by Violet Blue
Then Dion groans and pulls out, tips me off the bed and onto my knees. He eases me back and plants his cock over my bare, sweaty tits, over the pearl necklace my husband gave me not an hour before.
As Dion moans loudly in pleasure, I stroke his cock until he shoots all over my anniversary present.
I tell Rick, in case he needs a play-by-play: “He’s coming on me, baby, he’s fucking coming on my tits. He’s coming all over your anniversary present…”
And Rick lets out a long, low groan that tells me he’s just shot his load as well.
Dion kills the call so he can send Rick one last picture: my well-spanked cheeks spread wide to display my opened asshole, moist with his spit and my pussy juices.
What is it about men? They love to show off our orifices after they’ve been fucked. Something about proving “I was here.” It never did much for me.
But it did a lot for Rick, I’d find out later.
A lot for Rick. That’s the picture he beats off to most, when I’m not around. Or when I am, sometimes.
For me, it’s never the pictures. It’s always the way it made me feel.
Dirty. Wrong. Evil. Perverse. Like the worst wife in the world, and the very best, all at the same time.
Because Rick had been begging for it.
I won’t say it was an anniversary present, exactly. I knew it was possible that Dion would take me up on my strong suggestion that Sunday would be perfect. We had been trying to coordinate schedules for weeks, ever since we both got our batteries of tests back from the clinic. I even had my own copy, complete with a photo of Dion’s ID, as he had one of mine. How’s that for the right kind of cheating?
But beyond that, I won’t say any of it was planned. I had no idea he’d make me wait to come, for instance, after I’d so thoroughly explained how to get me off. And I had no idea he’d give me what I’d fantasized about more often than anything: a hard fuck from behind before I even got a chance to take my panties off.
But the part about the photos and the phone call, the “exposure” of my cheating and the total humiliation of my hapless husband?
Dion knew all about that, because I’d detailed that filthy fantasy half a dozen times. It was only one of a halfdozen possible games we might play when I finally crossed the threshold from online slutwife to real slutwife. But it was definitely my favorite.
I thought Dion might go for it. I kind of hoped.
Because Rick had begged for it.
Greedy
ERIC EMERSON
The guests are due at ten.
Why so late?
As with everything in matters of this sort, it’s been carefully planned out. It’s midsummer. The last rays of the sun still stream across the sky until well after nine in our latitude. It stays light, or at least sort of half-gray, until at least ninethirty. And it simply wouldn’t do for a married couple to host a daytime gang bang.
It’s not so much that we’re worried the neighbors will notice. It’s more that the energy’s just all wrong. Beach party gang bang at noon? Sure. Poolside gang bang, teatime? Check. Summer camp gang bang, just after morning church services? Mas oui! But a house party suburban slutwife gang bang in the daytime, or even the soft fading light of early evening?
Not a damn chance. It’s late night or nothing.
Very few of the preparations were your doing, though every detail was agreed upon. But they were my suggestions, because I’m the expert here.
It was part of the excitement for me that I clean the house, buy the beer and the ice and the porn while you went to the spa all day and got mud-bathed and avocado-scrubbed while sipping champagne. You needed a pedicure. You needed a manicure. You needed a fresh set of candy-red nails to break as you rake them down the back of a stranger plunging into you.
In any event, I’ve done my husbandly duty. The place is immaculate and prepared just so for the scene. Three TVs in the living room play different porn scenes: oral, anal, gang bang. An Office Depot sign-holder on the coffee table features a computer printout saying: SUIT YOURSELF! Beside it sit ten or twelve other porn DVDs, in case our guests should want spanking, bukkake, lesbian videos. Atop the stack of DVDs sits the remote control. Our sofas are draped with sheets.
Since we’ll need the bathtub, there’s a big metal bucket of ice chilling with beer in the garage. I make cocktails in the kitchen. If a guest wants a beer, all he has to do is snap his fingers, and you’ll get it for him. At least until the proceedings begin—thereafter, I’ll get his beer.
This isn’t because it’s my fantasy to wait hand and foot on strangers as they fuck my wife. It’s so you and I, between the two of us, can monitor just how much each man is slurping down. A drunk gang bang is a hazardous gang bang. But a very slightly tipsy one is dandy.
Everything’s ready.
And you? You look glorious. I picked out your outfit specially for tonight. Packed into the sluttiest snap-crotch teddy $127.50 can buy at the mall, your body looks perfect. And your face is made up just right for your role of the slut. I should know: I made it up for you. Every stroke of the bright red lipstick, every brush of the blush, every touch of mascara was all laid on by your loving husband as he prepared you to be ravished by eight men. I even gently eased your cherry-red pumps onto your sheer-stockinged feet and kissed your toes as I slid the buckles home. The six-inch heels make you walk with your ass half-thrust out; it looks like you’re begging for it.
The guests are due at ten. They start showing up at nine-fifty, dressed in coats and ties—my requirement.
You greet each guest warmly at the door, shying back into the shadows of the mood-lit house, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors. You let him inside, give him a hug. If he wants to grope you, you let him do that—up to and including giving your nipples a wet, sucking kiss, sliding fingers into your cunt, or even caressing your ass a bit. You might even grope the front of his pants a little, rubbing his cock till it’s hard.
Then you play hard to get, leaving him grunting and wanting.
“Not until everyone’s here,” you tell him.
Then you take his coat and hang it in the closet. You lead each guest by the hand into the living room, where he’s installed in a chair or on the couch to watch porn while you collect his drink order, get it from me in the kitchen, and walk back with the beer or the cocktail on a tray, even putting down a coaster and a napkin so as not to muss our table.
You bend over as you put the drink down. If one of the men reaches up and feels you, you push back against him and moan. He always finds you wet. Once a few of them try that, the others get the idea. Every time you bring back a drink, you bend over emphatically so your guests can finger you. Some try your ass. Most like your cunt. One tries to guide you into his lap, your face leaving lipstick traces on his gray slacks.
“Not till everyone’s here,” you tell him, caressing his dick and then leaving him to stare after you in hunger while you fetch another drink, or get the door, or fix your lipstick.
Or slip into the kitchen to kiss me hard and stroke my cock through my pants.
“God, I’m so fucking wet,” you keep telling me.
“Having fun?”
“Having fun,” you keep saying emphatically, and race back to take care of your guests—and, in so doing, tease the hell out of them.
The fiction of the scene is that you’re their servant. That’s as much your fantasy as mine, but it has little to do with reality. In reality, which one of us is the servant would take a year of psychoanalysis to figure out. I think it’s me. But maybe it’s you. You always wanted this, but you never thought it could be real. Even in the swinger’s community, a true, happy, drama-free gang bang is a relative rarity. Lucky for you the man you fell in love with had two previous girlfriends who were even bigger sluts than you.
But you’re working on it.
Once you’ve had eight, or possibly ten, or just maybe twelve hard cocks inside you tonight, you’ll have a whole new claim on the label “sl
ut.”
That number—eight or ten or twelve—could be problematic.
The number of guests was a matter of some disagreement between you and me. You were convinced that when offered the chance to participate in a gang bang with the hottest blonde slutwife in six counties, your average red-blooded straight man would never suffer the exhaustive screening process—interviews, blood test, even a photocopy of his identification—and then flake.
“Au contraire,” I told you. “Just wait. You’ll see. I don’t understand it any more than you do. Men are chicken. Some might be cheating on their wives or something. They’ll get cold feet. They’ll back out. It’s nothing personal.”
You’ll have a hard time not taking it personally, however. I think any woman would. But lucky for you, you’ll have lots of cock tonight to help you through the lonely pain of having a few men not show up.
I said twelve or fourteen would be good.
You wanted eight.
“Come on,” you said. “No need to be greedy.”
“It’s not greedy,” I told you. “It’s prudent.”
We screened twelve, figuring you’d get your eight and no more.
When the tenth man shows up, about ten-fifteen, I shrug.
“Sorry,” I tell you as I mix him a Tom Collins in the kitchen. “I guess you’re even hotter than I thought you were.”
You wink at me.
“It’s all right,” you say. “I think I do want to be a little greedy, after all.”
It’s time to get started.
I turn off the porn.
I can tell you’re a bit nervous. What woman wouldn’t be?
You stall by going around the room and freshening the drinks, answering the groping, reaching hands with wiggles and caresses of your own. The hands pinch your nipples as you pass and slide up under the crotch of your teddy, caressing your shaved puss. They stroke your smooth thighs. They spank your ass lightly.
They’re more than a little reckless; almost all of them are hard. If it wasn’t for me, I know, you’d be truly scared. The fact that I’m six-two and used to play football helps. You’re not the type to like particularly big or particularly rough-looking guys, so these are your average garden-variety guys who want to fuck another man’s wife in a gang bang—computer programmers, lawyers, college boys. Any assholes got themselves unceremoniously bounced before the in-person interview. These guys are gentlemen on some level, or at least as much a gentleman as one can be when you’re about to plow a stranger’s wife.
I sit in an armchair near the kitchen, watching the scene. There are three guys on each of our two facing sofas, two more in wingbacks, two more in wooden chairs from the kitchen. You shoot me a glance. You’re radiating excitement as you thrust your ass back against a groping hand and eagerly start to suck on the fingers of another guy. Two more are pawing at your tits. They get their hands under the top of your teddy. They caress and pinch your nipples. You moan around the stranger’s fingers, taking them deep enough that you start to gag a little bit. Then you’re not gagging any more—you’ve taken two or three fingers into your throat, easily.
That’s enough of an invitation. The guy with the hands gets off the couch and starts to unbuckle his belt. You take over, your hands moving with expert confidence. His zipper goes down in moments. You take his big, long pale cock out and slide it in your mouth while, behind you, another man unsnaps the crotch of your teddy and guides his cock inside you.
You’ve been practicing for weeks, doing deep knee bends and stretches. You shove your ass in the air to take his cock in your cunt while you bend low to suck the other man’s cock. Your hands drift out and find the cocks of the two men groping your tits. You open their pants without even glancing over. You get their cocks in your hands and start stroking.
It’s a glorious sight, you bent over far, sucking, stroking, and getting fucked. But even with weeks of stretching and practicing, you can’t bend over like that forever. After several long minutes of hard fucking and moaning, the men you’re servicing pull back and politely let some of the others have turns. Two pull you into their laps, face down, and you grope their cocks from their pants, stroking and jerking and licking and sucking as another props your hips up high and fucks you from behind. Two more lean in to feel your tits as you suck. Any reluctance these guys might have had to be in physical contact with each other seems to have vanished. They don’t mind as long as they can get close to you.
I crane my head to make sure you’re enjoying yourself. I catch a glimpse of your face, drool and ruined lipstick running everywhere as you come up from a hard cock, smiling and laughing. Suspended between two laps, you switch from one to the other and drop down and lick balls while you stroke the other man’s cock. The one fucking you grunts and climaxes, thunderously. You moan loudly as he comes in you. He holds the base of the condom and pulls out. Another takes his place, condom already at the ready.
Someone groping your tits rips at your teddy. They’ve already been told the expensive garment is a lost cause. They have, in fact, been invited to ruin it. The teddy gets torn off, shredded. One of the men unsnaps your garters so the fishnet stay-ups remain in place on your glorious legs. Isn’t that conscientious of him?
Another one is fucking you now, his condom-sheathed cock shoved deep inside you while you moan and buck against him. One of the men in your mouth climaxes, and you slurp it up audibly. Another comes in your hand and shoots his load across your face. You lick and suck and lap and writhe in their arms.
While they’re all over you on the couch, I move the drinks from the coffee table to the mantle. Then I get the foamrubber pad and the extra sheet from the closet and lay it on the sturdy coffee table.
With only the slightest suggestion from me, they move you over onto the now-padded coffee table, stretching you out on it and spreading your legs. It’s just high enough that the one who first rolls on a condom and crouches over you can easily slide in your well-lubed cunt while your head hangs easily off the far end. Tipped down like that, it will be easy for you to deep-throat. You open wide, and three men in turn slide their cocks down your throat as the fourth crouches over you, fucking, and you jerk two more off with your hands. I crane my head to watch. Each man who throat-fucks you takes his time, letting you inhale, gulp, swallow, choke a little, struggle, and then take him down your throat. Seeing that, others want to get into the act. I think you must deep-throat eight of the ten in that unbelievably hot-looking position, and I crowd in to watch every sliding cock go down your throat.
The man fucking you comes. He pulls out holding the condom. Another takes his place.
I hand him a vibrator, the plug trailing a long, brown extension cord.
I’ve decided it’s time for you to come. You have no objection. He seems to know his way around a vibrator and applies it to your clit with firm pressure. You cry out as he enters you. He starts fucking you hard, vibrator pressed to your clit. Men trade off sliding their cocks into your mouth, fucking your tipped-back face as you get fucked and dish out hand jobs. It isn’t long before you let out a grunting yell around the cock you’re sucking. The one in your mouth pulls out so everyone can hear you come. You come hard, shuddering all over and making the coffee table rattle.
As soon as you’re finished, they’re back to taking turns with your face, and the man fucking you is back at that, too, vibe discarded. He fucks you hungrily, intent on his own pleasure.
One of them lingers in your throat, slowly fucking your face as you grunt, gasp, and moan. He slaps his cock across your face lightly and you maul at it, capturing it between your full, lipstick-smeared lips and thrusting yourself onto it. You let him fuck your face for a long series of thrusts, until he gasps and pulls out and strokes his cock off on your face. You stick your tongue out and lap at his jizz. Two men in your hands also grunt and groan and start humping against your grasp, their cocks lubed with pre-come, spit, and sweat. They shoot all over your tits. You smear it in and lick it off your fingers
as the one in your pussy comes. Four more men are there to use you. For one, it’s not his first time—but then, who can blame him? It’s a gang bang, and there’s plenty of you to go around. What’s wrong with being a little greedy?
When the coffee table starts to creak and moan with the weight and the hard heavy thrusting, I spread out a blanket and you move to the floor, face-down, ass-up, moaning as you jerk and stroke and slurp and suck and get fucked.
It two a.m. before you’re finally sated. Or maybe it’s that they’re sated—you’ve worn them out. My cock’s been throbbing hard the whole time, and I could have joined in any time I wanted to. But that’s not the point.
When they’re finished, a few want to shower. Others dress, still sticky with your sweat and your juice and their come. At least half of them say “Thank you” to me, looking bewildered, like they’re thinking, “What does a man say to the husband in a slutwife gang bang?”
I respond by grasping their hands in a warm, friendly handshake, both our hands sticky with come, lube, and pussy.
“Thanks, man. Hope to see you next time.”
It’s fucking ludicrous, to treat something this sacred like a friendly neighborhood get-together. Or is it?
I don’t care. You’re squirming on the blanket, hips still moving, gone mad with the craziness of it all. Your hair is matted with come. Your face is sticky with it. Your pussy pours juice. Come runs in rivulets down your belly.
I pick you up in my arms and carry you to bed.
I’m going to bathe you, yes, but all in good time. We’ve got business first.
I pull back the covers and lay you out in our bed, soiling clean sheets with come. You lay there, spread and squirming and moaning. You’re naked. The shoes and the stockings and every last shred of your teddy are long gone. You’re bare. Your body drips.
I take off my clothes and make love to you tenderly. You’re completely relaxed, almost half-conscious, your cunt and your tits and your mouth and your throat raw with use. I go as gently as I can, and when I enter you—without protection, of course—you rise up to meet me even though I can feel the swollen roughness of your well-used sex. You still feel tight.
