My Wife Fucked Our Roommate

I am Tobias, thirty-two, an accountant who spends his days making other people's numbers behave. At home the only number that has kept me up is the six years I have been married to Monica. She is twenty-nine, quick and warm and still able to stop me mid-sentence just by crossing a room, and for most of those six years we have fed each other the same fantasy until it stopped sounding like dirty talk and started sounding like a plan. I wanted to watch her with another man. She wanted to be watched while she took him. We said it in the dark until the words were worn smooth.

The chance arrived as Julius. He is twenty-eight, a coworker I trust, and a divorce had left him with boxes, a broken lease, and the look of a man tired of starting over on other people's couches. We had a spare room in the apartment. I brought it up one night while Monica was still flushed from riding me, and she went quiet, then smiled the smile that means she has already agreed. We offered. He said yes like he could not believe his luck. He moved in on a Sunday with two suitcases, and from the moment his shoes were by our door I knew the fantasy was not going to stay in the bedroom.

I told her to flirt with him in front of me, where I could see every glance and decide how far it went. She kissed me in the kitchen before he finished unpacking and said she had been waiting for me to ask out loud. That first week the three of us lived inside a slow, delicious tension every time we shared a room. In the living room she sat close enough that her knee rested against his, and she laughed longer than his jokes required. In the kitchen she reached past him for a mug and let her breast brush his arm, then looked over his shoulder to make sure I had caught it. I always had. Every small nod I gave her made her bolder, and Julius felt the current. He tried, at first, to stay the polite houseguest. By the time his boxes were unpacked, ordinary evenings already felt like the start of something none of us was willing to name, and I sat in my chair hard and quiet, watching my wife test the edges of what I had asked her to do.

Over the next several weeks the flirtation grew teeth. Monica stopped dressing for company and started dressing for the fantasy we had agreed to feed. Thin tank tops with no bra, her nipples showing when the air turned cool. Short cotton shorts that rode up when she bent to load the dishwasher. One night she came out of the bathroom in panties and one of my old button-downs left open, and she stood in the kitchen doorway asking Julius if he wanted anything from the fridge while the shirt slipped off one shoulder. I watched his eyes drop and stick. His cock thickened against his sweatpants until the outline of him was unmistakable, and Monica smiled like she had been waiting for proof.

She teased him about those erections without lowering her voice. If he shifted on the couch and the shape of him showed, she would glance down and say that he was going to hurt himself if he kept getting hard every time she walked past. Julius flushed and looked at me. I told him she was allowed to notice and allowed to enjoy what she was doing to him. After that he stopped hiding. In the kitchen she pressed her ass back against him at the stove and asked whether he was always that thick or whether she was the reason. On the couch she draped her bare thighs across his lap and traced him through the fabric with one idle finger while a show played that none of us were watching. We were three adults circling a line, and every evening the line got thinner.

It broke open on a Friday. No guests, no plans, just the low lamp and the three of us in the living room. Monica wore a short black slip and nothing under it, and Julius could not keep his eyes off the tops of her thighs. I looked at both of them and said it plain, so there would be no mistaking it later. I wanted to watch. I wanted Julius to fuck my wife, and I wanted to be in the room for every second, and I was telling them both because this was something we were choosing with our eyes open. Monica's breath caught. She turned to Julius and waited. He looked at me, breathing hard, and asked if I was sure. I told him I had never been more sure of anything in six years of marriage.

She crossed the rug and climbed into his lap on the couch. The kiss was not a test. It was deep and open, her hands fisted in his hair, his palms sliding up under the slip to grip her bare ass and drag her down onto the hard line of his cock. She moaned into his mouth and rolled her hips, grinding, and he groaned like the weeks had finally snapped. I opened my pants in the chair across from them. My cock came out already wet at the tip, and I wrapped my fist around it and stroked while I watched my wife kiss our roommate like she meant to ruin us. They kissed until she was panting against his jaw and the last of the pretense had burned clean off.

Monica broke the kiss and slid to her knees between his spread thighs. She looked at me and held my eyes while she opened his belt, shoved his pants down, and freed his cock. Julius was bigger than me. Thicker, longer, the head flushed and already shining, and there was no polite way around it. Monica's mouth curved, slow and filthy, and she said my name so I would know the smile was mine even as she leaned in. Then she opened her lips and took him in.

She gave him a sloppy, enthusiastic blowjob and she did it with her attention split between his cock and my face. Spit gathered fast. She bobbed, messy and eager, tongue working the underside, then pulled off to lick him from base to tip with wet, obscene sounds that filled the living room. Saliva strung from her lip to the head of him whenever she came up for air. She stroked what she could not swallow and went back down, greedy, letting spit run over her fist. Whenever she could, she looked up and found my eyes in the chair across from them. I stroked myself in time with her mouth, fist tight, watching my wife take our roommate and feeling nothing but hot pride. Julius groaned and settled a hand in her hair, guiding, not forcing, and she let him. She took him deeper, gagged softly, and came up gasping, chin wet, still looking at me.

She said, voice rough, that she needed him inside her. I told her to have him. I told her I wanted to see every inch go in. Julius hauled her up, turned her, and bent her over the arm of the couch. The slip flipped up. Her pussy was swollen and shining, and she pushed back toward him without being asked. He gripped her hips, notched himself against her, looked at me once more, and drove in. Monica cried out, shocked and grateful, and shoved back to take the rest of him. He fucked her hard. Hips snapping, the wet slap of his body against her ass filling the room, the couch creaking under them. She turned her face toward me and moaned that he was bigger than her husband. She said it again, filthy and clear, voice breaking on the thrusts. Julius was stretching her more than I ever had. She could feel every inch. She loved how full he made her while I sat there with my cock in my hand and watched. I jerked faster, close already, and forced my hand to slow. I was not finishing before I had seen the rest.

She gasped that she wanted the bed. We moved down the hall in a rush, Julius still hard and shining with her, Monica pulling him by the wrist, me following with my fist still working. In the bedroom she climbed onto the mattress and lay back, slip bunched at her ribs, knees open. I dragged the chair to the foot of the bed and sat, stroking, while Julius settled between her thighs.

He pushed into her in one long stroke. Missionary, his weight on his forearms, her legs locked around his hips, his cock disappearing into my wife over and over while she looked past his shoulder at me. She told him to go deeper. She told me she could see my hand. She said she wanted me to watch her take every inch, and she did not look away when he bottomed out and ground against her until she shook. He fucked her in heavy strokes, then faster, the headboard tapping the wall, her voice going thin and high. She clutched his shoulders and told me not to look away, and I did not. My hand never stopped.

When she pushed at his chest he rolled onto his back, and she climbed on, settling into cowgirl. She sank down onto his cock with a broken moan, hands braced on his stomach, and started to ride. Slow at first, feeling the stretch, then harder, lifting and dropping, taking him deep. Her breasts bounced under the slip. The wet sound of her pussy taking him was loud in the quiet room. Julius gripped her hips and thrust up to meet her, and from the chair I could see the way she spread around him, the shine of her on his shaft, the tremble in her thighs. She locked eyes with me and rode him like the permission I had given her was the only thing she had been waiting for. She told me he felt huge. She told me she was going to come on his cock. She did, crying out, clenching, riding through it while he held her down and fucked up into the spasm.

Julius warned her, voice cracking. Monica did not climb off. She ground down, took him to the root, and told him to come inside her. She told him she wanted to be filled. She looked at me and told me to watch. He grabbed her ass, slammed up into her, and came with a loud, raw groan, hips jerking, pumping her full while she gasped and stayed seated and took every pulse of it. I could see his cock throbbing inside her. A trickle of his cum already leaked out around her and ran down onto him. My own orgasm hit while I watched that creampie finish, thick stripes spilling over my fist, my eyes locked on my wife stuffed full of our roommate. She watched me come. She smiled like she had become exactly what we had always said she would be, and she did not look away until I was spent and shaking in the chair.

Afterward Monica was glowing, thoroughly satisfied, a softness on her swollen mouth I had never seen quite like that. She climbed off Julius carefully. His cum slipped out of her and down her thigh. She crawled across the bed to me and kissed me deeply, messy and grateful. While her tongue moved against mine I slid two fingers into her pussy. She was open, soaked, full of him. I curled my fingers and felt the warmth of his load, and she moaned into the kiss. She pulled back just far enough to whisper that she loved being my hotwife, that she loved that I had watched, that she was not done.

Julius shifted closer, spent and quiet, and the three of us settled on the bed together, my arm around Monica, her hand on his chest. Nobody rushed to clean up. In low voices we were already scheming the next time. Monica said she wanted him to take her Wednesday, bent over the kitchen counter, with me sitting close so I would not miss a thrust. Julius said he could be home by six. I held my wife close, fingers still wet with both of them, and told them we would make Wednesday worth the wait. She was already planning it against my throat.