The Key
By Don Jetman
I lay on our bed as she tried dress after dress. She inspected her reflection, glanced at me in the mirror, and asked the same question after each one.
"Would he like this one better?"
I had never seen any of them before - not a single dress a loving wife would have bought to please her husband. There were black ones and red ones, one made of shimmering silver, and a white sheath that was nearly transparent. They were all so much shorter than anything I had seen her wear, and a few barely contained her full bust providing a daring display that threatened to ****** a hint of pink where her nipples strained against the fabric. I was shocked at first, then utterly overwhelmed with nervous expectation.
"I like all of them," I confessed, my mouth dry, my gut churning. "But how am I supposed to know what dress he'll like?"
She grinned, her eyes now fixed on me in the mirror.
"Welll, he's your boss, sweetie. You should know all kinds of things about him. You let him put his hands on me all night long back then at your company awards dinner. Maybe I should wear the same dress I wore that night. Do you remember which one it was?"
I remembered all right. The little black number with the slit up the side that showed so much thigh. The night it all started. I remembered how I ignored his hand on her thigh at first, then later when he explored between her legs under our table. He was my boss. What was I supposed to do? Besides, It got me a little hard knowing he couldn't resist, that my wife was such a tempting prize to him, right there in front of me. It was partly the shock as well, that he looked straight into my eyes and grinned at me as he groped her. And she didn't seem to mind. Not one bit.
"I don't remember much about that night, except by the end of it I was pretty *****," I said.
Her grin grew wider, and she nodded.
"That I remember very well, sweetie. You disappeared and Charles had to drive me. You lost your wallet and he had to pay the cab fare at three o'clock in the morning when you finally found your way home. That look on your face..."
She was still grinning.
~*~
That night. The night I was terrified he'd fuck her. That he'd fuck my beautiful wife. She had been so taken with him. So uncharacteristically girly around him. So deferential to him. Like I wasn't even there. They were in the shower together at home when I finally found them, her giggling, him teasing her about what a dirty little wife she was. I stood there without a sound, staring into the frosted glass as two wet, naked bodies pressed against it from the other side. It had been no surprise that he'd try to fuck my wife - he was known for the otherwise dangerous pursuit of wife-fucking. But he was the boss, our CEO, and few dared to out him or retaliate. Marriages simply mysteriously dissolved, or became tense, silent, sexless "partnerships" after his conquests. For us it had become much, much different.
I don't know why I got hard watching them. I can't remember taking my dick out and masturbating. I stood there listening to Amanda's glowing compliments about his cock. I do remember the shower door opening, the horrified look on Amanda's face, and his unapologetic grin as they stood naked before me with his arm around her waist. I remember staring at his flaccid cock, imagining it had been inside my Amanda only minutes before. I remember her dark hair slick and wet against her neck and shoulders, her nipples still urgent and hard as droplets of water fell from them. And then his laughter.
That's when everything changed. He said he'd pay my fare if I'd finish myself then and there, in front of them. He wanted to see me cum. To cum knowing he had just fucked my wife. The mist from the shower seemed to envelop me as though I had lost my way and stumbled into a mystical cloud of some unreal fantasy. I wonder to this day why I didn't stop, why I didn't show rage or turn and run. Instead I stroked myself, transfixed by the image of them there together, imagining his semen pouring from her pussy into the shower drain. I tried. I really did. And I really failed.
"I - I just - can't," I stammered after a while. "Just, um, too much to drink..."
Suddenly they were in front of me, near to me, dripping water on the floor at my feet. His wide grin. Her look of astonished surprise.
"I'll pay anyway," he told me. "It was worth showing your wife what you're made of. Right, Amanda?"
She nodded slowly, wide-eyed and shivering with her arms crossed over her bare breasts.
I thought I had lost her, but I was wrong. I just hadn't understood her newfound lust for cock. His cock.
~*~
Amanda never really understood. Not really. And Charles never brought it up at work. In fact, he was more generous with praise and lightened my workload a bit. Then I'd come home to find them fucking in our bed at the end of the day, shrink away in horror, and have him thank me on his way out the door. Well, not thanks, actually. At first it was, "She's an amazing fuck," then, "She's just so hungry for cock - don't you ever give her any?" I'd look at the floor, mumble some kind of reply and feel my dick start to twitch. Eventually I secretly hoped to find them fucking, lost in the fantasy, recalling the image of the thick, throbbing root of his cock buried to the hilt in my Amanda. Then my guts would churn. But I was still hard.
"So, that's what you want?" Amanda finally asked. "Or at least it excites you? Charles and I having sex, here in our bed?"
I could never explain to her how I both loved and hated it at the same time. I tried. I mostly failed.
"So, we can do it as often as we want?" she'd ask. "Whenever we want? Even if it means you and I can't have sex as often because I'm doing it with Charles?"
How was I supposed to make her understand? I craved her body more every day as the fantasies settled over me like a sometimes warm, sometimes smothering blanket. Charles exhausted her, so sex between us became less frequent, just as she had predicted. When we fucked, she'd thank me. "You're so sweet to let me have this. To let me have a cock like his. To let me cum so much more often than we used to before Charles." In time she embraced our arrangement, mostly while my dick was in her. "You want him to fuck me, don't you? You know, don't you, that his cock is bigger? How much I love it inside me?"
It became my trigger. I'd cum when she used the words. When she confessed he was better. When she gladly sacrificed sex with me to fuck him - with his huge cock. She'd put the image in my head, massage it, color it, bring it to life. Then I'd watch her drooling cum-face as she thought of him and his ever-potent cock. Her unintentional gift to me - my reward for giving her to him.
Most days Amanda was still the wife I had known and loved for ten years. As beautiful, cheerful, and accommodating a wife as any man could wish for. But there were times when the fever in her belly, the hunger between her legs, made her his for hours - very long, angst-filled hours as I watched or waited for him to use her and retreat. The pain became addictive. Seeing Amanda's eyes stare into his as he fucked her. Hearing her cries and moans as he plunged into her. The adoration on her face as she lay under him in afterglow, his cock and spew now a delicious, treasured part of her marriage. But it wasn't enough for Charles.
"It was Charles's idea," she told me. "It fits over your penis like a little cage. He wants more of me, to control your 'access' to me, as he put it. I think it's just part of his kinky little games, but he's serious. If you don't, he won't fuck me anymore. So will you try it? For me? Please?"
Giving more of her to him was just fire to the fantasy. More of his huge cock ravaging her pussy, more of the angst that fueled my excuse to let him have her, more of the intoxication of the images, sounds, and sloppy aftermath Amanda used to lure me further into Charles's maze of submission. So I submitted, for Amanda.
~*~
She decided on the dress without my help. It was a scrap of screaming, shimmering blue, stretched over her breasts and hips, offering every curve and crevice to anyone without a second glance. She was flesh in a blue wrapper, her body brazenly daring, begging to be unwrapped and consumed. I remembered the day when she'd have sneered at a woman in the dress, so sure she was a slut or ******. I gasped when I noticed the jutting mound above her pussy and a hint of the cleft between the outline of engorged, swollen labia just beneath the wisp of fabric. The dress might as well have been transparent below her waist.
"You're really going out in that, with nothing underneath?" I asked. "Where's he taking you?"
"I have no idea. But it's sweet of you to be concerned. He just likes to show me off. His friends think it's hot that he's fucking someone's wife and that my husband knows. I'm flattered that they all want me too, but Charles makes it clear I belong to him - well, at least my body does. I'll spend the night with Charles and have him drop me back here sometime tomorrow. So don't worry, I'll be in good hands."
"I'm used to imagining you in his hands," I told her, reluctantly. "So, while I'm thinking of you with him, could you let me out of this thing? At least for tonight? It's rubbing me raw, and I really need to cum. It's been almost a month now. I promise to imagine his big cock in you when I cum. Please?"
Amanda opened one of her dresser drawers and rummaged through layers of winter clothing. She retrieved a tiny hinged box, opened it, found the key to my cage under the false bottom, and put it in her purse.
"Just a little longer," she promised. "Charles tells me you'll thank him, eventually. We know how desperately you want my pussy. And as my husband, you deserve to have it. But the longer you go without, the longer you see me give it to Charles whenever he wants it, the better sex will be when he agrees to let you have me. Just try not to think about my lips sealed around his cock, sucking every last drop of cum out of him after he fucks me for hours tonight. Try to be patient - it'll only be another month or two..."
By Don Jetman
I lay on our bed as she tried dress after dress. She inspected her reflection, glanced at me in the mirror, and asked the same question after each one.
"Would he like this one better?"
I had never seen any of them before - not a single dress a loving wife would have bought to please her husband. There were black ones and red ones, one made of shimmering silver, and a white sheath that was nearly transparent. They were all so much shorter than anything I had seen her wear, and a few barely contained her full bust providing a daring display that threatened to ****** a hint of pink where her nipples strained against the fabric. I was shocked at first, then utterly overwhelmed with nervous expectation.
"I like all of them," I confessed, my mouth dry, my gut churning. "But how am I supposed to know what dress he'll like?"
She grinned, her eyes now fixed on me in the mirror.
"Welll, he's your boss, sweetie. You should know all kinds of things about him. You let him put his hands on me all night long back then at your company awards dinner. Maybe I should wear the same dress I wore that night. Do you remember which one it was?"
I remembered all right. The little black number with the slit up the side that showed so much thigh. The night it all started. I remembered how I ignored his hand on her thigh at first, then later when he explored between her legs under our table. He was my boss. What was I supposed to do? Besides, It got me a little hard knowing he couldn't resist, that my wife was such a tempting prize to him, right there in front of me. It was partly the shock as well, that he looked straight into my eyes and grinned at me as he groped her. And she didn't seem to mind. Not one bit.
"I don't remember much about that night, except by the end of it I was pretty *****," I said.
Her grin grew wider, and she nodded.
"That I remember very well, sweetie. You disappeared and Charles had to drive me. You lost your wallet and he had to pay the cab fare at three o'clock in the morning when you finally found your way home. That look on your face..."
She was still grinning.
~*~
That night. The night I was terrified he'd fuck her. That he'd fuck my beautiful wife. She had been so taken with him. So uncharacteristically girly around him. So deferential to him. Like I wasn't even there. They were in the shower together at home when I finally found them, her giggling, him teasing her about what a dirty little wife she was. I stood there without a sound, staring into the frosted glass as two wet, naked bodies pressed against it from the other side. It had been no surprise that he'd try to fuck my wife - he was known for the otherwise dangerous pursuit of wife-fucking. But he was the boss, our CEO, and few dared to out him or retaliate. Marriages simply mysteriously dissolved, or became tense, silent, sexless "partnerships" after his conquests. For us it had become much, much different.
I don't know why I got hard watching them. I can't remember taking my dick out and masturbating. I stood there listening to Amanda's glowing compliments about his cock. I do remember the shower door opening, the horrified look on Amanda's face, and his unapologetic grin as they stood naked before me with his arm around her waist. I remember staring at his flaccid cock, imagining it had been inside my Amanda only minutes before. I remember her dark hair slick and wet against her neck and shoulders, her nipples still urgent and hard as droplets of water fell from them. And then his laughter.
That's when everything changed. He said he'd pay my fare if I'd finish myself then and there, in front of them. He wanted to see me cum. To cum knowing he had just fucked my wife. The mist from the shower seemed to envelop me as though I had lost my way and stumbled into a mystical cloud of some unreal fantasy. I wonder to this day why I didn't stop, why I didn't show rage or turn and run. Instead I stroked myself, transfixed by the image of them there together, imagining his semen pouring from her pussy into the shower drain. I tried. I really did. And I really failed.
"I - I just - can't," I stammered after a while. "Just, um, too much to drink..."
Suddenly they were in front of me, near to me, dripping water on the floor at my feet. His wide grin. Her look of astonished surprise.
"I'll pay anyway," he told me. "It was worth showing your wife what you're made of. Right, Amanda?"
She nodded slowly, wide-eyed and shivering with her arms crossed over her bare breasts.
I thought I had lost her, but I was wrong. I just hadn't understood her newfound lust for cock. His cock.
~*~
Amanda never really understood. Not really. And Charles never brought it up at work. In fact, he was more generous with praise and lightened my workload a bit. Then I'd come home to find them fucking in our bed at the end of the day, shrink away in horror, and have him thank me on his way out the door. Well, not thanks, actually. At first it was, "She's an amazing fuck," then, "She's just so hungry for cock - don't you ever give her any?" I'd look at the floor, mumble some kind of reply and feel my dick start to twitch. Eventually I secretly hoped to find them fucking, lost in the fantasy, recalling the image of the thick, throbbing root of his cock buried to the hilt in my Amanda. Then my guts would churn. But I was still hard.
"So, that's what you want?" Amanda finally asked. "Or at least it excites you? Charles and I having sex, here in our bed?"
I could never explain to her how I both loved and hated it at the same time. I tried. I mostly failed.
"So, we can do it as often as we want?" she'd ask. "Whenever we want? Even if it means you and I can't have sex as often because I'm doing it with Charles?"
How was I supposed to make her understand? I craved her body more every day as the fantasies settled over me like a sometimes warm, sometimes smothering blanket. Charles exhausted her, so sex between us became less frequent, just as she had predicted. When we fucked, she'd thank me. "You're so sweet to let me have this. To let me have a cock like his. To let me cum so much more often than we used to before Charles." In time she embraced our arrangement, mostly while my dick was in her. "You want him to fuck me, don't you? You know, don't you, that his cock is bigger? How much I love it inside me?"
It became my trigger. I'd cum when she used the words. When she confessed he was better. When she gladly sacrificed sex with me to fuck him - with his huge cock. She'd put the image in my head, massage it, color it, bring it to life. Then I'd watch her drooling cum-face as she thought of him and his ever-potent cock. Her unintentional gift to me - my reward for giving her to him.
Most days Amanda was still the wife I had known and loved for ten years. As beautiful, cheerful, and accommodating a wife as any man could wish for. But there were times when the fever in her belly, the hunger between her legs, made her his for hours - very long, angst-filled hours as I watched or waited for him to use her and retreat. The pain became addictive. Seeing Amanda's eyes stare into his as he fucked her. Hearing her cries and moans as he plunged into her. The adoration on her face as she lay under him in afterglow, his cock and spew now a delicious, treasured part of her marriage. But it wasn't enough for Charles.
"It was Charles's idea," she told me. "It fits over your penis like a little cage. He wants more of me, to control your 'access' to me, as he put it. I think it's just part of his kinky little games, but he's serious. If you don't, he won't fuck me anymore. So will you try it? For me? Please?"
Giving more of her to him was just fire to the fantasy. More of his huge cock ravaging her pussy, more of the angst that fueled my excuse to let him have her, more of the intoxication of the images, sounds, and sloppy aftermath Amanda used to lure me further into Charles's maze of submission. So I submitted, for Amanda.
~*~
She decided on the dress without my help. It was a scrap of screaming, shimmering blue, stretched over her breasts and hips, offering every curve and crevice to anyone without a second glance. She was flesh in a blue wrapper, her body brazenly daring, begging to be unwrapped and consumed. I remembered the day when she'd have sneered at a woman in the dress, so sure she was a slut or ******. I gasped when I noticed the jutting mound above her pussy and a hint of the cleft between the outline of engorged, swollen labia just beneath the wisp of fabric. The dress might as well have been transparent below her waist.
"You're really going out in that, with nothing underneath?" I asked. "Where's he taking you?"
"I have no idea. But it's sweet of you to be concerned. He just likes to show me off. His friends think it's hot that he's fucking someone's wife and that my husband knows. I'm flattered that they all want me too, but Charles makes it clear I belong to him - well, at least my body does. I'll spend the night with Charles and have him drop me back here sometime tomorrow. So don't worry, I'll be in good hands."
"I'm used to imagining you in his hands," I told her, reluctantly. "So, while I'm thinking of you with him, could you let me out of this thing? At least for tonight? It's rubbing me raw, and I really need to cum. It's been almost a month now. I promise to imagine his big cock in you when I cum. Please?"
Amanda opened one of her dresser drawers and rummaged through layers of winter clothing. She retrieved a tiny hinged box, opened it, found the key to my cage under the false bottom, and put it in her purse.
"Just a little longer," she promised. "Charles tells me you'll thank him, eventually. We know how desperately you want my pussy. And as my husband, you deserve to have it. But the longer you go without, the longer you see me give it to Charles whenever he wants it, the better sex will be when he agrees to let you have me. Just try not to think about my lips sealed around his cock, sucking every last drop of cum out of him after he fucks me for hours tonight. Try to be patient - it'll only be another month or two..."
- Next page: The Key - 2
