Forced Facesit Cumshare 69

Alastair stayed in the chair by the dresser the way Talia had left him, palms flat on his thighs, cock already thick against the front of his pants. He was twenty-eight, and three years of marriage had trained him to want exactly this: the low lamp, the turned-down sheets, and another man standing easy in their bedroom because his wife had invited him. Anton was twenty-nine, broad through the chest, shirt open at the throat, watching Talia the way a man watches something he already knows he gets to have.

Talia crossed the carpet in a black slip that clung to her ass and stopped in front of her husband. At thirty-one she moved like the room answered to her, which it did. Two fingers tipped Alastair’s chin up.

“Look at him,” she said, soft and mean. “Anton is going to fuck me better than you ever have. You know it. You’ve known it every time I come home walking wrong and still smiling.”

Alastair’s throat worked. “Yes, Talia.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes. He satisfies you better than I do.”

Anton laughed once from the edge of the bed and toed his shoes off. Talia glanced back at him with open hunger, then returned her attention to the man she had married.

“He gets hard for me without being told to kneel first,” she said. “He fills me. He doesn’t ask permission to come. He uses what I give him and leaves me dripping, and you sit there getting stiff because I said it out loud. Devoted little cuck. That’s all you are tonight.”

Heat climbed Alastair’s face. His cock pressed obvious and aching against the cloth, and he didn’t hide it. She liked the proof. She had told him, when they first made this arrangement, that his hunger was the only permission she needed, and he had given it gladly every time since. He wanted the humiliation. He wanted to watch. He wanted whatever use she decided he was worth.

She leaned down until her mouth brushed his ear. “He’s going to stretch me while you watch. If you behave, I might let you be useful after. If you don’t, you can sit in that chair with your dick leaking and listen to me come on a better cock. Either way you stay mine.”

“I want to be useful,” he said, rough. “Please.”

“We’ll see.” She smoothed the slip over her hips and walked to Anton. Every step tightened the air. Anton caught her wrist, pulled her in, and Alastair watched his wife go pliant against a man who was not him. She kissed Anton slow and deep, one hand in his hair, and when she broke it she looked over her shoulder with a smile that promised heat and ruin in the same breath.

“Eyes on us,” she said. “Don’t you dare look away.”

Alastair didn’t.

Talia turned back into the kiss and let it get filthy. Anton’s hands slid down her back, gripped her ass through the slip, and hauled her against the hard line of his cock. She moaned into his mouth, loud enough for the chair, and ground once, deliberate, so Alastair could see the roll of her hips. The sound of it—wet kiss, soft laugh, the shift of bodies that wanted each other—sat in Alastair’s gut like a fist.

“Strip,” she said, without looking at her husband. “All of it. Then kneel beside the bed. Hands on your thighs. You don’t touch that pathetic cock unless I say so.”

Alastair stood on unsteady legs and obeyed. Shirt, pants, everything. The air hit his bare skin and his cock jutted, flushed and already wet at the tip. He sank to his knees on the carpet at the side of the mattress, close enough to smell her perfume and the warmer scent underneath it, and locked his hands where she had ordered.

On the bed, Talia and Anton undressed each other without hurry. Anton dragged the slip up her body and off. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tight, and he bent to suck one into his mouth while his hands worked her panties down her thighs. She stepped out of them and let them fall near Alastair’s knee, a damp scrap he was not allowed to touch. Her pussy was already glistening. She shoved Anton’s shirt off his shoulders, yanked his belt, and pushed his pants and boxers down together. His cock sprang up thick and heavy, darker than Alastair’s, a slick bead already shining at the head.

“Look at that,” Talia said, wrapping her fingers around Anton and stroking him slow while she stared down at her kneeling husband. “That’s a cock that actually earns a place in me. Yours just twitches when I talk about it. God, you’re hard. Kneeling there with your little dick out, watching a real man get what you married. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Alastair said. His voice cracked. Precome slid down his shaft and he kept his hands still.

“Good. Stay hurting.” She climbed onto the mattress and pulled Anton after her. They kissed again, messier now, her thigh hooked over his hip, his cock trapped against her stomach. She reached back and spread herself with two fingers so Alastair could see how wet she was, how her cunt opened and shone. “He hasn’t even put it in yet and I’m soaked. You never do this to me. You get me polite and patient. Anton gets me filthy.”

Anton laughed against her throat and slid two fingers into her. The sound was obscene, a soft wet clutch, and Talia’s head tipped back. She rode his hand in short rolls, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, and every few strokes she glanced at the man on the carpet to make sure he was suffering properly. Alastair’s cock jumped with each glance. His balls ached. He could smell her now, sharp and sweet, and the smell made his mouth water in a way that shamed him and hardened him at the same time.

“Tell him,” Anton said, voice low, fingers working. “Tell him what you want.”

Talia smiled, mean and bright. “I want you to fuck me until you come in me. And I want my husband under us while you do it. He’s been so good, kneeling there with his dick dripping on the carpet. Time he participated.” She pulled Anton’s fingers out, brought them to her own mouth, and licked them clean while she held Alastair’s eyes. “On the bed. On your back. Now.”

Alastair scrambled up and lay where she pointed, head toward the foot of the mattress, cock rigid against his stomach. Talia swung a leg over him and settled above his face, not quite sitting yet, her wet pussy hovering so close he could feel the heat. The lips were swollen, shiny, a thread of arousal trembling at the edge. He opened his mouth on instinct.

“Don’t lick until I put it on you,” she said. Then she sat.

Her weight came down firm and hot, pussy sealing over his mouth and nose, slick folds spreading across his lips. The taste hit him at once—salt, musk, the sharp sweetness of her—and he groaned into it. She ground once, slow, painting his face, and his hands flew up to her thighs before he caught himself and dropped them back to the sheets. She noticed.

“Hold my thighs if you need to breathe between grinds,” she said. “That’s the only mercy you get. You wanted to be useful. Be a seat.”

Anton moved in behind her. Alastair felt the mattress dip, felt the heat of another man’s body close over both of them, and then Talia gasped as Anton’s cock nudged through her folds, the blunt head dragging across Alastair’s upper lip on the way in. For one dizzy second the shaft slid along his mouth, heavy and hot and not his, and then Anton pushed forward and sank into her.

Talia’s cunt clenched around the intrusion right against Alastair’s tongue. He felt the stretch from the inside of the kiss she had forced on his face, felt Anton’s cock drive deep and shove her open, felt the wet give of her as she took every inch. She cried out, high and shameless, and started to rock.

“Fuck,” she said. “Yes. Right there. He can feel you going in. Can’t you, husband? Nod if you can feel a better cock splitting your wife.”

Alastair nodded as much as the seal of her pussy allowed. His tongue pressed up helplessly against the place where Anton filled her, tasting her arousal smeared around the thick shaft. Each thrust rocked her ass back onto Anton and ground her clit and folds over Alastair’s mouth. He licked because he couldn’t not. She was dripping onto his tongue, onto his chin, and Anton’s balls swung forward on the deeper strokes and tapped his nose, heavy and warm, a humiliating tap that made his own cock jerk and leak onto his stomach.

Anton fucked her in long, sure strokes, hands on her hips, the wet sound of it filling the room. Talia braced a hand on the mattress and rode both of them—back onto the cock, down onto the face—talking the whole time.

“This is what you married me for,” she said, breathless and cruel. “Not to fuck me. To hold still while someone who can actually satisfy me uses my cunt and you clean up underneath. Taste how wet he makes me. Taste it. That’s not for you. That’s for him.”

Alastair licked harder, nose buried in her, air coming in short stolen breaths when she lifted a fraction and gone again when she sat. His world narrowed to heat and slick and the relentless slide of Anton’s cock just above his tongue, in and out, stretching her, withdrawing shiny, plunging back. Precome and her juices mixed on his lips. He swallowed what ran into his mouth and kept his tongue flat and eager, a devoted mess under his dominant wife.

Talia’s thighs trembled. She reached back, caught Anton by the hair, and pulled. “Down. I want him under both of us. Sixty-nine. Put that cock where he has to wear it.”

Anton pulled out with a wet sound that made Alastair whimper. Talia lifted just enough to turn, swinging around so she faced Anton’s cock and her ass and soaked pussy still hovered over her husband’s mouth. She shoved Alastair’s head into place with one hand and sat again, harder, pussy planted firm on his lips, and then she dragged Anton down over her.

Anton settled into the sixty-nine on top of her, his hips over Alastair’s trapped face, his cock hanging heavy between them and then driving back into Talia’s cunt from above. The angle mashed everything onto Alastair. Anton’s cock slid in along his nose and mouth on every stroke, the shaft dragging wet across his lips, the head pushing her open right where his tongue worked. Anton’s balls swung and rested and dragged, hot skin and the smell of him right against Alastair’s nose, impossible to escape. Talia’s pussy sealed the rest. He was pinned, used, breathing her and him together.

“Stay,” she ordered, voice gone ragged as she took Anton into her mouth at the other end and then pulled off to talk. “You feel that? His cock on your face. His balls on your mouth. That’s your place. Under us. While he fucks me and I suck what doesn’t fit in my cunt.” She dove back down, and Alastair heard the wet pull of her mouth on Anton even as the shaft pistoned across his own lips.

Anton groaned and fucked harder. Each thrust smeared Talia’s arousal and Anton’s precome over Alastair’s nose, his upper lip, the corner of his mouth. The cock was thick enough that it nudged his teeth when she ground down, a slick, living weight he had to taste whether he opened or not. He opened. He licked the underside when it dragged back, humiliated and ravenous, and Talia felt it and laughed around Anton’s shaft.

“Greedy,” she said, pulling off with a spit-wet sound. “Licking another man’s cock because it’s the only way to reach me. Do it. Get him messy. Get yourself messier. You’re going to eat what he leaves.”

Alastair’s own cock throbbed untouched, a steady leak pooling on his stomach. He didn’t stroke it. She hadn’t said he could. His hands clutched her thighs and held on while Anton’s pace turned rougher, hips snapping, balls slapping softly against Alastair’s mouth and chin. The sound was filthy. The smell was filthier. Talia’s cunt fluttered around the invading cock, juices running freely now, down Anton’s shaft and straight onto her husband’s tongue. He swallowed and swallowed and still couldn’t keep up.

“I’m close,” Anton gritted out. “Fuck, Talia, your mouth—your cunt—”

“Come in me,” she said, immediate, dominant, no room in it. “Deep. Fill me. He’s right there. I want it running out onto his face. I want him swallowing you out of me while I’m still sitting on him. Do it.”

Anton drove in and stayed, hips locked, a broken groan tearing out of him. Alastair felt the cock pulse against his lips, felt the thick twitch of it buried in his wife, and then the heat. Anton came hard, spurt after spurt, flooding Talia’s pussy until there was nowhere for it to go but out. The first overflow hit Alastair’s tongue in a hot, salty rush—Anton’s load mixed with her slick, bitter and thick and undeniable. He gagged once, swallowed, and the next pulse pushed more creampie out around the shaft, over his lips, up his nose, across his chin. Talia ground down and held him there, forcing the mess into his mouth.

“Eat it,” she snarled, not unkind and not gentle, just sure. “Cumshare. That’s your job. Open. Take his load out of my cunt. Don’t you waste a drop on the sheets when your mouth is right here.”

Alastair opened. Anton stayed buried while the last thick spurts pumped out, and every squeeze of Talia’s pussy milked more onto the tongue waiting underneath. Alastair licked into her, past the softening shaft, gathering the creampie as it spilled—white, hot, heavy on his tongue—and swallowed. The taste coated his throat. Anton’s balls rested on his mouth, still tight, still giving, and Talia rolled her hips so the overflow smeared from her hole to his nose and back again. He lapped like he was starving. Strings of come stretched from her pussy to his lips and broke on his tongue. He chased them. He sucked at her folds and at the crease where Anton’s cock plugged her, drinking what leaked around it, humiliated and painfully hard and exactly where he had begged to be.

Anton pulled out slow. The head dragged a fat ribbon of come across Alastair’s mouth on the way, and then Talia’s cunt gaped for a second, flushed and flooded, and the rest of the load poured out in a glossy rush. Alastair caught it. He sealed his mouth over her and sucked, tongue fucking up into the mess, swallowing Anton’s cum straight from his wife’s overflowing pussy while she shuddered above him. Come ran into his nose. Come coated his cheeks. He didn’t stop.

Talia’s own orgasm hit while he was still drinking. She slammed down, pussy grinding brutally over his cum-slick face, and came with a sharp, broken cry, thighs locking around his head. Her cunt pulsed and gushed, mixing her climax with what was left of Anton’s, and she rode his mouth through it, using his tongue, his nose, the mess already painted on him. Alastair lapped through every spasm, swallowing her and Anton together, mouth flooded, chin dripping, eyes wet, cock jerking helplessly against his stomach as she used his face to finish.

She ground until the peak broke and the aftershocks made her hips twitch, and still she kept him under her, making him clean. He licked the tender, sloppy folds. He sucked the last thick drops from her entrance. He chased a smear of come down toward her ass and brought it back up into his mouth because she had said every drop. His face was a wet wreck. His tongue ached. He kept going until she was the one who decided he was done.

Talia lifted off at last, slow, a final string of mixed cum stretching from her pussy to his open mouth before it snapped across his lip. She looked down at him—face glazed, nose shining, mouth open and filthy—and smiled, satisfied and mean.

“Eager cleanup cuck,” she said. “You performed well. Swallowed his load like you were made for it.” She swung off the bed, slick thighs gleaming, and nodded at both men. “Anton. Alastair. Get me a drink. And husband—keep that cum on your tongue until I watch you swallow the last of it.”

Alastair lay there tasting another man’s creampie leaking down his throat while his wife’s cunt still dripped on the sheets he had just cleaned with his mouth.