My Young Wife with Another Man

"Oh, you fucking slut," he says. It is as if he hates the fact she has aroused him so soon. I see he resents the power that she, as a beautiful woman, can command over him -- and which she wields so expertly. He calls over to me. "Your wife is a fucking slut, mate. An absolute, fucking slut!"

But I don't have to be told: I can clearly see what she is.

She looks down as if to admire what she has achieved from such an unpromising beginning. And even as she stares, her fingers continue the good work her mouth began. Then her head goes down again to join her hands at play. I watch her tongue once again travel his length in repeated ostentatious passes, while her hands move on to pastures new, his bollocks now receiving their attention. She breaks of her task to look over at me: this is what I do best, her expression seems to say.

Then she straddles him reverse cow-girl while taking his cock and holding it centre-poled at ninety degrees to his ironing board lower abs. With care she position herself just-so and allows her full weight to sink onto him. He fills her instantaneously, piston-greased and fully lubricated by the explosion of cum he gifted her only fifteen minutes before

Her buttocks pitch and roll over his lower abs, her stomach muscles tense and un-tense beneath the merest veneer of her fatty belly-tissue, muscles that control and lend power to the steady undulation of her hips now shown a new purpose. She pinches both her own nipples hard as she rides him. Her expression tells me she is fully committed on a journey to orgasm. Her usually flawless brow is lined by concentration, her eyes tight shut. She flings back her head, her hair trailing over her shoulders and down her back. Soon her own two fingers find her clit and she rubs hard and fast while her cunt skates his flesh, greased by its own secretions.

On the verge of frenzy she orgasms hard, grinding him beneath her sumptuous buttocks. A sheen of perspiration covers her skin and glistens in the lamplight. Her breath is like that of a sprinter who has clocked a record. She sits with legs still wide, her body upright, her cunt impaled. But her head has fallen forward and her long hair curtains her face.

She is utterly exhausted but chooses to remain upright and skewered. Is she savouring the fullness of him deep at her core? A stillness fills the room. From another world I hear the distant hum of traffic through the small open window. She is taking a moment to regain her breath. But Nathan is still hard and in the full bloom of his lust. He lifts her bodily from him, withdrawing his cock in the process, and turns her onto her belly. She is dead weight and he handles her like cargo. He has her face down, legs spread wide. I see the glisten of her cum sodden cunt, pink and raw. He kneels on the bed, his cock looming before him as he approaches the crevice of her arse.

It takes me a moment to understand.

He wipes his cock gently up and down the length of her butt-crack and with each pass it sinks a little further into the soft concave of flesh. It does not take a genius to see that there is no way she will a accommodate his size in that tight pucker of hers. She had only ever let me fuck her in the arse once. Afterwards she had complained for the entire week.

Before commencing, he dips his cock back into her cunt to lubricate himself with their mingled unction, then positions it at the seal of her arse. I hold my breath and await his thrust. I anticipate her shock of pain.

But he has second thoughts, positions himself so his cock is sandwiched between her bum-cheeks. And so imbedded, he commences gentle thrusts, sending his cock piston smooth careering the length of her butt-crack, pleasuring himself between those clashing mounds of softness. She moans for him in appreciation, and I wonder if it is genuine pleasure she feels of if it's gratitude for not sodomising her. His cock slips from between her cheeks from time to time and he has to re-position himself to keep it embedded. I see the glisten of sweat and other body secretions, his and hers.

Sandwiched there, his cock is like sausage roll filling, the tip of pink meat peeking and disappearing. Then it is pumping jizz into the small of her back, spurting up her spine. He groans and exhales as if his last breath on earth is leaving his body. He appears to deflate somehow, collapses onto her with his full dead weight.

I become concerned for her pinned beneath his bulk. She kicks her feet uselessly and calls his name in muffled distress, "Nathan, Nathan -- for fuck's sake, you're crushing me!" Before he even has time to comply with her request to move off her, I jump to my feet and go to him and grab his shoulder and with all the strength I can summons I pull him from her.

Immediately he is on his feet, turning and grabbing me by the throat. His mass looms over me. A stench of sex and sweat rises from his skin. His cock is softening but still engorged. His face is contorted by anger and he growls through gritted teeth, "Never, ever, fucking touch me! You fucking little queer!"

The blatant power of his body, the brutal closeness of him overwhelms me. In an instant I see how vulnerable a women can be when dealing with the lust of powerfully built men such as Nathan. My concern for Vick is instantly replaced by fear for my own welfare. I all but cower before his raised fist.

But the blow never comes.

But still, such anger: "Do you think I'd ever hurt her!" Then he begins to calm, and says, "You fucking Moron. I love Abbi. I would never hurt her."

Rationality returns. Now he smiles and slaps me playfully on the cheek three times, and through gritted teeth says, "Now be a good little cuck and go get me another beer."

Everything is ruined. Abbi is on her feet now and using tissue from the bedside table to clean cum from her back and buttocks.

"I think she's had enough," I say in my calmest tones.

He turns and looks at her and says, "Awe. You haven't have you, princess?"

"I think Martin has -- haven't you, darling?"

I am unable to say a word. I look at her and am shocked by what he has reduced her to: she looks exhausted, thoroughly used. Her hair is rat-tailed by sweat, her bare shoulders glistens from it; the tart gloss of her lips has smeared; her immaculate eyes are well on the road to panda. But even so, she comes to him and puts her arms around him and they kiss one final kiss. Then looking directly into his eyes, she says with as much sincerity as I have ever heard her express, "Thank you, Nathan. Thank you so very much."

Was it a thank you for the pleasure he has given her? Or was it a thank you for not forcing himself on her, for not sodomising her? Or was it a thank you for not beating me to a bloody pulp? Probably all three.

He turns to me and says, "You going to get me that beer before I go, or what?"

I go downstairs and leave him with her as he dresses. I wonder why she has not showered. If I was in her place I would have showered.

Downstairs I get us all a beer and place them on the coffee table. It is a good ten minutes before they both finally join me. I wonder what they have been saying to each other while they were alone. She is still naked but on entering the room puts on the towelling robed she discarded earlier. We sit and drink together, me and Abbi on the sofa, Nathan in the armchair. We chat like nothing has happened, like we have always spent an evening. He goes on about the coming soccer fixture. City are playing Spurs. Abbi turns on the telly and we watch the ten-thirty news on BBC2.

Finally he says, "Have to go now. Belinda will wonder where I am. We good for same time next week?"

Neither of us answer. I stand and lead him to the door. Before he leaves he turns to me and says. You are complete Arse, Martin. If Vicky were my wife, there is no way I would let a bloke like me anywhere near her."

I shrug my shoulders. He continues. "Understand this: I'm going to take her from you. Wait and see! That is a promise. She deserves a better man than you."

He never did, though.

When I return to Abbi she has poured herself a giant vodka and coke. before I have chance to say a word, she says. "We can never see him again."

"What about Belinda. What will you say to her?"

"Some lie -- I don't know yet -- don't care"

"I thought you would have showered after . . ."

"I didn't because of you."

"How's that?" I say.

"I want you to make love to me. And I want you to lick every inch of my body clean, every part of me Nathan has touched I want you to taste. I won't wash until you have."

To make love with her, despoiled and used, was perhaps the sweetest part of all. Caked cum crystallised her back, an offering left by a devotee. He had made her a goddess and I became supplicant performing a sacred ablution, the taste of him my prasad.

The next evening in the back yard, we lit barbecue coals and cremated the negligee she had worn for Nathan.

Our lives resumed. Once or twice in the following weeks I attempted to broach the matter but she would have none of it, quickly changed the subject. Once, she even walked out of the room when I pressed her to tell me how it had all made her feel. After that I did not push the matter.

By the following year we were divorced. Nathan was tight. I was not man enough to keep her. She went away to eventually live a better life than I could ever have given her, but also a better one than Nathan could ever dreamed of.

And what of Nathan? Occasionally I see him about town with Belinda and the youngest of their brood. He's put on a lot of weight, losing his hair. Even in his forties he dresses like a chav. A girl like Abbi wouldn't give him the time of day now. I often wonder if she ever thinks of that night with him. I hope so, I hope she still remembers where she came from.

THE END