Lonely Army Wife Part 2

The base housing looked expensive from the street, stone fronts and wide porches, the kind of place Elise had once believed would feel like a prize. At twenty-eight she had the service that kept the lawn edged, the kitchen with the pale counters, and a silence that only arrived after she had put her three kids to bed behind closed doors at the end of the hall. Luxury, people called it. An army wife's reward. Most nights it felt like a well-furnished waiting room.

Her husband Callum was a career officer, gone on a deployment counted in months. Field exercises, overnight duty, the long overseas stretch he was on now — she had learned the calendar of his absences until it felt like weather. Their sex life was fine when he was home. Solid. Familiar. When he was not, she made do, and she had gotten very good at making do. She folded laundry. She answered emails and checked the calendar. She lay in the wide bed and stared at the ceiling and refused to finish the thought that started with his absence and ended with her own hand between her thighs.

Bruno had been making that discipline harder.

He lived next door, thirty-two, a military spouse whose wife Gwen spent half her month in other cities for work. After a storm took a branch down he had started helping with the yard, and then he had simply kept coming. Hedges. Gutters. The loose board on the back steps. He worked with his shirt sticking to his back and his forearms corded in the sun, and Elise had started carrying water out to him for reasons that had nothing to do with thirst. He looked at her mouth when she spoke. She looked at his hands when he reached for a tool. The tension had been building for weeks, a low heat she pretended was the season. She had admitted the truth to herself only recently, standing in the shower with one palm flat on the tile: what she craved was not conversation. It was adult touch. Weight. A man who would put his hands on her and mean it.

Tonight the kitchen faucet had died with a metallic cough, and she had texted him before pride could intervene. She caught her reflection in the dark window — flushed, lonely, wearing a thin cotton dress with nothing underneath. She had decided that an hour ago. She had not changed her mind.

He came through the side door with a wrench and the smell of cut grass still on him. Under the sink he worked without rushing, shoulders broad in a gray t-shirt, a scar along his jaw catching the light. Elise leaned on the counter in bare feet and watched the line of his back, the dress hem brushing her thighs.

"Gwen's in Dallas until Thursday," he said, tightening a fitting. "House gets loud when it's empty."

"Callum's been gone nine weeks," she said. "I don't hear the empty anymore. I just wear it."

Water ran clean. He stood, wiping his hands, and the kitchen shrank around him. She took two beers from the fridge and handed him one. They drank slowly, and she stopped halfway, chill on her tongue and none of the blur. She had not invited him over to hide behind a drink. She wanted to be sharp for this.

"I should tell you how it's been," she said. "Since he left. Since you started showing up in my yard with your shirt off." She met his eyes. "I lie in that bed and I don't want soft. I don't want a sweet text. I miss being fucked. Hard. I miss a cock in me and a hand in my hair and a man who will not stop when I get loud. I have been walking around this house wet and angry, and I am done pretending you are only here for the faucet."

Bruno set his bottle down, still half full. "Months," he said. "I've wanted you for months. Every time you brought me water I thought about bending you over the porch rail. I kept quiet because your husband's overseas and my wife's on a plane. I figured saying it would wreck the only decent thing on this block."

"It won't, if I ask." She stepped in until her breasts brushed his chest. Her nipples had tightened, and she let him feel them through the cotton. "I want you as my lover while he's gone. My hotwife lover. I'm using that word on purpose. I want you to take me. Tonight. Say yes, or go home."

His hands found her waist. "Yes."

She kissed him, and he took the kiss over in a second, mouth opening hers, tongue pushing in, one hand cradling the back of her neck. She fisted his shirt and pulled. He tasted like beer and salt. His other hand dropped to her ass, squeezed, and found bare skin, and the sound he made was half groan.

"No panties," he said.

"I decided before you got here."

He walked her backward into the living room, kissing her the whole way, past the dark shut hallway to the couch facing curtains drawn tight. Her pulse hammered. She was already slick, and every step reminded her.

She sank to her knees on the rug before he could sit. Her fingers worked his belt, the button, the zipper, and she dragged his pants and briefs down together. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head dark and already wet at the slit. She wrapped her hand around the shaft and felt the heat of it, the weight, the way it jumped when she squeezed. Bigger than the nights she had let herself imagine.

"God," she breathed, and took him into her mouth.

She licked a slow stripe from base to tip, then closed her lips around the head and sucked, tongue working the underside while her hand stroked what she had not taken yet. Bruno's breath left him rough. She looked up, held his eyes, and pushed down. Inch by inch she took him, relaxing her throat, until her lips met the coarse hair at his base and her eyes watered and she held there, swallowing around the thickness filling her.

She pulled off with a wet gasp, spit on her chin, and did it again, deeper, messier. She fucked her own mouth on his cock in a steady rhythm, drool stringing from her lip to his balls, one hand cupping him, the other braced on his thigh. The sounds were obscene. She loved them. She had wanted to be this undone.

His hand settled in her hair, guiding, not shoving, his hips rocking in small thrusts that bumped the back of her throat. "Look at you," he groaned. "On your knees in your own living room, deepthroating the neighbor while your husband's on the other side of the world. Needy hotwife. You needed a cock in your throat that bad?"

She moaned around him, the vibration making his thigh jump, and took him to the root again until he cursed and tightened his grip.

He pulled her off by the hair, firm, his cock leaving her mouth with a slick pop, shining. "Up. Over the arm. I want that ass in the air."

She bent herself over the rounded armrest, cheek to the cushion, dress shoved to her waist. Cool air hit her bare pussy and she whimpered, already dripping. Bruno stepped in behind her. One hand spread her. The other guided his cock, rubbing the head through her folds, over her clit, back to her entrance, until she pushed back.

"Do it," she said. "Fuck me. Hard. I want to feel every inch tomorrow."

He drove in with one long stroke and buried himself to the hilt. The stretch tore a cry out of her. She breathed through the first seconds, walls gripping him, and then he drew back and slammed in again and set a pace with nothing polite in it. Deep strokes. Hips cracking against her ass. The couch shifted with every impact. Each thrust knocked a broken sound out of her, and she reached back and pulled him harder.

His palm cracked across her ass. The sting bloomed hot and she yelped, then moaned and arched into the next slap. He spanked her again, and again, alternating sides, the sound sharp in the quiet house, her skin going warm under his hand while his cock kept plunging into her, wet and relentless. He gathered her hair in his fist and pulled, arching her spine, and the new angle dragged him over the spot that made her vision spark.

"More," she gasped. "Don't ease up. Fuck your needy hotwife. Spank me and use me."

"You're dripping down my cock," he said. "Soaking me. This pussy's been starving for a real pounding."

"Yes. Harder. Don't stop."

He gave it to her, deep and mean, the slap of skin filling the room, her ass bouncing, the armrest digging into her hips. Her moans climbed until she had no words left, just open sounds, pushing back to meet every stroke.

He pulled out and she whimpered at the loss. His hands flipped her onto her back along the cushions, caught her ankles, and spread her legs wide, folding her so her knees framed her shoulders and her pussy was offered up, pink and swollen and shining.

"Hold them," he said. "Wide. I want to watch."

She grabbed her own knees and held herself open, shameless. He lined up and slammed back in. The angle was brutal and perfect, deeper than before. He pounded her in short heavy strokes, grip iron on her thighs, her tits bouncing under the thin dress, every thrust punching a moan out of her she didn't bite back. Pleasure coiled low and tight and then snapped. She came screaming, back arching, pussy clamping down on him in hard pulses, wetness spilling around his shaft while he fucked her through it, not slowing, dragging it out until she was shaking and clawing at his arms.

"Again," she managed. "I want to ride you. Cum in me. Fill me up."

He sat back, cock standing slick with her. She climbed into his lap and sank down in one greedy drop, taking every inch, gasping at the fullness. Then she rode. Hands on his shoulders, knees planted wide, she lifted and slammed herself onto him, grinding her clit against him with every roll of her hips. He gripped her ass, spreading her, thrusting up to meet her until the couch knocked the wall and her moans broke apart.

"Fill me," she panted. "Cum in your hotwife. I want it deep. I want to leak you."

He groaned and his hips jerked. She felt the first hot pulse flood her and ground down, milking him, and the rush tipped her over again. She came shaking, pussy fluttering around his spurting cock while he emptied himself in heavy spurts, pumping her full until cum leaked out around his shaft and ran down over his balls. She kept grinding, filthy and greedy, working every pulse out of him until he was spent and she was dripping with both of them, thighs slick, body still twitching.

They stayed locked together while their breathing slowed, his hands still gripping her ass, sweat cooling on her spine, her dress twisted up and useless around her ribs. Elise rolled her hips and felt his cum shift inside her, warm and thick, leaking around his softening cock onto his balls. The satisfaction moving through her was sharp and filthy. She was glowing with it. Used. Full. Wrecked exactly the way she had been starving for.

"That's what I needed," she said, hoarse, not softening it. "Exactly that. While he's gone, you come over and fuck me like this. No gentle version. The hard one."

Bruno's mouth curved, pleased and mean. "Next night your schedule's clear, you text me. I'll be at that door. Couch first. I'll bend you over the arm and pump you full again."

She clenched around him on purpose, squeezing out another warm trickle, and put her mouth against his ear. "Good, because I'm still stuffed with your cum and already aching for the next load, so don't bring the wrench — just shove that thick cock back in your filthy hotwife and fuck another mess into me until it runs down my thighs."