Loyal Wife Taken by Husband's Friend

The front door clicked shut behind Sullivan, and Teresa stood in the entryway still smiling, one bare foot tucked behind the other, the hem of her little sleep shorts riding high on her tan thighs. She was twenty-eight, five foot three, and built like the gym had been flirting back: a tight waist, a firm ass that filled those shorts, and heavy D-cup breasts straining the thin cotton of her tank. She ran her own consulting desk, smart when the numbers mattered, funny when a room went quiet, and ditsy in the bright scattered way that made people lean in and underestimate her. Oblivious, too. She had waved her husband off for the day without a second thought. Sullivan, thirty-one and already late for the office, had kissed her cheek and gone, and she was already thinking about coffee and the friend who was supposed to swing by.

Ambrose had wanted her for a year.

He was thirty-two, six feet of dark muscle, Sullivan's best friend, and he had spent every one of those months picturing Teresa folded in half under him. Not sweetly. Not like a wife who kissed her husband at the door. Like a whore he could wreck until she choked, sobbed, and begged for more. He had sat across from her at dinners with his hands locked around a glass. He had stopped caring that she was loyal to Sullivan. He wanted her ruined for the man anyway, wanted her married cunt split open on his cock while she cried from how good it felt.

The doorbell rang before she finished the first pour.

She opened it with that easy grin, head tipped, eyes skipping over his chest like she did not notice what it did to him. "You're early," she said, stepping aside. "Sullivan just left. I made too much coffee like an idiot. Come sit."

Ambrose ducked the frame and filled her hallway. Dark skin stretched over thick arms and a chest that made her sunny kitchen look smaller. He looked at her mouth, then lower, at the sway of those shorts and the tan curve of her ass. The hunger sat ugly in his jaw, and Teresa, flirty by habit and loyal by choice, did not read it. She laughed and waved him toward the living room, already talking about traffic and a client who could not find his own inbox.

He followed. His cock was already heavy against his thigh. Today he was done pretending she was only his friend's wife.

They took the couch with mugs between them, morning light cutting across the rug. Teresa tucked one leg under herself and kept talking the way she always did when Ambrose came over, bright and a little careless. She reached over and squeezed his bicep like it was a joke.

"God, you're ridiculous," she said, laughing. "Sullivan's been slacking. You could crack a walnut with that. Do you even own a shirt that fits, or do you just threaten the fabric until it gives up?"

Ambrose did not laugh. He set his mug down. The compliment landed exactly where a year of filthy wanting had been waiting, and the restraint he had worn like a collar finally split.

"You keep touching me like that," he said, voice low, "and I'm going to stop being polite about what I want to do to you."

Teresa blinked, still smiling, still half in the bit. "Oh, come on. I'm just—"

"I've wanted to fuck you for a year." He did not look away. "Not nice. Not the way Sullivan fucks you, if he even does. I want you folded in half on this couch like a filthy little whore. I want my cock so deep in that tight married pussy you choke on the stretch. I want you sobbing, drooling, begging me to ruin you while your husband is out making money like a fool. I want my fingers stuffed in your mouth until you gag and still push. I want you grotesque with it. Used. Leaking. Mine for the afternoon, even if you go back to playing loyal wife when he gets home."

The smile died on her mouth. Heat rushed up her throat, shocking and immediate, and she hated how wet she got from the ugliness of it. Her nipples tightened under the tank. She was loyal. She had never cheated. She had teased Ambrose for months without ever meaning the door to open. But the words sat in her belly like a hand, and her cunt clenched so hard she shifted on the cushion, slick already soaking the crotch of her panties.

"Ambrose," she said, breath thin. "That's—Sullivan's your best friend. I'm his wife."

"I don't care." He leaned in until she could smell coffee and clean skin. "Say no and I leave. Say yes and I take you. All of it. The way I've been jerking off to. Brutal. Nasty. You begging."

She stared at his mouth. Her pulse hammered. The loyal part of her scrambled for the right answer and lost to the ache between her legs, to the way his size made her feel small and stupid and starving. She was clearheaded. She was not tricked. She knew exactly what he was offering, and the want won clean.

"Yes," she whispered. Then louder, the ditsy brightness burned off into something raw. "Yes. Take it. I want you to. I want all of that."

He kissed her like he meant to swallow the permission. She kissed back, frantic, hands clawing at his shirt, and he yanked the tank over her head so her tan breasts spilled free, heavy and flushed, nipples tight. Shorts and panties hit the rug in a damp twist. His pants followed. His cock sprang out thick, dark, and obscene, veins ridged along the shaft, and Teresa made a helpless sound at the size of it, already reaching, already shaking.

"On your back," he said. "Fold. I'm not asking again."

She went. Ambrose shoved the coffee mugs aside and dragged her down the cushions until her ass hung at the edge, then caught her behind the knees and pressed them up toward her shoulders. She was small enough that he folded her nearly in half, thighs crushed to her tits, pretty cunt opened wide and gleaming in the daylight. The position left her nowhere to hide. Every inch of her was offered, pink and soaked, clit swollen, the tight hole of her ass just below, twitching. She looked ridiculous and perfect, a smart woman reduced to a wet split he had wanted for a year.

"Look at this married pussy," he said, nasty and pleased. "Dripping for your husband's friend. You filthy little slut."

"Please," she breathed. "Put it in. I said yes. Fuck me."

He lined the fat head up and drove in with one brutal stroke. Teresa's mouth fell open on a broken cry. He was too thick, too deep, the angle of the mating press spearing him straight into the soft end of her, and her soaked cunt still swallowed him, gripping, fluttering, trying to take what she had asked for. He did not ease her into it. He planted a hand beside her head and started pounding, hips snapping, the wet slap of it filling the living room. Each thrust folded her harder, her knees by her ears, her ass bouncing, her D-cups jumping. She sobbed on the second stroke and the tenth, not from pain she wanted stopped but from the overwhelming fullness, pleasure so sharp it spilled out of her as noise.

"Too much," she gasped, and then, immediately, "don't stop, don't you dare stop, oh God, Ambrose—"

He shoved two thick fingers into her mouth. She gagged around them, eyes watering, spit slicking his knuckles, and he fucked her throat with those fingers in the same mean rhythm as his cock. She choked, drooled down her chin, and sucked anyway, tongue working, moaning around the intrusion like the gagging itself got her hotter. Her cunt gushed. The couch creaked. He watched her face go slack and wrecked and kept railing her, balls slapping her ass, the head of his cock bullying her cervix until her whole body jolted.

"Choke on it," he growled. "Sob for me. Beg like the whore you are."

She did. Tears cut hot lines into her hair. She sobbed around his fingers, hips trying to meet him even folded as she was, and the first orgasm hit her like a slap. Her pussy clamped and spasmed, milking him, a wet squelch accompanying every thrust as she came and came, shaking, nails digging into his forearm. He did not slow. He fucked her through it, vile and relentless, calling her a disloyal hole, a best friend's cumdump, a pretty little businesswoman who opened her legs the second her husband left. She nodded, gagging, agreeing with her eyes, pulling his wrist so his fingers stayed buried while she cried from the pleasure.

When her shaking eased into aftershocks, he pulled his fingers free, strings of spit connecting them to her swollen lips. "Not done. Up."

He flipped her before she could catch her breath. He hauled her shoulders toward the floor at the side of the couch and caught her ankles, bending her into a piledriver, her back curved, her head hanging, her folded body offered upward so her cunt faced the ceiling. Gravity and his grip did the rest. He slammed back in from above, and the new angle made her scream. Every inch felt deeper. She could see, upside down and dizzy, the dark length of him disappearing into her stretched pussy, could see her own slick coating him, could see her tits swaying toward her face. He used her like that, brutal strokes that punched little broken sounds out of her lungs, and she reached up with shaking hands to hold her own thighs open wider.

"Yes, yes, fuck, use me, I'm gonna cum again—"

She did, harder, a sobbing wreck of a climax that made her squirt a thin hot splash against his stomach. Ambrose laughed, mean and hungry, and kept pounding until her voice cracked. Then he dropped her ankles, spun her, and bent her over the couch arm so her fit ass was up and her face was in the cushions.

"Say it," he ordered, gripping her hips, cock nudging her dripping entrance. "Say you're a disloyal whore for your husband's friend. Say it while I rail you."

"I'm a disloyal whore for my husband's friend," she cried, pushing back onto him. "I'm Sullivan's loyal wife and I'm still taking your cock. Fuck me, Ambrose, fuck your best friend's wife."

He sank in to the root and started hammering her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other spanning her lower back to keep her arched. The sound was obscene, wet and relentless. Her ass clapped against his hips. She repeated it because he made her, voice shredded, saying she was a cheating slut, a nasty little hole, a married whore who begged to be folded and bred full of her husband's best friend's cum. Every filthy line made her cunt clench. She came again with her face mashed into the cushion, then again when he reached under and ground her clit, sobbing, begging louder, "more, harder, don't pull out, I need it, I need your cum, please, please, fill me—"

Ambrose snarled and buried himself. His cock kicked, and he flooded her spasming cunt in thick hot pulses, so much it leaked around his shaft and ran down her tan thighs while she was still cumming, milking every drop, shaking apart under him. He held her there, stuffed and overflowing, until the last twitch left them both.

Teresa stayed bent over the arm, trembling, his cum leaking in messy strings down her thighs and onto the rug. She laughed, breathless and wrecked, the sound bright and ditsy even now. "God. He has never fucked me like that. Not once. You ruined me. You can have this married pussy whenever you want. Tomorrow. The next day he's out. I'll text you the second the door shuts." She reached back, spread herself with two fingers, and watched another fat glob of his cum drool out of her fucked-open hole. "Look at it. Your best friend's wife, stuffed and dripping, already planning the next time you fold me in half and make me choke on your cock like the disloyal whore I am."