Have you read the first part of this series? Read it now!
It had been a week since that night. Since her blouse slipped open, since she knelt between them, since her lips had wrapped around another man’s cock while her husband watched—hard, breathless, and aching with desire and pride.
They hadn’t stopped talking about it since.
Not in explicit terms. Not always in words. But in touches. In lingering glances. In the way she bit her lip when she looked at him. In the way he kept replaying the moment—her moment—in his mind, wondering if she’d ever felt more beautiful. Wondering how she could glow like that while being so completely his.
She had, of course, noticed. And she wasn’t done.
Not even close.
She brought it up a few nights later. They were in bed, tangled under the sheets, the candlelight flickering off the curves of her body as she leaned over him, whispering into his ear.
“Baby,” she said softly, her fingers stroking his chest, “you were so good for me.”
He smiled, his heart already speeding up. “I loved watching you. You looked… alive.”
“Mmm. I felt alive,” she murmured, nuzzling into his neck. “But you know what I kept thinking about afterward?”
He looked over at her, curious.
“I kept imagining you on your knees too,” she whispered, eyes dancing. “Right next to where I was… only your mouth would be the one giving instead of watching.”
His breath hitched.
“I know it’s not your thing,” she said quickly, kissing his cheek. “But just imagine how hot it would be… for me. Watching you kneel. Watching you take him in your mouth. Because you love me. Because you know how much that would turn me on.”
He stared at the ceiling, quiet.
She was gentle—never demanding. Never cruel. But when she wanted something… she knew how to make it feel sacred. Erotic. Emotional. Like a gift, not a duty.
“You wouldn’t be doing it for him,” she added, lips brushing his ear again. “You’d be doing it for me. Because you love seeing me in control. Because you love making me melt.”
He turned toward her, his mouth dry. “You’d really want that?”
“Oh, baby…” she said with a slow, sinful smile. “It would be the hottest thing you’ve ever done for me.”
And that’s how it began.
—
The next time her work friend came over, things felt different. Softer. He still had that easy smile, that casual swagger—but this time he was quiet too, sensing the weight of something unspoken in the air. She sat between them again, just like before, but tonight her body language was different. Less playful. More… hungry.
She curled up beside her husband and whispered, “You’re still okay with this?”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
“Even if I ask for more?”
Another nod—this one slower, more unsure.
She kissed him softly. “You don’t have to love it. You just have to love me.”
She stood and took her place next to her friend, leaning in and kissing his neck with that same mischievous glint. Her fingers slid into his hair, and she made soft sounds of arousal, just loud enough for her husband to hear.
Then she turned back to him.
“Come here, baby.”
He stood, trembling slightly. She took his hand and pulled him close, then guided him gently downward, onto his knees, positioning him between her and her friend.
“You’re doing this for me,” she whispered, voice thick with arousal and emotion. “Because I’m your everything. And this makes me so proud of you.”
He nodded slowly, nerves crashing like waves inside him.
She took her friend’s hand and held it tight, leaning in to kiss him deeply, letting their tongues tangle while her husband obeyed her silently.
The moans between them, the connection, the power—it all surrounded him like warm smoke. He wasn’t doing this because he fantasized about it. He was doing it because his wife asked for it with love in her eyes. Because her pleasure had become his purpose.
And she saw him in that moment. Saw him as more than a husband. More than a submissive. He was her devotion, incarnate. Her gift. Her beloved.
She looked down at him, her hand stroking his cheek, her voice like silk.
“That’s it, baby. That’s so hot. You look beautiful like this.”
She turned back to her friend and giggled, “Let him know when you’re close. He deserves the warning.”
Then she looked back down with a grin so wicked and pure it made his stomach flip.
“He’s a big cummer, baby,” she said with a little moan. “You’re gonna have a mouthful. Be ready…”
She giggles. Not mockery—delight. Pure arousal. It was like watching a fantasy be born and realized in real-time. A woman absolutely drunk on her own erotic power.
“God, you’re amazing,” she whispered. “Kneeling in front of another man… for me. Because you love me that much.”
And that’s what made his heart race.
That’s what made this real.
Not the act itself—but the intention behind it. His gift of submission. Her pleasure in stretching him. Their trust.
She was moaning into her friend’s mouth, still kissing him, one hand on his chest, the other brushing her husband’s hair back with tender fingers.
And then it happened.
She felt it before she even saw it—her friend’s body twitching, his breath catching. She whispered, “Now, baby… take it for me.”
Her husband flinched slightly. It surprised him. The moment. The heat. The rush of it.
She looked down just in time to see the look on his face—shocked, eyes wide, lips parted, and full.
And her heart clenched.
Not from guilt. Not from shame.
But from awe.
He did it. For her. Out of love. Out of devotion. Out of a raw, trembling trust that very few people ever touch.
She smiled.
Not wickedly this time—but softly. Deeply. A coy, glowing smile full of pride and arousal and affection. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, running her fingers through his hair again as he sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth, dazed but present.
“You’re mine,” she whispered, kissing him again. “You’re so mine.”
And he was.
They didn’t need to speak. Not yet. Not when everything between them was still vibrating with the emotional gravity of what just happened.
Later, they would talk. She would hold him. He would cry, maybe. Or laugh. Or shake his head and say, “I can’t believe I did that.”
And she would say, “You did it for me. And that makes it beautiful.”
Because that’s what it was.
A man, kneeling before another man—not out of desire, but out of love. Out of reverence for the woman he adored. Out of a need to give, to surrender, to please.
And a woman—sensual, commanding, radiant—watching the two men in her orbit revolve around her, not for their egos, not for power, but for devotion.
It wasn’t about the act. It was about the intimacy.
And neither of them would ever be the same again.
