My Wife Valentina

Val--that's my wife--is a big deal lately.

At work, I mean. More money, more responsibility, later hours, more functions.

Therefore, when she asked if it was okay to push back our usual Valentine's Day date in order to attend a "work thing," I didn't complain.

She promised we'd still do something special this evening.

PART 1: "Let them look."

We get to the work thing. It's not at a bar or a restaurant. It's at someone's house. A man I don't know answers the door and practically drags us inside, as though we're the guests everyone's waiting for.

Her given name is Valentina. Don't bother with the jokes. She gets them a lot, especially this time of year. She's heard them all before.

She asked me to come with her and I said yes. She reassured me that she hadn't forgotten about Valentine's Day. She may have also plied me with the promise of drinks and snacks.

Sometimes, Val knows me better than I know myself.

The house is nice, if a little small. The kitchen and living room are one big room, with an island countertop in the kitchen part. Gathered around it are the other guests, five in total.

They're all men. And it seems like they're all good friends with Val.

She makes perfunctory introductions, then merges into the crowd like drops of water. They're instantly laughing and swapping stories that I haven't heard, them on one side of the island and me on the other.

I don't mind. I like that she's enjoying myself, and seeing her happy makes me happy.

Val is 55, blonde. Not as thin as she used to be. She would say that no one would look at her and take her for a model. But, I'd counter, she looks like someone who might have modeled when she was younger.

She's wearing a button-up shirt, with the top few buttons undone. (With her modest bust, she's in no danger of indecent exposure.) The shirttails are tucked neatly into a black above-the-knee skirt.

I wander over to a card table in the corner, where snacks and booze are set up. Propped up against the glassware is a little handwritten card, bidding guests to help themselves.

I fix myself a drink. Bored already, I drink it a little too fast, then wait an obligatory 30 seconds before wandering back to fix another.

The next drink also goes fast. The air is thick with conversation that has nothing to do with me.

I'm halfway into my third drink, feeling good, starting to get a little fuzzy, when I think I see one of the guys caress Val's boob.

It's quick, and it's subtle. He laughs at something she says, reaches out, touches her upper arm, then his hand goes sideways over her shirt. She doesn't seem to object, and neither do any of the guys.

I think about saying something. For some reason, I don't.

I gulp down the rest of my drink.

I want to enjoy the party, but I don't want to get obliterated. I munch on a handful of crackers to soak up some of the alcohol in my stomach.

I see him do it again.

He's bolder this time. His hand slips under the undone upper placket of her shirt, where I know her bare breast awaits.

Val often doesn't bother to wear a bra, and I know she isn't wearing one now. She reasons that there isn't much there for a bra to contain.

The guy hasn't taken his hand out of his shirt.

They're grinning and laughing, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

Amid the laughter and jokes, he kisses her. It's quick--just a peck.

But then she reaches up, puts a hand at the back of his neck, and kisses him back.

The guy to her other side, the one who ushered us into the house, is pressed up against her hip. His khakis do nothing to conceal his erection. It touches her through his pants.

Nobody else reacts. Everything is normal. It's still just a work thing.

My head is swimming. I realize I have to piss. I must be drunker than I thought.

I don't move. I say nothing.

I fix myself another drink, stay where I'm standing, and watch my wife make out with this man while he gropes her.

Derek. That's his name. I was having trouble remembering.

The guy behind her, with the visible erection, that's Rob.

It's suddenly easier to recall what she said their names were.

The air in the room is starting to feel very warm and soft and heavy. I wonder if I made a mistake, showing up here and getting buzzed.

I watch Rob's hand visit the hem of Val's skirt and pull it up. The whole room sees her dimpled thighs, her floral cotton panties. I feel like I should be alarmed, but I'm not. Not in the slightest.

Honestly, I'm feeling fine.

I just have to piss really bad.

Rob's hand goes down the front of her panties. The elastic waistband droops, stretched by his wrist, revealing thick curls of brown pubic hair.

Val and Derek are kissing open-mouthed now, tongues touching. He's unbuttoning her buttons, one by one, down her torso, uncovering more and more of her until her breasts and her belly are fully out.

Val's nipples aren't dark--they're nearly the same olive complexion as the rest of her skin--but they stick out like fingertips when they're hard.

I asked her once if she worried that people would see them through her clothes if she got cold or horny in public.

She just fixed me with an impish grin and said, "Let them look."

Val's fingers are working at the nape of Derek's neck, teasing the little hairs with her fingers--a move I'm familiar with. I try not to notice her other hand getting familiar with the ridge behind his fly.

Rob is doing something to her under her panties. He uses his free hand to unzip the size zipper on her skirt. Soon, he's got the skirt undone and he slips it down over her hips. It falls around her ankles.

I have to admit, she looks incredible like this. Her shirt open, shirttails dangling, Derek kneading her tiny tits, Rob fondling her beneath thin cotton underwear with little pictures of flowers on it.

The conversation among the other men has decisively shifted to the topic of my wife, her body, and the attentions being given by Rob and Derek.

I'm having trouble focusing on whole sentences. But I get the gist.

They're lewd and brazen. They speak about her as if she isn't right there. One of them says something that strongly implies he thinks about her when he masturbates, which raises some agreement.

Finally, I can't take it anymore.

I approach Rob. Nobody notices me until I speak.

"Could I use your bathroom?" I ask, nonchalant.

Rob glances over his shoulder at me. He doesn't turn around. Apparently, he's not willing to separate his hand and his pelvis from my wife.

"Yeah," he says, as if finally remembering who I am. "Second door down the hall, past the guest bedroom."

I leave Val alone with them and book it to the hallway. I pass an undecorated room with a bare lightbulb overhead. There's a mattress on the floor with a bottle next to it. Then I find the bathroom.

It's a small, tastefully furnished full bath with little hand towels and multiple scented candles. The combination shower and bathtub has a sliding door with frosted glass.

I undo my pants. My penis, rock hard, bobs free from my waistband. It juts out like a thick, hairy panhandle.

I silently plead with it to go soft so I can pee before my bladder explodes. I contemplate jerking off, but settle for counting backwards. It seems to be working.

Finally, I've wilted to a half-chub. The first trickle of urine starts to dribble free.

While I wait, I hear some kind of commotion on the other side of the wall, coming from the small bedroom. There are voices, sounds of merriment, too instinct to tell what's going on.

By the time I've finished, I'm not sure how much time has passed. It feels like I've been in here forever.

I flush my piss, wash my hands, and psych myself up to leave the bathroom and find out what's waiting for me on the other side of that wall.

~

PART 2: "Mind if I get her to suck me off?"

The men are all standing in the tiny room, every last one of them crammed in, but there's enough space at the open entrance for me to see inside.

Val is sitting on the mattress, reclining against the wall. Her panties are gone. Her shirt is still on, but it's open wide, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her knees are up, her legs apart.

She's strumming her vulva with one palm, making slick sounds over the din of mumbled commentary. Her brow is furrowed, her mouth is half-open. Through narrowed eyes, she watches the men watching her.

Her tiny tits bounce with her efforts. The hair on her perineum is matted and darkened with vaginal secretions. The whole room has a gynecological view of her masturbation.

Her breathing is slow and shallow, letting out a little coo of pleasure every so often through lips drawn into an "o."

The warm air smells of men and booze and pussy. Somehow, it feels like it sobers me up a little. Or maybe taking a piss and spending a few minutes without a drink in my hand did the trick.

I've almost forgotten where we are. I'm transfixed by the spectacle.

We're not at a work thing. This isn't the house of someone I've never met. This is Valentine's Day. And my wife Valentina promised me something special.

She's putting on a live sex show, entertaining a room full of men, myself included. We watch, slack-jawed, gormless, as Val plays with herself for our pleasure, holding us in her thrall.

And, I've decided, the special part is what it's doing for me.

All the men, their heavy breathing, their alcohol breath, their lewd commentary, their visible erections, are enhancing my own joy at watching my wife do beautiful things to her own beautiful body.

In this moment, she could invite any of them to do anything to her and I would gratefully watch them. Hell, I would be proud.

Look at the woman I married. Look at how goddamn sexy she is.

As if the universe senses my thoughts, she flashes a look to one of them--Rob--and he approaches her. He stands in front of her, off to one side.

So that everyone can see.

Events fade into each other in a haze. I'm still pretty drunk. Rob's cock is out, short and fat. She holds it loosely, winks sidelong at me. Then it vanishes into her mouth, almost down to his pubic hair.

The breath that the men were collectively holding comes out in a rush of cheering and whooping. They carry on as they watch one coworker fellate another, as if at a basketball game.

I find myself joining in with the celebration, unable to resist the group spirit.

Rob's face is a mask of half-aware bliss and lechery, looking down at the blonde head bobbing back and forth on his thick penis.

I find myself watching him intently. His pants are down around his thighs, his testicles out over the waistband of his underwear. His shirt is hiked up, revealing taut abs and thick, dark belly hair.

He already seems close. Even with Val's skills, he must be a quick comer. I look into his face, trying to spot the moment he goes over the edge. His breaths are shallow, spit in the corner of his lips.

I must be a pretty bad judge. Val suddenly stops moving her head, and I see her throat flexing as she swallows the first couple ropes. Only then does Rob release the sharp grunt of orgasm.

More cheering. Someone shouts his congratulations to Rob. Val is still holding Rob in her mouth, still swallowing each spurt of cum as it squeezes its way out of his ejaculating organ.

Until he's done.

He backs away, his steps shaky, his sagging cock glistening with saliva and thick mucus from the back of Val's mouth. Val wipes her lips, stands up, drops her shirt.

She stands before us, stark naked, long limbs, long torso, with plushly padded thighs and hips and tummy.

I know what we're all thinking.

We're wondering, which one of us is next?

We have our answer when she locks eyes with Derek. He steps forward.

She whispers something in his ear and he nods.

As Derek clumsily disrobes, Val bends over and pulls the mattress closer to the center of the floor. Too casually, she gives us all a good look at the pubic hair on her labia and her asshole.

Once the mattress is in place and the burly, hairy Derek is appropriately nude, Val gets down on her elbows and knees, facing us at a slightly diagonal angle.

Someone opens his wallet and offers Derek a condom. He accepts, tearing the packet partway open and unrolling the condom onto his big, bald, handsome penis.

Very polite of him.

I know he's no risk for infection. I don't know how much was planned ahead, but Val never fooled around with anyone without first making sure they'd been tested. It's not in her character to start now.

As for the other risk, well, Val went through her change in life a few years back.

I worried--she warned me that it might cause difficulties sexually--but it turned out to be unfounded.

If anything, it made her more ravenous than ever.

Very polite, Derek. Unnecessary, but very polite.

He drops the condom wrapper wherever. It happens to land on the floor next to the bottle I'd noticed earlier, which I'm now close enough to see is a gallon jug of lubricant with a pump top.

Derek takes a few pumps of lube, lubes himself up, and assumes his position. He kneels behind Val.

His cock slowly disappears from view as he maneuvers it, apparently poking the head of it into the entrance of her vagina and pushing it inside.

The look on Val's face as Derek enters her is exquisite. Her eyes are half-lidded, her mouth pursed loosely, lips still wet with spit.

She lets out a slow breath as Derek's body eases forward and makes soft, quiet contact with her ass and thighs.

One by one, with everyone in the room, she starts making eye contact, as Derek starts fucking her.

The middle third of his body makes rhythmic plopping sounds against her flesh. With every impact, he breathes and she grunts.

The unspoken language of her slow, direct gaze with each man is clear: I'm watching you watching me. I like that you like it. You'll think about this moment every time we run into each other in the office.

And then her eyes meet mine.

Her body sways, the fat of her hips ripples, her tiny tits wobble beneath her, the eyes of everyone on the room are on her jiggling flesh, pale olive in the bare incandescent light, as she mouths to me:

"Happy Valentine's Day. I love you."

I mouth back, "I love you too," not realizing I'm doing so until I feel my lips moving.

God.

I'm so hard.

I feel like whipping it out and jacking off. Briefly, I find myself wondering what flimsy code of conduct exists among the people in this room that hasn't already been broken.

But nobody else is masturbating.

I shouldn't.

Even Rob has zipped back up. He sits in the corner, reclined against the wall, a sheen of sweat drying on his forehead as he avidly watches casual acquaintances get their fuck on.

"Mind if I get her to suck me off?" says the gentleman to my immediate left.

I look at him, a compact, handsome man with a beard and a polo shirt. I vaguely remember his name as Raz, or Riz.

"Sure, go ahead," I mumble. I barely spend half a thought on Riz, who hasn't waited for my answer before approaching Val.

She looks up at him and either mouths or whispers something to him--it's hard to tell with three spectators cheering him on.

Four, if you include me.

Riz, apparently getting the message, strips quickly, down to his bare ass. From what I can tell, seeing him only from behind, his short, muscular body is covered in dark hair from neck to foot.

Riz kneels down on the mattress in front of Val, partially obscuring her face from my view. I see her push herself up so that she's on her hands and knees, aligning her face with Riz's groin.

She doesn't use her hands. They stay planted on the mattress, holding her steady.

As Riz's pelvis starts gyrating in time with her back and forth movement, as his penis slides in and out of my wife's mouth, it occurs to me how strange it was for him to ask my permission.

And how casually, how unthinkingly I gave it.

Behind her, Derek is pounding in earnest, gripping her by the waist, his fingertips making little divots in her body fat. He's grunting out loud now, like a weightlifter at the gym. His chest shines with sweat.

He must be close. His strokes have gotten fast and shallow, his breath caught somewhere in his chest.

But he holds it together.

The space between Val's shoulder blades shines with sweat. Tiny blonde hairs glint in the harsh overhead lighting. Dimples of Venus show to either side of the small of her back above her arched buttocks.

This goes on for a time. Riz has his hands on the sides of Val's head as he uses her wet mouth as a fuckhole. Derek struggles valiantly, standing at the edge of his impending orgasm.

The rest of us cheer while these two men I've just met tonight spitroast my wife.

Then they freeze, for just a second. Derek stops in mid-stroke, buried as deep as he can go from the looks of it. Val, sensing this, stops too. Perhaps out of an appreciation for the moment, so does Riz.

Then Derek lets out a bellow, the kind of sharp-edged cry that sounds like a dam breaking. He clutches at Val, holding her to his pelvis, apparently emptying cum by the pint into the condom inside her.

Val lets Riz slide out of her mouth. He hovers there next to her face as she lets her eyes fall closed. She breathes slowly, meditatively, focused as she is on the sensation of a hard cock throbbing its last.

The room has gone silent, caught up alongside Derek in his carnal achievement. When he finally withdraws, the crinkle of the condom is audible.

Then, once again, we cheer.

Derek climbs shakily to his feet and staggers off the bed, the reservoir tip of the condom waving heavily on the end of his mostly erect penis. He squeezes past me on his way out of the room.

He smells strongly of sweat and latex. My armhair is damp where it made contact with his naked body.

I watch him as he shuffles down the hall and disappears into the bathroom, presumably to ditch the condom and clean himself off.

When I face the room again, Riz is standing up and Val is upright on her knees, sucking him off in earnest. She jerks him with one hand and playing with the mohawk of hair around his asshole with the other.

He doesn't last long.

This time, she doesn't swallow. She holds his ejaculating organ out for all to see, pointing it theatrically at her open mouth, tongue out, letting Riz decorate her cheeks, chin, throat, and chest.

When he's tapped out, she gives the underside of his cock one last lick from scrotum to frenulum, letting the last dribble of semen collect on her tongue.

That, she swallows.

Riz backs away and sinks to the floor, supporting himself on the wall next to the doorway on his way down. His softening cock sticks out of his lap like a half-completed archway.

Val, kneeling, slouching on her heels, semen drying on her tits and her jaw, is looking at me.

So is everyone else.

Bidden, I start to undress.

~

PART 3: "Come inside me."

Val waves over Rob, who is quite recovered by now, and the other two men as well, whose names I still can't remember and no longer care about.

Like choreography, Val leans back. The men--her Three Stooges, I think to myself--are behind her, on their knees, to catch her.

She reclines into them, two flanking her, one behind her. They cradle her, immediately getting handsy with her nipples and her pubis. It's a parody of an office teambuilding exercise. An erotic trust fall.

I'm naked. I'm standing there before them, sweating, cock hard and throbbing, only a little drunk by now. I'm dimly aware that Riz, next to me, is staring at me.

Val, supported by her Three Stooges, raises her knees and spreads her thighs. Through damp curls of pubic hair, her well-fucked pussy gapes at me, the same pale olive as her nipples.