What to Wear to Your First Threesome

Literotic asexstories – What to Wear to Your First Threesome by crisdixon,crisdixon
“You look like you should be hosting an insurance seminar.”

A young-ish wife was chiding her man on the clothes he’d chosen for their special occasion. He was waiting impatiently with her in a hotel room booked for just one night.

“Do you want to roleplay?” she teased. “Here – I’ll be the super-hot, super-horny woman who won’t let you touch her, and you can be the schlub who jerks it in his hotel room.”

Ouch, wifey. She felt a pang of regret as soon as the words rolled off her tongue. Had she gone too far?

No.

It was just fair. Red polo shirt, khaki pants. The look he was going for had fallen short of champion golfer making a Sunday charge and landed on a red flag to her bull. Not helping his cause any: he was sitting in the obligatory task chair that hotels provide for their more business-y guests, making him look a little too much like a worker bee in a cubicle or lonely guy in town for a symposium.

Still, what if she had hurt his feelings, scared him off? Fat chance. Long odds. No amount of withering shade could dim the giddy anticipation he was feeling. As far as he knew, what was about to go down in that room was worth almost any price of admission, and he actually liked this feisty side of her. It was kind of the whole point of this little affair. What could possibly cause him to wave the white flag of surrender?

Only one way to find out, but to keep turning the page.

“Sorry,” he began in retort, “no one gave me a copy of ‘What to Wear to Your 1st Threesome.'”

Cringe.

“It’s my fault,” she graciously offered, “I should have picked out your clothes, like I usually do. #wifefail.”

Note to hubs: that’s how you turn a self-own into a sick burn. Bow to your queen.

Her fit on the other hand was unassailable: little black dress hugging every curve, fuck-me platform heels in black patent leather. Underneath? I won’t get into it right now, but trust me: equally on point. You’ll see.

While they waited for their special guest to arrive, she was doing her darndest to be the cool chick in this scenario. Her well appointed backside was propped against the desk affixed to the wall, one elegant foot draped over the other in a casual pose that belied the turmoil making a mess of her. She was almost pulling it off, but she had a couple of tells. One calf would shift against the other when her hips squirmed restlessly from time to time; and the single finger inserted just between her strawberry lips was trembling slightly. She removed it to look at her watch.

“If they flake for much longer, I just might have to fuck you right out of those awful clothes.”

Game over, 40 love, but hold that thought. There’s a knock at the door.

——–

Was this little rendezvous his idea? Was it hers? When a couple’s been together as long as they have, it could only be theirs. They shared everything.

It started with a moment of perfect honesty. Ask anyone: Honesty is the cornerstone of any healthy relationship.

“What’s your deepest fantasy?”

Okay, but don’t answer that, wife. Absolutely don’t, for example, admit that you secretly hunger for something more, if that’s your jam, pillow princess cum slut or size queen. It doesn’t matter how many times he asks. He had asked a lot. For months, if not years, it was like a ritual or a game that played out in the runup to their affectionate sex. He would ask her between seductive, tender kisses on the nape of her neck or in pauses between deep kisses on her lips.

“I don’t have any,” she demurred without fail and without pause, “I want whatever you want.”

She knew the rules. Be sweet. Be accommodating. Make everyone comfortable. Be a good host. Safeguard the sanctity of this bond, like your survival depends on it. That’s the wife’s job.

They’d met young. Highschool sweethearts, if you can believe it. Now that they were good and married – really really married, not newly married, not just a couple of crazy kids – he felt uniquely obligated to help her unlock the really filthy stuff he was pretty sure she kept bottled up. They needed to make up for lost time, head off the FOMO of fumbling around as clumsy virgins who hadn’t a clue what they were all about. No judgment – we’ll figure this out together. No need to be shy, no need to hold back. He only wanted whatever she wanted (well, thought he did). So supportive, so open-minded, so obsessed.

He seemed to let it drop, eventually. I mean, you can only ask the same question and get the same answer back so many hundreds of times before you get the hint, amirite? But he was undeterred. He had merely paused to change tacks, a patient tiger crouched in tall grass.

On some future night under a new moon, they coupled on the couch until his tender kisses had coaxed her out of all but a pale blue bra and matching panties (his purchase). Oh, that sight. He could stare at her, just like this, for hours; but sooner or later, he would reluctantly decide it was time to move things along, whereupon he would lead his little lingerie model from living room to bedroom. He completed her undressing beneath a wash of silver light that shone through blinds half-closed. Stripes of light slanted across the outward curve of her breasts, her hard nipple, her stomach, and the strip of hair stippling the gentle rise of her mound, his dreamy wonderland that he would wander with his fingertips from neck to waist over and over. He nestled his lips next to her ear. He kept tantalizing her skin, occasionally circling between her legs, but never dipping fully between her lips, never parting the little patch of hair to visit anything more upon her clit than the most maddening tease. He came impossibly close to touching her at the spot where her soft flesh curved inward, but all he gave her was a vanishing caress of the utterly wet edge of her innermost lips, as he breathed into her ear: “Do you want me to touch your pussy?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“Is it throbbing?”

She nodded again. It was aching, desperate to be touched. He continued to tease until the ache grew impossibly intense, her hips lifting up off the bed to try to catch his finger and unleash the immense pressure she felt from the tip of her clit to to its furthest reaches inside her. His fingers danced away, just out of reach. The feeling inside her continued to grow. So devious. So cruel.

He moved from her side to between her legs, his hands still running over her skin. He was now naked, too, having shed his clothes in a flash, and his hard cock was poised and ready just outside her. She opened her eyes and locked her gaze on his.

“Please” she whispered.

“Please what?”

“Please touch it. It hurts.”

“I’ll only touch it if you tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what it wants.”

“It wants your dick.” She looked down at it, at the engorged head, the hard shaft. All of it. Now. Please.

“But if it could have anything at all, what would it want most?”

She bit her lip. He was close to getting his way. He could feel it.

“Tell me. Tell me anything.”

She was beginning to doubt that she would hold him at bay. The ache was beyond unbearable now, every delicate movement of his fingers over her skin and every sight of his cock another stab of exquisite torture. Her body, her mind – it was all getting ready for a more and more appealing trade: capitulation for copulation.

Consequences be damned, “It wants a dick,” she blurted out, “it wants a massive dick filling it up, over and over again.”

In one fluid motion, he plunged his cock between her lips swollen and slick, but still so tight that the sudden intrusion of his dick provoked a gasp. Her eyes shot open and her head rolled back in ecstatic shock that fanned out into relief. At last, give it what it needs. He fucked her until she came.

After, she rested in his arms, quiet with worry that led her to seek to reassure.

“You know I meant your dick, right?”

He chuckled. “Didn’t sound like it.”

She tried to pass it off. “It was just dirty talk,” she said, “Literally the first thing that popped into my head. I was playing off of whatever I thought might get you to touch it.” Then she added an extra phrase that sounded like it strained even her own incredulity: “I was afraid it wouldn’t work.”

Side eye.

“It must have popped in there for a reason. Look, don’t feel bad. I asked. You answered. What you want is what you want. It doesn’t threaten me. You can want more dick, as long as you still want my dick.”

He’d seen himself in the mirror. No one was going to use phrases like “Greek statue” or “Adonis” around his bod. A little soft in the middle. Broad shoulders, strong arms, but no veins visibly popping anywhere. And his dick. His dick was fine, perfectly serviceable. Hard worker, eager to please, but he knew the stats. Verdict: it was not brag-to-your-girlfriends material.

He stroked her hair. “I could even be okay making it a reality.”

She said nothing in response; he let it go; and the magnanimous offer lingered in limbo in her thoughts indefinitely. Outside of that moment, the fantasy was indistinct, intriguing in a vague sort of way. It goes without saying that she didn’t believe his seemingly enlightened encouragement. How much jealousy and rage had she witnessed in her lifetime? Don’t tell me men are the rational ones. From observation, the concept of sharing dims for the male of the species at the end of kindergarten; it is on its deathbed by the time the allure of pussy makes him lose his mind around the seventh grade. She waited weeks and months for hints of anger and fear (or worse: budding obsession) to emerge. When none were forthcoming, her curiosity popped its head out of its hiding place cautiously, during a warm font of afterglow. Safe a time as any, while the oxytocin still runs high but the testosterone and prolactin are low.

“Did you really mean it when you said you’d be okay making it a reality?”

“What a reality?”

“My fantasy.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I meant it.”

So casual. Just “that.” He can’t be serious. Oh, yes, he can.

“Aren’t you afraid I might like it more?”

“I can live my whole life in selfish fear of the worst that could happen, or I could wonder, ‘What’s the best?'”

“And in this case that would be…?”

“I get to see you enjoy yourself in a way I wouldn’t get to otherwise. It might be amazing.”

“What if it’s not and we regret it afterwards? It’ll be too late to take it back.”

“It’s always too late to take anything back. If we thought like that, we’d panic at every decision we make, even the seemingly safe ones. We’d freak out, even when nothing changes. The status quo is not the absence of a decision, but an infinite series of decisions to keep doing the same thing. We never know the alternate path, unless we take it. It’s how we deal with the way we feel about it after that matters. Celebrate every experience. Regret is a waste of time.”

“Won’t you get jealous?”

“Maybe, but why? What do I get out of depriving you or even him? If I’ve already been fed, do I get fuller by slapping someone else’s plate away?”

She was a plate of food, she thought, but okay, point taken. He did have a couple of conditions. The first was uncontroversial: it had to be someone they were both okay with. The second was a struggle.

“We do it together. It will be a shared experience. This fabled other dick would be an extension of me, not a substitute or replacement.”

“You mean I would have to be with you both at the same time?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, hesitantly. “That’s a lot of pressure. I’m not sure I want to have to take care of two men at the same time.”

She pictured it like this: one insistent dick in her face demanding a blowjob, while she was trying to concentrate on the dick that might actually make her cum – the one buried in her twat. Not her idea of fun. There was a real fear factor, too. Two aroused men in the same place at the same time…let me count the ways that can go wrong.

“No, no” he said, “We would take care of you, as a team, one taking up exactly where the other leaves off. We would get off on getting you off. It’s the only way this works.”

Hmm. It would require some thought, she thought, but her subconscious hopped right on board. What id doesn’t like being the center of attention? The occasional abstract sexual dream she had of her man doing things to her became populated with a larger, faceless, equally attentive second, whose presence and intuitive, empathetic, and ample skill provoked a vivid intensity that shook her awake to an insistent warmth between her legs, which she would have to smother with her palm to get it to leave her alone so she could get back to sleep.

She would rub it away, imperceptibly and quietly, so as not to wake him. With the ebb of the secret orgasm came a wash of guilt. There’s a word, she thought, for a woman who enjoys even one dick or a few too many or too much, much less a woman who allows herself to entertain two in concert at the same time, who lets herself imagine herself being entitled to whatever sensations two dicks could deliver that one could not (“Slut,” she thought, “It would make me a slut.”). The illicit rush of programmed taboo only intensified the power of the idea. She’d repeat the word to herself each time the dream left her shook from slumber. “Slut,” she’d silently mouth, as her fingers rubbed her off, “I’m a dirty slut.” She came that much harder with the unvoiced word on the tip of her tongue.

In her waking moments, her thoughts incrementally evolved.

“Not for me. I’m not that girl.”

“You’d need just the right guy to pull it off. Not pushy at al. Someone I’m 100% comfortable around. Zero pressure.”

“Hard to find, though. Not a stranger, but not someone we know…”

“Where would we even start?”

And there it was: the very practical question of someone who’s decided that the vicious cycle of fascination compelled her to try.

“Okay.”

“Let’s not put any pressure on it,” her man counseled, when she announced her agreement to his terms, “I don’t want to become those people: you know, constantly trolling, all about one thing. Let’s just meet people, see if someone clicks. If they never do, this little fantasy will remain just that. We’ll have fun with it. If nothing else, it’ll be informative. Call it a social experiment, if that’s all it is. ”

He would handle the recruitment; she would approve all online profiles. He would do the first round of screening to guard against creeps and weirdos; she would have final say on whether any meet-up would take place.

And so began what came to feel like a fruitless series of drinks, coffees, the occasional lunch. Some of the men were nice enough, but every one of them was obsessed, every one of them was all too eager to brag about their prowess and the size of their package. It was bland and tedious and off-putting. Her mind was left firmly closed, to say nothing of her legs; and it was beginning to leave her oddly depressed by the wasteland this little jag had led them into.

“We should stop,” she said in a deeply resigned tone one day over dinner.

He was unsurprised and unfazed. “Okay,” he replied, simple as that. The boundaries remained where they had always been, and that was fine…until.

They were driving in the middle of nowhere, one of those long winding ribbons of asphalt through wilderness punctuated at irregular intervals by a trailhead. Next to one was a parked car with raised hood, white ribbon flying from a corner to indicate a traveler in need. As they approached, a figure waved to them. Her man slowed the car and pulled over as the figure resolved itself into a man.

“I thought we were the only ones who came out this way. Let me check it out.” Yes, brave man. Go explore.

She waited patiently in the car, watching the silent movie of their conversation.

“Hey, thanks for stopping.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Well,” he said, with a sheepish, aw-shucks grin, “I miscalculated. I don’t have enough gas to get to the nearest station this way [he pointed back the way they came] or that [he pointed in the direction they were going], and I’m just hoping someone is willing to take me one way or the other, so I can buy some fuel and find my way back here. Hopefully.”

“OK, give me a second to talk it over with my co-pilot.”

They were more than willing to give him a lift. As he procured and filled the biggest gas can he could buy, they told him they’d take him back, too.

“Gosh, you don’t have to do that. If you got places you need to be, keep going. I’ll find another ride.”

“We’re not in a rush.”

“Well, at least let me buy you lunch or something. I really do appreciate this.”

The three of them sat and talked over beers. The man was spending the summer moving from place to place, camping, doing this and that.

“Life a drifter?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t say that. I’m just taking a break. I’ll settle down in the fall, go back to my boring 9-to-5.”

At some point, the beer kicked in, and she felt the need to excuse herself. “I am going to use the ladies,” she announced and got up. As she left the table, other man’s eyes flitted for a second – just a fraction of a second – to that ass. Someone took note.

“Did you just check out my wife?”

“What?!” the other man asked, startled, “No! No, no, I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t.”

“Look, relax. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Wave of the hand, pursed lips, shrug of the shoulders. “None taken. I might be more offended if you hadn’t. I have eyes.”

The other man shifted in his chair and looked around. “Are you for real? This isn’t like a scam or a hidden camera show or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m just a realist. I’d look, too.”

“How long you been together?”

Her man held up a collection of fingers.

“Wow, and you aren’t possessive. Good for you.”

“You reach a point where you’re comfortable, you know…and anyway, I can’t afford to be jealous. She catches looks. I mean, you saw. Those jeans. I wonder sometimes if she just doesn’t know how she looks in them or if she wears them to torture me.”

“Either way, you’re a very lucky man.”

“Thank you yes. Apple bottom, so tight. God. And that shirt. She’s gotta know I can see her bra right through it, right? When she bends over, I can’t help but look down it. I’m like a school kid with her. It’s almost embarrassing.”

“I’d be in the same boat, if I were in your shoes.”

This guy gets it. “Kind of nice to be able to say it to someone.” Pause, and then a thought. “I hope you won’t find this weird, but she and I have been talking about something lately, and I’m wondering if you would be interested in…”

“Hey, you two!”

What do you know? She was back to a suddenly quiet table full of slightly strained glances.

“What were you two boys talking about?” she inquired in a solicitous tone.

“Uh,” her man stammered. Pull up! Pull up! Other man to the rescue (quick on his feet): “We were just discussing the career reality I’m putting off going back to for as long as I can afford.”

“What is it you do?”

“I’m an actuary.”

“Oh,” she said and crinkled her nose, “I don’t blame you for not rushing back.”

They fell back into conversation. The question her man had been about to pose went unasked. As they talked, she contemplated the handsome stranger. Her mind wandered to a place wherein she was comparing him to the endless stream of men she’d shut the door on. “Why couldn’t we have met someone like this on the apps?” she wondered. Funny. Self-effacing. Respectful. Zero creep factor at all. Has some ambition, but enjoys life. The perfect temperamental complement to her man. From certain angles, he even rather resembled him (except in one crucial dimension, she hoped), which might make it easier. He had a kind smile, strong jaw, light hair, and he was in shape – trim from a summer spent outdoors, broad shoulders…and then it struck – an unguarded twinge she hadn’t let herself feel since meeting her man – the butterflies of a schoolgirl crush that her adult self recognized as the passing of instantaneous judgment. Under the right set of circumstances, she would let this man fuck her. Should she pull her man aside to share her epiphany? She deemed the odds of awkwardness too high (“Sweetheart, I’ve experienced a breakthrough. Ask him, ‘Hey, I know we just met, but would you be interested in…'”).

They dropped the man off uneventfully and drove on. Her eyes lingered on the image of him receding ever smaller in the side view mirror wistfully until he vanished from view around a bend, leaving her with a yearning and a renewed sense of optimism that returned her to their carefully anonymized profiles to review matches. Even if it couldn’t be him, his mere existence proved that somewhere out there, there was someone.

And boy, was there ever. It didn’t happen right away, but one day in late autumn, she tripped across a prospective match from a familiar gentleman with a kind, broad smile. Of all the towns in all the world, what are the odds Mr. Man with a Stable Career would settle in one 20 miles from theirs? Close enough for sex. Far enough to avoid running into him if it didn’t work out. Swipe. Message, message, message.

For him, what a pleasant shock: that couple – who would have thought?

Schedule. Wait. Think and rethink again. And again. Touch yourself to the thought, until a week out, when you start saving yourself for the big night.

“Are you excited?” her man asked. He’d read somewhere that it was important to check in with your partner before and after. Exercise care.

“Yeah.”

“Not very convincing.”

“I don’t know. A little nervous, too.” A lot nervous, still.

“You know,” he told her, “You can call a halt at any time, even in the moment. You’re in complete control.”

It didn’t put her at ease. She didn’t need the reminder. The woman always has final say. Duh. You know…her pussy, her rules. The privilege and the burden. That’s why, whatever happens, it’s all my fault. If it turns out his fragile ego can’t deal with seeing another man’s dick in her pussy, it’s she, not he, who will be the greedy little slut. If she pulls out (ha – that’s a first!), he’s not going to be not disappointed at his little fantasy falling apart.

“That’s not half as reassuring as you think it is.”

“I mean, any of us can pull out at any time…”

“Okay, nice to not feel quite so alone, but choice of words?”

“…but we each have to make our own decisions,” he finished, “I can’t make yours for you.”

“Just tell me you’re nervous, like I am.”

“I am,” he lied.

He was already living in that future moment that this whole night spun around, the moment when she has dissolved into a puddle of want, her yielding confines outlining a hunger that her hips are trying desperately to satisfy, voraciously swallowing him in search of that something sublime that will tip her over the edge of ecstasy. She will destroy them both. She will milk the last lingering vestiges of self-control from him until he loses himself inside of her, leaving her on the precipice of yawning despair.

In that moment of raw hunger, he finally has his prize, and there is almost nothing he won’t do to give her everything she wants, almost no help he won’t invoke to coax the sated gasp that escapes from between her lips, when her body stretches to the line dividing pleasure from pain, and the line melts away.

It would all unspool backwards from there, in a series of scenes carefully choreographed and rehearsed to perfection in his mind. He knew every move he’d make. He had the perfect role for the other man.

——–

At the front desk of the hotel, they were ensconced in the bubble of mirth that surrounds people who have a juicy little secret. She draped herself on his arm affectionately, as he checked in, turning to her every chance he got with a giddy grin, like they were two illicit lovers sneaking away for a tryst, while the clerk tried hard not to roll her jaded eyes. When they got to the room and opened the door, he followed on her heels, like a puppy dog. He hung back in the entryway, as she checked out the scene, trailing her fingers along the hallway wall, depositing her bag on the bed on her way to staring absentmindedly out the window, before shutting the brocade curtains resolutely shut.

“I’m gonna get ready,” she announced in no one particular’s direction.

He rather expected she might remove herself to the bathroom and shut the door, but no, she pretended he wasn’t even there. Standing right where she was as he looked on, she placed her graceful fingers on the waist of the jeans hugging her hips maddeningly tight, undid the buttons holding them in place and peeled the denim off the round shape of her ass and over the soft skin of her thighs, the indentation of her knees, and the inverted pears of her calves, bending over to the floor in the pale yellow thong he had desperately hoped she would have on. He already knew she was wearing the matching bra. For the entire length of the chauffeured drive from home to hotel, he’d been staring at the familiar lace through the thin fabric of the t-shirt she now lifted over her head. She teased the panties from between the spot where they were swallowed by her ass, pausing just a beat so he could catch the sight of them pulling away from around her lips before they dropped to the floor. She turned, and as his eyes slid from her mound up the smooth skin of her stomach (his constant dilemma – which part of her to ogle first), the bra was unclasped and came off, revealing the teardrop shape of breasts he would cup in his hands if he could. She paid him no mind, as she gathered her vanity kit and something black and lacy from her overnight bag on her way to the shower. He trailed behind her naked form and watched as she got under a stream of steaming water, soaped up her breasts, her pits, her stomach, and…her mound, the strip of hair over which she tidied into a trim little line, until it practically screamed for him to follow it to the cute little dimple where he would bury his tongue to smother her clit then eat her pussy out, if only she asked. But the slightest gesture of her hand towards her midsection, and he would be on his knees or on his back.

Still naked, she leaned over the sink to wipe the fog off the mirror and color her lips bright cherry red. The way she pressed her lips together and oh, that bare ass, he thought, bent over the counter, right there for his hands…but no, must wait. She took up the pile of lace she’d retrieved from her bag, and he watched every painstaking flourish of the slow-motion striptease-in-reverse, as she slid the ephemeral black panties up her legs until they were snugged over her pussy and stretched across the curve of each side of her ass, making it look even rounder than it already was, a juicy peach begging for a bite. She walked away, and he watched every jiggle, every bounce in the flesh below the line of the panties as her hips swayed. She paused to pick up…nothing at all, and as she bent over towards the front, her lips – swaddled in that black silk – practically bulged in his face. She went to her bag and retrieved her bra and dress, shrugged both on.

Sitting on the side of the bed, she finally acknowledged he was in the room, beckoning for him to approach and asking for his help to clasp her shiny black stilettos around her ankles. While he was at her feet, she carelessly let her legs spread apart – oops – hiking the slinky hemline of her dress up her thighs enough for him to sneak a peek.

“I think my panties are already soaked,” she said as she stood and turned away from him, “Honey – would you zip me up?”

He clasped the dainty zipper resting just above that ass. Puppy dog no more. His dick was a chained beast, straining at its cage, slobbering away for the juicy chunk of meat just out of reach, tucked away underneath just a couple of layers of clothes. He dutifully slid her dress closed over the ivory skin of her back and the emphatic line of her bra. Show’s over.

And now…the interminable wait. Bzzt bzzt, He checked his cell phone. Their special guest was late. Just traffic, he texted, so mundane. Be there soon. And then he was.

He led other man back to where she awaited them both. They only stood in an awkward triangle of silence for a few seconds before she was suddenly content to wait no longer. Her man watched in horror as she rushed to claim a far more meager prize than what he had in store. She lifted herself away from the desk and walked over to the other man, hooked her fingers inside the buckle of his belt, undid the button guarding the zipper, and began to pull the teeth apart against the pressure of something squeezing them shut, sneaking a first feel of that obdurate mass as her fingers glided the pull down as far as it could go, whereupon her fingers returned to his waist to slip inside, and….just like that, her man saw an evening so ripe with promise rapidly crumbling into ruin. Honey, I have so much more in mind for you. Don’t fumble it away.

She felt a tug. It was her man, trying to pull her away. She resisted. Over stubborn shoulder, she glanced his way.

“What’s up?”

“I,” he stammered, unprepared. He had foreseen this moment, knew to interrupt. She’d turn, they would kiss, and… He never expected anything different. “I…I…”

“You what?”

“I want to kiss you,” he finally blurted out.

“Oh, that’s nice, but I’ve kind of got my hands full right now. Or I’d like to.” Wink.

“This isn’t what I pictured.” He looked confused.

“Didn’t you tell me I was in control?”

“I mean…yeah, but I…that’s not…”

“I’ve decided I want you to watch.”

“Watch? But I…”

“Shhh. Shhh. Here, take a seat.”

He suffered himself to be put back in the dull chair, as she leaned over him. He stared down her dress at the smooth shape of both her tits pressed together, spilling from her black bra, as she whispered into his ear, “Let’s see how you feel about it after.”

He sat in shock, as she turned back to the task at hand.

“Now where was I?”

In no time at all, her hands were back at other man’s waist, fingers hooked inside the broad elastic band of his underwear, just inside of which…

“My husband,” she shared with the man, “reminded me not days ago: I can call a halt to the proceedings at any time. If I’m going to violate my wedding vows, I should probably have a pretty good reason, so before we go any further, if you don’t mind, I need to find out if what you have is worth my time. That’s fair, isn’t it, dear?”

Another glance behind.

Her man swallowed and gave her a solemn nod. The other man just gave her an understanding smile, dark jeans hanging open in silent invitation. Please, inspect the goods. She placed her hands flat on the outside of his hips inside his clothes and slid both his jeans and his underwear down to mid-thigh.

“Well, well,” she remarked and stepped a bit aside, so her man might see what she saw: other man’s dick hanging between his legs, semi-hard, twitching in time to the thick vein pumping away at its base.

“Wow,” she sighed, “Here I haven’t so much as seen one of these besides his [she tilted her head in the direction of her man] in I-can’t-tell-you how long, and I’m seeing that. And to think I’m allowed to touch it. I mean, kind of allowed. Can’t take back what I said in front of family and friends.”

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it, hypnotized. From the chair, he watched her stare. He knew that look. Don’t tell me women aren’t visual creatures. He’d seen this one gaze too many times at his cock like a cat cackling over a bird as if it were already caught. That look, always reserved for his cock, was trained on strange dick, watching every beat of other man’s heart engorging it more.

“Good lord, such girth,” she enthused, “And it’s not even fully hard. I don’t know if I can.”

“Physically?” Which man asked? Not sure.

“Well, yeah. Just look at it. It’s a lot more than my pussy’s used to.” Oof. “But mentally, too. I mean, I haven’t been with another man in, well, ever. I don’t know how I might feel about myself after getting fucked by that, but as a wise man recently told me….”

He and his fate hung on her every word, which he knew would mirror his own. Sigh. She was something else.

She went on, “…the only way to know the alternate path is to take it. I’d like to take it. All of it.”

It was already too late. No longer if, but how and when. She took one halting step towards it, then another, until all that separated her body from that bare bully cock was a sliver of space, a slip of a dress, a wisp of black lace, and rapidly vanishing shame.

Her wanton gaze burned into other man’s eyes. Their hands remained down at their sides. Oh god, do it already. The waiting is the hardest part. The first touch was his hands resting gently on her hips, to which she responded with her hands gripping the contours of his upper arms. It wasn’t long before her hands were moving beyond, to the bottom of his shirt. He helpfully lifted his hands away from her waist and above his head so she could expose his abs. She pulled his shirt up slowly, her touch lingering over each rippling muscle of his torso longer than strictly necessary to pull the shirt up and off, but soon enough, it was gone.

She turned her back to her bare chested plaything and gestured to her neck. He swept her hair out of the way with a gentle motion that tickled her skin. Her man could see the shiver run down her spine, as other man clasped the dainty zipper of her dress between his fingers and slid it down to the small of her back. She shrugged the dress off of her shoulders, pulled it over her hips and dropped it to the floor. For a second, she faced her man. Oh, that bra. Those panties. So much black lace. He knew it would make other man want her all the more. It filled him with…pride: infatuation is the sincerest form of flattery after all. She turned around and posed: hands on hips thrust forward an inch, shoulders pulled back the tiniest bit in alluring suggestion. That was all it took to tell him to drink all this in: nipples (stiff) fully visible through her bra (just a halter of lace, designed to halt not much at all). Thin strip of hair still calling attention to the one thing still hidden from his sight: her pussy, tucked safely away by the patch of fabric between her legs.

Only temporary modesty, her man thought. He’d watched her get ready. Ready to be seen. In hindsight, he now realized: ready to be fucked.

Other man took the hint. He traced from her high heels (still on) up her calves, up her thighs, to the panties (long approach on the landing strip), to the bra, to her eyes.

“Your wife is hot,” he said (hotter still through the leering gaze of another man, her man thought), as he looked her in the eyes with a wanton smirk.

She didn’t return the look. Her eyes were on his cock, watching it lurch, now at half mast, reaching practically beyond his hip.

“I need to see it fully erect,” she said and drew near.

She took him by the shoulders and guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. She unhurriedly took off his shoes and socks, then returned to where his jeans and underwear were still stretched at mid-thigh to finish the job of undressing him. She tugged his clothes over his muscular legs and whipped them off, then kneeled between his now naked knees. Her man stared at her ass, so juicy floating above her heels, the bulge in their center visible from between her legs as she leaned forward and rested her palms flat on other man’s thighs. The two of them were looking into each other’s eyes, as her hands fidgeted against his skin. She looked back at her man.

“Well, honey, I guess this is it. There’s no going back.”

Was that a question? He held his breath. No, statement of fact. She lifted one hand off other man’s thigh. Time slowed down, as he watched her palm move towards the monster lying in other man’s lap. There was a dull explosion in his brain and a stab in the seat of his pants at the moment of contact. The touch of her fingers wrapped halfway around that shaft marked the first time she’d touched another man. That line crossed, another just ahead. She lifted his cock and – barely leaning forward – sunk her painted lips around the tip. Her cheeks sunk as her lips squelched past the ridge, and her tongue began to massage his dick.

Other man sat back, his dick rapidly swelling inside her mouth. The harder it grew against her tongue, the more she could picture it between an even softer set of lips. The motion of her mouth grew more lurid still, as other man’s eyes closed. He draped his fingers in her black hair in gentle encouragement she didn’t need – praise enough in the tumescence she’d achieved.

He leaned forward, his chest curved above her head, his hands wandering over her shoulders and down her back to undo her clasp. His hands wandered inside her loosened bra and squeezed her breasts in time to the movement of her chin. As his hands massaged her hardened nipples, the bra freed itself bit by bit from her shoulders, until it was draped across her elbows. She wriggled it off one forearm, then the other, until it was resting across his thighs, just below the spot where her hand was sliding up and down the base of his shaft to meet her mouth descending from the top.

Oh, how lucky he was to be holding her breasts. Her man can feel them in his mind. He wishes he could feel them in his hands, cup them, caress them; but it’s an even more intense thrill experiencing them vicariously through the other man, while sitting denied, the want multiplied by the intensity of other man’s desire and the physical distance between her man and her body.

The increasingly fervent motion of her mouth led his hands back to her head where he caressed her hair more and more distractedly, the feeling of inevitability rising up towards the spot where her tongue trips over his frenulum. Did she want him to come? Was she going to do for him what she never did for her man – make him jizz on her tongue, get the job done? And then to fuck for as long as they could want. No, other man has too much pride, too much self-control: he’ll fuck her good, even if he hasn’t come. He pulls back and cups her chin in one hand and pulls her mouth away as he begins to rise. He takes her hands and leads her to change places with him, until she is lying on the bed.

The other man stood between her legs and bent down towards her, his hands steadying himself on her lap, thumbs indenting her flesh almost, but not quite, indecently high up the insides of her thighs. He kissed his way up her stomach just above the spot where the elastic of her panties imprinted itself on her skin, beside her belly button, below her breast bone, the underside of her breast… When his delicate lips reached a pert nipple, her head rolled back and her hand reached down to grab his cock. It was between her legs, tip almost touching her panties. She caressed it, as if measuring it, tugging on it in an insistent plea, as if trying to pull it into her, if only the panties weren’t still in place. But thank god for that.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he finally asked.

She nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what.” Not a question. More like a command.

“I want you to fuck me. Please.”

He stood up. Her hand was still on his dick. He got ready to take her panties off. He gripped the waist gingerly between his forefingers and thumbs just above her hip bones, ready to tease them off. Her man could tell the other man was going to do it the way it should be done, take his time, make a ceremony of it, remove them reverentially. Worship the sacrifice.

Oh, the panties. Everything was okay, as long as the panties stayed on. That was the rule when they were young. Staring at her there on the bed, that was the thought that passed through her man’s mind. Everything was permitted, as long as her pussy remained safely tucked away from harm. The pussy was sacred. It made everything else more profane. It wasn’t like she didn’t have urges. He could tell back then. There was nothing chaste about the way her tongue rolled over his – all the hunger from between her legs had to spill out somewhere. He felt it in his very core. His fumbling fingers touched every inch of naked flesh above and below the lines of the underwear and traveled over the satin cloth that was keeping her virtue intact, in desperate hope of getting her to let them go all the way. She once even let him slip a finger inside to rub her clit and get her off, which was when he learned how wet those panties got. Oh god, the secret of chaste panties soaked with want. And now? Now another man was about to take them off.

And then, as he began to tug at the waist, a cry: “Wait!” She lifted her head and took her hand off his dick to gesture “stop.” Other man froze. Her man’s spirits soared. Was she losing her nerve? It was a reprieve, a stay of execution – don’t murder that pussy quite yet.

She pushed the other man away and stood up. He held his breath. What comes next?

Just as quickly, she turned around and bent herself over the edge of the bed – in her stilettos, legs just long enough to reach the floor – and no sooner had she laid herself down flat than she had yanked her panties down to just below her ass, where they stretched across her thighs to emphatically underline her snatch, fully exposed and oh so wet, presented perfectly for fucking, right at dick height. Now he knew what comes next. Raw fucking. No kisses. No caresses. Just his dick buried in her slit.

Well, that settles that, and now a command: “Just the tip.”

She tucked her arms beneath her body and clutched her hands to her chest, as her man watched the other man maneuver his member until it was implanted in the center of the plum bulging between her legs. She sighed softly as the head nestled just between her lips and met the stiff resistance of her pussy, squeezed tight where her waist was bent.

“Just the tip.” It doesn’t count, he thought. It’s the way virgins suspend themselves between purity and want. All anticipation, no consummation. Still, the fact remained: that was his wife’s pussy, not his cock, and even if it wasn’t still quite inside….

“Hold still,” she ordered, and the other man complied. The sight of that organ pointed right at the exquisitely soft flesh of her body seared itself into her man’s mind. So foreign, so strange all that smooth skin and pumping veins. Oh to be him.

She wriggled her hips back, eyes closed, lips pursed as she struggled to let the considerable head get just past the tightest spot. She gasped, when it squeezed inside. Her man watched as the massive dick began to disappear bit by bit into her cunt. She clenched her teeth at first and breathed a series of sighs as she took him in. When she had taken in as much of it as she could, she opened her eyes. The chair had moved closer to the bed, and she looked her husband right in the eyes. She had that far away look on her face, as she sighed: “Oh my god, it feels so good.”

It provoked a forlorn look on her husband’s face and a twitch in his dick. His pants were unzipped, his cock clearly hard. The white fabric of his underwear – long soaked with his precum at the wish of doing to her what other man was – clinged to the outline of every bulbous ridge, every vein, like a wet t-shirt contest for his cock. There was no denying it anymore: his wife was fucking another man. He could feel in his dick how soft she must be, and how much that other dick must be parting all of the engorged flesh around it. She’d never been stretched open so wide.

To ease herself onto him, she had rocked back on her heels, and now she rocked forward again. Her husband watched the other man’s dick reemerge, glistening wet, with her lips trailing along its surface as her pussy gripped around his dick, even though it was so wet, as it slipped up it slickly and away, until she was back at the tip, where she rested for a bit, round ass curving away from his member, panties stretched tight over her thighs. She bit her lip and rocked back once more. It was easier now, and the dick was soon swallowed up inside her in its entirety, the base smothered by her ass as she took it all this time. She paused for only a second before returning to the tip, her body back on the bed, prone.

As she poised at the very point of his spear, she raised up on her elbows, back alluringly arched with a defiant look tossed back at him over the elegant curve of a bare shoulder.

“Fuck me.” Not a request. A demand. She sank back down to the sheets and waited for other man to do as she pleased. His ass flexed, and he thrust into her. The movement was slow and considerate: he was still sensitive to how tight she had been. When he pulled back out, she egged him on.

“Fuck my pussy.”

The way she said it, she was already so far gone. It wouldn’t take much to push her over the edge, he thought. Other man’s dick slid forward once more, more firmly this time, his hands on her hips to pull her all the way onto his cock.

Her body has loosened up, her pussy absorbs him so easily now, and she tells him to bring it on.

“Fuck my greedy little cunt,” she implored.

He slammed his hips against her ass harder than before, harder than he had dared so far, and began to pound her cunt, every smack of his hips sending a ripple that her man watches travel through the flesh of her butt.

Still not enough.

“Don’t be gentle with me.” So assertive she’s grown. “Fuck me like your little slut.”

The man thrusts forward again and squeezes her ass to pull her onto him as far as the laws of physics will allow, then takes a hand away only to bring it crashing down in a sharp crack across her cheek.

“Yes, yes, just like that,” she purrs.

He does it again and again to gasp after gasp after gasp. She’s close to coming, he suspects, when she issues a new command: “Stop. Pull out.”

She flips over to shimmy onto the bed, panties whipped off in a blink before she spreads her legs. He needs no instruction. In a second, he is entangled in her limbs, lifting her knees above her chest as his dick intuitively finds its way right there to dive back in. The chair has pulled closer still up to the surface that she floats upon, and she watches her man behold the very spot where the other man’s dick plugs in between her glossy lips bunched up around the base, looking so thick. She lowers a hand to rest a finger on the surface of the slippery dick as it glides out and back in, when she spies that her man’s dick has been paroled from behind the sheen of wettened cloth. It’s gripped in his palm, and he’s jerking himself off. Such flattery, two men in thrall. Will he be able, she wonders, to hold off until her body unleashes once and for all, or will he not be able to forestall his excitement and come at the sight of her getting fucked?

It’s almost enough. He’s almost gone. It’s not her pussy that’s driving him to lose control, but the sight of her other hand, fingers splayed on the skin of other man’s muscular thigh as it tenses to slide his dick in and out of his wife. Her fingers tremble against his leg when his dick is squeezed all the way inside and trail gently over his skin when he slips almost all the way out. Her touch is a fervent plea that looks just the same whether it’s saying: “Too much. Hold off.” or “So good. Don’t stop.”

“Come here,” she breathes to her man. He is in disbelief. Her eyes are on his prick. “I need to be kissed.”

He lays himself down and feels her hungry lips on his. He has one hand still on his cock, the other finally free to squeeze her soft tit, feeling it sway to the percussion of other man’s hips.

Her hands grip her man’s head and pull his lips away, somehow even sexier still as she says, “Give me your ear,” then pulls him close until he hears, “I need to feel your cock between my lips.”

It’s clear: her greed knows no bounds, not now, perhaps not ever again.

She pushes him away, and he kneels beside her face. She twists towards his crotch. Her hand wraps around her man’s hard dick, displacing his fist, pulling it towards her lips, her tongue soon pressed to the spot where his fingers were about to make himself jizz.

Other man is a machine, steadily hammering away, no quit in sight, every stroke of his mammoth dick bringing her closer and closer to the moment she wants. He can feel her pussy tense and stretch, her stomach clench, and every trip of his dick between her legs makes her whimper against the underside of her man’s dick. Her hips roll, gobbling other man’s cock, until her mouth opens wide, slack jawed. Gasp gasp gasp quick in a row and the swell inside her has grown too far to be contained anymore. Her man can tell when it crashes down, and as she cums, he can hold back no more and explodes inside her mouth, his dick jumping between her lips, as other man pulls out and erupts the length of her body from her cunt to her tits.

——–

Something had dawned on her in the buildup to the big day.

“I got something for you,” he said and presented her a gift box neatly wrapped in shiny black paper with a black bow. Very goth.

He was anxious to see her unwrap it. “Go ahead. Open it.” Giddy like a kid with a teacher crush.

Inside, there was a nest of black tissue paper. He had done a really nice job (good husband). She peeled the layers back. Resting inside were a pair of black panties and a bra.

“Don’t you think you’ll look amazing in these?” he gushed. He could have stopped there, but he went on, “He won’t be able to resist you.”

She held them up. They were practically nothing – just some wispy lace. He watched intently as she held the panties up and turned them back and forth, then held the bra by its shoulders. He was in awe.

“This gentle creature would never leave me,” she abruptly thought, “look at him. He adores me. He worships my pussy. He wants to show me off. He wants to see me get off. All he wants is my purest want. It’s rawer if it’s some other, bigger cock.”

Such drunken power. Such a filthy rush. And in that moment, a single thought.

“I am free to do whatever I want.”