SEVEN SINS - GLUTTONY – More, Sir, Please

Some nights aren’t about restraint. They’re about surrendering to appetite. Every craving. Every desire. Every slippery, filthy impulse that hums beneath the surface of control. Tonight was one of those nights.

I’d rented the penthouse for the weekend. A private indulgence. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, though the curtains were drawn tight. The space was intimate, opulent without being fussy—soft lighting, shadows in all the right places, and just enough luxury to make sin feel sacred. I’d prepared everything myself. Lube within reach. A tray of toys laid out—glass, silicone, leather. Massage oils warmed and ready. Restraints coiled neatly at the foot of the bed. Everything I needed to be worshipped, used, and undone. A speaker whispered low, slow music that moved like breath against skin. The suite was warm, the air heavy with perfume, anticipation, and something darker.

I was already reclined against a silk-draped daybed in the centre of the room, legs spread wide over the edge, heels still strapped to my feet. I wore nothing but a black satin robe, open and pooled around me. Beneath it, my skin gleamed with scented oil, my breasts full and heavy, nipples already drawn tight with need. I was soaked—slick and aching. My thighs shone with the proof of it.

I hadn’t been touched yet. That was the rule.

They were all watching. Three of them. Men I’d chosen myself.

Each one seated in a low chair positioned around me like worshippers at an altar. They were allowed to look. Allowed to stroke themselves, if they wanted. But not touch. Not until I said so.

The first man, to my left, was older—late forties, maybe early fifties. Tall, wide-chested, his beard trimmed close to his jaw. His presence was still, but commanding. His black trousers were tailored tight across thick thighs, and his eyes—dark, intense, unwavering—rested between my legs like he already knew how I tasted. There was power in his stillness. It made my breath quicken. Made me feel like I was already taken.

The second sat directly in front of me. Mid-thirties. Refined. Sculpted. His skin was a smooth, deep bronze under the low lighting, and his body moved like silk—slow and poised. He wore a white shirt, open to the chest, sleeves rolled, one hand cupped around a glass of wine while the other rested on his thigh. His cock pressed visibly against his pants, long and thick and impossible to ignore. He sipped his drink without looking away from me, eyes sharp and searching. He didn’t just want to taste me. He wanted to know what would make me break.

The third sat to my right, younger. Maybe thirty. Tattooed arms, leaner but no less dangerous. His posture was casual—one boot resting on the edge of the chair, forearms on his knees—but there was nothing relaxed about him. His gaze burned through me. Hungry. Untamed. His jeans strained over the bulge in his lap, and his lip curled slightly when he caught me looking. Animal. That’s what he felt like. Raw and ready.

I let the silence grow heavy. Let them ache.

Then I spoke.

"Strip."

Three sets of hands moved at once. Belts unfastened with urgency. Buttons slipped open, fabric shrugged from shoulders, trousers pushed down. They stood there, naked in front of me, tall and still and absolutely unashamed. Their cocks were thick and heavy—each one flushed, engorged, aching. I let my gaze roam. One was long and dark, curving slightly upward. Another wider, veined, the kind of cock that would split me open just right. The third jutted out with a bead of precum glistening at the tip. My thighs clenched at the sight.

Their chests rose with shallow breath. Hands hovered at their sides like they didn’t know whether to stroke themselves or reach for me. Muscles tense. Eyes locked on mine. They weren’t just waiting for permission. They were starving for it.

"Crawl."

They moved like predators, closing in on their prey.

The older one reached me first. He knelt between my thighs, his large hands sliding beneath my knees and pressing them apart, opening me for him. The air hit my soaked folds and I shivered. His breath followed, warm and deliberate, fanning over the most sensitive part of me before his tongue made contact.

It was slow. Intoxicating.

His tongue dragged from the base of my entrance up to my clit, firm and wide, a languid stroke that made my whole body jerk. I gasped—sharp, uncontrolled. My hips lifted without permission. He didn't rush. He licked like he was learning something sacred. Sucking gently. Circling slowly. Savoring every drop. The wet sounds of his tongue slipping over me filled the room, shameless and slick.

I cried out again—not loud, but desperate. It spilled from my throat like need too long denied.

The second man set his glass aside, then leaned in beside him, lips finding the swell of my breast. His tongue flicked over my nipple before his mouth closed around it, sucking in a steady rhythm that sent shocks down to where I was already being devoured. One of his hands slipped down, fingers grazing the oil-slicked skin of my belly.

The third man watched, eyes locked on the way my body trembled. He was still seated, still stroking his cock with slow, deliberate motions. The muscles in his forearm flexed, the veins in his hand visible, strained. His jaw was tight. His gaze burned.

My hands gripped the older man's shoulders, my fingers digging in as my thighs trembled. My voice broke into a string of gasps and whimpers. I could barely keep still. My hips kept rolling, chasing his mouth, his tongue, the slow and maddening way he licked me like he had all night to make me come.

I moaned, long and low.

The second man leaned in closer now, the wine glass long since abandoned. His breath was warm against my skin as his mouth found my nipple. He circled it with his tongue, slow and deliberate, before drawing it in deep and sucking with a steady rhythm that pulled a low moan from my lips. The sensation rippled through me, tightening everything low in my belly.

His free hand slid over my oiled belly, fingers teasing just beneath the robe but stopping short of where I was aching. A tease. A promise. His touch was practiced, deliberate—like he knew exactly how to unravel me.

The third man sat just to the side, completely still except for the slow motion of his hand stroking his cock. His eyes never left mine—narrowed, wild, full of heat. He didn’t flinch as the tattooed one moved, growling low, pushing the older man aside to take his place. He buried his face between my thighs like he belonged there, tongue desperate, reckless. I cried out—loud, filthy, undone.

The older man rose and shifted to my side. There was no way he could stay between my legs, not with the tattooed one consuming me. So instead, he found my hands, my breasts, my mouth—touching wherever he could, grounding me with the weight of his palm on my stomach, his lips against my throat. I could feel his arousal against my thigh, heavy and hot, but he didn’t take. Not yet.

The second man shifted closer, slipping in beside the others without disrupting the frenzy. He didn’t ask—he claimed. His mouth found my breast, latching onto the nipple with heat and hunger, sucking deep as his fingers gripped my waist. I moaned, sharp and broken, as he devoured me from above while another man licked me from below.

Every suck, every flick of his tongue was perfectly timed, dragging more gasps from my throat as my body twisted beneath the pressure. My hand tangled in his hair, anchoring myself as I writhed between them. He wasn’t soft. He was feral—biting gently, then licking over the sting, then biting again.

He didn’t slow. He didn’t soothe. He just kept taking. Kept wringing more from my body like he could drink the orgasm straight from my skin.

I was surrounded. Trembling. Ravished. Every man had a place, a role, a hunger—and I fed it.

My hips bucked. My voice broke. I was already right on the edge again.

It was too much. It was perfect.

The second man who was kneeling beside me moved to my stomach, kissing across the curve of my waist, then up between my breasts before his lips wrapped around one nipple again. He sucked harder this time, his hunger mounting. His hand splayed across my hip, anchoring me as I writhed, every muscle pulled tight from the pressure building inside me.

His tongue flicked against the sensitive tip, and I cried out again, my whole body jolting from the heat of it. All three of them were touching me, working in tandem—chaotic, reverent, wild.

I was gone. Lost to the onslaught. My body writhed, my hips bucked, my throat poured out a string of ragged cries. I was soaked, gushing, drenched in my own want. There was no shame. Just gluttony. And I gave in completely.

I was drenched. No shame. Just gluttony. My body was buzzing, tingling, tight.

The tattooed man rose with a quiet snarl in his throat, his eyes flashing with raw desire. I reached for him, curling my fingers around his wrist and tugging him up onto the lounge like I was claiming what was already mine. His cock was thick and pulsing, the veins prominent, the head dark and glistening with need. I straddled him, one knee on each side of his thighs, and guided him to my entrance.

The moment the head of his cock pressed against me, I moaned—low and aching. I sank down onto him slowly, inch by inch, my pussy stretching to take him. The stretch burned in the most delicious way, forcing a gasp from my lips as he filled me completely. My fingers dug into his shoulders. My head dropped forward, the fullness almost overwhelming.

He gripped my hips with both hands, fingers digging in, controlling my rhythm. I rocked against him, rolled my hips, letting his cock grind against every sensitive nerve inside me. My breasts bounced with each motion, and I could feel the slick sounds of our bodies meeting echo in the air around us.

Behind me, the older man pressed in sliding into my ass. One large hand anchored to the small of my back, his other gripping my waist. He held me steady, guiding my movement, his breath hot against my ear. Then his mouth was on my skin—lips at my throat, tongue trailing to my shoulder, then teeth grazing the curve where neck met collarbone. I gasped, clenching around the man beneath me, my body reacting to the overwhelming sensation of being held and filled and worshipped all at once.

To my side, the wine drinker stood silently, slowly stroking himself as he watched. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t wander. He watched the flush creep down my chest, the way my mouth stayed parted, the way I arched and moaned and begged with my body alone. He watched as I worked my hips in smooth, deep circles, chasing another high with every roll.

I wasn’t quiet. I was feral.

The room pulsed with the sounds of raw heat—wet friction, stuttering moans, gasping breath, and low growls that vibrated from every corner. The lounge groaned beneath our weight, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. My skin was on fire, nerves singing, every inch of me taut and trembling. My thighs were soaked, clenching around the cock inside me, my body begging for more, even as it threatened to give out.

The tattooed man beneath me was panting now, his muscles flexing as he thrust upward to meet each grind of my hips. His fingers bruised into my flesh, pulling me down harder, deeper, each stroke forcing another gasp from my throat. Behind me, the older man growled, his mouth dragging hot and open across my back, teeth scraping just above the curve of my ass as he watched me unravel.

The wine drinker stepped closer, his strokes slower now but no less desperate, his hand stroking his cock with a slick, deliberate rhythm with a slick rhythm. His body was tight with restraint, his jaw clenched, breath rasping from parted lips. I could see the flicker of frustration in his eyes—a man trying not to lose control, trying to wait his turn while the sight of my body writhing on another man’s cock tore him apart. His eyes never left mine. Not once. They burned into me, dark and dangerous, silently demanding more—more access, more permission, more of me.

And then it hit—slow, hot, unforgiving.

The climax hit me like a detonation—hot, brutal, unstoppable. My back arched, my thighs shook violently, my body clenched around the two cocks buried deep inside me. I cried out, guttural and breathless, clawing at the man beneath me as the waves crashed through me again and again. I kept riding. Kept grinding. My hair clung to my face, my chest heaving, my body soaking him with every movement.

But it wasn’t enough.

The second wave came faster. Sharper. My scream broke free as my body clamped down once more, overwhelmed by sensation. My vision blurred. I could hear their moans, feel their hands—ravenous, possessive—urging me through it.

And still, I wanted more.

But I wasn’t finished.

"More," I whispered.

They obeyed.

The older man slid free with a groan, his hands steadying my hips. I stayed poised, panting, dripping, as the tattooed one moved in behind me. His cock was thick and slick, and he didn’t wait—he pushed in slow but demanding, stretching me open all over again. I gasped at the intrusion, my back arching as I adjusted to him. He grabbed my waist, anchoring me as he sank deep. The stretch was sharp, then perfect. I rocked back against him, already chasing more.

In front of me, the second man stepped closer. His cock was flushed, glistening, already wet with my spit from before. I reached for him again, curling my fingers around his hips and guiding him to my mouth. I licked the head once, slowly, teasingly, then took him in deep. He groaned, low and wrecked, one hand fisting gently in my hair as I sucked him with purpose—slow, steady, unrelenting.

I rocked between them—mouth full, ass filled—each thrust and roll of their hips pushing me closer to the edge. My body was slick, trembling, stretched tight around them. Every nerve a live wire.

I moaned around the cock in my throat. And they gave me more.

They moved me—hands on my waist, my back, my thighs—guiding, shifting, repositioning me with seamless coordination. I was turned, angled, straddling one cock while another lined up behind me. The older man sank onto the lounge, and I climbed on top, lowering myself slowly onto his cock—thick, familiar, stretching me all over again. I cried out as he filled me, my hands braced against his chest.

Behind me, the tattooed one returned, gripping my hips hard as he pressed against my ass. I was already slick, already trembling, and when he pushed in, my entire body arched. The stretch was brutal and perfect. I was gasping, held open by two thick cocks, completely claimed.

My breath was ragged, my body twitching with sensation. I was dripping. Wide open. Owned.

The second man stepped in front of me again, cock wet and flushed from my mouth earlier. I met his eyes, parted my lips, and took him in deep—my mouth stretching wide around him. His hand curled into my hair, his breath ragged as I sucked him slow, my tongue circling the head before swallowing him down again. His hips rolled into my mouth, restrained but desperate.

I was used. Surrounded. My body rocked between them, stretched and filled, every nerve alive. The man behind me grunted with each thrust, hips slamming into my ass, his breath hot and heavy against the back of my neck. The one in my mouth trembled beneath my tongue, growling something unintelligible as I swallowed around him.

I moaned around his cock. It vibrated through all three of us.

They fed me. Filled me. Worshipped me.

Again. And again.

Until my body gave out—legs trembling, muscles spent, my skin slick with sweat and slickness, every inch of me flushed and throbbing. I collapsed onto the lounge in a boneless sprawl, limbs tangled and lips parted as I gasped for air, my chest heaving. My throat was raw from moaning, my inner thighs smeared with the mess of all of us.

One of them—still breathing hard—lifted me gently, wrapping a warm towel around my shoulders like I was something precious that had just been thoroughly, lovingly ruined. Another knelt beside me, eyes dark, reverent, and pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh—soft, wet, and lingering, right where I'd been dripping moments before. His mouth left a mark. A claim.

I closed my eyes and exhaled. Satisfied. Spent. Utterly owned.

And I smiled.

Because gluttony isn’t about guilt.

It’s about indulgence.

And the whispered hunger for more.

Have you read Lust—the first sin?

Each story in the Seven Sins series is its own indulgence.

Gluttony fed your hunger.

Lust will leave you aching.

And there are five more sins waiting—filthier, darker, and designed to ruin you in all the right ways.

How deep will you let desire take you?

Read the full Seven Sins series here