I watched hawklike from where I was leaning on the headboard at my husband, my handsome husband, the man who gave me two sons and a lifetime of happiness. He was tittering here and there at the long mirror, standing on tiptoes one minute — trying to make himself taller, perhaps — adjusting his coiffure the next, this time an elegantly messy Caesarean cut, which fit his face well, if I might say so — well, I did chose the cut during his most recent barber visit. But he really did look so handsome, my lovely husband with his adorable Caesarean hair.
Despite the hour he was still unclothed. He was wearing his favorite white tank top, the one that showed off his broad chest like an armor with his trim figure and flat tummy — my point of contention, as if I could not for the life of me cook mean feasts to satisfy the man — and tighty whities, the one that showcased his bulge like a huge hungry slug awaiting to descend on some unsuspecting foliage. Perhaps I should chose which of his suits for him to wear. Maybe the navy pinstripe, or the old-fashioned maroon double-breasted.
In the end he chose a plain black suit, a casual cut I remembered bringing in from his tailor earlier this year to wear for his mother’s birthday lunch. Ah, Mother Houston, such a character. One had to be when one’s son came out late in life like my husband did — well, the thirties were a wee too late, methinks — but remembering her antics again brought some tears of joy and reminiscence into my eyes, which was not missed by my darling husband.
“Oh baby.” He left the suit hanging on the chair and scuttled next to me on the bed. “Are we going to cry again? Like last week?” Blood paused in my veins, but after a moment’s hold it passed. I reached with shaky hands that strip of skin below my husband’s tank top, that undeniably male area with its neatly trimmed hair and muscles under the skin like living marbles, so near to his cock yet so far. My husband, ever the cheeky one, sniggered at touch of my cool fingers near the talas escort apex of his manhood. He bent and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, like old friends as opposed to his husband and lover.
“You know I have to save that for Kenny.”
Ah yes, Kenny. Dear good old Kenny, who up to last week had occupied an innocent, sometimes frustrating but otherwise always accommodating niche in our friendship. Who up to last week was no more than a close friend that could be trusted perhaps with the house keys but not with our children. A friend, a somewhat confidant, who held secrets but nothing too deep, nothing too incriminating. All that relationship was — I did not know what to call it, but the closest would have to be metamorphosis, indeed, was metamorphosized by the fact that my husband picked him to be his bottom bull.
See, it was all my fault like my husband had said. I was the one who instigated things, the one who made the first move, the one who fucking introduced them in the first place. The blame laid squarely on my head, the buck stopped at my door. I had no one else to fault for the fact that one of my closest friends now enjoy the sexual prowess of my husband on a semi-regular basis.
And what bounty was to be enjoyed. For my husband, truly, despite his homosexuality, had a breeder’s cock: tall, proud in its relentless erections, beer-can thick, much like an ancient weapon of destruction. This was the cock from which sprang our two children, this cock or rather his two fertile lemon-sized balls. And my husband’s stamina, which I had confided in Kenny rather innocently and giddily like two schoolmarm girls encountering sex with a demigod.
I had never imagined the bitch would take my confidences as a type of persuasion to try on the merchandise himself.
My husband gave me another kiss, this time on the forehead, and gently removed my meandering hand which was rubbing heat into his exposed skin. He finished dressing, my lovely tarsus escort husband, and ruffled his hair one last time before making that gesture, that chef’s kiss gesture, because he knew he looked good, he knew he looked like a thousand bucks, my husband, who was going to fuck someone else.
I tried, one last time. “Can I go with you?” My voice sounded tiny and forlorn, surprising even myself. I coughed, repeating the request in unwavering voice.
“Sorry baby, you know I can’t. Kenny did not even like the last time we err, were together here.”
“Didn’t stop him from having six orgasms.”
“Hah. Tell that to the guy, would you.” My husband paused at the door. “Keep your phone on and close by, sweetheart.”
Time ticked slowly by, moving like sweet molasses, stately and sluggish. I kept my handphone connected to the charging cable — I could almost imagine my husband tsk-tsking at that, for he hated to leave his devices plugged in longer than necessary, ruined the battery life he said. The indicator was silent. I was at peace.
At 9 pm a message came in. “We’re going to the clubs. We’re going to D’Zara.” That was our favorite haunt before our marriage, the halcyon days before the two sons and a mortgage that threatened to swallow everything in its path. Maybe he wanted to relive the old nights, haunting the bars with a good-looking blond in his arms, even if the man was not his husband.
Later a snapchat came, this time from Kenny. The bitch. “On the prowl with your husbear.” A selfie of them kissing over what looked like Bloody Marys.
Fuck.
Near 10 pm a video clip came. It was of the toilet at D’Zara, with that huge Z-shaped mirror on the wall. At 0.10 sec my husband’s cock flopped out, followed by a massive drunken giggle from Kenny, whose face was smiling wide. There was a shuffle, “It’s bigger than my palm,” and another giggle. Then the video turned dark as sin before coming back on Kenny’s dainty mouth suckling taşköprü escort on my husband’s wide cock, five seconds of this before the video cut off.
Fuck. It was almost too much, too much. I wanted to die. I wanted to masturbate. Most importantly I wanted to lick my husband’s balls as he penetrated his new lover.
Radio silence. I almost gave up before there was a light again at the indicator, a video call. “Hey babe, we’re in Kenny’s apartment downtown. Almost got kicked out of our Uber because we couldn’t stop ourselves fucking, haha.” The feed showed Kenny’s large bedroom, which I never had the pleasure of seeing before. “Enjoy the show babycakes.”
I caught a snigger at Kenny’s face before he turned his attention on my husband’s exposed cock, laving saliva on the thick bone, licking his fecund balls, swiping his tongue along my husband’s thighs. Unbidden spit flooded my mouth. I wanted to take over his place, to show the bitch how my husband liked it best, how he would squirm when you lick the dent below his coronal ridge a certain way, how his moans would take a whining quality when you slather his balls — both of them — in your mouth at the same time. As things stood, I remained a passive, quiet audience, as Kenny did his darndest to swallow my husband’s cock.
Things came to a head when my husband took Kenny’s hand and pulled him up, adjusting his seat so that his anus was on my husband’s cock. The phone took in Kenny’s face, his moans and his grunts as he took in my husband’s erection deep into his waiting cunt. A shuffle, a turn and the phone was now in Kenny’s hand, taking in my husband’s sexy chest, gleaming in the low light, as he huffed his way to his umpteenth orgasm of the day in Kenny’s asshole. “Sorry babe-kins, have to concentrate on my cum.” The phone moved upwards, showing my husband’s gorgeous chin and just a hint of his feral smile, before cutting off.
After that there was no more, no more videos, no more snapchats, or selfies from the pair. Total radio silence. Probably knee deep in orgasm by now. As for yours truly, I came when my husband penetrated Kenny’s hole. My hands, sticky with my cum, felt wet and messy. I licked the still liquefied cum dripping down my fingers. Tears came to my eyes. I felt so confused. Why was I like this, cumming to my husband fucking other people?
