My Wife Spreads for Bertrand on the Farm

The heat sat on the farm like a hand. By midafternoon the barns held it, the hayloft worst of all, and Selena had stopped pretending she minded. She was twenty-eight, sun-browned from a summer of chores, and she had spent weeks teaching Bertrand exactly where to look.

He was forty-five, broad through the shoulders from years of French farm work and then this American one, gray at the temples, quiet until he wasn't. Victor had hired him for the season and put him in the spare room above the equipment shed. Victor was thirty-two, her husband, lean from the same work, and he had said it plain one night in their bed with the windows open: he got hard thinking about another man watching her. Not a stranger in a bar. Someone who lived on their land. Someone who would have to look at her the next morning over coffee and still want her.

Selena had laughed into his mouth and said she could do that. She had meant it.

So she did. She bent for eggs in a thin tank top with no bra and let the neckline fall. She rinsed her arms at the outdoor spigot and soaked the front of her shirt until her nipples showed dark. She crossed the yard in cutoff shorts that rode up when she climbed the fence, and she never hurried when she knew both men were in the equipment bay. Bertrand never touched her. He looked. His jaw went tight. His hands stayed on whatever tool he held until his knuckles paled. Victor watched both of them and went quiet in a way that meant he was already hard in his work pants.

By the third week the air between the three of them felt like a wire pulled too far. Selena would catch Bertrand's eyes on the slope of her ass and hold them until he had to look away. At supper she passed him the bread and let her fingers brush his. Victor saw every brush. Later, in their room, he would push her onto the mattress and fuck her while he asked what Bertrand had seen that day, and she would tell him, filthy and exact, until he came groaning her name.

This afternoon the loft was an oven. Dust hung in the light that poured through the open barn doors below and climbed the ladder in pale bars. Hay stuck to sweat. Selena had worn a pale sundress and nothing under it, and she had told both men she needed help turning the top bales before the storm the radio promised. They had come. Of course they had come.

Victor stood near the ladder with his shirt open, watching her the way he watched weather, already knowing what it would do. Bertrand was closer to the stacked bales, sleeves rolled, forearms dark with sun and work. He smelled like hay and soap and the faint sharp note of a man who had been lifting since dawn.

"It's too hot to think," Selena said. She hooked her thumbs under the straps of the sundress. "I'm taking this off. If either of you has a problem with that, say it now."

Victor's mouth curved. "No problem."

Bertrand didn't speak. His eyes stayed on her hands.

She drew the dress up and off in one motion and dropped it on a bale. Naked, she was all sun lines and soft curves, breasts full, nipples already tight from the attention more than the air. She climbed onto a wide bale in the center of the loft, in the spill of light from the doors below, and she sat with her knees apart. The hay scratched her thighs. She didn't close them.

"There," she said, looking straight at Bertrand. "Cooler already."

Her hand slid down her stomach. She parted herself with two fingers and let them see how wet she was, the shine of it, the way her cunt opened when she spread. She circled her clit slow, then dipped lower and pushed one finger in, then two, fucking herself in shallow strokes while her other hand cupped a breast and pinched the nipple.

"God," Victor said, low. "Look at her. Look at that pretty pussy. She's been dying for you to see it like this. Haven't you, baby?"

"Yes." Selena's voice shook, but she didn't look away from Bertrand. "Weeks. Every time I bent over I wanted your eyes on me. I wanted you hard in those pants while my husband watched you want me."

Bertrand's breath left him in a rough sound. His hand went to his belt.

Victor stepped closer, not between them, just near enough that his voice carried heat. "Take it out. She wants to see what she's been teasing. I want to see it too. Stroke that cock for my wife."

The farmhand didn't hesitate. He opened his pants and shoved them down his thighs. His cock was thick, heavy, already flushed dark, the head wet. He wrapped a big hand around the shaft and stroked, slow at first, eyes locked on the place where Selena's fingers disappeared into her cunt. She spread wider on the bale, heels braced in the hay, and rubbed her clit in tight circles while she fucked herself deeper.

"That's it," Victor said. "Show him how soaked you get when you're looked at. Tell him."

"I'm dripping," she said. "I can hear it. Bertrand, don't you dare look away. This is for you. Both of you. I want you staring at my pussy while you jerk that thick cock."

Bertrand stroked harder. His French accent roughened the words. "You are shameless. Beautiful. I have wanted this since the first week. Your husband knows."

"He knows," Selena said, gasping as she curled her fingers. "He likes it. He likes me filthy in front of you."

Victor palmed himself through his pants and smiled like a man getting exactly what he had asked for. "On your knees, Selena. You've shown him enough. Now use your mouth."

She slid off the bale, hay clinging to her ass and the backs of her thighs, and dropped to her knees in the dust and scattered stems between Bertrand's boots. The loft doors stood open below them; anyone driving the long lane would have seen the shape of them if they looked up, and the thought made her cunt clench. She took Bertrand's cock in both hands, felt the weight and the heat, and licked the underside from base to tip before she opened her mouth and took him in.

She sucked him messy on purpose. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth and ran down the shaft. She bobbed, cheeks hollowing, then pulled off to slap the wet head against her tongue and tell him how good he tasted. Bertrand's hand settled in her hair, not forcing, just holding, and he groaned when she sank down until her lips met her fist.

"Fuck," Victor said from a few feet away. He had his cock out now, stroking slow, eyes bright. "Look at my wife. Look at that slut mouth on you. She loves an audience. Don't you, baby? Choke on him a little. Let me hear it."

She did. She took him deeper, throat working, a wet gagging sound that made both men curse, then came up gasping, strings of spit connecting her lips to Bertrand's cock. She grinned, wrecked and proud, and went back down, sucking with loud, greedy pulls, one hand rolling his balls, the other braced on his thigh. Bertrand's hips jerked. He was close already, weeks of looking finally given a mouth.

"Not yet," Victor said. "I want to watch you fuck her. Bend her over that bale. Right there, where the light hits. Doors open. Let the whole damn farm see if it wants to."

Selena pulled off with a wet pop and stood on shaking legs. She turned, braced her hands on the bale, and arched her back until her ass was up and her pussy was on display, swollen and shining. She looked over her shoulder at Bertrand, then past him at her husband.

"Yes," she said. "Fuck me. Hard. I want him to see every inch go in."

Bertrand stepped in behind her. The blunt head of his cock nudged her, and she pushed back, impatient. He sank in with one long stroke, thick enough that she cried out, the stretch bright and perfect. He held her hips and started to move, deep and steady, then harder when she begged for it. The hayloft filled with the sound of skin on skin, her moans, his low grunts, Victor's ragged breathing.

"Deeper," she said. "Pound me. I want to feel it tomorrow when I walk past you in the yard."

Bertrand gave it to her. He fucked her in long, punishing strokes that shoved her forward on the bale and dragged her back onto his cock. Her breasts swung. Her cunt gripped him, wet enough that every thrust made a filthy sound. Victor moved to the side so he could see Bertrand's cock disappearing into his wife, see the way her face went slack with it, mouth open, eyes half closed, still watching her husband watch her.

"You're taking him so well," Victor said. "My gorgeous wife, bent over in the barn, getting railed while I stand here with my cock in my hand. You love being seen. Say it."

"I love it," she gasped. "I love you watching. I love his cock. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."

Bertrand didn't. He drove into her until her arms shook and her voice broke into wordless cries. Then he pulled out, turned her, and laid her on her back across the bale. Hay scratched her shoulders. Sun from the open doors striped her stomach and her spread thighs. He hooked her knees over his forearms, opened her wide, and pushed back in.

Missionary in the bright loft, her body fully displayed, nothing hidden. He railed her like that, deep and relentless, the angle hitting something that made her clutch at his arms and moan loud enough to carry down into the empty barn. She didn't try to be quiet. She wanted both men to hear what they were doing to her.

"Yes, yes, fuck, Bertrand, right there. Victor, look at me. Look at how he spreads me. I'm so full. I'm going to come on his cock while you watch."

"Do it," Victor said. He was stroking faster now, eyes fixed on the place where they joined, on her tits bouncing, on the desperate open look on her face. "Come for us. Let him feel it. Let me see it."

She came with a sharp cry, back arching off the hay, cunt pulsing around Bertrand's thickness, thighs trembling in his grip. He fucked her through it, groaning at the squeeze, pace going ragged. She kept moaning, oversensitive and still greedy, telling him not to pull out until he was ready to mark her.

"On me," she said when his rhythm broke. "Pull out. Come on my tits. On my belly. I want it all over me where you can both see."

Bertrand yanked free with a rough sound, stroked twice, and came in heavy ropes across her breasts and stomach. Hot streaks painted her nipples, her ribs, the soft skin below her navel. He kept stroking until the last of it spilled over his fist onto her skin. Selena lay there panting, glazed and shining, legs still spread, not closing them.

Victor groaned and finished in his own hand, spilling onto the hay at his feet, eyes never leaving his wife. The loft smelled like sex and dust and summer.

For a moment none of them moved except to breathe. Then Selena sat up, cum sliding warm down her skin, and crawled the short distance to her husband. She rose onto her knees in front of him, took his face in both hands, and kissed him deep, open-mouthed, so he could taste Bertrand on her tongue. Victor kissed her back like he was starving, one hand in her hair, the other sliding through the mess on her breast, smearing it.

She broke the kiss, turned, and lay back again in the bar of sunlight pouring through the barn doors. She planted her feet and spread her thighs wide, arms loose at her sides, tits and belly glistening with another man's load, pussy still swollen and wet. Both men stood over her and looked. She let them. She wanted them to.

"This isn't a one-time thing," she said, voice hoarse and pleased. "I want afternoons like this. Up here. Doors open. You fucking me while my husband watches, and then I wear it while we all look."

Bertrand's chest rose and fell. Victor's hand found hers in the hay and squeezed.

Selena smiled up at both of them, shameless in the light, and asked, "So whose turn is it to bend me over the bale tomorrow?"