Wife's Filthy Date Creampie Facial While I Watch

Ingrid’s key turned in the lock at half past nine, and Alastair went still inside the bedroom closet, the louvered door cracked just enough that he could see the bed and the stretch of carpet in front of it. He was thirty-eight, already hard in his pants from the hour of waiting, heart knocking so hard he was sure it would give him away. They had agreed to every piece of this. She would bring her date home. He would stay hidden and watch. Nothing recorded. Nothing sprung on anyone. Just the filthy thrill of it, shared between them the way they had planned it at the kitchen table two nights ago, both of them sober and clear-eyed and wanting it.

Ingrid stepped in first, thirty-two and glowing from the restaurant, her dark hair pinned up, the black dress clinging to her hips. Behind her came Warrick, thirty-five, broad through the shoulders in a charcoal shirt, his hand already low on her waist. Alastair had met him once over coffee, briefly, so there would be no surprises. Warrick knew the husband was in the closet tonight. He had grinned at the arrangement and said he liked being watched when the woman wanted it that badly. Ingrid had laughed, warm and shameless, and told Alastair she wanted him to hear every sound.

They didn’t rush the living room. Alastair heard the soft clink of glasses, her low laugh, the scrape of a chair. Then their voices moved down the hall. Ingrid pushed the bedroom door open and the light spilled across the bed. She turned into Warrick’s arms before the door even clicked shut.

“God, I’ve been wet since the appetizers,” she said, and kissed him, open-mouthed, one hand fisted in his shirt. Warrick kissed her back hard, walking her toward the bed, his palms sliding over her ass. Alastair’s breath fogged the slat in front of his mouth. He watched his wife melt into another man, watched Warrick’s tongue slide against hers, watched her rise onto her toes to chase the kiss. The air in the closet was hot and close. His cock throbbed against his zipper, untouched, the way they had decided he would wait.

Ingrid broke the kiss only long enough to smile up at Warrick, flushed and eager. “Bedroom’s ours. Don’t hold back. I want you to fuck me like you’ve been thinking about it all night.”

“I have,” Warrick said, voice rough, and bent to her neck.

Alastair gripped the edge of the shelf so he wouldn’t make a sound. This was the part he had asked for. His wife, brought home by her date, kissing another man in their room while he watched from the dark, every nerve strung tight with the dirty, agreed-upon thrill of it.

Ingrid turned so Warrick could unzip her. The dress slid down her arms and pooled at her feet. She wore black panties and nothing else, her breasts bare, nipples already tight. Alastair’s mouth went dry. She stepped out of the dress and kicked it aside, then looked straight at the closet for one bright second, a private, filthy little smile just for him, before she faced Warrick again.

“Take your clothes off,” she said, voice gone lower. “I need a real cock tonight. I’ve been thinking about it all through dinner, sitting there soaking my panties, pretending I could wait.”

Warrick unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it. His chest was solid, a line of hair disappearing into his pants. When he shoved them down, his cock sprang free, thick and already flushed, curving up. Ingrid made a hungry sound and wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly, thumb sliding over the head.

“Fuck, look at you,” she breathed. “Thick. I want this in my cunt. I want you to fuck me until I can’t talk straight.” She stroked him harder, eyes half-lidded, then glanced toward the closet again, knowing Alastair could see every stroke, every drop of slick at the tip. “I’ve been such a good girl all week. Tonight I don’t want to be good. I want you to use me.”

Warrick groaned and shoved her panties down. They caught at her thighs; she kicked them off and climbed onto the bed on her knees, ass tipped up, looking back over her shoulder. “Come here. Feel how wet I am. That’s for you. That’s because I knew you were going to split me open.”

He climbed up behind her and dragged two fingers through her slit. She was glistening, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room. Alastair bit the inside of his cheek. His wife’s cunt, swollen and shiny, offered to another man while she talked like she had forgotten how to be shy.

“Jesus, Ingrid,” Warrick said. “You’re dripping.”

“Then stop teasing and fuck my cunt,” she snapped, filthy and breathless. “I didn’t bring you home to finger me. I want your cock. Hard. Don’t be gentle. I can take it. I want to feel you tomorrow.” She rocked back against his hand, then twisted to look toward the closet slats again, lips parted. “I want everyone watching to know how badly I needed this. How slutty I get when a thick cock is right there and I’m not allowed to wait.”

Warrick lined himself up. The head of his cock nudged her entrance and she moaned, loud, unashamed. “Yes. There. Push it in. Fill me. Fuck, I can feel how big you are already. Don’t stop. All the way.”

He sank in with one long, steady push. Ingrid’s mouth fell open. Her fingers twisted in the sheet. “Oh god. Oh fuck, yes. That’s it. That’s what I needed. Stretch me. Use my cunt. I’ve been empty all night thinking about this.”

Alastair’s hand hovered over his zipper and stopped. Not yet. He watched Warrick’s hips settle flush against her ass, watched his wife’s back arch, watched the slick shine where they joined. The dirty talk kept coming, hotter with every breath.

“Harder,” Ingrid begged. “Fuck me like you own it for the night. I want to hear it. I want it filthy. Slap my ass. Tell me how tight I am. Tell me I’m your little whore while you pound me.”

Warrick drew back and drove in again, the wet smack loud. He gripped her hip and spanked her once, sharp. She cried out and pushed back for more. “Tight as hell,” he growled. “Greedy little cunt. You were made to take a cock like this.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Again. Don’t you dare slow down. I want it rough. I want my husband to hear how good you fuck me.” She said it clear, eyes cutting to the closet, a wicked flash of acknowledgment that Alastair was drinking in every second. Warrick knew. He fucked her harder for it, balls slapping her, one hand fisted in her hair.

They stayed like that only a minute before she pulled off him with a wet sound, turned, and dragged him down onto the mattress. She kissed him messy and deep, then rolled onto her stomach and lifted her hips. “Bed. Now. I want it properly. I want you deep. I want to feel every inch while I look where I need to look.”

Warrick didn’t argue. He knelt behind her again, cock shining with her, and shoved back in to the hilt. Ingrid’s moan cracked. She dropped to her elbows, then lower, until she was on all fours at the edge of the bed, facing the closet dead-on. The louvered door was right in front of her. Alastair could see her face between the slats, flushed, mouth open, eyes locked on the dark gap where she knew he was.

“There,” she panted. “Just like that. Doggy. Don’t move me. Fuck my cunt from behind and let me look.” She held Alastair’s hidden gaze and smiled, wrecked and radiant. “I know you’re watching. I want you to see his cock in me. Watch how I take it.”

Warrick gripped her hips and started to pound. The rhythm was rough, deep, each thrust jolting her forward so her breasts swung and her fingers clawed the sheet. Alastair could see the thick shaft disappearing into her, the way her cunt clung and shone, the way her ass rippled when Warrick slapped it again. Ingrid never looked away from the closet.

“Fuck, yes, deeper,” she moaned. “Right there. Split me. I can feel you in my stomach. God, you’re so thick. My cunt is squeezing you. Don’t you feel it? That’s me trying to milk you already and you’re not even close.” She pushed back to meet every stroke, filthy and eager, voice climbing. “Harder. I said harder. I want it to hurt in the good way. I want my pussy sore. I want to be your slut while he watches me get used.”

Warrick grunted and leaned over her, one hand braced by her shoulder, driving in shorter, meaner thrusts. “You love this. Look at you. Staring at that closet like you want him to see what a mess you are.”

“I do,” she gasped. “I want him to see my face while you fuck me. I want him to see how slutty I get on a real cock. Look at me. Look at me taking it.” Her eyes stayed on the slats, bright and wet at the corners from the force of it, not from tears of pain. She was smiling between moans. “Yes. Yes. Fuck my cunt. Don’t pull out yet. I want every inch. Balls deep. Make it loud. I want the neighbors to wonder and I want him to remember the sound.”

Alastair’s cock leaked against his underwear. He didn’t touch it. He watched his wife’s mouth shape every filthy word, watched Warrick’s cock piston into her, the wet slap steady and obscene. Ingrid’s hair had come loose. Strands stuck to her cheek. She licked her lips and kept talking, dirtier with every thrust.

“You feel so good,” she whined. “So fucking good. My cunt is yours right now. Use it. Pound it. I’m going to come on your cock if you keep that angle. Right there. Oh fuck, right there, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.” Her arms shook. She dropped to her forearms, ass higher, still staring into the closet. “Alastair. I know you can see his cock stretching me. I know you can see how wet I am for him. I’m such a filthy wife. I’m going to come while another man fucks me and you’re going to watch me do it.”

Warrick reached under her and rubbed her clit in rough circles. Ingrid shattered almost at once, a broken cry ripping out of her, cunt clenching so hard Warrick cursed and had to slow for a second. She rode it out, pushing back, eyes never leaving the door. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming on his cock, watch me, watch me come like a slut.”

She was still twitching when Warrick picked the pace back up, chasing his own edge. The bed frame knocked the wall. Ingrid’s voice went hoarse and mean with need.

“Don’t come inside,” she begged, sudden and clear. “I want it on my face. I want a thick load all over me. Pull out when you’re close and paint me. I want him to see your cum on my mouth. I want to taste you while I look at him.” She glanced back once, desperate, then locked eyes with the closet again. “Please. Fuck my cunt until you can’t hold it, then give me that facial. I want it messy. I want it dripping off my chin.”

Warrick’s rhythm broke. “Fuck. I’m close.”

“Then do it,” she snarled, filthy and bright. “Pull out. Cum on my face. I want every drop. I want to be covered. Look at me while you do it. I want him to see you unload on his wife.”

He yanked out with a wet sound. Ingrid spun on the bed in one quick, eager motion, dropping to her knees on the mattress edge, face tipped up, mouth open, eyes still cut toward the closet so Alastair had the perfect view. Warrick stood over her, fist flying on his slick cock, two strokes, three.

“Open,” he grunted.

“I’m open. Give it to me. Cum on my face. Coat me.”

The first thick rope hit her cheek and splashed toward her eye. She laughed, delighted, and stuck her tongue out. The second stripe landed across her lips and tongue, heavy and white. Warrick groaned and kept stroking, painting her, a third pulse over her nose and the other cheek, a fourth dripping from her chin onto her breasts. It was a thick, messy creampie of a facial, glossy ropes clinging to her skin, one strand swinging from her lower lip. She didn’t wipe it. She smiled, wicked and glowing, and looked straight into the closet while cum slid down her face.

“Look,” she whispered, loud enough to carry. “Look what he did to me. Look at your wife with another man’s load all over her face.”

Warrick’s hand slowed. He was breathing hard, cock still twitching, the last drops smeared on her jaw. Ingrid licked what she could reach and hummed, filthy and satisfied, holding Alastair’s gaze through the slats the whole time.

Warrick stepped back, chest heaving, and dragged a hand through his hair. “Shower,” he said, voice wrecked but easy. “That was the deal. You two finish what you started.” He bent, kissed the clean corner of Ingrid’s mouth, and padded into the bathroom. The water started a moment later, the door half shut, steam beginning to fog the mirror.

Ingrid stayed on her knees for a beat, cum shining on her cheeks, her lips, the tip of her nose, a fat stripe across her tongue. Then she crawled off the bed and across the carpet to the closet. She opened the door herself. Alastair stood there, pants tented, face hot, staring at the mess another man had made of his wife.

“Come here,” she said, low and filthy, cum moving when she talked. “Look at me. His load is all over my face and it feels so fucking good. Hot. Thick. I can taste him. I came so hard on his cock and then he painted me just like I begged him to.” She tipped her chin up so the light caught every streak. “Now you. I want your cum on me too. Stroke your cock. Jerk off over my face. Add yours to his. I want both of you on me. I want to be a filthy, glazed little wife while his shower runs.”

Alastair shoved his pants down. His cock sprang out, aching, already wet at the tip. He wrapped his fist around it and started to stroke, fast, eyes locked on her cum-smeared smile.

“That’s it,” she whispered, eager, leaning closer so his cock hovered over her face. “Faster. Look at what he did. His cum is on my tongue and I still want yours. Give it to me. Cum on my face. Cover his. I want to feel you splash me while I’m still dripping with him.” She opened her mouth, tongue out, another man’s load shining on it. “Jerk off for me. I’m your slut and his. Paint me. I want it now.”

He lasted seconds. The sight of her, kneeling, wrecked, proudly wearing Warrick’s thick facial and begging for his, ripped the orgasm out of him. He groaned and came hard, hot pulses striping her forehead, her cheek, mixing white into white, one heavy shot landing on her tongue beside the other man’s. She moaned like it was a gift, eyes bright, holding still so he could empty every drop onto the mess already glazing her.

“Yes,” she breathed, mid-glow, cum from both of them sliding warm down her face. “That’s it. Both of you. God, I love this.”

Alastair’s hand slowed, last weak spurts dripping onto her chin, the bathroom water still running behind them.