Used Wife's Office Gangbang Cleanup

The lock turned at twenty past nine, and Alastair was already on his feet. Katarina came through the door on black stilettos, and the sight of her stopped the air in his lungs. She was twenty-eight, his wife, and tonight she looked used.

The skirt was a short black band that had no business outside a bedroom, riding so high the lower curve of her ass flashed with every step. Her silk blouse hung open to the sternum, lipstick smeared across the collar and the swell of one breast. Mascara had bled in dark streaks beneath her eyes. Her hair was snarled, a wet strand stuck to her cheek. She smelled like a closed room after sex, sweat and musk and a cologne that was not his, and under all of it the thick salt of semen.

His gaze dropped. Cum was dripping down her legs. Thick white ribbons had leaked from under the hem and run in glossy tracks down both inner thighs, some drying tacky, some still wet and slow, catching the hall light as they slid toward the tops of her stockings. A fresh drop broke free and fell onto the hardwood between her heels.

Alastair was thirty-two, and he had never felt so small in his own doorway. The hallway light made every streak on her thighs impossible to pretend away. Petrified. The anger came a second later, hot and stupid, locking his jaw. He could not look away from the mess on her skin, and that was the worst of it. Under the fury his cock was already thickening in his pants, a pulse he hated and could not stop.

"Jesus Christ, Katarina," he said. "What the hell did you do?"

She shut the door with her heel and leaned back against it, thighs parted just enough that another gleam of white showed between them. She looked at his face, then at the ridge straining his pants, and her ruined mouth curved.

"Don't you start," she said, soft and dominant. "Not until you've heard what I let them do."

She crossed to him, heels clicking, the short skirt clinging where it had gone damp. Up close he caught male sweat and the raw reek of cum that had ridden home inside her.

"Barrett was stressed," she said. Barrett was her boss, forty-one, and his name in her mouth made Alastair's stomach drop. "Quarter close. He couldn't think. I locked his office, got on my knees under his desk, and sucked his cock until he stopped shaking." Her voice stayed even, almost kind. "Eager for it. He came down my throat first. Then he hauled me up, bent me over the wood, and impaled me on his desk. Papers on the floor. He held my hips and fucked me like he meant to split me, and I came on him. I came while he filled me."

Heat hit Alastair's face. "You don't get to walk in here and say that like it's nothing. You can't just—"

She didn't let him finish. Her hand shot out and closed around the front of his pants, finding his cock already so hard it ached, thick and trapped and throbbing in her palm. He didn't pull away. She squeezed, and the complaint died in his throat.

"Shut up."

She pulled him in by his cock and kissed him. Her mouth opened over his, and her tongue passed through his lips, slow and filthy, painting the inside of his mouth. He smelled it before the taste fully landed, the salty film of other men's cum still coating her tongue, bitter and thick, mixed with lipstick and skin that was not hers. It flooded him. He should have shoved her off. He didn't. His lips parted wider, and he tasted what she had swallowed and what she had saved for him, slick and nasty, and his cock jumped hard in her fist.

She spoke against his wet mouth. "That was only the start. After Barrett finished in me, he passed me to two more associates before I came home. Cole and Reid. Both in their thirties. Both still in their shirts. Both hard before the door shut. I wanted every second. Cole fucked my mouth while Reid took my cunt, then they switched, then they both came in me, and I thanked them." Her thumb stroked the wet head of his cock through the cloth. "Three men. All of it still in me. And you are so hard you can barely stand."

Alastair made a wounded sound, anger and want knotted so tight he could not pull them apart. She kept her hand on him, owning the argument, and his hips twitched into her grip.

She stepped back and shoved the skirt up to her waist. No panties. The sight tore a sound out of him.

Her pussy was wrecked and full. Swollen, flushed a deep used pink, the lips puffy and parted, unable to close. Cum webbed the slit and clung in strings to the dark hair above it. More welled at her entrance and spilled in a slow white leak over her perineum. She was stretched open. He could see the slack shining rim of her cunt, fucked wider than he had ever left her, inner flesh glistening with spend that was not his. A fat drop gathered and fell onto the toe of her heel.

"Look," she said, holding the skirt high. "Look at the damage. They used me until I couldn't keep it in. This dripping hole is what you get to clean."

She took his hair and guided his head down between her legs. He went. Anger still lived in his face, but his cock was rigid and his mouth was already filthy from her kiss, and he wanted the rest even while he hated wanting it. His knees hit the floor. She planted her heels wide and pulled him in until his nose mashed into sticky heat.

"Clean me up. Every drop. Don't waste any."

The smell was overwhelming, cunt and sweat and three men, sharp and dirty. His tongue dragged up her inner thigh and collected a cooling stripe of semen, bitter and thick. He swallowed because she hummed, pleased, and the shame of swallowing them went straight to his cock.

"In the pussy. Now."

He licked into her. The first stroke parted those swollen lips and came away coated. Cum flooded his mouth, salty and slimy, cut with the sweeter taste of how wet she was for this. He worked desperately, broad strokes over her outer lips, then deeper, swallowing, groaning, letting her rock and smear his chin and cheeks until he shone with it.

"Tongue in. They came deep. You stay until I am empty of them."

He pushed inside her stretched hole and felt how easily he slid, how much was still pooled for him to drink. A fresh gush met him. He groaned into her flesh and kept going, hands locked on her thighs, nose buried, jaw working. She tasted used. She tasted like his wife. He could not stop, and he did not want to.

Her hand found his belt, yanked it open, shoved his pants and boxers down, and closed around his bare cock. He was iron, the head slick, pulsing in her fist. She stroked him slow and cruel while he ate her, thumb circling the crown, spreading the wet he had already made.

"Listen to yourself," she murmured, grinding on his mouth. "You walked in furious, and now you are licking Barrett out of me. Cole. Reid. Three loads in this cunt and you are cleaning them with your tongue like a good little husband. Taste it. Don't you spit a drop."

He whimpered into her. Every lick brought more, thick globs breaking on his tongue, strings stretching from her hole to his lip when she let him breathe and then yanked him back. He sucked her clit until she hissed, then returned to the leaking entrance because that was the damage, the place that would not stay clean. She stroked faster. His hips jerked. The taste, the smell, the wet sounds, the grip on his cock, the knowledge of whose cum he was swallowing, it crashed over him all at once.

He came instantly, all over the floor.

His cock kicked in her fist and he spilled in helpless pulses between her heels, stripes of it hitting the hardwood, a broken moan lost in her pussy. His own cum cooled on the boards while his mouth stayed full of other men.

Katarina did not let him up. She laughed once, low, and ground down harder on his face.

"Useless," she said, sweet and vicious. "Useless quick-shot cleanup boy. You couldn't even finish licking me before you painted the floor. Stay on my cunt. I am not done using that mouth."

She held his head and rolled her hips, smearing the last thick leaks across his lips and tongue and the bridge of his nose. He kept licking because she had him, because his spent cock still twitched in her loosened grip, because the humiliation was a live wire and he was aching even after he had come. She rode his face in slow dominant circles, calling him her messy cleaner. He pushed his tongue back inside and drank what welled out, jaw aching, eyes wet, obedient.

She ground harder, chasing herself on his ruined mouth. When she came it was a tight clench around his tongue, her heel scraping, her fist tight in his hair. She held him through it and flooded him with a fresh wave of her slick and what remained of them, and he swallowed that too, shaking, still on his knees in the mess he had made.

She eased off his mouth at last, breathing hard, and laughed softly as she looked down at him. Alastair stayed kneeling, face shining, lips swollen, her juices and the other men's cum still thick on his tongue. His own spend was a cooling stripe on the floor between her heels. He looked wrecked. He looked obedient. His spent cock gave a useless twitch and began, already, to ache again. He could still feel the shape of her grind on his lips, and he did not wipe his face.

Katarina smoothed the short skirt down over the wet, still-open heat of her cunt and touched his hair once, almost fond, almost mocking.

"Stay there," she said. "I'm taking a shower. You can kneel in what you made and keep that taste in your mouth until I decide you're done."

She stepped around him. Heels clicked toward the hall. The smell of sex went with her and stayed on him. Alastair did not move. His jaw hurt. His chest hurt. Water started behind the bathroom door, and he remained where she had put him, humiliated and wanting, tongue coated, the afterglow unfinished on the floor at his knees.