Sarah Rides Her Cuckold Bull

Mark fidgeted in the corner of their crowded living room, the bass from the music thumping through his chest like a second heartbeat. The home party was Lisa's idea—a raucous gathering of her work friends and a few neighbors, all buzzing with laughter and clinking glasses. But tonight, the air crackled with something darker, more primal. Lisa, his wife of five years, glided through the crowd like a queen, her tight red dress hugging every curve of her voluptuous body. At 32, she was a vision: full breasts straining against the fabric, hips swaying with predatory grace, long dark hair cascading down her back. Mark, 34 and wiry, felt like a shadow next to her, his button-up shirt already damp with nervous sweat.

Then Jake arrived. The door swung open, and in strode this towering slab of man—6'4" of pure muscle, broad shoulders filling the frame, tattoos snaking up his thick arms. Jake was Lisa's "coworker," or so she'd introduced him before, but Mark knew better. Jake's presence sucked the oxygen from the room. Women giggled and eyed him hungrily; men straightened up, suddenly self-conscious. Lisa's eyes lit up like fireworks. She sauntered over, pressing her body against his in a hug that lasted way too long, her hands lingering on his rock-hard chest.

"Jake, you made it," she purred, loud enough for Mark to hear from across the room. "I've been dying to see you."

Jake grinned, his deep voice rumbling like thunder. "Wouldn't miss it, babe. Especially not after what you promised on the phone."