The Shape of Her Submission

The Shape of Her Submission

Ever since I can remember, cuckoldry has deeply fascinated me-- not just the act itself, but the slow, intricate build-up, the anticipation, the emotional unraveling that leads to that final, irreversibly erotic moment. It's not just about sex; it's about tension, surrender, shifting dynamics, and the aching vulnerability of desire.

I still remember being twenty at a crowded party, holding a drink, when another man grabbed my girlfriend's ass. She laughed it off, gave me a glance, and I felt something shift deep inside me. Instead of outrage... I was turned on. I didn't have the words for it back then, but I knew it stirred something raw, something forbidden and intensely sexual.

Everyone experiences these stories differently. Some are aroused by the humiliation, others by the empowerment, some by the sheer psychological intensity. For me, it's the journey -- the glances, the breathless pauses, the way a touch lingers too long. That's where the real heat lives.

This story is my attempt to give shape to that slow burn, to make the visual visceral and the emotional carnal. I hope you feel it under your skin the way I do when I write it.

It's a very long story, but if you're into this world -- I hope you'll enjoy every filthy, aching moment of it.

The Story:

Amy lay draped across Markus's chest, her bare thigh hooked loosely over his, her fingers trailing slow, thoughtless patterns across the small patch of sweat just beneath his collarbone. Their breaths mingled in the warm hush of their bedroom--still scented with the faint musk of sex and skin. The sheets were tangled low around their legs, forgotten.

She was 32, radiant and unspoiled in her beauty. Her hair--a pale, silvery blonde--fell just to her shoulders, still damp with perspiration at the roots, curling slightly from the heat of their bodies. Her skin was flushed from the afterglow, smooth and sun-kissed, the kind of skin that begged for touch. Her breasts, full and high, rose and fell gently against him with each slow breath. One of her nipples grazed his chest when she shifted, but she didn't apologize. She never did. Not here. Not in this space between them.

Markus, 34, looked like the kind of man who still didn't believe he'd ended up with someone like her. His body was firm, broad across the chest with a soft line forming around his waist--earned from years of weekend pizza and lazy Sunday mornings with her. His hand rested low on her back, heavy and reassuring, the other one loosely brushing along her hip as if afraid she might melt away if he didn't keep touching her.

She tilted her face up, chin resting on his chest, and smiled. Her lips were swollen from kisses, soft and parted like she hadn't fully come back to herself.

"I love you," she whispered, voice barely audible, like anything louder would break the spell.

He turned to look at her, his fingers pausing where they'd been moving in her hair. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." Her eyes traced the edge of his jaw, lingered on the faint stubble catching the light. "I mean it. Even after ten years. Especially after ten years."

He chuckled softly. "You say that like we've been at war."

"We have," she grinned, teasing. "You snore. I steal the covers. You never pick a movie. I leave every light on."

"You're terrible with laundry."

"You forget birthdays."

They smiled at each other, that deep, slow kind of smile that doesn't need to say we're still here, because it's already understood.

Amy's fingers drifted again--down the slope of his chest, feather-light, just the pads of her fingers trailing toward his stomach. Not sexual. Just reverent.

"I missed this," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"This?"

She nodded. "The quiet afterward. When it's just you and me and skin and breath."

He exhaled slowly, pulling her tighter. "You're soft," he whispered into her hair. "Like... everywhere. But especially here." He pressed his palm against her lower back, where her spine dipped. "It kills me."

She smiled, eyes drifting closed for a moment, letting the weight of his hand ground her.

"I used to worry you'd stop wanting me," she said quietly, the words not sad, just honest. "That someday you'd get used to all this."

Markus turned his head and kissed her temple--slow, deep, like punctuation.

"Never," he said. "Every time I touch you, I feel like I'm getting away with something."

She let out a small laugh. "That's hot."

"It's true," he added. "Sometimes I wake up and just stare at you for a minute. Like, how the fuck did this happen?"

Amy stretched like a cat against him, pressing her breasts closer to his chest. Her fingers moved again--tracing the soft trail of hair below his navel. Still not asking for anything. Just... touching because she could.

"Tell me something real," she whispered, her breath warm against his ribs.

Markus was quiet for a long moment.

"I didn't know how to love someone before you," he said.

Amy looked up at him, eyes wide, glassy with tenderness.

"I used to think I did," he continued, voice lower now. "But it wasn't until you that I stopped needing to prove something. Or chase something. You make me feel... like I already am enough. Just like this."

Amy kissed his chest again--over his heart this time--and whispered, "You are."

They stayed like that, wrapped together in the fading warmth of their love-making. No words. Just skin, touch, and the soft ache of being known completely.

Markus's fingertips drifted across her lower back in lazy circles, the rhythm almost hypnotic. Amy's head rose and fell gently on his chest, her cheek pressed to the space just beneath his collarbone where his heartbeat thudded slow and warm. The room was a cocoon of shadows now, lit only by the amber glow from the bedside lamp, casting a soft halo across her bare shoulders.

He spoke first, his voice low and calm, still thick with the softness of afterglow.

"Work was quiet today."

"Mmm?" she murmured without moving, her lips brushing his skin.

He chuckled. "Too quiet. I spent most of the afternoon pretending to work while listening to Stefan talk about his dog's vitamin regimen."

She giggled into his chest, the vibration of it delicate and playful.

"And I was just sitting there," he continued, "zoning out, thinking about..." He paused.

Her head lifted. "Thinking about?"

Markus hesitated. His eyes flicked away for a second, to the ceiling, as if the words were caught in the air just above him. Amy propped herself up on one elbow, her breast pressing against his side, nipple grazing his skin. Her gaze was soft but focused now, catching the shift in him.

"About you," he said, finally. "About us."

"Well, that's sweet." She smiled, brushing her fingers along his ribs. "But that's not all of it, is it?"

He took a breath through his nose. His eyes dropped to her face--so close, so lovely, her short blonde hair mussed and perfect, cheeks still rosy, mouth slightly parted like she was always just about to kiss him.

"No," he admitted. "It's not."

A long pause stretched between them. He ran his hand down the curve of her waist, resting it on the swell of her hip.

She tilted her head slightly, reading him. "Markus..."

He swallowed. "It's something I've thought about for a while. I've never really said it out loud."

Amy blinked slowly, lips curling upward with curiosity. "Now I really want to know."

He hesitated again, then gave her a crooked smile--nervous, almost boyish. "You'll think I'm insane."

She leaned in and kissed just beneath his jaw, slowly. "Tell me."

He looked at her, eyes darker now, the weight of something secret flickering beneath the softness.

"It's a fantasy," he said quietly. "One I've had for a long time."

She didn't speak. She waited.

Markus sat up a little against the pillows, his arm curling behind his head. Amy followed, her body draped half over his lap now, her thigh brushing against the inside of his.

"Sometimes..." He stopped, biting his lower lip. "Sometimes I think about you... being with someone else."

Amy's eyes didn't leave his. They searched, steady.

"Being with someone else how?"

He exhaled, slow, careful.

"Fucked," he said softly. The word hung between them like heat. "By another man."

Amy blinked once.

Markus looked away immediately, as if expecting to feel a slap or silence or laughter.

But Amy... smiled.

Not teasing.

Not mocking.

Warm. Inquisitive. Her fingers trailed down the center of his chest, between the lines of his abs, stopping just above the soft curve where his belly began.

"Why haven't you told me before?" she whispered.

His voice was rough now, the flush of confession rising into his cheeks. "I didn't want you to think I wasn't enough. Or that I didn't want you."

She shifted, moving to straddle one of his thighs, her pussy brushing his skin as she settled there--still wet, still warm, still open. Her hands pressed to his chest, grounding him.

"You think I'd ever believe that?" she whispered. "After the way you touch me?"

Markus's hands came to her hips instinctively, gripping her gently. "I don't know. I just-- I think about it sometimes. You, with someone else. The way you'd sound. The way you'd look." His jaw clenched. "And I don't even know why it turns me on so much. I just know it does."

Amy leaned in, her lips at his ear now, breath like silk. "Tell me more."

His grip tightened.

"I can't."

"You can."

He shook his head. "Not yet. It's too much."

She kissed his neck, slowly dragging her lips down to his collarbone. "You're already halfway there, baby. You've opened the door."

Markus groaned softly, hips shifting beneath her.

"I want to know," she whispered, "what you see. What you imagine when I'm not around."

He buried his face in her shoulder, holding her tight, breathing her in. His cock stirred again, thickening against her thigh.

Amy smiled against his neck.

"You'll tell me," she whispered. "Eventually."

And Markus--breathless, trembling, overwhelmed--nodded.

He would.

He wanted to.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

For now, he just held her, trembling with the weight of the fantasy he had finally spoken aloud.

And Amy?

She wrapped herself around him like silk and heat, already burning with the need to hear it all.

Amy shifted on his lap, thighs wrapped loosely around his waist, her chest pressed softly to his as she waited--still, patient, a pulse of warmth between them. Her skin, still slick from their lovemaking, glowed faintly in the low light. Her fingers played absently with the back of his neck, as if coaxing something from beneath the surface of his skin.

Markus's breath was tight. His eyes didn't quite meet hers yet. He stared somewhere at the edge of the room, where the shadows flickered softly against the cream-colored wall.

"You can say it," she whispered. "You know that, right?"

He blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, he met her gaze. Something behind his eyes was heavy now, the kind of weight that builds over years, too long held in silence.

"I think about it," he said finally. His voice cracked--not from fear, but from the tenderness of what he was giving her. "Amy, I've thought about it... so many times."

Her body stilled against his.

"Thought about what?" she asked quietly. The pads of her fingers traced along his jaw now. Her voice held no fear. Just... curiosity. And something else--something trembling just beneath the surface of her.

"You," he said. "You with... someone else. Another man."

A single breath passed between them.

Amy blinked once. Her brows lifted slightly, not in judgment--but in stunned stillness. Like her body wasn't sure whether to shiver or lean in closer.

"You mean--" Her voice caught, delicate. "You want to watch me? With someone else?"

He nodded, his hands still on her hips. The grip tightened a little as he said it aloud again. "Yes."

Amy's body reacted before her mind did--her thighs tensed slightly, her core shifting just enough to slide her wetness against his stomach. She didn't realize she'd done it. She didn't speak right away.

Markus watched her closely, afraid to breathe too hard. His voice was barely audible now. "It's not because I'm not satisfied. You have to believe that."

"I do," she whispered, her hand pressed now to the side of his face. "I believe you."

"I love you, Amy. You're the only person I've ever wanted--every single part of you. This isn't about needing more. It's about..." He paused, dragging a breath into his chest. "It's about wanting to see you fully. All of you. In ways I can't be."

She felt something flutter low in her belly--hot and raw. She should've been angry. Or scared. But she wasn't. She was... pulled. Deeply.

"How long have you thought about this?" she asked, her voice softer now, but firm with need.

He smiled faintly, ashamed and sweet. "Years. I don't even know when it started. Just... moments. Images. You with someone else. The sounds you'd make. The way you'd look. The way your body would move when--" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "I'd see it in my head and it would wreck me. In the best way."

Her eyes shimmered. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I didn't want to lose the way you look at me."

Amy leaned in, her lips brushing his. "You haven't lost anything."

She sat up straighter on his lap, the slickness between her thighs catching on his skin again. Her blonde hair fell like a soft curtain around her face, eyes locked to his. "You want to see me with another man?"

He nodded.

"Not just imagine it. You want to watch it."

His voice was tight. "Yes."

Amy looked at him--really looked. His pupils were blown wide now, lips parted slightly. His cock stirred beneath her, swelling again slowly, helplessly, like the truth had unlocked something inside him.

"I don't know what to say," she breathed. "It's... a lot."

"I know." He looked up at her, swallowing hard. "And I don't expect anything. I just needed you to know."

She lowered herself against him again, letting her bare skin settle against his chest. Her lips brushed his collarbone. Her fingers moved down, feathering across his ribs.

"I think I want to hear more," she said finally, her voice unsteady but honest.

He looked at her, surprised.

"But... not tonight." She smiled softly. "I need to feel this first. This moment. You and me."

Markus cupped her face and kissed her, slow and full and aching. Like he was thanking her. Like he was giving her more than words.

And beneath her skin, something had shifted. A door had opened.

She wasn't walking through it yet.

But she was standing at the threshold.

Naked.

Curious.

And already wet again.

The morning light filtered in through the gauzy curtains, pale gold and gentle, turning the edges of the kitchen into something soft and unreal. The air still carried a trace of last night--skin, sex, breath--but it was fading now beneath the smell of fresh coffee and the faint creak of the floorboards as Markus moved across them.

Amy sat at the table, one leg folded up on the chair, her oversized white sleep-shirt hitched high on her thigh. No makeup, no performance. Just her bare, stunning face in the fragile morning light, and the quiet flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Her short blonde hair was a sleep-tousled halo, her lips still faintly kiss-swollen. She held her mug in both hands, the ceramic warm against her fingers.

Markus placed the toast between them without a word and sat down across from her, cradling his own cup.

They talked--about the day ahead, errands, the annoying leak in the upstairs shower. Their voices were gentle, the kind used after sex and dreams and softness. He smiled at her across the table. She smiled back. But something inside her was ticking.

It happened in the space between sips, when the silence got just long enough to feel like something was waiting.

Amy didn't look up at first. Her gaze stayed low, fixed on the swirl of cream in her cup.

Then--quietly, with almost no warning--she asked:

"Do you really want to see another man fucking me?"

The words dropped like a stone in still water. The sound of them vibrated through the room--so quiet, so precise, and yet full of something enormous. She didn't say it to tease. There was no flirtation in her voice. Just the bare shape of the question. The weight of it.

Markus blinked, startled--not because he didn't recognize the words, but because they sounded so much heavier in daylight.

Amy finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were wide, almost too calm.

"You want to watch me get fucked," she said again, softly. "In front of you. Is that what you really want?"

He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

She was still watching him. "I've been thinking about it. All night. All morning. I don't even know what I'm feeling. It's not anger. It's not even fear." She shifted in her chair, the edge of her shirt sliding higher on her bare thigh. "But it's... something."

Markus leaned forward, elbows on the table. His coffee sat untouched now.

"I didn't mean to push anything," he said quietly. "I wasn't asking you to--"

"I know," she interrupted gently. "I know you weren't. But you still told me. And now it's in me. This image I never would've imagined." Her voice trembled at the edge, not breaking, but trembling. "Me. Naked. Open. Spread out beneath some stranger's body. His hands on me. His cock inside me. And you... watching."

Her cheeks were flushed now--not just with embarrassment, but something else. Something darker. Hungrier. Her thighs shifted unconsciously beneath the table. She took a slow breath through her nose.

Markus watched her, silently stunned.

Amy leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. "Is that what you want, Markus? You, sitting there. Watching him stretch me. Make me come. Make me scream. And knowing I'm still your wife, but he's inside me?"

He swallowed. Hard.

"I think about it," he whispered.

Her breath caught.

"I think about what your face would look like," he said, barely above a murmur. "When it's not me inside you. When you're moaning and wet and full for someone else. When you're not pretending to hold anything back. When I see exactly how much you can take."

Amy's lips parted slightly.

A long silence.

"I don't know what that means for us," she whispered.

Markus reached across the table and laid his hand gently over hers. "It only means what we decide it does."

Amy didn't speak.

She looked down at their hands, at his thumb brushing the side of her index finger, at the soft glow rising beneath her skin.

And somewhere behind her eyes, the fire had started.

Small.

But real.

Burning quietly.

And very, very hot.

Amy's hand was still beneath his, fingers barely moving, but her breath had changed. It was slower now--deeper. Her lips were slightly parted, and the color in her cheeks had deepened, a soft pink flush that spread down her neck and just into the open collar of her oversized shirt. She stared at him from across the table, her eyes clearer now, but also darker.

Markus swallowed. The light from the window slanted across his face, catching the tightness in his jaw. He was still holding her hand, gently, but there was a heat in his eyes now--one he wasn't hiding anymore.

"I didn't just think about you with another man," he said finally. "I thought about how it would start."

Amy tilted her head slightly, her body suddenly very still.

"I've imagined him looking at you the way I do," Markus continued, his voice lower now. "Watching you. Wanting you. Not just grabbing you, but working for it. Earning it. Making you feel something that unfolds slowly."

Her breath caught just faintly, almost imperceptibly.

"I thought about him sitting across from you," he said, his thumb brushing her knuckle. "Maybe in a bar. Or here. The way he'd touch your wrist first, just lightly, like he's not even sure he should. The way you'd respond without realizing it."

Amy's thighs shifted under the table. She didn't move to stop him.

"And I imagine him leaning in," Markus went on, his voice rough now, like it was being pulled from deep in his chest, "kissing you the first time. Soft. But firm. The way your lips would part. How you'd melt, just a little. Not because you're weak. But because it's new. Forbidden. And you want it."

Amy's fingers flexed in his grasp.

"I picture his hands sliding up your sides," he whispered. "Learning your body like I already know it. But still discovering you. Fingertips under your shirt, mapping your ribs, cupping your breasts while you breathe harder, your nipples getting tight under his touch."

A soft inhale escaped her lips. She hadn't blinked in several seconds.

"And then," he said, eyes fixed on hers, "I see you opening for him."

Amy's thighs pressed together under the table.

"I see him between them. His hand on your inner thigh. Pushing you apart. His mouth on your neck. His voice in your ear. And you letting him slide inside you--inch by inch. Stretching you open. Filling you."

She blinked slowly, her pupils wide now. Her breathing had changed again--faster, unsteady.

Markus swallowed. "And I'm there. Watching. Watching you take him. Watching you lose yourself in it. Not for me. Not for him. For you."

Amy's voice broke the silence, barely a breath. "God..."

She was flushed now, fully--cheeks, throat, chest. Her shirt hung loose, the collar slipping just enough to show the curve of her breast. Her nipples strained visibly beneath the thin cotton. Her legs were pressed tight together under the table, one heel tapping restlessly on the floor.

She looked at him like she didn't know whether to kiss him or climb across the table and fuck him.

Instead, she said: "Say that again."

Markus's chest rose and fell.

"Which part?" he asked softly.

Amy leaned forward, her voice low and trembling. "The part where I open for him."

He reached across and touched her jaw. She didn't pull away.

"I see you on your back," he whispered. "Your thighs wide. Your pussy wet and swollen. And him easing in--slow. Deep. Stretching you in ways you didn't know you needed."

Amy let out the softest moan, barely audible.

"And I just watch," Markus said. "Because it's yours. And I want to see you take all of it."

Amy closed her eyes. Her hand left her cup and slid down under the table, slowly, quietly.

Markus noticed. He didn't speak.

Neither did she.

The kitchen was silent but for their breathing.

And between them--something had ignited. Something unspoken. Something burning.

But neither of them said the next word.

Not yet.

Not here.

Not today.

The moment stretched between them--hot and trembling, like the air had thickened. Amy's bare thighs shifted under the table, her shirt riding high on one hip, just enough to flash a glimpse of soft, creamy skin. Her fingers were out of sight now, slow and deliberate beneath the wood. Her lips were parted, the bottom one caught lightly between her teeth.

Markus saw it all. The flush in her cheeks. The wetness growing in her eyes. The rhythm of her breath deepening. He sat across from her, jaw tense, coffee forgotten, his hand clenched slightly on the table.

Amy's voice was soft. Fragile, almost. But there was a pull in it, a hunger.

"Tell me," she whispered. "How would he touch me?"

Markus swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat. He looked down at the table, then back at her, eyes drawn to the twitch of her lip, the way her shoulders lifted with restraint.

She didn't stop. Her voice dropped lower, steadier.

"And then tell me how you'd reclaim me." Her tongue flicked over her lips. "How you'd clean up the mess he left inside me."

Markus's hand flexed on the edge of the table.

"Amy..." he breathed. "Fuck."

She didn't look away. "You've thought about it. I know you have."

He nodded once. "I didn't think I'd ever say it."

"Say it."

He leaned in slowly, his voice low and uneven, but honest. "I'd watch him take his time with you. At first, I'd want to see how your body responds to his touch. His hands bigger than mine. Rougher. Sliding up your thighs. Feeling how soaked you already are before he even puts his cock in you."

Amy whimpered softly. Her hand beneath the table had gone still, pressed between her legs.

Markus went on, barely blinking. "He'd push you open. Kiss your neck while his fingers spread you. I'd see the way your hips roll up for him, trying to take more. The way you moan when his fingers slip inside."

Her breath caught. Her eyes fluttered.

"I'd watch you beg," he whispered. "I'd watch you wrap your legs around him and pull him in. His cock thick and heavy, stretching your pussy open, and you--taking it all, gasping, soaking his cock while he fucked you deep."

Amy let out a trembling sound, her thighs clenching together.

Markus licked his lips, his voice breaking slightly. "And then... after he came in you--"

Amy inhaled sharply, pupils blown wide.

"--after he filled your pussy with his cum," Markus continued, "I wouldn't stop him. I'd let you lie there, legs open, messy, leaking, your cunt still twitching around it."

Her hand moved again under the table. Slow. Intentional.

Markus's voice dropped lower, thick with something darker. "And then I'd crawl between your thighs. Get on my knees. And I'd clean you."

Amy's breath caught again. Her hand stilled.

"I'd lick every drop out of you," he said. "My tongue deep inside your pussy, tasting both of you. Swallowing it. All of it. Until you were clean. Until you were mine again."

She exhaled in a slow, trembling gasp.

"And I wouldn't stop," he added. "Even if you begged me to. I'd keep eating your ruined, used cunt until you came again. On my mouth. With his cum still dripping down my chin."

Amy stared at him, silent, her chest rising fast beneath the thin cotton of her shirt, nipples hard and pointed. Her hand beneath the table moved faster now, rhythm firm and helpless.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

Her moan told him everything.

And Markus sat there, across from his wife, watching her fuck herself at the thought of being taken... and reclaimed.

And the moment hung there--wet, raw, trembling--between coffee and daylight.

And neither of them looked away.

Amy's breath hitched--sharp and shallow--as her fingers worked faster beneath the table. The cotton of her sleep-shirt had ridden up completely now, bunched around her hips, exposing the soft creamy curve of her bare thighs, the faint slick shine on the inside where her arousal had pooled. Her eyes never left him.

"Take it out," she said softly, her voice ragged with heat. "Your cock. I want it."

Markus's pulse thundered. He moved without thinking, hands trembling as he stood and reached for the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down. His cock sprang free--hard, flushed, already leaking. The sight of her like this, legs open, shirt wrinkled around her waist, lips parted, one hand between her thighs--he couldn't breathe.

Amy looked down at him, biting her lip as she kept stroking her clit. "Come fuck me, baby. Right here."

She spread her legs wider on the chair, shifting forward until her bare ass was right at the edge of the seat, her pussy glistening in the early sunlight. Pink. Wet. Swollen.

Markus dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor, reached for her thighs, and dragged her down just enough for her hips to tilt. Her heels planted against the floor for leverage. He lined himself up, nudging his tip against the slick heat of her entrance, his hands gripping her thighs.

"Do it," she whispered. "I want to feel you inside me."

He pushed forward--and sank in.

Her cunt sucked him in with an obscene wet sound, hot and tight and slick. Amy gasped, head falling back against the chair. Her fingers never stopped circling her clit, even as his cock filled her.

"Fuck," Markus groaned, hips jerking. "You're so wet."

"You made me like this," she moaned, eyes fluttering open to meet his. "Telling me those things. I've never been this wet, Markus."

He gripped her thighs harder, thrusting into her in deep, short pulses. The chair creaked faintly with each movement, her breasts bouncing beneath the thin cotton, nipples stiff and visible.

She stared down at where their bodies met, watching him slide in and out of her dripping cunt, his shaft slick and shining.

"Fuck me, baby," she breathed. "Fuck your wife. Fuck the pussy you're gonna clean after he's done with it. Fuck it now."

Markus let out a strangled moan and drove deeper, the rhythm erratic now--wild, desperate, hips slamming against the insides of her thighs as she rubbed her clit harder, faster.

She watched his face, saw the strain in his jaw, the way his mouth fell open, the way he was losing control.

"Are you gonna cum for me?" she whispered. "Cum in my pussy while I play with myself? You want to fill me now, don't you? Before I'm full of someone else?"

That broke him.

He slammed forward once, twice--and then cried out, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard inside her. His cock throbbed deep, spilling into her, filling her with thick heat. His body shook, forehead pressed to her chest, mouth open against her skin.

Amy gasped--shivering, right on the edge.

"Don't stop," she moaned. "Stay inside me."

Her fingers circled fast, tight. Her breath hitched once--then again.

And then she came.

A deep, guttural moan ripped from her throat as her cunt clamped around him, fluttering in waves, pulling at his softening cock. Her thighs trembled, her body arched, one hand gripping the edge of the chair as she rode out every second of it.

Markus stayed buried inside her, arms wrapped around her waist, his cum still leaking between her folds.

Amy sagged against the chair, panting, flushed, her hair stuck to her cheeks, her skin damp with sweat and sex.

She looked down at him. He looked up at her.

Neither spoke.

But the air between them was thick with something new. Something raw. A door that had been pushed wide open.

And they were both inside it now.

Together.

It had been nearly two weeks since Markus first said the words.

Since the morning she sat in her oversized sleep-shirt, flushed and trembling, moaning softly while he knelt before her and filled her. Since the moment she whispered tell me how you'd clean his cum out of me, and everything between them turned inside out.

Since then, things had been quiet.

Not cold -- not distant. Just... suspended. Like a wire stretched between them, humming with something unsaid.

They still kissed. Still fucked. But every moment they touched, it lingered longer. Every time he pushed into her, her eyes searched his face, as if wondering if he was imagining someone else there too. Every orgasm left her quieter. Every kiss stayed on her lips just a beat too long.

The fantasy hung in the air between them like heat rising from asphalt -- invisible, but warping everything it touched.

And then -- two Thursdays later -- Amy came home from work.

Markus was in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up, barefoot, drying his hands from the dishes. He heard the door, then the soft thud of her heels. She didn't say anything at first. Just walked in, purse over one shoulder, a strange stillness in her eyes.

He turned toward her, wiping his palms on a towel.

She looked calm.

Too calm.

"Hey," he said, smiling gently. "How was your day?"

Amy stepped closer. Her short blonde hair was tucked neatly behind one ear, her blouse just slightly wrinkled at the chest, her makeup smudged faintly at the corners of her eyes.

"I need to tell you something," she said softly.

Markus froze. His body registered it before his brain did.

She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. Unlocked it. Swiped. Then held it out to him.

He took it.

The image on the screen hit him like a wave of heat.

A man. Late twenties. Shirtless. Thick, dark skin like polished obsidian. Shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. Chest cut with muscle, but not overdone -- just heavy, confident. His jaw was square, lips full, eyes dark and knowing. Tattoos curled up one arm and across his collarbone. His expression was calm. Cool. But there was something behind it. Something commanding.

"This is Porter," Amy said quietly.

Markus couldn't speak.

"He's 28," she continued. "He's a personal trainer. Lives across town. Divorced. No kids."

Markus swallowed hard, staring at the screen. The man's body radiated power -- not just in size, but presence. The kind of presence that didn't ask permission. The kind that took.

Amy's voice was gentler now. "He calls himself dominant."

Markus's hand gripped the phone tighter. He felt the room tilt, his cock twitching -- not in arousal. Not yet. Just in awareness.

He finally breathed out the word that had lodged in his chest.

"Fuck..."

Amy studied his face. "You okay?"

He looked at her, eyes wide, voice barely a murmur. "Have you... have you talked to him?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He blinked. His mouth was dry.

"Have you... seen him?"

Amy shook her head. "Not yet."

Markus exhaled. His body sagged slightly, not in relief -- just in stunned tension.

"What did you talk about?" he asked, his voice rough, uneven.

Amy's lips curved--barely. Not a smile. Just a flicker of something deeper.

"I told him I was married. That I wasn't looking for a relationship. Just..." She paused. "That there was something I'd never explored before."

Markus stared at her. At the way she stood now, her body still, but her eyes alight with something he hadn't seen in weeks.

"And he said he understood," she added. "He was... very clear. Very direct. He asked if I wanted to be dominated. If I'd ever been used. If my husband wanted to watch."

Markus closed his eyes, the words crashing into him like surf. His cock pulsed once -- hard -- against the seam of his pants.

Amy stepped forward, closer. The heat between them returned like a wave.

"I haven't said yes," she said softly.

Markus looked up at her, his voice a whisper.

"But you haven't said no."

She held his gaze.

And said nothing.

Markus still held the phone in his hand, Porter's image staring back at him--broad chest, dark skin gleaming, the unmistakable confidence of a man who had nothing to prove. His muscles weren't posed; they simply existed. Like his body was made to dominate, to own, to fill.

Markus's throat felt tight. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Amy hadn't moved far. She stood near him now, close enough that he could smell her perfume--subtle, warm, floral--and the faint, fresh edge of her skin from the outside air. Her blouse was open at the throat, exposing the soft dip between her collarbones, flushed just slightly.

She was watching him.

"I talked to him again today," she said, voice low, careful.

Markus looked up, startled. "You did?"

She nodded. "He asked how far this had gone between you and me. If we'd just fantasized or if I was ready to... act."

Markus swallowed. "And what did you say?"

"I told him I wasn't sure yet," she murmured. "But I asked him what it was like. What he'd done. He didn't hold back."

She stepped closer, her voice softer now, but no less charged.

"He told me he's used to fucking wives in front of their husbands."

Markus blinked. Her words echoed--louder in the silence of their home than any sound could've been.

Amy didn't look away.

"He said most of them come to him because they're starved. Curious. Needing something harder. Bigger. More dominant." Her gaze flicked down--slowly--to the growing bulge at the front of Markus's pants, then back up. "He said their husbands just watch."

Markus let out a shaky breath. His cock twitched hard, painfully tight against the zipper.

"He said it's not new to him," Amy continued. "That some women just need to be taken. Not asked. Used."

Markus felt dizzy. His grip on the phone tightened.

"And he said," she added, voice now no more than a breath, "that most of those wives end up begging for his cock. Because once they've had a real man--once they've been stretched by someone who doesn't hold back--they can't go back."

Markus's eyes fluttered shut.

Amy leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear without touching.

"He said his cock is big. Big enough to break me open if I let him."

Markus groaned softly, helpless.

"And he told me," she whispered, "that if I say yes... he'll show you what it looks like when your wife is truly owned."

Markus's knees nearly buckled. His breath came in hard, shallow pulls. He opened his eyes, met hers.

"You're wet right now, aren't you," he whispered. It wasn't a question.

Amy's smile was slow, almost wicked. Her eyes glittered.

"Dripping," she said.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

The air was molten between them.

And somewhere deep in Markus's chest, the fantasy that had once only lived in shadows... was stepping into the light.

The phone was still in Markus's hand, but he wasn't looking at it anymore.

He was looking at her.

Amy stood in front of him now, unbuttoning her blouse one slow snap at a time. Not to undress--but to taunt. To reveal. The soft white fabric peeled open just enough to show the pale swell of her breasts, the shadow between them. She wasn't wearing a bra.

Her voice was warm. Soft. But edged now with something sharp.

"You know what else Porter told me?" she asked.

Markus shook his head slightly, jaw locked tight, his lips parted just barely. His cock strained visibly against the front of his pants, rock hard, twitching.

Amy stepped closer, close enough that the tips of her fingers brushed the waistband of his slacks. She didn't touch him--not yet.

"He said he loves innocent wives," she whispered. "The quiet ones. The soft, obedient girls who've only known one man. The ones who blush when they say the word cock."

Markus let out a choked breath, his hands shaking.

"He told me there's nothing hotter than getting a sweet little housewife on her back," Amy went on, her lips at his ear now, "and ruining her."

Markus groaned, barely able to stand.

"He said he loves to strip them slowly," she whispered. "Unwrap them like gifts. Then hold them down... and fuck them hard. Until they forget their husband's name."

Markus whimpered--just softly, but real. His entire body shook. His hand moved instinctively to cover his cock through his pants, ashamed and desperate.

Amy caught his wrist.

"No," she said, firm. "Let me see you feel this."

He obeyed. His hand dropped. His cock throbbed visibly through the fabric now, a dark, growing stain at the tip.

Amy smiled.

"Porter said he loves when they try to act shy at first," she whispered. "When they close their legs, whisper that it's too big. But they always open up. Always moan when he slides in. Because they've never had anything so deep. So thick."

Markus's breathing broke--shallow, desperate.

Amy tilted her head. "He said he likes to hear them beg. Innocent wives who've never been stretched like that. Crying into the pillows while he splits them open."

Markus trembled.

"Do you know what that makes me feel like?" Amy asked, stepping back just enough to look into his face. "Hearing him talk about women like that. Like me. Married. Kept. Loyal. And ready to be fucked like a slut in front of her husband."

Markus's lips moved, but no words came out.

Amy reached down, dragging her fingernail along the length of his cock through his pants. Just once. Just enough.

"You want that, don't you?" she whispered. "You want to see me naked beneath him. Hear me gasp when his cock stretches me open."

Markus swallowed hard. His throat worked, his knees threatening to give.

"I'd look at you while he fucks me," Amy said, her voice a purr now. "I'd keep eye contact while he drives into me, and you'd see my mouth fall open, see me shake, hear me moan his name while your cum is still inside me from the night before."

Markus exhaled a broken, trembling breath.

Amy leaned in.

"And when he's finished with me... when he's emptied himself deep inside your little wife... what would you do?"

Markus didn't answer.

He couldn't.

He was shaking.

Ruined.

And Amy had never looked more alive.

Markus stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, his cock still throbbing in his pants, her words echoing in his chest like a drumbeat.

Amy stepped back slightly, just far enough that he could see the full curve of her body -- blouse now undone and hanging open, nipples stiff and visible, her skin flushed from the heat of her own confession. Her short blonde hair was slightly mussed, her eyes impossibly clear.

And then she said it.

"It's decided," she breathed, her voice calm, but heavy. "We're meeting him next Saturday."

Markus's mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Amy stepped toward the counter, as casually as if she were reaching for the kettle, but the weight of her words made the room tilt.

She turned, watching him carefully. "The three of us. At the Peninsula Hotel. Eight o'clock. We'll start in the lobby bar. One drink. Maybe two. And then we'll go upstairs."

Markus couldn't move. Couldn't speak. His heart pounded so hard he felt it in his ears.

Amy's voice softened--dangerously. "It's a beautiful room. Corner suite. Big bed. Big windows."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

"He said he wants to meet you properly. Shake your hand. Look you in the eye before he fucks your wife."

Markus groaned, almost inaudibly. His knees were weak.

Amy took a step closer.

"He said he'll be in a suit. That he likes first impressions. And that he's looking forward to peeling me out of whatever little thing I wear."

Markus stared at her, his breathing fractured, lips parted. His cock ached--fully hard, straining against his pants, leaking.

Amy reached out and traced her fingers lightly over the front of his slacks. The fabric was soaked at the tip.

"You're already dripping," she whispered, almost in awe. "And we haven't even gotten to the part where I come home full of him."

Markus shuddered. "Amy..."

She looked up at him--beautiful, composed, devastating.

"I want you there," she said, gently. "I want you sitting in that chair in the corner. I want you to see what you asked for. What you gave me permission to become."

Markus's voice barely made it out. "I didn't think you'd do it."

Amy smiled--slow, devastating. "You did more than think it. You begged for it. And now it's happening."

She leaned in close again, brushing her lips just near his, her breath warm, almost cruelly tender.

"Next Saturday," she whispered. "You'll watch me open my legs for him."

Markus closed his eyes.

And came--silently, shamefully--into his pants.

The house was silent.

Markus sat on the edge of their bed, fully dressed -- dark jeans, black button-up, shoes already on -- but he felt like he wasn't in his body. Like the last four days had unraveled him thread by thread.

He'd barely slept all week.

Work had been a blur. Every quiet moment filled with flashes of him -- Porter's picture still etched behind his eyelids: huge, dark, powerful. And every time he looked at Amy, he saw something different now -- not less loving, not less familiar... but something more. Something dangerous.

And now it was Saturday.

8 p. m. Reservation.

Hotel bar.

Markus stared at the carpet beneath his feet. His cock had been half-hard all afternoon, pulsing with sick anticipation. He wasn't sure if he wanted to come... or crawl into a hole.

And then she stepped out of the bathroom.

Amy was completely nude.

Her short blonde hair was still slightly damp from the shower, clinging to her cheeks. Her skin glowed -- flushed, smooth, dewy with lotion. Her breasts were round and perfect, the nipples soft and full. Her waist tapered in, hips gentle and wide, the curve of her ass catching the golden light from the bedroom lamp. Her pussy was freshly shaved, pink and bare and subtly glistening.

Markus sucked in a breath.

Amy said nothing at first. She walked slowly to the vanity, hips swaying with the calm of a woman who knew she was being watched. Her back was to him now, every muscle shifting under her skin as she laid out the lingerie on the chair beside her.

A new set.

Black.

Straps. Sheer. Expensive.

She bent slightly and picked up the panties -- thin black mesh, low-cut, crotchless -- and slid them up her thighs with slow, practiced ease. The material stretched high across her hips, vanishing between her cheeks.

Markus's cock twitched, already rock hard.

Next came the garter belt -- lacy, with delicate gold accents. She wrapped it around her waist and fastened it with a little click. Her fingers moved without hesitation, hooking each garter to the sheer black thigh-highs she rolled up one leg at a time. The stockings shimmered slightly in the light, hugging her thighs like a second skin.

She stepped into her heels next -- black stilettos, razor thin, lifting her already perfect ass higher, her calves flexing with every shift of her weight.

Still silent.

Still not looking at him.

Markus stared like he couldn't blink -- his mouth open, cock throbbing against his zipper, too hard to be touched.

Then came the bra.

She slid the cups up and over her breasts, lifting them just enough to tease. The lace barely covered her nipples. The straps framed the curves like an invitation. It wasn't support -- it was decoration.

Markus exhaled shakily.

Amy turned toward him finally. Her body wrapped in black silk and mesh, her hair tucked behind one ear. Her lipstick was a shade darker now -- wine red. Her eyes lined in smoke. Every part of her said fuckable.

And none of it was for him.

She picked up the dress from the chair -- short, tight, deep burgundy with a plunging neckline and a hem that would ride up the moment she sat down. She didn't put it on yet. She walked toward Markus slowly.

He couldn't breathe.

"You like it?" she asked softly, voice like velvet.

He nodded. Swallowed. "You look... f-fuck, Amy..."

She leaned in close, just enough that her breasts hovered over his lap. "Porter told me to wear something that would make you hard the moment I walked out of the room."

Her fingers touched the front of his pants -- pressed lightly against the bulge.

"I think it worked."

Markus whimpered.

She kissed his cheek. Then stepped back and slipped the dress over her shoulders, tugging it down tight. The fabric hugged her body like paint, the neckline dipping low enough to show the lace of the bra beneath.

She smoothed it, checked herself in the mirror, and grabbed her clutch.

"I'll go wait in the car," she said softly, turning to the door. "You drive."

And just like that, she was gone -- heels tapping down the hall.

Markus sat there, cock straining, body shaking, mind numb.

Tonight... was real.

And it had only just begun.

The Peninsula Hotel was bathed in warm, golden light. Everything gleamed--polished marble, brass fixtures, velvet upholstery. The scent of aged liquor and women's perfume hung in the air like heat. The bar itself stretched long and low along the right side of the grand lobby--dark wood, mirrored shelves glowing with amber bottles, jazz humming low from hidden speakers.

Markus walked in beside Amy, his heart pounding like it didn't belong in his chest anymore.

He wore the same black button-up, dark jeans, and clean shoes. His palms were sweating. His cock already half-hard from the car ride alone--Amy's perfume, her bare thigh brushing his when she crossed her legs, the way she applied lipstick in the passenger mirror like she was about to ruin someone.

Amy...

She was breathtaking.

That sheer burgundy dress clung to every curve like silk poured over her body. It hugged the soft swells of her hips, barely covered her ass. The deep neckline revealed the delicate black lace of her new bra underneath--her full, perfect breasts rising with every breath, nipples just faintly visible through the sheer layer. Her long legs shimmered with sheer black stockings, the garters hidden but hinted at with every step. Her stilettos made her taller, sharper.

Unmissable.

They entered the bar and she stopped, turned to him with a look he'd never forget--calm, composed, her eyes glowing with something fierce.

"You sit," she said softly, pointing to a table tucked near a potted palm about thirteen feet from the bar. It was angled just right--he could see everything. Her back. The men. The counter.

Markus nodded mutely and obeyed.

He sat down, the leather of the chair cool against his thighs. His hands gripped the edge of the table. His mouth was dry.

Amy turned and walked slowly toward the bar.

And Markus watched.

It felt like the whole room did.

Her heels clicked on the marble tile. Her hips swayed with hypnotic grace, the hem of her dress hugging the undercurve of her ass. Her long legs moved like water, every step smooth and sensual. Her hair shimmered gold under the bar lights, that short cut brushing her bare shoulders. Her perfume lingered even after she passed.

Men turned. Not subtly.

Businessmen in suits paused mid-sip. A younger guy in jeans outright stared. Two older men near the far end murmured something between them and smiled. One bartender fumbled a bottle.

Amy pretended not to notice--but Markus knew she did. Her head high, her posture perfect, every movement intentional. She was commanding the room. Not with volume. With presence.

She slipped onto a tall stool at the bar, her dress riding high up her thighs, the swell of her stockinged legs now fully on display. One elbow rested on the counter, her fingers lazily trailing the rim of the empty glass placed in front of her.

Markus could see her from behind, from the side. Her profile, lit in soft gold. The sharp line of her jaw. The curve of her breasts. Her legs slightly parted. Waiting.

The bartender leaned in.

She smiled.

Markus exhaled, barely.

She hadn't even looked back at him.

But she didn't need to.

He was already melting.

And she was just beginning.

Markus sat in the leather chair, his spine rigid, heart thudding beneath his shirt. The hotel bar buzzed quietly with conversation, ice clinking in glasses, jazz curling through the air like smoke. He couldn't hear what Amy had said to the bartender, but he saw the flash of her smile, the slow tilt of her head as she ordered. Two drinks. The bartender nodded and turned to his bottles.

She didn't glance at Markus. Not once.

Her posture was relaxed, one knee crossed over the other, foot bouncing slightly in her stiletto heel. Her dress had slipped just enough to show the sheer band of stocking at the top of her thigh. Her fingers traced circles on the bartop. Casual. Composed. Waiting.

The bartender returned, sliding two cocktails onto the polished wood -- one dark, one gold. Amy's fingers curled around the glass with the practiced grace of a woman already in the game. She took a slow sip.

She didn't move toward Markus.

She stayed.

And then the door opened.

Markus saw him immediately.

Porter.

Tall. Broad. Dark as polished mahogany under the warm hotel lights. A perfectly cut navy suit hugged his powerful frame, the jacket slightly open to reveal a crisp white shirt stretched across his chest. No tie. One button undone. His stride was smooth, heavy, utterly certain. His jaw sharp, lips full, his eyes sweeping the bar with practiced ease.

He didn't hesitate.

He walked straight to Amy.

Markus's pulse spiked, breath catching mid-throat. He couldn't move.

Amy turned when Porter reached her, her expression softening instantly--eyes shining, a smile blooming wide across her face. Before a word was spoken, Porter leaned in.

And kissed her.

Full. Deep. Unapologetic.

His hand curled around her jaw as his lips claimed hers, slow and sensual, like they had all night and no one else existed. Her fingers touched his wrist lightly. Her mouth opened beneath his. Her body leaned in.

The bartender froze mid-polish. His eyes flicked up from the glass... to them... then across the room.

To Markus.

Their eyes met.

Markus saw the flicker of confusion, the tightening of the bartender's brow. He saw us come in together. His gaze flicked back to Porter's hand still on Amy's face, then back again to Markus -- as if trying to make sense of it.

Markus looked away.

When he glanced back, Porter was taking the seat beside her. He hadn't looked at Markus yet. Amy didn't speak, but her hand slid one of the drinks toward him -- the darker one, untouched. A quiet offering.

Porter picked it up with slow fingers. Raised it.

And then turned his head.

And looked directly at Markus.

Their eyes locked across the thirteen-foot stretch of space.

Porter's expression didn't shift. Not quite a smile. Just presence. Ownership.

Then -- with his gaze still fixed on the trembling husband in the shadows -- he raised the glass in a casual toast.

Markus's breath caught. His cock throbbed painfully in his pants.

Amy... leaned in closer.

And the night had only begun.

Markus stared at the glass in Porter's hand, still raised slightly in that silent toast. His jaw tightened. His throat clicked.

He nearly said it aloud.

Fuck.

But the word caught behind his teeth, trembling just below the surface of his tongue. Instead, something else pulsed up in its place -- a dizzying blend of arousal and dread.

What have I done?

His heart pounded behind his ribs, thudding deep in his chest. His hands were damp against the sides of his thighs. He sat perfectly still in his chair thirteen feet away, too far to hear them, but close enough to see.

Porter turned back to Amy now, the drink in his hand, his posture relaxed but undeniably powerful. His legs spread slightly as he leaned on one forearm against the bar. She was facing him completely -- knees turned toward him, chin tilted just enough to keep eye contact. Her lips moved slowly, smiling between words, the soft gleam of her lipstick catching the light.

Markus watched her laugh.

Not loudly.

Not exaggerated.

Just... natural. Warm. Easy.

And then he watched Porter lean in.

Not close enough to kiss -- not yet. Just enough to speak directly in her ear. Whatever he said made Amy's smile deepen, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear like a teenager on a first date.

Markus's cock throbbed.

He could see everything. The way her bare thigh peeked beneath the hem of her dress. The soft swell of her breasts rising with each breath. The garter strap just visible when she shifted on the barstool. Her body glowed -- hips relaxed, eyes soft, lips parted slightly as she listened.

She was flirting.

With him.

Her husband sat just feet away, forgotten in a dim corner.

Porter's hand reached for his glass, took a long sip, then rested his palm casually on the bar -- close. Almost touching her thigh.

Amy didn't move.

She just leaned in and said something low. Her hand gestured briefly, as if describing something intimate. Her other hand touched the base of her own neck, fingertips brushing the delicate skin just above her cleavage.

Markus swallowed hard.

It hit him again: she looked beautiful for him tonight. Not for me.

And now Porter was watching her lips, nodding slowly, his eyes dark and focused. When he smiled, it was slight. Controlled. Like a man who already knew the outcome.

Markus gripped the edge of the table.

The humiliation bloomed inside him like fire.

And still, his cock was hard.

He couldn't hear them.

But he didn't need to.

Every look, every subtle shift, every slow movement between them was foreplay. And Markus -- the man who had fantasized about this very moment -- was now watching it happen in real time.

No longer in control.

No longer in theory.

Real.

Amy's hand dropped briefly to Porter's knee. Just for a second. But it lingered long enough to make Markus clench.

Porter's body didn't flinch.

Amy was talking again now, smiling, her chest rising with breath, eyes shining with heat.

Markus stared at her mouth.

That mouth.

The same one that had whispered tell me how you'd clean me out just one week ago.

And now it belonged to him.

Markus didn't move.

Didn't speak.

He just sat, shaking, as his beautiful wife flirted with a man who was going to fuck her.

The bar's low jazz rolled on, soft and slow, but Markus could barely hear it. His world had narrowed to two bodies at the counter. One--his wife. Radiant. Temptation embodied. The other--Porter. Dark, massive, deliberate. The man she'd chosen to show herself to.

Amy's legs shifted on the barstool. She was leaning in closer now, her knees almost brushing his thigh, her voice clearly flirtatious even if the words didn't reach Markus. Her hand traced the rim of her drink lazily, her other hand resting casually on Porter's forearm.

She laughed again--soft and breathy--and then suddenly, without hesitation, she stood.

Just like that.

She pushed off the stool, her heels clicking softly on the tile as she turned to face him. Markus saw the hem of her short burgundy dress ride even higher on her thighs, the tops of her stockings visible now, the shadow of her inner thighs slightly parting.

Porter looked up at her--unmoving. Like a king awaiting what was his.

And then Amy stepped in.

Her hand rose, slid up the side of his jaw, and she leaned down, her mouth finding his in one slow, deliberate kiss.

It wasn't fast. It wasn't shy.

It was possessive.

Their lips moved with aching control, mouths parting slightly, her tongue teasing, tasting. Porter didn't just kiss her--he received her. Like he expected it. Like he'd owned this moment the second he walked in.

Markus stared--paralyzed.

His breath stopped completely.

Then Porter's hands moved.

They slid around her waist, firm and wide, drawing her in tighter. Then they slipped lower--cupping the full roundness of her ass. He squeezed her softly at first, then firmer, pulling her hips closer between his knees. Amy gasped into the kiss, just a subtle sound, a sound Markus knew too well.

Porter didn't stop.

His hands shifted--slow, skilled--until his fingers traced the curve where thigh met cheek. Then one hand slid down, under the hem of her dress. Her hips tilted as she allowed it, the material riding up, exposing more of the tops of her stockings. Her bare skin. The garter strap.

Markus felt like he might pass out.

Porter's hand stayed low for a moment, then moved again--higher this time, under the dress. Markus couldn't see where it had gone, only the way Amy's body responded--her breath caught, her hand gripped Porter's shoulder, her back arched just slightly as his palm explored her.

She didn't stop him.

She didn't even glance back.

Markus saw the shape of her body change in front of Porter--softening, melting. She kissed him again, slower now, her lips lingering on his, as one of his hands traced lazy, claiming circles up and down the underside of her ass, under the silk.

The bartender turned away.

A woman at the other end of the bar blinked twice and looked down.

But Markus... couldn't look away.

His wife's mouth was on another man. Her body was pressed tight to him, her ass in his palms, the hem of her dress pushed high, her thighs parted, her breath hot in another man's mouth.

And Porter looked like he was just getting started.

Markus's cock throbbed so hard it ached.

This wasn't the fantasy anymore.

This was real.

And Amy had never looked more turned on.

Amy stood between his legs, nestled in the space carved just for her -- framed by Porter's thick thighs and steady hands. The bar behind them glowed dimly, casting golden warmth over her skin, catching the shimmer of her sheer black stockings.

Her body moved gently with the sway of his grip -- not resisting, not uncertain. She was soft in his arms, leaning into the man who held her like something he already owned.

Markus couldn't breathe.

Porter's hands were still on her -- wide, confident, deliberate. One rested at the small of her back, the other low on the curve of her ass, fingers tracing the line where cheek met thigh. Then -- slowly, in no rush at all -- that hand began to move.

Up.

His palm glided along the back of her leg, over the garter strap, past the stocking band. Her muscles shifted with the touch, the slow flex of her thigh responding automatically to his pressure. Markus saw the dark shape of his hand slide under the hem of her short burgundy dress... and keep going.

Amy didn't stop him.

Porter's hand lifted the dress as he moved higher, his palm dragging against bare skin now. Inch by inch, the silky fabric rose. Past her upper thigh. Past the bottom curve of her ass.

And then it happened.

The dress rose high enough that her backside was fully exposed -- bare cheeks hugged by the thin black straps of her new crotchless thong. The lace glistened slightly under the bar lights, stretched tight between the round, perfect swell of her ass.

Markus's stomach dropped.

She's exposed.

To him.

To me.

To anyone who cared to look.

Her thighs parted just slightly, steady in her heels. Porter's hands now slid up, both of them. He gripped her waist, thumbs brushing the edges of the garter belt. Her dress remained bunched at her mid-back, her entire lower half now bare but for the sheen of her stockings and the delicate black thread of lingerie that barely concealed anything.

It wasn't just the visibility.

It was the ease.

Porter touched her like this was normal. Like he was checking the fit of something he'd already purchased. He didn't glance around. Didn't hide it.

And Amy...

Amy rested her hands on his shoulders, her body utterly relaxed, her breath shallow, her cheeks pink. She knew she was exposed. She knew Markus was watching.

But she didn't flinch.

Markus's cock throbbed so hard it hurt.

He could see the soft dip of her lower back, the bare swell of her ass in another man's hands, the high arch of her heels as she leaned in closer, letting him feel all of her.

The bartender turned away again -- flushed.

One man, sitting further down the bar, looked once, then twice, then tried not to stare.

Amy didn't pull the dress back down.

And Porter didn't stop touching her.

Markus sat trembling, eyes locked on the half-naked body of the woman he loved, held like a toy, displayed like a gift, her thong barely hiding the place where another man would soon slide in.

And all he could do was watch.

Markus's jaw was clenched so tight it ached. His hands trembled slightly on the table, fingers pressed flat against the linen surface, trying to ground himself -- to pretend the world hadn't narrowed into a single aching pulse in his cock and the rising flush of shame under his collar.

Amy's dress was still rucked up at her waist.

Her ass bare.

That sheer black thong slicing between her cheeks like it had been designed for exposure. Porter's hands still rested at her hips, fingertips grazing her waist as he whispered something close to her ear. She nodded. Smiled. Bit her lip.

And then Markus heard it.

Two men behind him -- just off to his right. Close. Their table was near his, leather chairs pulled in, glasses of scotch half-full, jackets draped on the backs of their seats. They were older -- late fifties, maybe early sixties. Suits, loosened ties, that long-winded Friday ease of businessmen who'd had one too many rounds on the company card.

And they were talking.

Low at first. But clear.

"Jesus Christ," one of them murmured, voice thick with alcohol and lust. "Look at that blonde at the bar."

Markus froze.

The other man let out a low chuckle. "Mmm. Legs for days. Look at that ass. You can see the damn thing. She's not wearing a real dress."

"No kidding. Bet she's not wearing real panties either," the first one said. "She's asking for it, standing like that."

Markus's pulse hammered. His cock throbbed. His body went hot and cold at once.

"That's not a date," one of them added. "That's a bull and his little toy. Fuck, I'd pay a thousand bucks to spend an hour between those thighs."

Markus inhaled sharply--quiet, strangled.

The instinct was instant.

She's mine.

He wanted to say it. To turn around, to growl it through clenched teeth: That's my wife.

But he couldn't.

He didn't move.

He sat there--thirteen feet away from her exposed body--while two strangers talked about paying to fuck her.

"You see the way she leans into him?" one of them said. "He's not taking her home. He's taking her upstairs. That ass is getting filled before midnight. Guaranteed."

Markus's mouth was dry. His cock twitched. He felt lightheaded.

The worst part--the part that made his stomach twist and his breath catch--was how right they were.

She was being taken upstairs.

And it wasn't him she'd be full of.

He looked up.

Amy was laughing again. Porter's hand trailed down the curve of her waist, then back up. Her thighs were slightly parted, her posture relaxed, her lips parted.

She hadn't even looked back.

And Markus?

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't speak.

And the men behind him... were still talking.

Amy stepped back from Porter slowly, her dress still wrinkled high around her hips, her bare ass only now covered again by the soft glide of burgundy silk. She smoothed the hem lazily, as if she wasn't in a hotel bar full of strangers who had just seen her thong. Her lipstick was slightly smudged. Her eyes were bright, her skin glowing, her legs strong in their stockings and heels.

Then -- she turned.

And walked toward Markus.

Each step was deliberate.

Her hips rolled naturally in the stilettos, the hem of her dress tugging with every stride, revealing flashes of the garter belt with each sway. Her chest rose and fell beneath the sheer black lace, and her smile was subtle. Warm. But in charge.

Markus sat frozen in his seat.

Her voice, when she reached him, was soft. Sweet. But loud enough to be heard.

"We're ready to go up now, baby."

His stomach twisted.

She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, leaned down, and kissed his cheek. Her breath was warm against his skin.

"Porter's just paying the tab," she added. "Room's already ready."

Markus opened his mouth, but said nothing.

And then he heard them.

The two older men behind him went quiet for a second -- just a beat -- and then one let out a low exhale.

"Husband..." the first one muttered, almost laughing. "No fucking way."

The other man leaned in slightly, murmuring, not subtle. "Jesus, he's the husband? That poor bastard."

Amy didn't even look at them. She just smiled down at Markus, touched his hand.

"We'll meet you by the elevator."

And with that, she turned.

Walked away.

Markus stood, his legs unsteady, and followed.

Porter met them near the elevator alcove, tall and calm in his navy suit, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a keycard between his fingers.

He nodded once at Markus.

No words.

Just that look -- the one that said everything. Your wife is mine now.

The elevator dinged.

They stepped in.

Amy first -- hips swaying, heels sharp on the marble tile. Porter behind her. Then Markus.

The doors slid shut.

And the sound of their descent began.

Markus didn't speak.

Amy didn't turn.

Porter didn't smile.

But the silence between them pulsed like sex.

And they hadn't even reached the room yet.

The suite was large and dimly lit, awash in golden tones and low music pulsing gently from discreet ceiling speakers. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glittering view of the city below, and a massive king-size bed sat neatly turned down, waiting. A soft leather couch stretched along the far wall, facing the bed like it was placed just for this.

Markus stepped in last.

The door clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt too final.

Amy walked in first, her heels tapping against the dark wood floor, hips swaying under the stretch of her tight burgundy dress. She didn't speak. She walked toward the windows, casually setting her purse on the end table. She looked out at the city lights like she had all the time in the world.

Porter followed. Calm. Massive. In complete control. He took off his jacket, folding it slowly, deliberately, and laid it across a high-backed chair.

Then he turned to Markus.

His voice was low. Steady. Already in charge.

"Strip."

Markus blinked, frozen just inside the doorway. "Wait, I--"

Porter didn't raise his voice. He just stepped forward, closer, towering. "You heard me."

Amy didn't turn around.

Markus swallowed hard. "I thought I'd just... watch from the chair. Like we said--"

Porter cut him off. "You will watch. From the couch. Naked. I want your little dick out."

Markus flushed, the shame blooming up his neck. "Amy--"

Still facing the window, her voice was soft. "Do what he says, baby."

Markus's breath hitched.

Porter stepped even closer now, his presence swallowing the room.

"She needs to see the difference," he said, eyes locked on Markus. "The whole time. You're here to watch what it's like when a woman gets taken by a real man. And she deserves to see both cocks. Side by side. Compare. Understand."

Markus's face burned. His body trembled.

Porter tilted his head, his voice dark with warning. "Or you can leave. But the door shuts behind you. And you'll never see what she looks like when she's filled properly."

The room went silent.

Amy still hadn't turned.

Markus's fingers moved to his belt.

He undid it slowly, awkwardly. His hands shook. His shoes came off first. Then his pants. His shirt, unbuttoned with fumbling fingers, slid off and dropped to the floor. And then finally... his boxers.

His cock sprang free -- half-hard, humiliated. Small. Pale. Exposed.

Porter smiled just faintly.

Markus stood there -- naked in the golden light, his clothes in a pile at his feet, his hands useless at his sides.

"Sit," Porter said.

Markus obeyed.

He walked stiffly to the couch and lowered himself onto the cool leather. The cushion dipped beneath his weight, the view from the couch perfect: the bed, the window, and Amy's body reflected faintly in the glass.

She finally turned.

Her eyes dropped to him.

Then rose to Porter.

And her smile was slow... and knowing.

Markus tried not to cover himself.

And failed.

The room was silent but for the hum of the city below and the faint sound of Amy's heels tapping across the floor.

Markus sat naked on the leather couch, knees drawn slightly together, his pale cock resting small and soft against his thigh. His chest rose and fell with shallow breath. Every inch of him was flushed--nerves, humiliation, and unbearable arousal blooming hot under his skin.

Across the suite, Porter stood tall and calm, the white shirt still hugging his chest, his presence stretching to every corner of the room. He looked at Amy, eyes heavy with intent.

"Come here," he said.

His voice was low, but it rolled across the room like heat.

Amy didn't hesitate.

She walked to him slowly, the sway of her hips pure elegance, her dress clinging to her like it had been poured on. Her eyes stayed on his. Her breath visible in the tightness of her chest. Markus watched every step, his cock twitching in helpless shame.

Porter reached for the hem of her dress.

He didn't ask.

His hands slid up her thighs, gripping the fabric, slowly drawing it upward. Amy lifted her arms instinctively, and he peeled it off over her head -- smooth, commanding, practiced.

She stood in front of him now in nothing but her lingerie: black lace bra hugging her full, high breasts, sheer crotchless thong barely covering her glistening folds, and the garter belt holding her stockings tight against her thighs. The heels made her legs look longer. Stronger. Ready.

Markus let out a shaky breath.

Then Porter reached for his own shirt.

He unbuttoned it with no urgency -- one clasp at a time, his dark, muscled torso slowly revealed. Tattoos curled along his chest and across his shoulder. His body looked carved -- massive and smooth, heavy with power.

Amy's lips parted, eyes tracking each inch of skin.

Porter undid his belt. His pants dropped.

Then his briefs.

His cock fell forward, heavy and thick -- long, veined, massive.

It didn't just hang.

It commanded.

Markus gasped softly, chest tightening. He couldn't believe it. The size. The weight. The way it swayed slightly as it settled.

Amy's reaction was immediate.

Her breath caught -- sharp and audible. One hand rose to her lips, her eyes wide, locked to the cock now inches from her face.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "It's bigger than I ever dreamed of."

Markus felt his stomach twist.

Her voice wasn't dramatic. It wasn't teasing. It was pure, shocked awe.

Amy's thighs shifted. Her breathing deepened. Her nipples were visibly hard beneath the lace. She looked up at Porter with something between reverence and hunger.

Porter just smiled -- slow and certain.

His cock hung there -- thick, dark, dripping with weight.

And Markus... could do nothing but watch.

Markus sat rigid on the couch, naked and shivering in the low amber light of the suite. The leather stuck to the backs of his thighs, his small cock soft and ashamed against his belly. He couldn't stop staring. Couldn't look away.

But he wasn't sure if he could see this.

Not all of it.

Not her.

Amy -- his wife -- was still on her knees now before Porter, her body framed perfectly in the soft golden glow from the sconces on the wall. Her back arched, hands at her sides. Lace straps clung to her thighs, her heels digging into the carpet. Her mouth parted slowly.

Porter's cock jutted out like it didn't belong to reality. Long, dark, impossibly thick -- hard now, pulsing just inches from her face. A heavy bead of precum glistened at the tip.

Markus swallowed.

His stomach flipped.

"I..." he murmured, almost to himself. "I don't know if I can--"

Porter didn't turn.

His voice cut through the air, deep and steady.

"Get your mouth on it."

Amy looked up at him -- her lips already wet, flushed with anticipation. She nodded.

Then she spit.

A thick, wet string of saliva landed directly on the crown of Porter's cock, sliding slowly down the shaft. Her hand followed, wrapping around him -- her fingers barely able to close the grip. She stroked once. Twice. Her wrist twisting as the spit spread, gleaming in the light.

Markus moaned under his breath.

Porter groaned softly, eyes fixed on her.

Amy leaned forward and tried -- her mouth opened, lips stretching wide. She pushed her tongue out first, swirling it around the head, coating it, then opened farther, pushing down.

It didn't fit.

Not easily.

Her jaw strained, her lips stretched obscenely around the tip, barely halfway down the crown before her throat tightened and she gagged. Her hands braced against his thighs. She tried again.

More spit.

More noise.

Then Porter's hand came to the back of her head -- firm. Steady.

And he pushed.

Amy choked instantly, her throat catching around the girth. Her fingers clawed into his thigh, her eyes watering. Her nose pressed into the base of him as he fed more of it in. She gagged hard, wet sounds filling the room. Drool poured from her lips, sliding down her chin, down his shaft.

Markus whimpered, his hands trembling on his lap.

It was messy.

Violent.

Obscene.

Porter didn't flinch. He held her head still and began to fuck into her mouth--slow, controlled thrusts, burying more of his cock into her each time.

Amy's eyes rolled slightly, spit bubbling from the corners of her lips.

Markus's chest ached.

His wife was being face-fucked.

And she looked like she was meant for it.

Amy's mouth was soaked -- lips swollen, spit glistening from her chin to her collarbone. Her mascara had started to smear, soft shadows trailing beneath her wide, glossy eyes. She was still on her knees, both hands gripping Porter's thick thighs, her chest rising and falling with each trembling breath.

Porter had pulled back now, letting his cock slip from her mouth with a thick wet sound. A strand of saliva clung to the tip, stretched from her lip. She gasped, catching her breath, spit running down her neck.

Then he reached for her.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His large hand cupped the side of her face first, tender now -- thumb stroking her cheek. Amy leaned into it, eyes half-lidded, her lips parting with a quiet, wanting sound.

Then his other hand slid down.

Over her shoulder.

Down her side.

Across her ribs.

She trembled visibly.

Markus watched from the couch, his small, flushed cock twitching in his lap, his mouth open in silence.

Porter's hand moved lower -- fingers dragging across Amy's garter strap, then slipping behind the thin lace of her thong. He grabbed the band slowly... and pulled.

He lifted it.

The black lace bit into her, riding up fast between her cheeks, deep into the soft lips of her pussy. The crotchless front left nothing to the imagination. The back buried itself in her, tight and stretched. Amy cried out -- a moan that was somewhere between pleasure and surrender.

Her thighs pressed together. Her hips rolled back against the pressure. She gasped again, louder this time.

"Ohh... fuck..."

Porter pulled harder, grinding the thong deeper into her wetness, holding it there -- his fingers close enough to feel how soaked she was. His grip firm, dominating. But his voice low, almost coaxing.

"Feel that?" he murmured. "Feel how soaked you are already?"

Amy whimpered and nodded, her eyes fluttering closed.

Markus could see everything.

Her bare thighs trembling.

Her thong tight in her slit.

Her body rocking back against the pressure.

Her mouth open, moaning now, full and loud.

It was no longer just submission.

It was desire.

Porter released the thong slowly, letting it snap lightly back into place, and then his hand moved up -- over her ass, her lower back, her ribs. He touched her now like he owned her. Like she wasn't just being taken.

She was being claimed.

Amy turned her face into his palm again, breathless. Her legs shifted, opening wider on her knees, like her body was asking for more without speaking.

And Markus?

He couldn't breathe.

His wife wasn't just allowing it.

She was aching for it.

Porter's fingers curled slowly into Amy's hair.

He gripped it--not roughly, not yet--but with that steady, claiming pressure that said you're not going anywhere.

Amy arched her back immediately, her breath catching as her body responded to the sudden tension. Her thighs parted slightly wider where she knelt, her heels still pressed into the floor, her glistening mouth open and wet from where he'd pulled his cock from her lips.

"Look at you," Porter growled, his voice deep and close to her ear now. "On your knees, moaning like a fucking bitch in heat."

Amy whimpered--high and trembling--her lips twitching like she didn't know whether to speak or beg.

Markus's heart stopped.

He was still naked on the couch, his small cock twitching against his belly, leaking helplessly now. He couldn't hide it. Couldn't stop the way his thighs trembled. He was fully hard and barely breathing.

Porter didn't look at him.

He tightened his grip in Amy's hair and pulled her upright, off her heels slightly, back arched beautifully. Her bra strained across her chest, her nipples hard under the lace, her body fully open to him now.

Then his other hand slid low again, fingers sliding around the inside of her thigh, to the narrow band of her thong. And he yanked.

The lace bit in hard -- slicing deep between her lips, the strap pressing directly against her soaked entrance. Amy screamed -- not in pain, but in something rawer. Something guttural. Her hips jerked. Her legs quivered.

"Oh--oh fuck--" she moaned, loud, almost sobbing now. "Yes--please--"

Porter growled again. "You feel that, girl? That pressure? That's your pussy begging to be stretched."

Markus watched in stunned, brutal silence.

The thong had vanished between Amy's swollen lips, the crotchless opening glistening, visibly dripping. Her body pulsed with heat, her back arched into the pull like she needed it, like she couldn't bear not to be filled.

Porter yanked again.

Harder.

Amy let out a cry that turned into a deep, shaking moan, her body exploding under the pressure. Her arms trembled, her knees wobbled.

"Fuck--fuck--Porter, please--"

Markus whimpered from the couch, a broken sound escaping him.

His wife was unraveling.

From a handful of hair.

From lace pulled tight against her cunt.

From a man who hadn't even fucked her yet.

And Markus could only sit there.

Hard.

Small.

Watching her come undone.

"Stand up."

Porter's voice was low, commanding -- thick with heat and authority.

Amy obeyed without hesitation.

Her body rose slowly from her knees, thighs trembling, the garter straps stretching slightly as she straightened. She stood before him now, flushed and panting, her lace bra heaving with each breath, her crotchless thong glistening with arousal, barely clinging to the curve of her hips.

Markus sat motionless on the couch, his heart pounding behind his ribs. The soft leather stuck to his skin. His cock -- small, pale, visibly twitching -- lay helpless against his stomach, already leaking again. He watched with wide, unblinking eyes.

Porter stepped in behind Amy, towering over her.

The size difference was surreal.

She looked small beside him -- delicate. She barely reached his chest in her heels, her shoulders narrow compared to the heavy breadth of his frame. His dark hands, veined and thick, could nearly span her waist. When he stood behind her, his body eclipsed hers entirely.

And then he grabbed her again.

His hand twisted gently but firmly in her hair, tugging her head back, exposing her neck, the line of her jaw. Amy gasped -- her lips parted, her body arching into him. She didn't resist. She offered.

Markus's breath hitched.

Porter leaned down, his mouth near her ear. "Keep your legs open."

Amy whimpered and obeyed, spreading her heels apart, her thighs tense with anticipation.

Then his hand moved.

Down her side.

Over her hip.

Between her legs.

And then -- in.

Two thick fingers pushed into her soaking pussy in one slow, deliberate motion. Her mouth fell open with a high, aching cry. Her thighs trembled. Her arms hung limp at her sides.

"Ohh--fuck--yes," she moaned, voice already breathless. "God, yes."

Porter didn't stop.

His fingers drove deeper, curling slightly, pressing against that sweet, swollen spot inside her. He fucked her slowly, sensually, with confidence -- the slick, obscene sound of it loud in the room.

Wet.

Soaking.

Willing.

Amy's body rocked against him, hips pushing back into his hand.

Markus stared, helpless.

He could see everything.

The contrast between them -- her pale, slender body in dark lace, quivering and arching, and him, dark-skinned, muscled, massive, his hand buried between her legs, fingers pumping deep, wrist flexing with every thrust.

She looked owned.

And she loved it.

Porter growled softly, his voice thick in her ear.

"You're dripping all over my hand," he murmured. "You want it that bad already?"

"Yes," Amy gasped, her voice breaking. "Yes, I want it--please don't stop--"

He pulled her hair tighter.

And fingered her harder.

Amy's head fell back against his shoulder, her mouth wide open, her eyes glazed.

Markus moaned without meaning to.

And still--he couldn't look away.

Porter's hand slid from Amy's soaked folds, glistening with her arousal as he stepped back from her trembling body.

"On the bed," he said, voice low and unmistakable.

He turned and climbed onto the wide hotel mattress, his powerful frame reclining against the pillows like he'd been meant to live there, cock thick and fully erect, rising against the hard ridges of his abs. The way he lay -- one arm behind his head, the other lazily stroking himself -- made it feel like he belonged there, like the room was his.

Markus sat naked on the couch across from the foot of the bed, frozen. His chest tight. His cock hard and twitching in open shame. His legs were weak, his hands pressed into the cushions beside his thighs.

Amy turned to face Porter, her body flushed and glistening with heat. Her garters and stockings still hugged her thighs. Her lace bra barely contained her heaving breasts. But it was the thin, soaked strip of her thong that Porter's eyes locked onto now -- the dark sheen where her wetness had stained the fabric, the tiny, stretched panel doing nothing to hide how ready she was.

"Take that off," he said. "Now."

She hooked her fingers beneath the thin black straps at her hips, the delicate lace tight against her skin. Slowly, sensually, she peeled the thong down her thighs -- inch by inch -- letting it slide down her legs. Her heels forced her to bend slightly, ass arched, pussy slick and bare between her legs.

Markus whimpered, his hands trembling now.

Amy stepped out of the thong and climbed up onto the bed.

She didn't hesitate.

She straddled him.

Her knees on either side of his hips, her body poised over that massive cock -- dark, glistening, thick enough that her hand couldn't fully close around it. Her pussy hovered just above the head, the heat between her legs visibly leaking onto him. Her breath was fast, her fingers curled into his chest for balance.

Porter didn't move.

He let her feel it. All of it. Let her weight settle down just enough that the wide crown of his cock pressed right up against her bare opening -- not inside yet, just touching -- wide, hot, threatening.

Amy gasped.

"Oh my god..."

Markus's whole body tensed.

He could see it from where he sat -- the sheer contrast of it. Her soft, pale body spread wide above that cock, her pussy visibly parting around the tip without even taking it yet.

Then Porter moved.

His hands came up to her ass, gripping her cheeks tight -- fingers sinking in, spreading her apart.

Wide.

He pulled her open slowly, deliberately.

Markus could see everything.

Amy whimpered -- eyes closed, lips trembling, her body shuddering as she felt him stretch her open with just his hands.

"Look at that," Porter said under his breath, dark eyes flicking toward the couch. "She's already spreading for it. And I haven't even started."

And Amy...

didn't deny it.

Then Porter's cock was huge and hard, touching her pussy -- the thick head resting just barely between her folds, the weight of it making her hips tilt instinctively. Amy whimpered, her thighs spreading just slightly more, her breath already shaking.

Porter looked over his shoulder at Markus.

"Come here," he said. Not loud. Not cruel. Just a command.

Markus didn't move.

He stared -- stunned -- at the sight of his wife, lying back on the hotel bed, her legs open, the curve of her hips rising in offering, Porter's dark, heavy cock nestled just against her entrance.

"I said," Porter repeated, "come grab my cock. Steer it into your wife."

Markus blinked.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Amy turned her head. Her eyes met his. There was no doubt in them. No shame. Just hunger.

"Do it," she said. Her voice was soft but burning. "Or he won't fuck me."

Markus still didn't move.

Amy bit her lip, her fingers twitching against the sheets.

"I need his big cock," she whispered, eyes locked on him. "Please, baby. Help me. Put him inside me."

Markus's legs moved before his mind did.

He stepped forward -- bare, trembling, flushed with heat. The room swam around him, his heart pounding in his ears, his cock soft against his thigh, utterly humiliated.

Porter didn't flinch.

He stood still, massive, cock hard and glistening, curved upward and already pulsing. His hands rested casually at his sides, like this wasn't even effort.

Markus reached out -- slowly, like a man nearing fire.

His fingers brushed the base of Porter's shaft -- thick, dark, impossibly hot. He gasped softly, the weight of it shocking. His fingers curled carefully around it, just beneath the ridge of the head.

It was like trying to grip a live wire.

Amy moaned.

"That's it," she whispered, her thighs spreading a bit more. "Now aim him. Right at my pussy."

Markus nodded. Swallowed.

He guided the thick crown lower -- down, down -- until it kissed her slit. Amy's whole body jolted.

"Oh fuck..."

The tip nudged her folds open. Wet heat met velvet steel.

Porter's breath deepened.

Markus held the shaft steady. He couldn't stop staring at the way it dwarfed his hand -- at how Amy's pussy seemed to weep the moment it touched her.

And then--

Porter pushed forward.

Just a little.

Amy cried out.

Her legs snapped wider, heels digging into the bed, her back arching as the thick head began to force her open.

Markus felt it.

The stretch. The power. The brutal contrast between what she'd known and what she was about to take.

He let go.

His hand dropped away.

And Porter began to slide in.

Amy's mouth opened in a silent scream.

Her fingers gripped the sheets.

And Markus...

He sank to his knees.

Watching.

Waiting.

Shaking.

As his wife was split open for the first time by a real cock.

Porter wasn't done with him.

Amy knew that.

She just hadn't told Markus yet.

Hadn't told him that Porter wasn't just dominant and brutal with women -- he liked his men submissive too. Liked using them. Watching them squirm. Making them kneel.

Porter's eyes didn't leave Amy's face as he drove deeper into her, stretching her open with a slow, devastating thrust that made her whole body arch.

But his voice -- deep, calm, unmistakably commanding -- was aimed at Markus.

"Come here," he said. "Get under me. Lick my balls while I fuck your wife."

Markus blinked.

He was still on his knees beside the bed, hands trembling, heart pounding.

Amy's eyes met his -- wide, wet, mouth open in a moan she couldn't hold back.

"Do it," she breathed. "Baby... please."

He didn't need more.

He crawled forward -- dazed, breathless -- until his face was between Porter's strong thighs, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air.

Porter's balls swung low with every thrust, heavy and slick, just beneath where his thick shaft was sawing slowly into Amy's drenched pussy.

Markus watched -- hypnotized -- as that massive cock pulled back, wet and glistening, then slammed back in again, spreading Amy so wide her lips clung to him on the way out. Her pussy looked stretched to its limit, raw and shiny and soaked.

It was the most obscene thing he'd ever seen.

And the most beautiful.

He leaned in.

Tentatively at first.

His tongue flicked out and tasted the base of Porter's cock, just where it met the thick weight of his balls. Sweat. Salt. Amy's slick.

Then again -- deeper this time.

He licked under the balls, up along the seam, lips brushing the soft, taut skin.

Porter grunted -- approving.

Amy moaned louder.

"Oh my god... baby," she whimpered, watching him, watching both of them. "You're licking his balls while he's fucking me..."

Her voice cracked with arousal. Her thighs shook.

Markus closed his eyes and took them deeper into his mouth -- both of them, full and warm on his tongue, heavy against his lips.

He could feel the weight of each thrust in the way Porter's cock dragged against his chin, could hear the wet slap of flesh as Amy was taken again and again just inches above his mouth.

He licked.

He moaned.

His face pressed closer, buried now under the man who was owning his wife.

And Amy... Amy looked down at him, her hands clawing at the sheets, her pussy stretched wide around another man's cock, and she couldn't stop moaning.

Because this was exactly what she needed.

What he needed.

What they both had become.

And it was just beginning.

Porter's thrusts grew rougher, deeper -- his cock gliding in and out of Amy's soaked, stretched pussy with obscene wet sounds that filled the room. Markus's face stayed buried beneath him, his tongue bathing Porter's balls, lips slipping messily over the thick, swinging weight as it slapped softly against his chin.

Then -- without warning -- Porter grunted and pulled out.

A wet gasp spilled from Amy's mouth as her pussy clenched around nothing, suddenly empty, twitching and dripping in open surrender. A string of slick clung to Porter's cock as it withdrew, glistening in the dim light.

Markus blinked in confusion, breath ragged, the taste of their mixed heat still on his tongue.

Porter looked down at him -- towering, sweaty, cock dark and slick, still rock hard and glistening at the tip.

"You want her to keep getting this cock?" he said, voice rough and low. "Then open your mouth."

Markus froze.

His mouth parted -- stunned. "Wait... I--"

Porter's hand closed around the base of his shaft, stroking slowly, casually.

"You want your wife stuffed full again?" he said. "Then you're gonna suck it first. Make it sloppy. Make it shine."

Markus looked up at him -- wide-eyed, flushed, stunned.

Then Amy's voice -- clear, sharp, undeniable -- cut through the haze:

"Do it."

Markus turned to look at her.

She was lying on the bed, legs splayed open, her pussy still quivering, visibly stretched and twitching from the use. Her hair was damp, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes -- oh god -- they were on fire.

"You want me fucked again," she said. "Don't you?"

He swallowed hard. Nodded.

"Then suck his cock."

She said it flatly. Like it was nothing. Like it was natural.

Markus's hand trembled as he reached up and wrapped it around Porter's shaft -- slick, thick, heavy, coated with her arousal and his spit from earlier.

It was burning hot in his palm.

Porter didn't move. Just stared down at him, expression unreadable. Dominant. Certain.

Markus leaned in.

His lips touched the tip -- wet and glossy.

He gagged softly at the scent, at the taste -- Amy's pussy still coating every inch of it.

But then... he opened his mouth wider.

And took it in.

The head first -- wide, flared, impossibly thick.

Then more.

His lips stretched, jaw aching already. His tongue curled beneath the shaft, slippery with spit, swirling around the base as Porter grunted and pushed a little deeper.

It was messy.

Sloppy.

Hot.

Drool spilled from the corners of Markus's mouth as he bobbed forward, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He could feel the slickness coating his lips -- Amy's taste, his own shame, the weight of everything.

Porter grabbed the back of his head.

"Good boy," he growled. "Just like that. Worship it. Make it wet so I can fuck her again."

Markus moaned -- or tried to.

The sound was muffled, wet and raw, as he took Porter deeper, throat pulsing, spit dripping down onto his chest.

Amy watched from the bed -- hand between her legs now, rubbing herself softly as she stared, wide-eyed, at the sight of her husband sucking the cock that had just ruined her.

And her voice came again -- low, electric, firm.

"Don't stop."

Markus didn't.

He couldn't.

And Porter smiled -- wide, dark, satisfied.

Because the real fucking hadn't even started yet.

Porter pulled his cock from Markus's mouth with a wet pop, strands of spit and slick clinging from tip to lips as Markus gasped, face flushed, chest heaving. His own saliva mixed with the musky sheen of Amy's arousal still coated his chin, his eyes glassy with humiliation, awe... and something else he couldn't name.

Porter didn't say a word. He turned away from him, eyes locked on Amy's trembling form stretched out on the bed.

"Get on your knees," he said, voice low and commanding.

Amy obeyed without hesitation.

She shifted slowly onto all fours, the curve of her back deepening as her hips lifted, thighs spreading wide, the delicate sway of her ass rising high into the air. Her flushed pussy, still gaping and dripping from earlier, glistened in the low light -- lips swollen, glistening, open in raw invitation.

She looked back over her shoulder, her breath hitching in her throat, her eyes burning with need.

"Please..." she whispered.

Porter climbed onto the bed behind her, his hands gripping her hips, fingers sinking into the soft, trembling flesh. His cock -- still wet from Markus's mouth -- dragged across her slick folds once, twice... before he lined it up and pushed forward with one brutal, claiming thrust.

Amy cried out -- high, breathless, half-pain, half ecstasy.

Markus watched, frozen on his knees below, cock soft but aching, mind unraveling at the sight.

Porter didn't hold back.

He started to pound her.

Hard.

The sound of his hips slamming against Amy's ass filled the room -- rhythmic, wet, relentless. Her body rocked with every thrust, her tits swaying beneath her, her fingers clutching at the sheets as she sobbed into the mattress.

"Fuck," Porter growled, deep and ragged. "This pussy was made to be taken like this."

Amy moaned, her voice broken and needy. "Yes... yes... fuck me like that..."

Markus could barely breathe.

He watched his wife being rammed from behind, her body jolting forward with every thrust. Porter's cock looked even bigger now -- slick and brutal, stretching her open over and over, her hole clinging to him each time he pulled back before plunging back in with a wet, obscene slap.

She was shaking.

She was dripping.

And she was loving it.

Markus couldn't believe how rough he was being -- how deep he was driving, how completely he was taking her. He'd never seen her like this. Wild. Owned. Eyes rolled back, mouth open, drooling into the sheets as Porter's cock plowed into her again and again.

Porter slapped her ass -- once, then again -- the sound sharp and wet.

"You watching this?" he grunted down at Markus, never breaking rhythm. "You see how your little wife needs to be fucked?"

Markus nodded, lips parted, unable to speak.

Amy turned her face to the side, hair sticking to her cheek, and gasped, "Don't stop... please don't stop..."

Porter grabbed her hips tighter and fucked her harder.

And Markus sat below, stunned and aching, watching the woman he loved be wrecked from behind -- taken deeper, harder, louder than he ever thought possible.

And he couldn't look away.

Amy's body was trembling.

Her back arched high, her shoulders pressed into the bed, hips tilted upward in total surrender. Her pussy stretched wide around Porter's cock, her ass clenched tight around his invading fingers -- still wet from Markus's mouth, now buried deep and insistent.

She cried out, loud and ragged, as he forced a second finger in.

"Ah--fuck--it hurts--!"

Her whole body jolted, thighs trying to close, but Porter's grip held her wide open. He didn't flinch. Just leaned in close, voice a growl behind her ear.

"Yeah," he said. "Of course it hurts. You've never been opened back here. Not by him. Not by anyone."

Markus watched from just behind, face flushed, heart hammering, unable to look away from the way her tight ring resisted and then swallowed Porter's fingers inch by inch. Amy's cries were raw, real -- pain laced with a shocking undercurrent of something deeper. Desire.

"She's tight," Porter muttered, glancing back at Markus. "Too fucking tight."

Amy moaned again, tears streaking her cheeks as she panted into the sheets.

"I'll need to train this ass," he said, slowly working his fingers in and out, stretching her with cruel patience. "Get her used to something real before I fuck it. She's not ready yet."

Markus swallowed hard.

The sight of it -- his wife, ass quivering, pussy gaping, being used and evaluated like a toy -- made his cock twitch with helpless, shameful arousal.

Then Porter pulled his fingers from her ass with a wet pop, wiped them carelessly across her hip, and gripped her waist with both hands.

He began to fuck her again.

Hard.

Fast.

Relentless.

His cock slammed back into her soaked pussy with such force her whole body jolted with every thrust. The sound was filthy -- wet, primal, skin against skin, the slap echoing through the room like applause.

Amy screamed into the mattress, her hands clawing at the sheets.

"Please--please--I can't--!"

Porter didn't stop.

His body drove into hers with brutal rhythm, sweat dripping from his chest down onto her back, his balls slapping wetly against her swollen clit with each deep thrust.

Then suddenly -- he growled.

"Fuck--yes--fucking take it--!"

And he came.

Hard.

His cock pulsed deep inside her as he emptied himself, thick jets flooding her pussy. He stayed buried, twitching, groaning into her ear as her body jerked beneath him, filled, stuffed, claimed.

Amy moaned -- a long, broken sound -- her hips still twitching, the slick warmth of his release already leaking out of her swollen slit.

Porter didn't wait.

He pulled out fast, the head of his cock wet and gleaming, slicked with cum and her juices. A thick stream spilled from Amy's pussy, running down the backs of her thighs.

He turned to Markus.

Still kneeling. Still silent.

Then Porter grabbed him by the hair -- rough, dominant -- and forced his head forward.

"Clean her," he snarled. "Right now. Lick your wife's cunt. Get every drop of my cum."

Markus didn't even hesitate.

He buried his face between her thighs.

The scent was overwhelming -- raw sex, sweat, slick. Amy whimpered as she felt his tongue press against her stretched entrance, the heat of his breath against her sensitive flesh.

He licked.

He lapped at the mess dripping from her pussy, mouth wide, tongue flattening and dragging through the mix of Porter's cum and her own arousal.

It was filthy.

It was obscene.

And it was exactly what they had become.

Porter watched, still panting, cock softening, a satisfied grin curling across his face.

Amy lay collapsed on the bed, shaking, her ass raised, her hole twitching with aftershock, and her husband's mouth dutifully worshiping the mess another man had left inside her.

It was the most humiliating, intimate thing Markus had ever done.

And he didn't stop.

Porter pulled away from the bed, his body slick with sweat, his breath slowly settling into deep, satisfied exhales. He stood tall, unhurried, unapologetic, reaching down to gather his pants from the floor.

Amy lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets, her body still trembling, her thighs sticky and glistening, her eyes half-closed in a daze of spent lust. Markus knelt beside her, his face still damp from the mix he had licked from her core, hands hovering near her bare skin, unsure if he should touch -- or how.

Porter pulled his shirt over his shoulders, buttoning lazily.

Then he looked at them -- sprawled and broken on the bed, wife and husband, wrecked and remade.

"Cuddles aren't really my thing," he said casually, the smirk never leaving his lips. He stepped over to Amy, still naked and flushed and open, and leaned down to kiss her. Not a peck -- a full, slow, claiming kiss. His hand cupped her jaw gently as his mouth lingered on hers, tasting her breath one last time.

Amy moaned faintly against his lips. A soft, tired sound. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Then he turned to Markus. No words. Just a slight nod -- like a mark of recognition, or ownership.

And then Porter left.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

The silence afterward was thick -- warm, intimate, almost sacred. Like breath held too long, now finally exhaled.

Markus turned back to Amy.

She was still on all fours, her body trembling slightly, the backs of her thighs streaked with fading sheen, her pussy red and swollen, her ass marked with fading prints from where Porter's hands had held her.

He moved carefully beside her, crawling into the bed, sliding his arms around her from behind.

Amy exhaled -- a deep, shuddering release -- and collapsed into his embrace. She rolled onto her side, into him, her face pressing into his neck, her fingers curling into his chest.

She was still shaking.

"Oh my god..." she whispered, her voice cracked and raw. "I can't... I can't even feel my legs."

Markus kissed her forehead softly, his hands stroking gently along her arms, her back, her hair.

"I've got you," he whispered. "Just breathe. I've got you."

Amy whimpered, her breath hitching as the tension in her body slowly began to melt. She clung to him now -- not with the desperation of lust, but the aching, human need for connection. Her cheeks were damp. Her eyes distant.

"Hold me," she whispered. "Please... just hold me."

He did.

He wrapped his arms around her completely, pressing her to his chest, rocking her softly. His hands ran over her bare back in slow, soothing circles.

"I'm here," he murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

Amy let out a quiet sob -- not pain, not regret, but something else. Release. She buried her face in his neck and kissed him -- soft, open-mouthed, tasting of sweat and salt and something deep and fragile.

Markus kissed her back, brushing her damp hair from her forehead.

They lay like that for a long time.

Naked.

Spent.

Breathing together in silence.

The bruises still fresh.

The love still real.

They stayed tangled like that for a long time -- limbs folded into each other, skin on skin, their breaths gradually syncing. The heat between them had shifted, softened. No longer carnal, but intimate. Fragile. Full.

Markus lay on his back now, and Amy curled against him, half draped across his chest, one leg hooked loosely over his. Her skin was still flushed, damp in places, trembling occasionally in small, involuntary waves. He held her close, one hand stroking along the curve of her spine, the other gently brushing through her hair.

Neither spoke at first.

There was only breath.

And the soft, steady sound of her heartbeat against his ribs.

Then she whispered it -- so quietly he almost missed it.

"I've never loved you so much."

Markus stilled.

His eyes flicked down to her face. She wasn't crying. But her eyes were wet. Luminous. Honest.

"I mean it," she said, voice raw. "I've never felt so... seen. So full. And you... the way you looked at me--like I was everything. Even when I was being taken like that."

Markus tightened his arms around her.

"You were everything," he said softly. "You still are."

She smiled, eyes closed, her cheek resting against his chest.

"I didn't think I'd ever want something like this. But now... I feel awake. My whole body feels open. And I know that sounds dramatic, but--"

"It doesn't," he cut in gently. "It sounds like truth."

Amy lifted her head slightly, looking at him.

"And you? Are you okay? I need to know."

He nodded, slowly.

Then cupped her face in both hands, bringing her in close until their foreheads touched.

"I'm more than okay," he whispered. "You gave me something I've dreamed about for years. And you didn't just give it -- you lived it. You let yourself go there."

She bit her lip, soft and flushed.

"I didn't just let it happen," she said. "I wanted it. Because it was yours. Because it was ours."

Markus exhaled shakily. His voice broke a little as he said, "Thank you. For trusting me. For letting yourself go there with me. You didn't just accept the fantasy -- you made it beautiful."

She kissed him then -- deep and slow.

Not about fire.

About home.

Her fingers stroked his jaw, her breath warming his lips.

And when they pulled apart, she whispered, "We're different now, aren't we?"

He nodded. "We're more."

She smiled, nestled against his chest again.

Wrapped in his arms.

Wrapped in everything they'd just shared.

And somewhere, beneath the hum of spent pleasure and quiet heartbeat, love stretched out into something new -- bigger, stranger, stronger.

Something earned. Something owned. Something holy.