For Other Men

It starts the way it always does--with silence and intention.

The house is quiet, the air thick with anticipation. She stands by the edge of the bed, wearing only my oversized shirt, loose enough to tease with glimpses of the curves underneath. Her legs are bare. She looks at me, and I know she's waiting--for my hands, for my words, for the ritual we've both come to crave.

Tonight, she's going out. Alone. Her body won't be mine. Not tonight.

And that's exactly how we both want it.

"Ready?" I ask.

She nods, biting her lip.

I guide her gently into the bathroom. The light is soft; the mirror already steamed from the shower I ran for her earlier. She steps into the warmth, lifting her shirt over her head and letting it fall to the floor. She's fully naked now--her skin glistening with the lingering moisture of the steam, her nipples already tightening from the shift in air.

I kneel.

With shaving cream in hand and a fresh razor beside me, I begin our ritual. Slowly, carefully, I apply the foam between her legs. My fingers glide over her skin--sensitive, warm, trusting. She parts her thighs just enough for me to work, letting me expose her, clean her, prepare her for someone else's pleasure.

The first stroke of the razor is slow. Deliberate. I watch the way her breath catches, not from fear, but from the intimacy of it all.

"You want to be perfect for them, don't you?" I murmur; eyes locked on hers.

She doesn't speak, but the way she spreads her legs a little wider says more than words ever could.

I take my time. I know every inch of her, and I savour it. Each stroke leaves her smoother, barer, more vulnerable. More theirs.

Her scent is changing. I can smell her arousal now, subtle but growing. Her pussy is soft and pink and glistening, practically begging to be touched. But I don't--not yet. That's not my role tonight.

"You're going to let them use this, aren't you?" I ask as I rinse the razor and glide my hand over her again. "Let them fill it, stretch it, make you come?"

She nods. Her breathing is shallow now.

"They won't love you," I whisper, leaning in to kiss just above her mound. "They'll just take you. Use you. That's what turns you on, isn't it?"

"Yes," she finally breathes.

The last of the foam is gone. Her skin is flawless, her lips puffy and bare and begging. I dry her off with a towel, kneeling between her legs like a servant before a queen. When I stand, I cup her face and kiss her deeply--because that part is still mine.

"Let's get you dressed."

In the bedroom, the bed is laid with options: dresses, heels, lingerie. I let her choose the dress, but I choose what goes underneath.

"No panties tonight," I tell her. "You want them to have easy access."

She smiles--that wicked, knowing smile she gets when she knows she's about to make me ache.

I help her step into the dress, a sleek, black number that hugs her ass and leaves very little to the imagination. Her nipples show faintly through the fabric, and the slit at her thigh promises glimpses of skin with every step.

She slips into her heels, taller than she usually wears. I want her confident. Bold. Unapologetic.

At the vanity, I watch her do her makeup. Her lips go red, her eyes smoky. She's transforming before my eyes--from my wife to their slut. From mine to theirs. I feel it in my chest, that tight knot of jealousy and lust and pride and pain. And I love it.

When she finishes, she turns to face me.

"Well?" she asks.

I can barely speak.

"You look like trouble," I manage, voice rough. "Exactly what they'll want."

She steps closer, placing her hand on my chest. "And you'll wait up for me?"

"Of course."

She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. "Maybe I'll come back with their cum still dripping out of me."

I swallow hard. My cock throbs in my pants.

"Promise?"

She smiles.

She grabs her purse and heads for the door. I follow her out, the air cool against her skin. She pauses before getting into the car.

"This isn't just for me, you know," she says, turning toward me.

"I know," I say quietly. "It's for us."

She kisses me, slow and lingering, then gets in and drives off. I stand in the driveway, watching her disappear into the night, my heart pounding, my cock hard, my body aching.

Inside, the house feels different. Emptier. Charged.

I imagine her walking into that bar. Heads turning. Eyes locking on her. I imagine the first man bold enough to approach--how he'll talk to her, flirt with her, feel her up. How she'll let him. I imagine him leading her into the bathroom, or maybe back to his car, or a hotel.

I imagine him sliding into her. The way she'll gasp. The way she'll grip him. The way her body will betray her and come for him like it used to for me.

And I'll be here, waiting.

Hard. Denied. Wanting.

Later, long past midnight, I hear the door open.

I don't rush to greet her. I wait, kneeling beside the bed, just where she likes me.

She enters the room slowly. Her dress is wrinkled, makeup smudged. There's a sheen to her skin--a mix of sweat and sex and sin. Her thighs are wet, and not just from her own arousal.

She looks down at me.

"They were rough," she says, voice soft but charged. "They didn't ask. They just took."

I exhale, trembling.

"Did you come?" I ask.

She nods. "More than once."

I press my lips to her thigh, tasting her. I taste them.

"Good girl," I whisper. "You did so well."

She smiles, climbing onto the bed and spreading her legs. "Now clean me."

And I do.

Slowly. Gratefully. Hungrily.

Because that's what I'm here for.

Because tonight, she belonged to them.

And I still get the honor of worshipping what they left behind.

She doesn't say another word.

She just lies back against the pillows, legs still slightly parted, her dress pushed up around her waist. She's not wearing panties--she never did. I can see everything. Her inner thighs are slick, stained, glistening in the dim light. Her pussy is swollen, flushed, open. The lips are still parted, pink and wet, and from here I can already smell the mix of their cum and hers.

She's a mess. Used. Raw. Cum in her dark triangle of pubic hair and dried on her stomach.

And she's perfect.

I lower myself between her legs without hesitation. My hands slide beneath her thighs and lift, tilting her hips toward me. Her feet are flat on the bed, legs wide. The moment my face is close, the scent hits me full--deep, musky, masculine. Not mine. Never mine.

"Do you know how many?" I ask softly, not looking up.

She hums. "Three... maybe four. I lost count."

My cock twitches in my pants. I don't ask anything else.

I lean in, my tongue barely touching the crease of her inner thigh. I taste salt. Skin. Sweat. But as I move closer--just past the folds, into the warm center--I taste them. Her and them, mixed together.

It's thicker than I expected. Tangy, slick. I can feel it coating my tongue. I don't stop. I press deeper.

I open her with my fingers, parting the lips gently, reverently, exposing the soft pink mess beneath. There's no pretending. She's been fucked, hard and deep. Her hole is loose, fluttering slightly with each breath, leaking slow, viscous drips that cling to her thighs.

I lick them up. One by one.

I clean her like it's my duty. My devotion. Like every drop left behind inside her is sacred, and it's my job to erase the evidence--but never forget what it means.

She moans softly above me, her hand sliding down to tangle in my hair.

"Get deeper," she whispers. "He came hard inside me. I want you to taste it all."

I obey.

I push my tongue into her, feeling the heat of her cunt still stretched, still raw from the pounding she must have taken. I swirl and suck, my lips working against her outer folds as I tongue-fuck her, trying to gather it all--the slickness, the flavor, the humiliation.

My mouth is full of it. My chin is wet. I don't care.

She grinds against my face now, slow and lazy, as if she's riding him again, using me to relive it.

"I let him come inside," she says suddenly, her voice thick with pleasure. "No condom. Just shoved it in and emptied himself while I clawed at his back."

I moan into her. The taste, the image, her words--it's unbearable and addictive all at once.

She grabs a fistful of my hair and holds me in place.

"Keep going," she commands. "Don't stop until I'm clean."

So, I do.

I lick until my jaw aches, until my tongue is raw and my throat burns with the salt of other men's cum. I suck the remnants from her hole, drag it off her clit, clean the drips from her thighs, and then go back again. I don't stop even when she shudders from a final orgasm--not for me, but from the overstimulation of being cleaned too thoroughly.

When she finally pulls me away, I sit back on my knees, face soaked, lips red and swollen.

She looks down at me, smug and satisfied. Her pussy is pink again--shiny, clean, still a little open, but no longer dripping. I did that.

"Good boy," she says, stroking my cheek. "Now... go wait. I'm not done with you yet."

And I crawl to the end of the bed, aching, denied, knowing that the best part of my night already happened between her thighs--when she let me taste what they left behind.

She lies back, completely bare now, her thighs are damp again--not with strangers cum this time, but her own slick warmth, returning. Her eyes glitter as she watches me sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. My face still glistens with what I cleaned from her, and she hasn't told me I can wipe it off.

I ache. God, I ache. My cock presses painfully against the inside of my pants, pulsing with every memory she hasn't even shared yet.

She knows. And she's going to drag it out.

"You want to hear what they did to me?" she asks softly.

I nod. Immediately.

"Take your cock out," she says. "But don't touch it."

I obey, fingers trembling as I unzip and pull it free. It's so hard it twitches the moment it's exposed to the air. A drop of precum glistens at the tip. She smiles.

"Good. Now listen."

"The young one, he was the first," she says, lazily stroking her inner thigh. "Barely old enough to drink, I think. Tall. Awkward. Thought he was charming--and he was, in that boyish way."

I swallow.

"He followed me to the back of the bar after I touched his arm a little too long. I told him I wasn't wearing panties. That got his attention."

She spreads her legs slowly. I stare at the space between them. My mouth waters.

"We didn't even make it outside," she says. "He lifted my dress, pushed me against the wall in the corridor, and slid it in. No warning. No condom. He just... took it."

My cock throbs.

"He didn't last long. Maybe two minutes. But he filled me up. I could feel it dripping out of me while I walked away."

I groan. She raises her eyebrow.

"Keep your hands behind your back," she reminds me.

I obey.

"The second guy was watching from the bar," she says. "Saw what I did with the kid. He liked that."

Her voice is low now. Darker. I can tell this one did something different to her.

"He didn't ask for my name. Just grabbed my wrist and led me outside. We got into his car. He told me to suck him first. Said I looked like the kind of wife who liked to choke."

I feel a pang of jealousy twist in my chest. My cock pulses harder.

"He grabbed my hair. Fucked my throat. Told me what a whore I was while I gagged. And then..."

She lets her fingers drift over her clit. She doesn't touch--just hovers.

"... he bent me over the passenger seat and took me from behind. Hard. No tenderness. No warning."

She closes her eyes.

"He slapped my ass. Called me your cum-dumpster wife. I didn't even protest. I let him."

A shiver runs through my whole body.

"He filled me too," she says with a smile. "I was leaking two men by the time I walked back inside. I had to sit on a napkin."

She sits up a little, stretching her arms above her head. Her breasts rise, nipples stiff and proud. She sees me staring, sees how badly I want to crawl forward and bury my face there again.

But I stay still. I have to.

"The third man didn't want to fuck me right away," she says, brushing her hair behind her ear. "He wanted to taste."

I blink. My cock leaks precum down the shaft.

"He knelt on the bathroom floor of the club and spread my legs. I was soaked--those two loads were dripping all over me. He didn't care. He buried his face in it. Licked me clean like you just did... but rougher. Greedier. Like he wanted to swallow everything."

She meets my eyes.

"Does that make you jealous? Knowing he got to taste what you did--before you did?"

I nod. I can't lie.

She smirks. "Good. He made me come, by the way. Twice. With his tongue. My legs were shaking. Then he fucked me while bent over the sink and filled me again with a third load."

I'm panting now. My hands are fists behind my back. My cock is throbbing--red, angry, untouched. Still, I don't move. I need to hear the rest.

"He was older. Confident. Said he could smell sex on me before I even sat down."

She runs her fingers along her breast now, teasing her nipple, pinching it lightly. She sighs.

"I let him take me to his hotel. We didn't talk much. I just dropped to my knees and opened my mouth."

She looks at me as she says it, watching the pain and arousal ripple through me.

"He didn't just fuck me. He used me. Different positions. Hands on my throat. Pinned to the wall. Bent over the desk. I let him finish on my face the first time."

I groan.

"Then I begged him to fuck me again. And he did. Came inside and in my pubes. Slow this time, like he owned me."

She spreads her legs again.

"That was the last one," she says. "You licked all of them out of me."

She looks at me thoughtfully now, lips pursed, legs still open.

"Do you want to come now?" she asks.

"Yes," I whisper. "God, yes."

She smirks. "Too bad."

She rolls onto her stomach, her bare ass on display, glistening under the light.

"You can sit there and ache for me. Sleep hard and leaking, like the desperate husband you are."

I can't help it--I whimper. My cock is twitching uncontrollably.

She looks over her shoulder. "Or maybe you can clean me again. I'm already getting wet thinking about tomorrow night."