Brewery Tour With My Wife's Husband

I still can’t believe I let it get that far, but standing there in the brewery that afternoon with Fiona and her new boss, every nerve in my body already knew something was shifting. Derek was exactly the kind of man my wife had described over dinner the week she got the job—tall, mid-thirties, broad across the chest from hauling kegs, openly gay and completely unapologetic about it. He wore a tight black brewery T-shirt that clung to his pecs and those thick, veined forearms dusted with dark hair. The faded jeans sat low on his hips, and more than once during the first half of the private tour I caught myself staring at the heavy bulge outlined against the denim. He caught me looking. Of course he did. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth every time.

Fiona was between us, chatting brightly about distribution numbers and new hop varieties, completely oblivious. I kept my hands in my pockets and tried to focus on the copper tanks and the yeasty air, but Derek’s voice—deep, easy, confident—kept pulling my attention back. When he handed me a sample glass his fingers brushed mine longer than necessary. “You’ve got a solid build, Victor,” he said, eyes dropping openly to my shoulders and chest. “Gym or just good genes?” I mumbled something about weekends with free weights. He chuckled, low and warm. “It shows. Nice.” Fiona laughed, thinking it was just friendly banter. I felt heat crawl up my neck.

We were in the bottling area when her phone buzzed hard. She glanced at the screen, face tightening. “Shit—warehouse emergency. They need me on a call right now, inventory screw-up with the distributor.” She looked between us, apologetic. “Babe, can you finish the tour with Derek? I’ll be twenty minutes, maybe thirty. I’m so sorry.” Derek waved it off. “No problem at all. Victor and I will keep each other company. Go handle it.” She kissed my cheek, squeezed my arm, and hurried out toward the office wing, already dialing. The heavy door swung shut behind her. Suddenly the brewery felt a lot quieter, and a lot smaller.

Derek turned to me fully then, that same slow smile spreading. “Just us, huh?” He stepped a little closer, close enough that I caught the mix of clean sweat and something woody—cedar cologne maybe—rising off his skin. “You were checking me out pretty hard back there.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was an invitation. I swallowed, my pulse thudding in my throat. “I… yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make it weird.” He laughed softly. “Not weird. Flattering. You’ve got that quiet, solid thing going on. Married to Fiona, right? Lucky woman. But I’ve been watching you watch me since we started. Those arms of yours? I like them. And don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at my cock.”

My face burned, but my dick was already half-hard in my jeans. I glanced around—the place was empty, late afternoon, private tour locked down. No one else on the floor. Derek’s eyes stayed on mine, open, hungry, patient. He lifted his glass, took a slow sip of the IPA he’d poured us, then set it aside on a nearby rail. “Come on. I want to show you the fermentation room. It’s quiet back there. Better light for… conversation.”

I followed him down a short corridor lined with stainless steel. The fermentation room was cool, dimmer, racks of tall conical tanks humming softly, the air thick with that sweet-sour yeast smell layered over his scent. He shut the door behind us with a soft click. No lock, but solid. Empty. Just us and the tanks. Derek stepped in close—close enough that the heat of his body rolled over me. I could smell the faint salt of sweat at the hollow of his throat, the cologne underneath. My cock twitched hard.

“I’ve never been with a man,” I heard myself admit, voice rough. The words just came out. “Fantasized about it. A lot. Especially lately. Looking at guys at the gym, wondering. But never… done anything.” Derek’s eyes darkened. He reached up and rested one big hand on my chest, palm flat over my shirt, feeling my heartbeat. “I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you walk in with Fiona,” he said, plain and low. “The way you fill out that shirt. The way you looked at my arms like you wanted to put your mouth on them. I’ve been hard half the tour thinking about getting you alone.”

He didn’t wait for more permission. He just leaned in and kissed me. Hungry. Open-mouthed. His lips were firm, his tongue pushing past mine like he’d been waiting all day. I made a sound—half surprise, half need—and kissed him back just as hard. My hands found his waist, then slid up under the hem of his T-shirt to the hot, smooth skin of his back. Muscle shifted under my palms. He groaned into my mouth and pressed closer, the thick ridge of his cock grinding against my hip through the jeans. I could feel how heavy he was, how hard. My own dick strained painfully against my zipper.

We broke only long enough to drag air. Derek’s forehead rested against mine. “Fuck, you taste good.” Then he was kissing me again, deeper, one hand sliding down to squeeze my ass through my pants, pulling our hips tighter together. I was shaking a little—nerves, lust, the sheer wrongness and rightness of it crashing together. Married. Fiona somewhere in the building. And here I was tongue-fucking her boss’s mouth like I’d been starving for it.

His hand moved between us, bold, cupping the front of my jeans and rubbing the outline of my cock. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re leaking already.” He nipped my lower lip. “Get on your knees for me, Victor. I want to feel that mouth.”

I didn’t hesitate. The confession, the tension, the weeks of private fantasies—it all funneled into that single moment. I dropped. The concrete floor was cool through my jeans. Derek stood over me, legs slightly spread, and worked his belt open with deliberate fingers. Button. Zipper. He shoved the denim and black briefs down just far enough. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already flushed dark at the head, a clear bead of precum at the slit. It was bigger than I’d pictured, veined along the underside, resting against a neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair. The smell of him hit me stronger: clean musk, skin, that faint cologne.

“Jesus,” I breathed. Derek’s hand settled in my hair, not forcing, just holding. “Go on. I’ve been thinking about this since I caught you staring. Show me how eager you are.”

I wrapped my fingers around the base—hot, solid, the skin silky over iron—and leaned in. My tongue dragged up the underside first, tasting salt and skin. He hissed through his teeth. Then I opened wider and took the head into my mouth. Smooth. Heavy on my tongue. I sucked gently at first, learning the shape, then deeper, cheeks hollowing. Derek’s fingers tightened in my hair. “That’s it… fuck, look at you. Married man on his knees for the first time, sucking cock like he was made for it. You’re so fucking eager. Take more.”

I did. I pushed forward until the thick head nudged the back of my throat, eyes watering a little, nose brushing his stomach. He groaned low and filthy. “Goddamn. Your mouth is perfect. Hot and wet and greedy.” I pulled back, stroked him with my fist while I caught my breath, then swallowed him down again, bobbing steadily now, spit starting to slick the shaft. My free hand braced on his powerful thigh. Every time I looked up I saw him watching me—jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, that confident brewmaster completely undone by my mouth.

He rocked his hips gently, fucking my face in short strokes, never too rough. “Fiona’s out there handling business and you’re in here choking on her boss’s dick. Does that turn you on? Tell me.” I pulled off just long enough to rasp, “Yes—fuck—yes,” before diving back on, sucking harder, using my tongue along the sensitive ridge under the head the way I’d always imagined. Precum spilled salty across my tongue. My own cock throbbed untouched, a wet spot spreading in my underwear.

Derek’s breathing roughened. His hand guided my head, praising every wet sound, every eager bob. “Just like that. So hungry for it. I knew the second I saw you you’d be good at this. Going to make you take every inch before we’re done…”

He didn’t come. Not yet. He pulled me off his cock with a soft pop, the thick shaft glistening, and dragged me back up by the shoulders into another bruising kiss. I could taste myself on his tongue—no, taste him on mine. His hand shoved down the front of my jeans, wrapping around my leaking cock, stroking once, twice. “We’re not finished,” he murmured against my lips, voice wrecked and promising. “Not even close. There’s more I want from you before your wife comes looking.” His fingers squeezed, thumb smearing the precum over the head. The fermentation tanks hummed around us. Somewhere distant a door might have closed. My pulse hammered. I was still hard, still on the edge, still wanting whatever came next—and from the way Derek’s eyes glittered, he had every intention of giving it to me.

He didn’t give me time to second-guess. Derek’s hand stayed wrapped around my cock, thumb smearing the slick over the head while he kissed me again, slower this time, like he was tasting the decision I’d already made. My jeans were still half-open; he shoved them down farther, boxers too, until they tangled around my thighs. The cool air of the fermentation room hit my bare ass and balls. I shivered. He spun me easy, one big palm between my shoulder blades, and bent me forward over the nearest stainless-steel brewing tank. The metal was smooth and cold against my chest and stomach. My breath fogged a little patch of it.

“Look at you,” Derek muttered, voice low and rough. “Married man, bent over my tank, ass out like you’ve been waiting for this.” His boot nudged my feet wider. I heard the wet sound of him spitting. Thick saliva landed right on my hole. His thumb smeared it around, pressed in just enough to make me clench and then open. “Fuck, tight. Never had anything in here, have you?”

“No,” I managed. My cock hung heavy between my legs, dripping onto the concrete. “Derek—”

“I’ve got you.” He spit again, thicker, and I felt the blunt head of his cock—still slick from my mouth—nudge against me. He didn’t shove. He leaned, steady pressure, one hand on my hip and the other stroking my shaft in slow, firm pulls. The head stretched me open. Burn first, then a deep, full ache as he sank the first thick inch. I groaned against the steel, fingers scrabbling for purchase that wasn’t there. He kept feeding it in, long and slow, until his hips met my ass and I could feel every ridge and vein.

“Christ, Victor. You’re gripping me like a fist.” He started moving—long, deep strokes that dragged almost all the way out before sliding home again. Each thrust punched a sound out of me. His hand never stopped working my cock, twisting on the upstroke, thumb rubbing the underside of the head. The dual sensation short-circuited everything: the guilt, the risk, Fiona somewhere in the building. All that was left was the wet slap of skin, the yeasty air, and Derek’s cock splitting me open on every stroke.

“Talk to me,” he said, bending over my back so his breath hit my ear. “Tell me how it feels having your wife’s boss balls-deep in your virgin ass.”

“Full,” I gasped. “So fucking full. Harder—please—”

He gave it to me harder. The tank rang softly under the impact. Sweat slicked my lower back; his T-shirt stuck to my skin where he pressed close. I could hear how wet I was getting, spit and precum turning every thrust filthy. My cock throbbed in his fist. Pre came in steady strings. I was close already, the pressure building behind my balls, but he eased off just enough to keep me right on the edge.

“Not yet,” he growled. “I want to feel you ride it first.”

He pulled out slow. The emptiness made me whine. Derek dragged me upright, kissed me messy, then steered us toward a low wooden bench near the wall—probably for changing filters or something mundane. He sat, jeans still around his thighs, cock standing rigid and shiny. “Come on. Back to me. I want to watch that ass swallow me.”

I turned, straddled him reverse-cowboy, boots planted on either side of the bench. Reaching back, I lined him up and sank down. Gravity did half the work. I dropped in one long slide until I was seated flush on his lap, stuffed fuller than before. Derek’s hands clamped my hips hard enough to bruise. “Fuck yes. Move.”

I rode him. Slow at first, grinding down in tight circles, feeling every inch drag against that spot inside that made my vision spark. Then harder. I bounced, thighs burning, ass slapping his hips. He thrust up to meet me, grip tight, using me. Sweat ran down my chest, dripped onto his boots. The room filled with our sounds—skin, wet cock, the wet suck of my hole taking him over and over, both of us moaning without shame.

“Look at you go,” Derek panted. “Fucking yourself on my cock like a natural. Your wife’s gonna smell me on you. That turn you on?”

“Yes—” I slammed down harder. “God, yes—”

He reached around and stroked me again, matching the rhythm. My balls drew up tight. I could feel him swelling thicker inside me, getting close. The bench creaked. My thighs shook. Sweat stung my eyes. I kept grinding, chasing it, until Derek suddenly lifted me off with a wet pop.

“Knees. Now.”

I dropped. The concrete bit my knees. His cock, dark and glistening, slapped against my cheek. I opened wide and took him to the root just as he started to pulse. Thick ropes of cum hit the back of my throat. I swallowed greedily, every drop, throat working around him while he groaned and tangled both hands in my hair. “That’s it—take it—fuck, Victor—”

He stayed hard enough to keep fucking my mouth through the aftershocks. Then his fist wrapped around my cock again—slick, rough, perfect—and jerked me hard and fast. Two, three strokes and I was gone. I came with his cock still on my tongue, shooting thick white streaks across the toes of his work boots, more painting the leather, some dripping onto the floor. My whole body jerked. I kept sucking him weakly through it, tasting his load and my own spit mixed together.

Derek hauled me up by the armpits and kissed me deep, sharing the salt of what I’d just swallowed. We were both wrecked—sweating, shaking, jeans around our ankles, the fermentation tanks humming like nothing had happened. My ass throbbed, used and open. His cum was still warm in my gut. He wiped his thumb across my lower lip and smirked.

“Fiona’s gonna be back any minute,” he murmured against my mouth. “You look thoroughly fucked. Think you can walk straight?”

I laughed, breathless, wrecked. “Doubt it.”

He tucked himself away slow, eyes never leaving mine, then helped me yank my own jeans up. The wet spot on my underwear was obvious. Cum still glistened on his boots. Derek glanced at the door, then back at me, that same hungry smile returning.

“This isn’t finished,” he said quietly. “Not by a long shot. Next time I get you alone I want longer. I want you overnight. And I want to watch you tell me exactly how it felt taking your wife’s boss raw while she was twenty yards away handling inventory.” His hand squeezed my half-hard cock through the denim one more time. “You going to give me that, Victor?”

My pulse was still hammering. Somewhere down the corridor a door opened—footsteps, faint voices. Fiona, maybe. I nodded, throat raw, already wanting more even as the risk flooded back in.

“Yeah,” I rasped. “I will.”

I heard the footsteps clearer now—Fiona’s light tread mixed with someone else’s farther off—and the panic hit like ice water even as my hole still pulsed open and wet around nothing. Derek’s eyes flashed. We moved fast.

He yanked a clean rag from a wall hook, the kind they used for wiping condensation off the tanks, and wiped his boots first, scrubbing my cum off the leather until only a faint sheen remained. I stuffed my cock back into the soaked underwear, grimacing at the sticky mess already cooling against my skin, and hauled my jeans up. The zipper snagged. My fingers shook. Derek zipped himself neat, tucked the thick, still-half-hard length away like it hadn’t just been buried balls-deep in me, then reached over and smoothed my shirt down, palms lingering a second too long on my chest.

“Number,” he muttered, voice low and urgent. He already had his phone out. I rattled mine off while I finger-combed my hair into something less wrecked. He texted a single dot so I’d have his. I saved it under “Brewery—Derek” like that would make it look innocent later. My ass throbbed with every shift of my weight; I could feel the stretch, the slick glide of his spit and the last of his load starting to leak out of me into my briefs. The taste of him—salt, bitter, thick—coated my tongue and the back of my throat. I swallowed and it only got stronger.

The door handle turned. We stepped apart just as Fiona pushed in, phone still in one hand, smiling with that residual stress-crease between her brows.

“Sorry, sorry—inventory nightmare sorted, thank God. Did I miss the good stuff?” She looked between us, completely oblivious to the way my knees still felt loose or the wet spot I was praying wouldn’t show through denim.

Derek’s smile was easy, professional, the same one he’d worn when he first shook my hand an hour ago. “Not at all. Victor here’s a natural. We covered fermentation, dry-hopping, even got into some of the experimental barrels. He’s got a good palate.” He clapped me once on the shoulder, solid and friendly, then turned the full warmth of that grin on my wife. “Thanks for bringing him, Fiona. Cool husband you’ve got. Most spouses just check their phones. He actually paid attention.”

She laughed, slipped her arm through mine, and squeezed. “He’s a keeper. Ready to head out, babe? I promised you dinner if we finished early.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. Derek walked us back through the bottling area, pointing out one last copper kettle like nothing had happened, like his cock hadn’t just painted the inside of my throat and my ass wasn’t still fluttering around the ghost of him. At the exit he shook my hand again—longer grip, thumb dragging once across my knuckles—and said he’d email Fiona the tasting notes. Then we were outside in the late-afternoon light, walking to the car.

I drove. Fiona talked the whole way about the distributor fuck-up, how she’d salvaged the order, how Derek was already making her life easier after only three weeks. I made the right sounds. My tongue kept sliding over the roof of my mouth, chasing the fading salt of his cum. Every swallow brought it back stronger. My hole clenched around emptiness and a fresh trickle of him seeped out, warm then cooling in the fabric. I shifted in the seat and the leather creaked; the movement sent a dull, sweet ache up my spine. I could still feel the shape of him—thick ridge dragging across that spot inside, the heavy slap of his hips, the way his hand had owned my cock while he fucked me open over his own tank.

I was already planning the next time. A private tour without her. Text. I’d text him tonight once she was in the shower. Maybe next week when she had that overnight conference. Overnight, he’d said. I wanted that. Wanted him to wreck me slower, make me say filthier things, fill me until I dripped for hours. The fantasy unspooled so vividly I almost missed the turn onto our street.

We pulled into the driveway. Fiona leaned over, kissed my cheek, told me she loved me. I said it back automatically. Inside the house the ordinary evening settled around us like a lie: she opened wine, I started the grill, the dog nosed at my leg. I excused myself to the bathroom, locked the door, shoved my jeans down and stared at the mirror.

My lips were still a little swollen. A faint red mark sat high on my neck where he’d bitten while he came down my throat. When I turned and looked over my shoulder I could see the flush on my ass cheeks, the slight gape that hadn’t closed all the way yet. I wiped myself clean with a wet cloth; the cloth came away streaked white and clear. The smell of him rose off my skin—cedar, sweat, sex, yeast. I flushed the evidence and washed my hands twice.

At dinner I tasted him every time I swallowed. Fiona asked if I was okay; I said the IPA had been stronger than I thought. She laughed. Later, in bed, she curled against my back and fell asleep fast, one hand resting on my hip right where his fingers had bruised me. I lay awake staring at the ceiling, phone face-down on the nightstand with his number glowing behind the dark screen.

I opened the message thread. My thumb hovered. The plan was already half-written in my head: When’s the next private tour? I can’t stop feeling you. I could still feel the stretch, the hot flood in my gut, the way he’d looked down at me while I swallowed every drop like I’d been born for it. My cock twitched against the sheets, half-hard again just from the memory.

But something sat wrong beneath the heat. A low, cold weight in my stomach that hadn’t been there while his cock was splitting me open. Fiona’s soft breathing against my shoulder. The wedding band cool on my finger. The way Derek had thanked her so smoothly for bringing her “cool husband,” like I was a novelty he’d already catalogued and was ready to sample again. I had let her boss bend me over stainless steel and fuck me raw twenty yards from where she was saving his inventory. I had come with his load on my tongue and then smiled and driven her home.

The taste of him was still there, stubborn, coating my mouth no matter how many times I swallowed. I wanted more. God help me, I already wanted the next time so badly my hole clenched around nothing and leaked a little at the thought. And that was the part that felt cracked open and exposed: not the sex itself, not even the secrecy, but how easily I was already rewriting the rest of my life around the next chance to get on my knees for him again. The guilt didn’t cancel the want. It just sat beside it, heavy and quiet, like a second pulse.

I locked the phone without sending anything. Turned it face-down. Closed my eyes and tried to sleep with the ghost of his cock still thick on my tongue and the certain, sick knowledge that I was going to book that private tour anyway—tomorrow, or the day after—and that something important had already shifted out of true and I didn’t know how to set it back.