I watch you from within a vortex of flaming jealousy and treacherous arousal, my love.
You’re there, both of you naked, both facing the wall off to my right. My left leg is raised, my tiptoed foot resting upon one edge of the bed. My exposed vulva—rendered bare and smooth especially for this occasion—pouts expectantly; a wanton orchid that no longer cares from where its nourishment comes. All that matters now is that it needs.
Your desire has wrought this: propelled me to the point of betrayal, to where you cease to have any say in what happens next. The atoms have been excited, their reaction made self-sustaining. The boulder has been tipped from the edge of the precipice. It teeters, about to surrender inexorably to gravity, careering onwards, downwards, accelerated by forces beyond anyone’s control.
I know this turns the tainted knife in your guts, makes your hard cock throb unrepentantly.
He—the performer in this affected tryst—steps forward, his own cock equally hard. It has risen without being touched by anyone. I am beautiful, desirable, available. His excitement was palpable from the first moment he entered the room and saw me. Now he takes himself in his right hand, so that he does not impede your view. At the same time, he rests his left hand upon my raised leg, at the point where my buttock flows seamlessly into my outer thigh. The tips of his fingers indent my flesh slightly, an act of possession. I shiver. You wonder what I’m thinking. Is it a shiver of fear, or of delicious anticipation? Are the emotions coursing through me as binary and as indivisible as yours?
Cupping the underside of his shaft, he guides himself upwards, pressing his swollen glans against my sex. His cock is unsheathed, and there’s something about that which terrifies and thrills you. He smooths the corniced head across my majora. You swallow, watching raptly as his cockhead slips back and forth across the folds of my sex, as it glides effortlessly across my clitoris, between the minora, around the portal to my cunt.
Physically, I am astonishingly passive. Yet as his flesh courses over mine, I sigh minutely, the tiniest exhalation of pleasure, and I know you feel the knife withdraw from your guts and plunge into your heart. At the same time, you cannot remember when your cock last felt this hard; your trousers are ridiculously distended, your shaft seemingly capable of punching through steel. Your mouth is cotton dry, and the glass of bourbon is right beside you where you placed it earlier… but you don’t lift your hands from their resting place atop your thighs for fear that your trembling will betray you.
He draws himself into the opening of my vagina. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on a questioning glance toward you, in search of some final indication of assent. He is consumed by his own need; nothing will stand in the way of its fulfilment.
It is going to happen, you think, somewhat belatedly. It is like being on a roller coaster, about to plunge into that first thrilling abyss, and realising irrevocably that the point of no return is long since past.
And as though compelled by your realisation, he enters me. The trajectory of his flesh is as much upwards as it is forwards, and he rises up on his tiptoes to ensure the certainty of his admission. Mated, is all you can think. No going back. Whatever shape the future takes, nothing will ever be the same again. The muscle in your chest is a blur, the sensation of falling threatening to overwhelm your sense of balance, of reason.
He doesn’t enter me all the way, not at first. Half his thick shaft immersed in my most sacred flesh, he pauses; perhaps to savour the moment of union, perhaps to drive home to you that a stranger has taken me, that—for this moment—I belong to him. At first, the only sounds you’re aware of are your own ragged breathing, and the slick passage of hard flesh within wet. But as he begins to thrust in earnest, he releases a guttural half-groan, half-sigh, and for an instant, the hand that rests upon the side of my thigh tightens its hold upon me.
My passivity persists, though; I don’t move, don’t make a sound as I am entered, as I am fucked by a new man for the first time in more than a decade. I don’t turn my head to regard either my lover or you, my overseer. I look straight ahead, my gaze and my thoughts focused in a place known only to me, my filled cunt bared salaciously, brazenly.
It is every bit as sickening, every bit as thrilling as you had anticipated.
Two or three times, he withdraws from me, holding himself in his right hand as he runs his cockhead across the outside of my sex, and then pressing himself back inside me. His genitals are as denuded as mine, so you see everything: see the thickness of his shaft stretching me, pulling on my inner lips, and thereby my clitoris, as he slips back and forth; see the moistness of my arousal glistening along the length of his prick. You watch, fascinated, as he fucks me for our mutual delectation. You’re sitting ringside at a pornographic rendering of your own design, your own creation. It’s beyond anything you’ve experienced before. You can hear the sounds of slick, mated flesh, inhale the musk of lust whenever you want.
Wave of the future, my love.
At first, you think the withdrawals are designed to tease, to stoke my passions, to elicit a more tangible response than just the slickness of my cunt. But then it occurs to you that his excitement is so great, the withdrawals are a necessity for him to preserve his control. You watch as he pulls back from me once more, squeezing his shaft hard between his thumb and first two fingers before he presses himself greedily back inside me.
This time, I reach beneath my own raised leg, as though I mean to lift it, to afford him even greater access to my secrets, to the core of my pleasure. You want to be sick, to cry out in pain and frustration and exalted excitement, to push him roughly aside and plunge your own hard flesh inside me. But you do none of these things. You simply sit in still silence, watching raptly, unable to look away even for a second. This is the price you must pay. This is the reward that you have craved and feared in equal measure for so long.
He is thrusting faster. His breathing is ragged, a series of semi-grunted exhalations, deeply masculine sighs that punctuate the quickening metronome of his cock.
Suddenly, he speaks.
“Oh, I’m going to come.” He breathes the words rather than speaks them. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” As he says them, he arches himself into me, thrusting harder, higher. I sense you realising that I’m pressing back to meet him, that I’m urging him on with my body, even though his cock is naked inside me, even though there is nothing shielding my womb from his seed.
Words tremble behind your pursed lips. You know they are there, but you don’t know what they are. It is irrelevant: they are locked in, as impotent as the rest of your body. You can only watch in ecstatic horror as his cock stops thrusting, as the underside of his shaft begins to pulse with each jet of come. Your eyes are drawn to the spot where his climax is delineated by the rising and falling of the flesh between his balls and his anus. You understand only too well how good his orgasm must feel; you envy it as strongly and as bitterly as you have ever envied anything in your life.
And still I remain passive, a flesh and blood marionette whose strings have been cut or frozen. Seemingly, I am content to be used, to be a vessel for the lust of two very different men, a lust expressed in two very different ways.
His cock is still pulsing, though the throbbing along his shaft is much less pronounced now. You guess that he has saved himself for this night, perhaps masturbated half a dozen times to the brink of climax so as to increase the copiousness of his climax. Now he begins to thrust again, pressing himself inside me to the hilt. And though I remain physically impassive, finally I begin to moan; soft cries of pleasure as I feel my new lover throbbing within me, as his half-spent cock anoints my silken, secret flesh. “Mmmm,” I say softly. “Oh. Oh.” Each expression coincides with him thrusting himself back inside me; each is like a hammer blow to your sense of self, and yet each is like a taut wire dragging your cock higher, harder.
You watch transfixed as a silver thread of semen descends from between the lips of my cunt. Another follows it, falling prey to gravity’s inevitability. He stops thrusting, slowly withdraws from my flesh, and now it is a rivulet of come, a minor gush, that falls from me, plummeting to the muted yellow of the carpet. A thinner string of come hangs from the tip of his semi-hard cock. He cups my arse comfortingly, tenderly, before he turns away from me. You childishly wish that you could cut that hand off and ram the still-bleeding stump down his throat.
I turn to face you for the first time since I undressed and gave myself to him. The lips of my cunt gape wantonly, accusingly.
This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To see another man’s cock inside me, pleasuring me, fucking me, when all I’d known for so long was your cock, your pleasure? To see me opened by him? To see his seed dripping from my flesh? To see it all, and know that I enjoyed it, relished it, revelled in it? To watch me willingly take him inside me, so that you could torture yourself with the fear that I liked it more, that I liked him more?
Wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
He has retired to the bathroom. He comes back already wearing his cotton shorts. He moves to the neat pile of clothes he’d left atop the room’s only chair. As he reaches for it, he looks up, first at me, then, almost as an afterthought, at you.
“I can stay longer, if you’d like me to.”
I turn to look at him before you can respond in any way. You wonder what I will say, what I will do. As far as you’re concerned, he has served his purpose. But you’re no longer in control. What do I want?
I smile, a warm yet somewhat sad smile, and then I shake my head.
He nods, clearly disappointed. He dresses quickly without another word and moves to the door. “You have my number, if you…” He doesn’t expand further. Neither you nor I say anything. He steps through the door and pulls it firmly shut behind him.
I turn back to you. There are so many things I could say, so many things that I must want to hear in return. But the only words that come from my mouth are “Fuck me”, said in a tone that makes clear I will countenance no other course of action.
You don’t move for what seems like forever. You don’t want to look at me at all, least of all at my face. Yet time and again your eyes are drawn to my gaping cunt, still oozing his come, and each time you look at me, the after-image of him inside me, fucking me, pulsing inside me, explodes behind your eyes like a camera flash, like an x-ray. Each instance leaves you feeling naked and soiled. And yet each instance excites you powerfully, primitively, darkly.
Even now, you still don’t understand yourself.
Finally, you stand; come to me, kiss me intensely, passionately. You tear at the fastenings of your clothes, and I tear with you. When you’re naked, you roughly turn me round so that I’m facing the same wall as I did before. You lift my foot onto the edge of the bed, then stand close behind me, cock jutting like a piston. You don’t run your glans across my slick labia to tease me or arouse me. You simply drive yourself into my hot slickness, bury yourself within me to the very hilt, thrusting through the residue of another man’s lust and eliciting the cry of pleasure that, for whatever reason, eluded him. Has my flesh ever felt so wet to you, so willing? You want to laugh and to cry, to embrace me warmly and to coldly reject me, to reverse time and to commit the sights of this evening to indelible, irrevocable memory. The swirl of competing emotions is a hurricane inside your mind. You feel like an old man and a charged teenager, all because, for the first time since we first met fourteen years ago, your wife’s cunt bears the imprint of another man’s cock.
The thought only makes you thrust harder.
