Wife Pegs Her Husband With a Strap-On

Beatrice closed the bedroom door and stood with her back against it, watching her husband fold the last of the laundry. Eight years of marriage had taught her the rhythm of his evenings: software tickets finished, glasses set on the nightstand, the quiet competence of a man who liked systems he could understand. Silas was thirty-four, lean from the long walks he took when a bug would not yield, and she had loved the shape of his shoulders since the first winter they shared an apartment. She was thirty-two, an accountant who spent her days making numbers behave, and tonight the thing she wanted would not sit neatly in a column.

They had never been shy about wanting. Over wine and late dinners they had traded fantasies the way other couples traded vacation plans, always honest, always willing to hear the next one. She had said the words in her head a dozen times. Saying them out loud made her palms warm.

“Silas.”

He looked up, a folded shirt still in his hands. “Yeah?”

“I want to fuck you,” she said. “With a strap-on. Tonight, if you’ll let me.”

The shirt landed on the bed. For a moment the only sound was the low hum of the heating vent. His mouth opened, then closed, and color rose under the stubble along his jaw. She watched him realize she meant it, watched the idea land and stay.

“You’ve been thinking about that,” he said. It was not quite a question.

“For months.” She crossed the room and set her hands on his chest. “I want you bent over for me. I want to be the one inside you. Thick, slow at first, then hard enough that you forget how to talk. I want to hear you ask for it.”

His breath left him in a short, shaky laugh. “Beatrice. Jesus.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s the opposite of a no.” He caught her wrists, not to stop her, only to hold on. “I’ve wanted that for years. I never said it because I didn’t know if you’d want to be the one doing it. The thought of you taking me like that—” He swallowed. “It gets me hard every time I let myself picture it. I just didn’t know how to ask my wife to screw me.”

The tension between them turned electric, bright as a struck match. She kissed him once, slow, tasting the confession on his mouth, then drew back so he could see her face.

“Then stop folding shirts,” she said. “And let me.”

She had bought the harness weeks ago and hidden it in the bottom drawer under winter scarves, waiting for the night she was brave enough. Now she laid it on the bed where he could see it: black straps, a thick realistic dildo the color of her own skin, heavy enough that it swayed when she lifted it. Silas sat on the edge of the mattress and watched her step into the harness the way he watched her dress for work, except his eyes were darker and his hands had gone still on his thighs.

“Look at you,” he said, voice already rough. “My accountant wife, strapping on a cock.”

“Your wife,” she corrected, tightening the buckles at her hips until the base sat snug against her. The pressure there made her pulse jump. She stroked the shaft once, testing the weight, and his gaze followed her fist. “A thick one. You’re going to feel every inch.”

She reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand and poured a shining ribbon along the toy, working it with her palm until the silicone gleamed. The wet sound filled the quiet room. Silas shifted, the front of his pants already strained, and she smiled at the proof of him.

“Take those off,” she said. “I want to see what I’m doing to you while I tell you how this is going to go.”

He stripped without ceremony, pants and briefs kicked aside, cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. She stepped between his knees and let the slick head of the dildo bump his thigh, a deliberate, filthy little tap. He exhaled hard.

“I’m going to open you with my fingers first,” she murmured, stroking the toy in a slow fist, lube shining on her knuckles. “Two of them, maybe three if you’re greedy. Then I’m going to put this in your ass and fuck you until you can’t keep your hips still. Over the bed. On your back. Wherever I want you. You’re going to take it, and you’re going to thank me while I do it.”

“Beatrice—”

“Say it.” She dragged the wet tip along the inside of his thigh, not quite where he needed it, teasing. “Tell me what you want your wife to do to you.”

“I want you to screw me,” he said, the words tumbling out raw. “I want that cock in my ass. I’ve thought about you holding me down and fucking me until I come. Please. I’m so hard it hurts.”

She pumped the dildo again, obscene and unhurried, and watched a drop of precome bead at his slit. “Good. Because I’m not going to be gentle once you’re ready. I’m going to pound you. I’m going to make you feel owned. And when you can’t take another thrust without spilling, I’m going to stroke this pretty cock and milk you while I’m still buried in you.”

He groaned, head tipping back. “Please. Please, just—take me. I’m begging you.”

“On your feet,” she said, and the command in her voice made him shiver. “Bend over the bed. Show me that ass.”

Silas stood, turned, and folded himself over the edge of the mattress, chest to the quilt, hips canted up. The line of his back was beautiful, the muscle along his spine tight with want. Beatrice ran a lubed hand over one cheek, then the other, spreading him so she could see the tight furl she meant to claim. He pushed back into her palm without shame.

“Eager,” she said, pleased. She coated two fingers until they dripped and pressed the first against him, circling, patient, letting him feel the intent before the breach. “Breathe. Push out a little. There.”

The first finger slid in to the knuckle. He made a broken sound into the quilt, thighs trembling. She worked him open with steady strokes, adding lube whenever the drag caught, murmuring praise against his shoulder. When she eased the second finger beside the first, he gasped and clenched, then relaxed on purpose, taking her deeper.

“God, you’re tight,” she said. “So hot inside. You’re going to feel incredible around me.” She scissored gently, stretching him, curling until she found the firm swell that made his cock jump and smear the sheet. “Right there?”

“Yes—fuck—yes, right there. Don’t stop.”

She fucked him with her fingers until he was rocking back to meet every thrust, hole shining, soft sounds spilling out of him with no attempt to hide them. Only when he was loose enough to take her without pain did she withdraw, wipe her hand on a towel, and line the thick head of the strap-on up against him.

“Ready?”

“Please,” he said. “Put it in. I want it. I want you.”

She pressed forward, slow, inexorable. The head breached him with a stretch that pulled a long, shaking moan from his throat. She held still, one hand on his hip, the other braced on the small of his back, letting him adjust. Inch by inch she sank in, the harness snug against her, the pressure of each advance throbbing through her own clit. When she was seated to the base, both of them breathing hard, she bent over him and kissed the nape of his neck.

“All the way,” she whispered. “You’re taking my cock so well.”

“Move,” he begged. “Please move. Fuck me.”

She drew back and thrust in again, deeper, a smooth roll of her hips that made the bed frame creak. The second stroke was firmer. The third found a rhythm. Soon she was pegging him in earnest, the thick dildo driving into his ass with wet, steady impacts, her thighs meeting the backs of his. He gripped the quilt and pushed back, meeting her, greedy for every inch. She held his hips and fucked him harder, the slap of skin and the slick sound of lube filling the room, her own arousal a bright ache she refused to rush.

“Listen to you,” she said, breathless and fierce. “My husband, bent over and taking it. You love being screwed like this.”

“I love it—God, Beatrice, harder—don’t you dare go easy on me.”

She gave him what he asked for. Long, driving thrusts that buried the toy to the hilt, then shorter, punishing ones that kept the head grinding over that sweet spot inside him. His cock hung heavy and leaking, untouched, swinging with each impact. Sweat gathered at the small of his back. She reached under him once, just to feel how hard he was, and he jolted so hard she had to steady him.

“Not yet,” she said. “I want you on your back when you come. I want to see your face.”

She pulled out carefully, the toy shining, and he whimpered at the emptiness. “Up. On the bed. Legs up.”

Silas scrambled onto the mattress and lay back, flushed from chest to hairline, eyes blown wide. She climbed after him, hooked her arms under his knees, and folded him until his legs rested over her shoulders, ass lifted and open for her. The position bared everything. She guided the strap-on back to his hole and sank in with one long, deliberate stroke that made them both curse.

“There,” she breathed. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

He did. Every thrust rocked him up the bed; she followed, hips rolling, the harness grinding against her in a rhythm that blurred the line between giving and taking. She pegged him deep and rhythmic, watching his mouth fall open, watching his hands fist the sheets, watching the way his cock jerked each time she bottomed out. Lube and sweat made the slide obscene. She leaned in, his calves against her shoulders, and kissed him messy and open-mouthed while she drove into him.

“Stroke me,” he gasped against her lips. “Please, I need your hand. I’m so close. I want to come with you in me.”

She wrapped her fist around his cock, slick with his own precome, and stroked in time with her thrusts. The dual sensation undid him. His ass clenched around the toy, tight rhythmic pulses she felt through the harness, and his voice broke into something wordless. She fucked him through it, hand working him from base to tip, thumb sliding over the head, hips never faltering.

“Come for me,” she ordered. “Come while I screw your ass. Let me see it.”

He came with a shout, back arching, cock pulsing hard in her grip. Thick stripes of come lashed across his stomach and chest, hot and endless, painting him while she kept thrusting, milking every spurt out of him until he was shaking and oversensitive and still trying to take her. She slowed only when his hand found her wrist, a gentle tap that meant enough, and even then she stayed buried, letting him feel the fullness while the last tremors ran through him.

For a long moment the room held only their breathing. She eased out of him with care, the toy slipping free, and he made a soft, ruined sound at the loss. She unbuckled the harness, set it aside on the towel, and looked at the mess she had made of her husband: flushed, open, streaked with his own release, eyes glassy with satisfaction.

“Your turn,” he said, voice hoarse and sure. “Come here. I want to taste you.”

She swung a leg over his chest and moved up until she straddled his face, knees planted in the mattress, one hand braced on the headboard. He didn’t wait. His mouth found her at once, tongue broad and hungry, licking through the slickness the harness and the fucking had drawn out of her. She rocked against him, gasping, the aftershocks of control melting into pure need. He sucked her clit, then flattened his tongue and let her grind, hands spreading over her thighs to hold her there. The wet sounds were filthy and perfect. Pleasure coiled fast, bright, inevitable.

“Silas—right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He licked her through the climb and into the break, and she came with a shudder that ran all the way down her spine, thighs tightening around his head, a broken cry caught behind her teeth. He gentled her through it, soft laps, until she was too sensitive to bear another stroke and slid down to collapse beside him.

They lay tangled in the wreck of the sheets, sweaty, breathing, his come cooling on his chest and her taste still on his mouth. She traced the line of his ribs. He turned his face into her hair.

“You were incredible,” she said quietly. “Taking me like that. Asking for it.”

“I meant every word.” His arm settled over her waist, heavy and content. “I’ve never come that hard. Feeling you fuck me, watching you want it—I want that again. Soon.”

She smiled against his shoulder, already imagining the harness, the lube, the way he had begged. The room smelled like sex and clean cotton and the two of them. Outside, the heating vent clicked off. Inside, his heartbeat slowed under her palm.

He kissed her temple, then her mouth, lazy and grateful, and when he spoke again his voice was low and certain, already hungry at the edges.

“Next time,” he said, “will you bend me over the dresser and make me count every thrust until I come on the floor?”