Loyal Wife's Dark Temptation

The backyard pool glittered under string lights, music low, the kind of Saturday that made Beatrice forget the deck she owed the client on Monday. At twenty-eight she ran her own consulting firm, sharp enough to close a deal before lunch and funny and ditsy enough to lose her sunglasses in her own hair twice before sunset. Five foot three, tan from weekends she actually took, she filled a white bikini: D-cups high and full, ass fit and tight, the bottoms doing real work. She laughed too loud at a joke she only half heard, tipped her chin, flirty the way she always was and never meaning a thing by it. Her husband Declan, thirty-one, broad and easy at the grill, watched her with the fond look of a man who trusted her completely. She blew him a kiss and meant it. She had always meant it.

Hector came through the side gate after full dark, six feet of dark-skinned muscle in black trunks, thirty-two, Declan's friend from the old gym years. Beatrice hugged him the way she hugged everyone, quick and warm, oblivious to the pause of his hands at her waist. He had wanted her for a year. It started the night Declan, proud and careless, sent the guys her photos, then the video: Beatrice in the living room, music on, twerking for her husband, ass popping, laughing over her shoulder. Hector had watched until his phone went hot. He had never said a word. He smiled at her now like a decent man and felt something vile turn behind his ribs.

She was everywhere after that. Bending for a towel. Fixing a strap. Splashing Noelle, her friend from the firm, thirty-two and loud, and missing the way his eyes tracked water down her spine. His mind went where it always went. Her throat under his palm. Her pussy split while she sobbed. Her tight ass taking him until she begged, grotesque and pornographic, exactly what he wanted and exactly what she would never give. Beatrice was loyal. She stayed true. She did not even know she was being wanted like that.

He took a seltzer. She took one too, bubbles only, and clinked his can. "You never come to these," she said, ditsy-bright. "Declan said you hate small talk." "I came for the view," he said. She laughed, taking it as nothing, and turned back to the water with her ring flashing and her ass still in his line of sight.

The party thinned the way backyard parties do. Declan hooked an arm around Hector and jerked his chin toward the house. "Poker," he said. "Don't stand out here all night." "Give me a minute," Hector said. The other men, every one of them past thirty, went inside, cards and noise swallowing them. Noelle caught Beatrice's wrist. "Gossip. Now. I have a story and you are going to die." "Two minutes," Beatrice said. "I left my wrap on the chair." Noelle rolled her eyes and went in with the other women, all of them her age or older. The slider shut. The pool went quiet but for the filter. Beatrice found the wrap and did not put it on. She stood at the edge with her seltzer and looked at Hector as if the empty yard had just occurred to her.

"You really hate small talk," she said. "I don't hate you." She blinked, then tried the client smile she used when she was buying time. It did not hold. The way he watched her, steady and unashamed, had been under her skin since the hug, and she had called it lights, habit, the harmless flirt she gave everyone. She was loyal. Her husband was inside shuffling a deck. She should have gone. She stayed.

"You've been looking at me all night," she said, softer. "Like you already know what I'd do." "I don't," he said. "I know what I want. That's different." Heat climbed her chest, sudden and stupid. She could name it. She could also feel her nipples tight against damp cloth and her pulse between her legs, a pull she had not ordered and could not laugh off. Hector did not touch her. He waited, eyes level, and gave her the choice clean.

"Tell me," she said. He told her, low and plain. His hand on her throat, only as tight as she asked. Her pussy first, deep, until she could not stay quiet. Then her ass, the one from the video, bent and spanked and fucked until she begged, until she sobbed from how good it was. Vile, he called it, because that was the word in his head. He wanted her ruined for an hour and walking back in like nothing had happened. Beatrice's mouth went dry. Loyalty pulled. Want pulled harder. She looked at the lit windows, at the life she meant to keep, then at him, clear-eyed, nothing in her but seltzer and a decision. "Cabana," she said, breathless. "Now. I want you to take me exactly the way you crave. All of it. Choke me. Fuck me. Fuck my ass. Make me beg. I'm saying yes."

He did not grin. He took her hand and they slipped along the dark side of the pool, past the empty lounges, into the canvas cabana where the lights did not reach. The flap fell. Warm air. Sunscreen. Their breathing. "Say it again," he said. "I want it," she said, voice shaking with how true it was. "I know what I'm asking, and I want you to do it."

He kissed her once, hard, then turned her and untied the bikini with sure fingers. The top fell. Her tits spilled free, tan and heavy, nipples already drawn tight. He palmed one, then the other, rough enough to pull a gasp out of her, and she pushed into his hands like she had been waiting to be handled.

"On your back," he said.

She dropped onto the wide cushion, hair fanning, knees opening without being told. He dragged the bottoms off in one motion. She was shaved smooth, already wet, the slick catching what little light leaked through the canvas. Hector shoved his trunks down. His cock was thick, dark, heavy, the head shining. She stared and made a small broken sound that was not fear.

"You can stop me anytime," he said. "Say stop and I stop. No games."

"I won't," she said. "Do it. I want it."

He came down over her in missionary, weight pinning her into the cushion, one forearm braced by her head. His other hand closed on her throat. Not a crush. A claim. Pressure at the sides, controlled, his eyes on her face the whole time. Beatrice's eyes went wide and glassy. She nodded, tiny, yes, and wrapped her fingers around his wrist to hold him there. He tightened until her breath thinned and her hips jerked up, hunting him.

He lined up and pushed into her pussy in one long stroke.

She was tight. Hot. Soaked. The stretch dropped her mouth open, and the sound that came out was already half a sob, pleasure hitting so fast it wore the face of shock. He held her throat and fucked her, deep and mean, the wet slap of his hips filling the little tent. Each thrust knocked a cry loose. Her cunt clenched around him like it meant to keep every inch.

"Look at you," he said, rough. "Loyal little wife, dripping on my cock."

"Yes," she sobbed. "Harder. Please, harder."

He gave it to her. Choked her just enough that the edges of her vision sparked, eased so she could drag air, tightened again when her pussy fluttered. She came the first time like that, shaking, tears at the corners of her eyes from how hard it rolled through her, sobbing his name into the canvas. He did not stop. He fucked her through it, filthy and steady, until she was whimpering and oversensitive and still lifting her hips for more.

"Turn over," he said, and let her throat go.

Beatrice rolled, shaky, and got on her knees. Doggy. Ass up, back arched, that fit little ass presented the way the video had lived in his head. He spanked her, a sharp crack, then another, watching tan skin bloom pink. She yelped and pushed back into his palm.

"Please," she said, already begging, voice wrecked. "Please, Hector."

He spit on her hole and worked a finger in, slow, then two, stretching her while she moaned into the cushion. She was tight there, clutching, and she bore down and opened for him anyway, choosing the burn, breathing through it until the burn went slick and needy and she was rocking on his fingers.

"Tell me what you want," he said, and spanked her again, harder.

"My ass," she gasped. "Fuck my ass. Deep. Hard. Don't be nice to me. I want it grotesque. I want to feel you so deep I can't think. Make me sob. Please, please, please."

He pressed the head of his cock to her hole and pushed.

The stretch was obscene. She cried out, high and broken, fingers clawing canvas, and he held just long enough for her to adjust, one hand stroking her spine, the other locked on her hip.

"Say stop if you need it," he said.

"Green," she panted. "Green, fuck, keep going, I want all of it."

He sank in, inch by thick inch, until his hips met her ass and she was stuffed full, stretched around him so completely she could feel her own pulse in the ring of muscle. Then he started to move.

Long strokes at first, pulling almost out, driving back in, the wet filthy sound of it filling the cabana. Beatrice sobbed with every thrust, from the overwhelming pleasure of being opened and used exactly as she had begged. Hector spanked her in rhythm, left cheek, right cheek, the cracks sharp, her ass jiggling, pink, perfect. She begged louder.

"Deeper. Harder. Slam it. Please, Hector, don't hold back, I can take it, I want it, oh God."

He gave her the year of wanting. Hips snapping, brutal and precise, pounding her fit ass until the cushion slid and she had to brace on her forearms. Their bodies slapped together, sweat-soaked, skin to skin, a grotesque wet rhythm. He reached under and rubbed her clit in rough circles, and she shattered, an anal orgasm that locked her hole down on him so tight he snarled and kept fucking through it. She sobbed into the canvas, tears on her cheeks, coming and coming, voice cracked open.

When it ebbed he did not let up. He hauled her hips higher and slammed deeper, the head of his cock kissing places that turned her vision white.

"Again," he said. "Beg for it again."

"Please," she wailed. "Please fuck my ass harder, deeper, don't stop, make me come again, I need it, I need you to ruin me, please, please."

He did. Fast, heavy, sweat dripping from his chest onto her back, one hand fisted in her hair, the other spanking her until the sound matched the slap of his hips. Beatrice came a second time, then a third, anal orgasms rolling through her in hard ugly waves, thighs shaking, pussy dripping onto the cushion, her ass milking him while she begged in broken pieces. He groaned, buried to the hilt, and came hard inside her, thick pulses, holding her down on his cock while she sobbed through the last aftershock. He stayed in her until the clench let go. Then he pulled out slow, watching her hole flutter, used and shining, and she made a small devastated sound that was pure satisfaction.

They did not speak for a minute. Beatrice caught her breath on her forearms, sweat cooling, a dazed smile pulling at her mouth. Her throat tingled where his hand had been. Her ass throbbed, stretched and full of him, and the throb felt like a secret she could carry without dropping. She sat up. Found the bikini. Tied it with steady fingers, smoothed her hair, wiped her face on a towel until she looked like a woman who had only been in the water.

"Go in first," she said, soft, almost cheerful, the bright scatter sliding back into place. "I'll fix my face."

Hector kissed her shoulder once, dressed, and slipped toward the house and the poker game, face composed, the want banked and not gone. Beatrice waited until her legs trusted her. Then she walked the long way around the pool, wrap over one arm, and stepped into the bright kitchen where Noelle and the other women were halfway through a story.

"There you are," Noelle said. "We thought you drowned."

"Just lost track," Beatrice said, and smiled, satisfied and a little dazed, and took the empty chair as if nothing at all had happened. Hector's voice drifted from the card table, easy, ordinary. She laughed at the right places. Nobody looked twice.

She crossed her ankles under the gossip table and smiled, loyal to the room, while another man's come cooled in the ass she had begged him to ruin.