My Wife Fucks Her Hung Italian Ex Boyfriend in Front of Me

The late afternoon light over the Tuscan hills had gone the color of warm honey by the time Fabian turned the rental car up the gravel drive. Paulina sat beside him with the window down, twenty-eight and flushed from the heat, dark hair lifting off her neck, the thin straps of her sundress sliding against sun-warmed shoulders. They had been married three years. He was thirty, an architect who still went a little quiet when she looked at him a certain way, and this vacation had been his idea: stone walls, olive trees, a week with the phones in a drawer. He had not expected the black motorcycle already parked under the cypress, or the man leaning against it with his arms folded, watching them arrive as if the driveway belonged to him.

Paulina went still. Then she laughed, a small startled sound that Fabian felt in his ribs.

"Lorenzo," she said.

The man pushed off the bike. Thirty-two, broad through the chest and shoulders, dark hair pushed back, the kind of build that made a plain white shirt look deliberate. He crossed the gravel without hurrying. When Paulina got out he caught her by the waist and kissed both cheeks, Italian and unhurried, and Fabian saw the way her fingers curled once against Lorenzo's forearm before she remembered herself and stepped back.

"I heard Americans had taken the villa for the week," Lorenzo said. His English was easy, accent thick on the vowels. "I did not know it was you until the agency said the name. I thought I would say hello before I rode back to Florence." His eyes moved to Fabian, assessing and not unfriendly. "You must be the husband."

"Fabian." They shook. Lorenzo's hand was warm and strong. Up close he smelled like sun and leather and a little citrus cologne. Paulina was watching both of them with her lower lip caught between her teeth, and Fabian felt the old private knowledge move through him: she had told him, more than once, in the dark of their bedroom, about the Italian she had dated for a year before they met. Not the polite version. The version that left her voice shaky.

They were not drunk and were not going to be. Fabian poured three small glasses of the local red on the terrace and set the bottle aside after that. The air was still, cicadas starting up in the olives, the villa's open doors showing the long living room beyond, couch and armchair and tiled floor gone gold in the slanting light. Lorenzo took the chair across from them. Paulina sat on the low wall between the two men, bare legs crossed, sundress riding high on her thigh without her fixing it.

"You look good," Lorenzo said to her, plain as a fact. "Better than Florence. Marriage agrees with you."

"It does," she said. She glanced at Fabian, and something in her face asked permission before she even spoke. He gave her the smallest nod. She had always been honest with him about what she wanted, and he had always wanted to hear it. "I told him about you. About us. He likes hearing it."

Lorenzo's eyebrows lifted. He looked at Fabian again, slower this time.

"She still talks about your cock," Fabian said. His voice came out lower than he expected. Heat climbed the back of his neck, but he did not look away. "Says she's never had anything like it. Says she still thinks about it when I'm inside her."

Paulina's breath caught. A flush spread down her throat and into the neckline of the dress. She did not deny it. She turned her glass in her hands and met Lorenzo's eyes with a steadiness that made Fabian's stomach drop in the best way.

"I do," she said. "I fantasize about it. Your cock. How thick it was. How it used to fill me until I couldn't talk. I told Fabian I wanted him to see me with you if we ever got the chance. I didn't think the chance would be a driveway in Tuscany." She wet her lips. "I'm not drunk. Neither is he. I want this with a clear head, if you want it too."

The terrace went very quiet. Lorenzo set his glass down unfinished. His gaze traveled over her mouth, her throat, the place where the sundress gaped, then back to Fabian.

"You want to watch your wife with her ex," he said. Not a question, exactly.

"Yes," Fabian said. "If she wants you. If you want her. I want to see all of it."

Lorenzo leaned back. A slow smile touched his mouth, not cruel, just sure of itself. "Then I should remind her what she is asking for."

He started talking, and he did not soften any of it. He told her, in that low accented voice, how he used to bend her over the little table in his Florence apartment and fuck her until her legs shook. How she used to beg for his cock in the morning before either of them had coffee, climbing into his lap still half asleep and sinking down until she gasped. How thick he was, how she had to work to take him, how he would hold her hips and make her take every inch while she swore and came and swore again. He described the way her pussy used to flutter around him when she was close, the wet sound of it, the way she would look back over her shoulder and tell him harder, Lorenzo, harder, don't you dare be gentle.

Paulina's thighs pressed together. Her nipples had gone tight under the thin cotton. Fabian watched her listen and felt himself harden in his pants, a slow heavy ache. She was not performing for either of them yet. She was remembering, and the memory was written all over her face.

"You used to last for hours," she said, voice gone rough. "You'd pull out when I came and make me wait, then put it back in and start over. I hated you for it. I loved you for it."

"I still could," Lorenzo said. "If your husband keeps sitting there looking at you like that."

She stood. The dress clung to her ass when she moved. She crossed the small space between the wall and Lorenzo's chair and stopped between his knees. For a moment she only looked at Fabian, eyes dark, asking one more time without words. He nodded. Eager. Certain. His pulse was loud in his ears.

Paulina put her hand on Lorenzo's thigh and slid it up. The bulge in his pants was already obscene, a thick ridge straining the fabric, longer and heavier than Fabian had pictured even after all her stories. She stroked it through the cloth, slow, palm cupping the shape of the head, fingers tracing the shaft. Lorenzo exhaled through his nose and did not move to stop her. She did it again, firmer, and a wet spot began to darken the fabric near the tip.

"God," she whispered. "It's even bigger than I remembered." She looked at Fabian while her hand kept working. "Baby. I want him to fuck me. I want you to watch my ex fuck me. Right here. I want his cock in me while you see every second of it. Please. Both of you. Let me be taken like that."

"Yes," Fabian said.

"Inside," Lorenzo said. His hand covered hers for a second, pressing her palm harder against his cock, then he stood. The height of him put her mouth level with his chest. "Living room. He sits where he can see. You do not hide from him."

They left the glasses on the terrace. The living room was open to the evening, tall doors folded back, warm air moving through. Fabian took the armchair facing the couch, the one with the clear line of sight, and sat with his hands on his knees because if he touched himself now he might not last through what was coming. Paulina kicked her sandals off. Lorenzo unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it over the back of the couch, baring a chest and stomach cut from years of real work, not a gym mirror. He opened his belt.

"On your knees," he told her, gentle and absolute. "Show him how you used to worship it."

She sank. The tile was cool under her knees; Fabian saw her shiver once and settle. Lorenzo pushed his pants and briefs down together. His cock swung free, thick as her wrist, long, the head broad and flushed dark, veins standing along the shaft, heavy balls drawn up already. It was the kind of cock that rearranged a room. Paulina made a small broken sound and wrapped both hands around it, and even then her fingers did not meet.

"Look at your husband," Lorenzo said.

She did. Eyes locked on Fabian, she leaned in and licked a slow stripe from the base to the head, tongue flat, savoring. Then she opened her mouth and took him in. Her lips stretched. She had to angle her head and breathe through her nose, and still she only got halfway before the head bumped the back of her throat and her eyes watered. She pulled off, a string of spit connecting her lower lip to the swollen tip, and smiled at Fabian like she was proud of the mess.

"Watch me," she said. "I want you to see how much I missed this."

She went back down. Deeper this time, hands twisting what her mouth could not reach, cheeks hollowing, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet villa. Lorenzo's hand settled in her hair, not forcing, just holding, guiding her into a rhythm. His hips rocked in small thrusts. Paulina moaned around him and kept her eyes up, glassy and devoted, staring at her husband while she sucked her ex-boyfriend's enormous cock like she had been starving for it. Spit slicked her chin. Her sundress strap slipped off one shoulder. Fabian gripped the arms of the chair and felt his own cock throb painfully against his zipper.

"Enough," Lorenzo said at last, voice strained. He eased her off. Her mouth was swollen, lipstick gone, chin shining. "I want to be inside you when I come. Take the dress off. I want him to see all of you."

She stood and pulled the sundress over her head. No bra. Small breasts, nipples dark and tight, a pair of pale panties already soaked through at the center. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down, stepping out, and Fabian saw the gleam of her pussy, shaved smooth the way she liked on vacation, lips swollen and slick. Lorenzo sat on the couch and stroked himself once, slow, spreading her spit along that thick shaft.

"Reverse," he said. "On me. Face him. I want him to watch your pussy take it."

Paulina climbed into his lap with her back to his chest, knees spread wide on the cushions, facing the armchair. Fabian had the perfect view: her stomach, her breasts, the flushed pout of her cunt hovering over the broad head of Lorenzo's cock. She reached down between her legs, lined him up, and sank.

The stretch was visible. Her pussy lips parted around the head, struggling, then yielded. She gasped, a sharp high sound, and stopped with only the tip inside, thighs trembling.

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck, it's so thick." She looked straight at Fabian. "Baby, look. Look at me taking him."

"I'm looking," Fabian said. His voice shook. "Take more. I want to see all of it."

She bore down. Inch by inch that huge cock disappeared into her, her cunt stretching obscenely around the shaft, a thin shine of wetness coating him as she lowered. Halfway she had to pause, breathing hard, one hand braced on Lorenzo's knee. He held her hips and did not rush her. When she finally sat fully, ass flush to his lap, a broken moan tore out of her and her head fell back against his shoulder.

"Full," she panted. "God, I'm so full. Fabian, he's so deep. I can feel him in my stomach."

She started to move. Reverse cowgirl, slow at first, lifting until the thick ridge of the head tugged at her entrance, then dropping back down with a wet slap. Each stroke showed Fabian everything: the way her pussy clung, pink and stretched thin around the dark shaft, the way her clit stood out swollen when she ground down, the flutter of her stomach when Lorenzo thrust up to meet her. Her breasts bounced. She kept her eyes on her husband as long as she could, mouth open, saying his name and Lorenzo's in the same breath.

"You see this?" Lorenzo murmured against her ear, loud enough for Fabian to hear. "Your wife loves my cock. She always did. Look how greedy her pussy is."

"I love it," Paulina gasped. "I love it, I love being watched, don't stop, don't you dare stop."

She rode him harder. The couch creaked. Wet sounds filled the room, filthy and rhythmic. Fabian finally opened his pants and took his cock out, not as long, not nearly as thick, and stroked himself in time with her hips. She saw him and smiled, wrecked and radiant, and reached down to rub her clit while she bounced. The orgasm hit her fast. She cried out, thighs clamping, pussy clenching visibly around Lorenzo's shaft, a rush of wetness slicking him further. She shook through it and did not climb off.

"Again," Lorenzo said. "But not like this. I want to fuck you properly."

He lifted her off. His cock slid out glistening, huge and angry-red, her arousal coating every inch. Paulina whimpered at the emptiness. He turned her, bent her over the arm of the couch so her chest pressed to the cushion and her ass lifted, and stepped in behind her. From the armchair Fabian could see her face turned toward him, hair stuck to her cheek, and the obscene view of Lorenzo lining that thick head up with her soaked cunt.

"Tell him," Lorenzo said.

"Fuck me," she said, staring at Fabian. "Fuck me hard. I want my husband to watch you rail me. I want him to see what you do to me."

Lorenzo drove in. One long stroke, all the way, and Paulina's mouth fell open in a silent shout before the sound caught up, a raw moan aimed straight at Fabian. Lorenzo set a punishing pace. His hips snapped, balls slapping her clit, hands gripping her waist hard enough to leave marks she would find tomorrow and touch when she remembered. The couch jolted with every thrust. Her breasts swayed. She braced her forearms and pushed back to meet him, greedy, shameless, moaning Fabian's name and then Lorenzo's and then just wordless filthy sound.

"Look at him," Lorenzo growled. "Look at your husband while I fuck you. Let him see how you take a real cock."

"I'm looking," she sobbed, eyes locked on Fabian, pleasure wrecking her face. "Baby, he's so deep, he's fucking me so hard, I can't, I can't, oh God, don't look away, please don't look away."

Fabian did not look away. He stroked himself slow, aching, mesmerized by the sight of his wife bent over and pounded by her hung Italian ex, her pussy stretched wide around that thick shaft, arousal dripping down her thighs onto the tile. She came again like that, harder, crying out directly at him, body jolting, and Lorenzo did not slow. He fucked her through it, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the open room, until his rhythm finally broke.

"I'm close," he said, rough. "Where."

"On me," Paulina gasped. "My tits. My face. I want Fabian to see it. I want him to see you come on me."

Lorenzo pulled out. She turned, dropped to her knees between the couch and the chair, and held her breasts up, eyes flying to her husband's and staying there. Lorenzo stroked that huge cock twice, three times, and came with a low groan. Thick ropes of cum striped her tits, hot and heavy, then another across her collarbone, then a final pulse that landed on her cheek and her parted lips. She did not flinch. She held Fabian's gaze through all of it, glowing, spent, marked, a small smile trembling at the corner of her mouth while Lorenzo's cum slid down her skin.

For a moment the only sound was breathing. Lorenzo stepped back, chest heaving, and braced a hand on the couch. Paulina stayed on her knees, shining, then crawled the short distance to the armchair. Cum still on her lips, on her cheek, streaked across her breasts. She rose between Fabian's knees, took his face in both hands, and kissed him deeply. He tasted salt and her and the faint bitter edge of another man, and he kissed her back like he was starving. His cock jumped against her stomach. She pulled away just far enough to whisper against his mouth.

"I loved it," she said. "I loved you watching. I loved every second of being fucked in front of you."

Fabian rested his forehead against hers. Lorenzo watched them from the couch, spent and quiet, the evening air cooling the sweat on all three of them. The memory was already burned in, permanent, bright as the last of the Tuscan light on Paulina's skin.