My Wife and Her Bull at Work

Benedict watched his wife finish her coffee in the gray morning light and felt the familiar tightness settle under his ribs. Danielle was twenty-eight, office manager at the downtown firm, and she dressed for work the way a woman dressed when she already knew who would have her before lunch. Charcoal pencil skirt, cream silk blouse, heels that made her calves look longer than they were. At thirty-two, Benedict had stopped pretending the sight didn’t undo him. He had consented to all of it. He supported it. He drove her every morning knowing what the day would ask of him.

Reid was thirty-four, her coworker and her bull, and he had been fucking her openly for months. No secrecy between the three of them. Danielle told Benedict when Reid took her in the supply closet after a late meeting. She told him when Reid bent her over the credenza in his office and came inside her while the rest of the floor filed expense reports. Benedict listened, hard and grateful, and thanked her for letting him hear it. The part he liked most, the part he had asked for, was simpler and filthier: he liked to fluff him. He liked getting Reid thick and wet with his mouth so Danielle could take that cock already throbbing for her.

“You slept badly,” she said, setting the mug in the sink.

“I slept fine.” He held her coat. “I just kept thinking about this morning.”

She turned into the coat and let him settle it on her shoulders. “Reid texted at six. Said he’s been half hard since he woke up, thinking about the lounge. I told him you’d come when I called. He likes your mouth on him first. Says it makes him last longer when he finally gets inside me.”

Heat moved through Benedict’s stomach. He nodded, because that was the truth of their arrangement and he had no wish to soften it. “I’ll be ready.”

The drive downtown was quiet in the way charged things were quiet. Danielle’s perfume—warm citrus, something she only wore on days she intended to be ruined—filled the car. At a red light she rested her hand high on his thigh, not stroking, just claiming. “You’re a good husband,” she said. “You know what I need, and you like preparing it for me. I don’t take that lightly.”

“I know.” His voice came out low. “I want you stretched the way he stretches you. I want to be the one who gets him there.”

She smiled, small and certain, and squeezed once before the light changed. Outside the glass building she leaned across the console and kissed him slowly, coffee and intention on her tongue. “Mid-morning,” she murmured. “Don’t make me wait. And don’t touch yourself before I text. I want you aching when you walk in.”

“I won’t.”

He watched her cross the plaza, heels precise, hips controlled, a married woman going to work beside the man who would fuck her on company time. Somewhere above them Reid was already at his desk, broad-shouldered and patient, the cock Benedict would soon have in his throat. Benedict drove back to the apartment, opened his laptop, and set his phone face-up beside the keyboard. Emails blurred. Every few minutes he checked the screen anyway, already half hard under his pants, already living inside the summons he knew was coming.

The text arrived at ten-seventeen. Lounge. Now. He’s hard and I’m soaked. Don’t keep us waiting.

Benedict was in the car before the screen dimmed. The elevator ride to the executive floor felt too long and too short at once. The private lounge sat at the end of a quiet hall, frosted glass, a lock Danielle had the code for because she managed the floor. He knocked once. She opened the door in her blouse and skirt, cheeks already flushed, and pulled him inside.

Reid stood by the conference table in his dress shirt and slacks, tie loosened, thirty-four and solid, watching Benedict the way a man watched something he had been promised. The bulge in his slacks was obvious, thick and heavy, shifting when he adjusted his stance. Danielle didn’t waste the moment. She caught Benedict by the collar and kissed him hard, tongue deep, the kind of kiss that told him she was already gone for another man and still wanted her husband’s mouth on hers while she got there. Her free hand dropped between them and found Reid’s bulge. She stroked it through the wool, slow and possessive, feeling the shape of him thicken under her palm.

“God, I need this cock today,” she whispered against Benedict’s mouth, loud enough for Reid to hear. “I’ve been wet since I sat down at my desk. He’s so thick, baby. You know how he stretches me. You know your cock doesn’t do that.” She kissed him again, softer, grateful. “And you love getting him ready for me. You love fluffing my bull. That’s why I married you. That’s why this works.”

Benedict’s knees went loose. Reid’s hand settled on Danielle’s hip, casual, already owning the room. “He’s eager,” Reid said, voice low. “Look at him.”

Danielle smiled into the kiss and stroked the bulge again, thumb pressing the head through fabric until Reid exhaled. “He is. My sweet cuckold husband. He drove me here this morning knowing he’d be on his knees before noon.” She pulled back just enough to meet Benedict’s eyes. “Show him. Show me how much you want my bull hard for my pussy.”

Benedict dropped. The carpet was soft under his knees. Danielle’s fingers stayed in his hair for a second, affectionate, then she stepped aside so he could reach the man she had chosen. Reid didn’t rush him. He only widened his stance and looked down, patient and hard, while Benedict’s hands rose to the belt.

Up close the heat of him was immediate. Benedict worked the buckle open, the button, the zipper, and Reid’s slacks sagged. Boxer briefs strained over a heavy, thick length that Benedict already knew by heart—nine inches when it was fully rigid, the kind of cock that made Danielle gasp and go wordless the first time she took it. He mouthed the shape through cotton first, breathing him in, feeling the pulse. Reid’s hand came down and rested on the back of Benedict’s head, not forcing, just steady.

“Take it out,” Danielle said. She had perched on the edge of the conference table, skirt riding, watching with bright, hungry eyes. “I want to see your mouth on him. I want him dripping before he bends me over.”

Benedict peeled the briefs down. Reid’s cock sprang free, thick and darkening, heavy balls drawn close, the head already glossy. Benedict made a soft sound he didn’t try to hide. He loved this. He loved the weight, the smell of clean skin and heat, the way Reid looked at Danielle while Benedict served him. He leaned in and licked the underside from base to tip, slow, then lowered his mouth to the balls. They were full, warm, faintly salt. He sucked one into his mouth, then the other, tongue working the seam, lips soft, devoted. Reid’s breath changed. His cock jumped against Benedict’s cheek, smearing a thin line of precum along the stubble.

“That’s it,” Danielle murmured. “Worship them. Get him heavy for me.”

Benedict did. He licked and sucked until Reid’s thighs tensed, until the cock above his face stood rigid and leaking, a clear bead swelling at the slit and sliding down the shaft. Only then did he rise to it. He took the head into his mouth, tongue circling, tasting the bitter-salt leak, and sank. Inch by inch the thickness filled him. He relaxed his throat the way he had practiced for this exact purpose and took Reid deep, nose brushing trimmed hair, eyes watering, hands braced on Reid’s thighs. Reid groaned, low and pleased.

“Fuck. Your husband’s got a mouth on him.”

Danielle laughed, breathless. “He does. He likes it. Don’t you, Benedict?”

Benedict hummed around the cock and pulled back, spit shining the shaft, then sank again. He set a rhythm—deep, wet, devoted—stroking what he couldn’t swallow with a slick fist, licking the vein when he came up for air, going down until Reid throbbed against his tongue. Precum kept coming, thicker now, and Benedict swallowed it, chased it, licked the head clean and dove again. Reid’s hand tightened in his hair. Danielle slid off the table and stood beside them, one hand on Benedict’s shoulder, the other wrapping the base so she could feel how hard her bull had gotten.

“Look at that,” she said, wonder and filth braided together. “Nine inches, baby. So rigid. You’re leaking all over my husband’s tongue. He’s fluffing you so well. He’s making you perfect for my pussy.”

Reid’s hips rocked once, shallow, testing. Benedict took it, throat flexing, and held until Reid eased him back. The cock left his mouth shining, angry-red at the head, a fresh strand of precum stretching from his lower lip to the slit before it broke. Benedict stayed on his knees, panting, wrecked and hard in his own pants, looking up at the thing he had prepared.

“He’s ready,” he said, voice rough. “Please. Fuck her.”

Danielle kissed the top of his head, tender in the middle of the filth. “Good boy.” Then she turned, bent over the conference table, and reached back to hike her skirt. No panties. She had left them at home. Her pussy was soaked, pink and swollen, glistening in the lounge light, thighs already slick. “Hold my hair,” she told Benedict. “I want you watching while he stretches me. I want you to see what you got him ready to do.”

Benedict rose behind her and gathered her hair in his fist, gentle and firm, the way she liked. Reid stepped in, one hand on her hip, the other guiding that rigid cock to her entrance. He didn’t tease long. He pressed the broad head against her and pushed, slow and relentless, and Danielle’s mouth fell open.

“Oh—God—yes. That’s it. That’s so much thicker than my husband.” She moaned, raw and honest, as Reid sank deeper. “Benedict, look. Look how he opens me. Your cock never does this. Never fills me like this. Fuck, Reid, don’t stop.”

Reid didn’t. He seated himself to the hilt, balls snug against her, and held there while she shook. Benedict watched the stretch, the way her pussy gripped that thick shaft, the shine of her arousal coating Reid where Benedict’s spit already was. Then Reid drew back and drove in again, harder, and the table creaked. Danielle cried out, high and grateful, and Benedict held her hair so her face stayed turned toward the frosted glass, so every moan had somewhere to go.

Reid found a pace—deep doggy, hips snapping, the wet sound of her pussy taking him filling the lounge. Each stroke buried him. Danielle pushed back to meet him, skirt bunched at her waist, blouse twisting, professional clothes ruined in the best way. “Harder,” she gasped. “Pound me. I need it. I need my bull’s cock. Benedict fluffed you so good and now you’re—ah—splitting me open. So much better. So much deeper than he ever gets. Tell him, Reid. Tell my husband how tight I still am for you.”

“She’s perfect,” Reid said, breath rough, slamming in again. “Soaked. Gripping me. Your mouth got me there, Benedict. Now watch me use it.”

Benedict watched. He held her hair and stroked it with his thumb even as Reid fucked her harder, even as her moans turned broken and shameless. “He feels so good,” she chanted. “So thick. My husband can’t stretch me like this. Nobody stretches me like my bull. Don’t you dare come yet, Reid. I want all of it. I want you to fill me on this table where I take meetings.”

Reid’s rhythm stuttered, then deepened. He reached around and rubbed her clit with two fingers, rough and sure, and Danielle came with a sharp, shaking cry, pussy clenching around him, thighs trembling. He didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, wet sounds turning obscene, until she was gasping his name and Benedict’s in the same breath—Reid for the cock, Benedict for the devotion.

“On your back,” Reid said. “I want your legs open when I come in you.”

He pulled out. Danielle whimpered at the loss. Benedict helped her turn, because that was his place, and she went willingly onto the table, blouse open now, breasts bare, skirt still rucked up. Reid caught her ankles and pushed her legs wide, pinning them back, folding her open. Her pussy gaped slightly, pink and used and dripping, and Benedict’s cock throbbed painfully in his pants at the sight of what his mouth had prepared and what Reid had done with it.

Reid lined up and sank back in with one long stroke. Danielle’s head tipped, mouth open, eyes on Benedict. “Watch,” she whispered. “Watch him fuck your wife. Watch him fill the pussy you got him hard for.”

Reid pounded her like that, deep and claiming, the table shifting under them, her breasts bouncing, his heavy balls slapping her ass. Benedict stood at her shoulder, still holding a fistful of her hair, unable to look away from the place they joined—the thick shaft disappearing into her, pulling out shining, driving home again. Danielle kept talking, filthy and adoring. “Better than you. Always better. He owns this pussy when he wants it and you love that. You love fluffing him so he can ruin me at work. Come in me, Reid. Give me your load. I want my husband to see it.”

Reid’s grip on her thighs tightened. His strokes went short and brutal, buried deep, and he groaned as he came, hips locked to hers, pulsing. Danielle felt it and moaned, long and satisfied, one hand reaching blindly for Benedict’s wrist. “He’s filling me. God, there’s so much. Stay right there. Don’t look away.”

Benedict didn’t. He watched Reid empty into his wife, watched the way Danielle’s stomach fluttered, watched a thin line of cum already trying to escape around the thick base. His own control snapped. He had been told not to finish without permission and he did it anyway, one hand shoving into his pants, stroking fast and desperate while Reid was still inside her. He came with a choked sound, spilling into his fist and his underwear, shaking, eyes locked on the creampie being made in front of him.

Reid stayed buried until the last pulse faded. Then he pulled out slowly. Cum followed, thick and white, leaking from Danielle’s well-fucked pussy onto the table. She kept her legs open, chest heaving, a small satisfied smile on her mouth.

“Clean him,” she said, soft and sure. “Then clean me. You came without asking, so you’re going to be thorough.”

Benedict dropped again without argument. Reid stood over him, spent cock shiny with Danielle’s arousal and his own cum, still heavy even soft. Benedict took it into his mouth and licked him clean—shaft, head, the underside, careful and devoted—until Reid sighed and rested a hand on his hair in something almost like thanks. When Reid was clean, Benedict turned to the table.

Danielle spread wider. “All of it,” she murmured. “I want my bull’s load on your tongue.”

He buried his face between her thighs and licked. She was swollen, sensitive, tasting of herself and of Reid, and he worked through it eagerly, tongue broad and then precise, cleaning the crease, sucking gently at her entrance, swallowing what leaked, going back for more until she shivered and petted his hair and told him he was good. When both of them were clean, Reid helped her sit up. The three of them met in the middle of the wrecked lounge—Danielle between them, blouse half open, skirt still a mess—and shared a slow, gentle kiss, mouths trading the taste of what they had just done, no urgency left in it, only the settled heat of an arrangement that worked.

Benedict wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for her blouse. He buttoned it with steady fingers, smoothed the silk, found her heels where they had fallen and slid them back onto her feet. He straightened her skirt, tugged it down over her hips, picked a loose thread from Reid’s collar and fixed the loosened tie. Reid watched him do it, amused and sated, already looking like a man who could walk back to a desk and finish a spreadsheet.

“Thursday,” Danielle said, checking her reflection in the dark screen of the wall monitor, voice casual and already elsewhere. “Client call runs long. The lounge will be empty after four. I want you here again, Benedict. I want you on your knees before he bends me over that same table.” She glanced at Reid, then back at her husband, and the smile that touched her mouth was pure planning. “And next time you’re not allowed to come until I’ve had two. Think about how you’re going to earn that while you drive home.”

Reid chuckled, low. “I’ll text him the time.”

Benedict nodded, already hard again at the thought, already scheming the hour he would leave the apartment, the way he would take Reid deeper, the words he would use to get that cock throbbing faster so Danielle could have exactly what she wanted before the building emptied. He kissed her once more, brief and grateful, and watched the two of them walk out toward their desks, clothes straight, faces composed, his wife and her bull returning to the workday with his mouth still on both of them and Thursday already taking shape in his head.