Wife and Her Girlfriend Make Me Watch

Quentin sat where they had put him, wrists bound to the arms of the dining chair with the soft black ties Danielle kept in the nightstand, ankles cinched to the legs so he could not close his thighs or lean forward. Thirty-four, broad-shouldered from years at the lumberyard, he still looked helpless in their spacious suburban living room, the afternoon light falling across the pale rug and the long sofa. His wife had told him the rules before she tied the last knot, voice warm against his ear: watch, stay quiet unless they asked, and do not come until she said so. He had agreed. He always agreed.

Danielle came out of the bedroom first. Thirty-two, dark hair loose down her back, she wore a sheer black set that hid nothing—bra cups translucent over her nipples, panties a scrap of mesh already darkening at the center. Rebecca followed a step behind, twenty-nine, copper curls pinned up, a matching sheer lilac set that made her pale skin look flushed before anyone had touched her. They did not look at the television or the windows. They looked at each other, then at him, and smiled the way women smile when they already know how the afternoon will end.

“God, look at him,” Rebecca murmured, sliding a hand up Danielle’s waist. “Already hard and we haven’t even started.”

Danielle turned in her girlfriend’s arms and kissed her, slow and open, the sound wet in the quiet house. Their tongues met. Danielle’s fingers found the clasp of Rebecca’s bra and toyed with it without undoing it. When they broke apart, a thin strand of saliva stretched and broke between their mouths.

“He gets like that every time,” Danielle said, eyes on Quentin’s lap, where his cock strained against his pants. “But he doesn’t get to touch. He just gets to see how wet we get because he can’t.”

Rebecca laughed, low, and pressed her thigh between Danielle’s. “Then we should give him a show worth aching for.”

They kissed again, deeper, Danielle’s hands roaming Rebecca’s ass through the sheer fabric, squeezing, spreading. Rebecca moaned into her mouth and rocked, the lilac panties riding up. Quentin’s breath hitched. The chair creaked. Neither woman glanced at his hands or the bulge. They kept their attention on each other, mouths sliding, nipples brushing through two layers of nothing.

“Feel that?” Danielle whispered against Rebecca’s lips, loud enough for him. “I’m soaking through already. Knowing he’s tied up and staring makes me drip. Does it do that to you too?”

“Worse,” Rebecca said. She took Danielle’s wrist and guided those fingers down, over the front of her panties. “Right there. Hot. Sticky. And he doesn’t get a drop until we say.”

Quentin swallowed. His cock throbbed, ignored. Danielle smiled at him once—fond, merciless—then turned back to Rebecca and kissed her throat, sucking a mark just above the collarbone while her girlfriend sighed and ground against her hand.

They took their time with the clothes.

Danielle peeled Rebecca’s bra straps down one by one, kissing each shoulder as the cups fell. Rebecca’s breasts spilled free, full and pink-tipped, and Danielle cupped them, thumbs circling until the nipples stood stiff. “Soft,” she said, voice gone husky. “And these—God, they’re so hard. I can feel them jump when I pinch.” She did, gently, and Rebecca’s head tipped back.

“Your turn,” Rebecca breathed. She worked Danielle’s bra open and let it drop. Danielle’s breasts were smaller, darker nipples already tight. Rebecca bent and took one into her mouth, sucking slow, tongue flicking, then the other, leaving them shining. “Sweet,” she said against the skin. “And you’re shaking. I can hear how wet you are when you move.”

They stripped the panties next, inch by inch. Danielle hooked her thumbs in Rebecca’s lilac scrap and drew it down her thighs, crouching to kiss the inside of one knee, then higher, stopping just short of the copper curls. Rebecca stepped out of them, pussy bare and glistening, lips parted, a thread of slick catching the light.

“Look at that,” Danielle told the room, told him. “She’s dripping down her thigh and we haven’t even put our mouths on each other yet. All because you’re sitting there with your cock trapped and your hands useless.”

Rebecca returned the favor, tugging Danielle’s mesh panties down and holding them up so the wet patch showed. She pressed them briefly to her own mouth, then tossed them aside. “Taste like you want it bad,” she said. “Spread for me.”

Danielle backed to the edge of the sofa and sat, knees wide. Rebecca dropped to her knees on the rug between them, palms sliding up Danielle’s thighs, holding her open. She looked over her shoulder at Quentin, eyes bright. “Watch close. This is the part where she falls apart and you don’t get to help.”

Then she leaned in and licked, one long flat stroke from Danielle’s entrance to her clit. Danielle’s moan cracked the quiet. Rebecca did it again, slower, savoring, then sealed her mouth over the swollen clit and sucked. Her fingers slid in—two, easy, curling—while her tongue worked in tight circles.

“Fuck—right there,” Danielle gasped. “She’s so good with her mouth. Hot, wet, perfect pressure. I can feel every lick in my stomach. Quentin, baby, I’m going to come on her tongue and you just have to sit there.”

Rebecca hummed and sped up, fingers pumping, nose buried in slick. Danielle’s hips jerked. Her hands fisted in copper curls. The orgasm hit hard: a broken cry, thighs clamping, pussy pulsing around Rebecca’s fingers while fresh wetness spilled over her chin. Rebecca stayed with her through it, licking softer until Danielle pushed weakly at her shoulder, laughing and breathless.

“One,” Rebecca said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and standing. “Bed. I want to feel you.”

They moved to the bedroom without hurrying, Danielle’s legs unsteady, Rebecca’s hand at the small of her back. Quentin heard the mattress take their weight. Danielle called, “Bring him. I want his eyes on us.”

Rebecca came back, untied only the chair from its place by rolling it—no, she simply gripped the back and dragged the whole bound chair into the bedroom doorway so he faced the bed. Then she climbed up beside Danielle, both of them naked, flushed, shining between the legs.

They lay on their sides first, kissing, hands everywhere, then Danielle swung a leg over and straddled Rebecca’s thigh before shifting higher, aligning them. Pussy to pussy. She sank down and rolled her hips, and both women groaned at the same time.

“Oh my God,” Rebecca panted. “You’re so hot. Slippery. I can feel your clit dragging on mine.”

“Grind,” Danielle ordered, voice wrecked. “Don’t stop. Let him see how we fit.”

They found a rhythm, slow at first, then harder, hips circling, breasts swaying, the wet sound of their cunts sliding together filling the room. Danielle braced her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders and rode the contact, chasing it. Rebecca reached down and spread herself wider so every stroke landed true.

“He’s staring,” Rebecca said, locking eyes with Quentin over Danielle’s shoulder. “Look at that poor cock. Leaking in his pants and he can’t even rub it. Does it hurt, cuck? Watching your wife get off on another woman’s pussy?”

Danielle laughed, breathless, and ground down harder. “Answer her.”

“Yes,” Quentin managed, voice rough. “It hurts.”

“Good,” Danielle said. “Because I’m close again. Rebecca—fuck—don’t you dare slow down.”

They didn’t. The grind turned frantic, slick and loud, Danielle’s ass flexing, Rebecca’s heels digging into the sheets. Danielle came first this time, a sharp cry, body bowing, juices smearing Rebecca’s mound and thighs. Rebecca followed seconds later, bucking up into the mess, moaning Danielle’s name, clit throbbing against Danielle’s through the aftershocks. They didn’t separate. Danielle kept rolling, slower, oversensitive and greedy, and Rebecca met her, both of them whimpering.

“Again,” Rebecca gasped. “I can feel another one. You’re so fucking wet it’s everywhere.”

They shifted, Rebecca on top now, knees planted, cunt sealed to cunt, rocking in tight little circles that made Danielle’s eyes roll. Quentin watched the pink flash of their lips parting and meeting, the shine spreading down Rebecca’s thighs onto the sheets. Danielle reached around and gripped Rebecca’s ass, pulling her in, fingers slipping into the crease, teasing her hole without pushing in.

“There,” Danielle moaned. “Right on my clit. God, she’s grinding so hard I can’t think. I’m going to come again just from her pussy. You hear that, Quentin? Multiple. And you still don’t get to touch yourself.”

Rebecca’s voice broke. “I’m coming—fuck, I’m coming with you—”

They shattered together, louder this time, Danielle’s nails in Rebecca’s skin, Rebecca’s forehead pressed to Danielle’s, both of them shaking, cum and slick painting their stomachs and the insides of their thighs. They kissed through it, messy and laughing, then collapsed, still joined, hips twitching with leftover pulses.

Quentin’s cock ached so badly he thought he might come untouched. He didn’t. He sat and watched, bound, exactly as they wanted.

They weren’t finished.

Danielle rolled Rebecca onto her back and kissed down her body, lingering at her breasts, her navel, the sticky trail on her lower belly. “Sixty-nine,” she said. “I want us both screaming. I want him to see our faces when we lose it.”

Rebecca grinned, wrecked and eager, and they arranged themselves: Danielle on top, knees beside Rebecca’s head, lowering her soaked pussy to Rebecca’s mouth while she bent and buried her face between Rebecca’s thighs. The position opened everything. Quentin could see Rebecca’s tongue spear up into his wife, could see Danielle’s mouth working Rebecca’s clit, two fingers sliding into Rebecca and curling. Their asses lifted and fell. The sounds were obscene—sucking, gasping, the wet clap of fingers.

“Taste so good,” Danielle mumbled against Rebecca’s cunt. “Sweet and salty. I’m licking up everything we made.”

Rebecca moaned into Danielle and answered by sucking her clit hard, two fingers of her own pushing into Danielle and pumping. Danielle’s thighs trembled. She pushed back onto Rebecca’s mouth and drove her own tongue deeper, then added a third finger, stretching Rebecca while her thumb rubbed just beneath.

“Don’t stop,” Rebecca cried, voice muffled by pussy. “I’m right there. Lick me—fuck, lick my ass too, I want it—”

Danielle did, tongue sliding lower, circling Rebecca’s tight hole while her fingers kept working her cunt. Rebecca bucked and did the same, tongue flicking over Danielle’s ass between long sucks on her clit. The sight burned itself into Quentin: his wife’s face buried in another woman, both of them glistening, both of them frantic.

Danielle’s rhythm broke first. “Coming—Rebecca, I’m coming, don’t stop your tongue—”

Her whole body locked. She ground down on Rebecca’s mouth and screamed, a raw open sound, pussy clenching, a fresh rush of cum spilling over Rebecca’s lips and chin and down onto the sheets. Rebecca drank what she could and kept licking, and the stimulation threw her over at the same moment. She came with a muffled wail, thighs snapping around Danielle’s head, cunt pulsing around the fingers inside her, her own release flooding Danielle’s mouth and coating her cheeks. They rode it together, licking through the spasms, fingers still moving, until the screams thinned to sobs and shaky laughter and they finally collapsed apart, chests heaving, faces and thighs and pussies shining with combined cum.

For a long moment the only sound was breathing.

Then Danielle lifted her head, mouth wet, and looked at Quentin. “Untie him.”

Rebecca’s hands were steadier. She crossed to the chair, worked the knots at his wrists and ankles, and when he was free she didn’t let him stand on his own. She and Danielle took his arms and guided him to the bed, pushing him down so he knelt at the foot while they arranged themselves above him, thighs spread, asses tilted toward his face.

“Every drop,” Danielle said, voice hoarse and happy. “Our cunts. Our asses. All of it. Tongue only. You don’t get your cock near us until I decide you’ve earned it.”

“Yes,” he said.

Rebecca spread herself with two fingers, showing him the mess—pink, swollen, coated, a trickle still slipping from her entrance toward her ass. “Start with me. Clean what your wife put there.”

He leaned in and licked. The taste was thick, salty-sweet, unmistakably both of them. He flattened his tongue and dragged it through Rebecca’s folds, gathering slick, swallowing, going back for more. She sighed and petted his hair. Danielle watched, one hand idly stroking Rebecca’s breast, then leaned over and kissed her, slow and deep, while Quentin worked below.

“Inside,” Rebecca murmured. “Get your tongue in. I want it clean.”

He pushed in as far as he could, fucking her gently with his tongue, then licked upward to her clit, careful, thorough, down again, and lower, over the sensitive skin to her ass. He circled, lapped, cleaned the shine from the cleft and the tight ring until Rebecca’s breath hitched and she laughed softly.

“Good boy,” she said. “Switch.”

Danielle shifted closer, presenting herself. Her pussy was wrecked and gorgeous, lips puffy, cum smeared to her thighs and up between her cheeks. Quentin obeyed, licking long stripes, swallowing everything he gathered, nosing into her and cleaning the inside the way she liked, the way she had taught him on other afternoons. She moaned into Rebecca’s mouth and rocked against his tongue, not chasing another orgasm so much as using him, letting him erase the evidence while she kissed her girlfriend above him.

“My ass too,” Danielle said against Rebecca’s lips. “He knows.”

He did. He spread her gently with his thumbs and licked her clean there as well, patient, devoted, until both women were shining only with his saliva and their skin was warm and soft under his mouth. They kissed the whole time, lazy and sweet, caressing each other’s breasts, murmuring praise he could half hear—good tongue, thorough little cuck, look how red his face is.

When Danielle finally pulled back and looked down at him, her eyes were soft. “That’s enough. You did exactly what we asked.”

She slid off the bed and dropped to her knees on the rug in front of him. Rebecca stayed on the mattress, propped on an elbow, watching with a lazy smile, one hand resting on her own thigh.

Danielle opened his pants and freed his cock. It sprang out, flushed dark, the head wet, veins standing. She wrapped her hand around the base and looked up at him. “Reward,” she said. “You watched. You cleaned us. Now you get to come.”

She took him into her mouth in one slow slide, lips stretching, tongue pressing the underside, until he nudged the back of her throat. Quentin groaned, hands hovering, not sure if he was allowed to touch. Danielle pulled off just long enough to say, “Hair’s fine,” then sank down again, wetter, sloppier, saliva spilling over her fist as she stroked what her mouth couldn’t hold.

She worked him with enthusiasm he felt in his spine—long pulls, tight suction, tongue swirling the head on every upstroke, then deep again, humming so the vibration ran through him. Spit shone on her chin. She looked up while she sucked, eyes bright, and the sight of his wife on her knees after everything they had done undid the last of his control.

“I’m close,” he warned.

Danielle didn’t pull away. She took him deeper, hand twisting, throat relaxing, and nodded once. Rebecca’s voice drifted down, warm and amused. “Give it to her. She’s been so good to you. Such a good little cuck, sitting there aching while we came all over each other. You earned this.”

He came with a broken sound, hips jerking, cock pulsing on Danielle’s tongue. She swallowed around him, greedy, taking every spurt, milking him with her hand and her mouth until he was empty and shaking. She held him there a moment longer, gentle now, licking him clean the way he had licked them, then let him slip free with a soft kiss to the head.

She wiped her mouth, smiling, and glanced at Rebecca, then back up at him.

“Same time next Saturday,” Danielle said, voice low and pleased. “Unless you’d rather beg us to make you wait even longer?”