirty minutes before they began their trip two hours ago. Pitiful, he knew. The thought of seeing Layla, being alone with her for five hours had got him a bit too worked up.

"About three hours ago," he admitted, feeling suddenly dim.

"What?" Layla was laughing. "Seriously?"

It was his turn to get defensive now. "I just... needed to blow off some steam."

She continued laughing, much to his dismay. "Whatever you say, Carlito. I know you were just excited to see me."

She meant it in jest -- she always did -- but she had no clue how right she was. Carlos gulped and changed the subject quickly.

"My turn now. Truth or dare?"

"Dare." Typical. A tough nut, this one.

"I dare you... to show me the second last picture in your camera roll."

"You're way too nice with these," she teased, opening up her camera roll. The moment she opened the Photos app, however, her eyes widened.

Carlos noticed this, tearing his eyes off the road to look at her for a bit. "What? Something happen?"

Layla blinked emptily, suddenly refusing to meet Carlos's eyes. "Nothing, just... I can't show you."

"What, too much of a pussy?" He teased, echoing her earlier words.

He expected her to add to the banter. Instead, she glared. "Not funny."

An odd silence descended upon them, which left Carlos confused. Was she not telling him something? What was going on?

"Lays, what's gotten into you? It's just a picture. Don't tell me you're chickening out now."

The two successive hits to her ego seemed to have dealt their blow. He could sense her hesitance waning in an attempt to prove herself, but she still looked unsure. "I'm not chickening out, it's just... it's, like, uh... intimate?"

Carlos furrowed his brows, ignoring how his heart jumped into his throat on hearing the word intimate leave her mouth. "What does that mean? Lays, it's me. You know I wouldn't do anything."

Layla was still frowning, though his words appeared to make her reconsider even further. She bit her lip, appearing to be mentally debating something. "I guess..."

Silence dawned upon them for a bit, and something was tingling at Carlos's fingers. He wasn't stupid -- he'd suspected what it was. Even though he'd've given anything to see it, be it a lung or kidney or his entire net worth, he had to respect her wishes.

He opened his mouth, about to say something along the lines of It's okay if you don't want to, I get that... before Layla interjected.

"Whatever. It's not that big of a deal. I'll show you."

He looked at her, wanting to make sure she was really okay with him seeing, but her phone was already in his face, and on the screen was more than he could've ever wished for in a lifetime.

He felt his jaw slacken and fall wide open. It was a nude, just as he'd expected, but the sight nearly tore him to pieces.

There she was, in front of a mirror with her phone in one hand. The other was buried between her toned legs, possibly in the midst of rubbing her clit. Layla's expression was one of pure eroticism; though her face was partially occluded by her phone, he could make out her closed eyes, furrowed eyebrows, puckered lips, as if she was frozen in ecstasy. Her large tits were on full display, nipples perched proudly and erect, almost careening. Her areolas were perfect, big enough to grab attention. Before the image could be burned forever in his head, before he could make sure that his next sex fantasies could include a peer-reviewed, accurate visual of what Layla's nude form was actually like rather than an approximation, Layla turned her screen away. He looked at her, speechless (and afraid that if he tried to say something, he'd get slapped in the face), but she averted her eyes quickly, cheeks red with embarrassment.

"Luis... asked for some pictures while he was away on his trip. So, you know..."

Once again, the mention of his brother snapped him out of his stupor. Fucking Luis. Inwardly he'd always cursed himself for introducing the two of them, but now he was more regretful than ever.

"It's... not a big deal. Just nudes." He managed, but the part of his brain that judged whether that was the right thing to say had already been fried by lust by then. He prayed he was being at least a little respectful.

The car ride to Calabasas was painfully quiet after that, though not nearly as painful as the longstanding erection he'd had to deal with for the latter part of the ride. It didn't help that the image would come back to him every now and then, and his poor, relaxing penis would be cruelly called back to full force again and again.

When they reached and checked into the inn the wedding guests were arranged to stay at, he'd wordlessly helped her with her luggage and all but sprinted to his room. Once inside, he threw his bag and suit on the bed haphazardly, and before he knew it, his hands were unbuckling his belt and pulling his cock out of his underwear.

It was already hard, no surprise, and he began stroking it without any further delay. He needed release, so bad, just like he needed so so bad to grope Layla's tits, flick and pinch at her nipples, take them in his mouth and suck them, claim them. He needed so badly to feel his cock inside her moist, tight pussy, hands gripping and kneading her taut ass as he pound into her, recklessly, intensely. As he stroked his cock faster and faster, he imagined not for the first time what it would be like to fuck her hard and intense. He imagine the slapping of their skin together, her big tits bouncing up and down with every thrust.

He stroked and stroked, alternating between stimulating his sensitive head and jerking the rest of his length. After a bit, he could feel the pressure build up, greater and greater until he finally, finally released, and it felt like an avalanche. He cried out her name, over and over again, as large spurts of his cum marred the fresh, crisp sheets and the even cover of his suitcase.

Fuck. Two minutes since he checked into his room and he'd already cum all over the bed.

He was still breathing heavily. His orgasm had been unusually intense, perhaps motivated by pure tension than anything. If even a picture of Layla's nude body could do that, he feared what seeing it for his own eyes would do to his wellbeing.

Yeah. He should probably clean up.

*****

The wedding was later that evening. The bride and the groom, two college mates of his that he'd resented for their large mouths and dim wits, but loved to have around for their penchant for throwing lavish parties, had looked thoroughly disinterested in their own ceremony, but excitedly cheered at him when they spotted him. Miserable enough for each other, he surmised.

His main problem was that he hadn't seen Layla since check-in. It was the reception now, held at a nice outdoor venue complete with an open bar. He'd struck up conversation with multiple people, some he recognised, some he only pretended to, but at all times, his eyes scanned the dense crowd for his trip partner.

An hour into the reception, he gave up and headed towards the bar.

"A rum and coke, please," he told the bartender as he approached the counter, an attractive blonde who winked at him as she obliged. Within a few moments, he'd decided that he'd chat to her, maybe try his luck. If nothing else, he came to this wedding to get laid...

"All by yourself, handsome?"

His head whipped towards the voice, and there she was; his eyes widened. Layla looked stunning in a shimmery ocean-blue dress, one that hugged her soft yet pronounced curves, accentuated her small waist and displayed ample cleavage that left little to imagination. A deliciously high slit revealed a vast expanse of her long, luscious legs.

"You look gorgeous," Carlos said, a little breathless at the sight.

Layla grinned, eyes appearing out of focus. "You look veeeerrry handsome as well."

He'd put in a considerable amount of effort into his look that night, knowing Layla would be there, so hearing her acknowledge him made his chest widen with pride. He'd been told he was a handsome man by multiple people, men and women alike, but to hear it from Layla herself was music to his ears.

She moved toward him, but tripped over her heels; he instantly caught her by the arms and helped her up. She was still grinning widely, and her dazed eyes revealed to Carlos that she was definitely drunk.

"Sorry, started drinking..." she said as if she'd read his mind, her speech slurring slightly. Her hands shot out to grab and play with his tie. "I needed... courage, or whatever. To talk to you. Make things right."

Of course. Things were awkward between them, and Layla being Layla just had to make it right. Though this sentiment of hers was also what got them into this predicament in the first place.

"It's just nudes," she reasoned drunkenly, still playing with his tie. Despite the "courage" she alcohol had given her, she still couldn't meet his eyes. He tried, desperately but to no avail, to not be so starstruck by her. Had she done something to her hair? It looked even glossier than usual. "But. M'sorry. I shouldn't have... made you see."

"Lays," he began, putting his hands on her shoulders and stabilising her before she lost balance completely. Inwardly, he preened at the touch. "It's okay. It's really not a big deal. How much have you had to drink?"

Her eyes flit upward, as though recalling animatedly. After a moment, she shook her head. "Don't remember. Two guys kept buying drinks for me... lost count."

Carlos attempted to suppress the flare of jealousy that shot up from his stomach. Pricks. Definitely trying to get into her pants.

"Did they try anything on you?" he asked, having to convince himself that his reason for doing so was concern for her safety.

"Of course they did," she said, rolling her eyes petulantly. "They were normal when we were drinking, but then they tried to get me to go with them. But then I saw you. My saaaaviorrrr."

She grinned at him and reached up to pat his head, instead falling into him.

"It's been a while since I got trashed like this," she explained, although it felt like she was talking to herself rather than to him.

"Let's get you to your room," he said, putting Layla's arm around his shoulders for support.

"Can you take off my heels?" she asked, pouting as she leaned into him. "My feet hurt."

He smiled slightly. "Of course, Lays. Anything for you."

****

By the time they'd reached Layla's room, she'd spent most of her energy. She sang throughout the journey up the elevator, and now regaled Carlos with a tale from their college days.

"Do you remember Ashley?" she asked excitedly, as Carlos fished her room key from her purse and opened the door. He made a face.

"The one from Finance 203?"

Of course he remembered Ashley. She'd glued herself to Layla's side and made moves on him incessantly. He gave in eventually, and they'd been sleeping around for a while. Nice ass, and a decent lay, if he had to judge.

Layla nodded avidly. "That's the one. She told me you were more of a missionary kind of guy. Is that true?"

Carlos shook his head. He was way too sober for this conversation. The problem was that Layla had a hold over him, even when she was stupidly drunk; he could never not oblige her.

"I guess," he conceded. He plopped her on the bed, and sat down beside her. "Although that was years ago. Now I'm open to anything."

"Anything is so vague," Layla whined, grabbing and pressing herself into his arm. He tried not to think about her tits pressed into his bicep. "Be specific!"

Carlos sighed. "I don't know. Missionary, cowgirl, doggy, whatever. Anything."

"Cowgirl?" Her eyes lit up, like a kid hearing the word candy. "I love cowgirl! Luis and I do it all the time!"

"Mhmhmm," Carlos replied, trying not to wince.

He'd be lying if he said a part of him wasn't enjoying this conversation, the way the alcohol made Layla so horny and reckless. She was always a very sexual person, and liberal with they way she spoke about it, but being drunk had always amplified that part of her tenfold. He'd always loved this side of her, but right now, it was pushing his limits too much, toeing the line. He wondered if she'd remember all this tomorrow, how she'd react to her own brazenness. Layla was a good person. She'd never acted untoward to anyone after getting with Luis, not even playful flirting. Ever since she started dating his brother, there was always a clear boundary between them, despite his hopeless, intense, repressed attraction to her; a boundary that was reinforced by the respect he had for his brother. But he knew that if he stayed for too long, he would lose his morals entirely.

"I should go now," Carlos blurted, seemingly out of nowhere. Layla looked up at him, her big brown eyes filled with confusion. She had long, beautiful lashes, he noted dangerously, that fluttered when she blinked. Yeah. Best to leave before he transformed into a beast. He went to stand up, but Layla's hold on his arm tightened.

"Wait! Not now! I need help getting out of this," Layla crooned, pointing to her dress. She clawed at the zipper on the back of her dress, unable to reach.

Carlos gulped. Yup. He was fucked.

***

A few minutes later, they stood in front of the bed, Layla with her hair pushed to once side, showing Carlos her zipper. "Zips are sooooo hard," she crooned, sounding less like the whip-smart industry professional she really was and more like a bratty sorority girl. Jesus, Carlos wondered, just how much booze had she had?

He thought back to the guys who'd kept plying her with drinks. If she hadn't found Carlos, would she have been with those fools? What would they have done with her? Would they have led her back to their room, and taken their turns with her? Would Layla, in her horny, drunken stupor, beg them to fuck her needy pussy? Would they have played with her ample tits, gripped her ass, each wrapped an arm around her waist, take turns kissing and biting her lips as they filled up both her holes?

"Carloooooos," she whined, patting his arm to grab his attention. "Zipperrrr."

"Oh, yeah," Carlos said, bringing his gaze back to Layla's back. Why would he even be thinking of all that? What was wrong with him? "Sorry, zoned out."

He pulled her zipper down, and her dress loosened around her shoulders. To his horror, she slipped off the straps and stepped out of the dress completely.

"Layla!" Carlos exclaimed, taken completely aback, but the sight before him soon shut him up. She was in nothing but a lacy blue g-string; her breasts were proudly on display. There was a lot Carlos tried not to notice, like how natural and soft they appeared, how erect and swollen her nipples were, how large and sensuous they were on her otherwise petite frame. A lot he tried not to notice, but obsessively scanned anyway.

Layla was looking at him as he appreciated her body in awe. Slowly, softly, she held both breasts in her hands and leaned towards Carlos.

"Do you like them?" she asked. There was something in her eyes that he'd never seen before. Was it... lust?

It had to be, Carlos realised belatedly. She loved her tits being looked at, he knew this. And the drunkenness trumped over her morals.

"Yes," he replied, though in an uncertain whisper. She was drunk. Extremely so. But he was transfixed. Besides, it was just a question. No harm, no foul, right?

She stalked towards him, until she was merely half an inch away from him. "I saw the way you looked at them. In the car," she admitted. She took his hand in her own, and placed it on her chest. "Touch me."

He shouldn't. She's drunk. She's engaged to his brother. She's his best friend.

And yet...

As if hypnotised, he moved the hand over her breast, lightly grazing her nipple. A soft whimper escaped her throat at the contact, and with that, something inside Carlos broke.

He grabbed her by the waist and smashed his lips into her, both hands reaching for her tits. He gripped and massaged them as they kissed, fervently and forcefully. Each time he kneaded her breasts she moaned, and the sound was nothing like he'd ever heard before, a blessing to his ears.

He moved from her lips to her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, down, down till they reached a nipple. Without delay, he enveloped it into his mouth, at first licking and sucking, then lightly biting. His hand pinched and twisted her other nipple. With each motion, she moaned and whimpered. Her hands slid to the back of his head, caressing his hair and pushing his head further into her boobs.

When his assault on one nipple finished, he moved on to the other, and her moans eventually got louder. When he licked a nipple, she screamed his name, and her legs trembled slightly.

He pulled away and looked at her, hazy with lust. Wordlessly, she kissed him, deliberately pressing her tits into his chest.

Fuck this, he thought as he removed his tie in one swift action and began unbuttoning his shirt. When they kissed again, the feeling of her naked tits on his bare chest, the friction of her nipples against his skin, his nipple clashing with her own, felt something like heaven. He couldn't help himself. He pushed her to the bed, lips still locked in a fervent kiss, and when he landed atop her, his fingers reached out to play with her nipples once more.

Vaguely, he recalled Layla talking about the time she'd had a nipple orgasm back in college. They'd both been as drunk as she was right now, and she described in excruciating detail how she'd given herself a powerful orgasm by nothing but timely, prolonged stimulation of her tits. The idea was now cluttering his head, and he trapped her wrists together with his hand, ready to execute.

"Layla," he breathed. He was already rock hard, boner straining at the crotch of his trousers. But he wouldn't fuck her now. Not yet. Not until she was begging him to.

Using his discarded tie, he bound her wrists together, and then to the metal headboard.

"Wh-what are you -- ahh!"

Carlos cut Layla off by pinching both her nipples, an action that made her back arch. When their gazes met, he noticed her parted lips, semi-closed lids, red-streaked cheeks; in that moment, she looked the picture of eroticism.

He continued to pinch and pull at her nipples, occasionally dropping his mouth to them for a quick lick and suck. Carlos didn't exactly know what he was doing -- he'd never tried make a woman to cum purely by nipple play before -- but as Layla chanted his name over and again, peppered with ohs and ahs yeses in between, he assumed he was doing at least something right.

Soon he felt her legs press together, and took it as a sign that her impending orgasm was close; he continued what he was doing, but with an extra force, a harder pinch, a longer press.

"C-Carlos... haa... fuck..."

"Come for me," he demanded as her legs trembled and pressed against once another even harder.

"Carlos... yesss, I'm coming... uhh..."

She looked a vision this way, wrists bound, head thrown back in ecstasy, tits pushed out into the atmosphere, legs pressed together and pulsing at her crotch. He could feel the tension build up in her abdomen as it tightened, intimating him that it would be at any time now.

"Fuck... CARLOS! UHHHH! FUUUUCK! AHHH!"

She came with a furor, body arching into a perfect parabola. Her entire body was twitching as he watched her, subsiding only minutes later. When she opened her eyes, they were still heavy lidded.

"Carlos..." she looked at him, right in the eyes. "That was... I've never cum that hard before."

Carlos couldn't help but grin. "My pleasure."

His boner was now straining painfully against the seam of his pants, but he wasn't sure whether to continue. His triumphant smile faltered. In their lust, they'd crossed a major line of their friendship, betrayed someone close to them. Layla was intoxicated, so at least she had an excuse, but Carlos... Carlos didn't have any justification. He'd done this on purpose.

Just as any further doubt could mar his libido, Layla locked her legs around his hips.

"I need this. I need you," she said, tone falling from requesting to desperation. She was still aroused, and she looked pointedly at his erection as she pushed her crotch into his bulge.

"Haaa..." she moaned, twitching at the contact. It didn't take a genius to surmise that she was dripping wet.

Still uncertain, but mostly convinced, he pulled down her panties, dislodging himself from her centre to do so.

What a mistake. The moment he caught a glimpse of her, a glimmering, moist pink, he knew he was gone. He undid his belt, then off came his trousers and underwear, finally letting his cock spring free.

Layla's eyes widened. "Carlos, you're..."

She looked back at him, then down at his cock again, licking her lips unconsciously. He could guess the reason behind her reaction: he was big, bigger than Luis, standing at an impressive 7 inches hard. Luis was around the same length, but Carlos's dick had more width, and a proud, circumcised head.

"Your cock is so pretty," she said, although it appeared to be more to herself than to him. He tried not to show it, but on the inside, every cell of his body was screaming with glee.

She attempted to sit up, but her wrists were still bound to the bed frame, and she looked momentarily annoyed before going back to desperate. "Let me touch it," she pleaded, pouting cutely. It nearly drove Carlos insane.

"Why don't you ask nicely?" he teased, crawling back over her. He straddled her chest, rubbing the head of his cock on her nipples teasingly before placing it at her lips.

"Will you suck it for me?" He asked, cocking his head to the side. She must have gauged how much he revelled in this change of dynamic: usually Layla was the playful, teasing one.

Regardless, she opened her mouth, craning her neck so that she could take in his length. Carlos noted the absence of a gag reflex, but none of it mattered once she'd engulfed his cock into her mouth completely.

It didn't fit completely, of course, but he was genuinely impressed at how much she swallowed him: about 80% of his cock was in her mouth. Just as he began to move his hips, she pulled back completely, and instead ran her tongue along his length, and placing a chaste kiss to his head. She looked up at him, fluttering her lashes with a coy look on her face. As if reminding him, subtly, who was really in charge.

"Do that again," Carlos ordered, and she obliged instantly, licking him up and down now, focusing on the sensitive part under his head. Occasionally, she took him fully into her mouth, letting him fuck her into the throat, before pulling out and giving him the same toothy, sweet grin.

The more she licked and sucked, the more impatient and desperate he got; finally, when he was at his limit from her teasing, he moved from her mouth to her pussy swiftly. Carlos rubbed his cock along her clit, and she whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist once more.

"You drive me crazy," he admitted as he positioned his cock at her entrance, before pushing it in completely.

Fuck. She was so tight, so wet; her walls were all but clenching around him. When he'd entered her she'd screamed his name, but now that he was in her, unmoving, she was looking right into his eyes.

He remembered what she'd said earlier. I need this. I need you.

Maybe all she'd needed, all this while, was him.

He began to move in and out of her, and her moans and whimpers began again, an encore. He started slow, tantalising, and eventually picked up the pace at her pleading, her begging.

"Fuckkk... oh, yes... haa, right there, Carlos, yesss... mmmf..."

As he maintained a steady pace, praying to every god that he didn't blow, he reached for her clit and began to rub in circles. She shrieked his name at the contact, pushing herself into him even more, her hips matching his avid thrusts.

He took her in as he quickened his pace; her back and head were similarly arched like before, her hands strained against their constraints, but he had the added pleasure to witness her large tits bouncing with every thrust of his, almost hypnotically. The sight captivated him, and unknowingly he began to thrust even faster, grunting and moaning her name as he observed her breasts go up down.

Soon he couldn't take it anymore, he needed to feel taste those cloudlike, swinging tits. He hurriedly untied her wrists and flipped them over, dick still buried deep inside, until his back was on the bed and she straddled him. No words needed to be exchanged: she began riding him with no prompting, placing her hands on his muscled abdomen for support. A hand he'd placed on the small of her back pushed her closer to him, sufficient for him to enclose a wanton nipple in his mouth and other continued to bounce. His hands moved down to squeeze her ass. It was an assault to the senses for her, the feel of his mouth on her tit, hands on her ass, large cock impaling her pussy.

Her moans were utterly incoherent, the strain of articulating words now too much for her sex-addled brain. He loved how loud she was, how loud he made him, as he grunted in moaned even with his mouth full.

"Haa... mm... uhh... nng..." she said with each thrust, throwing her head back and she rode herself to insanity on his girthy cock.

When he moved his mouth to the other nipple she finally formed coherent sounds by chanting his name and littering him with praises: yes, oh, yes, just like that, before devolving back into meaningless sounds.

He could feel her orgasm inching closer and closer by the way her noises increased in gradually increased in pitch; he knew that his own release was not far away.

"C-Carlos, I'm... coming... OHHH, CARLOS!"

She came on his cock furiously, spasming and screaming his name. Her inner walls tightened deliciously, and the compression on his dick sent him over and beyond the edge. He shot his load into her, and for a few moments it felt neverending, eternal. It took them minutes to recover from their shared orgasm. Distantly, he realised that he hadn't even wore a condom, but he was too exhausted to think about it further.

Completely depleted of energy, Layla collapsed onto his chest, sleek black hair splaying all over. In an admittedly weak moment, he cradled her against his pecs, a hand going to stroke her hair.

"Carlos..." she hummed.

"Hm?" He enquired.

Silence. He nudged her slightly, but to no avail; her breathing had evened out, and he surmised that she'd hit her limit and passed out.

So there Carlos lay, both incredibly satisfied and regretful. Was this the last time they would ever do this? Most probably; he wasn't even sure whether Layla would remember any of this. Besides, she was happily engaged to Luis.

And Luis, oh god. How would he even look his brother in the eye after this? He had no excuse. He'd let his dick take over his mind, and he wound up betraying the trust of two of the most important people in his life -- Layla's by taking advantage of her inebriation, and Luis by sleeping with his to-be-wife.

He looked at Layla, so peacefully asleep. Would she hate him in the morning, if he remembered? He could take Luis's anger, even if it broke him. But he knew that he could never see Layla mad at him for even a moment.

He rubbed his right temple, which had suddenly developed some tension. And despite his turmoil, sleep called to him like a siren of the seas. Even though he knew better not to, he closed his eyes, hoping for some rest.

Layla's coy smile was the last thing on his mind.