My Husband Begs Me to Call My Lover
These nylon stockings never go on right the first time. The seam has to run straight down the center of the calf, and if I hurry it ends up crooked and I have to start over. My grandmother wore stockings like these, with that same black line running up the back of her leg. Today I wear them for something very different.
Daniel is kneeling in front of me with my high-heeled shoes in his hands. I have my right foot resting on his bare chest and let him kiss the instep slowly, as though he were asking permission for every kiss. I push him away with the tip of my foot, teasing, and he comes back. He always comes back. I press the heel a little into the hollow beneath his collarbone and look at his cock, hard and red against his belly, throbbing on its own without anyone touching it.
I am what some people call a shared wife. I prefer to say simply that I have a husband who enjoys watching.
“Stay still,” I tell him, pressing my heel against his chest. “Bruno will be here in an hour and you still aren’t presentable. And keep your hands down—I can see you. If you touch that cock before I give you permission, tonight I’ll suck Bruno in front of your face and won’t even let you smell it.”
Daniel has spent the whole afternoon pacing around the house naked, nervous as always when my lover is coming, his cock swinging between his legs every time he walks. I know him: if I let him, he’ll come too soon and ruin the best part of the night. That’s why I keep an eye on him. I spread his thighs with my foot, brush his balls with the sole, and he lets out a trembling moan. Not out of cruelty, but because I know that what he looks forward to most is precisely this: the waiting, the swollen cock, and the dry mouth.
***
The girls went to their grandmother’s this morning, so I’ve had the house to myself since noon. I took a long bath, shaved my pussy until it was smooth as a peeled fruit, and painted my toenails that vivid red Bruno likes so much. Daniel held the bottle for me and blew on each nail so it would dry first. He does those things with a devotion that still surprises me after all these years.
All this began about a year ago, on an ordinary winter night. Daniel and I had always talked about everything in bed, telling each other our fantasies without shame. One night, with his cock inside my pussy and his mouth against my ear, he confessed his: he wanted to watch me fuck another man. I laughed. I told him he was crazy, that things like that only happened in movies. But the idea kept circling in my mind longer than I wanted to admit.
We kept playing with the fantasy in private for weeks. He pretended I had just come home from a date, tore off my panties, smelled me between the legs, and asked me who I had been with, what they had done to me, whether I had swallowed the cum or let him leave it inside me. He fucked me with an intensity I had never known in him, thrusting deeper and deeper, biting my tits, while he imagined another male on top of me. He came in torrents inside me whenever I described a strange cock splitting my pussy open. And afterward, still panting, with his semen running between my thighs, he asked me for things I initially found hard to believe.
“Let me clean you,” he would say.
And I, amid nervous laughter, let him. I pushed him between my legs, pulled his hair, and told him not to leave anything behind, to lick his own cum out of my pussy until he left me dry. His tongue went inside me, licked the folds, rose to my clitoris, went down again, swallowed. I squeezed his head between my thighs and came again over his mouth. The more I humiliated him, the more he showed me that he adored me. I discovered that my tenderness for him grew precisely in those moments when I saw him utterly surrendered, his chin wet and his eyes shining.
***
Bruno appeared soon afterward. I met him at a friend’s birthday party, and there was something immediate between us, a current neither of us made much effort to hide. He is tall, broad-shouldered, with the calm confidence of men who have nothing to prove. The first time I brushed his crotch in a hallway, over his trousers, I realized he was enormous, thick, and already half-hard just from my hand over the fabric. When I told him my husband knew and, more than that, approved, he wasn’t frightened. He smiled and said that meant we had no problem.
Since that first time, Bruno has been the man I call when I need a cock Daniel can’t give me. And I don’t say that to hurt my husband; I say it because it’s the truth, and because Daniel likes it to be true. I love him in a way that has nothing to do with sex. With Bruno, on the other hand, it’s only body, weight, cock all the way in, thick loads. Both things fit into my life without getting in each other’s way.
The first night Bruno took me seriously, I asked Daniel to hold up a mirror so I could watch. I wanted to see everything: how that enormous cock forced its way inside me, how my pussy swallowed it inch by inch until Bruno’s balls struck my ass. Daniel obeyed with trembling hands, holding the glass at exactly the right angle, looking at me with a mixture of adoration and something resembling pain. In the reflection I saw my own pussy stretched around Bruno’s cock, shining with my juices, and at the same time I saw my husband, his cock dripping pre-cum onto the floor, not daring to touch it. That look on his face is, to me, the most exciting part of the whole scene.
***
Over time we made our own rules. When I go out with Bruno—to dinner, dancing, sometimes to his house—Daniel stays with the girls. At some point during the night I call him on the phone. Not to tell him anything, but so he can listen.
I usually wait for the exact moment when I’m on top of Bruno, his cock buried to the root inside my pussy, before I dial. Then I hold the phone to my ear and let Daniel hear my ragged breathing, the wet slapping of my ass rising and falling on Bruno’s cock, Bruno’s deep voice telling me I’m his slut, that I squeeze like a virgin, that he’s going to fill me until it runs down my thighs. My husband stays silent on the other end, patient, waiting.
“Are you there, sweetheart?” he sometimes asks in a thread of a voice.
“I’m still here,” I answer, and that’s almost all I say, because Bruno has just slammed up into me and a guttural moan escapes straight into the phone.
Bruno moves me slowly while I talk, gripping my hips, looking into my eyes, amused by the game. He knows perfectly well whom I’m speaking to and enjoys making the task harder: he sucks my nipples until they’re hard and purple, kisses me just when I try to form a sentence, pushes two fingers into my mouth for me to suck, forces me to swallow a moan. Sometimes he turns me around without ending the call and pounds me from behind, gripping my hair, while I press the receiver against my cheek. At those moments I almost drop the phone, but I hold on. Daniel, at home, cock in hand—because I know he can’t hold back as soon as he hears the first moans—listens as I come undone.
When I reach orgasm, there’s no need to fake anything. Bruno speeds up, smacks my ass with his open palm, bites my neck, and I practically scream into the receiver that I’m coming, that I’m coming on his cock, that he should fill me, leave it all inside me. I feel Bruno’s cock swell, throb twice, and discharge a warm, thick stream inside me while he keeps thrusting until the last drop. I know that on the other end my husband has his eyes closed, his cock dripping between his fingers, imagining it all. Then I speak to him with a calmness that undoes him: I tell him Bruno has just filled my pussy, that I’ll be home soon with the hot cum still inside me so he can clean me, that he shouldn’t wait up if he can’t stand it, and I hang up without waiting for an answer.
There are nights when I draw it out on purpose. I send him a message from the bathroom at Bruno’s house, a picture of my shoes beside Bruno’s on the floor, or better yet, a picture of my open pussy with semen running down the insides of my thighs, nothing else. I know that’s enough to keep him awake, cock hard and hands tied by his own word, staring at the ceiling and counting the hours until the key turns in the lock. That anticipation consumes him in a way no physical encounter could. I learned to administer it like something precious, in measured doses.
***
Once I warned him not to touch his cock while I was away. That night, when I came home, I knew from his face—and from the dried stain on his belly—that he hadn’t listened. I wasn’t truly angry, but I made him believe I was. I told him he was a bad boy for not waiting for my permission, that he had come like a pig without asking his turn, and that he would sleep alone that night, without tongue, without pussy, without anything. I watched him beg on his knees, his cock hard again simply from hearing me scold him, as though I had taken away the only thing that mattered in the world.
I even searched online for one of those plastic devices that keep a man from touching his cock without permission. I came close to ordering one. I imagined the key hanging from my necklace, the little padlock around his cock when I went out to fuck Bruno. But in the end I ruled it out: I prefer Daniel to control himself for me, out of a desire to please me, and not because of a padlock. The real game is in his head, not his cock. And as long as I have that control, no device is necessary.
***
Coming home is always the best part for him. The drive is long, almost an hour on the highway, and I take it slowly, the window down, my skin still tingling and my panties soaked with Bruno’s cum, dripping between my legs. I walk in and find him waiting beside the door, dressed in the shirt he likes, his cock outlined beneath his trousers, as if he were welcoming an honored guest. He lets me sink onto the sofa, takes off my shoes one by one, and watches me as though I were something precious and fragile at once. Then he lifts my skirt, tears off my wet panties, and buries his face between my thighs without a word. His tongue goes straight into my battered pussy, and I know he’s tasting someone else’s cum. He swallows, licks, sucks my swollen lips, rises to my clitoris and sucks it hungrily, pushes his tongue in again as deep as he can to draw out every drop Bruno left inside me. He stays there until he pulls two or three more orgasms from me, soft, almost like farewells, while I tug his hair and whisper that he’s a good boy, that he should swallow it all.
When he finishes, his chin shining and his eyes glazed, he still asks me for more. He begs me to let him put his in me, even though he knows I’m exhausted, that Bruno has left my pussy open and sensitive. Sometimes I give in, more out of tenderness than desire, and let him climb on top of me for a little while. He enters slowly, almost afraid, and feels his cock sliding into a slippery pussy, still warm from another man. Four or five thrusts are enough to make him come inside me, moaning against my neck, adding his semen to what I’m already carrying. I hold him, stroke the nape of his neck, and tell him he’s mine, that his cum and Bruno’s are mixed together inside me and that I like it that way. To him, that sentence is worth more than anything else.
***
The doorbell rings. Daniel has almost finished fastening my second heel. I’m not going to get dressed; I’ll open the door like this, in my garter belt, stockings with the straight seam, nipples bare, and shaved pussy on display. Bruno likes finding me exactly like that, so he can put me in his mouth right there in the entryway if he feels like it, and my husband likes watching me open the door that way, knowing what’s coming.
This afternoon the two of them have a plan. Bruno brought his camera and a tripod; he wants to photograph us fucking on the sofa while Daniel holds my hand and looks into my eyes. They set up a remote control so they can take the pictures without moving, and my husband will be so focused on pressing that button at exactly the right moment—when Bruno’s cock is splitting me in two, when my mouth is open in a scream—that he’ll almost forget to breathe. It makes me laugh to watch them confer like two partners.
I open the door. Bruno hugs me, kisses my neck, grabs one of my tits with his free hand, and comes in as though the house were his. Daniel prepares us a drink and sits on the arm of the chair, naked again, his cock hard against his belly, watching. Soon Bruno gently pushes me against the leather sofa, yanks my legs open, lowers his trousers, and shows me that thick, veined cock I know by heart. He puts it in my mouth first, all the way down, until my eyes water and my mascara runs. Then he puts me on my knees on the sofa, grips my hips, and drives it into me from behind with one thrust. I scream. Everything else ceases to matter.
At some point my husband comes closer, takes my hand, and holds my ankle, attentive to my comfort, like a bee tending its hive, while Bruno pounds me so hard that the sofa slides a few inches. I hear the camera click again and again: click when Bruno spreads my buttocks to push deeper, click when he pulls out his gleaming cock and sinks it back in, click when I come for the first time that night with my cheek pressed against the leather. Bruno and he get along well, almost like brothers; perhaps that’s why this works, because no one competes for what doesn’t belong to him. Daniel sucks my fingers, kisses my wrist, and I squeeze his hand every time Bruno pounds the back of my pussy.
I’m going to rest my head for a while on the arm of the sofa while Bruno takes a break to have a drink, his cock still hard and gleaming with my juices. The night is long and Bruno has barely begun; I know that before dawn he’ll have emptied himself inside me at least twice, and that Daniel will spend hours on his knees cleaning me. He stays close, watchful, happy in his own way, his cock still untouched as he waits for his turn—or my permission, whichever I decide.
I’m not writing this to brag, but almost as a confession. For years I believed the only way to love someone was the one described in the manuals, and it turns out there was another way waiting for us, made to fit us. If I learned anything, it’s that the key was never hiding anything, but telling each other everything. Who would have told me that honesty would end up leading me exactly here, with two men in the house and my mouth still tasting of semen.
