My Giant Wife's Superior Bull

I am twenty-two, and I have never felt smaller than I do when my wife decides to remind me what I married.

Greta is twenty-eight, six feet five of carved muscle and warm pale skin, and when she stands over me the top of my head barely clears the heavy shelf of her chest. I am slim in a way that used to feel ordinary. Next to her it feels like a confession. Her shoulders are broader than mine. Her arms are thicker than my thighs. She lifts me the way other people lift grocery bags, and she has started doing it whenever she wants me to remember who owns this apartment.

Hector is thirty-one, six feet ten, and built like the construction sites he runs. The first time I saw him shirtless in our doorway I understood why she had started saying his name the way other women say please. His hands are huge. His voice is low. For three weeks my wife has been praising him in front of me with a smile that drops my stomach and stiffens my cock at the same time.

Tonight she wears a sports bra that can barely contain her and gray sweatpants slung low on hips that could crush me. Hector sits on the couch, long legs spread, dark skin gleaming under the lamp, and Greta stands between us like a monument. She reaches back without looking and rests one enormous hand on the crown of my head, fingers spanning my skull.

"Look at him," she says to Hector. "My little husband. Twenty-two and still trying so hard. Isn't he sweet?"

Hector's eyes move over me, calm, not cruel. "He's devoted."

"He is." She tilts my face up with two fingers under my chin. I have to rise onto my toes. "And he knows he can't give me what I need. Don't you, Benedict?"

My throat is dry. "Yes."

She bends, and even bent she looms. Her mouth brushes my ear. "I've been thinking about his cock all day. About how thick it is. About how it makes me forget I ever settled." She straightens and looks at Hector again, open, hungry, shameless. "You don't mind if I talk about you like that in front of my husband."

"Talk all you want," Hector says. His voice rolls through the room. "He should hear it."

Her palm stays on my head, heavy and warm. She wants him. She has wanted him since they met at the gym three months ago, both of them already grown and already sure, and she has been honest with me about every inch of that want. I agreed. I am still agreeing, hard in my pants, waiting for her to decide the night has started.

She does not wait long.

Greta turns, and one of those huge hands finds my chest and walks me backward until my shoulders meet the wall. She does not shove. She does not have to. The pressure is gentle and absolute, the flat of her palm covering my sternum, her forearm a warm bar I could not move if I tried. I try anyway, a small useless push, and she smiles down at me like I have done something adorable.

"Stay," she says.

I stay.

From this angle her body is a landscape. The sports bra strains. Her stomach is ridged and soft at once, muscle under a woman's warmth. Sweatpants sit low enough that I can see the hard cut of her hip. She smells like clean skin and the faint iron of the gym, and when she leans in her breasts rest against the top of my head. I am pinned under her the way a bookmark is pinned in a book.

"You want to hear it," she murmurs. "I can feel you shaking. So listen."

Her free hand slides down her own body, slow, possessive, and she speaks in that low fond voice she uses when she is proud of something she owns.

"Hector's cock is bigger than your forearm. I measured it against my wrist last week while you were in the kitchen making us coffee. Thick enough that my fingers don't meet. Dark, heavy, the head already wet when I just looked at it. When he puts it in me, Benedict, I have to breathe through my mouth. I have to open. He stretches me until I feel it in my stomach, until my pussy has to learn a new shape, and he does not rush. He holds me there and makes me take every inch like I was built for it."

My cock throbs so hard it hurts. She feels the shift in my breathing and laughs, soft, against my hair.

"Your little white cock never did that. It slips in and I barely notice. Sweet. Eager. Useless for anything but reminding me how much more I can take. Hector lasts. He fucks me until my legs shake and then he keeps going, and when he praises me I believe him, because a man that size does not have to lie." She presses a little harder, not cruel, just certain. "Say it. Tell me you know he is better."

"He's better," I whisper. The humiliation is hot and clean. "He's so much better than me."

"Good boy."

The knock is unnecessary. Hector is already in the room, and when he rises from the couch the ceiling seems closer. Greta does not take her hand off me. She only turns her face up, and he comes to her, and she reaches with her free arm and pulls him down into a kiss that happens directly over my head.

I watch their mouths meet. Hers opens. His is slow and sure, one huge dark hand cupping the back of her neck, thumb stroking the hinge of her jaw. The sound is wet and unhurried. Her breasts shift against my scalp. Hector's thigh brushes my shoulder, solid as a wall, and the heat coming off both of them makes the air feel thin. She moans into him, a real sound, the kind she has never made for me, and her fingers flex once against my chest as if to remind me I am still there, still held, still permitted to see.

When they break, a string of spit shines between them for a second and breaks. Greta looks down at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

"You good, little husband?"

"Yes," I say. My voice cracks. "I want this. I want to watch. Please."

Hector's gaze finds mine over the top of her head. His voice is steady. "And you want me to fuck your wife."

"Yes."

"Say it clear."

"I want you to fuck her. I consent. She wants it. We both want it."

Greta's smile is enormous. "Then watch what a real man does to me."

She takes her hand off my chest only so she can use both arms. One slides under my knees, the other behind my back, and she lifts me as if I weigh nothing. My stomach lurches. The apartment tilts. She carries me across the rug, my face tucked briefly against the hard swell of her chest, and sets me in the armchair by the window the way a woman sets down a cat she intends to keep. Her palms brace on the arms of the chair. She leans in until our noses almost touch.

"Hands on the armrests. You do not touch yourself unless I say. You watch. You listen. And when I look at you, you look back."

"Yes, Greta."

"Good." She kisses my forehead, tender, almost maternal, and then she turns.

Hector has already pushed his pants down. What swings free between his thighs makes my mouth go dry. It is as thick as she promised, dark along the shaft, heavier at the head, veins standing under the skin, the whole length curving up as it hardens under her stare. Greta drops to her knees in front of him with a grace that should be impossible for a woman her size. Even kneeling she is tall. Her face comes level with his cock, and she looks at it the way I have seen her look at a weight she is proud to lift.

"God," she breathes. "Look at this. Benedict, look."

I look.

She wraps both hands around the shaft and her fingers still do not meet. She strokes once, slow, from base to crown, and a bead of clear fluid gathers at the slit. She leans in and licks it off with the flat of her tongue, humming, then opens her mouth and takes the head. Her lips stretch. A wet sound fills the room. She works down, inch by inch, jaw flexing, spit shining on her chin, and when she pulls back a strand connects her mouth to him.

"Superior," she says, voice thick. She kisses the underside, open-mouthed, and looks straight at me while she does it. "This is a superior cock. Thick. Heavy. Made to ruin a woman. Your tiny white one could never. I could take yours in my mouth and still talk. This one fills me until I can't think." She sinks down again, deeper, throat working, and Hector's hand settles on the back of her head, not forcing, just resting, huge against her hair. She moans around him and the vibration makes his stomach tighten.

She worships him like that for a long minute. Tongue along the vein. Lips sealed. Both hands twisting what her mouth cannot reach. Praise spills out of her every time she comes up for air.

"So much bigger than my husband's. So much better. I love how you taste. I love how you stretch my jaw. Benedict, do you see how happy this makes me? This is what I needed. A real man's cock in my mouth while my sweet little cuck sits there and learns."

Hector groans, low. "Your mouth is perfect, Greta."

She beams at the praise, flushed, wrecked already, and gives him one last slow suck before she stands. Sweatpants hit the floor. She is bare underneath, pussy flushed and wet, the muscles of her thighs shifting as she climbs onto the couch and straddles him. Hector sits back, hands on her hips, and she reaches between them, lines him up, and sinks.

The sound she makes is not a word. Her whole body opens around him. I watch the thick dark shaft disappear into her, inch by relentless inch, her pussy lips stretching pale around the girth, a shine of wetness already coating him. She has to pause halfway, breathing hard, palms braced on his chest, and even paused she is shaking with how full she is.

"Fuck," she gasps. "Benedict. Look at me. Look at what he does."

I look. I cannot look anywhere else.

She drops the rest of the way and cries out, head tipping back, throat long, breasts straining the sports bra. Hector's hands span her waist. She starts to ride, slow at first, rolling her hips, taking him to the root and lifting until only the head remains, then sinking again with a wet slap. Every descent makes her stomach flex. Every rise shows me how wide he holds her open.

"Cowgirl so you can see," she pants, eyes locked on mine. "So my sweet little cuck can watch his towering wife get stretched on a superior cock. God, Hector, you feel perfect. Thick. So thick. You're destroying my pussy and I love it. I love it."

Hector thrusts up to meet her and she shouts, laughing, wrecked. "That's it. Use me. I'm yours tonight. He's just here to watch his wife get fucked the way she deserves."

She rides harder. The couch creaks. Sweat beads on her collarbones and runs between her breasts. Her praise never stops, aimed at Hector and at me in the same breath, filthy and fond.

"Bigger than anything I've had. Better than my husband could ever be. Look at his face, Hector. He's throbbing in his pants and he isn't allowed to touch. Good boy, Benedict. Stay right there. Watch this superior Black cock ruin me. Feel how small you are. Feel how right this is."

Hector growls something low against her throat, praise of his own, and she shudders at it. Then he shifts. One arm bands around her back. The other hooks under her thigh. He rises with her still speared on him, and she laughs, delighted, arms around his neck, and he carries her three steps to the wide rug and lays her down. He folds her. Her powerful legs go up, knees toward her shoulders, ankles near his ears, and even a woman as strong as Greta yields to that angle because he is simply bigger. He braces over her, a dark wall of muscle, and drives in.

The mating press is obscene. Every thrust sinks him to the base. Her pussy grips and releases, wet sounds sharp in the quiet apartment, her ass lifting off the rug to take him deeper. She is pinned and she is glowing. Her eyes find mine over his shoulder and stay there.

"Sweet little cuck," she moans. "My sweet, devoted little cuck. Do you see? Do you see how perfect his thick superior cock feels destroying my pussy? He's so deep. He's in places you will never reach. I'm so full I can't think of anything but him. Say it. Tell me he's better."

"He's better," I choke out. My hands are white on the armrests. "He's superior. You're perfect like this. I'm your little cuck. I'm yours."

"Yes you are." Her voice breaks on a thrust. "And he's the man who fucks me. Harder, Hector. Fold me. Make me take it. I want my husband to hear what I sound like when a real cock owns me."

Hector fucks her like that, deep and steady and merciless in the best way, and she takes every stroke with her eyes on me, mouth open, praising him, praising me, praising the stretch, the weight, the way she is being ruined and loved at once. Her muscles flex under him and still she cannot throw him off, does not want to. She is stronger than I will ever be and she is gladly conquered, and the sight of it burns through me until I am shaking in the chair, obedient, aching, exactly where she put me.

Hector's rhythm breaks. His hips slam flush and stay there, and a rough sound tears out of him as he floods her. Greta feels it and arches, a full-body tremor, her pussy clenching around the thick pulse of him.

"Hector," she moans, wrecked and grateful. "Yes. Fill me. Thank you. Thank you for being the real man of this house. Give it to me. All of it."

He does. I watch his cock throb inside her, watch the excess cream already shining at the seal of their bodies, and she holds him there with her powerful legs and thanks him again, voice gone soft with it, while I sit exactly where she left me and burn.

He pulls out slow. A thick white rush follows, spilling over her swollen pussy and down toward the rug. She reaches for me without looking away from the mess.

"Come here."

I go to my knees between her thighs. She pulls my face in with one huge hand, guiding, not forcing past what I already want, and I lick. Salt and her and him, hot and slick, her pussy fluttering under my tongue as I clean what he left. Hector stands over us, spent and enormous, one hand resting on her shoulder. Greta's other hand strokes my hair, slow and loving.

"That's my good boy," she murmurs, mid-glow, voice thick with it. "My devoted little cuckold. Clean your wife. You did so well."