My Wife's Final Fitting

I never thought I’d be the kind of man who gets hard watching another guy undress his wife, but here I am, sitting in the corner of Marcus’s fitting studio with my cock throbbing uselessly against my thigh while Elena lets him put his hands all over her. I’m writing this down because if I don’t confess it somewhere I’ll explode. My name doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m thirty-four, devoted, and hopelessly inadequate in bed. Elena is twenty-eight, tall, full-breasted, with that thick dark hair that always smells like vanilla and a body that still makes me stutter when she walks naked from the shower. We’ve been married two years. The wedding dress was supposed to be the last big expense. Instead it became the thing that broke me open.

She started seeing Marcus three months ago for the custom gown. He’s forty, broad-shouldered, Italian, with a voice like warm whiskey and hands that look like they could snap a man in half. Every time she came home from a fitting she’d be flushed, laughing too easily, and once—God help me—I caught her pressing her thighs together on the couch while she described how he crouched behind her to pin the train. “He’s just so… solid,” she said that night, wine loosening her tongue. “And the way he looks at me when he’s adjusting the bodice. Like he already knows what I look like underneath.” I should have shut it down. Instead my cock twitched. I made her keep talking. She admitted she’d noticed the heavy bulge in his tailored slacks more than once, how it shifted when he reached for pins. I confessed, voice cracking, that the image of her bent over his cutting table with that cock splitting her open made me leak into my own hand. We stared at each other for a long minute. Then she climbed into my lap, kissed me hard, and whispered, “Then let’s make it real. One last private fitting. You watch. I want him. And I want you to see it.”

We set it up for a Thursday evening after the shop closed. Marcus didn’t even pretend surprise when Elena called and mentioned her husband would be accompanying her “for moral support.” He just said, “Of course. Bring him. We’ll make sure everything fits perfectly.”

The studio smells like steam and expensive wool. Marcus greets us in shirtsleeves, no tie, the top two buttons undone so a thick patch of dark chest hair shows. His smile is easy, predatory in the nicest way. “Elena. Beautiful as always. And you must be the lucky man.” He shakes my hand firmly. I feel small. Elena is already slipping out of her coat. Underneath she’s wearing a thin summer dress, nothing else—I know because she made me watch her leave the house that way. Marcus’s eyes drop immediately to the sway of her heavy tits and the hard points of her nipples already visible through the fabric.

“Shall we get you into the gown?” he asks. His voice is pure command. Elena answers by peeling the dress over her head right there in the middle of the room. She’s bare. Full pink nipples, the neat dark triangle between her legs already glistening. I sit in the wooden chair he points me to, pants tight, mouth dry. Marcus doesn’t look away. He holds the half-finished ivory silk open for her like a gentleman and she steps into it. The bodice is structured but unfinished; the skirt falls open at the back so he can work. Her ass is completely exposed to me as he begins pinning.

He works slowly. Fingers slide under the silk to smooth it over her ribs, then higher, openly cupping the underside of each breast while he checks the seam. Elena’s breath hitches. Her nipples tighten into stiff peaks that poke shamelessly against the thin lining. “Cold?” Marcus murmurs, thumbs brushing deliberately across both tips. She shakes her head, eyes half-lidded.

“No. Just… sensitive today.”

He chuckles low. “Good. A bride should feel everything.” His hand trails down her stomach, adjusting the waist, then lower still until his knuckles graze the soft hair covering her pussy. She pushes back into the touch without shame. I’m gripping the arms of the chair so hard my knuckles ache. My cock is a desperate tent.

Elena turns her head and locks eyes with me. “Tell him,” she says sweetly. “Tell Marcus how small you are compared to what I can already feel pressing against my ass.”

Because he’s stepped in close now, the thick ridge of his cock unmistakable through his slacks, grinding lightly against the bare cleft of her cheeks while he pretends to adjust the bustle. I swallow. My voice comes out hoarse. “He’s… Christ, Elena, he’s huge. Twice what I’ve got. Thicker. Longer. I can see it. I know you can feel it.”

Marcus’s smile widens. He doesn’t stop moving his hips in slow rolls. “Is that true, sweetheart? You been starving for something real?”

“Yes,” she breathes. Then she spins in his arms, the open back of the gown fluttering, and crushes her mouth to his. It’s not gentle. It’s hungry—tongues sliding, her hands fisting in his shirt, his big palms grabbing her bare ass and hauling her against that monster bulge. She moans into him. I watch every second, precum soaking a dark spot through my trousers. When they break apart she’s panting.

“I need it,” she tells him. “I’ve thought about sucking you every night since the first fitting. Let me.”

Marcus glances at me once—checking, making sure—and I nod so hard my neck cracks. “Please,” I croak. “Do it. Let her.”

He unbuckles with one hand. The cock that springs free is brutal: long, heavily veined, the head already shiny and flushed dark. It has to be nine thick inches, maybe more. Elena drops to her knees on the silk-strewn floor like she’s been waiting her whole life. She wraps both hands around the shaft—they don’t meet—and looks back at me over her shoulder while she licks a fat stripe up the underside.