I wrote this story for Medium where I typically post my more “porny” stories. I submitted it a publication that takes erotica, and I’ll see if they accept it, but as I looked over it, I realized it wasn’t quite porn.
Maybe it’s too personal or too emotionally complicated, but whatever it is, I thought it might fit well here too. It’s not that porn can’t or shouldn’t have emotion in it, it’s just that this one seems….how do I say it. Less fun?
That’s not quite right either, but it is a bit intense. I suppose I’ll leave it up to you to decide.
Her Confession
They stopped using condoms without telling me.
It had been at least a few weeks, maybe a month or two, by the time my wife finally confessed.
My reaction was initially one of resigned anger, but as always, I could twist that into more than a hint of lust. Part of me was surprised it had taken them as long as it did. And another part wondered if I could have stopped it. Or if I wanted to.
When he came to visit a week after her confession, he was mildly apologetic. She, on the other hand, offered something else. Instead of guilt, she gave me a challenge. It was written on her face and in the sound of her voice.
"You should have known," it hinted. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"
Later that evening, after a bottle of wine, we headed to the bedroom full of messy intentions. Emotions were high, expectations were wide, and the question of control lingered in the air.
The second we undressed, I grabbed it.
We lay her on her back as we kissed her and tore clothing; by the time he knelt between her legs with his cock in one hand and a condom in the other, I found myself close to laughter.
"It's up to you," my wife said as he rolled it over his thick shaft.
I reached out and stopped him without thinking. Why bother now after all these weeks without? What was the point of putting on a show of remorse just for me?
"You haven't been wearing one when I'm not here, so why start now?"
I saw her chest rise as the words left my mouth, and I wasn't sure if it was the tone of my voice or the words. Looking down, her eyes made it more clear.
"Tell us what to do," she whispered.
That was all I needed to push forward. I gripped one thigh tightly and spread her legs wider as he hovered above her. Then I took her by the hair, filled her mouth with my cock so she couldn't speak, and told him to fuck her.
"We both know she wants it," I said, taking his cock in hand and rubbing his head against her wet cunt. "She's always liked it better like this, isn't that right?"
"Yes," she gasped when I gave her breath to speak. "It's so much better."
"Now fuck her."
He pushed into her, even though he looked at me. I began to fuck her throat as he took her pussy, and the sight of it filled me with jealous rage making my cock harder. They had already done it a dozen times, but somehow this was different. As I watched him split her open, her hips rising to meet each thrust, some part of me let go.
"Does he feel good like that? Do you like his bare cock inside you?" I asked, pulling away to tease her with the head of my cock.
"Yes…"
"Do you want his come? Do you want his come in you?"
He glanced at me with something akin to guilt as she nodded fiercely.
"I want it so bad…."
Her voice caught each time she began, and I realized they were looking at each other, exchanging something I didn't fully understand.
"Do it," I told him as I pushed him onto her. with one hand on the back of his neck. "Come in my wife's slutty cunt."
"He can't," she finally said as she reached down to rub her clit. "His wife won't let him."
"I can pull out at the last minute," he said; his apology meant too many things.
I began to take her mouth harder as he kept on fucking her, growing closer with each thrust. I watched intently, annoyed that they had come this far, but couldn't take one more step.
And somewhere in the middle, I found that I no longer cared.
"Come on her pussy," I told him. "Come all over her lips."
He groaned, bit his tongue, and then cried out and pulled out at precisely the same time. He let go all over her, coating her thighs and her cunt again and again before collapsing next to her.
"He might not be able to come in you," I said, pulling away from her mouth. "But that doesn't mean I can't."
The two of them watched, uncertain, as I moved between her legs. I rubbed against her skin, coating myself with his come, and then I fucked her. I could feel him slippery around me, and she moaned as he frantically jerked off, struggling to grow hard again.
"His come is in you anyway," I growled as I fucked her with it, all their arbitrary rules be damned.
She began to come, clenching around me as I slammed into her, barely feeling a thing. She was a mess, his promise was broken but intact, and I had given up trying to save anyone.
But as I took her again and again, looking down at her aching body while she cried and begged, I had a flash of understanding: nothing would ever be this hot again. I had watched him fuck her bare, come all over her, and now I was fucking her with his come.
I said it repeatedly like a mantra before I exploded within her as she called out her orgasm like it was the end of the world. And as I fucked his come deeper inside her, adding mine to the rest, I felt free in a way I didn't expect.
What little control I had, I had exerted. What small amount of damage I could do, I had done. And while part of me wondered if it was over, a bigger part wondered when we would do it again.
And now, when I'm close to the edge, ready to come but for one last push, I think of the three of us lying on the bed. I think of his come and cock. I think of her legs spread wide as I fuck her, and my body and mind give in and let me go without fail.
There's love, and there's anger. There's remorse, and there's forgiveness.
But most of all, there's a singular memory burned into my mind that means everything.
And nothing at all.
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