It was my birthday, the house packed with guests. I was drunk, drinking non-stop, ignoring my boyfriend because I was sick of his lectures. He didn’t want me to drink too much, but I always went too far. When the guests finally left and we were alone, the tension exploded: he was pissed off at me, distant, not in the mood to touch me.

Out of anger and raw desire, I texted a younger guy I’d been with before, one who was still obsessed with me. At first, the idea turned my boyfriend on, but as soon as he saw me flirting with the guy in person, he regretted it.

When the boy arrived, I put on some music, kept drinking, and started dancing with him, grinding and pressing against his body until I pulled him straight into my bedroom. My boyfriend followed, torn between jealousy and lust, and eventually joined us.

I climbed on top of the younger one, feeling him fill me while he grabbed my hips, making me moan with my mouth wide open. Then I switched bodies, straddling my boyfriend, riding him hard while the other one watched, stroking himself, getting hotter by the second. At one point the boy threw himself over me and fucked me hard, and I opened up for him while jerking my boyfriend off with one hand.

That night was pure madness: he ate my pussy like he was starving, I made him suck my tits until they were wet with spit, and the two of them took turns using my body without giving me a break. We fucked for hours until the three of us collapsed in bed, drenched in sweat, completely worn out.

But in the morning, still aroused, I climbed on top of my boyfriend again, moaning and grinding while the younger one slept right next to us. That was the real ending: me fucking again, without limits, as if the night before hadn’t been enough.