Sharing My Wife With Her Well Hung Boyfriend

I had been waiting on the couch so long that the ice in my glass had gone to water, and I still could not make myself get up and dump it. The apartment was dim except for the lamp by the window. Outside, the street was ordinary, people walking dogs, a bus sighing at the corner. Inside, my pulse would not settle.

My name is Otto. I am thirty-two. I design load-bearing frames for mid-rise buildings, the kind of work where a missed calculation shows up years later, so I have spent my adult life being careful. Simone is twenty-eight, my wife of four years, and the least careful beautiful thing I have ever been given. She runs a small studio that plants courtyards and rooftops for people who can afford both, and she comes home with dirt under her nails and stories about soil. We are happy. I need that said before the rest of it, because the rest of it only makes sense if the happiness is real. I love her. She loves me. Nothing about tonight was a punishment or a hole in the marriage. It was a door we had both been standing in front of for months.

Errol was twenty-six. He ran the line at a downtown kitchen that always had a wait, and Simone had met him at a vendor tasting in the spring. She told me the same night, the way we had promised each other we would. She sat on the edge of the tub while I brushed my teeth and said his name like she was testing the shape of it. I asked what he looked like. She told me. I asked whether she wanted to see him again. She said yes, if I meant it. I meant it. I told her to go.

She went. She kept going. And she came home every time and put her mouth against my ear and told me what he had done to her, in the kind of detail that left me hard and shaking and grateful. How long he was. How thick. How she had to go slow at first or she couldn't take him. How she came with her knees locked around his hips and her voice gone. I would fuck her while she talked, and she would hold my face and say she loved that I wanted to hear it, that she had never felt so married as she did when she was describing another man's cock to me.

Two weeks ago I told her I didn't want the stories anymore. I wanted the room. I wanted to watch him fuck her, and I wanted, if they would have me, to be in it. Simone had gone quiet in that way she gets when something matters. Then she had kissed me until I forgot the rest of the sentence, and in the morning she called him from the kitchen while I stood in the doorway and listened. Errol said yes before she finished asking. He said he had been hoping she would want him in our bed, not just in hers when I wasn't there.

Tonight he was late by eleven minutes. I knew because I had been counting.

The buzzer went. Simone came out of the bedroom in a black slip that stopped high on her thighs, barefoot, her dark hair still damp at the ends from the shower. She looked at me, and the look was a question she had already heard me answer a dozen times. I nodded. She opened the door.

Errol filled the frame. Tall, broad through the shoulders from years of lifting stock pots, a short beard, a clean shirt rolled at the sleeves. He smelled like citrus soap and the cold from outside. He was twenty-six and he looked it, young in the face, steady in the way he stood. He shook my hand first. His grip was dry and firm, not a performance.

"Otto," he said. "Good to finally be here like this."

"Come in," I said. My voice held. "She's been waiting. So have I."

Simone rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek, then turned and kissed me on the mouth, brief and warm, a reminder of whose wife she was before she became the woman we were both about to have. We sat. She took the middle of the couch. I took one end. Errol took the other. For a minute nobody touched anybody, and the minute was the loudest thing in the room.

"Tell him," I said. I didn't plan the words. They came out low. "Tell me what you've been telling me for months. Say it where he can hear you say it."

Simone's mouth curved. She drew one knee up, the slip riding, and she looked at Errol and then at me, and she did not rush.

"He's big," she said. "You know that. I've said it. But sitting here with both of you, I want you to hear how it actually feels, Otto. When he pushes in, I have to open my mouth and breathe, because the head alone is enough to make my whole body go tight. He's thick all the way down. My fingers don't meet when I hold him. The first few strokes I just take the tip, rocking, getting wetter, and he stays still for me because he knows if he drives it I won't be able to talk afterward. When I can take more, he gives it to me inch by inch. I feel him in my stomach. I feel the stretch in my cunt like a burn that turns sweet, and I drip down him until the base is slick. He fucks me deep and slow until I beg, and then he fucks me hard, and I come so hard I cry. I have cried on his cock, Otto. More than once. And every time I came home and climbed on you, I was still open from him. You felt it. You liked it."

I had. My cock was already straining against my pants, an obvious ridge, and I didn't bother to hide it. Errol's eyes had gone dark. He was watching her mouth.

"She takes it better every time," he said. His voice was rough and respectful at once. "She asks for it. She tells me when to go harder. I don't do anything she doesn't want."

"I want all of it," Simone said. She turned toward him. "I want him to see what you do to me. I want him close enough to watch his wife's cunt swallow that cock. And I want him in it. We've talked. I'm saying it again so it's in the room. Yes. From both of you. All night, if you can stand it."

"Yes," Errol said.

"Yes," I said. My hand had found my cock through the cloth without my deciding to put it there. I squeezed once, shameless. "Please. I've been half hard for months imagining it."

She laughed, soft, and then she stopped laughing. She reached for Errol's jaw and pulled him in.

The kiss was not polite. She opened her mouth on his and made a sound I knew, the same sound she made when I got my tongue in her and she stopped pretending she could wait. Errol's hand came up and cupped the back of her neck. His other hand settled on her bare thigh, high, thumb stroking the inside. I watched her slip ride up. I watched his fingers disappear under the hem and stay there, not moving fast, just holding the heat of her. Simone kissed him like she had been starving, and she did it with her eyes open for a second, finding me, making sure I was looking.

I was looking. I unzipped. The sound was loud in the quiet. I took my cock out and stroked it slow, precome already slicking my fist, and I did not look away from my wife's mouth on another man's.

"God," I said. "Simone. Don't stop. Let me see you want him."

She broke the kiss only far enough to speak against his lips. "He's stroking his cock for us. Look."

Errol looked. He didn't smirk. He nodded once, like a man being shown something he had been invited to see, and then he kissed her again, deeper, one hand sliding fully under the slip. Simone's hips rolled. A wet sound followed, small and filthy, his fingers finding her.

"She's soaked," he said to me, not taking his eyes off her face. "She's been soaked since I walked in."

"Please," I said. The word came out broken. I stroked harder. "I need to be in this. I need to touch her while you touch her. I need to watch you fuck her and I need to fuck her too. I'm begging you both. Don't make me only watch. Let me have her with you."

Simone turned her head, lips swollen, and the look she gave me was so full of love and filth that my hand stuttered on my cock.

"Bedroom," she said. "Now. Both of you. I want you on your feet where I can get my mouth on you."

We went. The lamp stayed on in the living room. In the bedroom she had already turned down the sheets and left the bedside light low and warm. She stood between us at the foot of the bed and pulled the slip over her head. Under it she wore nothing. Her body was the body I had memorized and still stared at: full breasts, soft waist, hips I fit my hands to every night, a dark trimmed patch above a cunt I could see shining even in the low light. She was twenty-eight and utterly grown, a woman who knew what she wanted and was already reaching for it.

"Clothes off," she said. "I want to see what I'm working with. Both of you."

I stripped. Errol did too, unhurried, folding nothing. When his pants came down I understood, in my body and not just in her stories, why she had talked about him the way she had.

He was enormous. Long, thick, heavy even half-hard, the head broad and flushed, a vein running the underside that made my own cock look almost modest beside it. I am not small. I have never been embarrassed in a locker room. Next to Errol I was simply not that. Simone looked at him the way she looked at a view she never got tired of, and then she looked at me, and the heat in her face didn't dim. She wanted both. That was the whole point, and seeing it written on her made my chest ache in the best way.

"On your knees, then," I said, and my voice shook with how much I meant it. "If you still want to."

"I want to," she said, and she sank.

The carpet was soft under her. She took my cock in one hand and Errol's in the other, and for a moment she just held us, comparing the weight, her breath already quick. Then she leaned in and licked me from base to tip, slow, eyes up, the way she does when she wants me to feel chosen. I groaned. She took me into her mouth, warm and wet, cheeks hollowing, and she sucked me with real hunger for a dozen strokes before she pulled off with a wet sound and turned her head.

Errol's cock filled her hand and then her mouth, and she had to open wider. She got the head in, then another inch, then she had to pause and breathe through her nose, spit already shining on her lip. She worked him with her tongue, lavishing the ridge, kissing down the shaft, licking the heavy vein, coming back up to suck what she could while her fist pumped what she couldn't. She moaned around him. The sound went straight through me.

She alternated. My cock, then his. Mine she could take deeper, into her throat for a few seconds at a time, swallowing, eyes watering, proud of it. His she worshipped. She spit on the head and spread it with her tongue. She sucked the tip and stroked the thick length with both hands, twisting, and she looked up at me while she did it so I would see how much of him she couldn't fit.

"Watch," she said, pulling off, a string of spit connecting her lip to his cock. "Watch how I have to work for it. I love this cock. I love yours too. I love having both of you hard for my mouth."

I crouched closer, the way she had wanted, close enough that I could see the stretch of her lips around him, close enough to smell her shampoo and the salt of skin. I stroked myself while she sucked him. Errol's hand rested in her hair, not forcing, just there, and he watched her with his jaw tight and his breath rough.

"You're incredible," he told her. "Take what you can. That's it. Look at your husband while you do it."

She did. She looked at me with Errol's cock sliding over her tongue, and I thought I might come from the sight alone. I didn't. I held on. When she came back to me she sucked me sloppy and grateful, murmuring around my shaft that she wanted me in her soon, that she wanted him in her now, that she needed to be fucked where I could see every inch.

"Bed," Errol said. His voice had gone ragged. "I want you on me. I want him to see it."

She climbed up. Errol lay back against the pillows, cock standing thick and wet from her mouth, and Simone swung a leg over him facing his feet. Reverse. She looked back over her shoulder at me, hair falling, and she reached down and lined him up.

"Come here," she said. "Right here. I want you close enough to see him go in."

I knelt on the mattress at Errol's feet, between the spread of her knees and his, so close my breath hit her thigh. She sank.

The head pushed at her, broad and shining, and her cunt resisted for a heartbeat and then yielded. She gasped, high and honest, and took him an inch, then another. I watched her lips stretch around that girth, pink and gleaming, gripping him so tight I could see the strain. She rocked, working herself down, pausing when it was too much, breathing, then taking more. Spit and her own wetness made it filthy and gorgeous. Halfway she whimpered.

"Otto. Look. Look at me taking him."

"I see you," I said. My hand was on her hip. My other hand was on my cock. "God, Simone. You're opening around him. You're so wet it's running down his shaft. Take it. Take all of him for me."

She did. She sat back until her ass met his hips and that enormous cock was buried, and the sound she made was almost a sob. Errol's hands came up and held her waist, steady, not thrusting yet.

"You good?" he asked.

"So good," she said. "Don't move for a second. Let him see it. Let him see how full I am."

I leaned in. I could see where they joined, her cunt flushed and stretched wide around the base of him, her clit swollen above it. I touched her there with two fingers, light, and she jerked and moaned. I rubbed slow circles while she adjusted, and when she started to move I kept my hand on her so she would have something to grind against.

She rode him. Reverse, back arched, ass rolling, lifting until I could see inch after inch of his cock sliding out of her, shining, and then sinking back down until he disappeared again. The wet sounds were obscene. She talked the whole time, broken and loud.

"He's so deep. Otto, he's so deep I can feel him in my throat. Watch him fuck your wife. Watch this big cock stretch me. I love it. I love you watching. I love you. Harder, Errol. Fuck up into me. Let him see you use me."

Errol thrust up. The slap of his hips against her ass filled the room. Her breasts bounced. I kept my fingers on her clit and watched his cock piston into her, thick and relentless, her cunt clinging every time he pulled back. She came the first time like that, sudden, crying out my name and then his, thighs shaking, pulsing around him so hard he had to grit his teeth and hold still while she clenched.

"Again," she gasped, still coming down. "Don't stop. I want more. I want both of you. Otto, get behind me. I want your cock in me while I suck him. I want to be full at both ends. Please. I'm asking. I want it."

Errol eased out. The sight of her gaping for a second, wet and used and eager, nearly finished me. She got on her hands and knees in the middle of the bed, ass up, and looked back at me with her mouth already open.

"Fuck me," she said. "And give him my mouth."

I knelt behind her. Errol knelt in front. I slid into her in one long stroke, and she was so open and so slick from him that I sank to the root and groaned into her shoulder. She felt incredible, swollen, hot, still fluttering from the orgasm. I gripped her hips and started to fuck her, deep and steady, the way she likes when she's already come once and wants to be taken.

Errol fed her his cock. She opened wide and took the head, then more, spit spilling, and she pushed forward onto him while I pushed into her from behind. A spit-roast. My wife, happily married to me, on her hands and knees in our bed, stuffed at both ends by her husband and her boyfriend, and moaning like she had been made for it.

We found a rhythm. When I thrust in, she rocked forward onto Errol's cock. When I pulled back, she came off him just enough to breathe and then swallowed him again. The bed creaked. Skin slapped. She was loud around him, gagging sweetly and then sucking harder, drool shining on her chin and on his shaft. Sweat gathered at the small of her back. I licked it. I fucked her harder.

"Look at you," I said. "Taking both of us. My perfect wife. His perfect slut. You wanted this cock and you wanted me to see, and now you've got us both buried in you. You feel how hard I am? That's from watching him stretch you. That's from watching you choke on him."

She pulled off Errol long enough to speak, voice wrecked, eyes wet, smiling.

"Yes. Use me. Both of you. Fuck my cunt, Otto. Fuck my throat, Errol. I want to be messy. I want to come again with both of you in me. Don't be gentle. I can take it. I want it. I'm saying yes. Harder."

Errol groaned and slid back into her mouth. I drove into her, hips snapping, one hand fisted gently in her hair so I could feel the motion of her sucking him. We were all sweating. The room smelled like sex and her perfume and the clean soap Errol had walked in with. She came again, harder, a long broken wail muffled by his cock, her cunt clamping down on me so tight I had to slow or I would have spilled right then. I didn't. I worked her through it, grinding deep, telling her she was good, she was ours, she was doing so well.

When she could speak she begged.

"Cum in me," she said, pulling off, gasping, then licking the head of Errol's cock like she couldn't stand to be away from it. "Please. I want it. I want your cum, both of you. Otto, fill my pussy. Errol, I want it in my mouth. I want to taste you while my husband comes inside me. Please. I'm begging. Give it to me. I've been good. I've taken every inch. Cum for me. Cum in your wife. Cum in my mouth. I need it. I need both loads. Please, please, please."

That undid the last of my control. I fucked her in short, deep strokes, watching Errol's cock slide over her tongue, watching her ass ripple every time I bottomed out. Errol's hand tightened in her hair. His thighs flexed.

"I'm close," he said. "Simone. You want it?"

She nodded with her mouth full and moaned yes around him, the vibration making him curse. He came with a rough shout, hips jerking, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed what she could and let the rest spill over her lip, thick and white, dripping onto the sheet and onto her chin. She kept sucking, milking him, eyes half-closed, greedy.

The sight of my wife swallowing another man's cum while I was buried in her snapped the thread. I slammed in and stayed there and came hard, pulse after pulse, flooding her cunt, groaning her name into the sweat of her back. She came with me, a third time, or a fourth, I couldn't count, sobbing around Errol's softening cock, pushing back onto me to take every drop.

We stayed like that, shaking, until our arms gave out.

I eased out of her. Errol slipped from her mouth. Simone collapsed onto her side and we followed, the three of us tangling in the ruined sheets, breathless and slick. My cum leaked from her onto Errol's thigh. His cum shone on her lips. She looked wrecked and radiant, twenty-eight and glowing, a woman who had gotten exactly what she asked for.

I kissed her. Tender, slow, tasting salt and him and her, not caring. She kissed me back and made a small happy sound against my mouth. Errol's hand rested on her thigh, stroking, lazy and careful, not claiming, just there. She reached down and covered his hand with hers, then found mine with the other and held it against her breast, over her heartbeat.

"That was the first," she said, voice hoarse and soft. "Not the only. I want this again. I want both of you again. If you both still want it."

"I want it," Errol said. He kissed her knee, simple, almost shy after everything. "Whenever you'll have me."

"I want it," I said. I kissed her temple. "You're my wife. I love you. Watching him fuck you and then fucking you myself was the hottest thing I've ever done. I'm not done."

We lay there while our breathing evened out. Her fingers drew idle circles on my wrist. Errol's thumb kept moving on the inside of her thigh, slow, proprietary in the gentlest way. Nobody was in a hurry to get dressed. The bedside light made everything gold.

I was already somewhere else in my head, not away from them, but ahead. Next time I didn't want to wait on the couch counting minutes. I wanted Errol here earlier, wanted dinner first so the wanting had hours to build, wanted Simone in the green dress she wears when she means to be looked at. I wanted her on her back with her legs over my shoulders while Errol knelt by her head and fed her his cock again, slower, so I could watch her face the whole time I fucked her. I wanted a weekend, not a night. I wanted to text him in the morning and put a date on it before the feeling could cool into memory.

Simone turned her face into my neck. "You're thinking," she murmured. "I can feel it."

"Next Friday," I said. I didn't whisper it like a secret. I said it like a plan already half built. "He comes at seven. You wear the green dress and nothing under it. We eat. We don't rush. And then I want you on your back so I can fuck you while you suck him, and I want to watch your face when you come with both of us in you again. Saturday morning too, if he can stay. I'm not wasting this on one night."

Errol's hand paused on her thigh, then resumed, warmer. "I can stay," he said. "Friday. And Saturday. I'll clear it."

Simone smiled against my skin, already plotting with me, her voice low and pleased and certain. "Then Friday," she said. "And I already know what I want you to do to me when the plates are cleared."