Our First

Our First.

Streetlamps flick by as I press the accelerator and the engine hums a little louder. I hear the gentle smack of lips from the back and glance up at the rear-view mirror. She's nibbling at his neck, the orange glow from the lights outside cutting through the shadow on her face. I turn my eyes back to the road and the image glows bright in my mind as faint moans travel from the space behind me, causing something to stir between my thighs.

*

"Tonight then?" My wife asked as she applied her make up. "You still want to?"

Lounging on the bed I studied her, sat at the dressing table her hair gathered into a messy bun with wild strands of gorgeous, deep red catching from the lamp on her dresser. She wore a towel, bound tight above her breasts and barely reaching below her hips. I ran my gaze up the curve of her neck and looked in the mirror to see her smiling back at me.

"Tonight -- yes, do you?" I shifted up slightly, heat rushing to the base of my cock.

She applied a stroke of mascara in silence, her smile lingering and then, "Pick my underwear. A matching set."

The bedsheets slipped away as I sprang to my feet and strode over to the chest of drawers, my prick growing rigid as I pictured my wife clad in slips of lace, jet black and sheer or maybe the burgundy set. With suspenders.

For a moment I lost myself in my task, picturing what she would wear later in the evening and a cocktail of images played through my head. I flashforward to some imagined place. Her, dancing in some club, her dress scarlet and short. Her dance turning her in half circles, her hips rolling and turning her ass towards me. The thin, delicate fabric of her dress resting perfectly around the tops of her thighs. She locks eyes with me, a crowd around us and still she finds my gaze. I steal glimpses of her smile as the coloured lights flash and snap through the dark. Then, someone approaches her, a man dancing in time with her movements. Tall, broad across the torso with a shirt buttoned low and sleeves half up. She keeps her eyes on mine as his hands slip round her waist, his face veiled in the dark of the club. Her breath picking up pace and her head tilting back as he buries his face against the curve of her neck, sinking his lips into her skin, a hand gripping at her waist.

"I'm getting impatient." Her voice low, speaking through my thoughts, almost a whisper as her hand clamped around my shaft, the throbbing in my erection turning to voltage coursing up to my heart and causing my breath to grow heavy.

I hurried, desperate not to displease her, and made my choice. She smiled as I handed her the bra and thong and waited a beat for her approval. It came in the form of "Stockings and suspenders too. Get your clothes, white shirt, dark trousers. You'll wear the brogues tonight. Then wait for me downstairs, I will choose the dress."

I did as I was told and fetched the rest of the set before heading out to the spare room. I opened my own wardrobe and found her favourite of my shirts. A crisp white, thicker material than a classic suit shirt and cut just right around my frame. The dark green chinos, wrapped close around my rump and thighs, tapering down over my calves in a slim cut. I picked a brown leather belt, held a few inches of it between my hands and pulled a little until I heard the woody creak as it stretched. In my mind the smack of leather on skin echoed and I caught my breath -- this would be perfect. I looped it around my chinos, laced up the brogues my wife had ordered I wear, then made my way downstairs.

She came downstairs, a vision. Da Vinci, Botticelli nor any great painter would have done this picture justice. My wife; the wonder. Perfection in black satin; wrapping her body, pinching at her slender waist with arms bare and shoulders covered only with a thin strap. Her thighs stood curved and defined beneath the line of her dress, encased in sheer black stockings and heels which, whilst high would still see me stand a comfortable four inches taller.

I got to my feet and wrapped my arms around her, holding a kiss against her full, soft lips. She took me in, stealing a taste of my tongue and returning my feverish grasp with her own hands across my waist, arms and beneath my blazer to caress down my back. For a moment we lost ourselves in the kiss, then she retreated an inch.

I caught my breath and uttered; "Phoebe, you are exquisite."

Smiling, she asked; "Ready?"

"Ready." I swallowed hard.

*

The bar was alive with a wealth of noise and beautiful people. We walked in together, our hands interlocked, striding in united purpose, I felt eyes turn and cling to my wife as was ever the case. I knew men wanted her; knew she would be adored by the people we passed. Sometimes I locked eyes with the men who stared at her and smirked as they diverted their gaze in embarrassment, guilt and awkwardness. Often, they would be caught by their own partner, a disgruntled girlfriend who would pull a filthy face and chastise their man. More than not however, the girlfriend would check in and steal a quick look for themselves.

We made our way through the crowd, towards the back of the room to find the exit for the roof terrace. The night was hot, and Phoebe wanted to drink under the stars. I found us a cosy booth by the edge, overlooking the city and covered by a trellis roof, from which hung a glow-heater.

I handed her a glass, we clinked and tapped the base of our pints to the table, sharing a smile and then a Cheers! before taking down a deep gulp. I took a second, then a third before I was done. She laughed as she put down her pint.

"Nervous?" Phoebe smiled at me.

I smiled back and lied. "Not in the least"

We talked for a while, playing with small talk. Recounting our day and edging towards the elephant in the room. Eventually, where I was too afraid, she took the lead.

"Okay, so...Anyone take your fancy?" She cast a look around the terrace, a nod suggesting I do the same.

For a moment I thought, I had an answer in mind but held it back. "This is about who takes your fancy. It's entirely your choice. My job is just to be... amenable."

She drained the last of her drink and got up from the table, two short steps round to me then leant down, close to my ear. "Your job is to sit there and watch." She whispered, then walked across the floor, making each stride a spectacle that kept me transfixed on the shape of her perfect ass. As she stopped at the bar, I released my stare and realised I hadn't been the only voracious little pervert watching my wife as she walked. More than a few pairs of eyes were pointed her way and I smiled to myself as I lost count of the men that coveted what I was allowed.

*

We come to a red light at a busy crossroads and the queue of cars ahead of me causes a moment of panic. I feel a need to rush, to get us home quick before the mood dies or one of us changes our mind. The feeling disappears as swiftly as it comes when I look again in the rear-view mirror and see her eyes staring back at me; dark and piercing with a smirk in the space below. This look is a new one on my wife -- yet I know it. A hunger for something, yet this is the first time I've seen such fierceness in her.

In the silence I hear only his breathing, I cannot see his face for the shadows. The streetlamps cut orange blocks across the darkness, and I can see his shirt has been opened low, a carpet of hair peppering his torso. Then my wife's hand strokes across it, entering the fold of his shirt in a slow caress and my breath catches in my throat. I flick my eyes back to meet her gaze and she mouths a word to me;

Watch.

My heart pounds and my ears fill with white noise, then ringing through the clamour of my arousal I hear the metallic rattling of his belt buckle scraping against leather as my wife begins to open his trousers.

*

I sat alone in the booth. Phoebe returned only to hand me the beer she had gone to the bar for. I took the pint, her hand grazed over my own, ran up and along my arm to summit on my shoulder. She kneaded at the muscle there for a moment, leant down to kiss my neck once -- then left. She stayed in sight after that, heading back to the bar to perch on a stool and then I watched as she surveyed the rooftop. I sipped my beer and took in the sight of her, exquisite splendour in a minidress and heels, the deep red of her hair glowing in the light of the glow heaters. I drank slowly -- I was driving tonight so two pints would be the extent of my alcohol. Perhaps if the evening ran on I would go for some watery point-five-percent lager but I was quite content to stay sober for what was coming. Phoebe fixed her gaze in one direction; on something I could not quite see. Or someone.

The latter, as it turned out, was correct. A man made his way over to her at the bar. Subtly, he certainly didn't go straight over to her, but placed himself just a foot or so away, offering her a look. Her gaze lingered, studying him. I saw it, even as far away as I was, I could see her eyes scanning head to toe, a tilt of her head as she sized him up.

He was young, or at least youthful. Tall I thought, but then my viewpoint was lower from my seat. Dark hair, on the longer side but not past his shoulders. He had a Mediterranean look about him, based on my limited experience. Spanish maybe? I wasn't sure I'd got that right. Athletic in his build -- perhaps a runner or a swimmer. He wore a white shirt, like me. Dark chinos, like me. His outfit felt amusingly similar and I laughed at the thought that Phoebe would have picked him out for that reason. But of course, maybe she picked him out because of the differences between us. A pang of something shot through me. Not quite painful, not quite pleasant but my mind began to whir as I realised, she had chosen a man that was nothing like me. He was tan, where I was fair. Where he looked trim and taught with muscle, I seemed soft by comparison. I stayed clean shaven where he had a healthy covering of stubble. There was a ruggedness about him, an air of arrogance too as he stepped closer to my wife, speaking an introduction and offering a hand.

Fire roared in my brain as I watched her return her own hand in a gentle greeting. I could see her smile spread as she nodded in response to something he asked. He turned to find the barman, raised a hand for attention and ordered my wife a drink. While his gaze was away, she reached into her clutch and found her phone. I realised I had become hard, my cock pulsing and straining. A moment later, my own phone buzzed in my pocket. On instinct I withdrew it blindly, my eyes fixed on her, on them both across the floor. I looked down and opened her message:

"This is my choice. I'm going to fuck this man."

*

Her lips melt with his, their kiss a tangle of tongues and soft moans. His hands are on my wife, running over her shoulders, up the curve of her neck, his fingers reaching into her hair. Her own hands work blindly at his fly, tearing the zipper in two and pushing material away, down off his hips. As his fingertips work their touch over her torso and towards her breasts, he lifts himself slightly and I hear the clink of his open belt as they work in tandem to push his trousers down past his knees. The orange glow of the street shows me his naked thigh, muscled and firm and her hand travels along it, kneading flesh, gripping her way up towards the material of his boxer briefs. I can't see the bulge for the shadows cast throughout the car, but I know she sees it, her hand disappears into the dark and a gasp escapes him. She has hold of him, I know it. Her grip covering his package, her fingertips exploring the curve of his shaft, the mass of his balls packed together in the tight briefs. Phoebe's hand lingers there in the shadow for a moment, working him, sizing him up as her kiss comes away from his lips.

The cars ahead of us begin to move. My mouth is dry and I feel almost physical pain having to tear my gaze from the rear-view mirror, away from my wife. I put the car in motion knowing they are lost to me, alone together in the back seat. I hear the weight of their breathing increase, the gentle smack of lips caressing skin, the shifting of material as clothing is half undressed. My heart pounds and my cock throbs, hard and tight between my legs. It's all I can do to keep my eyes ahead as the road slips by underneath, whilst the streetlamps illuminate my wife and her lover in short bursts. I pray a silent thanks as a car in front holds us up to turn off. Stealing a glance behind me I see my wife reach down to his underwear, in a swift movement she pushes his briefs down away from his hips and his full-length springs up, rigid, and thick. My eyes widen at the sight of him, a mixture of shock and envy swirls in my stomach, then the nausea bleeds into something new -- some thrilling feeling filling me and causing my mind to spin.

Phoebe wraps her hand around him, encasing his shaft and slowly, working her grip up and down his full length. I watch her hand travel from the base of his cock to roll over the swollen head at the top. The feel of her hand ripples through my memory, I can feel how she works my own cock the way she is working his. Slow, agonising ecstasy, pulling at me, pulling at him, my cock hardening, his cock throbbing. I long for her touch, the way she's touching him, the way she's massaging his shaft up and down with small twists as she reaches his weighty tip.

She wastes no time; she is eager I can tell -- her own moans begin to sound and in a second they are muffled as she leans down and takes him in her mouth and he throws back his head with an audible gasp. I feel a punch to the stomach and the wind is stolen from me, yet as quick as it has come the feeling abates in place of an awesome adrenaline. She swallows half his length, her lips stretching around the girth of him as she lowers herself, then drags her mouth leisurely back up, working his shaft with her throat, her tongue swirling hungrily across the flesh of his pole. Her spit drips down over his balls, glistening in the lamplight and I am transfixed, in awe of the way she lavishes his cock with her lips.

A sharp note from behind as a car horn sounds and I snap from my viewing. In a fluster I push the car into gear and drive on, the scene behind me playing out to me only in the sounds of my wife pleasuring another man.

*

"Alex, I want you to meet César" Phoebe walked up to our table, leading this stranger by the hand. I had watched as she walked over with him, I drank deep from my glass and my heart began to thump as I eyed him. Our first. He was tall and imposing, neatly dressed but walking with a looseness, and smiling at me. Some knowing look, facetious and smug. "César this is my husband, Alex."

He let go of my wife's hand and reached toward me, offering his own. I took it and his grip clapped against mine, shaking a brief greeting. They sit themselves next to each other, opposite me in the booth. "César is visiting, travelling here from Brazil." Phoebe stared into me, smiling. She took a sip from her glass. "I've invited him back to ours for a drink. I hope that's okay."

He said nothing, just smiled and leant back in his seat. He shifted his hand beneath the table and without seeing, I knew his hand was on my wife's thigh. They waited for my response. My mind battled itself, a rage swelled and something in me yearned to lash out, drag this stranger away from my wife. Yet, another compulsion emerged; a desire to follow through with this. My wife wanted this, she wanted to enact my fantasy, she wanted to indulge these plans we had toyed with for so long. I felt grateful to her, I wanted to thank her for the way she threw herself into it. As though she wanted it for herself.

Was that it? Was this for me, or for her? She was playing this perfect game, but how much was role play? Did she want something new, not to please me but to find some new satisfaction? As the realisation of my inadequacy began to consume me, I felt my prick harden. I watched as her smile grew, in time with my own, waiting for my answer.

"I'll go and fetch the car."

*