Oscar and Irene Pt. 07

The notion of eating another man's cum from my wife's pussy was bad enough, but the fact that he required her to be clean-shaven was worse. Ever since we were first intimate, I loved my wife's neatly trimmed pubic hair, and to see her shaved down like a porn-star, was disturbing to me. However, as I lowered my lips tentatively to her soiled pussy, she would begin to taunt me, sharing both sexual and very intimate details of their relationship with me.

"Matt took me to the Sydney Opera House," she informed me, as I ate her out on her return from Australia. "We saw Puccini's La Boheme," she added, highlighting the gulf between our financial and cultural positions.

Truth was, their platonic dates hurt as much as their sexual encounters. The thought of Irene all dressed up in an evening gown, being escorted to dinner and the Opera by her boss, was deeply distressing to me, and Irene knew it.

"My first time in a limo," she added cruelly, trying to emphasize the fact that Matt could afford to treat her to new experiences.

When I tried to correct her, by reminding her that we had once attended a very fancy wedding in a limousine, she laughed outright at my naivety.

"I mean, my first time in a limo," she repeated, allowing me to process the intended meaning of her words.

I couldn't respond, buried as my face was between her semen-covered labia, but I tried not to show my disappointment, as I visualized Matt fucking my wife in her evening gown, on the back seat of the stretch limousine.

"I am going to need you to take my dress to the dry-cleaners tomorrow," she taunted, "before the stains set in the silk."

Irene evidently found that notion stimulating, because shortly after she shared the details of their encounter, she came all over my face, forcibly ejecting the remainder of Matt's load.

In what would become a predictable pattern, after she was completely satisfied, Irene would relax in her post-orgasmic bliss, and as I finished ingesting her boss' semen, she would offer me sex.

The last thing on earth I wanted was sloppy seconds, but it had been seventeen days since my last release, and I was beside myself with desire. My mind didn't want any part of this, but my body was overriding my sense of self-respect, and I involuntarily began to get up from my knees. As I moved into position between Irene's parted legs, I leaked a little pre-cum onto her upper thigh, earning an immediate rebuke.

"Oscar, go careful," she said sternly, "you almost dripped on Matt's pussy."

With that warning ringing in my ears, I remained patiently on my knees, as Irene reached over into her nightstand and retrieved a condom. She handed it to me, the inference being that she didn't want to touch my cock, until it was covered. My hands were shaking with excitement, as I removed the condom from its packaging. We had a practiced ritual when it came to my twice a month love-making session, dictated by Irene, and shaped by prior lessons learned.

A few months prior, when my wife was still charged with removing the condom from its packaging, she had inadvertently damaged the prophylactic with her nail extensions. In her defense, she never had long nails during our fifteen year marriage, opting to have her perfectly manicured fingertips painted for special occasions. However, Matt decreed that he wanted her to have long, feminine nails for their weekends away. Irene had just returned from a trip to Berlin with him, and had forgotten to remove her nails. We both had a good laugh as we inspected the ripped condom, until she informed me that this mishap would derail my chance at release today, and cost me one of my treasured twenty-four orgasms per year.

Needless to say, I never allowed that to happen again, and following Irene's script, I handed her the empty package, and rolled the condom over the top of my blood-engorged cock.

The Japanese condoms were featherlight, one of the thinnest in the world, offering full protection, but virtually no reduction in stimulation, which actually worked against me, with my current premature ejaculation issues. Matt had selected this particular brand, primarily because they had "Little Boy" emblazoned across the box and on each individual package, but also because they were so thin. In fact, it barely felt like I was wearing a condom, and I probably would have forgotten I was doing so, but for the next part of her routine.

Irene strategically placed the condom wrapper on her pillow, positioning it in such a way that it was right under my nose once I was inside her. The brand name "Little Boy" was facing upwards, as if to remind me of my diminished status within our sordid love triangle.

Then she grabbed the tip of my cock and guided me towards the entrance of her pussy. She was very well-lubricated, having recently been inseminated by Matt, and in a high state of arousal, as she watched me struggle to fight my impending orgasm. I did manage to get balls-deep inside my wife, although she asked me twice if I was all the way in.

"Matt got me nice and wet for you," she whispered softly in my ear, as I rested my head on her shoulder, inches from the condom wrapper.

Once again, our encounter was brief, a few frantic strokes before I exploded inside the condom, a combination of seventeen days without release, and the knowledge that we were using another man's semen as lubrication.

Now as I left Irene and Daphne to their discussion about the specifics of Matt's sexual needs, I felt completely inadequate, in more ways than one. It was one thing to be cuckolded, but Matt and Irene had developed a deep, multi-faceted relationship, one in which sex was but one component. They enjoyed each other's company immensely, spending time together not only at work, and in the bedroom, but also attending live events, and the occasional social gathering. They read the same books, were both learning to play the guitar, and had developed a bond over their shared love of musicals.

For these reasons, it was with some trepidation that I viewed Daphne's entry into Matt's life. I ended up running her to the airport the following afternoon. I have known Daphne for many years, and have always viewed her as a composed, mature woman. However, as she rushed around her house trying to get everything perfect for Matt, I realized that she was anxious to make a good impression on him.

"Are my stockings straight?" she asked me nervously, as she hiked her silk dress above her thighs, exposing the straps of her garter-belt.

"Is the ribbon too girly?" she continued, the pink silk ribbon tied in her hair making her look much younger, coquettish even.

"Do I have too much make-up on?" she fretted, her glossed lips drawn to perfection, and beautifully accentuating her amazingly sensual mouth.

Daphne had put a lot of thought and effort into her appearance, and as my cock danced in my jeans, I envied Matt, who was about to take possession of his latest fuck-toy.