68 comments/ 35440 views/ 20 favorites Bad Husband By: Serafina1210 Author's note: My recent story "Rosette" was inspired by medieval tales about young women whose old and jealous husbands kept them locked up. After I'd finished that one I wondered if I could treat the same theme in a modern setting. Here's my attempt. I don't know if it's any good: you tell me. Becky's lounging by the pool again, wearing her microkini. I'm crazy about that thing. It's almost not there at all—it's got just three tiny patches that barely cover her nipples and slit, nothing left over for her ass. I've got a lovely view of her shaved outer labia, the perfect curve of her breasts, the outer edges of her areolae. And there's that tattoo she's got, the one she surprised me with on our wedding night three months ago, slanting up along her pelvis on the left. In her own neat handwriting it says "Property of Dave." Since I'm Dave, it's fine with me. Still, I said to her, "What are you going to do with this tattoo after I'm gone? I'm forty years older than you. I'm not going to live forever, you know. I don't expect you to climb onto my funeral pyre or lead a life of chaste widowhood. The next guy along may not want to be reminded of me." She said, "You're in great shape. You'll probably outlive me." What could I say to that? I kissed the tattoo and then, since I was in the area anyway, I kissed her pussy, which tasted extra good that night. Sometimes when we're out by the pool together, just the two of us, I'll sit by her on the chaise and kiss one of the thin strings that barely holds that microkini together, right there where it crosses her clavicle, and she'll undo all the strings and pull me to her, and we'll make love by the pool. She's never yet said no to me. She's always ready for love. Trouble is, we're not alone right now. There are these three yard guys I've never seen before, the service sent over new people today, and they're trying not to stare, but they're young, male, and apparently heterosexual, and I understand it's really hard not to cop a glance at a beautiful woman now and then. I can't blame them: I just wish she wouldn't wear that microkini when the yard guys are around. But she's not the kind of person who worries a lot about the effect she has on men. She understands she's beautiful and knows she turns heads, but she doesn't believe anything bad could happen because of that. It's easy to be uninhibited when you're fearless. Don't get me wrong—I like it that she's uninhibited. We wouldn't have met if she'd been as reserved as I am. I'd never dream of coming on to a twenty-year-old college girl. But at the reception after a reading I'd done at NYU she joined the little group around me, and after everyone else had drifted away, she was still there. She was a delight: she'd read all my novels and a good many of my stories, and she was full of insights and interesting thoughts. She was a creative writing minor, and something about her made me want to read everything she'd written. When the workers started to come in to gather up the trays and dishes, she said "I'm so not ready to stop talking to you." I had to go to dinner with some faculty that night, but I was planning to be in New York for one more day, and I took her to dinner the next night. Or maybe I should say she took me to dinner, because even though I picked up the check it felt like she was in charge, somehow. She picked the restaurant. She recommended dishes from the menu and interrogated the waiter about things I was thinking of ordering. We talked literature—my stuff, hers, and stuff we both liked—for hours. And as we were leaving the restaurant, and I was steeling myself to shake her hand, say goodbye, and climb into the taxi, she said, "I'll bet you have a bottle of wine in your room." I suppose I should have thought "She's not old enough to drink," and I should have thought "this is absurd, I'm almost sixty." What I actually thought was "I can't believe this is happening to me," and I felt my dick start to stiffen. Of course I took her to my room. And once I'd poured us some wine she sat close to me and made a lot more than the usual amount of eye contact as we talked, and touched me lightly with her fingertips to let me know she was ready for me to make an advance. Her lovemaking was—I don't quite know how to put it—maybe "witty" is the word. If wit is the art of having fun by using words in inventive and unexpected ways, well, she used her body in ways that took me by surprise and delighted me. There's a sameness in the way most people make love, a standard progression from kissing to petting to oral sex to penetration, and standard moments for removing this or that article of clothing. She didn't conform to any of the standards, but made it all happen in an order and manner of her own devising that somehow seemed both right and oh so lascivious. When you're middle aged, things that happen during sex don't often take you by surprise, but I was dizzy, off balance and thrilled, and if I'd imagined the possibility of being in love with her, I think I would have been in love. Maybe I was already in love but didn't know it at the time. In the morning she asked if we could stay in touch, and of course I said I'd be delighted. And we started an email correspondence that was literate and fun and so hot I'd get an erection just reading her notes to me. As summer approached I hinted that I'd love a visit from her, and she responded enthusiastically. That July she spent a week with me at my country place in western Connecticut and introduced me to her collection of microkinis. Before half the week was over we were in love, and by the end of the week we'd set a date for the following June, after she'd graduated. Maybe you read about the wedding in the news: it made a little stir, because I'm fairly well known as writers go, and she'd already published some stories in prominent places, and there was some buzz about the novel she was finishing up. I'd been married twice—widowed once and divorced once—and I thought I knew what I was getting into. But every marriage does something different to your head. For all the eleven months of our engagement, Becky split her time between my place in Connecticut and the apartment she shared with friends in New York, and I never suffered a moment's anxiety about what she was doing when she wasn't with me. When we married she moved in with me, as you'd expect. But she still had lots of friends in New York, and she wanted to visit them. I bought her a car, both so she could get around locally and so she could drive to New York. I didn't like being alone at my country place while Becky was visiting her friends in the city. It was lonely in a way single life had never been. "Well," she said, "Why don't you come with me?" But I didn't think I'd fit in with her friends. Way too old, way too distinguished, I'd be a dead weight on her social life. I couldn't imagine myself in the kinds of clubs and bars they no doubt liked to visit, and I worried that they'd treat me as a sort of oracle and have no fun around me. Becky and I did go to New York together once, to see a play adapted from one of my stories, "The Boxing Ring." It was about domestic abuse, not my usual subject. But the playwright and the director had done a good job getting across the abusive husband's creepy obsessiveness and the wife's complicity, the way she gloried in her martyrdom. There was lots of slapping, punching and waving of knives. It's not easy to do violence convincingly on stage, but they'd done it well. I met several of Becky's friends that weekend too, over lunches, dinners, drinks, and (once) a little pot. Some of them were aspiring writers, like her, though none could match her early success. She introduced two of her male friends as "my ex." I wasn't sure how I felt about her hanging around with ex-boyfriends. Later I said to her, "those exes, they are all exes, right?" She wrinkled her nose at me and said, "Property of Dave." About a week later she told me she was going to go into town again the following Wednesday. We were expecting a visit that Tuesday from an old college pal of mine, a writer I knew Becky wanted to meet. I called him up and asked if he could come a day later instead, and, as I expected, she postponed her trip for a week so she could meet him. The next Wednesday I woke up with one of those raging migraines I sometimes get, and though I urged her to go, she decided to stay home and take care of me. Week after week all kinds of things came up. There was the visit from the agent, whom we now shared. While we were at a dinner party in Westport one night there was a burglary that left us both pretty rattled, even though not much was taken. All kinds of odd things just got in the way of her travel plans. I got up early this morning and swapped two spark plug wires in her car. Our mechanic had to send a tow truck for it. I've arranged to pay him three hundred to keep it for a few days and make up some plausible story about what he had to fix. I'm proud of that one, because I'm not much of a mechanic. I just wish I had Becky to myself. All I can do, I guess, is wait patiently for the yard guys to finish up and take off. Meanwhile I peel off my shirt and sit in a chair next to her chaise, and it's pleasant to relax here in the sunshine, reading and occasionally chatting. She stretches and says, "What I want, I think, is to float in the pool. Would you be a love and get me a raft?" "Sure," I say. She doesn't like to go in the shed where we keep the pool stuff. She's brave about everything in the world except spiders, and she believes the shed is full of them, though I've never seen one there. The shed's just a prefabricated thing with a door that locks with a hasp and padlock and one little window, more decorative than functional. The key is hanging in the kitchen, and I go to get it. On the way I pass one of the yard guys, who says, "You want us to trim these bushes, Mr. Allen?" There's something familiar about him, but I think I'd know if he'd been here working in the yard before. I dismiss the thought and say, "Thanks, you needn't bother. Just finish up the grass and call it a day." "Okay, Mr. Allen," he says. I get the key and walk back to the pool. I unlock the shed, hang the padlock on the loop of the hasp, and go inside. We keep the rafts inflated, leaning against that back wall. I'm just picking one of them up when the door slams behind me. "Hey!" I shout. "I'm in here!" I go to the door and push on it—it has no handle on the inside—but someone's closed the hasp and locked it. I rush to the window and bang on it, shouting "Hey!" And then I freeze and stare. Becky is sitting up on her chaise, shying away from one of the yard guys who's standing in front of her, undoing his pants. He's the guy who just talked to me: he's strong and tan and has the look of a college kid on a summer job. Meanwhile the other two are closing in from both sides, reaching for their belt buckles. I can dimly hear what they're saying. The guy in front of her says, "I can tell you're ready for some young cock, babe. Been a long time since you had anything but that old fart. Bet he can't even get it up." I can't hear her reply. I think it's just a syllable, probably "No." She shakes her head. The guy in front has his pants down now and is holding his stiff cock in his hand. The other two are standing close on either side of her now, unzipping their zippers. "I know you want it, babe," the first guy says. He puts his hand behind her head and pulls her towards him. She closes her mouth and eyes tight and turns away from him, and his cock rams her cheek. He grabs her by the hair, pulls her away from him, and slaps her. It looks painful. He says, "Open up, bitch," but she shakes her head, keeping her mouth closed. I've never seen her look scared before. I don't think I've ever been this scared before either. I'm banging on the window and shouting, but of course they have no reason to pay attention to me. I study the window. If I broke it, could I crawl through? I don't think my shoulders would fit: the only thing I'd accomplish would be to hurt myself. The walls of the shed are pretty solid; there's no way to break through. I think of my cell phone and feel for it in my pockets, but I don't have it. The first guy is slapping Becky again and again, shouting "Suck my fucking cock, cunt!" Tears are running down her cheeks, I guess from both the fear and the slapping. Finally she does open her mouth—shit, I can't blame her, the way he's been pummeling her—and he pushes his cock into her, grabs her head, and fucks her face hard. She chokes, her face is turning red, she's got her hands on his thighs, trying to push him away, but he's too strong, there's nothing she can do but just take it. "Hey, man, give the rest of us a fucking turn," says the guy on her left: he's beefy and Hispanic looking, though I can't hear an accent. The first guy pulls away and this guy grabs her head, rams into her mouth, and pounds her throat just as roughly as the first guy. After a couple of minutes the third guy gets a turn: he's sort of small, smooth-skinned and dark-haired. You wouldn't think him the rapist type, if there is such a thing as a rapist type. But he's just as violent as the others: thick drool runs out of Becky's mouth and ropes down onto her breasts. I'm still banging on the window, trying to distract them, or at least remind them there's a witness here. Who knows whether that'll do us any good? Maybe they'll decide to kill us both. But maybe they'll be a little less violent knowing I'm here and watching. They tear off the tiny patches of Becky's micokini. I thought she was pretty much naked with it on, but I understand now that I was wrong, seeing all of her exposed to these men, seeing them squeeze her breasts, grab her crotch and shove their fingers into her pussy. She thrashes and kicks, she's crying, pleading, "No! Please!" But two of them wrestle her to the ground while the first guy gets on top of her and pushes in. They're angled so I can see his buttocks and his cock thrusting into her, oh fuck, she's got to be so scared and miserable. After a few minutes the first guy gets up and says "Your turn, bro" to the Hispanic guy, who takes his place between Becky's legs. She's limp now, defeated, not resisting at all as the first guy straddles her head, puts his cock into her mouth, and starts to thrust. The third guy, meanwhile, the slight one, has let go of her arm and is jerking himself off, looking impatient. After the Hispanic guy's had a couple of minutes the third guy gets his turn in her pussy while the Hispanic guy shoves into her mouth. After a couple more minutes the first guy says, "Turn her over. I want to fuck her ass." The other two get up. Becky sits up and says, "Wait a minute. Stop." They all take a step back, obedient as schoolgirls. What the fuck is going on? She gets up and walks towards the shed, staring at my window. I can't read her face, except that she looks unhappy. She disappears from view for a few seconds and then the door opens. She's standing naked in the doorway. She says, "I can't go on with it. I'm sorry, Dave." I don't know how to react. I still don't quite understand what I've seen. I say, "You . . . you're all right?" She says, "Come on, you'd better meet the guys." She holds her hand out to me, and I take it. I'm starting to wonder if our marriage is over when it's just a few months old. She leads me back to the pool, where the yard guys are pulling on their clothes. They look awkward, as if they don't quite know how to react to me. She gestures towards the first guy, the one who hit her, and says, "This is Tom. He played the husband in "The Boxing Ring." He knows how to look like he's hitting without actually doing it. Just in case you wondered if I was really hurt." She gestures towards the Hispanic guy and says, "This is Richard, an ex boyfriend. And this is Steve, another ex." Steve smiles and says, "I'm a huge fan of your work, Mr. Allen. It's really an honor . . ." He trails off, looking scared. "I think you'd better explain," I say. "Watching your wife get raped was supposed to be your punishment for being a jealous husband," she says, "but I guess I lost heart." "What do you mean, jealous husband?" I say. "I don't have a jealous bone in my body!" "Come on, Dave, you've been totally out of control. You've practically been keeping me prisoner here for two months. Your little stunt this morning, sneaking out in the wee hours to mess with my car, that was really over the top. Did you really think I wouldn't figure out what you were up to?" All of a sudden I feel ashamed. "Okay, okay," I say. "What I did was stupid and wrong. But haven't you just proved that I was right to be jealous? Maybe what's-his-name here didn't really hit you, but he sure as hell fucked you. Tell me, what do you do when you go into New York? How often do you have group sex with ex-boyfriends? What other kinds of sex do you have when I'm not around?" "Dave," she says, "I told you I belong to you, and I meant it. But that doesn't give you unlimited rights over my body." I say, "The marriage service says 'forsaking all others.' The minister said that, and you agreed to it." She says, "And I meant it. You're the only man I love. But no one thinks 'forsaking all others' is about sex anymore." "They don't?" Suddenly I feel very old. She comes to me and presses her naked body against me. Her skin feels so good. She lifts her head and whispers to me. "Why do you think I got my tattoo?" Suddenly I don't know. I thought it was to please me, but now I'm sure that's the wrong answer. I look at her in confusion. She says, "It was so people would know not to take sex with me too seriously. Because I belong to you, Dave. Not to anyone else. I'm not available." "So you're saying . . ." "I'm saying that you'll always be number one with me. Aren't I number one with you?" "Of course you are," I say. "It's just that for me there's no number two, let alone a number three or four." She puts her hands behind my head and pulls me down to her. She kisses me, and, oh, her kiss is as good as it's ever been. She says, "But there could be, Dave. There are lots of people who'd love to sleep with you." I begin, "I don't think I want . . ." "Like Steve here," she says. "Every time I talk about you, he sighs. He yearns for you, Dave. More than he ever did for me." I glance at Steve, the slender one. He's misty eyed, watching the two of us together. I shake off the thought. "I've never wanted to sleep with a man," I say. "You don't have to if you don't want," she says. "I'm just saying you could. He'd love it, and it'd be all right with me. The only reason he agreed to come all the way to Connecticut today was to get a look at you, and maybe he thought there was just an off chance you'd think he was hot. You know, a man can do things sexually that a woman can't." I look at Steve again. I have to admit he's got an attractiveness that was lost on me while he was raping my wife. I shove the thought out of my mind. Richard says, "Um, I think it's probably time for us to get going." Becky says to me, "Why don't we invite my friends in for a drink, just to show them there're no hard feelings?" I don't really want to, but it's hard to say no to Becky, especially when she's naked and her arms are wound around me. There's no woman in the world more compelling. Just a minute ago I believed our marriage was over, but now life without her is unthinkable. "Okay," I say. She gives me an enthusiastic kiss and turns to her friends. "I know you've got to go, guys," she says, "but why don't you come in and relax for a few minutes first?" Bad Husband Learns What's Good For... It's not that I hate my husband, on the contrary. He does annoy me sometimes. His inability to stand up for himself at work, at home. However, when we're out and about, amongst our friends, shopping, or amongst strangers, he has the tendency to put me down. We've discussed before that it aggravates me to no end. That he should be respectful to me at all times, and not belittle me to try to make himself seem cooler or more interesting. Those conversations don't seem to matter. Time and time again he's done it. Time and time again I attempt to correct him. My husband, Matt, is by no means a weak guy, but he's not big, either. He stands average, 5'10", with a small frame. Matt is the love of my life, don't get me wrong, but the idea of putting him in his place has crossed my mind more than once. The perfect opportunity just presented itself. I couldn't help myself. One day, we were getting a couch delivered. Matt was being useless, per usual, as I was directing the two larger "gentlemen" in through the foyer. This is our fourth attempt at getting this couch delivered. Every time it's been one thing or another: the feet have been damaged, the fabric is damaged, they forgot to coat it properly... and every single time it has been me dealing with the consequences. So when the two large men placed the couch down and I clasped my hands together with glee at a final success, I watched Matt as a grin splashed across his face. "We finally got it right, honey!" We? Excuse me? I scoffed. "What?" He said, dumbfounded. "Nothing." I glared him straight in the eye. "I just didn't realize you had anything to do with purchasing, arranging the movers, dealing with this company... had no idea! All this time, I thought it was me." "Well, you know I appreciate everything you do, Lisa, but you should have gotten it right the first time... I mean, honestly." I'd had enough. The two men were standing there awkwardly. "Can we get a signature please?" These are the same two men that have delivered to us three times before. Each and every time, Matt has refused to tip him. Making some remark about how they're the ones who probably "fucked up" the order. They are larger than him, no doubt. One stood at about 6'4 while the other about 6' tall. They weren't fat, just muscular. One was a little older, in his 40's, and the other was younger (but still older than us) in his mid thirties. "Gentlemen," I said as they ogled my breasts. "Would you like a tip?" "We certainly wouldn't say no," said the younger man smirking. "What are your names?" I asked. "I'm Jack" said the younger one, "and he's Steve." "Great... now, I hope you're not opposed to this, but what I wanted to give you was both the opportunity to get your dicks sucked, would you be down with that?" "uh..." Steve glanced at Jack. Jack interrupted, "YES!" "Good," I said, " why don't you both unzip your pants and drop them to the floor." Now, initially, I was the one intending to suck their cocks, in front of Matt, as a gesture of "it's over." But apparently, the two delivery men had a different idea. "Actually ma'am," Steve cleared his throat, "we're both gay." Their eyes landed on Matt. The coward didn't say a word. "By all means, take him any way you please." After exchanging glances, there was no hesitation. The two delivery men went straight to Matt and picked him up by his arms. One held him down while the other pulled down his pants and boxers. My husband is actually quite well endowed for his puny figure. It surprised even me when we were first dating. When they pulled down his boxers, much to (I think) all of our surprise, Matt was fully erect. Steve started laughing, "Lisa, I think your husband is gay." Matt just laid there, stark naked, as he was being held down. Jack, effortlessly holding him down by his struggling arms, shifted his weight to enable him to unzip his pants. Steve held his legs. Jack's hard cock was just a bit smaller than my husband's, but already fully erect. "Open your mouth pretty boy," he demanded. Matt shook his head no. "Open your mouth or I'm going to rape your asshole." Matt's eyes grew big as his lips slowly parted. Jack shoved his cock in Matt's mouth. Matt began sucking like a pro. All the while I stood there watching them defile him on our new couch. My new couch. "Oh God" Jack muttered at he shoved his dick deeper down Matt's throat. Matt started choking. His eyes were watering. Jack was deep throating him. relentlessly. With my arms cross I stood there heckling him, "Honey" I asked, "do you like sucking cock? Does it taste good?" Matt obviously couldn't say anything. He was being faced fucked. But his cock, on the other hand... I'd never seen it like this before. It was twitching and oozing with pre cum. Apparently I wasn't the only one who noticed this. "Look at his cock!" said Steve, "It's oozing with cum. I should clean it up." Steve got down on his knees started sucking the precum off of Matt's cock. Pathetically, Matt prematurely ejaculated into Steve's mouth. As he did, he started moaning so heavily that it set Jack off. He came into Matt's mouth and pulled out just at the end to leave his cum on Matt's face, dripping off his chin. "You didn't want to do that boy." "huh?" Matt said in a daze, completely spent. "I didn't get my turn." Steve flipped Matt over and demanded he get on all fours. Matt did as told until he realized what was happening. Then he pretended to struggle. Now, my husband loves anal. Once a month I shove plugs into his anus because he begs me to. The same thing happens. He prematurely ejaculates. "Tell Steve how you like it when I inspect your anus and shove but plugs up your asshole." Matt turned bright red. "Tell him honey. Tell him what you need." "No, Lisa, please." Matt pleaded. "I know what he needs." With one fell swoop Steve took Matt over his lap and stared spanking him. Steve's erection, which was oozing with precum, was pressing against Matt's already hardening cock. I never got round two. Then Steve raised his hand and slapped his butt cheek. "Tell us what you like, boy." He spanked him again and again, until Matt was squirming while his erection was growing. Steve then slowed down, started softly rubbing Matt's reddened cheeks. And then he slid a finger over Matt's puckered anus. Matt, I think totally uninhibited, moaned so loudly. "Is that so," said Steve calmly. Thats when he stuck his finger in. "It's okay to like having your asshole played with by your wife, Matt. It's not okay for a straight man to be getting aroused so quickly after he came so prematurely in another man's mouth." Matt started thrusting his hips back to get Steve's finger in a little deeper. "Oh my God," I said. "Matt you are a fucking queer! You're a cock sucking whore. No wonder you're so fucking insecure." The three of us laughed. "Get on all fours" said Steve, abruptly removing his finger causing Matt to gasp. That's when Steve barebacked my now willing husband. It only took a few thrusts before both Steve and Matt were cumming simultaneously. Matt's cum spewed all over our new couch. I was furious. Jack grabbed Matt by the hair and smeared his cum into the couch "We can't take it back to the warehouse like this, buddy. We know what you did." Steve pulled out of Matt's asshole to give me just a good enough angle to see the cum oozing out of his still puckered anus. "Pathetic." I said. "Yeah," Jack agreed. Both men quickly replaced their clothes and left, thanking me and ignoring Matt as he lay in his own cum juice with another man's fluid dripping out of his asshole. I kneeled by him on the couch. "You're so fucking queer," I said. I slid my finger to his asshole. "Another man jizzed in your anus and you just lie here in bliss." Matt said nothing. Bad Husband I grab my shirt from a deck chair, and the three men trail Becky and me into the family room that faces the pool. I take drink orders and go to the bar. Becky excuses herself, disappears for a minute, and comes back wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe. She tells me about her friends. Richard will be going to Columbia Law this fall. Steve is interning for the New York Times. And Tom's big break in theater was "The Boxing Ring." He's already got a part in another play, a few commercials too, and things are looking up for him. "So," I say, "you're all Becky's ex-boyfriends?" "Not me," Tom says. "I've been going with the same girl since high school. We're getting married in September." "And she doesn't mind, you know . . ." "Well," Tom says, "she likes it better when we do it together, like swinging with other couples. But she understands if it doesn't always work out that way." "I was," Steve says, "but that was before I figured out that I like men better. I mean, I still like women, I'm sort of bi leaning towards men, and Becky's special, I'll always love her as a friend . . ." "And you?" I say to Richard. "Man, if you ever drop dead, and she'll have me, I'm there," he says. "But Richard understands and accepts my choice," Becky says. I wonder if that's true. The conversation drifts aimlessly among movies, plays, and novels. Becky snuggles closer to me on the sofa we're sharing. The sun's slanting into the room; shadows are getting long. We're all a little tipsy, and it's starting to occur to me that no one is likely to go back to New York today, and we'd better start thinking about dinner. Conversation is flagging, Becky's fingers are trailing up and down my thighs, and my cock is making an embarrassing bulge in my shorts. She leans in close and whispers, "Property of Dave." She stands up and slips off the robe; she's naked beneath. She kneels between my legs, wrenches my shorts and briefs off, and goes down on me. I can't believe she's doing this in front of three men, and it's just as surprising that I like her doing it. I watch Becky's beautiful lips around my cock, feel her tongue caressing me, and enjoy the thought that her three friends can see it too. She comes to me and kisses me, I love kissing her after she's sucked me, our kiss is passionate and hot, and I'm starting to forget there are other people in the room. But I feel my cock bathed again in warmth and wetness, and it can't be Becky's doing. I break away from our kiss and look: it's Steve, sucking my cock, and my brain has only a second to register the shock of it before Becky's turning my face towards her, whispering "Don't think, just feel," and kissing me again. And, oh, kissing Becky while Steve blows me does feel good! I still have in my mind the image of Steve's lips around my cock, and I've got to admit I like that image, his face is pretty in its own way. I close my eyes and enjoy the double stimulation. When I open them again a minute later, Becky's shifted so she on her knees beside me, and Richard's face is planted in her ass. Tom's naked again, looking on, stroking his cock. Shit, I can deal with Tom and Steve, but I know that Richard wants Becky for himself, and I don't like what he's doing. But if I try to stop it, the rest of it will stop too, and I don't want that. I'm swimming in sensation, and I'm just going to have to deal with Richard rimming my wife. Tom stands up slowly, gracefully. I turn away from Becky's kiss to watch. He's got a fine, strong body, lithe and tan, muscular but not bulgy. Every man has seen other men naked, but a man looks different when you're aroused. I can't help staring at Tom's thick, hard cock, his fingers curved around it. He's moving towards us, he moves like a dancer, it's hypnotic. Becky puts a finger on my lips and whispers, "You do want it, don't you? Please say you do." Her words tip me from admiration to desire. Tom climbs onto the sofa, his cock, heavy and veined, is level with my face. He pulls back his foreskin, revealing the glans, pink and damp; a little slippery drop leaks from the slit, and I groan with longing for it. Becky takes Tom's cock in her hand and guides it towards me. I open my mouth and let that cock slide into me, close my lips, tongue and palate tight around it. I can't believe how good it feels, warm and alive, soft-skinned yet hard beneath, swollen with desire. Becky leaves me to Tom's cock, leans back on the sofa, resting a hand on my thigh, and lets Richard enter her. And, oh fuck, how can I complain, when Steve's mouth on my cock and Tom's cock in my mouth are so heavenly? I reach up and put a hand on one of Tom's firm buttocks. I pull him towards me, urging him to go a little deeper. He starts to thrust, fucks my mouth, gently at first, then with growing urgency, and I whine a little around his cock, wanting him to know it's all right to come, yes, I want him to come inside me, and he takes my head in his hands and, gasping, floods my mouth with his warm cum, fills me up so I can hardly hold it all in. I keep my hand on his ass so he knows not to pull all the way out, I swallow his cum with the tip of his cock still in my mouth. The taste isn't wonderful, but it's not horrible; it's the thought that I've just swallowed a man's cum that's so exciting. Tom climbs down from the sofa, sinks into a leather chair, and watches us. I look at Becky and Richard, right next to me, just in time to see her touch his cheek and say, softly, "Your turn." He pulls out of her, she scooches over, and and he flops onto the sofa between us, looking at me with an enigmatic smile and holding his cock in his hand. Becky says, "Suck Richard's cock, Dave—do it for me." But I want to do it for myself, too—his cock is long, smooth, and golden, and Tom's whetted my appetite for cocksucking. I kneel between Richard's legs, put my hands on his thighs, and go down on him. I like this position, it makes me feel naughty and submissive, Richard's cock tastes like Becky's pussy, and I take it as deep as I can without gagging. My mouth fills with saliva and I drool a little, wondering how much practice it would take to learn to deep throat as well as Becky does it. I take my mouth off Richard's cock and lick his balls. They're soft and floppy in the summer heat, and I pull them into my mouth. He slaps my face softly with his cock while I suck his balls. Becky reaches under Richard's thigh and lifts; he takes the cue and draws both legs up. She says, "Richard has a nice ass, Dave. I want you to lick it." I love rimming Becky, but Richard's ass is hairy and masculine, it's a little shocking, but clean and healthy, and now that he's gone to the trouble of pulling his legs up it would be awkward not to give him a rimming, so I lean in and give his asshole a tentative lick. No bad taste or horrible odor, just a little sweat. I close my mouth over it and wet it with my tongue, give it the kind of passionate kiss I give to Becky's ass. He sighs, and Becky pets my back and says, "Oh, yeah, honey, that's so hot." I wet his whole crack with my saliva, then stab my tongue into him, making him squirm. Back to sucking Richard's cock, I fuck him with my mouth as hard and tight as I can. I can sense his arousal, feel him thrust into me, hear him moan. I put my hands on his pelvis so I can feel his thrusts, sense his excitement under my fingers, and finally he pumps a huge load into my mouth with great groans and spasms, and again I swallow, holding his cock in my mouth. Steve's been sitting on the floor nearby, watching. Becky leans forward, kisses me, and whispers, "Property of Becky. Trust me?" "I trust you," I say, truthfully. "Steve," she says, "would you like to kiss Dave?" He looks up at me, eyes soft with longing. "Yeah," he says. "If it's all right with you, Mr. Allen." "I think we're well enough acquainted that you can call me Dave," I say. "And a kiss seems a small thing after all that oral sex." We stand up. He's shorter than I am. He comes to me, puts his arms around me, presses his naked body against mine. His hard cock is prodding my thigh. He raises his face to me and I kiss him. But no, a kiss is not a small thing. Steve is slim and pretty, but even so I'm intensely aware that he's a man, and kissing a man this way, long and tenderly, is appalling. You can fuck anything with your dick, a sheep, a whore, and keep it impersonal, but a kiss is for a lover, and this is a man, and every bit of me wants to pull away from him. Until I don't. Steve's passionate, he smells good, like sweat and a bit of armpit and the grass he's been mowing and a distant memory of some cologne he put on this morning. I wrap my arms around him and thrust my tongue into his mouth, and he does the same to me. He knows how to kiss. My cock's standing up, slippery between us. Becky says, "Steve, you're versatile, right?" Steve breathes, "Yeah" into my mouth. "You got a condom?" she asks. "Pants pocket," he murmurs, and returns to our kiss. She goes over to where he left a pile of clothes on a chair, fishes in his pockets, and comes back with a foil packet. "Lubricated," she says. "Good." She lays the packet on a side table and goes to sit near Richard and Tom. I wonder what she feels, watching us. It's been such a day of new experiences—why not one more? "Fuck me," I say, and Steve answers by squeezing my buttocks hard. "Best if you kneel," he says. I kneel on the floor and rest my elbows on the sofa. He says, "It'll hurt less if you can relax." I hear the crinkle of the condom packet. A few seconds later he kisses my anus, just once, and says, "Nice ass." The cool tip of the condom touches my asshole for a moment, and then comes the pressure as Steve's cock slowly, slowly pushes into me, the pain building, this is bigger than the doctor's damned finger. I clench my teeth, I don't want to cry out, but this fucking hurts . . . and then he's in, and there's still a little pain, but his cock is delicious in my ass, and I lay my head down in my arms and just enjoy this new kind of pleasure. I want it to go on and on—the thrusts, the feeling stretched, Steve's hands on my ass, his moans. His breath gets ragged as we go on, instinct taking over his movements, he's thrusting harder, it's more pain and more pleasure. "Oh God!" I cry as his cock plunges deep into me, pounding my ass like a hammer, relentless, till he moans, "Ah!" loud and long, and comes. Steve pulls out of me slowly—I love the feel of my sphincter expelling the last inch of him. I collapse onto the sofa, exhausted. Becky comes to me with a wad of tissues. She lifts me up and kisses me. She turns to the others and says, "We have enough beds for everybody, if you want to stay. We can send out for some Chinese." They look at each other, conferring silently. Tom says, "I guess we'd better get back to the city. We've sobered up enough to drive." We all dress quickly. We stand around for a moment. How do you say goodbye to near strangers who've just left their semen in your body? Becky hugs and kisses them. Steve comes to me and kisses me, a long kiss with tongue. His hands slide into my back pockets and he squeezes my ass. Tom and Richard hold out their hands, and I shake them. Then, impulsively, I hug them. Becky and I heat up leftovers for ourselves and pour some wine. We sit at the kitchen counter, eat, and say little. When we've finished eating and we're sipping the last of our wine, I say, "How much of that was planned?" She smiles and says, "Pretty much all of it." "Down to the last detail, like a play?" "There was some improvisation. I wasn't sure who was going to get buttfucked at the end—though I had my guess." "But the fake gang rape, the way you interrupted it, the way you got me to suck off Tom and Richard, the rimming, the sex with Steve . . ." "Yeah," she says. "All planned." "And it was all about punishing me for being jealous?" "That's how it started, but then I wanted to find out if I could make you do something you'd never done before, you know, give blowjobs and rimjobs. And then it came out that all my friends thought you were hot and wanted you to play with us, the same way I did. So the plan got wilder as we went on." I say, "I guess I have to admit I enjoyed getting to know your friends." She smiles and says, "I thought you might. And I've got lots of friends I'd like you to meet. Men and women." I say, "Maybe meeting them would help me with my jealousy problem." I'm getting excited thinking about it. I slide off my chair and kneel in front of Becky, who turns to me. I open her robe and she spreads her legs. I part her labia with my fingers and lick her clit tenderly. Her smell and taste are ripe: her pussy's taken a lot of fucking today, and somehow that makes going down on her more exciting. Soon she's slick and open, a glorious pool of hot cunt, and I'm bathing my face in her. She pushes me to the floor and gets on top of me, pussy and ass above my face as she sucks my cock. I put my arms around her waist and pull her to me, urging her to put her weight on me. I want to suffocate in her slit. We fuck on the kitchen floor, and I'm overwhelmed by emotion—it feels like falling in love for the first time. She's riding me as we both come, and she slides up my body, making a lovely mess on my stomach. We join hands and walk together to our bedroom. We fill our big tub and soak together. "Property of Becky," I say. "Property of Dave," she says. I think I'll get a tattoo, exactly where she has hers, but on the right. I'll surprise her with it next week. Becky slips into a nightie and crawls into bed. I'll join her in a minute, but first I run to the kitchen, pick up our abandoned clothing, and carry it to the laundry room. I fish in a back pocket of my shorts and pull out the card Steve left there. It has his home and cell numbers on it. I've got to go to the city next week to meet with my editor. I can still be Becky's property, can't I, if I give Steve a call? Postscript: If you've gotten this far, why not take a second to click one of those stars down below? And if you've got a few seconds more, I'd love to have your comment.