Helping Her Dress for Her Black Lover

Kendra stood naked in the warm pool of the bedroom lamp, twenty-eight and flushed from the shower, lotion still gleaming on her collarbones. Rupert, thirty, knelt on the carpet at her feet with a pair of sheer black stockings draped over his forearm. He had laid everything out himself: the lace garter belt, the tight red dress that would barely cover her ass, the heels she liked when she wanted her calves to look long. His hands were careful. His breathing was not.

“Left foot,” he said.

She lifted it and set her toes in his palm. He rolled the stocking over them, over the arch, up the smooth calf, working the nylon so it didn’t catch. The fabric whispered. When his fingers reached the soft skin above her knee she shivered, and he felt it travel all the way into his wrists.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’ve been wet since I texted him.” Kendra’s voice was low and steady, the way it got when she stopped pretending she was only a little excited. “Bertrand told me to walk in and get on my knees. He said he’s hard already thinking about my mouth. He wants that thick black cock down my throat until my jaw aches, and then he wants me bent over so he can fuck me the way you can’t.”

Rupert’s cock jumped against the front of his pants. He didn’t rush. He smoothed the stocking the rest of the way up her thigh, thumbs pressing the sheer band flat, and reached for the second one. Right foot. Same slow roll. Same careful palms. The lamplight caught the sheen on her legs and made them look oiled. He could smell her—clean skin, the faint sweet of the lotion, and under it the warmer, sharper scent of her pussy, already slick enough that a thin shine clung to the inner crease of one thigh.

“Hold still,” he said, and stood to wrap the black lace garter belt around her waist.

She lifted her arms. He fastened the hooks at the small of her back, then dropped again to his knees to clip the straps. Four of them. Each metal clasp clicked against the stocking tops with a small, precise sound. His knuckles brushed the underside of her ass. She pushed back into the touch, not enough to throw him off, just enough to let him feel how soft she was, how ready.

“You’re taking your time,” she said.

“You told me to make you perfect for him.”

“I did.” She looked down at the top of his head, at his careful hands, at the obvious ridge in his pants. “And you’re doing it like you love it. Like dressing your wife for another man’s cock is the best part of your night.”

“It might be,” he said, and meant it. The ache in his groin was sharp and good. He wanted her gone and he wanted her back ruined, and both wants lived in him at once without fighting. He clipped the last strap and sat back on his heels to look. Bare between the garters. No panties. They had agreed on that hours ago, when she had come out of the shower and said she didn’t want anything between Bertrand’s cock and her married pussy except her own wetness.

Rupert rose and took the red dress from the chair. It was short, stretchy, the kind of thing that clung to every curve and threatened to ride up if she breathed too deep. He held it open. She stepped in, one stockinged foot and then the other, and he drew the fabric up her calves, over her knees, over the lace and the bare ass, over her hips. The hem settled high on her thighs. If she bent even a little, the dress would show the lower curve of her ass and the dark space between her legs. He worked it over her breasts, bare under the thin red, nipples already tight, and found the zipper at her back.

“Breathe in,” he said.

She did. He zipped her slowly, tooth by tooth, until the dress sealed her in. His fingers lingered at the top of the zipper, against the warm skin between her shoulder blades. Both of them were breathing harder now. The room felt smaller.

“Tell me again,” he said. “How bad.”

Kendra turned her head so he could see her mouth, the gloss she hadn’t put on yet, the way her lips parted. “I need his cock tonight, Rupert. I need Bertrand’s thick black cock stretching me open until I can’t think about anything else. He’s bigger than you. You know he is. When he gets all the way in I feel it in my stomach. I want that. I want to be stuffed full of him while you sit in this bedroom and wait for me to come home leaking.”

His hands tightened on her waist. The dress was warm from her body already. He could feel her pulse under his thumbs.

“You’re going to look at yourself,” he said, and turned her toward the mirror.

She did. The red dress made her waist look narrow and her ass look obscene. The stockings shone. The garter straps cut little dark lines against her thighs when she shifted her weight and the hem climbed. She ran her hands down her own sides, watching herself, and Rupert watched her watch. His cock strained so hard it hurt.

“Cleavage,” she said. “It’s sitting wrong.”

He stepped in front of her. The neckline was low, stretched over her breasts, and one side had folded so the swell looked uneven. He slid his fingers under the fabric and lifted, adjusting her, palms full of warm skin. Her nipples dragged across his hands. He didn’t pull away. He settled her breasts in the dress the way she liked, thumbs brushing the tight peaks until she made a small sound in her throat, then smoothed the red cloth back into place so the neckline framed her just right—deep enough that Bertrand would see the inner curves the second she walked in.

“He likes them like that,” she whispered. “He likes putting his mouth on them while he’s still fucking me. Last time he sucked one so hard I came with his cock barely halfway in. I told him that. He laughed and said he’d do it again tonight, slower, until I begged.”

Rupert’s hands stayed where they were, cupping her through the dress. His thumbs moved once more, helpless, and her breath hitched.

“Heels,” she said.

He fetched them from the closet. Black, thin straps, tall enough to change the way she stood. He knelt again. She set one foot on his thigh, stocking whispering against his pants, and he buckled the strap around her ankle, fingers careful not to snag the nylon. Then the other. When both were on she was taller, her ass higher, the dress even shorter. He stayed on his knees a second longer than he needed to, looking up the length of her legs to the shadow under the hem.

Kendra reached down and tipped his chin up with two fingers. “You want to see it, don’t you. How wet I am before I even leave.”

“Yes.”

She turned, bent at the waist, and planted her hands on the dresser. The red dress rode up. Her ass filled his view, garter straps taut, pussy bare and glistening, lips already swollen and parted. A thin string of wetness clung between them and caught the light. Rupert’s mouth went dry. His hands hovered at her hips and then settled there, thumbs spreading her just enough to see how open she already was, how ready for a cock thicker than his.

“That’s for him,” she said, voice gone rough. “Don’t you dare fuck me before I go. You can look. You can smell me. That’s it.”

He leaned in until his breath touched her and inhaled, deep, the salty-sweet scent of her filling his head. His cock throbbed against his zipper. He pressed one kiss to the inside of her thigh, just above the stocking, and felt her tremble, then pulled back because she had told him not to take more.

She straightened, tugged the dress down a useless inch, and turned to face him. Her lipstick was in her hand. She painted her mouth a dark red while he watched, blotting once on a tissue he held for her, and the ordinary little ritual made his chest tight. She looked like his wife and like a woman on her way to be used, and both things were true.

“Come here,” she said.

He stood. She stepped into him, heels making her almost his height, and slid one hand down the front of his pants. She found his cock through the fabric and squeezed, slow, measuring how hard she had made him without letting him inside her.

“Listen,” she whispered against his mouth. “Bertrand is going to stretch this married pussy until I cry. He’s going to hold my hips and feed me every inch, and when it hurts in that good way I’m going to push back and take more. He’s going to fuck me on his couch first, then bend me over the arm of it, then take me to his bed and pound me until the headboard hits the wall. He told me he isn’t pulling out. He wants to come in me. Deep. So when I walk back through that door you’ll know whose cum is in your wife.”

Rupert groaned. His hips jerked into her hand. She stroked him once through the pants, mean and sweet, and then let go.

“You’re aching,” she said. “Good. Stay aching. Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone. I want you desperate when I get back. I want your cock dripping and your mouth hungry.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. His voice cracked on it. “I’ll be right here.”

She kissed him. Not a peck—deep, open, her tongue sliding against his, lipstick smearing a little at the corner of his mouth. He tasted mint and heat and the promise of what she was about to do. His hands found her ass under the short dress and gripped, pulling her against the hard line of his cock, and for a second she ground on him, stockings rasping, pussy leaving a damp spot on his pants. Then she broke the kiss, breathing hard, forehead against his.

“Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. Her eyes were bright, grateful and filthy at once. “Thank you for helping me look perfect for him. For the stockings, the dress, all of it. I’m going to make him lose his mind in this. And I’m going to come home and tell you every second.”

“Go,” he said, because if she stayed another minute he would beg her to let him lick her first, and she had already decided that wasn’t how tonight worked. “Go get fucked.”

She smiled, wicked and fond, grabbed her purse and her keys, and walked out of the bedroom. He listened to her heels on the hardwood, the front door opening, the soft thud when it shut. The car started in the driveway. Tires rolled away. The apartment went quiet except for the tick of the lamp and the sound of his own breathing.

Rupert sat on the edge of the bed with his cock straining and his hands on his knees, exactly where she had left him. He didn’t touch himself. The red of her lipstick was still on his mouth. The smell of her pussy was still on his fingers. He waited.

Hours crawled. He paced. He drank water. He straightened the stockings she hadn’t chosen and the heels she had left in the closet, useless little tasks to keep his hands busy. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the dress riding up, the wet shine between her thighs, the way she had said thick black cock like it was a prayer. His erection never fully went down. It ached in pulses, softening a little when he forced himself to breathe, hardening again the second he remembered her bent over the dresser.

When the front door finally opened he was on his feet before he thought about it.

Kendra came down the hall like she had been wrung out and set back on her feet anyway. Twenty-eight, flushed to her chest, hair a mess, the red dress wrinkled and twisted so high on one hip that the garter strap showed. One heel was in her hand. The other was still on her foot. Her lipstick was gone. Her mouth looked used—swollen, a faint shine at the corner that might have been spit or something thicker. She smelled like sex the second she crossed the threshold. Sweat, perfume gone sharp, and under it the heavy, unmistakable scent of cum.

“Rupert,” she said, and her voice was hoarse.

“I’m here.”

She dropped the heel. She didn’t kiss him hello. She put both hands on his chest and shoved, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to move him, and he let her walk him backward until his knees hit the bed. He sat. She climbed after him, dress rucked to her waist, stockings still on, one strap unclipped and hanging. Her pussy was a wreck in the best way—puffy, red, glistening, lips parted and unable to close. White cum leaked from her in a slow, thick strand and dripped onto his pants.

“He filled me,” she said. “Bertrand fucked me so full it’s been leaking since I got in the car. I could feel it running down my thigh at every red light. Lie back.”

He lay back. She swung a leg over him and crawled up his body until her knees were planted on either side of his head and her used pussy hovered an inch above his mouth. The smell of her hit him like a hand around his cock—her own slickness, sharp and sweet, and the heavier, saltier musk of another man’s cum. Bertrand’s. Thirty-two, she had told him once, broad-shouldered, the kind of cock that made her eyes roll. Rupert could see it in what that cock had done to her: the way her hole gaped a little, fluttering, trying to close and failing, cum welling at the entrance and sliding down toward his lips.

“Taste him,” she said. “Taste what he did to your wife.”

He opened his mouth. She sat.

The first flood of it coated his tongue—warm, thick, bitter-salt, mixed with the familiar taste of Kendra that he had licked a hundred times and the new taste of Bertrand that he had only ever gotten secondhand. He groaned into her and licked, broad and hungry, dragging his tongue from her clit down through the mess and back up. Cum smeared his lips, his chin, the bridge of his nose when she ground down. She was so wet it was obscene. Every time his tongue pushed at her entrance more of it spilled out, and he swallowed what he could and chased the rest.

“Fuck, yes,” she panted, rocking on his face. “He bent me over the arm of his couch the second I walked in. Didn’t even let me take the dress all the way off. Just shoved it up and lined that thick cock up and pushed. I wasn’t ready for how big he felt. I never am. He held my hips and fed it in, inch by inch, and I was moaning into the cushion like a slut before he even bottomed out.”

Rupert’s hands gripped her thighs above the stockings. He sucked her clit, then dropped his mouth lower and licked into her, tongue fucking the cum out of her well-used hole. She shuddered and kept talking, voice breaking every time his tongue hit the right spot.

“Then he pulled out and told me to get on the bed. Doggy. Ass up. I did it. I begged for it. He grabbed my hair and slammed back in and just pounded me. That deep, mean stroke, all the way out and all the way in, his balls slapping me, the head of his cock hitting so far up I saw white. I was screaming his name. Bertrand, Bertrand, harder. And he gave it to me. He fucked me like he owned the pussy you dressed up for him.”

She ground down harder. Rupert couldn’t breathe except through his nose, and every breath was her and cum and sex. His cock was a painful throb in his pants, untouched, leaking into his underwear. He didn’t care. He licked her like he had been waiting all night to, because he had.

“I squirted,” she gasped. “He reached under me and rubbed my clit while he pounded me doggy-style and I came so hard I squirted all over his sheets. He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, talking in my ear, telling me what a perfect little married slut I was, telling me to soak his cock. I did. I came again. My legs gave out and he held me up and kept going until I was shaking and drooling on the pillow.”

Rupert moaned into her pussy. The vibration made her cry out. More cum leaked onto his tongue and he swallowed it, filthy and grateful, licking her clean as much as anyone could lick a pussy that kept giving more.

“Then he flipped me and fucked me on my back so he could watch my face,” she said, riding his mouth in short, desperate rolls. “And when he was close he put my legs on his shoulders and buried that thick black cock as deep as it would go and came. I felt it. Hot. So much. Pulse after pulse, right against my cervix, filling me up until it started squeezing out around him. He stayed inside until he was soft and then he pulled out and watched it drip and told me to take it home to you.”

She lifted off his face. His mouth and chin were shining. She looked down at him, eyes heavy, chest heaving in the ruined red dress, and smiled like she had won something they both wanted.

“Pants off,” she said. “I need your cock. I need to ride you while I can still feel him.”

He shoved his pants and underwear down. His cock sprang up, flushed dark, wet at the tip, smaller than what had just been inside her and aching so badly the air felt like a touch. She didn’t tease. She turned, straddled his hips facing him, reached back, and sank down in one long, slick slide.

She was loose and soaking and still tight enough to make him shout. Cum and her own wetness coated him instantly, filthy and hot, easing the way so she took him to the root without pausing. The sensation of sliding into a pussy another man had just finished in made his vision blur. He gripped her hips. The dress was bunched at her waist. One stocking had a run in it now. She looked wrecked and gorgeous and entirely his in the way that mattered, which was the way she had chosen to come home and use him.

“He was so much thicker,” she said, starting to ride, slow at first, then harder, ass slapping his thighs. “I could feel the difference the second you went in. You’re good, Rupert. You’re mine. But he stretched me. He made this pussy gape. You can feel how open I am. You can feel his cum all over your cock.”

“I feel it,” he gritted out. “Fuck, Kendra, I feel all of it.”

She braced her hands on his chest and bounced, taking him deep, her breasts spilling at the neckline, nipples dragging the red fabric. Every downward stroke squelched. The sound was obscene. She didn’t look away from his face.

“Doggy,” she said, panting, giving him the rest while she fucked him. “He had one hand in my hair and one on my ass and he was slamming into me so hard the couch moved. I was dripping down my thighs. My stockings were ruined before he even came. When I squirted he laughed, this low hungry sound, and told me to do it again, and I did, I squirted on his cock while he pounded me, and he didn’t slow down. He fucked me like he was trying to leave a mark. And then he came deep. So deep I thought I’d taste it. It’s still in me. You’re fucking it back into me right now.”

Rupert thrust up to meet her. The wet heat of her, the slippery mess of Bertrand’s cum slicking every stroke, the picture she was painting—it stacked until he couldn’t hold the edge. She felt it. She clenched around him, riding faster, chasing her own finish on the cock that had waited all night.

“Come in me,” she ordered. “Add yours to his. Fill your wife’s used cunt. I want both of you dripping out of me.”

He broke. His hips jerked and he came hard, pulsing deep, groaning her name while she ground down and took every spurt. The orgasm ripped through him so sharply his thighs shook. She didn’t stop. She rubbed her clit with two fingers, filthy and focused, and came a second later with a broken cry, pussy fluttering around his spent cock, squirting a thin hot rush that soaked his stomach and the base of his shaft. She kept moving through it, milking him, shaking, until the pleasure tipped into too much and she collapsed forward, still seated on him, still full.

They stayed like that, breathing wrecked air, the room thick with the smell of sex. His cum mixed with Bertrand’s inside her and began to leak around his softening cock, warm against his balls. Kendra didn’t climb off. She stayed on top of him, dress twisted, one hand sliding into his hair, fingers moving slow through the sweat-damp strands while she caught her breath and kept talking, because she had promised him every filthy detail and she wasn’t done.

“He made me suck him first,” she said, voice lazy and raw against his ear. “Before the couch. I got on my knees in this dress and he pulled that thick cock out and it was already leaking. I could barely get my mouth around the head. He held my hair and fucked my throat until my eyes watered and spit ran down my chin onto my tits. He didn’t come in my mouth. He saved it. He said my pussy was where he wanted to finish, so you’d have something to eat.”

Rupert’s cock twitched inside her, not soft anymore, thickening again in the slippery heat. She felt it and smiled against his temple, still stroking his hair, still seated deep.

“After he came he stayed in me and kissed me and told me I take cock like I was built for it. Then he fucked me again before I left. Slower. From behind, on the bed, my face in the pillow, his heavy cock dragging in and out of the mess he’d already made. I came one more time just from how full I was. He added another load. That’s why I was leaking in the car. That’s why your mouth is still shiny. Two loads of Bertrand’s cum in your wife’s pussy, and now yours too, all mixed up, running out around your cock while you get hard again inside me.”

He was hard. The recovery was almost painful, his cock swelling in the tight, sloppy clutch of her, pushing back into the mess. She rolled her hips once, a slow grind, and hummed at the feeling.

“I’m going to let you help me dress for him again,” she said. “Very soon. Stockings, garter, something even shorter. You’re going to zip me up and send me out aching for that thick black cock, and you’re going to wait right here with your hands off your dick until I come home gaping and full.”

She lifted her head and looked down at him, eyes bright, mouth curved, his hair still caught in her fingers. She clenched around the fresh hardness and leaned in until her lips brushed his ear, voice low and filthy and final.

“Next time you finish licking his cum out of me, I’m going to sit on this cock and make you fuck his sloppy seconds until you beg me to go get bred by that thick black cock again.”