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I heard the soft slam of the car door, then the automatic hum of the garage shutting behind her. That sound alone—so familiar, so simple—sent a shiver through me. Not because I was afraid. Not because I was unsure.
But because I already knew.
She was home. From her date. With Ray.
I stayed on the couch, phone in hand but unread, screen dimming to black. I couldn’t focus. I hadn’t been able to all night. The image of her—curvy, radiant, confident—slipping into something short and tight before she left had burned itself into my mind like a brand.
She’d mentioned Ray weeks ago. A friend, she said. Handsome, she admitted. And when she confessed that she thought he was attractive, I nodded. Encouraged her even. Told her I trusted her. That I wanted her to have everything she deserved.
But nothing quite prepares you for this part. The part where she comes back, satisfied. Full. Radiant in a way that has nothing to do with you… and everything to do with you, too.
She walked in through the garage door with a soft click of her heels and a glow in her smile that made my heart thud. Her cheeks were flushed, her short skirt a little ruffled at the waist. She looked… completely pleased with herself. And yet, when her eyes met mine, there was warmth. Not gloating. Not smugness. Just a quiet, deep fondness.
“Hey baby,” she said sweetly, sliding down beside me.
Her fingers gently tugged the hem of her skirt as she sat, adjusting modestly—but I could tell she wasn’t modest in the slightest tonight. She knew what she looked like. She knew what she was doing.
“Everything okay here?” she asked, brushing her fingers lightly across my thigh.
I nodded, unsure how to find my voice.
She leaned into me, her head on my shoulder for a moment. “He was… sweet,” she said softly. “Kind of shy at first, actually. But confident when it counted.”
I swallowed hard, her words lighting something raw in my chest.
“I told him about us,” she added, lifting her head to look me in the eyes. “Told him I had a loving husband waiting at home, someone who understands me in ways most men never could.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just breathed in the scent of her—the faint perfume still clinging to her, and under it, something new. Something masculine. Something primal.
“We didn’t make it to the fifth frame,” she smiled playfully. “Turns out short skirts and bowling balls don’t mix when someone can’t stop touching you.”
She said it like a confession, like a little guilty pleasure. But there was no guilt in her eyes. Only love. Only trust.
“I want to tell you everything,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes again. “But first… I want to feel you. Your mouth. I want to feel that connection between us. I want your tongue to remind me of us—of this. My marriage. My love. My home.”
I stiffened. Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t love her. But because it hit me all at once—she’s full of another man.
He’d been inside her. He’d spilled himself into her. He had kissed her, touched her, pulled her close and gripped those hips the way I had so many times. He’d done what I’d asked for, what I’d given my blessing for. But still… the reality stung in a way fantasy never does.
“I don’t know if I…” I started, voice cracking.
She leaned in and kissed me. Soft. Gentle. Her lips tasted faintly of wine and something else—something shared. My jealousy flared. My desire followed.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she whispered. “I just want to share this moment with you. My body still feels like him… but my heart is here. Always. This is for us. This is your way to be part of what I did, to feel me while I’m still open—still his, but yours too.”
She stood, slowly lifting the hem of her skirt. Her thighs were bare. No panties. Her skin shimmered with a slight sheen. She stepped forward between my legs, and I could see the evidence of her night glistening between her folds—sticky, stretched, raw. She smelled of sex, of sweat, of someone else.
I felt like I might break apart and yet I didn’t move.
“I need you, my love,” she said, brushing her fingers gently through my hair. “Not because I’m demanding. Not because I expect it. But because I want this with you. I want to feel your devotion. Your mouth on me isn’t just about sex. It’s about being held in your care. I need you to love me… like this.”
Tears prickled in the corners of my eyes. I sank forward, my hands trembling as they rested on her hips.
And then, I pressed my mouth to her.
The first taste was electric. Musky. Tangy. Foreign.
I hesitated, the realization hitting me like a weight: my wife is full of another man’s cum. The man she flirted with. The one she told me about. The man who made her moan and whimper. She gave him what was once only mine. And now, I was here to clean her. To taste their joining. To show her I still adored her.
My lips moved slowly at first, reverently. My tongue explored her folds, each stroke more purposeful. She let out a soft moan and cradled the back of my head.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s my good man. That’s my sweet, strong husband.”
Her thighs flexed gently against my ears as she started to move with me, guiding my rhythm with a slow rocking of her hips.
I buried myself in her, every lick a surrender. Every breath I took filled with the scent of her betrayal and her love all at once. But was it betrayal? No. This was the deal we made. The dream we dared to live.
Each pass of my tongue became more confident, more worshipful. I could feel her warmth building, her soft sighs turning into quiet gasps. She wasn’t demanding. She wasn’t cruel. She was simply there—above me, opening herself to me again, letting me love her even with the taste of another man thick inside her.
“I needed this,” she said softly, eyes shut, hips trembling. “Needed you. I wanted him… but I need you. You’re the part that matters.”
She came in soft waves, her hands gripping my hair, her breath catching in little whimpers. And when she was done, she didn’t move away.
She lowered herself beside me, pulling me into her arms, kissing my damp cheeks.
“You did beautifully,” she whispered. “You always do. And now I feel whole again.”
I nodded, my heart still heavy, but strangely at peace. My love had just taken another man—but she returned to me not with shame or dominance, but with open arms, ready to be received, loved, reclaimed.
And I had done my part—not with force, not with lust, but with tenderness. With my tongue. With my heart.
This was our love.
Continue to Part 2
