Some New Wives Say ‘I Do’ To Other Men, As Well (Part 2)

Editor’s note: This post by Staci is a work of fiction. Read Part 1 here.

I knew he could smell it, too, the sweet scent of my desire light upon the air, as the sexual tension built with every “friendly” touch in the way only a fine craftsman could construct such a thing. He’d bump the front of his hips into my ass as he made room to get past me in our tiny galley kitchen, a playful little push, a thrust from behind, as he’d be grabbing something from the fridge. Imperceptible to anyone else, but very intentional, and to me it felt like he was slamming his entire manhood balls-deep inside my desperate holes. Six when limp, he made sure I could feel every one of those inches pressed against my ass, and my pussy would blossom with desire and hunger for his next caress. Trembling at his touch, but trying so hard not to surrender to temptation or make it obvious enough for anyone else to understand.

He started coming over once a week, and my desperation to have him inside me became too much to contain. I’d have to sneak off to the bathroom, pull my pants down to my ankles, spread my legs wide open and stroke myself to climax with one foot on the toilet seat. Staring at myself in the mirror and imagining Rico right behind me giving me every inch I could handle.

Sometimes sitting on the toilet, desperately trying to stay silent while fantasizing about crawling to him across the hard living room floor to beg for him to sneak in and join me. My clit was so hard and slick, so ready for his cock to penetrate me that it only ever took moments to climax completely. I’d cum so hard that I’d have to wipe myself dry with a towel afterward. Then I’d gingerly walk back into the room like everything was normal, even though I couldn’t take my normal steps as his eyes would find mine, and I could feel myself telling him what he already knew.

That he would satisfy my every sexual desire. That I would be his, it was only a matter of time. “Dinner was delicious, and I can’t wait to come back for more,” he would say with a subtle Latino accent. My pussy would leak, instantly, and my body would tremble, aching for him with every fiber of my being.

The staccato of his cowboy boots heading down the steps, away from me, bruised my heart. We’d go to bed, and I’d lie awake, waiting for my husband to fall asleep, so I could carefully and quietly run my fingers from my neck down to my breasts, pinching and stroking my hardened nipples. Cupping them together, squeezing, letting the tips of my long fingernails dig into the creamy flesh and milking myself as I imagined it was his hands appreciating their fullness and volume of my engorged tits.

His fingertips dampened by the milk, he’d run his velvety tongue over my nipples, lapping up each drop, using his lips to tug at them, pulling at my glands, drawing me into him, deeper into his dominion. Knowing that he would consume me completely . . .

Coming next week: Part 3!

Featured image: Recipe For Romance