Chapter 21: Don comes over
Dave’s fingers drummed restlessly against the worn oak coffee table, each tap a measured beat against the silence of the living room. The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting jagged stripes across the floor—just like the way Don’s cock had split Paula open, just like the way his tongue had dragged down her throat when she’d gagged on him. Dave’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t expected to feel this way. Not like this. He’d never seen Paula with another man. Not like this. Not like a *thing* to be passed around, to be *used*. And now Don was on his way, about to walk through that front door like he owned the place, like he’d just earned the right to be here. Dave exhaled sharply, his breath shallow. He'd been picturing it ever since Paula told him about being fucked by all those black guys at the pool party.
Dave had imagined Paula having sex with other men for years. He's imagine her with the ex boyfriends she told him about and any guy she mentioned liking. He's imagined her with Carlton, the massage therapist she used her hall pass on, thousands of time. He imagined the gangbang where Carlton got to be the one to not only fuck Paula but watch her with several other men.
Dave imagined her screaming as she was fucked by multiple men, her pussy dripping with cum, her body shaking with pleasure as she was taken by man after man. He imagined the way her body would look, her skin glistening with sweat, her lips swollen from being kissed by multiple men, her pussy stretched wide by thick, black cocks. He imagined the way she would beg for more, her voice hoarse from screaming, her body trembling with need. He imagined the way she would look at him, her eyes filled with lust and desire, as she begged him to join in, to take her, to fuck her like the slut she had become.
Meanwhile, Paula got ready in the bathroom, her fingers trembling as she applied a coat of deep red lipstick, her reflection in the mirror a vision of sinful anticipation. This was it. The moment he’d fantasized about for years was about to become real.
Paula took a deep breath, her heart pounding as she smoothed her hands over the sheer black lace of her teddy, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. S A shiver ran down her spine as she imagined Don’s hands on her, his thick fingers tracing the lace before tearing it away. She bit her lip, her pussy already aching with need, her body trembling with anticipation.
But as she turned to face the mirror, her breath caught in her throat. The sheer black lace clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric barely concealing the dark areolas of her nipples or the shadow between her thighs. She looked like a slut, a whore, a woman who craved nothing more than to be used by another man. And yet, as she turned to face the mirror, her heart pounded with a different kind of fear. What if Dave didn’t like it? What if he got jealous? What if he got hurt?
The mirror’s surface was a dark, unyielding void, reflecting her only in fragments—her face, then her body, then her face again, as if the glass itself hesitated to fully acknowledge what stood before it. The sheer black lace clung to her like a second skin, its delicate threads straining just enough to betray the weight of her curves, the way the fabric dipped between her breasts, the way it clung to the swell of her hips before falling away to expose the dark, velvety shadow between her thighs. She knew the look—she’d seen it before, in the eyes of men who didn’t just *see* her, but *consumed* her with a hunger that left her breathless. A slut. A whore. A woman who had traded herself for attention, for touch, for the fleeting illusion of being wanted. But as she turned, her fingers trembling against the cool glass, her pulse roared in her ears. The fear wasn’t the usual one—the terror of being seen, of being judged, of being *used*. No, this was something sharper, something that coiled in her chest like a live thing. *What if he didn’t like it?* The thought struck her like a blade, sudden and brutal. Dave had always been possessive, but this—this was different. This was *exposure*. And beneath that, something worse: *What if he got jealous?* The idea of his face twisting in anger, his hands tightening around her wrist, his voice dropping into that dangerous, possessive tone—*mine*—sent a chill down her spine. And then, worse still, the thought that cut through the rest: *What if he got hurt?* Not just hurt in the way she’d come to expect—bruises, words, the cold weight of his disappointment—but *truly* hurt. Like she’d broken something in him.
The thought made her stomach twist. She had never seen him like this before, so turned on, so desperate to watch her with another man. But what if it was all just a fantasy? What if, when it came down to it, he couldn’t handle seeing her with someone else? What if he got angry, or worse, what if he got hurt?
The doorbell rang.
Paula’s breath hitched. *This is it.* She smoothed her hands over the sheer black lace of her teddy one last time, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the fabric to better frame the swell of her breasts. The lace clung to her like a second skin, the delicate threads straining just enough to betray the weight of her curves. She could already feel the dampness between her thighs, her body aching with anticipation. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she turned to face the mirror one last time.
*You look like a slut,* she thought, her eyes dark with lust. *A whore.
That’s what she was. That’s what she’d become. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, her fingers trembling against the cool glass of the bathroom mirror as she stared at her reflection. The sheer black lace clung to her like a second skin, the delicate threads straining just enough to betray the weight of her curves, the way the fabric dipped between her breasts, the way it clung to the swell of her hips before falling away to expose the dark, velvety shadow between her thighs. She knew the look—she’d seen it before, in the eyes of men who didn’t just see her, but consumed her with a hunger that left her breathless.*
*The doorbell rang.*
*Paula’s breath hitched. The moment she’d been both craving and dreading.
The doorbell’s chime cut through the quiet house like a gunshot, making her flinch. *He’s here.* Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the sheer black lace one last time, the fabric barely containing the weight of her breasts, the dark shadow between her thighs already glistening with anticipation. She took a deep breath, her pulse hammering in her throat. *This is really happening.*
In the living room, Dave’s grip tightened around his beer bottle, his knuckles whitening. The sound of the doorbell had been like a physical blow, his stomach twisting into a knot. He’d imagined this moment a thousand times—Paula with another man, her body writhing under someone else’s touch—but now that it was real, his chest ached with something he couldn’t name. Fear? Excitement? Jealousy? All of it, tangled together in a way that left him breathless.
Dave hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough to let the chill of the autumn evening seep through the crack in the door before he finally swung it wide. The hinges groaned in protest, a sound that seemed to echo through the empty hallway, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Don stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the worn linoleum, the scent of damp earth and cigarette smoke clinging to his coat. Dave’s fingers lingered on the doorknob for another beat, as if unsure whether to pull it shut or leave it ajar, the way he always did when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to invite the world back in—or lock it out for good. The air inside was thick with the faint tang of old coffee and something sharper, something like regret.
The air between them thickened—an unspoken current, charged with the kind of quiet understanding that only comes from years of shared silence. Don’s boots scuffed against the floorboards, the sound deliberate, almost a signal, before he paused just inside the threshold. His gaze flickered to Dave first, then lingered, as if measuring the weight of whatever hung between them. A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and deliberate, before his hand shot out—not quite a greeting, not yet, but a brush of calloused fingers against Dave’s, a touch that spoke volumes without a word. The handshake was firm, just enough to confirm the unspoken pact, the unspoken *we know*. For a moment, neither moved.
"Man it's good to meet you Dave! You're one cool husband." Done said with a huge smile.
"I've heard a lot about you...and your friends," Dave said with a grin. "Have a seat. Want anything to drink?"
Dave asked, his voice steady despite the way his pulse hammered in his throat. He gestured toward the kitchen, where a half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the counter, the amber liquid catching the dim light like liquid gold.
"Nah, I'm good," Don replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "actually, all three of us will probably need a lot of water tonight."
Don said with a smirk.
The clock’s hands crept forward with the slow, relentless patience of a predator, each tick a reminder of the seconds slipping through her fingers. She could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her—like the breath of a storm just beyond the window, heavy and electric. The air in the room thickened with anticipation, each breath she took a silent countdown. She knew it: the longer she lingered, the more fragile the moment became. Dave’s hesitation was written in the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, the way his gaze flickered between the door and her face, searching for an excuse to retreat. And Don—oh, Don was already half-turned toward the threshold, his posture shifting, his patience wearing thin. She could see it in the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened just enough to betray his growing impatience. Every second was a gamble, a thread unraveling.
Paula’s fingers tightened around the edge of the sink, her knuckles whitening as she stared at her own reflection. The mirror didn’t lie—she saw the truth in her own eyes, the hunger, the need, the *want*. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling sharply beneath the sheer black lace that clung to her like a second skin. "Do it, Slut," she whispered, the words a dark promise to herself. She *had* been a slut. She *was* a slut. And she loved it.
The truth settled over her like a second skin, just as intimate as the lace that barely concealed her curves. She exhaled, her body trembling with the weight of her own confession. The moment stretched, suspended between hesitation and surrender, but she no longer fought it. She *wanted* this. She *needed* it.
Needed the way the lace bit into her hips, the way the fabric strained against her breasts, the way the sheer black material clung to every curve like a second skin. She *needed* the way it made her feel—exposed, vulnerable, *wanted*. The doorbell had rung. The moment had come. And now, standing in the doorway of the living room, she was no longer Paula, Dave’s conservative Indian wife. She was something else. Something *more*.
The air in the room thickened as she stepped forward, the sheer black lace whispering against her skin with every movement. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, the delicate threads straining just enough to betray the weight of her curves, the way it dipped between her breasts, the way it clung to the swell of her hips before falling away to expose the dark, velvety shadow between her thighs.
Paula stepped into the living room, her high heels clicking against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing through the silent house. Dave’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his wife, his gaze raking over her body, lingering on the way the sheer black lace clung to her brown curves. Dave couldn't believe how hot she looked. Don’s eyes darkened with lust, his thick lips curling into a smirk as he took in the sight of her.
The sheer black lace clung to her body like a second skin, the delicate fabric barely containing the weight of her breasts, the shadow between her thighs already glistening with anticipation. She looked like a fantasy—like something that shouldn’t exist in the real world, like a woman who had been carved from sin and wrapped in lace. Dave’s breath hitched as he realized the lingerie was new—something he’d never seen before, something that had been bought just for this moment. His fingers tightened around his beer bottle, the glass cold against his suddenly hot skin. The lace dipped between her breasts, the fabric stretched taut over the swell of her hips, the way it clung to her thighs before falling away to expose the dark, velvety shadow between her legs. She looked like a slut.
"Damn girl you look even better than I remembered," Don said. His eyes were locked on her body. His gaze was hungry and predatory. His tongue licked his lips as he took in the sight of her.
Paula's pussy clenched at the way Don looked at her. She loved the way he looked at her like she was a piece of meat. She loved the way he looked at her like he wanted to fuck her until she couldn't walk. She loved the way he looked at her like she was his to use.
"Thank you," Paula said. She was trying to sound confident but her voice came out breathy and needy. She could feel her pussy dripping with anticipation. She could feel her nipples hardening under Don's gaze. She could feel her body trembling with desire.
The way Don looked at her was like a physical touch, his gaze burning into her skin, leaving her breathless. She could feel her nipples hardening, her pussy clenching with need. She wanted him. She needed him. She needed to feel his hands on her, his cock inside her, his mouth on her skin. She needed to be used. She needed to be fucked. She needed to be *his*.
"Fuck, you look good enough to eat," Don growled, his voice thick with lust. His eyes raked over her body, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin.
"You sure about this, babe?" Paula asked Dave.
Dave answered her with an unrelated command. "Turn around real slow Babe, lets see how your whole body looks in that present you got us."
Paula turned slowly, her hips swaying as she presented herself to both men. The sheer black lace clung to her slitty brown body, the delicate fabric barely concealing the weight of her breasts, the shadow between her thighs already glistening with anticipation. She could feel their eyes on her, burning into her skin, making her pussy throb with need.
"Fuck, look at that ass," Don growled, his voice thick with lust. "I love that thick ass."
Paula moaned softly, her body trembling as she turned back to face them.
She slowly bent over, her hands gripping the back of the couch as she presented herself to them, her ass pushing out, her pussy lips peeking through the sheer fabric.
Dave's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of his wife's thick ass, her pussy glistening with her juices. He could see the outline of her pussy lips through the sheer fabric, the dark shadow between her thighs. He could see the way her body trembled with anticipation, the way her breath hitched as she waited for them to touch her.
Don’s hand shot out, his palm landing with a sharp *smack* against the round curve of her ass, the sound echoing through the room. Paula gasped, her body jerking forward as the sting spread through her flesh, her pussy clenching with sudden, desperate need. The sheer black lace did nothing to soften the impact, the delicate fabric barely concealing the way her skin flushed pink beneath his touch.
Dave’s breath hitched as he watched, his fingers tightening around his beer bottle. He’d seen her like this before—only in his fantasies, in the way she’d described herself with other men—but never like this. Never *real*. The way her body arched into the touch, the way her lips parted on a silent moan, the way her fingers dug into the couch cushions—it was too much. Too *real*.
The way Don’s handprint bloomed red on her ass, the way her body trembled with the impact, the way her cunt *glistened* through the sheer black lace—it was all too fucking much. Dave’s cock throbbed against his zipper, his fingers tightening around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to look away. He wanted to *keep* looking. He wanted to *stop* this. He wanted to *watch* it all.
He wanted to *see* it. He wanted to *feel* it. But most of all, he wanted to *own* it. The thought made his stomach twist, a knot of something dark and possessive coiling tight in his gut. This was *his* wife. This was *his* fantasy. And yet, as he watched Don’s handprint bloom red on her ass, as he heard the way her breath hitched, as he saw the way her body arched into the touch—he knew, with a certainty that made his pulse roar in his ears, that this was *not* his to own. Not anymore.
Paula made eye contact with Dave, her dark eyes burning with a mix of lust and something else—something deeper, something that made his chest ache.
She was *his* wife, and yet, in this moment, she wasn’t. And he was just a spectator, a witness to the way her body betrayed her, the way her breath hitched when Don’s handprint bloomed red on her ass.
She wanted him to see. She wanted him to *know*. And then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she turned away from him, her hips swaying as she crossed the room. She could feel Dave’s gaze on her, burning into her skin, but she didn’t look back. Instead, she lowered herself onto Don’s lap, her body trembling as she straddled him, her pussy pressing against the thick bulge in his pants.
His hands immediately found her sides, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled her closer, his breath hot against her neck. Dave watched from the chair beside the couch, his fingers tightening around the armrests, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The sight of his wife in another man’s arms, her body arching into his touch, her lips parting on a silent moan—it was too much.
Don’s hands moved up her sides, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist before sliding up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing against her nipples through the sheer black lace. Paula gasped, her body jerking forward, her pussy clenching with need. She could feel the heat of his touch through the fabric, the way his fingers dug into her flesh, the way his breath hitched as he took in the sight of her. She wanted more. She needed more.
Paula’s lingerie stayed on as Don cradled her in his lap, his thick fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her flush against him. His mouth crashed into hers, his tongue plunging past her lips with a groan that vibrated through her bones. She melted into him, her body trembling as his hands roamed over her curves, his touch rough and possessive. Dave watched from the chair, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he took in the sight of his wife in another man’s arms, her body arching into his touch, her lips parting on a silent moan.
Dave couldn't believe what he was seeing. She was a shy conservative Desi wife who blushed at the idea of just talking about blowing her ex boyfriends. Now she was in hot lingerie, in another man's lap, kissing him. He was speechless.
While Don held her in his lap, Paula and Don kissed like reconnected old lovers. Dave watched from the chair, his breath shallow, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop himself from watching as Don’s thick fingers dug into Paula’s hips, pulling her closer, his mouth devouring hers with a hunger that made her whimper.
While kissing Paula, Don groped her thick married ass, his hands squeezing and kneading the soft flesh through the sheer black lace, his touch rough and possessive. Dave’s gasped as he watched, his fingers tightening around the armrest of the chair, his pulse roaring in his ears. The way Don’s hands moved over her body—like he owned her, like he had every right to claim her—sent a jolt of something dark and twisted through him. He should’ve been angry. He should’ve been jealous. But all he felt was *heat*, a thick, suffocating wave of desire that made his cock throb against his zipper.
Paula and Don kissed each other like long lost lovers rather than two people who met just once in a crazy sex party a couple of weeks ago.
The air between them crackled with something electric, something raw—like the first spark of a wildfire after months of drought. His hands found her waist, not with the hesitant touch of a stranger, but with the instinctive certainty of a man who had memorized the curve of her spine, the way her hips tilted when she laughed. Their lips met again, deeper this time, hungry, as if they had been starving for this—*him*—and only just now realized it. The memory of that chaotic night in the sex party flickered at the edges of Paula’s mind—laughter, the hum of strangers, the way Don had looked at her then, like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Don’s hand came down again—*smack*—this time harder, the sound echoing through the room as her body arched into him. She moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders as his mouth never left hers, his tongue twisting with hers in a slow, dirty rhythm. *Smack.* Harder now, the impact making her gasp, her pussy clenching with desperate need.
The sheer black lace did nothing to soften the sting, the delicate fabric barely concealing the way her skin flushed pink beneath his touch. Dave’s breath hitched as he watched, his fingers tightening around his beer bottle, his pulse roaring in his ears. And yet, as he watched Don’s handprint bloom red on her ass, as he heard the way her breath hitched, as he saw the way her body arched into the touch—he knew, with a certainty that made his chest ache, that this was *not* his to own. *
Paula’s body trembled as she straddled Don’s lap, her pussy pressing against the thick bulge in his pants. She could feel the heat of his cock through the fabric, the way it pulsed against her, the way his breath hitched as he took in the sight of her.
Paula’s fingers trembled as she reached for the hem of Don’s shirt, her nails dragging against his skin as she pulled it up and over his head. His chest was a landscape of muscle, his skin dark and smooth, his nipples hard beneath her touch. She leaned down, her lips brushing against his collarbone, her tongue tracing the line of his shoulder.
The ear licking was Dave's favorite and was the technique Paula used to give him those hot fantasies he wanted. Paula would tongue his ear and breath heavily into it. To Dave, it felt even better than a blowjob. The she'd whisper in an ASMR way fake stories about sex with exes or other women. Recently she'd been breathing him REAL stories about sex with Carlton and his friends into his ear. And now he was watching her breathe into and tongue another man's ear while Don groped her married ass.
Dave’s favorite thing—*the ear licking*—was the one thing Paula could do that made his whole body tighten like a drawn bowstring, his pulse hammering just below the surface of his skin. It wasn’t just the way her tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around his lobe, or the way her breath hitched against his ear, warm and deliberate, like she was trying to melt him from the inside out. No, it was the *words*—the way her voice dropped into that hypnotic, whispery rhythm, the one that made his scalp prickle and his cock throb. She’d invent little stories, ASMR-grade fantasies about other women, other men, all of it designed to make him imagine things he couldn’t even name. But lately, it had gotten *real*. She wasn’t just whispering made-up tales anymore—she was breathing into his ear like she was confessing, telling him *actual* things, the kind of things that made his stomach clench and his grip on her hair tighten just a little too hard. And now, watching her do it to *another man*—her tongue gliding over his ear, her breath coming in shallow, needy gasps—sent a jolt of something dark and possessive through him. Don’s hands were already wandering, his fingers digging into the curve of her ass, rough and possessive, and the way she arched into him, moaning low and unguarded, made Dave’s jaw clench. He wanted to snarl. He wanted to *take* her.
He wanted to *fuck* her. He wanted to *own* her. But he couldn’t.
Not when she was like this—*this* version of her, the one who arched into another man’s touch, the one who moaned when Don’s fingers dug into her ass, the one who *wanted* this. The one who *needed* it.
Dave’s fingers tightened around the armrests of the chair, his knuckles turning white. Couldn’t stop himself from watching as Don’s hands moved over her body—rough, possessive, *hungry*.
The way his fingers dug into her hips, pulling her closer, the way his mouth devoured hers with a hunger that made her whimper—it was too much.
Her fingers found the delicate straps of her lingerie, her breath hitching as she slowly pulled them down, revealing the full, heavy weight of her 36DD breasts—Dave’s prized possessions—to Don’s hungry gaze. The sheer black lace fell away, exposing her dark brown nipples, already hard and begging for his touch.
Dave’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, his fingers tightening around the armrests of the chair. The sight of his wife’s perfect tits, the ones he had worshipped for years, now on full display for another man, sent a jolt of something dark and twisted through him.
Don’s breath hitched as he took in the sight of her dark brown nipples, already hard and begging for his touch, his fingers tightening around her hips as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull her closer or push her away. Paula’s body trembled beneath his gaze, her pussy clenching with need as she arched into him as she pulled his mouth back to hers.
The black lace had been a tease, a promise of what lay beneath, but now that it was gone, there was no denying the reality of her body—soft, round, *his*. Don’s hands moved over her like a man starved, his fingers digging into the curve of her waist, his thumbs brushing against her nipples, making her gasp. Dave watched from the chair, his fingers tightening around the armrests, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.
The sight of his wife’s perfect tits, the ones he had worshipped for years, now pressed against another man’s face, sent a jolt of something dark and twisted through him. Paula’s nails scraping against his scalp as she guided his mouth to her nipples. His breath hitched as she rubbed his face into her cleavage, his lips parting against the soft, warm flesh, his tongue flicking out to taste her. She moaned, her body arching into him, her pussy clenching with need as she ground against the thick bulge in his pants.
Don groaned into her breasts, his hands gripping her hips as he buried his face deeper, his tongue swirling around her dark brown nipples, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. Paula’s breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, her fingers tightening in his hair as she pulled him closer, her body trembling with anticipation.
Don’s mouth was a hungry thing, his lips wrapping around her nipple with a groan that vibrated through her bones, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles before he sucked hard, the sensation making her gasp, her hips bucking against him. He wasn’t gentle—his mouth was rough, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, his hands gripping her hips like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. She could feel the heat of his breath against her skin, the way his tongue flicked against her nipple, the way his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core.
Her body arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. And then—there it was. Dave’s gaze. Dark, hungry, *knowing*. His eyes locked onto hers, and in that moment, she saw everything—his arousal, his jealousy, his *possession*. And she *loved* it.
The realization hit her like a physical blow, making her gasp, her body trembling as Don’s mouth moved lower, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path down her stomach. Dave’s fingers tightened around the armrests of the chair, his knuckles turning white as he watched, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The sight of his wife’s perfect body, the one he had worshipped for years, now on full display for another man, sent a jolt of something dark and twisted through him.
Paula’s nails scraped against Don’s scalp as she guided his mouth to her nipples.
Don sucked her tits hard, his mouth sealing around her nipple with a wet, hungry sound that made her gasp. His tongue swirled in slow, deliberate circles before he pulled back with a sharp *pop*, leaving her flesh glistening, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. The sensation was electric—his lips, his teeth, the way his tongue flicked against her sensitive flesh, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core.
Paula moaned, her back arching as she pressed herself deeper into his mouth. The sound was raw, unguarded, a surrender to the pleasure that coiled tight in her belly. Dave’s had heard that moan before—had coaxed it from her in the dark of their bedroom, had whispered filthy promises to make her gasp like that. But this was different. This was *real*. This was *hers*.
Don’s hands moved lower, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist before sliding beneath the black lace that still clung to her hips. His touch was rough, possessive, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled her closer, his breath hot against her skin.
Paula moaned, her body arching into him, her pussy clenching with desperate need. "Oh Don that feels so good," she moaned, her voice trembling with desire. The words slipped out before she could stop them, raw and unfiltered, a confession of the pleasure that coiled tight in her belly.
*Mmmm Don that feels so good.* The sound of his name on her lips sent a jolt through her, a realization that made her breath catch—*Dave was watching.* His eyes were dark, his fingers white-knuckled around the armrests of the chair, his jaw clenched like he was fighting something. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he jealous? Was he turned on? Did he hate her for this? The thought made her pussy clench, her hips bucking against Don’s touch as his fingers finally found the waistband of her lingerie, his breath hot against her skin.
Dave gazed at his wife’s perfect brown body—her full, heavy tits in another man’s mouth, her round, brown ass squeezed in his hands—was too much. He should’ve stopped this.
Don’s mouth moved lower, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path down her stomach, his fingers hooking into the black lace that still clung to her hips. "Oh god Don," she moaned again, her voice trembling with desire.
The words slipped out raw and unfiltered, a confession of the pleasure that coiled tight in her belly. She kept her thong on, the sheer black lace still clinging to her hips, as she slowly began kissing down Don's chest and stomach, her lips tracing the hard lines of his muscles.
Paula's mouth moved lower, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin, her fingers tracing the ridges of his abs. She could feel the heat of his body beneath her lips, the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch, the way his breath hitched as she kissed her way down. The black lace of her thong still clung to her hips, the delicate fabric barely concealing the way her body trembled with anticipation.
Paula’s lips moved lower, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his abs as she kissed her way down Don’s chest. He should’ve said something.
He should’ve *stopped* this. But all he could do was watch, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as he took in the sight of his wife’s perfect body—her full, heavy tits swaying as she moved, her round, brown ass squeezed in Don’s hands, her dark brown nipples hard and begging for his touch. The way she moved—like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, like a woman who had been *built* for this—made his stomach twist with something dark and possessive.
Her lips brushed against the waistband of his pants, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his abs as she kissed her way down. And then—*there*—her fingers found the button of his jeans, her nails scraping against the denim as she slowly pulled it down, her breath hot against his skin.
The sound of the zipper was like a gunshot in the quiet room, loud enough to make Dave’s breath catch, his fingers tightening around the armrests of the chair. The sheer black lace of her thong still clung to her hips, the delicate fabric barely concealing the way her body trembled with anticipation as she pulled Don’s cock free from his boxers.
*Fuck.*
Dave’s jaw clenched at the sight of it—thick, dark, *veined*, already glistening at the tip. He had seen his own cock plenty of times, but this—*this* was something else. Something *bigger*. Something that made his stomach twist with a mix of envy and hunger.
He should’ve looked away.