I was reckless with my marriage last night.

The dining room glowed beneath chandeliers, gold spilling across the linen while courteous laughter drifted around the table. My hand rested on Kennedy’s arm as I performed my smile for everyone watching. Cute. Shy. Convincing enough that nobody asked whether I was happy.

Across the table, his boss watched me with a look that stripped the formality from the room. It felt foolish to notice. Worse, some neglected part of me thrilled at it. I didn’t even mind the thought of being used to shut my husband up. At least someone would be paying attention.

The only reason I’d come tonight was to prove Kennedy wrong. Earlier, squeezed into a crowded theatre row, he’d laughed in my face and claimed I couldn’t get another man to sleep with me even if I tried.

The champagne tasted flat, or maybe it was just the echo of his laughter still souring my mouth. I’d stopped trying to impress him months ago. Not after I’d stood in the foyer in this dress for five full minutes before he walked past me to check his cufflinks in the mirror.

Not even a glance.

I remembered staring at his reflection instead of his face, wondering when admiration had become absent-minded familiarity. Tonight was about proving I could still turn someone’s head. And his boss was fair game.

Anticipation flared in my stomach. Locking eyes with Piers, I leaned toward my husband and let my lips graze his ear.

“Challenge accepted, love.”

Kennedy chuckled over the rim of his glass. “You say things like that when you’re bored, darling.” His attention drifted back to the table. “Let’s see how brave you are after dessert.”

His certainty irked me more than the challenge itself. He believed he knew every inch of me—every impulse, every bluff, every limit. I wanted to show him how brave and how wet his wife could get.

For every evening I reached for him and got distracted grunts in return. Every night I sat beside him fixing his spreadsheet disasters while he doomscrolled in silence.

Minutes later, I slipped away, disappearing into a corridor lined with old portraits. The rear stairwell was narrow and dimly lit, the hush luxurious after the relentless civility upstairs.

I sat halfway down and lit a cigarette, smoke curling in soft grey ribbons around me. For the first time all evening, I could hear myself think. When footsteps descended the stairs, I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“May I?” Piers asked quietly.

His sleeve brushed my shoulder as he sat beside me. The scent of cedar and fig lingered against the cold stone, mingling with the dark spice of what was probably Penhaligon’s Halfeti. Everything about him always felt intentional.

I held the Vogue out to him. He accepted it with two fingers, careful not to touch mine. The tip glowed after one strike, and we smoked in silence while I imagined what that mouth would feel like between my thighs.

Neither romantic. Nor tender.

Hungry.

I wanted him hungry.

The ember died between us.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered suddenly. “This was a mistake.”

Because it was one thing to flirt across candlelight. Another thing entirely to sit hidden away, imagining another man’s tongue on me while my husband chatted upstairs.

I crushed the cigarette beneath my heel and started down the stairs.

His hand caught my wrist. “Running like last time?”

Kennedy’s voice drifted above us and my stomach dropped.

“Don’t,” I whispered. “He’s still your employee.”

His fingers brushed my spine, and I jerked. Piers stood, chest to my back, and let go of my hand. I could have walked away then, but I remained.

“Kennedy’s presentation this morning was shit,” he whispered. “You, however, won’t stop giving him the credit.”

“That has nothing to do with this, Piers.” I turned around. “Just because I help him doesn’t mean he hasn’t earned his keep. So, you’ll leave it at that.”

Something passed across his face in that moment—recognition, if one had to name it.

“We can’t,” I said, quieter this time.

“So why did you come down here?”

I shoved his hand away. “Someone’s coming.”

We waited, pressed together in the dim stairwell as footsteps drifted overhead. My blood beat so hard it felt visible beneath my skin. I could smell his cologne more strongly now, warm from his body instead of clean from the bottle.

Footsteps gone, his mouth found my neck.

“I said no,” I breathed, though it came out weak. More like a plea to myself than to him.

I turned to leave.

He followed close behind, near enough that his skin brushed along the backs of my arms. Three steps later he crowded me against the wall and my Zippo clattered down the stairwell.

As he bent to retrieve it, I stepped two stairs higher without further thought. The slit in my dress parted against my thigh just as his hand closed around it.

“Careful. You’re very convincing when you flirt.”

A final thought surfaced then. Stop. Go back upstairs. Let this pathetic challenge rot where it started. But Piers dropped to his knees behind me before I could move. The sound he made against my thigh nearly undid me.

Then he shoved my dress up and stripped my panties down.

“Fuck me,” I gasped as his tongue dragged through my folds.

I tried to pull away but he held me firmly in place. The scent of caramelised onions and melted Gruyère drifted down from the banquet hall just as he gave another long stroke that folded my knees.

My fingers locked around the stair rail. His licks far too intimate for a man who barely knew me. Or maybe that was the problem. Maybe he’d paid more attention to me in one evening than my husband had in months.

When he finally stood he didn’t let me turn around. My cheek brushed against the burnished stone, smudging my makeup as he held my wrists down.

The fabric rustled beside my ear. At first I didn’t understand what he was offering. Then I saw the folded kerchief in his hand.

I should’ve really left at this point.

Warmth rushed through me as I parted my lips and let him push the fabric into my mouth.

The rasp of his belt followed. He freed himself, spat into his hand, and pushed his cock inside me.

My muffled cry vanished into the kerchief.

“Christ,” he breathed against my shoulder.

Every thrust lifted me onto my toes. The force of it rattled through my hips, rough enough to steal coherent thought.

His hand closed around my throat and coherent thought abandoned me. A few hours earlier I’d smiled at him across the linen, thinking I only wanted to prove Kennedy wrong.

Piers kissed along my neck, messy, hungry, not remotely civilised.

I’d wanted this the moment he’d looked at me like Kennedy used to, back when he still paid attention to me. Wanted enough to let another man bend me over a stairwell while my husband laughed upstairs. His other hand dug into my arse, spreading me wider as he fucked me hard enough to make the bannister shudder.

Voices rose from the landing below, and a couple stumbled in, mouths already locked.

We almost stopped.

Almost.

Then we kept going.

Piers fucked me harder. The indecency of it nearly made me dizzy. Stone scraping my palms. My body clenching around him while strangers passed nearby. The possibility of being caught should have horrified me. But it made me wetter.

When I came, it tore through me despite the gag, muffled sounds escaping through the fabric. He kept driving into me with slippery strokes, slower now but deeper somehow, each thrust dragging against my swollen nerves until the feeling climbed again.

The bannister rattled until he just withdrew. Without finishing. I sagged against the wall, breath quite gone, while he fastened his belt.

“Why?” I whispered.

“I’d rather look at your face,” he said. “…And you should probably get something to eat.”

Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it. I straightened my dress, tucked the kerchief into my clutch, and walked back to the banquet hall on shaky legs.

Kennedy sat where I’d left him, just about to dig into French onion soup. The smell turned my stomach.

He looked up and smiled. “This is so tasty, come join me. Came searching for you.”

I smiled back, accepted an unwanted flute of champagne to hide my jittery hands, and watched the Gruyère stretch from his spoon. I pressed my thighs together as it pulled apart in long molten strands.

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Someone’s opinion sends me spiralling into the proofreading void instead of publishing. By the time I leave for Green Day at the Care Centre, I’ve rewritten the same paragraph six times.

The ride to the Care Centre drags me back to the night Ma and Pa shoved my suitcases onto the porch after I told them my marriage was open. What I never told them was that my husband can only get hard watching other men’s cum drip from my cunt.

But I shove those thoughts aside. I haven’t come here to be used and forgotten. I’ve come to dwell in the shame of every rewritten sentence. To let it strip me bare and leave me better afterward.

On Green Day, Seth permits me more than one although normally I only serve on cock a day. Today, six men wait, hard and staring at the door. My clit twitches before I cross the threshold. I strap on my knee pads in the corridor before entering.

I save the pleats for the days I want ruin. Red tartan. Grey stripes. A skirt cut so high one careless movement would expose the slick heat between my thighs, paired with a vest too small to contain my breasts and a black blazer forever slipping from my shoulders.

One of the six, Mr Cian smacks my arse the second I step inside.

The sting flares under my skin. Under the weight of their ravenous eyes, I sashay to the centre of the room. My blazer slips lower with every step until it falls from my shoulders altogether.

I peel the vest slowly over my head, the fabric dragging across my nipples until they ache. Then my breasts bounce free, nipples puffy and flushed. Every pair of eyes fixes on them as I let the vest fall to the floor. A chill brushes my bare arms, gooseflesh racing across my skin.

The skirt comes last.

I ease the zip down inch by inch, letting the pleats loosen and flare. The fabric pools around my ankles with a whisper before I step out of it.

No panties underneath.

I climb onto the table and spread my thighs wide, using my fingers to part the soft folds of my pussy and reveal the pink entrance between them, slick already, opening for their attention. Two fingers tease my engorged clit, then a third as my pace quickens. Wetness coats my hand before I slide them deep inside my tight cunt, pumping in and out while my breathing shortens and my hips begin to rock against my hand.

Seth’s voice cleaves through the room.

My husband.

He grabs me by the hair and pulls me from the table. I sink to my knees beside him.

“Green Day rules, schoolgirl.”

He reads them every time. I listen in silence.

No cumming without permission.

Every toy stays in.

Spread wider when it feels too good.

Don’t hide your shame behind your hair.

Then Cian takes over.

He clips cold metal clamps onto my nipples with tenderness he won’t use when he fucks me. I moan and bend forward. Heat drifts across my hole as his hands part my arsecheeks. His breath settles against the tight ring of muscle, warm enough to make me tense.

Saliva drips from his mouth before his tongue circles the rim. He presses it flat against the centre and lingers a moment before thrusting in and out. When my hole is wet and gaping, he shoves the butt plug in. At the stretch, my breath catches, and it pries me open as it sinks deep inside.

The table chills my bare arse as he settles me on it. He spreads my legs wide, his frame looming above me, throwing ash-grey shadows across my thighs. The vibrator hums before it touches me. The buzz ripples through me. He presses the head against the swollen nub, massaging softly before holding it there as my hips lift from the table.

Only then do the other five men close in.

Seth calls it preparing me to be used.

“Time to play, little schoolgirl,” Cian growls.

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Six missed calls. Two minutes ago.

New incoming call from husband.

The phone scuttles across the worktop, possessed. I let it. Arms folded. Jaw set. Not today, you prick. Eleven shags deep into a separation that’s barely a week old, and the man still thinks he’s owed.

This time, I’m finished. I caught him balls-deep in some tart and apparently the lesson …

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ROUGH SEX | BALCONY FUCK | FACE SLAPPING | SPIT PLAY | DEEPTHROAT

The last threads of sunlight filter through the balcony glass, warming the back of my neck as I wipe down the oak counter. My feet ache. The uniform clings to my lower back, sweat damp after twelve rooms, and my shoulders burn from lifting mattress corners.

One more set of towels, a final inspection, then I can strip this polyester off and go home. My husband's waiting downstairs. My phone sits in my apron pocket, his unanswered text still lighting the fabric. He knows the penthouse is always my last room. Behind me, the balcony door slides open.

Warm air raises goosebumps along my forearms.

“You always save the best for last, huh?”

My spine straightens. Shoulders pull back. The cloth stops mid-wipe against the oak surface. I’d thought he’d checked out. The suite was empty when I passed through.

“Just finishing up, sir.”

He’s in the doorway, barefoot, holding a glass of amber liquid. Water beads slide down the crystal, catching the sunlight. The hotel's bamboo towel rests loosely around his hips, not quite cinched. His chest is bare. Droplets cling to his collarbone and chest hair.

He's a regular who checks out Thursday mornings like clockwork.

Except, apparently, not today.

His eyes caress me. Face first. Down to my chest, where the buttons strain between the gaps. Lower still, to where the hem of my skirt hits mid-thigh.

Warmth spreads through my chest, sharpening the cling of polyester, my shallow breathing. I should drop my eyes. Get back to wiping the counter like I’m paid to do.

“You look like you’re ready to collapse,” he says. “Long day?”

I nod. Then mutter under my breath. “More like a long week.”

"Hmm. Need to relieve some stress?" He moves closer. His cock brushes my arse, and he gestures to the sky. "You ever stop to watch the sunset from up here?"

“My husband’s waiting.” I turn away, reaching for the abandoned cloth.

“You did come up to clean, right?” He reaches past me to set his drink down. “What’s a few more minutes?”

He steps closer, backing me toward the balcony railing. Plants his hands on either side of me. I'm caged, nowhere to step without touching him proper. The wind lifts my skirt, slipping underneath, cooling the sweat pooled there. Goosebumps rise despite the heat off his chest.

“It’s… really the last room,” I say, stealing a second on the skyline.

“And if I made a mess whilst you’re here?” His breath against my ear carries whiskey. “Would you leave it?”

I attempt to move.

Big mistake.

The towel drops.

His cock’s on display. Thick. Half-hard and growing as I stare. I almost forget to breathe. My mouth goes dry, eyes tracing a vein that runs from the flushed pink head to the base. He’s so long my first thought is the how. How or where that would even fit.

His fingers go under my chin, tilting my face up. Forcing eye contact.

“There you are,” he says.

His hand cinches my waist, pulls me chest to chest. Then, he grabs my arse and squeezes. The plastic clip of my name tag digs into my breast, then gives. I might've pulled away if the towel hadn't fallen. I part my lips and kiss him. He pushes his cock between my thick thighs, and my wetness soaks through the fabric, lubricating him. I squeeze tighter, trapping his shaft.

My hand reaches down, fingers wrapping around the base to direct him higher. The head brushes my pussy, and I grind, feeling him twitch against my clit. The thought of my husband echoes faintly, but I can’t stop now.

“We don’t have time,” I whisper.

“Then we’ll make it quick.”

One hand tugs my skirt higher, the other slides up my inner thighs. I gasp as he pushes my panties aside and grab his waist to keep from stumbling. He slips his fingers between my folds, sliding inside easily. I squirm, pushing them deeper. The railing becomes chilly against the heat pooling between my legs.

“Fuck…” I gasp, looking down. “You’re —”

“That’s the idea,” he says, kissing along my jawline, tongue flicking my ear. “You’ve earned it. Last shift, remember?”

His fingers curl, plunge, pick up pace. I bite my lip hard. Recover and whisper, "Is that the best you've got?"

His fingers go motionless inside me.

He looks me square in the eyes. My mind finally slows, catching the sandalwood scent lingering beneath the whiskey, and my breath hitches.

Then.

He slaps me hard across my cheek. My head snaps sideways, and my pussy flutters around his fingers.

“Again,” I whimper.

His eyes go dark and mean. “Your husband’s waiting downstairs, and you’re asking me to slap his wife’s face?”

Slap.

Harder.

My cheek burns as I squirm around his fingers.
Slap again. My eyes water, mascara running.

Then he spits into my open mouth. “Swallow that. Drooling for a hotel guest.”

He shoves his fingers past my lips. I shut my eyes and suck. Then he yanks my head back by the hair, slaps me again.

“If you’ll be creaming my fingers whilst your husband’s worried downstairs, keep your eyes on me.”

My knees buckle, pussy squirting down my thighs. I scream. It rips through me, jaw locked, thighs shaking around his hand. He pulls his fingers out. They glisten. He strokes his cock, lubing himself with my cum.

“Turn,” he says, stepping back.

I grab the handrails as he lifts my skirt and thrusts in. I watch the blue Audi below, getting wetter, moaning louder as each stroke shoves me forward. Slippery as I am, my cunt squeezes around him, gripping until I cum again, shuddering against the railing.

His hips keep snapping until I lean heavily on the metal to stay standing.

Then he pulls out.

His fingers glide through my cunt, gathering the slick. He licks them clean and steps aside, leaving me panting against the railing.

"You taste like your husband will have a good time tonight. Goodnight."

I'm still breathless when I catch myself protesting. "Sir… let me finish you. I’ve still got some minutes."

He pauses at the door. “Use them.”

He steps back, showing off his veined cock.

I drop to my knees, crawl to him and level my face with his shaft. Wrap my hand around him, feeling the weight as he cups the back of my head. My mouth meets the tip, and he twitches between my lips. I suck him slowly, tongue tracing the veins.

Then I take him in inch by inch. He exhales, fingers tightening in my hair. The sky’s gone darker, and the city lights reflect off the glass behind him, casting glimmers across my flushed cheeks as I work his cock.

I deepthroat him, hollowing my cheeks, letting my spit drip down to the base of his shaft. I pump the rest of his length that can’t fit with my hand while the other settles on his butt, pushing him deeper until he hits the back of my throat. He curses softly, trying not to thrust.

I want him to.

“Fuck my face.”

His hips jerk. I spread my lips wider to take it.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket — the vibration so close to my clit it throbs harder while I suck a stranger paying me in cock instead of tips.

“Your husband’s small, isn’t he?”

I pull back just enough to speak.

“I want him to kiss me and wonder whose cum it is this time.”

“Does he know you swallow better than you clean?”

I ignore him and use my jaw to work the full length of him while cupping his balls, tongue teasing the veins.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck.”

His cum drowns my tongue, extras spraying across my face.

I hold him there with my lips sealed. Then I draw back. Lick my lips. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and fix his towel.

“Time’s up,” I say, adjusting my skirt with a smile. “And oh, my husband might be small… but he loves to share.”

At the door, he picks up my name tag, which I’d forgotten, and pins it to my chest.

He slaps my face again.

“Tell your husband I said thank you. And oh, smile pretty for him with my handprints on your cheeks and the smell of my cum on your skin, ‘Blaire.’”

“Goodnight, sir.”

I close the door.

LESBIAN FANTASY | BATH MASTURBATION | SELF FILMING

Her name’s Mirelle. We met at a coffee shop on a day when I did the one thing I do best — running late for work. We’ve talked on and off for weeks. So much so that my husband questions our friendship. I don’t blame him. I’d question me, if my partner were chuckling at three am with their back to me, engrossed on a screen beneath the sheets.

Silicon Valley. Monday, 2013. I decide to test his theory by sending her a video when I get back from work. I set up my tripod stand and camera. Place the ring light just right. Then I burn some incense, patchouli and ylang-ylang. A special mix I created myself for these sessions.

I imagine my sweet friend perched on our bouclé chair like a good girl who’s never tasted trouble. She’s cute, harmless, but with hunger behind her intense hazel eyes.

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RIPPED PANTIES | RIMMING | TIT SLAPPING

If the scene starts ridiculously, you can bet I’ll be there. I have a reputation for being caught on my knees in unexpected situations. I was still horny from posting my last story. My cunt twitched every time I thought of typing that final line, thighs slick under my silk robe.

Vasco, my husband, was travelling again. He always leaves the second I post. Convenient, isn’t it? He’s likely in a dull hotel room, hand down his pants, stroking his cock while scrolling through the dirty stuff I write for others.

Past midnight, I’d been down to the laundry twice already, and my thermal socks were still missing. I can’t sleep without them. Pathetic. I dragged myself back down in a silk robe and the red heels I’d worn for the last story. Yeah. I sometimes wonder about my choices too.

The building was deathly still.

Third time lucky, I thought, bending right over the open washing machine, robe riding high, searching the drum like an idiot.

The drum’s icy rim bit into my stomach. My tits swung beneath me, nipples erect from the chilly metal grazing them. I found one leg and got playful, doing my silly happy dance right there with my arse in the air.

I had my hands on my breasts when I smelled him. Carrot seed and a hint of tobacco musk. My writing tutor, who lived three floors above me, a man who had watched me tease him for months through his window whilst my husband was away, legs spread on the sofa, eyes locked on his silhouette, fucking my cunt raw for him.

I thought about my exposed arse and had to laugh at myself internally, the kind of facepalm moment that only I could manufacture.

I didn’t have time to straighten up before he gripped my hips.

“Stay where you are, little brat. If you consent, spread wider. Let’s see if you’re as horny as your stories make you out to be.”

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OFFICE THREESOME | VIDEO VOYEUR | SPITROAST

Great. It’s lingerie day. My girls are getting dolled up. My delivery got canceled. My husband, Kennedy, is on his way. I have nothing but site clothes, still muddy from casting the slab.

So, I improvise. An undersized reflective vest. That will do.

Kennedy texts. Running late.

Fine.

I step out to inspect the desk for the handoff tomorrow. The evening air flows in through the cracked window, rustling loose papers on the plans. I shut the door behind me.

Late sun cuts through the curtain wall, laying long orange streaks across the desk. My reflection catches in the glass. I wince at myself. Not good enough.

No time to change. I feel it crest and refuse it.

The lingerie does not matter. Whatever makes a woman the most dangerous thing in the room, power does. I take that and run with it.

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My name’s Elia and resisting cock is like ignoring cravings on day one of an intermittent fast. Dead impossible I tell you. So, I went jogging as usual and ended up in some new gym that’s opened up around the corner called Steamy Sessions.

Now, I admit, I didn’t so much as enter that gym for the workout as much as I did for the thoughts that the name conjured in my mind.

Anyhow, one peep through the curtain wall and I was inside.

Steamy Sessions had proper industrial bones. Exposed red brick, black steel beams crisscrossing the ceiling, sleek rubber flooring beneath cold strip lights.

Three men caught my eye immediately. A blonde on the deadlift platform, veins rope-threaded through his tattooed forearms. Silver fox at the cable machine, sharp jaw, wedding band catching the light. And the tall one by the squat rack sporting dark, wet curls stuck to his temples.

Thank fuck, I wore my good set. A pair of black seamless shorts that sculpts rather than covers and a sports bra cut lower than kind. Every squat was a small performance I pretended wasn’t orchestrating.

The mirrors did half the work. I’d catch the blonde mid-rep, the fox mid-pull, the quiet one’s jaw tight around a breath he hadn’t taken. By the hour’s end the gym had emptied down to just us four.

The blonde grinned.

“Night crew, love. We’re always here after ten.”

“Duly noted.”

Walked home grinning, thighs slick with more than just sweat. Mack was on the lounger out back, paper folded on his chest, half-asleep under the Saturday morning sun. I didn’t go in for water. Or to take my trainers off and change clothes. Not with my pussy aching against the soaked seam of my shorts.

Crossed the lawn and knelt between his knees before he’d properly opened his eyes.

“Hello, trouble,” he said, sitting up as I rolled my hair into a ponytail.

I pulled his shorts down just enough since the Rookwood's kitchen window was twenty feet away, but fuck that. Yanked them clean off, letting them pool at his ankles. Mack groaned as I licked the glistening precum straight from his slit. Fisting the thick base, I sucked the swollen head deep, tongue swirling whilst my free hand rolled and massaged his heavy balls.

Still sweaty from the gym, my skin glistened against his thighs, coating them in my sweat. He grabbed my ponytail hard, guiding me lower until he hit the back of my throat. I hummed, eyes watering with pure cock-worship as my throat fluttered around his shaft. Right before he could explode, I pulled off, lips shiny, and stood.

Took off my sports bra and wiped the drool off my chin with it

“I’m going for a bath.”

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, probably.

My pussy lips were so swollen I almost fucked myself with the shower head, but the sweetest torture is knowing that the best thing about anticipation… is the anticipation.

Got ready to meet the mums for our usual weekend hangout. Then, I left a note by Mack’s side table.

“Made arrangements, love. Don’t spend your afternoon wanking.”

Before I stepped out, he caught my wrist by the door, didn’t pull, didn’t speak, just held it, then let go.

Fiona brought lemon drizzle. Priya brought the twins. I brought a cunt that wouldn’t stop throbbing. Whilst someone was talking about catchment areas, I was watching a cocktail sausage roll off Cressida’s plate and thinking thoughts no decent suburban mum should be caught thinking.

Gave it an hour and every tray became a conspiracy. The cucumber batons, the little piped cream horns, everything had me imaging what each cock from the three guys at the gym looked like. I crossed my legs. Uncrossed them. Crossed them tighter, nipples hardening by the second against my dress.

Fiona laughed at something Priya said. Couldn’t tell you what. Not with a clit twitching as hard as mine was.

Got home at five. He was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, making something that involved garlic. I went in and took a very long, satisfying bath, wore a loose crop top and joggers. No knickers. Then, went down to meet him.

He didn’t bother with small talk about how my afternoon went. Just handed me a glass of wine and said, “Eat. You’ll need it.” Then went up to freshen up.

Nine-forty. He picked up his keys.

We drove to Steamy Sessions without a word. The night crew was waiting, blonde, silver fox, and the tall quiet one, cocks already straining under gym shorts, their bodies carved from the same steel beams overhead.

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No preamble. The blonde bent me over the deadlift platform, ripped my joggers down and drove his fat shaft into my dripping cunt. I almost screamed. The platform’s cold steel bit my palms, grounding the fire. Silver fox fed his thick cock down my throat while the quiet one threaded his fingers through my hair and controlled my bobbing head.

“Watch. Mack,” I gasped between thrusts, eyes locked on my husband in the corner.

They fucked me hard, rotating holes, slapping my tits, pulling my hair. I came screaming around the silver fox’s shaft, pussy gushing down my thighs. Leather creaking beneath us. When the blonde came, he pulled out and painted my back. The others followed, filling my mouth and arse until I dripped cum from every hole.

I turned to Mack, coated in their cum and a wide smile. “Ready to go home, love?”

He nodded, quietly.

The night crew left whilst I cleaned up with some wet wipes. Pulled my joggers back on, sticky where their spunk soaked through. We ended up leaving last. Except, we didn't make it into the car. Mack opened the back door, bent me over the chair and pulled my sticky joggers down to my knees.

Mack thrust into my cum-slick cunt, hands firmly on my hips, the car rocking as cum dripped down my thighs in the backseat's dim light.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pounding deeper.

I pushed back, moaning, “Reclaim your whore, husband.”

He came instantly, flooding me again, his cum mixing with theirs until it ran down my thighs. We drove home in silence with the scent of sex thick in the car and the rubber mats sticky underfoot.

BOATHOUSE SEX | SPITROAST | CREAMPIE | ANAL RECLAIMING

I’m unsure what I was looking for that afternoon when I tied my shoes and stepped out. I wasn’t searching for meaning or whatever bullshit people claim the ocean gives them. I was bored. My husband was napping off lunch, and I needed air that didn’t smell like his expensive cologne and our mediocre intimacy.

I remained by the dock on purpose because a man with long fingers, packing ice into cones, caught my attention.

“Careful,” he said when I nearly walked into him.

His name was Rafe.

“You’re teaching me to gut fish?” I asked when he handed me a knife.

“Unless you’d rather talk about your wedding ring and why you’re out here alone.”

Fair point.

Turns out filleting mackerel can be intimate in a way that makes zero sense until you’re the one doing it. His hands correcting mine. The blade. The sounds. My brain was doing something it absolutely should not have been doing, considering we were gutting fish.

“There’s a bar,” he said after, drying his hands. “And fun fact, they salt the rims.”

I should’ve gone back to the hotel. Said something about my husband. About dinner. About literally anything except—

“Show me.”

I left with directions and an agreement to meet there in the evening. The bar had decent tequila and terrible lighting. Rafe was already there when I arrived, like he knew I’d come.

“Salt?” he asked, tapping my glass.

Obviously, I thought, but responded regardless. I might have wondered what I was doing out here during my honeymoon had someone not slid into the booth. Rafe’s twin. Eli. Same long fingers. Different energy entirely, the kind that makes you clench.

“Bad night?” Rafe asked him.

“Good enough to drink, I suppose.”

Everything was softer except the tension, which got sharper with every round. My nipples were hard under my dress. So hard I couldn’t hide them if I tried. Neither of them was trying to look away either.

Good. I chose this dress for Rafe. Knowing Eli noticed too, made it better.

At some point, Rafe’s knee brushed mine. Around the same time, Eli’s hand landed on my thigh. Just resting there. Quite the temptation.

My husband flickered through my mind as I excused myself for the bathroom. So did our vows. But now, I see marriage as a room you design carefully and then, while rendering, realize it has no windows.

When Eli offered to walk me, I didn’t say no.

“Nobody’s in here,” he said, following me inside.

I could tell it wasn’t a question as the door clicked shut.

“You okay?” he asked.

That made me smile, seeing how certain his features were. He could tell that with marriage, it’s often complicated.

“I think so.”

As he stepped closer, I felt my thighs slick up. Had been since the dock, if I’m honest. Maybe while I was filleting mackerel with Rafe, even. His fingers traced my wrist, and when I didn’t pull away, they travelled up, pausing just below my breasts.

“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy all night,” he said against my ear. “Tell me to stop if it’s not that complicated.”

I didn’t stop him. His hand slid behind my neck, and his mouth crushed mine. I opened for him immediately. His tongue, his teeth, his other hand grabbing my ass hard enough to leave welts for my husband.

I tensed. Not from fear. Or my usual anxiety. From the shock of being touched like I’m wanted instead of tolerated. His fingers found my pussy, pulled my underwear aside. When he felt how wet I was, he pulled back to look at me.

“Jesus Christ.”

Those words only made me gush harder against his fingers. He kissed me again, rougher, just as he slid a finger inside me. I gasped. More from the sheer relief of the feeling.

“I’ve barely touched you,” he whispered.

“I know. It’s that complicated,” I gushed, getting ahead of myself.

He lifted me onto the counter, dropped to his knees, and pushed my thighs apart.

“Let me taste you.”

His tongue found my clit immediately. No teasing. Just hunger. My hips jerked, bucked, and locked around him. His grip on my thighs tightened, holding me firm. When he growled against my pussy, the vibration went straight through me.

“You wanted this.”

I nodded, even though it felt more like a statement than a question. He didn’t wait for one anyway. His mouth sealed around my clit, licked and sucked. The tiny bathroom carried the sounds of our filth. I moaned his name without meaning to.

“Don’t hold back. I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

Two fingers slid inside me, curling just right, while his mouth stayed relentless on my clit. My thighs clamped around his head, pulling him in. I came hard and fast, cunt pulsing around his fingers while he held me there and drank every drop.

“I’m not done,” he whispered, forcing my legs open again. “Not until you can’t fucking stand.”

His voice was so tender I almost came again. His tongue dove back in, messier now, less careful, less restrained. I was still trembling from the first orgasm when the second one hit. Harder. Meaner. Coating him with all of me.

When it finally stopped, he stood, fully clothed, cock straining against his pants.

“That was just my mouth,” he said quietly. “Wanna find out what my cock feels like too?”

I almost laughed. That couldn’t be the end. I freed him from his pants. Wrapped my hand around him, then my mouth.

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You ask me to dinner. The bookshop girl: cute, and, you’ve decided, rather simple. I invite you back to mine. At the entrance, before the door even clicks shut, I drop to my knees, salivating like the filthy slag that I am and swallow your scrumptious cock whole.

I still haven’t asked your name, but your salty pre-cum is already coating my tongue and gliding down my throat. Then I take you straight to my bedroom. Pretty blue sheets. I’m dressed in a simple lace negligée.

I want you shameless.

I strip first. Brace my arse against the dressing table, spread my thighs wide and ram three fingers deep into my sloppy cunt. I fuck myself hard until my greedy hole is squelching loudly, and my fingers shine with white cunt cream.

You do nothing but stand there and leer like a pathetic wanker. Fine. That is all right. Leering has its uses. I go on fucking myself, patiently. Torturing my cunt until your cock, which had been taking its time, finally stirs and swells for me.

I sit you down. Undress you myself. Wrap my sticky hand round your fat cock, and play with it, making a filthy little ceremony of it. Not tenderness. Just display. You are meant to look.

At my narrow waist, caught in silver chains.

At the width of my wide hips beneath them.

At the smoke drifting lazily past my nipples, already hard.

At my heavy tits, rising and falling with effort.

At my face.

At the superior look I wear when I sink myself down onto you, slippery cunt wrapping its warmth around you. I want to watch your face as you lose whatever manners you came in with, and feel your restraint give way under me.

Hypnotise you with my face as I ride your cock like a cheap whore, my lavender scent flirting with your nostrils while the smoke haze teases my stiff nipples. When you move at last, you do it properly.

I avert my gaze.

You drag it back by the hair. Your hand closes at the root and holds me where you want me, head tipped, throat open, body arranged as a proper fuck-doll should be. A slut, then. At your service.

My clit flickers against the smooth skin of your hard cock. You make me look down between us, where you slide slickly through my wet lips.

You hike up my hips, the chains flashing against your skin, and drive yourself balls deep inside my overused cunt. Force my head down. Keep my eyes open while your thick meat moves slickly through my puffy lips.

My engorged clit screams every time you hit that spot inside me. Both of us breathing hard enough to hear it.

I shut my eyes in ecstasy. Vulnerability can wait.

You erupt inside me. Fill me with your load. I feel it, hot and blunt. Straight to my womb. That should have been the end of it. But it isn’t.

You expect the usual softening after. You do not get it.

Instead of tiring, I climb onto the dressing table and shove four cum-soaked fingers into my ruined cunt and fist your thick creamy load back through my sloppy hole, stretching myself wide enough to squirt a powerful messy arc of your cum all over the beige carpet.

A stupid colour for a bedroom carpet. It will stain. Good.

Then I hold up my dripping fingers. An offering. I shove them straight into your mouth. You think you suck them because by then there is nothing else to do. No, my cum eater.

When I’m done, I kiss you on the lips. Stay there a moment. Slow enough to be insulting. Then I bite softly at your lower lip. Let my swollen nipples brush your chest as if this has been intimate.

When I walk you to the door, I am smiling.

The hunger is dealt with.

Better this than four dead hours in some bar while you pretend to care what my shifts feel like. My colleagues, the little weather systems of my day.

No performance. No complexity. No aftermath. Respect, perhaps. Not feeling. A measure of deference, maybe. For the appetite, if not the people carrying it. The useful thing about hunger is how cleanly it can be handled when nobody insists on nametags.

At the door, your eyes catch on my ring. That is where the shine in them alters. Not gone. Just thinned. Though not enough to matter. I wonder, briefly, what expression you would wear or what you’d make of it if you knew my husband was snoring peacefully in the next room. But I think you already understand more than you let on.

As I open it for you, I lean in close with that little smile still tugging at my lips, “Next time just let yourself in, darling. I’ll be bound and waiting, ankle spreaders keeping me in place. Your fuckdoll in waiting. And I’ll smell of ripe cherries instead of lavender this time. Just for you.”

I know you’ll crave the smoke haze, flirting with my hardened nipples too much for logic. Next time, you won’t pretend to care about consent or consequences.

You’ll tear my clothes off before the door has even shut. You know enough already.

Next time, you won’t trouble yourself with whether I should be protected from my own choices.

By then, I’ll be something official to you. Not beloved. Not even kept. Just Certified.

Your slut.

I stand by the door until you thin into a silhouette that vanishes. Then I close it and stand there a moment. The breeze through the hallway feels good on my skin, but I do not linger.

I need to bathe. Check on my husband.

He is not in bed when I walk into the bedroom.

I search the rest of the house for ten minutes before I realise where he must be. The study.

Our twisted approximation of domestic normalcy.

I stop calling his name when I reach the door. The study air carries aged paper, polished oak, and faint cigar smoke. The mood changes. In here, I submit. No longer the saucy tease. I am not the slut who fisted herself for a stranger an hour ago whilst my husband snored in the next room.

The desk stands uncovered when I walk in. I named it Armand after a character in a book I loved once. My husband, Cillian, sits behind it, glasses on, reading something I shall not be told about. The only lighting in the room comes from the dim glow of the amber lamp beside him.

I am rather exhausted from the performance I gave for you, but I walk to the desk and bend forward over it without being asked. My tits press against the wood, puffy nipples hardening as they graze its surface, and my clit twitches hard, dripping shame down my thighs as I spread my legs for him.

Cillian rises. He is quiet. He straps my wrists. Buckles my legs. All whilst I am still dripping for you. He takes a wet wipe and dabs the excess slick between my thighs until I am damp rather than leaking. Not coated in my filth. Slick enough, just.

Friction, he says, is the reason.

After cleaning me, he parts my arse cheeks and glides his tongue through my slit. My cunt still tastes of you, and I expect he can taste your salty cum on me.

But then he leaves. I wait, strapped and spread, for what must be an hour, imagining all the ways he’ll fuck me. The wood presses against my tits, sending an icy chill through me until my body temperature adjusts. My nipples stay hard.

I can smell him when he returns. It is so quiet that the silence in the study is thick enough to hear my own pulse. But I can feel his presence in the air. He does it deliberately. He knows what the anticipation does to my horny brain, though my hole still flutters, begging for your cock.

By the time I feel the heat of his body behind me, I am wet enough that my thighs are slippery and the soles of my feet are damp with my own mess.

When his cock grazes my cunt, I flinch. A fresh trickle gushes from my snatch and runs down my leg. He strokes my engorged clit, teasing me with the head of his cock, slowly but firmly rubbing his thick shaft over and over my lips until I am whimpering.

Then he walks round to face me. For a long moment, he says nothing. Just stands there, eyes moving over my flushed face and parted lips, tits pressed hard against the desk. The silence holds until my heartbeat is louder than my breathing. Only then does he speak.

“Weren’t doing much of that sobbing when you were showing off for him.”

“Husband, don’t forget my spunk-stuffed cunt will be creaming his load all over yours soon… And you’ll enjoy how slippery it is.”

He pushes his cock into my mouth. Perhaps to silence me before my loose mouth runs loose. I suck him immediately. Greedy to service. His thick cock slides deep into my throat, balls slapping my chin as I gag and slobber. He pumps harder, fucking my face raw.

Then he moves back behind me. I feel the warmth of him first, radiating against my swollen lips before his skin even grazes mine. The stiff head of his cock nudges my creamy folds, parting them just enough to kiss the slick mess still leaking from me. I push back, hips rolling, desperate to take him, but the straps bite into my wrists and thighs, locking me in place.

I can only whimper and strain, cunt fluttering whilst his cock rests there, letting my wetness coat every inch of him until he’s ready to claim what’s his. I can tell he will not cum quickly today. But I am so slippery that it takes a while for him actually to slip in.

His thick meat stretches my used cunt open, slick with another man’s cum. I moan like a whore. He grips my waist and fucks me. Deep, fast thrusts. I take it obediently until the slut surfaces, and I begin to move with him.

I make use of my waist. Grinding. Pushing my arse back. Pulling his cock deeper until it throbs inside me, and my cunt finally feels well used from taking two men in less than three hours.

He unbinds me then and takes me to the bed. The bed linen feels cool as the crisp cotton touches my bare skin. We spoon, and I give him my hands behind my back, wrists crossed. The angle is terribly bad for my shoulders, but it is one I find quite stimulating.

He fucks me until he’s groaning against my back, and I cum so hard my vision whites out. Finally. My body is nearly spent. But my service here is not done. I start moving from this angle until his breathing changes.

“The way you pull off and let my cock graze your clit till your legs shiver, but you keep going — ”

“Shhhh,” I say. “Your only task is not to cum. Hear my pussy squelching and farting with each thrust? That’s because my cunt’s bloated and nasty with his thick seed, specifically for your use.”

I grind harder and clench tighter with each stroke, knowing my husband can tell half my wetness is for you. I also know the pace that will break him, so I stay just below it, riding, working my wet lips over his cock until I feel him strain.

“You’re forgetting it is not just you and your dildo. I will cum.” He groans, and I ride him harder while my cunt creams his cock with your spunk.

Then I clench around him until he shakes. I pull almost off, brush the head of his cock against my clit, thighs pressed shut for friction, and I moan, “fill me with your seed, flood my cunt, husband.”

He erupts, his veined shaft flooding my pussy with thick spurts of his creamy cum whilst pushing your cum back inside me.

After a moment, when his breathing settles, he says it.

“Rosalba.” His voice is wrecked by this time. “You’re a naughty whore. Keep him. I do not disapprove.”

Then he flips me over, pins my wrists above my head and whispers against my ear, “Next time, tell him your voyeur husband will watch him use your cheap cunt.”

BREEDING RISK | VERBAL DEGRADATION | CUCKOLD HUMILIATION | RESTRAINTS | CHURCH SETTING

My name is Winifred, and I’m apparently a cum-loving slut. But before I digress, what kind of husband forgets a birthday? The kind that jerks off 24/7 when he can’t keep it hard enough to fuck me.

That said, my body should be refurbished from our morning sex. It’s still taking its time to dress up and join us at the ‘Communion of the Old Vines’, which I suggested we call ‘Wine Tasting’.

But here we are…

Read more

The night has barely started, and I am already irritable. We should be at some overpriced restaurant. Cocktails sweating onto a marble table. Or working with a client on an intimacy track session.

Instead, we are in a half-empty theatre with two staff members who look as if they would rather be somewhere else, watching a film noir that began twenty minutes ago without us.

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I received the first email one spring. Or perhaps the autumn before it. This was years before my dental practice. Long before Islington. Back when Samuel and I lived in a converted warehouse in Brooklyn.

We recorded intimacy tracks for strangers willing to pay three figures to hear me moan their name. We draped the warehouse walls with foam panels and old recording blankets to swallow the echo.

The work was frictionless. Clients sent their preferences in their proposals. Samuel fed instructions to me through the intercom while I performed.

Slower.

Wetter.

Part your legs.

Careful, Claire. You’re peaking the mic again.

My moans funneled straight into the microphone. Sometimes, so close my lips almost brushed it. Samuel always made me angle my mouth slightly away so my breath wouldn’t thump against the capsule.

On the other end, someone’s breathing would quicken.

More requests arrived.

Samuel and I would listen back at night. Sometimes, to improve the craft. Other times to make more of it. Until the last email.

Intimacy track. Solo payment already wired.

I’d like to meet in person this time. Just once, Claire.

We had never done that before. Distance was the point. Fantasy without bodies. Fantasy without consequences.

Samuel read the message twice. “Let’s try,” he said.

Now the man from the emails stands in our open kitchen. Even with the J train rattling outside, I realise something.

Audio is very different from skin.

Cock O’clock the 14th. Brooklyn. 1995.

I’ve infused the air with lavender. Given the place, a hotel-worthy reset. Now I’m naked, perched on the kitchen island with my legs parted, slickness already pooling beneath me and trailing down the granite edge.

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The PTA meeting drags on forever before it finally ends. Thank fucking goodness, because the laser pointer was beginning to resemble a dick. Bonus points to the new mum who kept stroking it unconsciously while presenting. I wonder what she would think about a threesome.

The only reason I’m here is my daughter, Abby, who won’t stop ranting about the multiple laps their coach makes them run. Unfortunately, all I got from that was imagining how many laps he could put my cunt through.

The irony indeed.

I smooth my skirt, wet slit already primed for Coach Calloway, and stand, knowing I intend to devour that hot body today.

“Mrs Carter,” he says, straightening papers he doesn’t need to touch. “Need something?”

His voice is professional, but his jaw clenching mid-sentence gives him away.

I walk around the desk, sit on the edge, and place my dainty heel between his legs on his chair, my nipples already taut with anticipation.

“Yes,” I purr, drawing the word out. “But, not for Abby.”

Between my throbbing clit and soaked panties, I’m so ready to service his cock. He watches me, then glances at the shut door before his gaze settles back on my cleavage. His breathing changes, and I see his pulse tick beneath his collar.

“I think you’re a very hot man.”

He remains silent, and I continue. “I’d hate for us not to …take advantage, seeing how you’re already fucking my tits with your eyes.”

“I wasn’t trying to —” he starts. His voice catches halfway.

I lean forward, trailing my hand across his chest. “Don’t lie, Coach.”

“Tell me what you want, Mrs Carter,” he asks.

I nod, smiling. “You.”

I place my hand on his crotch, and he yanks it up. He clutches my hips and pulls me into him. “Careful. I don’t do well with brats.”

About time we stopped pretending not to notice each other. But fuck. The way my pussy clenches from his grasp.

He lifts me onto the desk, and papers scatter, then spreads my thighs and stands between them, his cock straining against his trousers. I arch into him, pulling him closer by his tie until there’s nothing but heat and months of wanting finally spilling over. Scratch that cliché, it’s all lust.

“You shouldn’t have stayed,” he whispers against my ear, and even my butthole puckers at the idea of how hard he’s about to fuck me.

“You didn’t ask me to leave when you realised what I stayed for.”

That’s all it takes for him to kiss me hard.

He snakes his fingers around my waist and digs them into my hips like he means to leave marks through the fabric. Good marks. His lips leave mine, trailing down my neck.

I reach down and guide his hand beneath my skirt. He responds, hands slipping higher. His knuckles graze my bare thighs and find my panties. Groaning as his fingers graze my dripping slit.

I lean back against the desk, push my panties aside, take his hand, then guide his fingers to the hard plug between my arse cheeks.

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?” he asks.

I hold his hands and massage my cunt with it. His fingers slide into me, and I gasp, hips jerking against him. The man sure knows how to work a cunt.

He kisses me again, then pulls back just enough to watch my face as he fingers me.

I moan and reach out to tug his belt open. Moaning, I grab his cock, position him at my entrance, and use my ankles to push him in.

I almost gasp from the size, biting my lip instead because God help me — it’s never felt this good to misbehave. As he strokes my clit with his fingers, he thrusts into me so hard that his balls slap against my butt plug.

His whistle swings on its lanyard, tapping my erect nipples with every thrust. Cold plastic. Stiff cock. I moan, unsure which one I’m high on. I part my thighs wider to take his full length while whispering every other filthy word I know. He growls, holding my panties to the side as he rams his cock into me.

“Tell me how much you wanted this cock,” he demands.

I arch my back off the wooden, creaking desk, digging my nails into his back and cry out louder than I intend to as I cum hard, pussy coating him with my slippery wetness.

“Follow me,” he says, pulling out. “I need to fuck you properly …on a desk that won’t collapse.”

Ambitious. I like that in a man.

I adjust my panties and reapply my lipstick using the projector. He leads. I follow two steps behind, which is either pretend professional distance or the best angle to watch his tight arse, knowing I’m still wet for him.

“Fuck me. Here. Anyhow you want,” I whisper, the second we’re in the dark boys’ locker room.

He kicks the door shut, eyes darkening, and he’s on me instantly, slamming my back into the row of lockers. His mouth crashes into mine; our tongues and teeth collide in sweaty, breathless arousal.

He spins me around, pins my hands above my head, and yanks my dress up, seams ripping at the sides. I wonder if Abby has ever made out in this room.

I don’t pursue that thought.

His rough fingers graze my soaked panties, teasing. He drags my drenched panties taut against my engorged clit and strokes me, grinding the sopping fabric up and down my pussy. I moan like a cock-starved whore.

My hips jerk as the stretched material rams the thick butt plug deeper into my tight ass, my throbbing cunt straining against its filthy lace.

Fresh cream gushes through, soaking his fingers and dripping down my quivering thighs as he finger-fucks my cunt right through my nasty lace panties until I’m begging to cum. Fuck. If only my husband could see me right now!

I’m so wet that I wonder if this dirty locker room is playing a role.

He pushes my panties aside and slams his shaft balls-deep into my cunt, delivering over a dozen savage strokes that shove me harder into the metal lockers.

Then he drags the panties to my knees, grabs my waist and rams his cock into me so hard that my fingers slip from the cold locker. A clipboard slips out of it, falling between my legs.

“Hold your panties there.”

Each thrust stretches me wide around his girth. I scream, butt plug grinding deeper. Abby’s name is third from the top on the clipboard.

As he slams into me, I watch her name bounce. I should look away. I don’t.

I hold my panties and let his cock slip out, use my wet lips to grind on his shaft until he’s groaning.

“You’re gonna make me cum —” he says and grabs a fistful of my hair while pulling me back, so I feel his mouth at my ear.

“Cum for me,” I moan back, increasing my speed as I grind back into him.

It builds so fast I can barely think. I cum hard, crying out as he finishes inside me.

I put my panties back on, let them soak up our juices, and straighten my clothes.

When we step into the corridor, and some students walk past us, if only they knew what that whistle that coordinates them on the field has been up to.

My thighs rremain sticky from Calloway’s cum, and I’m excited for round two.

This is Frank’s favourite part of our marital infidelity. His only request is that I always return dripping with the juices. Then he books a fancy hotel room, cuffs me up, and fucks the fuck out of me.

He’s already at the parking lot. Eleven inches of patient husband waiting while I’m dripping another man’s cum into my panties.

I see that new mum with the laser pointer before I get in the car with Frank. That darn laser pointer has probably seen more action tonight than her cunt or at least the PTA board all year.

Frank doesn’t say a word when we get into the bedroom. He never does.

Three years into this arrangement, and I’m still uncertain if he’s jealous or aroused or both. Either way, he rails my cunt like a cumdump every time. I will be lying if I say my pussy doesn’t clench whenever I consider which it is.

He takes one look at me.

“You’ve been a naughty little whore today, haven’t you?” he says and reaches for the cuffs. Binds my wrists behind my back and bends me over the bed with a pillow beneath my belly.

He spreads my knees apart with my back arched and face pressed to the sheets in a perfect collapsed doggie position.

Then he strips.

“Still wet from him,” he says, pulling my panties down.

He stands behind me and sniffs my cunt. I whimper, grinding against the pillow.

He presses me down into the mattress, fingers parting my cheeks just enough to twist the butt plug. The vibration kicks on inside my arse, and I gasp.

“You walked around with this in you,” he murmurs and drags his fingers along my clit.

“Stuffed and dripping from him while plugged for me.”

He fucks my arsehole with the butt plug, pulling and shoving it in with quick thrusts. Whenever my climax starts to build, he pauses. I gasp as my whole body jerks.

“Not even ashamed to be cumming for Abby’s Coach,” he whispers, spanking me.

“Please,” I gasp, hips rolling helplessly. “Please let me cum — just once,” I beg.

He turns the dial up, and the plug vibrates harder. “You don’t get to cum yet, Princess,” he says, still fucking my arse with the toy.

“You get to leak all over my toy and take a good fucking first.”

He presses his palm against my lower back, holding me down as I writhe. Just when I think I can’t take anymore, he aligns his cock with my opening and thrusts into my dripping cunt.

Every thrust presses my face deeper into the bed, my hands straining in the cuffs, my breath stolen. I’m so full, so overstimulated, that I can’t tell if I’m moaning from pain or pleasure anymore.

But I don’t want him to stop.

Not ever.

Just before he cums, he pulls out and yanks me up by the waist into an appropriate doggie position.

I barely have time to gasp before he spreads my arse cheeks and pulls the butt plug out. He groans, stroking my gaping hole with his raging cock.

I cry out when he pushes in. My body clenches around him, already raw… still wet for more. And I take him like a filthy cheating whore.

“Missing his cock already, aren’t you?” he growls, slamming in again.

“Only you,” I gasp. “You. Always.”

“Good. My seed belongs inside you,” he says, cumming deep inside me.

I feel the thick spurts flow into my arse as he claims me, and I collapse forward, shaking, cuffed, leaking like a faucet. All while thinking about Calloway’s cock.

I wonder what Frank would think about watching Calloway fuck me in the locker room.

Again.

After my PTA sexcapade with Coach Calloway, Frank made it clear that the next time, he didn’t want me just dripping with another man’s cum before he fucked me.

In his words, he wanted to watch my pussy stretch as another man’s cock slid in and out of me. And like the nasty little slut I am, I agreed to have these two dominant men share their authority over these different domains with me as the centre piece of their debauchery.

I approached Coach Calloway right after practice that week and told him about my husband.

“Friday. Same locker room.” Was his response.

I was so excited at the thought of how I’ll be slutted out that I almost took him there. But this time, Frank wanted to watch. So, I had to be a good slut.

“This him?” Coach Calloway asks as we step into the locker room.

“Yes,” I say, stepping closer. “Is there a problem?”

He grabs my waist, spins me around, and presses my palms flat against the lockers. I feel his boner press into my arse mildly, and I wiggle my butt into him.

“No,” he whispers into my ear. “But I’m not holding back because he’s watching.”

Frank chuckles from his chair. “Good. She’s here to be railed senseless.”

Coach’s hands slide under my skirt impatiently, shoving it up over my hips, then he finds my panties and yanks them down.

My pussy clenches as he shoves my thighs apart and adjusts my position, so my back is arched, and my arse is in the air. He spreads my butt cheeks, exposing my already dripping pussy to him and Frank.

The cold air kisses my wet lips, and I gasp.

“Fuck,” I whisper, feeling a different rush to this new dynamic.

I’m used to doing the seducing and returning to Frank drenched in my infidelity. Right now, whilst I’m aroused, I feel an overwhelming need to be a good girl.

To please both.

Coach uses his fingers to spread my wet folds and expose my pink pussy.

“She always like this for you?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at Frank

“Only after being a filthy slut for another,” Frank replies evenly. “So yeah. Always.”

Frank’s response is so calm I almost cum in appreciation.

Coach rubs my clit between his fingers, then pushes his fingers inside me, two at once, curling hard. I gasp and rest my head against the cold metal to keep me from shutting my legs.

He shoves a third finger in, stretching me, and I cry out, my knees buckling.

“My naughty little whore,” Frank says.

My pussy clenches at Frank’s words. Something about him watching me in my element makes me even hornier.

“Mm,” Calloway groans, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to my lips.

He nibbles on my earlobe while I suck my wetness off his fingers. Then unbuckles his belt and shoves his trousers down. He slaps my arse with his thick length, and I arch further back into him.

“Tell him what you want,” Frank says, “use your words.”

“Fuck me… please. Make me scream for you.” I say, turning to meet Calloway’s eyes.

I spread my legs wider and bend over completely, holding my ankles for support.

Coach beats my pussy with his meaty shaft. Stroking and rubbing my swollen cunt with his hard length until I’m begging for him to slide inside me.

He pokes the head of his cock at my hole and continues teasing. I moan, feeling my arousal glide down my thighs.

Then he slams into me.

No easing in. No pre-tease. Just one thrust that fills me and shoves me forward so hard I might’ve lost balance if his hands weren’t firm on my hips.

He fucks me so hard and deep, I feel his balls at my entrance. My breasts bounce. My legs shake. And all I can hear through my stuttering moans is my pussy queefing.

“Yes,” Frank says. “Fuck her raw for me.”

Calloway’s grip tightens. He pulls me back onto his cock with every thrust, using my hips as leverage. I’m sobbing, overwhelmed, pussy clenching from how deep he’s hitting it.

“Please — ” I struggle to speak, reaching my hands behind to anchor his thrusts.

He flips my hand away and keeps thrusting, stuffing me full of his thick length.

“You like your husband watching me wreck your tight little cunt, yeah?” Calloway growls.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck — yes — ”

“Then tell him how much you love him watching you get fucked,” Coach interjects.

“So good,” I whimper, turning my head toward Frank. “He’s fucking me so good, baby — I can’t — ”

“You can,” Frank says firmly. “And you will take every inch, for me.”

Calloway reaches around and finds my clit, rubbing hard. I scream and moan until I reach an intense pleasure peak. My pelvic muscles contract involuntarily, and a rush of warm, intense pleasure explodes through my body.

My pussy twitches and latches onto Coach’s cock hard — I scream his name, convulsing and gushing on his cock.

“Fuck,” Calloway chokes out, his rhythm faltering. “She’s — fuck — she’s so tight when she cums — ”

“Don’t stop,” Frank orders. “Keep fucking her through it.”

Calloway slams into me relentlessly, using more of his body weight as his hips jerk and stutter against mine.

I’m a trembling, sobbing mess against the locker. Pussy still fluttering. Yet still spread wide and taking Coach’s delicious cock like a filthy little whore.

“Breed her,” Frank says. “I want to watch her drip with your cum.”

Calloway groans, hips snapping forward one last time, and I feel his thick, creamy discharge burst inside me.

He stays still, his hands still gripping my hips until he goes soft and slips out of me.

I feel his cum start to drip from my pussy. Frank stands. Walks over. Spreads my arse and looks at the mess between my legs.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, running a finger through my gaping hole.

Frank kisses my soaked cunt, and fucks me with his tongue before he slaps my arse mindlessly and turns to Coach.

Calloway’s still catching his breath, leaning against the lockers, watching us.

“You good?” Frank asks him.

Calloway nods, still speechless.

“Thank you,” Frank almost whispers.

Frank turns back to me, helps me to a standing position, and kisses me deeply. When he pulls back, I see ravenous lust in his eyes. Without any prior hotel reservations, we’re headed home. I hope we make it to the bedroom before Abby notices we’re back.

Me: Wet. Demure. Starving.

Him: Hard. Nah, strike that.

My pink nipples tighten inside my scrubs as I lean over the patient’s open mouth. What I actually see is the memory. Thick streaks of his butter-sweet cum smeared across my wedding ring. My clit spasms again at the thought. Ridiculous. I am supposed to be concentrating on molars.

Rule number one of dental professionalism? Don’t fuck your superior.

Perversely, I do. Turned it into my favourite extracurricular and rewrote the exception clause with my bruised lips, lipstick.

Twenty years married. Three years of slipping into Ethan’s car after work and wrapping my mouth around the man who signs my schedule. The strangest part is that my husband enjoys hearing about it almost as much as I enjoy doing it.

I finish the appointment and wash my hands slowly. If I had not spent the entire day with my fingers inside other people’s mouths, I might need a sedative by now. Or a syringe of novocaine aimed directly at my cunt.

Cock o’clock, Islington, 2001. Ethan’s Audi.

“Long day?” Ethan asks. He sits in the driver’s seat very still, the way he always does, like a shadow with a spine.

“You kept me late again, Sir,” I say.

The dental mirror rests in the centre console. I notice it immediately. When we first started this, I was shy. Now I lean toward him deliberately, cleavage first, adjusting my blouse that is conveniently unbuttoned one notch too low. Oops.

He takes my fingers and places them over his crotch.

“Is a bonus apology enough?” he asks.

“Only if it is worth being grateful for, Sir.”

His mouth twitches. “Ready to choke on gratitude, Mrs Claire?”

His hand slides along my stockings and under my skirt. My pussy flutters instantly. My husband edged me all morning before work, and the sensitivity has not faded.

“I aim to please, Sir.”

“Ambitious,” he murmurs. “Or just hungry.”

His finger flicks my clit. My hips jump.

Inside my head, a thought appears, blunt and impatient. Just creampie my overtime already.

He frees himself from his trousers. His cock springs forward, heavy and curved, veins thick along the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the tip.

I lick my lipstick slowly. It will not look flawless for long.

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You adjust the ring light again, hunting for the right angle. Maya’s already at the counter, lining strawberries up in a neat row.

“Ready?” she asks, glancing at the camera. Her dark hair is pulled into a loose bun. A few strands fall free around her face in a way that’s both careless and distracting.

“Yeah. Let’s do this,” you say.

The red light blinks on, the recording starts, and Maya slips into host mode.

“Hey, everyone,” Maya says, in that voice that has always made your cock stir. “Today we’re making chocolate-covered strawberries. Super simple. Super delicious.”

Then she looks at you. “Always leaves you craving more...”

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