A Scandalous Dinner

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Author's note: This story involves extramarital sexual activity by a wife with the full consent of her husband. If that offends you in any way, this story is not for you. Please do not leave negative comments based on the subject matter of the story.

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"That one?" Sofia questioned as her husband Marcus handed her a dress. "That one is a bit..."

"Exactly," Marcus responded with surety in his voice. "The invitation said formal." She wasn't questing the formal nature of the dress. And she acknowledged the invitation they had received on fancy paper written in calligraphy did say formal attire. Black tie. But nowhere did it mention ultra sexy. If Sofia had to give herself a nickname, it would be a lot closer to Shy Sofia than Sofia the Showoff. This dress was meant for Sofia the Showoff and then some. An attention seeking exhibitionist she was not.

Marus and Sofia were new to the area and a neighbor couple had invited them to a dinner party to meet some new friends. But given this was their first time meeting anyone from the neighborhood, Sofia thought the emerald green, thin silk dress was a bit too much. Too revealing. Low cut. Nearly backless. With a long slit cut dangerously high up her thigh to the middle of her hip. The material so thin it would put every curve of her body on display. If her nipples got hard, there would be no hiding it. She couldn't wear a bra with it, and a tiny G-string was about the most she could get away with without her panties showing. She had bought it a while back on a whim, but had never worn it out. It was not the sort of first impression she wanted to make that night.

Despite her internal objection, she put on the dress. "Maybe put your hair up... and wear this," Marcus added as he wrapped a choker necklace around Sofia's neck. She finished getting ready and examined herself in the mirror. Wow was an understatement. It was a look. And a good one. It made her feel both sexy and nervous.

Marcus put on a tux with a black bow tie, and they drove down the street to the mansion in the cul-de-sac. The limestone house sat on twelve acres of manicured grounds, a stark contrast to the other more modest houses in the neighborhood. The others were nice, but nothing in comparison. Water cascaded from a fountain in the circular drive, the sound a thin, continuous thread beneath the crunch of gravel as their black sedan pulled to a stop behind several others near the grand stone steps leading up to an impressive entry.

Sofia stepped from the passenger side, her heels clicking against stone still warm from the day's sun. She smoothed the fabric of her dress over her hips. Marcus came around the hood of the car, his hand finding the small of her back with a familiar, easy pressure.

They were the fourth and final arrival. Ten people total including the hosts. The other couples stood inside the grand foyer, greeting the hosts with the practiced warmth of people who understood the choreography of these evenings. Sofia sensed from the body language that the others all knew each other.

Richard and his wife, Daphne, the hosts, greeted the other guests who one by one introduced themselves to Marcus and Sofia. The foyer opened into a great room with twenty-foot ceilings, abstract canvases on the walls, and a fireplace large enough to roast a side of beef. The furniture was arranged for visual impact rather than comfort, low sofas and angular chairs that forced occupants to sit up straight or perch on the edge of cushions. Impressive by any standards.

Richard carried out his host duties and manned the bar cart as he held an amber-colored liquor Sofia didn't recognize. Richard poured her three fingers without asking what she wanted, and she took the glass because it was easier than refusing. The first sip was smooth, with a burn that settled low in her chest. Marcus took a glass of the same, and they drifted toward the cluster of guests near the fireplace and began to mingle. Sofia began to size up the couples and make her assessments as she always did.

James Pembroke stood with his wife Claire near the mantel, holding court in a voice that landed on the ear like a metronome. He was talking about drainage easements. His three-piece suit was pressed, unremarkable. His hair was parted neatly to one side, and his brown eyes had the flat, unblinking focus of a man who believed his subject matter was inherently fascinating. A bit of a snoozer Sofia concluded, but not an unattractive man. Claire stood beside him with a glass of white wine, her smile fixed and slightly glassy, her gaze drifting every few seconds toward the abstract canvas on the far wall as though searching for an exit. Sofia thought she was attractive, taking note of her perfectly shaped breasts. She wondered if they were real. Probably not she thought. Claire had more of a dynamic air to her. An odd pairing Sofia concluded.

Sofia took another sip of the amber liquor. Marcus shifted his weight beside her, and she felt his hand move from her back to her hip, his thumb pressing a small circle against the fabric of her dress just above her hipbone. She leaned into him slightly, the way she did at these things, her shoulder fitting into the space below his arm.

Daphne Parrish moved through the room like a woman who had spent decades learning how to make other people comfortable in spaces that were not designed for comfort. A well-seasoned experienced host. She was very attractive with a figure that suggested frequent yoga or Pilates, and a trainer and the kind of discipline that came from having nothing else to do. She wore a long silvery dress that complemented her figure well. She was stunning. One would be hard pressed to find someone who didn't find her irresistible. The type of lady that unintentionally makes all other women jealous. She touched people when she spoke to them, a hand on the arm, a squeeze of the shoulder, as though physical contact was a language she was fluent in. A woman who knew exactly what she was doing at all times and was used to getting what she wanted.

"Sofia, you look gorgeous," Daphne said, and her fingers lingered on Sofia's bare arm a moment longer than the greeting required. "That color on you. My god. Richard, look at this woman."

Richard looked up from the bar cart where he was still pouring drinks. He was tall, athletic, broad through the chest, with hair swept back from a tanned face. His eyes found Sofia and stayed there, cataloging her with an openness that was almost startling. He smiled, and the corners of his eyes creased, and he raised his glass toward her from across the room.

"Breathtaking. Ravishing. A delight indeed," he confirmed. He had a compelling smoothness to him Sofia thought. His voice was deep, unhurried. Soothing. But, she sensed there was more to his words than a simple compliment.

Sofia felt the back of her neck warm. She was not a woman who blushed easily. She'd sat in boardrooms, negotiated contracts, handled men who underestimated her with a precision that bordered on surgical. But Richard's gaze had a quality to it, a directness, as though he were looking at her the way one looked at something already acquired. She smiled back, because that was what the moment required, took another sip of the amber liquor, and she felt Marcus's thumb press harder against her hip.

The great room filled with the sound of overlapping conversation, ice in glasses, the low hiss of the fireplace. Sofia continued assessing the other couples before noticing the place settings as she glanced through the wide doorway into the dining room. A long table, white linen, candles in low silver holders. Place cards arranged with a specificity that suggested the seating arrangement was neither optional nor arbitrary. Definitely Daphne's doing.

Marcus leaned down and spoke against Sofia's ear, his breath warm and scented with the oak from the liquor. "Richard's looking at you like you are dessert."

Sofia turned her face toward her husband, her mouth close enough to his that the movement could be mistaken for something else. "He's being friendly."

"That's not friendly," Marcus said. His voice was quiet, controlled, but there was something underneath it, a current she recognized. Not jealousy. Not disapproval. Something else. A distinct tone. One that had been there for years, buried deep, surfacing only in the dark of their bedroom in fragments of unfinished conversation that neither of them revisited in daylight.

She searched his face. His expression was neutral not jealous. But his hand had moved lower on her hip, his thumb curving over the top of her ass, pulling her slightly closer. Not a possessive protecting gesture. Something more deliberate.

Before Sofia could give his comment further thought, dinner was announced. Sofia found her card between Richard and a man named Tom Aldridge, a strongly built man, possibly a former football player or even a wrestler in college. Then there was Barbara, Tom's trophy wife to a tee. Marcus was seated directly across from Sofia, between Daphne and Claire Pembroke, who looked relieved to have someone other than her own husband James to talk to. James himself was at the far end. The final couple who's first names Sofia couldn't remember, the Castelows, sitting at the other end from James.

Richard held Sofia's chair as she sat. His hand brushed her bare shoulder, the touch not accidental. It was brief, light, his fingers trailing across her skin with a slowness that mapped the contact, that recorded it. He leaned down as he pushed the chair in, and she caught the scent of him, sandalwood and something green, like crushed bay leaf. He spoke near her ear.

"I'm glad you're next to me. Daphne suspected you'd be the most interesting person at the table," Richard whispered.

His breath moved the hair at her temple. Sofia set her napkin in her lap and felt the warmth of his proximity lingering on her shoulder like a handprint. She looked across the table at Marcus, who was watching Richard pull out his own chair with an expression that remained carefully, deliberately blank. As Richard began to talk to Sofia, she couldn't help but notice his charm. Smooth and charming she thought. Very charming in fact.

The first course was a lobster bisque, poured table-side by a woman dressed in black and white who moved between the guests without speaking. Sofia ate, and she listened to Tom Aldridge describe a fly-fishing trip to Patagonia, and she felt Richard's knee brush against hers beneath the table. The contact was light, momentary, could have been accidental. She shifted her legs slightly. His knee found hers again, and this time it stayed, not accidental, applying a gentle pressure that made her aware of every nerve along the inside of her thigh. She did not move away.

The soup was finished. Plates were cleared. The server poured wine, a red so dark it looked like ink in the candlelight. Richard's hand rested on the table near Sofia's, his index finger tracing the rim of his glass. She watched his hands, the way his fingers moved, the breadth of his palm, the silver band on his fourth finger that caught the candle flame.

"You're from New York," Richard said. It was not a question. He knew things about her. Daphne had done her research, or he had.

"Born in Sao Paulo," Sofia said. "But yes, raised in the Bronx."

"The Bronx," he repeated, as his eyes moved over her face with that same cataloging attention. "That explains the edge."

"Edge?" she questioned.

"You carry yourself like a woman who's had to fight for every room she's entered. It's attractive," he responded.

His voice didn't change register. He said it the way another man might say the soup was excellent. Sofia picked up her wine glass and took a sip. The wine was full-bodied, dense, with a finish that sat on her tongue. Across the table, Marcus was listening to Daphne describe the property's history, his posture relaxed. Daphne was leaning toward him as she spoke, her hand on his forearm, her silver rings glinting. Her body language made it clear she was attracted to him. Possibly even flirting with him.

The main course arrived. Lamb. Impeccably presented and prepared. Sofia cut into the meat and watched the pink center reveal itself, and she felt Richard's hand drop beneath the table. His fingers found her knee, rested there, and then moved upward along the outside of her thigh, slow, deliberate, sampling the silk fabric of her dress. His palm was warm, dry, and it traveled with the confidence of a man who had done this before, who understood the geometry of these evenings, who knew that the candles and the wine and the seating arrangement were not coincidence.

Sofia's breath caught. She held her fork steady. She did not look at Richard. She looked at Marcus, who was looking back at her, and whose expression had not changed, whose face had not cracked, but whose eyes held something else. He couldn't see below the table, but did he know? He could see her expression. It was written on her face. And he was not stopping it. Should she? She didn't want to make a scene. She felt she should be polite. But it was clearly inappropriate.

Richard's hand reached the top of her thigh, his fingertips pressing into the soft flesh where her leg met her hip, and he squeezed, gently, a possessive pressure that sent a pulse of heat straight between her legs. She shifted in her chair, her knee unintentionally pressing harder against his under the table, and she felt herself begin to respond in a way that had nothing to do with the wine or the lamb or the beautiful room. Richard's fingertips remained resting mere millimeters from the edge of her panties.

Sofia should stop this she thought. But part of her enjoyed it. It was certainly flattering. It was also kind of naughty. Her little secret, hidden from all the other guests. Maybe from her husband even. She was never naughty. Always prim and proper. A tingle of excitement shot through her. It was over the line for sure, but not that far over. If it went any further, she told herself she would stop it. Besides, Richard's wife was clearly flirting with Sofia's husband across the table. And Sofia wasn't going to get upset about a little flirting. She didn't consider herself the jealous type and neither was Marcus. So far this was harmless. Maybe it would even be a fun thing to share with Marcus when they got home that night as she teased him about Daphne's flirting.

"You have to understand," James Pembroke's voice cut through from the far end of the table, monotone and relentless, "that the conveyance of easement rights in gross represents a fundamental shift in how we conceptualize property interests. It's not merely a technical distinction."

Sofia almost laughed. The absurdity of it, James droning on about property law while Richard Parrish's hand was three inches from the entrance to her cunt, while her husband watched from across the table, with an expression that was beginning to show the faintest crack around the jaw. She pressed her lips together and took another sip of wine.

Eventually Richard withdrew his hand, but not before causing Sofia to feel wet. She was confused, experiencing both a feeling of relief and disappointment at the same time. Did she want him to go further? She couldn't deny being drawn to his charms, but that wasn't proper. Wasn't who she was.

As dinner concluded, Daphne stood and explained that her and Richard had recently been to Mardis Gras, and she just loved the all the masks. "So, tonight's theme will be Masquerade," she announced. She went around the table and passed out masks. The men's were all simple and solid black while the women's were each different colors adorned with beads and fake jewels.

"May I?" Richard asked Sofia as he motioned toward her mask. She nodded and let him assist her and tied her mask in the back. He stood and then assisted with Sofia's chair as everyone else started to stand. "Let us go to the patio." He put out his arm out, elbow forming a triangle with his side, and Sofia politely put her arm around his as he guided her to the door.

Dessert was served on the terrace. The fire pit cast an orange glow that threw shadows across the low chairs around the fire. Someone had brought port from the dining room, the glasses small and heavy, and the liquid inside was the color of blood. Sofia couldn't help but notice a shift in the tone of the evening. Thicker. More intense. Maybe it was the body language of the other guests. Maybe it was the light from the fire. Maybe it was the suggestive anonymity of the masks, though they did little to hide identity with everyone now knowing each other and having not worn them half the evening. Or maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

The seating on the terrace was less structured, but Sofia noticed that the arrangements were still deliberate. Daphne sat beside Marcus, close, her knee touching his, her hand on his arm again. Richard guided Sofia to a chair exactly opposite of the fire from Marcus and Daphne as Richard sat beside Sofia. Tom Aldridge sat on her other side, and Claire Pembroke sat beside Tom, looking relieved to have escaped James, who had remained inside to continue his conversation about drainage easements with the Castelow man who undoubtedly had been trapped into that conversation Sofia thought.

The port was warm in Sofia's chest. Richard's arm rested along the back of her chair, not touching her but occupying the space behind her shoulders, a presence she could feel the way you feel a lamp's heat before you touch it. Tom was talking about his daughter's riding lessons, and Claire was nodding as the fire crackled. Sofia's assessment of Tom was that he was genuine. A true gentleman.

Marcus caught Sofia's eye across the fire. Daphne was beside him, leaning in, her mouth near his ear, whispering something that made his jaw tighten. He held Sofia's gaze, and in the firelight his pupils were wide and dark. Something passed between them, a communication that was not verbal but was definitely there. It was recognition, with an undertone of questioning permission. It was something that had circled around in the dark of their bedroom, the unfinished thoughts. Unanswered questions. The hypotheticals. The what ifs... if a no consequence opportunity presented itself... what would you do... if you could switch... or watch... could see the other...

Claire excused herself to use the powder room and Tom headed to go refresh his drink, offering to return with refills, but everyone else declined. It wasn't said aloud, but the two remaining couples appreciated the quiet. The additional privacy even. Suddenly the circle around the fire pit was smaller, more intimate, and the air was thick with the kind of tension that had a texture that could be touched.

It wasn't long before Richard's hand found the bare skin of Sofia's knee. His fingers traced upward, slowly, along the inside of her thigh this time, pushing her dress higher, boldly flipping the fabric to the side and out of the way, the long slit up her leg granting access. His touch was different now, more direct, more deliberate, more intentional, social graces evaporating. The tops of her legs were completely uncovered as she parted them slightly, an involuntary response, and his fingers reached the edge of her small panties. The only ones she had suitable for that dress. A scrap of black satin that was now nearly exposed to the night air and almost visible to anyone in proximity. He ever so lightly traced the line of her panties with the back of his fingernail from her thigh to her hip, back and forth, a maddening repetition that made her grip the arm of her chair.

"Relax," Richard murmured, close to Sofia's ear. His breath was warm, scented with port. "Nobody's watching."

But someone was watching. Marcus was watching. From across the fire. Could he see she wondered? Did he know what Richard was doing? Did Marcus know that his wife's panties were being suggestively traced by another man? The fire pit was tall enough to block the view from the waist down in the chairs she thought. She certainly couldn't see Marcus or Daphne's laps. She wondered. Wondered if he knew. Wondered if he was ok with it. Wondered if Marcus's hand was on Daphne Parrish's thigh just like Richard's was on hers. Or Daphne's on his.

Daphne's mouth was alternating between Marcus's neck and whispering in his ear, and the fire threw their shadows against the flagstone like a painting of something that was about to happen, so Sofia made her assumptions. Her head was swimming, not from the alcohol but from the accumulation of contact, the hand on her inner thigh, fingertips tracing the outline of her panties, the breath at her ear, the knowledge of what was happening across the fire pit where her husband sat with another woman's mouth on his neck.

Sofia turned her face toward Richard, and he was already looking at her, his expression no longer the polished host, no longer the affluent man in the beautiful house. His eyes were heavy, filled with intent, and his mouth was slightly open, his hand moving from the edge of her underwear to the front, directly in the middle, no longer suggestively on the sides. He pressed. Two fingers against her slit. Gentle but firm, a knowing pressure. The thin satin providing little to no barrier protection. His touch made her hips shift forward in the chair.

"You're wet," he said, the words spoken plainly, without whisper, as though they were discussing the weather. Did Marcus hear what Richard said she wondered. His fingers moved the satin aside and found her, bare, swollen. He slid one finger along the length of her, collecting the wetness, and she heard herself make a sound, a small intake of breath that was louder than she intended in the quiet night. Did the crackle of the fire conceal it she hoped?

Daphne stood and held out her hand to Marcus. Richard withdrew his hand and Sofia looked across the fire. Marcus was watching. Did he know? Was he going to stop it? Had he been doing the same to Daphne? Marcus took hold of Daphne's hand as he stood. The motion was unhurried, deliberate. The kind of movement that belonged to a man who had already made his decision and saw no reason to rush toward it. She led him back to the house as he looked over his shoulder one last time, locking eyes with Sofia. A knowing gaze. He had intentionally left her alone with Richard, knowing what could happen. What would happen. And he himself was headed off somewhere with Daphne. Likely somewhere private.

The night was still warm. The stars were still enormous. The faint sounds of the fountain in the drive and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds remaining. Richard and Sofia were alone. She was alone with a stranger who had just touched her pussy. Felt her wetness. Accompanied only by anticipation hanging thick in the air. The evening was revealing its intent. Possibly something that had been planned, or at least hoped for, certainly invited through the seating arrangements and the candles and the way the chairs were placed close together on the terrace creating opportunity.

Richard's hand slid up Sofia's thigh once more. Slow. Deliberate. Calculated, no longer cautious. Sofia reached for Richard's hand, not to stop him but to press him harder against her, and his finger slipped inside. She closed her eyes and her head spun.

Richard proceeded slow. Methodical. Gently stroking Sofia's pussy. Teasing her. Building it up gradually. She was his for the taking, but he was going to take his time. Savor her. No need to be quick. No need to worry that he might be caught and miss his chance. This was his stage, totally in his control. She was his for as long as he wanted.

Once Sofia's pussy was thoroughly on fire, evidenced by her hot breath and panting, Richard calmly, as a matter of fact, stated in his smooth tone, "Your husband is inside fucking my wife. His hard cock is deep inside her wet pussy right now." He paused to let the statement sink in. "Tell me what you want?" Sofia let it register. Considered the preposterous nature of the assertion, that her husband was cheating on her, the absurd but true fact that another man had two fingers inside her cunt, that she was cheating on her husband. Thoughts that a few hours ago were completely impossible.

"To watch," Sofia finally gasped.

"What do you want to watch my dear?" Richard responded, knowing what she meant but wanting her to acknowledge it fully to herself.

"I want to see my husband... watch him fuck your wife," Sofia confessed.

"First, cum for me," Richard replied as he tapped Sofia's G-spot with his finger inside her cunt. His fingers felt like magic she thought. Absolutely amazing. He tapped again. And then again. She writhed in pleasure, on the brink and ready to do just what he wanted. Whatever he wanted. "That's it, cum." He continued tapping faster and sensation continued building. "Cum for me." Sofia arched her back as she clenched her ass, breathed in deeply, then exploded. Her body jerked as she orgasmed. It took everything she had to keep from screaming out loud. She wasn't a screamer, but this got her close to doing just that.

After Sofia finished spasming, Richard withdrew his fingers, licking them clean. An obscene gesture, reminding her that he owned her in that moment. They made their way to the house, down a long hallway. The hallway stretched ahead, hardwood gleaming under the sconce light, and from somewhere deeper in the mansion came the low murmur of a voice she recognized as James Pembroke's. Off another hall to her left, still talking about easements probably, still oblivious that no one cared. They came to the library door opening at the far end of the hall, lamplight pooling across the threshold. The sound that reached her first was not voices but breathing. Heavy, irregular, the kind of breathing that had nothing to do with conversation. Her heart raced. Was it true. Was her husband really fucking another woman?

From inside the library, a woman's voice let out a long, shuddering moan that broke into syllables halfway through. Marcus's name maybe. Uncertain. The sound continued, bending and reshaping itself into something guttural. Richard and Sofia stepped forward to the doorway. The distance between them closed to nothing, and his hand found the wall beside her head, palm flat against the plaster.

Sofia looked into the library for the first time. The rectangular mahogany writing desk dominated the center of the room, its surface cleared of books and papers, swept off and onto the floor. Daphne was on her back on the desk, legs spread and high in the air. Marcus was between them, his back to the doorway. Pants around his ankles, fucking her, his muscles working as she rolled her hips in a slow, grinding rhythm that made the desk creak beneath them. His hands gripped her waist, fingers digging into the flesh above her hipbones, his mouth open against her shoulder. The sound of them was wet, rhythmic, the unmistakable squelch of a cock moving in a cunt that had been wet for a long time. Sofia wasn't jealous or upset. Rather, she found herself aroused.

Daphne lifted her head, and from the angle of the doorway Sofia could see her profile. Parted lips, the flush painting her throat and chest, one breast exposed where the top of her dress had fallen from her shoulder, the nipple stiff and dark. Daphne looked toward the hallway. Her eyes found Richard and Sofia, and she smiled. A slow, knowing curve that didn't interrupt the rolling of her hips for even a moment. She didn't stop. She held Sofia's stare for a long, deliberate beat. An acknowledgment that Sofia's man was inside her. Then she turned back to Marcus and pressed her mouth to his ear, whispering something that made his hands tighten on her waist and his hips jerk upward, driving into her harder. Daphne's moan climbed in pitch, filling the room, amplified by the shelves that lined the walls.

Richard put his hand on Sofia's hip. She flinched. Not away, but into him, her hip pressing against his palm as if the touch had completed a circuit. "You'll be on that desk before the night is over," Richard commented softly. His voice not suggesting, stating a fact. His fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, and he pulled her away from the wall, turned her, and pushed her back against the plaster beside the library doorway. "Tell me to stop," he offered as he began pulling up the back of her dress. His mouth was close to her ear, his breath stirring the loose strands of her hair.

She shook her head. "Don't stop."

He hiked up the back of her dress. The fabric bunched in his fist as he gathered it, pulling the hem above her knees, above the middle of her thighs, until the silky material gathered at her waist. He could see the thin band of her G-string where it formed a T and then disappeared, hiding in her crack, providing almost no protection whatsoever. He hooked his fingers into the back strap and pulled it. He didn't remove her panties. He dismissed the strap aside with his thumb, and his fingers found her again from behind. The slick, swollen heat between her legs that had been building while she stood in the doorway watching Marcus and Daphne fuck on the desk.

Sofia's head fell back against Richard. Her eyes closed. He pushed two fingers into her, and she was soaked. Dripping. The kind of wet that came from sustained arousal, from watching, from wanting. The sound of his fingers pushing into her was obscene, a thick, liquid sound that echoed off the plaster. She clamped down on him, her inner walls gripping and fluttering, as she suppressed the moan that was fighting to get out of her throat.

"Look at them," Richard said. "Watch them fuck."

Sofia turned her head toward the desk. Marcus had lifted Daphne onto the desk properly now, her back flat against the leather surface, her legs wrapped around his waist. He was fucking her in long, deep strokes, his hips pulling back until the head of his cock was barely inside her, then driving forward until his pelvis ground against hers. The wet, slapping rhythm of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by Daphne's moans. Low, throaty, shameless. She had one hand braced against the edge of the desk above her head, the other gripping Richard's neck, pulling him closer. Her dress hung open, both breasts exposed now, and they moved with each thrust, her nipples tracking back and forth across her flushed chest.

Richard withdrew his fingers only to swiftly replace them with his hard cock. He was fully inside Sofia in one swift thrust. She gasped as he thrust inside her. As he began fucking her his hand moved up to her throat. Not roughly, but present. A reminder that he was in control.

Sofia did her best to contain her moaning. One palm flew to Richard's hip and the other bracing herself against the wall as his cock assaulted her pussy. She was tight. Tighter than he expected, her cunt gripping him in pulsing waves, causing him to force fully inside her with a hard roll of his hips that drove the front of her shoulders flat against the wall with her head turned sideways and one cheek pressed against the plaster. She gasped again, louder this time, causing Daphne's head to turn toward the doorway again.

Daphne watched. Her hips kept moving, grinding against Marcus, but her eyes found Sofia's face. They were forever bonded in a carnal way that couldn't be undone. Had been fucked by each other's husband. Were still fucking them. Her lips parted in a breathless smile. "That's it sweetie," she said, the words carrying across the threshold. "Don't be shy. Let us hear you."

Sofia moaned. Marcus turned and looked, seeing Richard and Sofia fucking in the doorway. But he didn't stop, continuing to thrust in Daphne's box. The impact drove the breath from her lungs, and her head fell back, her throat exposed, the tendons standing out as she swallowed a scream. He set a rhythm. Deep, rough, deliberate, each thrust punctuated by the slap of his thighs against hers and the wet squelch of her cunt taking him. She was dripping. Her arousal coated his shaft, slicked his balls, ran down the inside of her thigh in a slow trickle that gleamed in the lamplight.

Richard was working up his own tempo, matching Richard's pace blow for blow. He fucked Sofia from behind as she was pressed against the wall. "Watch them," Richard said again to Sofia, his voice rough. He gripped her jaw gently, turning her face toward the desk. "Keep your eyes open. Watch them fuck."

Sofia watched her husband and Daphne fucking as she got fucked herself. Her pussy clenching tightly around Richard's cock as he repeatedly drove it inside her. The scene was thoroughly erotic. The sensation was amazing.

"Yes baby, fuck her," Daphne chanted in encouragement to Richard as she herself was getting it. "Give it to her." Sofia, rarely audible during sex, started to make soft noises. The first sound was simply a hum in her chest, a vibration felt more than heard. "Yes Sofia, let it out!" Daphne called out.

Sofia unwillingly let a soft, trembling moan slip free, followed by quick, sharp gasps. She became more audible, her voice breaking into a desperate whimper as she felt her orgasm build. Her breath hitched. Her mouth opened. Her voice betrayed her. A grunt came from her throat. The sound of a woman who had spent years swallowing her own noise finally letting it escape. It was not intentional nor was it delicate or pretty. It was raw and unavoidable.

Sofia's cunt clenched around Richard's cock, the inner walls rippling, and her hips moved, pushing back against him, grinding, taking him deeper. The sounds she made were nothing like the polite, contained woman from the dinner table. These were raw, animal, the kind of moans that came from somewhere below the throat, pulled out by the root. Each thrust punched a new sound from her, an escalating series of cries that blended with Daphne's until the hallway and the library resonated with a harmony of lust, two women's voices braiding together, rising and falling in the same ragged rhythm.

Marcus was driving into Daphne with a force that made the desk slide an inch across the floor, the mahogany legs scraping against the hardwood. Daphne's moans had lost all coherence. Broken syllables, fragments of someone's name. Richard. Marcus. Maybe Sofia even. Gasps that climbed in pitch and volume until they echoed off the shelves. Her hands gripped the desk's edges, knuckles white, and her back arched off the mahogany, her breasts jutting upward, nipples stiff, her whole body taut and trembling.

Marcus's rhythm faltered. His thrusts grew erratic, shorter, faster, and his head dropped forward, his forehead pressing against Daphne's. He came with a grunt. A low, guttural sound that seemed torn from his chest. His hips locked, his cock buried deep inside her, pulsing. Daphne's breath hitched. She felt it. The heat of him flooding her, the throb of his cock inside her cunt. And her own orgasm crashed through her a beat later, her back arching off the desk, her mouth open in a silent scream that became, after a long, suspended moment, a sobbing, shuddering moan that filled the room. "I'M CUMMING! I'M CUMMING! I'M CUMMING!" she screamed out as her body shook underneath his weight.

Sofia watched them cum together. Her eyes were wide, glazed, fixed on the sight of Marcus's body locked inside Daphne's, of Daphne's trembling thighs, of the flush that spread across both their chests as Marcus blew his load deep inside her cunt. He jerked repeatedly as he held himself buried inside her. Pumping hot stream after stream of cum in her.

Richard fucked Sofia through it, his rhythm relentless, and the combination of watching and being fucked pushed her toward her own edge. Her cunt tightened around him, gripping in fast, rhythmic clenches, and her breathing turned to panting. He pumped her hard as he fucked her against the wall. Thrust after thrust into her box as their bodies rammed together. The wet, slapping rhythm of their fucking was loud, percussive, amplified by the plaster and the hard floor.

"Fuck," Sofia gasped. "Oh god... oh fuck..." Her first coherent words in what felt like an hour. Her voice cracked. Her whole body tightened. Her breath came in deep gasps. Each exhale carried a sound. Sharp. Rhythmic. Escalating. "Ah... Ah... Ah..." Sofia cried, each gasp louder than the last, perfectly timed in reaction to Richard's forceful thrusts into her cunt. She got louder. "FUCK!" she exclaimed.

"That's it, she's gonna cum!" Daphne exclaimed. "Make her cum baby! Cum Sofia! Cum! Cum on my husband's cock!"

Richard fucked Sofia harder. He drove into her with short, brutal thrusts that rattled her teeth and made her breasts bounce. The wall shook. A framed print beside her head vibrated, tilting on its nail. She was rapidly losing her ability to hold on any longer. Pulsing waves were washing over her. There wasn't much she was in control of anymore. The multitude of sensations was more than she could handle. The pleasantly rough, forceful fucking she was receiving. The fact she had just watched her husband cum together with and inside another woman. The fact she was herself getting fucked by another man, the same man that had fingered her to orgasm by the firepit earlier that evening. The fact her husband was watching her. The taboo nature of it all. Daphne's voice. It was too much. It pushed her over the edge into a screaming orgasm.

"Ahhhhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh!" Sofia screamed out as she detonated. She spasmed repeatedly as a violent orgasm washed over her, cumming hard enough to blur her vision. Marcus was watching in awe. A tinge of jealously shot through him. He knew Sofia had never cum like that before. He certainly had never seen it. Never gotten that reaction from her.

Richard slowed his pace, but continued slowly fucking Sofia through her orgasm, keeping it going. When she finally recovered, he stopped. He left his hard cock buried inside her cunt. She was so wet she could almost feel her own juices leak out onto her thigh.

The force of Richard pressing Sofia against the wall lessened and she was able to turn her head as she gained slight separation from the wall. The movement was small, barely a tilt, but it carried her gaze past Marcus's shoulder, past the warm spill of lamplight from the library, toward the other side of the room. Three couples stood there by a set of French doors. They hadn't been there before. Or maybe they had, and she hadn't noticed because Richard had been pumping inside her and her attention had narrowed to the width of his cock with brief interruptions from the sight and sound of Marcus's grunting as he had been driving his cock in Daphne for all he was worth. But now, with Richard holding still inside her, his breath hot against her ear, she saw them. Her heart thumped in her chest.

"Bravo," Sofia heard someone call out, but unsure who.

"Beautiful specimen! Beautiful indeed," another voice announced.

All six people across the room still wearing their masquerade masks, their mouths and jaws exposed. The couples stood in a loose arrangement, two on the left, one on the right, their postures relaxed, watchful. They didn't just arrive, but rather had been there for some amount of time. And their body language suggested they were not done watching.

Richard pulled out of Sofia. The withdrawal was slow, deliberate. She felt every inch of him leaving her, the swollen head of his cock dragging against her inner walls until it slipped free with a wet sound that echoed off the stone floor. Her cunt clenched around nothing. A thin strand of her own arousal stretched between her thighs.

Sofia's dress loosened as Richard took the gathered fabric at her waist with both hands and pushed it down, over her hips where it had been caught. She was frozen. Made no attempt to stop him. Still in shock, she couldn't move. The emerald silk slid down her body, gliding over the swell of her hips, then dropped. The fabric pooled around her ankles with a whisper, and Sofia stood there in nothing but her heels, choker necklace, and the tangled remnant of her G-string, which still hung somewhere between her pussy and left thigh like a discarded ribbon.

Sofia felt the air hit her skin. Not cold. The room was warm. But she felt it everywhere at once, across her breasts, her stomach, the slick surface of her inner thighs where Richard had been fucking her. Her nipples hardened. Not from the temperature. From the six pairs of eyes behind the masks across the room, from her husband and Daphne, from Richard, all of them fixed on her body. And her mask, face down on the floor. It had come loose while Richard had been ravishing her. Or maybe he had undone it on purpose. Either way, she was the only one not wearing a mask. They were purely symbolic, but the symbolism of her being the only one without one made her feel even more exposed. More vulnerable.

That was all before the embarrassment of having had an audience just witness her uncontrolled, screaming orgasm. She hadn't seen them, but was sure they had been watching. Something reserved for the privacy of the bedroom. For her husband's eyes only. But instead seen by others.

Sofia's situation continued to sink in. She was naked. She was freshly fucked. Her cunt swollen and wet, Richard's hard cock pressed against the back of her thigh, his hand still lightly covering her throat showing his ownership of her, her own juices smeared across her thighs. And she was on display. That phrase, on display, formed in her mind with a heavy weight. Display. Like something arranged on a shelf to be looked at. Like a purchased object. For everyone to see. All of them looking at her.

Richard leaned in. His lips touched the shell of her ear. "You liked watching," he said. His voice was low, steady. A statement of fact. "Now you will be watched."

Daphne slid off the desk. She crossed the library, making no effort to cover her exposed body, leading Marcus by the hand to a small leather loveseat. She looked at Sofia. Gave her a knowing smile, indicating Daphne fully knew what was coming next. Then she showed Marcus to his seat, her following by draping herself across his lap. She reached out and took his cock in her hand, gently playing with it, getting it hard, ready for something more. Sofia read the room and sensed the night was far from over. It was just beginning.

As Marcus and Daphne settled into the couch Tom stepped forward and approached. Richard withdrew his hand from Sofia's throat and Tom's hand replaced it. His palm settled against the front of her neck. His fingers wrapped around the side, his thumb resting on her pulse. Exactly where Richard's had been. Not rough. Not squeezing. But the weight of his hand was there, and the breadth of his palm, and the certainty of the grip. Not quite the sweet, nice guy from her earlier assessment. This was possessive. Not asking. The way a man holds something that belongs to him. Richard had transferred ownership to Tom.

He leaned in. His lips brushed her ear. "Exquisite specimen," he said. His voice was low, unhurried, clinical. "Without a doubt."

Sofia's breath caught. The words landed on her skin like a diagnosis. Specimen. Not a name. Not a wife. Not a woman. A specimen. Something to be examined. Evaluated. Used.

His free hand moved to her thigh. His fingers wrapped around the tangled panties that hung there, pushed to the side, now useless. He pulled them free with a single, downward tug. The fabric peeled away from her skin without resistance. They fell to the floor.

Sofia heard the slow unbuckling of Tom's belt and the sound of the metal buckle hit the floor as his trousers dropped to his ankles. Then Tom's hand moved between Sofia's legs. Two fingers. He pressed them against her entrance. Still swollen from Richard, still wet. He slid them inside. Her hips bucked. Not away from him. Into him. A reflex. Her body betraying her, responding before her mind could catch up, her cunt clenching around his fingers the way it had been clenching around Richard's cock. He held them there for a moment, feeling the walls of her pussy contract around him, and then withdrew them slowly. He raised his hand. His fingers glistened.

He looked at Marcus. Something passed between. Not a nod or glance, but a silent agreement that didn't require words or expression. The lack of objection was enough.

Tom freed his cock from his boxers. It was thick. Not long, but thick, the kind of girth that made Sofia's eyes widen when she saw it, the kind that would stretch her. The head was full, swollen, already leaking a thin strand of pre-cum that caught the light. He wrapped his hand around the base of it, stroked once, and positioned himself between her legs.

He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He pressed the head of his cock against her entrance and pushed inside. Sofia's mouth opened. The sound that came out was not a scream, not a moan. It was something between, a strangled cry that bounced off the library walls. He was wider than Richard, wider than Marcus. The stretch was immediate, her cunt forced open around his girth, her inner walls gripping him as he drove deeper. He didn't stop until he was fully inside her, his hips pressed against her ass, his cock buried to the root.

He held there. His hand on her throat tightened. Not a squeeze, just a firmer pressure, his thumb pressing against her pulse. His other hand gripped her hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass, holding her steady against the wall.

Then he fucked her.

His rhythm was different from Richard's. More urgent, almost frantic. Fast strokes that pulled almost entirely out before driving back in. Each thrust was a combined act. Withdrawal, apex, plunge. Sofia felt every inch of him entering and leaving, her cunt gripping him on the way out and stretching around him on the way in. The wet sounds of her pussy filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, a squelching pulse that matched the pace of his hips.

Sofia's eyes were open. She could see the area where the other couples stood by the French doors. Arranged. Watching. Claire with a hand wrapped around her husband Jame's arm, the other playing with her nipples through her dress as her chest heaved from heavy breathing. James next to her also carefully watching. On the other side of the doorway, Barbara. Barbara's dress was now hiked around her waist. Her back against the wall and her hand inside a delicate pair of black lace and satin panties. Working away at her own pleasure watching her husband fuck Sofia. The Castelow couple. Cuddled together in an embrace nearby. Him standing behind her caressing her body over her clothes and her running her hand up and down the front of his thighs.

Tom continued fucking Sofia as she began to whimper, his tempo exciting her. "Responsive," he said. Not to her. To the room. A clinical observation.

"Yes, fuck her Tom. Just like that," Sofia heard a woman's voice softly gasp from across the room. Tom's wife Barbara Sofia thought. Maybe. She couldn't tell.

Tom fucked Sofia faster. The words of encouragement worked. His strokes shortened, became more urgent, his hips snapping against her thighs with a sound that echoed through the room. Sofia's body moved against the wall. The front of her shoulders pressing into the plaster, her hips tilting forward to meet his thrusts, her heels scraping against the stone floor as she struggled to keep her footing. Her breasts rippled with each impact, her nipples dragging against the rough texture of the wall. She could feel her pussy start to boil over again.

Without warning Tom groaned and started cumming inside Sofia. It took her by surprise, nearly setting her off. She felt his warm cum filling her pussy as he continued thrusting and pumping his cock in her wet box. As soon as he had finished, he quickly withdrew leaving her feeling empty. Slick, but empty.

James approached without delay. No longer in his suit, but now fully naked. His cock was average, not as thick as Tom, maybe slightly longer, but hard as a rock sticking out at attention. Tom released Sofia, took her hand and placed it in Tom's, like he was passing the baton in a relay. James led her to an empty sofa nearby. On her back. He positioned himself above her and wasted no time as he thrust into her. Her cunt was full of Tom's cum, this new cock pushing it deeper, the wetness squelching around his shaft as he buried himself inside her. Missionary style. Expected Sofia thought. Unimaginative. Consistent with her earlier assessment of James the bore.

James quickly got into a rhythm. He wasn't as hurried as Tom, but wasn't taking his time either. Sofia felt each thrust. And it felt good. Really good. Her earlier assessment of James the bore was quickly changing. James knew how to fuck. And anything he lacked in size was more than offset by technique. Her pussy was getting worked in the most amazing, delightful way.

Sofia's hands found Jame's shoulders. Not to push him away, but to hold on. She wrapped her legs around him and tightened her glutes to meet each of his thrusts. This was good sex she thought. Really good. Factoring in the added excitement of having an audience that included her husband, and it was great sex in fact. She started to pant as her pussy felt better and better with each thrust. Her cunt tingled. "Yes... yes... yes..." she quietly gasped uncontrollably with each thrust. She hoped no one could hear her. But at least James could. He picked up his tempo.

The wet sounds of Sofia's pussy were louder now. Tom's cum churned inside her, frothing around Jame's cock. Her cunt made sounds she'd never heard before. The sloppy, liquid slap of a well-fucked pussy being fucked again.

It wasn't long before the inevitable arrived. Sofia orgasmed. She bucked wildly underneath James as he continued fucking her. She tried her best to conceal her moaning and spasming, but it was clear to the room she was cumming. And James wasn't far behind her. His pace became ragged, his thrusts losing their rhythm. Less than ten pumps later he let out a loud groan. He orgasmed. He grunted through his orgasm as he shot his load inside her. Stream after stream. She could feel the heat of it hit her cervix and smear all over the walls of her cunt. It was a lot.

As James dismounted Sofia, the fourth and final masked man stepped forward. By now it was no surprise to Sofia. The Castellano man.

He was tall. Probably six foot five. Taller than Marcus by several inches. Broad across the shoulders in a way that made his tailored suit look like it was stretched over something built for heavier work. His mask covered his brow and nose, but his mouth was visible, and it was set in an expression of calm appraisal. He was younger than the rest of the men. And probably more fit. Athletic. Toned. And if she was being honest, even including her own husband, Castelow was the best-looking man in the room.

It occurred to Sofia that she hadn't conversed with either of the Castelows all night. She hadn't had the opportunity to assess either of them. He was still a bit of a mystery. But there he was, approaching her. No mystery in his intent.

Castelow crossed the distance between the doorway and the sofa where Sofia was recovering from her third fucking. From her orgasm. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell him. Sandalwood and something darker beneath it, like cedar smoke. His gaze moved down her body with the unhurried precision of a man inspecting merchandise. Her face. Her throat. Her breasts, still heaving with rapid breath. Her stomach, where a thin sheen of sweat caught the light. The junction of her thighs, where her cunt was swollen and glistening, James's withdrawal still evident in the wetness on her inner legs.

Marcus hadn't moved. Ten feet away. His eyes were on his wife's face. Sofia met his gaze. She saw his jaw working, his throat tight, his pupils blown wide. He was preparing himself to watch another man fuck his wife. The fourth of the evening. And he was still hard. His cock in Daphne's hand, aching for release.

Castelow reached down and picked Sofia up as she instinctively put her arm around his neck. He carried her to the desk and set her on her back. The same desk Richard had said she would be on that evening. The same desk her husband had fucked Daphne on earlier.

Castelow positioned her high heel clad feet on the edge of the desk, knees in the air. He spread her knees wide apart, revealing her hot pink pussy to the room. She felt even more exposed being put on display like that. Open. Spread. Vulnerable. Excited. Glistening.

Sofia glanced over and saw the Castelow wife. Her dress clumped on the floor. No bra. Perky tits out. Nipples hard. Her fingers tucked inside a very expensive Italian silk thong. Slowly stroking her clit, eagerly watching, awaiting what was about to happen.

Sofia's gaze returned to Castelow as he walked around the desk and studied her. He began to methodically and slowly remove his clothes. First his jacket, then his bow tie. Slowly undoing his cuff links, then the buttons on his shirt. One shoe after another, socks, slowly dropping his pants, then his boxers.

Sofia couldn't help but notice how well he was hung when his cock sprung free. No one could. It was long. Very long. Noticeably longer than the others. Longer than her husband for sure. Well longer than Sofia had ever had. Fully hard. Fully ready for her. She watched him, naked, slowly move around to the other side of the desk. Calculated. Deliberate.

Sofia's head was hovering over the side of the desk. Castelow inched closer and began to feed his cock into her awaiting mouth. She took it. Slowly. Inch by inch he slipped it in as she struggled to take his full length. Deeper and deeper it slid until she had deep throated him. Another first for Sofia. She didn't even know she could do that.

Castelow began slowly fucking her mouth as Sofia sucked. Slurping and gagging noises sounded obscenely through the room. She could hear the echoes of herself sucking him off bouncing off the solid walls and floor. It added to her feeling of being exposed, the others watching her, of being on display. But it also fueled her excitement.

Castelow, with his cock still in Sofia's mouth, reached forward and placed one palm on each side of Sofia's slit. Then he spread her apart. Her swollen lips and glowing hot pink pussy even further exposed to the audience. Sofia's face and skin were flush hot red. Flush with embarrassment. Her most intimate parts fully exposed while sucking a stranger's cock for an audience of people she just met. Or maybe flush with excitement. Maybe both. She wasn't sure. Could they see all the cum inside her she wondered.

Castelow was putting on a show. No doubt he had done this before Sofia thought. They all had. It was all too well coordinated. Choreographed. She just happened to be their most recent conquest. Had the other wives been in her place, been a subject before? Not a single shocked or surprised expression in the room. Maybe Marcus. Was he in on it as well? Or was this just an opportunity seized? She didn't think he would have planned something like this without telling her but wasn't sure. And at that moment, with Castelow's gorgeous cock poking the back of her throat, riding an all-time high of excitement and arousal, she didn't care.

Castelow finally withdrew his cock from Sofia's mouth. Then she waited. Waited anxiously. She wanted him inside her. She'd just been fucked silly by three different men. Should have been more than sexually satisfied. But now she wanted this man. Wanted his long hard cock. Wanted to feel him deep. Experience him. Feel him reach places no other man had been. Not even her husband. But he paused, standing between her legs. Making her wait for it. She thought he was going to make her beg for it, which she gladly would have done. But he didn't. He just watched her. Her eyes locked on his. Waiting.

It was a long awkward pause for Sofia, so she glanced over to look at Marcus. As their eyes met, Castelow chose that moment to drive into her. Hard, a single deep thrust that bottomed out inside her, and what came out of her mouth was long, crying moan that she couldn't control. It was loud. Originating from deep within her.

"Oh god!" Sofia gasped as Castelow started fucking her in a steady rhythm. Perfectly timed. Totally controlled. Like her pussy was an instrument he was playing with his cock. "You're..." she gasped again unable to contain her words. "So deep." As his tempo rose, she let out a sound. Not quite a moan. Something closer to surrender. A low, broken sob that rose from her chest as the fourth cock of the evening filled her cunt. Not just fuck her. Filled her completely. Like never before. She was so wet now that the friction was minimal, her pussy slick with two men's cum. But she was full. So full and deep she thought.

Castelow fucked Sofia with long, curved strokes that dragged the head of his cock against the front wall of her cunt, then sliding all the way back to her cervix, then doing it all over again. Her eyes rolled. Her head fell back. Her mouth was open, her breathing ragged, her body jerking with each thrust. She could feel the cum inside her stirring.

Castelow leaned forward as he fucked her, his face a mere inch from hers. He looked in her eyes then he kissed her. It was unexpected, but welcome. She kissed him back. It was heated. Wet. Passionate. A deep French kiss. His tongue darting in and out of her mouth perfectly choreographed with his cock cycling like a piston deep in her cunt. Her tongue twirling, attempting to catch and hold on to his.

Marcus sat there, less than ten feet from his wife's body, watching another man fuck her. The fourth of the night. His own breathing had gone ragged as he saw the two together. Different this time. Not just fucking. Closer to making love, locked in an intimate exchange of fluid and flesh. In front of an audience no less. The exchange of passion was palpable. He breathed short, shallow pulls of air that made his chest heave beneath his suit jacket.

"Feel it," Daphne said in his ear as she watched him. Her voice was low, satisfied, a purr. "Feel him fuck her. Make love to her. Claim her. Make her his." Marcus's chest moved up and down as he breathed heavily. An unknown sensation ran through his veins. Different than the rush he felt watching her with the other three men. More intense. More vibrant. Jealousy? Maybe. But different. His own cock twitched in Daphne's hand.

Eventually Castelow broke his and Sofia's kiss. He stood upright at the end of the desk and took hold of Sofia's legs. Without exiting her, he expertly put the back of her legs against his chest with her high heels sticking straight up in the air above his head. He continued fucking her, entered from behind, her ass raising off the desk as he plowed repeatedly into her box.

Sofia could feel it building. Her cunt was getting hotter and hotter with each thrust of Castelow's cock bouncing off her cervix. Deep. So deep. Her lips became more sensitive, feeling every inch of his shaft. Her stomach tightened. Her breath became short.

Sofia's orgasm came without permission. It started in her cunt. A clenching, rhythmic contraction that rippled outward through her stomach, her thighs, her chest. She cried out. The sound was raw, guttural, torn from somewhere deep. She gripped the edge of the desk with both hands. Knuckles white from the grip. Her cunt spasmed around Castelow's cock, gripping him, milking him, and he responded with a series of rapid, deep thrusts that drove her shoulders into the desk. She was exploding. Screaming out incoherently at the top of her lungs. She convulsed. Over and over. Cumming even harder and longer than Richard had made her cum. A new record set, smashing the old one set earlier that night by miles. Spasm after spasm rocked her body as he kept fucking her.

Sofia continued uncontrollably convulsing and jerking, unsure if it was a second orgasm or a continuation of the first. Castellano's pace became erratic. His breathing changed. Shorter, sharper, his stomach tightening with each thrust. His hands gripped the back of her thighs, spreading her legs, opening her wider, and he drove into her with deep, brutal strokes. Deeper. Almost in her stomach she thought. Sofia felt him thicken inside her, felt the swelling of his cock against her walls, setting off another separate, distinct, but equally powerful orgasm inside her as she screamed out again. This next orgasm intensified, her body clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, her moans dissolving into whimpers. Her vision blurred. And then he pushed deep and held. His body jerked violently as he groaned aloud.

Castelow came. Sofia felt it. The third hot flood, another man's cum filling her, the combined load of three strangers pooling inside her body. He held deep, his cock pulsing against her spasming walls, as he flooded her cunt. Hot, thick spurts that she could feel individually, each one a pulse against her inner walls. He continued groaning. A low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into her body. Groaning, jerking, and pumping his cum, emptying himself inside her.

He held there for a long ten seconds or more. Then he pulled out. The withdrawal was slow, calculated, and Sofia felt every inch of him leaving her. Felt her cunt clinging to him, felt the wet pop when the head of his cock slipped free. Cum ran down her inner thigh immediately, a thick white trail that caught the lamplight, dribbling down onto the fine leather of the desktop.

Castellano stepped back. He looked at Marcus. Exchanging no expression. No words. But an understanding. He had just fucked his wife. Given her a screaming orgasm in front of the others. Made her cum harder than Marcus ever had. Harder than Marcus ever could hope to do himself. Marcus again felt another strange rush, reeking of jealousy and a multitude of other emotions, from witnessing his wife cum so hard at the hands of another man. But it was accepted. It was settled.

After several minutes of silence, interrupted only by Sofia's own heavy, but subsiding breathing, three masked men formed close to the desk. They stood in a loose semicircle. Tom on the right, Castellano on the left, and James in the center. Their cocks were still out, ranging from half hard to fully erect, glistening with Sofia's cum and their own.

Richard moved. He'd been standing to the side, watching, his own cock fully hard. "On your knees my dear," he said. Sofia slid off the desk and knelt in the middle of the room. Her legs were shaking. Her thighs were slick with cum. Sweat glistened on her body. Multiple men's loads running down her skin dripping from her cunt in long, silvery strands. Richard positioned himself to Sofia's right, completing the semicircle around her. Four men. Four cocks. All pointed at her.

Sofia's eyes found Marcus. He was still there, ten feet away, his dick hard, Daphne's hand still wrapped around it. Sofia held his gaze. She was naked, kneeling, her face level with four cocks. Her hair was disheveled, hanging in dark tangles around her flushed face. Her lips were swollen, parted, her tongue visible behind her teeth. Still no objection on Marcus's face.

James stepped forward first. His cock was semi-hard. He held it at the base and pressed the head against Sofia's lower lip. She opened her mouth. He pushed inside. The taste hit her. Salt, musk, the bitter-sweet flavor of her own cunt mixed with cum. She wrapped her lips around the head and sucked, her cheeks hollowing, her tongue swirling over the swollen tip. His hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, and he pushed deeper. His cock hardened as it hit the back of her throat, and she gagged. A wet, choked sound that made her eyes water. He held there for a moment, then withdrew, and she gasped, spit trailing from her lips to the head of his cock.

Tom stepped in. His thick cock replaced Jame's, and Sofia turned her head to take it. She sucked him with the same desperate urgency, her mouth working his shaft, her hand gripping the base. He was shorter but thicker, and her jaw ached as she stretched around him. She could feel the veins on the underside of his cock pulsing against her tongue.

Richard took his turn. Sofia's mouth moved to his longer, curved cock, and she took him deeper, her throat relaxing around him, her nose pressing into his groin. He fucked her face with short, controlled thrusts, each one hitting the back of her throat, and she swallowed around him, the muscles of her throat massaging his shaft.

Castelow was last. Sofia turned to him. His cock was familiar. The longest of the group by far, but she'd sucked him already. She looked up at him from her knees, her eyes wet, her lips swollen and glistening with spit and pre-cum, and she saw him looking down at her. Ownership in his gaze. She opened her mouth. He pushed inside. The mixed taste of her juices and the other men the freshest, having fucked him last. She sucked him hard, her tongue flat against the underside of his shaft, her head bobbing, the wet sounds of her mouth filling the room.

The four men stood around Sofia. She alternated. The men's cocks not in her mouth stroking themselves. Her hands reached up and found two cocks. Castelow's and Tom's. And she took over stroking them while she sucked Richard, her spit-slicked fingers sliding up and down their shafts. Then she turned, taking Castellano into her throat, her hand moving to James. Then Tom. She took him deep, gagging, her eyes streaming, and her hands never stopped moving. This was the definition of being a slut she thought. Jerking and sucking off four men at once. With an audience that included her husband no less. A side of Sofia she never knew. She couldn't deny she was enjoying getting acquainted with Sophia the Slut.

Marcus watched. Ten feet away. His wife. A total slut. On her knees, naked, used, surrounded by four men, sucking their cocks, her hands working whatever her mouth couldn't reach. Like a total pro. His own cock was aching. Precum drizzling from the tip. This was well beyond watching her being taken four separate times by four different men. Another level. Even more intense if that was possible. His breathing was ragged. His eyes never left her.

James came first. Sofia had his cock in her mouth when it happened. She felt the shaft thicken, felt the pulse against her tongue, and then the first spurt hit the back of her throat. She pulled back. His cock slipped from her lips, and the second spurt caught her across the cheek. A thick, white rope that stretched from her chin to her temple. The third spurt, smaller in size, landed on her nose. She knelt there, mouth open, tongue out, as his cum painted her face.

Tom came next. He'd been stroking himself while watching Sofia's mouth work the other men, and when James stepped back, Tom stepped forward. He aimed his cock at her face and came. The first spurt hit her upper lip, thick and hot, rolling down to her mouth. The second caught her across the bridge of her nose. The third landed on her chin and dripped onto her chest.

Castelow came from the right. His cock was aimed at her cheek, and his cum was thick. Almost gelatinous. Weakened by his earlier orgasm, but still impressive. Hitting her skin in heavy drops that clung to her jaw and slowly slid downward. Sofia turned her face toward him, and the last two spurts landed on her closed eye, sealing it shut.

Richard came last. He was behind her, and Sofia tilted her head back to face him, her mouth open, her face already covered. He stroked three more times and came across her forehead and into her hair, the white strands catching in her dark tangles, dripping onto the flagstone. She had forgotten, but Richard hadn't cum inside her like the others. So, his load was bigger, much bigger. Stream after stream of hot white cum landed on her face. He could have covered her face himself, but being added to the others was an obscene amount of cum plastered over her face.

Sofia knelt on the stone. Her face was covered. Four men's cum layered on her skin. Thick, white, glistening in the lamplight. It was on her cheeks, her chin, her nose, her forehead, her eyelids, in her hair. It dripped from her jaw, covering her choker necklace, onto her chest, running between her breasts. And her cunt was still leaking. The three loads inside her running down her thighs, practically pooling beneath her on the cold stone.

Sofia opened one eye. All she could manage with the other one being cum sealed shut. She could barely see Marcus still on the couch. His cock was still hard. She looked at her husband through the cum on her face. Her lips moved. The words were barely audible, barely a whisper, carried on a breath that was still ragged from the cocks that had been in her throat.

"Marcus," she let out. She said his name. Not a plea. Not a cry. Just his name, spoken through a mask of cum, by a woman who had been fucked by four men and filled with their seed, who was still kneeling on the cold stone floor of a stranger's library, naked, used, displayed.

Marcus stood. His fingers trembled at his side. He took one step forward. Then another. The distance between them shrank from ten feet, to eight, to six, and Sofia watched him through the cum on her eyelashes, the room silent. "I love you," Sofia whispered through the cum on her lips as he arrived at her side.

"I love you too," Marcus softly replied. Daphne soon appeared behind him, reaching around to give his hard cock a squeeze. He looked at Daphne, then back at his wife. He took Sofia's hand and kissed it. One of the few spots on her body not covered in cum. "I'll leave you in these fine people's care and see you in the morning?" She smiled and nodded in agreement. "Gentlemen..." He turned to look at the other three women. "And ladies... please take good care of my wife." Daphne took his hand and led Marcus out of the room.

As they exited, Claire Pembroke stepped forward. She was no longer wearing her dress, just an elegant matching bra and panty set and high heels. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her thong and swiftly pushed it down over her hips letting it drop to the floor. She raised one foot stepping out, then with her panties around her other foot and ankle she gracefully kicked them aside launching them halfway across the room. She stood with her hands on her hips staring directly at Sofia, but more asked the room, "Does she eat pussy too?"