The Fantasy That Made Me Share My Wife

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

She has to arouse tenderness in you with a dirty edge to it. She has to seem beautiful to you, to the point of stirring your whole libido, but not beautiful for everyone: beautiful for you. A beauty that softens you, that makes you want to take care of her. That way, when the rest comes, it’s easier to forgive her the things she does.

Her attitude? That of a woman who knows exactly what she wants. Experienced, self-assured, able to ask the lover for what she likes without shame. To you, by contrast, she always speaks sweetly, even when she is saying something outrageous. She could let fly the cruelest line in the world wrapped in honey, and you would receive it gratefully. You only catch her provocative side by chance, while she points it at someone else.

The men who get involved in this have to appeal to her, not to you. Tall, well-built, with cocks thicker and longer than yours and a stamina you never had. Men who make you feel outclassed, who move with her better than you ever managed to, who fill her in a way that escapes you. And the way they treat you is part of the game: they barely notice you exist. They glance at you out of the corner of their eye, like someone checking where a noise came from, and then go back to her. They don’t give you orders or speak to you. To them you’re a piece of furniture. All their attention is for your wife, for her cunt, for her tits, for her ass.

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

***

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

You’ve invited one of her acquaintances over to the house. They act like a couple of lovers who haven’t seen each other in too long. They kiss in the living room with their tongues well out, his hand slips under her skirt and gropes her ass without permission, as if he’s done it a thousand times. 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 soaked, fuck,” he tells her. She laughs. They undress slowly, and you watch them from your corner of the sofa, your cock begging to get out of your pants. When he drops his briefs and the cock appears—thick, hard, with a vein running clearly from top to bottom—she takes it with both hands and puts it in her mouth without thinking. She sucks deeply, noisily, all the way down, until tears spring to her eyes. After that they lock themselves in the bedroom and leave the door ajar, just enough for the sound to leak out. That’s the appeal: not in seeing, but in imagining. In staying still, listening to the muffled gasps crossing the wall, the wet slapping of her cunt every time he drives into her, the rhythmic slap of his balls against your wife’s ass, and reconstructing in your head what is happening on the other side.

—Harder like that, fuck me harder —you hear her, in that voice you thought was only yours.

—I’m going to fill you up, slut —he answers—. I’m going to knock you up, you understand?

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

When his moans grow rougher, almost animal, she calls you. You go in and find her on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, cunt red and throbbing, while he finishes inside her with three last brutal thrusts that make the bedframe creak. You see his ass tense at the moment he unloads. When he finally lets go and pulls his dripping cock out, a thick white thread 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-soft, shining with mixed fluids—. Take the money from my wallet. Yes, that one.

She doesn’t take contraceptives; she says they mess with her body, and her body is sacred. You take the money with the erection trapped in your pants, the tip already dampening the fabric. She comes out into the hallway naked, with 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 thing is not what you saw, but what you’re going to miss. Because now you go out into the street, in broad daylight, your heart pounding in your chest, knowing anything can happen while you’re gone. The pharmacy isn’t far—fifteen minutes there and back—but those fifteen minutes fill with images you yourself are making up: his cock hardening again under the water, his fingers opening her still-full cunt, her asking him for more.

You come back. You open the door. And from the hall you hear a wet, rhythmic sound coming from the bathroom, with that strange tile acoustics: smack, smack, smack, the unmistakable noise of a pelvis crashing against a wet ass. They told you they’d be waiting. You walk slowly, and with each step your breathing grows as much as everything else does. You push the half-open door and see them against the shower wall, both with their backs to you, her hands pressed to the tiles and her ass lifted, him behind her taking her with his whole cock, balls deep, about to finish again. Water falls over them and drags away the white foam gathering at the base of her cunt from so many thrusts.

—M-m-my… love? —you manage to say.

They turn their heads. He looks at you for a couple of seconds without stopping inside her, then looks away, as if he only wanted to confirm where the noise was coming from. She, with a pleading face, speaks to you without him stopping. Every word comes out broken by the pumping.

—Baby, did you… bring what I asked you for? —you show her the little bag—. Oh, good… it’s just that we came in here to shower, but he got hard again and I told him to keep it inside. Oh, oh, like that, more… I think he’s going to fill me up again. He’s trying to knock me up at any cost, my love. He already gave me one full load and he still isn’t tired.

He grabs her hair, yanks her head back, and unloads for the second time with a long growl that bounces off the tiles. She screams, not from pain, from pleasure, feeling the second burst of semen flood her insides. When he finally lets her go—the cock comes out with a wet sound, dragging a white stream down her thighs to the drain—she comes toward you, exhausted, legs shaking, takes the little bag and kisses your cheek, leaving the smell of sex stuck to your skin.

—Good thing you’re here to take care of me.

And she leaves. And you, at that instant, want to finish so badly you think you’re going to burst. One touch, just one, and you’d come inside your pants like a teenager. But you don’t. Because you know what happens after: the moment you come, everything changes. What seems sexy and vertiginous now becomes vulgar, empty, чужд. As if you woke up all at once in a place you don’t belong.

***

The second fantasy begins in a nightclub. Black skirt, red blouse. Another of the things she does well is dance, and dance in that way that empties the heads of the men around her. The hottest ones watch her move and all they want is to shove you aside and take your place behind her, grinding their hard groin against her ass. Over the course of the night, she will choose one. Only one.

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

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

The bar is packed. It takes you a while. It’s not as simple as the pharmacy. The wait even cools your heat a little, until you start 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 elbow your way back, you find her pressing her hips against a guy with an ecstatic face, his hands dug into her bare waist and one already inside her skirt, moving there without shame. His other hand has pulled down the neckline of her blouse just enough to show a dark nipple. She wasn’t going to choose only one, you thought. But a wall of men has formed around her.

Her gaze was far away, the gaze of a woman enjoying herself, of a woman whose cunt is being touched on the dance floor and who doesn’t care who sees. As soon as she sees you, she lights up and comes over, but before peeling away from the guy she leaves him a wet kiss on the mouth, long, tongue and all, in front of you.

—My love, finally! I was dying of thirst.

She drinks the beer almost in one gulp and leaves you what little remains. You take it, because alcohol loosens you up. You never had much tolerance; a couple of swallows in a row and you’re already dizzy, smiley, soft. And that state, added to the dirty thrill she gives you, turns you into someone who only wants to watch and suffer.

A few guys laugh at you off to the side—“look at the cuck,” you hear, but it doesn’t matter—because the star doesn’t need to make an effort to command attention. She knows how to read the room, knows when things are getting too hot. That’s why she chooses—at last she chooses—takes her man by the hand and leads him away.

And this is where the fantasy really begins. Everything before was just 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 up to the waist, and yanks her panties off. You see the gesture from a distance: the scrap of black fabric dangling from his hand, your wife laughing, offering him her bare ass in the middle of the parking lot. He drops his zipper and puts his cock in standing up, right there, against the car, before sliding it inside. A couple of thrusts against the metal, a sharp cry from her, and only then does he open the back door and push her in. Yours is to stay close, leaning against another car a few meters away, taking in the muffled noise, watching the car rock in response to what’s happening inside, testing the suspension. The windows fog up immediately. You hear his moans, his urgency—“what the fuck, what the fuck do you have, fuck”—hers—“deeper, break me, more, more”—and you understand what your wife awakens in men like that: the urge to merge with her, to empty themselves down to the last drop inside her, to never stop.

You can go in for a moment if you want. Nobody locked the doors. You sit in the front, in the passenger seat. You hold out for a few seconds. Behind you, your wife is on top of him, riding him, blouse unbuttoned and her tits bouncing in his face, and the smell of wet cunt fills your nose. In the rearview mirror you see his cock going in and out of her, slickly lubed, how she braces herself on his shoulders and drops hard, all the way down, moaning every time the tip hits where it’s supposed to hit. You don’t make it a minute, because the air is unbreathable, the gasps too loud, the words too crude—“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, you hear the end from outside: the rough shout, the victory, the “I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming,” and then the calm, that slow stillness that comes when everything is over, when the last load has been emptied inside your wife.

The cherry on top is seeing her get out of the car, fix her hair, pull her skirt down a bit so she looks decent, button her blouse with clumsy fingers. She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She walks oddly, legs apart, and you see how, halfway there, she stops, slips two fingers under her skirt—no panties, she has no panties anymore—and quickly wipes away what’s dripping down the inside of her thigh. He comes out behind her, looking long-faced, hiding it, tucking his still-soft cock back into his pants, as if he hadn’t just moaned like an animal. She walks toward you with a huge smile.

—Come on, my love —she says, with the joy of someone who has just found you again.

***

There’s another version, more dreamlike, closer to sleep than to what’s possible.

Since she dances so well—and that includes moving her hips all the way 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 the party: tight black skirt that outlines her figure and round ass, red velvet blouse that looks formal until two buttons come undone and the lingerie underneath appears, black lace barely containing her tits. You invite five men. Guys you hate, of course, who look down on you, but who you can’t deny are attractive to a woman with as much magnetism as yours.

Party music, driving rhythm, the kind of songs made for this. She in the center, moving with pride, and the five of them around her looking like idiots, barely keeping time, their cocks straining their pants. She goes from one to the next, doling out a little attention in turn: to the first she dances with her back to him and grinds her ass against his zipper until what’s growing below him is obvious; to the second she faces him and rubs her tits against his chest, letting him grab them over the fabric; to the third she takes his hand and slips it under her skirt for a moment, just so he can taste the heat there; the fourth she kisses; the fifth she bites his neck and whispers something in his ear that makes him break into a nervous laugh. And this fantasy has no ending, on purpose. The point is to get you turned on by the image of her heating up five men at once, five hard cocks waiting their turn, and stop right there. Because heating up five horny guys is not something that ends quietly, and you don’t want to know what would happen next. You don’t even want to imagine it. So you play dumb and call the night over with the dancing, before your head takes you somewhere you 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 stops applying, and then you want to marry her. It will be a symbolic ceremony—you’re not devout in any way—and economical she doesn’t need either, because she could live without you perfectly well. The wedding really has a purely ritual purpose: to stain something solemn with everything that comes from the other world, the world of desire without rules.

And that’s the pleasure: seeing her, the woman of all your fantasies, in a white bridal dress. But not just any one: one full of details that hint at more than they hide, the plunging neckline, the back open down to the start of her ass, the transparent fabric at the sides. The formal party goes by under the guise of politeness, smiling at relatives and acquaintances, until, in the early hours of the morning, the guests leave and only you, she, and the “accomplices” remain.

They tell you what is said to every newlywed: go to the room, go claim your night. But what nobody knows is that your night is going to be a baptism. An initiation into a kind of life that comes with that impossible woman: other people’s smell, the sweat of other bodies, strangers’ semen running out of her, the demands that you alone will never be able to meet. You can beg, you can dream of keeping only her tender side, the one you got along so well with. But you have to learn the balance. Your wife is like a full-moon animal: most nights she will be everything you always wanted, and every now and then she’ll turn into something that asks for more hands, more mouths, and more cocks than you have.

You go up the hotel hallway and, before you even get there, you hear the party didn’t end. There’s music and voices inside. You open the door and there she is, in her immaculate dress, sitting on the bed, laughing, a glass of champagne in her hand. And around her, five men in suits, each with his 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 pretending at formal conversation. They start edging closer with other intentions, invading her space, whispering in her ear while brushing her arms, her shoulders, her neck. Hands circle her waist, lips drift slowly down to the start of her tits and bite over the lace. One of them spreads her legs with his knee, lifts her skirt a little 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 and then opens them, looking for you.

—Come, give me a kiss, my husband —she says, while one of them still won’t let go of her neck.

You come closer and kiss her. Her lips taste like 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, split among so many.

—My love, ready or not, this has to begin. I can’t keep holding them back for your sensitivity anymore. It’s time to let them loose.

With your heart in your throat, you nod. And then you hear the sound of belts giving way, the noise of five zippers dropping at once, five hard cocks springing out all at the same time. Large. All larger than yours. She lets out a low, involuntary gasp at the sight of them surrounding her. This is no longer just your provocative girlfriend: she’s your wife, the woman you could build a family with, even if the faces of the men in the room suggest the family, if it came to it, wouldn’t be entirely yours.

One squeezes her crotch over the white fabric and another yanks the cup of the dress down to pull one whole breast out; he shoves it into his mouth and bites her nipple until she lets out a sharp, exaggerated squeal, as if announcing to everyone that she’s there. The five of them are aroused all at once. They start with kisses, but what follows is not gentle: the dress you liked so much ends up on the floor, torn away in one yank that makes the seam crack, and when the white lingerie appears underneath—garter belt, stockings, transparent thong wedged all the way into her cunt—their urgency multiplies. One pulls her thong down with his teeth. Another opens her cunt with two fingers and shows the others how it contracts, hungry, gleaming with slick. She, who loves this, watches the scene with the face of a child in front of a dessert table.

Take off your pants, try to keep up even if you’re moving to a different rhythm. Your cock, out in the open, looks small, ridiculous, beside theirs, and you know it, and they know it too, and nobody says anything because there’s no need. She turns slowly so everyone can see her, hands on the bed, back arched, offering her round white ass, still wearing the garter belt.

—Damn, what a beauty back here… —says one, before another dares a sharp slap that makes her cry out and leaves the red imprint of his hand on her cheek.

They push her onto the bed and all five of them throw themselves on top of her at once. Your wife disappears from view under them. You see legs spread, hands everywhere, a mouth closing over a tit, another going down to the cunt, and a thick cock slipping between her lips without asking permission. She sucks it hungrily, all the way down, while another lifts her hips and drives his into her ass in one thrust. The scream she lets out reaches you muffled by the cock in her mouth. Agitated, scared, aroused, all you can think is: Is she okay? But from the moans filtering through the racket—hers, long, delighted, mixed with “like that, yes, more, deeper, fuck me whole”—you understand that she is, that they’re taking turns with her, one after another, cunt, ass, mouth, nonstop, not letting her breathe.

The first one comes inside her cunt with a roar, and before he even pulls out there’s already another waiting to replace him. When they turn her over, you see semen dripping down to her navel, and you also see how the next one uses it as lube to put it in 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 from two sides at once, rocking her between them, while a fourth gropes her tits and tugs her nipples. The fifth is jerking off nearby, waiting, and ends up unloading over your wife’s face, on her closed eyes, on her open mouth, in her hair. She licks her lips, swallows what got in, and smiles.

All that’s left is to wait in line. To watch the second one take her from behind until he empties himself, to watch the third flip her onto her back and bury his face between her legs to lick up everything the others left inside, to watch a fourth ride her again and come on her tits, and to wait your turn at the end, when it’s your time to arrive after everyone else. It’s a strange feeling, alien, with the heavy smell of the others in the air, the smell of semen and sweat and used cunt. When they finally make room for you and you climb onto the bed, she is a wreck: makeup smeared, hair stuck to her forehead, legs still open, cunt swollen, red, dripping the mixture of five other loads. You slide your cock in there, among the remains of all of them, and you can barely feel it for how open they left her. But she is looking at you with a different smile from the ones she gave them: she looked at the others with her mouth open, biting her lip, possessed; at you she looks with affection, because you are her man.

Are you going to finish? Because if you do, all of this is going to collapse in a second and you’re going to feel what you always feel: the emptiness, the shame, the urge to have never been there at all. And if you hold out? If you wait, restraining yourself, until the two of you are finally alone in that bed, until everyone else has gone and she cleans herself slowly and goes back to being only yours? Think about it. Maybe you’ll enjoy it better later than now.