My Wife and the Black Stranger at the Pool

The hotel pool threw hard light off the water, white stone gone almost too bright to look at. Rebecca, twenty-eight, lay on a lounge chair in a bikini that did more suggesting than covering. Pale yellow triangles strained over her full breasts, and the bottoms sat low on her hips, the side ties knotted loose enough that a careless shift might have undone them. She was curvaceous in the way that made men lose the thread of their own sentences, soft at the waist, heavy in the thighs, skin oiled and glowing. Her blonde hair spilled over one shoulder, still damp at the ends.

Cody, thirty, sat two chairs down with a paperback he had stopped pretending to read. His wife had asked him to come to the pool with her, and he had come, the way he always did when she used that particular voice. From where he sat he could see the sheen on her stomach and the way men walking the deck slowed, looked away, and looked again.

One of them did not look away.

Bertrand was thirty-two, tall, and built like a man who treated the weight room as a daily appointment. Dark skin, close-cropped hair, black swim trunks sitting low on a flat stomach. Water still ran down the long muscles of his arms. He stood at the edge of the deck with a towel over one shoulder and his eyes on Rebecca, and he did not bother to hide it.

She lifted her sunglasses and smiled at him, slow and unashamed.

"You going to keep standing there," she said, "or are you going to come tell me your name?"

He laughed, low enough that Cody felt it in his chest. "Bertrand." He crossed the short distance and took the empty chair beside hers, not the one beside her husband. "And you look like trouble."

"Rebecca." She tipped her chin toward Cody without taking her eyes off the stranger. "That's my husband. Cody. He likes to watch me make friends."

Cody's mouth went dry. She had never put it quite that plainly, not out loud, not to a man whose shoulders were wider than the chair back. Bertrand glanced at him once, a measuring look, and heat climbed Cody's neck. He nodded. He did not tell her to stop.

"Does he," Bertrand said.

"He does." Rebecca bent one knee. The bikini bottom pulled taut between her thighs. "So tell me something worth listening to."

They talked about nothing that should have mattered. The heat. The watered-down drinks at the hotel bar. The conference that had ended that morning and left Bertrand alone in the city with a free afternoon and nowhere he had to be. His voice stayed deep and unhurried. Every time he laughed, Rebecca's mouth curved as if she were tasting the sound. She leaned in. Her knee drifted until it nearly brushed his.

Cody watched the space between them shrink. He watched his wife's tongue touch her lower lip. He watched Bertrand's gaze drop to the swell of her breasts and stay there, open about it, and he watched Rebecca notice and arch, offering more. The air went thick. Cody realized, with a jolt that went straight to his cock, that she was not flirting for the simple pleasure of being looked at. She was inviting the man. Openly. In front of him. And she wanted him to see every second of it.

Rebecca's hand found Bertrand's forearm as if it had always belonged there. She traced two fingers along the ridge of muscle, slow, unhurried, watching the way his skin jumped under the touch. "You're warm," she said. "All this sun, and you're still warm under it."

"You're not exactly cooling anybody down," Bertrand said. His eyes moved over her, deliberate, from the oil on her collarbones to the soft give of her stomach to the place where the bikini disappeared between her thighs. "That suit ought to be illegal. Or at least grateful. Look at you. Those hips. That ass when you walked to the water earlier. I watched the whole way."

She laughed, bright and filthy, tipping her head back so her throat was bare. "You watched my ass."

"Everybody with a pulse watched your ass. I'm just the one telling you." His voice dropped. "Your husband included. He's been hard in those shorts since I sat down. Hasn't he."

Cody's face burned. He was. The paperback lay forgotten across his lap, doing a poor job of hiding it. Rebecca turned her head and looked straight at him. The smile she gave him was wicked and wet at the edges, aroused in a way he recognized from their bed and had never seen her aim at another man while he sat three feet away. Her fingers kept moving on Bertrand's arm, higher now, over the swell of his bicep, nails light.

"He likes it," she said, still looking at Cody. "Don't you, baby. You like watching me get looked at by a man who could pick me up and not notice the weight."

Cody swallowed. "Yes."

Bertrand's hand settled on her thigh, just above the knee, broad and dark against her oiled skin. He did not squeeze yet. He waited. Rebecca's breath caught, and she covered his hand with hers and slid it an inch higher, granting what he had not quite taken. The conversation thinned into something else. Compliments landed lower. Bertrand told her, in that deep voice, that her mouth looked like it knew how to beg. She told him her mouth had been bored for a week and was tired of polite. She shifted so his knuckles brushed the edge of the bikini, and she made a small sound she did not bother to swallow.

A couple walked past. Rebecca did not move her hand. Neither did Bertrand. Cody sat very still and understood that if he spoke now, if he asked her to ease off, she would look at him with that same smile and keep going anyway, because this was what she had brought him down here to witness. The understanding did not soften his cock. It made it worse.

She leaned in until her lips were near Bertrand's ear. Cody could not hear the words. He saw Bertrand's eyebrows lift, saw the slow, hungry grin that followed, saw the man's thumb stroke once along the inside of her thigh in answer. Rebecca sat back. Her nipples had gone hard under the thin yellow fabric. She looked at Cody again, and this time the smile was a decision already made.

"We're going upstairs," she said, clear enough for both of them. "Our room. Bertrand's coming with us. I'm going to let him fuck me, and you're going to sit where I put you and watch a real man do it. That's what I want. That's what he wants." She glanced at Bertrand. "Tell him."

"I want it," Bertrand said, without hesitation, eyes on her mouth. "I want to fuck your wife while you watch. If she's sure."

"I'm sure." Rebecca stood. The bikini ties swayed against her hips. She held a hand out to Bertrand, and he took it, rising easy, towering over her. Then she looked down at Cody, flushed, dominant, already wet enough that he could see the faint darkening of the fabric between her legs. "Come on, husband. Don't make me ask twice. I want you in the chair by the window. I want your eyes on me the whole time. You can touch yourself if you need to. You don't get to touch me until I say."

Cody stood. His legs felt unreliable. "Okay," he said. "I want to watch. I want this."

"Good." She squeezed Bertrand's hand and started for the elevators, the stranger at her side, her husband a step behind, the three of them walking through the bright lobby like a decision that had already been fucked into place.

The room was dim after the pool, curtains half drawn, the bed turned down from housekeeping, the air cool against skin that still held the sun. Rebecca shut the door and turned the lock with a click that sounded final. She pointed at the armchair by the window.

"There," she told Cody. "Sit. Stay. If you get up before I tell you, I'll send you into the hall and finish without you. Understood?"

"Understood." He sat. His hands gripped the arms of the chair.

She faced Bertrand. For a moment she only looked at him, chest rising, the wickedness from the pool gone softer and hungrier. Then she reached back, untied the bikini top, and let it fall. Her breasts spilled free, heavy, nipples tight and pink. She pushed the bottoms down her hips and stepped out of them, naked in the muted light, curves bare, a neat trim of blonde above a pussy already shining. Bertrand's breath left him in a rough sound. She went to her knees on the carpet without being asked, looking up the long line of his body, and hooked her fingers in his trunks.

"I want to see it," she said. "I want it in my mouth before you put it anywhere else. And I want my husband to watch me choke on it."

"Take it, then."

She dragged the trunks down. His cock swung free, thick and dark and heavy, already hard, the head broad, the shaft veined, longer than anything Cody had ever put in her and visibly thicker. Rebecca made a broken little moan at the sight of it. She wrapped both hands around the base and still had length left over, and she stared at it like a woman who had been promised something and had just been handed more.

"God," she whispered. "Look at this cock. Cody. Look at it."

Cody looked. His own hand had found his lap without permission. He stayed in the chair.

Rebecca leaned in and licked a slow stripe from the base to the head, tongue flat, eyes half-lidded. She kissed the tip, open-mouthed, and then took him in, lips stretching, jaw working, a wet sound filling the quiet room. She could not take all of him. She did not pretend she could. She bobbed, drool slicking her chin, one hand stroking what her mouth could not reach, the other braced on Bertrand's thigh. Bertrand's hand settled in her blonde hair, not forcing, guiding, and she moaned around him like the weight of that hand was a gift.

"That's it," Bertrand said, voice gone rougher. "Pretty mouth. Use it."

She pulled off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her lips to the shining head, and looked over her shoulder at Cody without letting go. "Stay in that chair. You watch me worship this. You don't get a turn. This cock isn't for you." She went back down, deeper this time, throat fluttering, eyes watering, and Bertrand groaned, hips rocking in small careful thrusts she met with eagerness. The sounds were obscene. Wet. Grateful. Cody's hand moved inside his shorts and he did not look away, because she had ordered him not to, and because he could not have if he tried.

When she finally drew off, her mouth was swollen and her chest heaved. She rose, took Bertrand by the cock like a leash, and walked him to the bed. "On your back," she said. "I want him to see what you do to me."

Bertrand stretched out, dark against the white sheets, cock standing thick and wet from her mouth. Rebecca climbed over him facing the chair, reverse, and reached down to line him up. Cody had a perfect view: her ass, the flushed lips of her pussy, the broad dark head nudging at her entrance. She sank. Slowly. Her mouth fell open. The head pushed in, and her pussy stretched around it in a way that looked almost impossible, pink clinging, yielding, taking him inch by thick inch while she whimpered and braced her hands on Bertrand's thighs.

"Oh—fuck—it's so big," she gasped. "Cody, look. Look how he's splitting me. I can feel every inch. God, I can't—I'm taking it, I'm taking all of it—"

She bottomed out with a shudder, ass flush to Bertrand's hips, stuffed full. For a moment she only breathed, adjusting, thighs trembling. Then she began to ride. Up, until the shaft gleamed and her pussy clung to the head, down again with a wet slap, taking him deep. Bertrand's hands found her hips and held, guiding the rhythm, not rushing her. The view from the chair was merciless. Cody watched her cunt drag along that cock, watched it gape a little each time she rose, watched her ass bounce and her breasts sway when she leaned forward to get a better angle. She was loud. She did not care.

"Fuck me," she told Bertrand. "Don't just let me ride. Use me."

He planted his feet and thrust up into her, hard, and she cried out, the sound cracking. The bed knocked the wall. She reached back and spread herself with one hand so Cody could see everything, the thick shaft pistoning, her slick coating him, the obscene stretch at her entrance.

"You see that?" she panted, eyes locked on her husband. "You see what a real cock does? Your little dick never opened me like this. Never. I used to fake it so you wouldn't feel bad, and this—this is what I've been missing. A big black cock ruining me while you sit there and stroke that pathetic thing. Tell me you see it."

"I see it," Cody said, hoarse. His hand was a blur. Shame and heat tangled in his gut until he could not tell them apart. "I see him fucking you."

"Good boy." She laughed, breathless, and ground down, circling her hips so Bertrand's cock stirred inside her. "He's going to come in me. And you're going to watch that too."

Bertrand sat up enough to mouth at her shoulder, one hand sliding around to rub her clit, the other still locked on her hip. "Bed," he said against her skin. "I want you on your back. I want to fuck you proper."

She climbed off him with a wet sound and a whine at the emptiness, and dropped onto the mattress, legs falling open, pussy swollen and shining, gaping faintly from the stretch. Bertrand moved over her, broad and dark, and pushed back in with one long stroke. Rebecca's head tipped back. Her nails raked his shoulders. He set a hard rhythm, missionary, deep, the kind of fucking that moved her up the bed until she had to brace a hand on the headboard. Each thrust punched a moan out of her. The room filled with the sound of skin and her voice breaking on his name.

"Harder," she begged. "Fuck me harder. God, your cock—your cock feels so much better than my husband's. It's not even close. He's sitting right there and he knows it. Don't you, Cody? You know this man fucks me better than you ever have. Say it."

"He fucks you better," Cody said. The words tasted like surrender. He was close already, cock aching in his fist, eyes fixed on the place where Bertrand disappeared into his wife over and over.

"Louder."

"He fucks you better than I do."

Rebecca laughed and moaned in the same breath, legs wrapping Bertrand's waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. "That's right. That's my good little husband. Watch him own this pussy. Watch a superior cock ruin what you thought was yours." Her voice went high and ragged. Bertrand's thumb found her clit again and rubbed in tight circles while he drove into her, relentless, sweat shining on his back, muscles working. "I'm gonna come—fuck, I'm gonna come on his cock, Cody, watch me, watch me come for him—"

She broke. The orgasm hit her hard, back arching, cunt clenching visibly around the thick shaft, a raw cry tearing out of her that went on and on while Bertrand fucked her through it, not gentle, not stopping. She shook. She cursed. She grabbed at his arms and held on as the pleasure wrung her out, and still he thrust, chasing his own end, grunting now, pace stuttering.

"Inside," she gasped, still spasming. "Fill me. I want it. I want your cum in me. Give it to me."

Bertrand buried himself to the hilt and came with a rough, broken sound, hips jerking, pumping into her in long pulses Cody could almost see in the way her belly tightened and her mouth fell open in bliss. He stayed deep until he was spent, forehead dropped to her shoulder, both of them breathing like they had run. Rebecca's hand slid into his hair. She was smiling, wrecked and glowing, cum already beginning to leak around the place where they were still joined.

The room went quiet except for breath.

Rebecca turned her face and kissed him, deep and slow, tongues sliding, unhurried now that the urgency had burned off. Her fingers drifted down between their bodies and found his softening cock where it slipped free of her, and she stroked it lazily, slick with both of them, fond and possessive, as if she were thanking it. Bertrand kissed her back, one hand cupping her breast, thumb idling over a nipple. When she finally drew away, her lips were swollen, her eyes bright.

She looked at Cody. The smile she gave him was satisfied and dominant, the smile of a woman who had taken exactly what she wanted and meant to keep the memory of his face while she did it.

"Come closer," she said. "Come see how a superior man leaves me."

Cody rose on unsteady legs and crossed to the bed. She spread her thighs wider. Bertrand's cum welled out of her, thick and white against flushed, swollen pink, dripping down toward the sheets. She held herself open with two fingers so her husband could not miss a drop.

"Look at that," she murmured. "That's what I needed. That's what you're going to remember every time you fuck me and it isn't enough."

Bertrand sat up, unhurried. He found his trunks, stepped into them, and pulled his shirt on from the chair where he had dropped it coming in. At the door he paused, came back, and put a broad hand on Rebecca's ass, squeezing once, possessive, a grope that claimed rather than asked. She arched into it and hummed. He kissed her mouth a last time, nodded once at Cody, and let himself out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Rebecca stayed on the bed, glowing, thighs still parted, fingers tracing idle patterns through the mess he had left. She looked at her husband with lazy heat.

"Tomorrow," she said, voice low and certain, "I'm meeting him at the pool again. Same time. You're coming. You're going to watch me bring him back up here, and you're going to sit in that chair while he fucks me even harder than he did today. I already told him yes. Now you know too."

Cody stood at the foot of the bed. Neither of them spoke after that. The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere down the hall a door closed, and then the room was only the two of them, her shine, his silence, and the late light lying still across the sheets.