Pleasure Island
Copyright© 2022 by MariannaLove
Chapter 27
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 27 - Chelsea Miller is a 25-year-old Makeup Artist. She cohabitates with her boyfriend Aston whom she hopes to marry one day. However, Ashton does not have plans to be tied down to any one woman. He feels variety is the spice of life and lives to his motto. One day, Chelsea arrives home early from work she gets to witness her boyfriend of five years sexing two women in their bed. She threatens to leave. Find out what happens when Chelsea heads to Pleasure Island and goes buck wild.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Consensual Romantic Gay Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Humor Cheating Sharing Group Sex Orgy Swinging Interracial Black Male Black Female White Male White Female Hispanic Male Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Oral Sex Squirting Big Breasts
Ashton ... More Shenanigans
Saturday morning. I was at home pacing the living room. Chelsea was on her way to Orlando. I couldn’t believe it when Lisa said that Chelsea was contemplating moving in with this dude for good. It took forever for me to convince her to move in together and after only a couple of weeks, she was thinking about going to this dude’s crib to play house.
I was convinced that she was just doing this shit to get a reaction out of me. I had stopped sleeping with other women. I had not been with anyone since that shit popped off with Elise. I needed my girl. If this dude wanted me to challenge me, I had years of experience with Chelsea. He had two weeks. This was a game he’d lose miserably.
I grabbed my phone and sent him a message on Facebook, “Bro, I know you think you got Chelsea but trust me her heart belongs to me.”
I saw that he read the message. He didn’t respond. I sent another message, “Chelsea is my girl. I’m coming for what belongs to me.”
He read it and didn’t respond. I sent another message, “I know your bitch ass see these messages. What you too afraid to respond?”
Then he blocked me. I tossed my phone on the sofa and yelled, “Arrggggh, fuck.”
That night, I went club hopping. I drank. I tried to find my soul at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. It was late. The bartender took my keys. He was tripping. I called Lisa to come to get me. After she fussed at me for a few minutes, she came.
I was sitting on the curb. She helped me into her ride and later drove off. I sat in her car miserable. I felt sick and not from all the alcohol. Just sick. I complained the whole drive to my apartment. When we got there, I realized I forgot to get my keys from the bartender.
By the time we went back, the place was already closed. Lisa was noticeably angry that she had to take me to her place for the night.
“Negro. You got me out here in my pajamas and a damn bonnet trying to help you. You need to get your shit together.”
“I’m sorry Lisa. Look at me. I’m sorry.” I fought back tears. She finally took pity on me. She handed me some tissues. I blew my nose.
“Look, I have company. Two of my friends are visiting from Mississippi. Please behave yourself and don’t come into my house with no noise, whining, cussing, or complaining.”
“I just need to sleep. Promise I’ll behave.”
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