The Fantasy That Forced Me to Share My Wife

There’s a desire I can’t quite put a name to, but I recognize it the moment it appears. It always starts the same way: with what I feel for her. And that’s the first thing worth making clear, because without that part, none of the rest works.

She has to inspire tenderness in you, tinged with lust. She has to seem beautiful to you, beautiful enough to awaken your entire libido, but not beautiful for everyone else: beautiful for you. A beauty that softens you, that makes you want to take care of her. That way, when the rest arrives, it’s easier for you to forgive her for the things she does.

Her attitude? That of a woman who knows exactly what she wants. Experienced, confident, able to ask a lover for what she likes without shame. With you, on the other hand, she always speaks sweetly, even when she’s saying something outrageous. She could deliver the cruelest sentence in the world wrapped in honey, and you would receive it gratefully. You discover her provocative side by accident, while she directs it at someone else.

The men who enter into this have to appeal to her, not to you. Tall, hard-bodied, with cocks thicker and longer than yours and a stamina you never had. Men who make you feel that they surpass you, who move with her better than you ever managed to, who fill her in a way that eludes you. And the way they treat you is part of the game: they barely notice you exist. They glance at you sideways, like someone checking where a noise came from, then turn back to her. They don’t give you orders or address you. To them, you’re a piece of furniture. All their attention is for your wife, for her pussy, her tits, her ass.

And that, for some reason I don’t understand, is exactly what turns me on.

***

The first fantasy is the most domestic one. The one most like something that could really happen.

You’ve invited an acquaintance of hers over to the house. They treat each other like two lovers who have gone far too long without seeing one another. They kiss in the living room with their tongues fully out, his hand slipping beneath her skirt and groping her ass without permission, as if he’d done it a thousand times before. She bites his lip, moans softly, and he pulls her panties down to her knees right there in front of you. He slides two fingers inside her and pulls them out glistening. “You’re soaking wet, fuck,” he tells her. She laughs. They undress slowly, and you watch them from your corner of the sofa, your cock straining to escape your trousers. When he lowers his underwear and his cock appears—thick, hard, with a prominent vein running from top to bottom—she takes it in both hands and puts it in her mouth without thinking. She sucks deep, noisily, all the way down, until tears spring to her eyes. Then they shut themselves in the bedroom and leave the door ajar, just enough for the sound to escape. That’s the appeal: not seeing, but imagining. Staying still, listening to the muffled moans crossing the wall, the wet slapping of her pussy every time he drives into her, the rhythmic smack of his balls against your wife’s ass, and reconstructing in your head what’s happening on the other side.

“Like that, harder, fuck me harder,” you hear her say, in that voice you thought belonged only to you.

“I’m going to fill you up, slut,” he answers. “I’m going to get you pregnant, understand?”

“Yes, yes, come inside me, don’t pull out…”

When his moans grow rougher, almost animalistic, she calls you. You go in and find her on the edge of the bed, her legs spread wide, her pussy red and throbbing, while he finishes inside her with three last brutal thrusts that make the bed frame creak. You see his ass tense as he unloads. When he finally lets her go and pulls out his dripping cock, a thick white strand runs down your wife’s slit to the sheet. She looks at you the way someone looks at a child they’re fond of and says:

“My love, will you go to the pharmacy and buy me the morning-after pill?” He pulls away from her and sits down to catch his breath, his cock still half-hard, gleaming with mixed fluids. “Take the money from my purse. Yes, that one.”

She doesn’t take birth control; she says it throws her body out of balance, and her body is sacred. You take the money with your erection trapped in your trousers, the tip already dampening the fabric. She comes out into the hallway, naked, another man’s semen sliding down her thigh, and asks you again, almost pleading.

“Go, please. We’ll wait for you, don’t worry.”

Then you see her go into the bathroom with a towel in her hand. And the cruelest part isn’t what you saw, but what you’re going to miss. Because now you’re heading out into the street in broad daylight, your heart pounding in your chest, knowing anything could happen while you’re gone. The pharmacy isn’t far—fifteen minutes there and back—but those fifteen minutes fill with images you create yourself: his cock hardening again beneath the water, his fingers opening her still-full pussy, her asking him for more.

You return. Open the door. And from the entryway you hear a wet, rhythmic sound coming from the bathroom, amplified by the strange acoustics of the tiles: smack, smack, smack, the unmistakable noise of a pelvis striking a wet ass. They told you they would wait. You move forward slowly, and with every step both your breathing and everything else grow stronger. You push open the half-closed door and see them against the shower wall, both with their backs to you, her hands braced against the tiles and her ass raised, him behind her, taking her with his whole cock, balls and all, about to finish again. Water pours over them, washing away the white foam forming at the roots of her pussy from so many thrusts.

“My… love?” you manage to say.

They turn their heads. He looks at you for a couple of seconds without stopping his movement inside her, then looks away, as if he only wanted to confirm where the noise had come from. She speaks to you with a pleading expression while he keeps going. Each word comes broken by the pounding.

“Baby, did you… bring what I asked for?” You show her the little bag. “Oh, good… we only came in to shower, but then he got like this again and I told him to keep it inside. Oh, oh, that’s it, more… I think he’s going to fill me again. He wants to get me pregnant at any cost, my love. He already gave me a whole load and he still isn’t tired.”

He grabs her hair, pulls her head back, and unloads for the second time with a long groan that bounces off the tiles. She cries out—not in pain, but pleasure—as the second burst of semen floods her insides. When he finally lets her go—the cock sliding out with a wet sound, dragging a white stream down her thighs to the drain—she comes over to you, exhausted, her legs trembling, takes the bag, and kisses your cheek, leaving the smell of sex stuck to your skin.

“Thank goodness I have you to take care of me.”

And she leaves. And at that moment you have such a brutal urge to come that you think you’re going to explode. One rub, just one, and you’d shoot inside your trousers like a teenager. But you don’t. Because you know what happens afterward: the moment you come, everything changes. What seems sexy and dizzying now becomes vulgar, empty, alien. As if you suddenly woke up in a place where you didn’t belong.

***

The second fantasy begins in a nightclub. Black skirt, red blouse. Another thing she does well is dance, and she dances in a way that empties the heads of the men around her. The handsomest ones watch her move and all they want is to push you aside and take your place behind her, grind their hard crotches against her ass. Over the course of the night, she’ll choose one. Just one.

“My love, will you bring me a beer? I’m thirsty,” she asks, fanning herself with her hand.

And once again you have to step away, stop watching her, lose the little control you had. It’s always like this: the moment you stop seeing her, your head fills with images worse than any reality. But you leave anyway, because she asked you in that voice.

The bar is crowded. It takes time. It isn’t as simple as the pharmacy. The wait even cools your arousal a little, until you begin counting the songs that have played. Five, six? And why does the music seem more obscene with each one? When you finally have the cold beer and fight your way back, you find her grinding her hips against a man with an ecstatic face, his hands clamped around her bare waist, one already beneath her skirt, moving there without even trying to hide it. His other hand has pulled down the neckline of her blouse just enough for a dark nipple to show. She wasn’t going to choose just one, you think. But a wall of men has formed around her.

Her gaze is distant, the gaze of a woman enjoying herself, a woman whose pussy is being touched in the middle of the dance floor and who doesn’t care who sees. The moment she spots you, her face lights up and she comes toward you, but before pulling away from the man she gives him a long, wet, open-mouthed kiss in front of you.

“My love, finally! I was dying of thirst.”

She drinks almost the whole beer in one gulp and leaves you what little remains. You drink it, because alcohol loosens you up. You never could hold much; a couple of swallows in a row and you’re already dizzy, giggly, pliant. And that state, added to the lust she inspires in you, turns you into someone who only wants to watch and suffer.

A few guys laugh at you from one side—“Look at the cuck,” you hear them say, but it doesn’t matter—because the star of the show doesn’t need to try to monopolize attention. She knows how to read the atmosphere, knows when things are getting too hot. That’s why she chooses—finally chooses—takes her man by the hand, and leads him away.

And here the fantasy truly begins. Everything before this was only foreplay. He leads her to a car in the parking lot and, before even opening the door, slams her against the bodywork, hikes her skirt to her waist, and tears off her panties. You see the gesture from a distance: the scrap of black fabric dangling from his hand, your wife laughing, offering him her naked ass in the middle of the parking lot. He unzips and fucks her standing up, right there against the car, before putting her inside. A couple of thrusts against the metal, one sharp moan from her, and only then does he open the back door and shove her in. Your part is to stay nearby, leaning against another car a few yards away, hearing the muffled noise, watching the vehicle move in response to what’s happening inside, testing the suspension. The windows fog up at once. You hear his moans, his urgency—“What a pussy, what the fuck is inside you?”—and hers—“Deeper, break me, more, more”—and you understand what your wife awakens in men like him: the desire to merge with her, to empty themselves to the last drop inside her, never to stop.

You can get in for a moment if you want. No one locked the doors. You sit in front, in the passenger seat. You last a few seconds. Behind you, your wife is riding him, her blouse unbuttoned and her tits bouncing against his face, the smell of her wet pussy filling your nose. In the rearview mirror you see his cock sliding in and out of her, well lubricated, while she braces herself on his shoulders and drops down hard, moaning every time the tip hits the spot it needs to hit. You don’t make it a minute, because the air is unbearable, the moans too loud, the words too raw—“I’m going to fill you, tell me you want me to fill you”—and the heat makes you sweat. It’s suffocating. You get out. And just in time, from outside, you hear the ending: the hoarse cry, the victory, the “I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming,” and then the calm, that slow stillness that arrives when everything ends, when the last spurt has emptied itself inside your wife.

The icing on the cake is watching her get out of the car, fix her hair, tug her skirt down a little to look decent, and fasten her blouse with clumsy fingers. She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She walks strangely, legs apart, and halfway to you she stops, slips two fingers beneath her skirt—she has no panties, no panties anymore—and quickly wipes away what’s running down the inside of her thigh. He gets out behind her, long-faced and trying to act casual, tucking his still-soft cock back into his trousers as if he hadn’t just moaned like an animal. She walks toward you with an enormous smile.

“Come on, my love,” she says, with the happiness of someone who has just found you again.

***

There’s another version, more dreamlike, closer to a dream than to anything possible.

Since she dances so well—and that includes taking her hips all the way down to the floor and everything else—the fantasy is to throw a party in the apartment. The usual white lights are replaced with moving colored lights, like in a nightclub. She’s dressed for a party: a tight black skirt outlining her figure and round ass, a red velvet blouse that looks formal until two buttons come undone and the lingerie beneath appears, black lace barely containing her tits. You invite five men. Men you dislike, of course, who look at you with contempt, but whom you can’t deny are attractive to a woman with as much magnetism as yours.

Party music, a heavy beat, the kind of songs made for this. She’s in the center, moving proudly, and the five men stand around her staring like fools, barely following the rhythm, their cocks pressing against their trousers. She goes from one to the next, distributing a little attention in turn: she dances backward for the first, rubbing her ass against his fly until it’s obvious what’s growing beneath it; she faces the second and drags her tits across his chest, letting him grab them over the fabric; she takes the third by the hand and slips it beneath her skirt for an instant, just so he can taste the heat there; she kisses the fourth; she bites the fifth on the neck and whispers something in his ear that draws a nervous laugh. And this fantasy has no ending, deliberately. The idea is to arouse you with the image of her turning five men on at once, five hard cocks waiting their turn, and stop right there. Because getting five eager men worked up isn’t something that ends peacefully, and you don’t want to know what would happen next. You don’t even want to imagine it. So you pretend not to understand and call the night over at the dancing, before your mind takes you somewhere it can’t bear to go.

***

The last one is the most extreme. The one with the white dress.

There comes a point when you love her so much that common sense no longer applies, and then you want to marry her. It will be a symbolic ceremony—you two have nothing devout about you—and she doesn’t need the financial security either, because she could perfectly well live without you. The wedding has, in reality, a purely ritual purpose: staining something solemn with everything that comes from the other world, the world of desire without rules.

And that’s the appeal: seeing her, the woman in all your fantasies, in a white wedding dress. But not just any dress: one full of details that suggest more than they conceal, a deep neckline, a back bare down to the top of her ass, transparent fabric at the sides. The formal celebration goes on under a veil of discretion, smiling at relatives and acquaintances, until the guests leave in the early hours and only you, her, and the “accomplices” remain.

They tell you what everyone tells a newlywed: go to the room, go claim your wedding night. But what no one knows is that your night will be a baptism. An initiation into the kind of life that comes with that impossible woman: the smell of strangers, the sweat of other bodies, the semen of unknown men running out from inside her, the demands you alone will never be able to fulfill. You can beg, you can dream of keeping only her tender side, the side you fit so well with. But you have to learn the balance. Your wife is like a full-moon animal: most nights she’ll be everything you ever wanted, and every so often she’ll transform into something that asks for more hands, more mouths, and more cocks than you possess.

You walk down the hotel corridor and, before you reach the room, you hear that the party hasn’t ended. There’s music and voices inside. You open the door and there she is, her dress immaculate, sitting on the bed, laughing, a champagne glass in her hand. And around her are five men in suits, each with a glass, waiting. They’ve been waiting for hours.

“You finally made it,” she says, and you both know why you took so long.

There’s no need to keep up the formal conversation. They begin approaching with a different intention, invading her space, whispering things in her ear while brushing her arms, shoulders, and neck. Hands encircle her waist, lips descend slowly to the top of her tits and bite through the lace. One spreads her legs with his knee, lifts her skirt slightly, and runs two fingers over her white panties, checking how wet she already is. He shows the others. They gleam. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and looks for you.

“Come here, give me a kiss, my husband,” she says, while one of them keeps hold of her neck.

You approach and kiss her. Her lips taste of champagne. What she’s telling you with that kiss is that this time you’re going to be part of what happens, even if only a tiny part, divided among so many.

“My love, ready or not, this has to begin. I can’t keep holding them back because of your sensitivity. It’s time to let them loose.”

With your heart in your throat, you nod. And you hear the sound of belts giving way, the noise of five flies unzipping at once, five hard cocks springing free at the same time. Big ones. All bigger than yours. She lets out a low, involuntary moan when she sees them surrounding her. She is no longer merely your provocative girlfriend: she is your wife, the woman with whom you could start a family, though the men’s faces in the room suggest that if a family ever came, it would not entirely be yours.

One squeezes her crotch through the white fabric, and another tears open the cup of her dress to pull an entire breast free; he puts it in his mouth and bites her nipple until she lets out a sharp cry, exaggerated, as if announcing to everyone that it’s there. All five of them flare to life at once. They start with kisses, but what follows isn’t gentle: the dress you loved so much ends up on the floor, ripped away with a tug that makes the seam crack, and when the white lingerie beneath appears—garter belt, stockings, transparent thong wedged entirely into the cleft of her pussy—their urgency multiplies. One pulls her thong down with his teeth. Another opens her pussy with two fingers and shows the others how it contracts, hungry and glistening with fluid. She, who loves this, watches the scene with the expression of a child facing a table full of desserts.

Pull down your trousers and try to go with the flow, even though you’re moving to a different rhythm. Your cock looks small, ridiculous, beside theirs, and you know it, and they know it too, and no one says anything because there’s no need. She turns slowly so they can all see her, bracing her hands on the bed, arching her back, offering her round white ass, still wearing the garter belt.

“Fuck, what a beautiful sight back here…” one of them says, before another dares to land a sharp slap that makes her whimper and leaves the red imprint of his hand on her buttock.

They push her onto the bed and all five throw themselves over her at once. Your wife disappears from view beneath them. You see spread legs, hands everywhere, one mouth closing over a tit, another descending to her pussy, and a thick cock sliding between her lips without asking permission. She sucks it hungrily, all the way down, while another lifts her hips and drives his in from behind with one thrust. The cry she releases reaches you muffled by the cock in her mouth. Agitated, frightened, aroused, you can think only: is she all right? But from the moans filtering through the uproar—hers, long and blissful, mixed with “that’s it, yes, more, deeper, fuck me all the way”—you understand that she is, that they’re taking her by turns, one after another, pussy, ass, mouth, without stopping, without letting her breathe.

The first comes inside her pussy with a roar, and before he’s even pulled out another is waiting to replace him. When they turn her over, you see semen running down to her navel, and you also see the next man use it as lubricant to push into her ass. She screams, bites her lip, asks for more. A third puts his cock in her mouth at the same time, and now they have her stretched between two sides at once, rocking her between them, while a fourth gropes her tits and pulls her nipples. The fifth masturbates beside them, waiting, and finishes across your wife’s face, over her closed eyes, open mouth, and hair. She licks her lips, swallows what got into her, and smiles.

All that remains is to stand in line. To watch the second take her from behind until he empties himself, the third turn her onto her back and bury his face between her legs to lick away everything the others left inside her, and a fourth mount her again and come on her tits, while you wait your turn at the end, until it’s finally your time to arrive after everyone else. It’s a strange, alien sensation, with the heavy smell of the others in the air, the smell of semen and sweat and used pussy. When at last they give you room and you climb onto the bed, she is wrecked: makeup running, hair stuck to her forehead, legs still spread, pussy swollen, red, dripping with the mixture of five strangers’ loads. You put your cock in there, among what all of them left behind, and can barely feel it because of how wide they’ve left her. But she’s looking at you with a smile different from the ones she gave them: she looked at the others open-mouthed, biting her lip, possessed; she looks at you with affection, because you’re her man.

Are you going to come? Because if you do, all of this will collapse in a second and you’ll feel what you always feel: the emptiness, the shame, the wish you had never been there. And what if you hold back? If you wait, restraining yourself, until at last the two of you are alone in that bed, until they’ve all gone and she slowly cleans herself and becomes yours alone again? Think about it. Maybe you’ll enjoy it more later than you would now.