F/M/M/OTEL, or Room 207

By Tommie Sharpe

Copyright ©2026

Tyler hated how quiet his apartment felt at night. The walls hummed with the faint drone

of his neighbors’ televisions, but otherwise it was just him, alone with the pale glow of his

laptop. His pants were already around his ankles.

The video playing was one he’d told himself he wouldn’t click again: two men kneeling

side by side, their mouths working hungrily up and down a stranger’s cock, their faces slick with strings of pearly spit. Tyler’s hand worked faster, heart pounding with shame. He’d told himself for years he was straight. He liked women—he did. But still, every few nights he wound up here, cock in his hand, watching men choke, gag, and swallow while some woman cheered them on.

When the man on the screen erupted, thick streams of cum painting both their faces,

Tyler groaned, pumping harder, riding the edge of disgust and need. He came with a shudder, hot and messy over his fist, the shame immediate. He closed the tab, panting, wiping at himself with a T-shirt he’d probably have to throw out.

But his hand didn’t go for sleep mode. Instead, it clicked the “classifieds” tab. The site

was sleazy, filled with anonymous hookups and half-blurred photos. He scrolled until one

headline stopped him cold:

“Married couple seeks open-minded first-timer. Discretion. Motel meet. No strings.”

His cock stirred again, traitorous. Before he could overthink, he typed: Interested—first

time. Tell me where.

*

The motel was a dive, all buzzing neon and nicotine-stained curtains. That was part of why he’d chosen it—neutral ground, no trace afterward. Tyler’s hands trembled as he checked the room number against the message on his phone. His cock was already hard, a knot of nerves and hunger he’d never admitted to anyone before. Tonight, he wasn’t just another straight guy jerking off to porn in secret. Tonight, he was walking into something raw.

The door opened before he knocked.

“Come in,” the man said—older, broad-shouldered, his beard salted with gray. His

presence filled the doorway. Behind him, Tyler caught sight of her: dark hair spilling across pale shoulders, silk robe hanging open enough to expose the weight of her breasts. The air smelled of sweat and latex, sharp and animal.

The man locked the door, sliding the chain into place. “First time, huh?” His voice had

that gravel that came from cigarettes and too much whiskey.

Tyler nodded, throat dry.

The woman smiled knowingly. “Don’t be shy. We’ve been waiting.”

She tugged him closer, pressing her mouth against his neck, while her husband stripped

his shirt over his head. Tyler’s pulse hammered. He’d thought he’d be with her first, but the man shoved him down onto the bed with a heavy hand.

“You’ll take both of us. That’s the deal.”

Tyler’s protest died on his tongue when the man’s cock brushed against his lips, thick and

demanding. His body betrayed him, cock aching, leaking in his jeans. He opened his mouth. The taste hit sharp—skin and salt, pre-cum bitter on his tongue.

The wife slid between his legs, unzipping him, freeing his cock. Her hand was warm,

slicking him with spit before stroking hard.

Tyler’s knees pressed into the worn carpet, his mouth stretched wide around the older

man’s cock. The weight of it was overwhelming, thick and insistent, shoving deep into his throat until his body spasmed. He gagged, strings of drool spilling onto his bare chest.

“Breathe through it,” the man ordered, fist tight in Tyler’s hair. “Take it like a good

whore.”

The wife crouched beside him, stroking his cheek with mock tenderness. Her robe had

slipped open completely, nipples hard in the cold air. She watched with rapt delight, her free

hand sliding down between her own thighs.

Tyler tried to brace himself, but then the man groaned, hips driving forward, cock

swelling. A hot, bitter flood shot down his throat before he realized what was happening.

He jerked, choking. Cum filled his mouth, spilling past his lips as he gagged violently,

half-swallowing, half-spitting, his eyes streaming. He doubled forward, nearly vomiting, the taste acrid and thick.

“Don’t you waste it,” the wife hissed.

She was on him instantly, fingers scooping the pearly mess from his lips and chin,

shoving it back between his teeth. He coughed, tried to turn away, but she pressed her mouth to his. Her tongue forced his lips open as she spat the stolen load into him, kissing him deep, messy, relentless.

Cum smeared both their mouths, dripped down their chins. The husband knelt beside

them, still hard, grabbing Tyler’s face to force him into another filthy kiss. The three of them

tangled together, mouths trading spit and semen until Tyler couldn’t tell whose tongue or fluid he was tasting anymore.

“Swallow it,” the husband growled.

Tyler obeyed, throat convulsing as the last of it slid down, leaving a bitter trail.

The wife laughed breathlessly. “He’s so pretty like this. Ruined.” Her hand slid down,

wrapping around his cock, sticky from where his own cum had already leaked across his

stomach. She pumped him mercilessly, wrist twisting, smearing his shaft with spit and what

traces of the husband’s release still clung to her fingers.

“Stroke for us,” she whispered against his ear. “Stroke while we kiss you, filthy.”

The husband crashed his mouth against Tyler’s again, their teeth clashing, tongues

battling through the taste of him. The wife’s hand was relentless, milking him faster, harder, until his thighs shook.

Tyler broke first—his cock erupting in heavy, desperate spurts across his stomach and

chest. She caught some on her fingers, smearing it deliberately over his lips, over the husband’s beard, then licking it herself with a groan.

The three of them collapsed into a tangle on the cheap motel bed, their mouths finding

each other again and again, sticky with mingled cum and spit, the stench of sex heavy in the

stagnant air.

*

Later, when they finally let him go, Tyler stood at the sink, splashing water on his raw

face. His reflection was unrecognizable—hair matted, lips swollen, chin still glistening. He

gripped the porcelain, trying to steady his shaking hands.

He should feel disgust. He should feel shame. But instead, a slow, dangerous heat curled

in his gut. The porn had never come close to this. Nothing ever would.

He opened his phone. Deleted the dating app. Bookmarked the motel’s number. When he

left the room, the neon buzzed over him like a brand. His skin still smelled of them. Tyler knew he’d be back.

About the Author:

Tommie Sharpe writes erotica and dark romance under a pen name, drawn to obsession, consent honed into ritual, and the holy ache of desire. Their stories live in liminal places: motel rooms and late-night screens. They prefer to remain unphotographed, letting the page serve as their portrait.