Chapter 1: The Birthday Blowjob
The sheets were cool against his back, a stark contrast to the heat pooling in his face. Matt stared at the ceiling fan, its lazy rotation doing nothing to stir the heavy air in their bedroom. Amber’s perfume, something expensive and floral, usually a turn-on, now just smelled like accusation.
“Just try,” she said, her voice flat from her place between his legs.
He felt her hand, cool and efficient, take hold of him. There was no reverence in the touch, just a clinical grip. He willed himself to harden, focusing on the curve of her shoulder in the dim light from the ensuite, the shadow between her breasts. Nothing. A faint, stubborn twitch was all he could manage.
She lowered her head. The wet heat of her mouth was a shock. For a glorious second, it worked—a surge of blood, a flicker of promise. Then his mind hijacked it. Is she bored? Is she counting the tiles on the wall? Can she even feel it?
Her lips moved, a perfunctory up and down. He heard a soft, suppressed sigh vibrate against his skin. It wasn’t a moan. It was the sound of someone waiting for a bus.
After a minute that felt like an hour, she pulled off with a soft pop. She didn’t look up at him. She wiped the back of her hand across her lips.
“It’s not getting hard, Matt.” She stated it like the weather. “It’s just… soft. I can’t do anything with it like this.”
The words, so casually brutal, should have crushed him. And part of him did crumple, a familiar cold shame spreading through his gut. But another part, a sick, sneaky part that had been growing in the dark for months, stirred. Heat, real heat, flushed his neck. His pathetic little cock actually pulsed against his thigh.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the apology automatic.
“Yeah.” She swung her legs off the bed, her voluptuous body a silhouette of frustrated curves. The sight of her large, round ass, barely covered by black lace, usually his obsession, now felt like a monument to everything he couldn’t conquer. “I’m going to get a glass of water.”
She padded out, leaving the bedroom door ajar. He lay there, exposed and useless, the echo of her words “soft… can’t do anything with it” looping in his head. The shame and the new, ugly arousal twisted together inside him.
He heard the clink of a glass in the kitchen. Then another sound. The low murmur of a voice that wasn’t hers. A man’s voice. Deep. A rumble he felt in his bones.
Matt didn’t move. He just listened. Heard Amber’s laugh—a real one, bright and startled—something she hadn’t done for him in months. His heart hammered against his ribs. Who the fuck was in their house?
Silence for a beat. Then footsteps, not coming back to the bedroom, but moving towards the living room. The deep voice again, too low to make out words. Amber’s reply, a playful, “You’re bad.”
The cold shame evaporated, burned away by a blaze of something else. He was on his feet before he knew it, creeping to the bedroom door. He peered down the hall towards the soft light of the living room. He saw the back of the man. Broad shoulders in a dark t-shirt. Tall. He saw Amber, facing him, a smile on her face he’d forgotten she could wear.
He watched, hidden in the shadow of the hall, as the man—Ben, a guy from her gym, he remembered now—reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A simple gesture. Intimate. Amber didn’t pull away. She tilted her chin up.
Ben kissed her. It wasn’t a question. It was possession. His big hand cupped the back of her head, the other sliding down to grab a fistful of her ass through the lace. Matt heard her moan into his mouth, a raw, hungry sound that had never been for him.
He should have stormed in. He should have roared. He stood frozen, his small soft cock now fully hard, straining absurdly as he watched his wife melt into another man.
Ben broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck. “Been thinking about this all week,” he growled. “About this ass.” He squeezed hard, making her gasp.
“Yeah?” Amber breathed, her hands clawing at his shoulders. “Think about what you’d do to it?”
“Bend you over that couch and fuck you until you scream.”
“Then do it,” she said, and there was a challenge in her voice, a wildness Matt had never unleashed. “My husband’s in the bedroom. He can’t get it up. Let him hear what a real cock sounds like.”
The words were a physical blow, and a direct current to his groin. Matt’s hand flew to himself, stroking furiously as he watched, hidden.
Ben spun her around, not gently. He pushed her upper body down over the back of the plush sofa, her ass presented high in the air. The black lace panties were a tiny flag of surrender. He yanked them down to her thighs in one rough motion. He didn’t admire her. He didn’t go down on her. He unbuckled his jeans, and Matt saw it.
It was huge. Thick, veined, and angrily hard, a brutal contrast to his own. Ben spat into his own hand, slicked himself up, and without ceremony, notched the broad head against her.
Amber cried out as he pushed in, a sharp, guttural sound of being filled. “Oh, fuck! God, yes!”
The sound of it was obscene—wet, slapping flesh, the creak of the couch, Ben’s grunts, Amber’s choked, rapturous moans. Each drive of Ben’s hips rocked her whole body. Matt watched, stroking his own insignificant length, mesmerized by the obscene stretch of her around that monstrous cock, by the way her ass jiggled with every pounding thrust.
“You like that?” Ben snarled, his pace relentless. “You like getting your cunt stretched wide by a proper dick?”
“Yes! Don’t stop! It’s so deep!” Amber’s words were slurred, her face pressed into the cushions.
Ben’s eyes, dark and fierce, scanned the room and locked onto the shadowed hallway. Onto Matt. He saw him. A cruel smile spread across Ben’s face. He never missed a stroke.
“Look at him,” Ben grunted, pulling Amber’s head up by her hair, forcing her to look at her husband lurking in the dark. “Look at your little man. Watching me fuck his wife like he never could.”
Amber’s eyes, glazed with pleasure, found Matt’s. A smirk twisted her sweaty, beautiful face. “He likes it,” she panted, her voice dripping with contempt. “His little shrimp is probably leaking right now. Aren’t you, baby? You like watching a real man wreck my pussy?”
Matt couldn’t speak. He just nodded, frantically, his own orgasm building from a place of pure degradation.
“Come here,” Amber commanded, breathless. “Come watch closer. I want you to see how deep he is.”
Matt shuffled forward, obedient, his cock dribbling pre-cum onto the floor. He stood beside the couch, within arm’s reach of her glistening, stretched-open sex, of Ben’s pistoning thickness.
“Touch yourself,” Amber ordered, her eyes holding his. “Cum for me. Cum for your wife getting properly fucked.”
The permission, the humiliation, the visceral sight and smell of it broke him. With a choked sob that was both agony and ecstasy, Matt came, streaks of semen hitting the carpet near their tangled feet. His orgasm was a weak, shuddering thing, over in seconds.
Ben laughed, a harsh, victorious sound. “Pathetic.” He fucked her harder, faster. “I’m gonna fill her up now. Give her what you never could.”
Amber screamed, a long, trembling wail, as Ben slammed into her and held, his body rigid. She collapsed over the couch, gasping. Ben slowly pulled out. A trickle of his release dripped from her onto the fabric.
He tucked himself away, zipped up. He leaned down, kissed Amber’s shoulder, then walked straight past Matt without a glance, like he was furniture. Matt heard the front door open and close.
The silence after was deafening, broken only by their ragged breathing. Amber slowly pushed herself up. She looked at the mess on the couch, then down at Matt, still standing there, spent and shrunken.
She walked over to him, not bothering to pull up her panties. She cupped his face, her touch almost gentle. She looked into his eyes, her own now clear and calculating.
“Did you enjoy the show, pervert?” she whispered.
He nodded, fresh tears of shame in his eyes.
“Good,” she said, her smile cold and perfect. “We’re going to do that again. And you’re going to clean me up after. Now go run me a bath.”
She turned and walked towards the bedroom, leaving him alone in the ruins of their living room, the smell of sex and his own failure thick in the air.
The bathwater ran loud in the quiet house. Steam fogged the mirror above the double sinks. Matt stood at the vanity, his fingers trembling as he tested the temperature. The sounds from the living room still echoed in his skull—the wet slap of skin, her cries, that deep, foreign laugh.
“Make it hot,” Amber called from the bedroom. “I want to feel it burn.”
He adjusted the knobs, watched the clear water swirl in the deep porcelain tub. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple. His body felt hollowed out, used. The front of his robe was still open, his soft, spent cock nestled in greying hair. He couldn’t bring himself to tie it shut.
He heard her footsteps. She appeared in the doorway of the ensuite, naked. The sight of her, even now, even after everything, hit him in the gut. Her skin was flushed, pink marks from Ben’s grip visible on her hips and breasts. She looked used. Well-used. And she wore it like a trophy.
She didn’t look at him. She stepped into the water, hissing slightly as she submerged herself. She leaned back, closing her eyes. “The couch is a mess. Clean it up.”
Matt blinked. “Now?”
Her eyes opened. They were flat, dismissive. “Yes, now. Before it sets. Use the upholstery cleaner from under the kitchen sink. And the towel you came on. Don’t just stand there.”
He moved like a ghost through the hallway. The living room air was thick, ripe with the smell of sweat and sex and another man’s cologne. The scene was exactly as they’d left it. The cushions were disheveled. And there, on the central cushion, a dark, wet smear glistened under the lamplight.
His wife’s infidelity wasn’t an abstract secret anymore. It was a stain. A physical problem for him to solve.
He got on his knees before the couch. The rough texture of the fabric bit into his skin. He sprayed the cleaner, the chemical citrus smell clashing violently with the musk. He scrubbed with the damp towel, the one speckled with his own semen. He was literally cleaning another man’s come out of his furniture while wearing the robe his wife had given him for Christmas.
“Use some elbow grease,” Amber’s voice floated down the hall. “It’s in deep.”
He scrubbed harder, his breath coming in short gasps. The stain lightened, but a faint, shameful shadow remained. A permanent ghost in the fabric. He sat back on his heels, staring at it. His cock, defying all logic, began to stiffen again.
“Are you done?” she called.
“It’s… it’s not all coming out.”
“Of course it isn’t. He came deep inside me, Matt. Some of it dripped out after. It’s probably seeped into the fucking stuffing. We’ll have to get it professionally cleaned. Or just burn it.” She paused. “Come here.”
He walked back to the bathroom, the damp, soiled towel in his hand. She was still in the tub, her knees breaking the surface of the water. Her gaze drifted down to the front of his robe, where the thin fabric tented slightly.
“Still thinking about it, huh?” she said, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “My little pervert.”
He said nothing. He had no words left that weren’t a plea or a sob.
“Bring me that loofah. And the body wash.”
He fetched them from the shower caddy, handing them to her. She didn’t take them.
“You do it. Wash me. Wash him off of me.”
Matt knelt beside the tub, the tile cold and hard on his knees. He squeezed the gel onto the loofah. His hands were unsteady as he brought it to her shoulder. He washed her skin gently, reverently, as if she were sacred.
“Harder,” she commanded. “Scrub. I can still feel his hands on me.”
He scrubbed, moving over her collarbones, down her chest. He avoided her breasts. She grabbed his wrist, guiding the loofah roughly over one nipple, then the other. They were taut, sensitive. She didn’t flinch.
“Everywhere, Matt. Don’t be shy. You wanted to watch, now you get to clean up the mess.”
He washed her stomach. Then she spread her legs, the water sloshing. “Here. Especially here. He was so big. I feel so… open.”
His vision blurred. He slid the loofah between her legs, over her mound, over the lips that were still swollen from use. He washed her with a desperate, mechanical rhythm.
“Use your fingers,” she whispered, her head lolling back. “Get inside. Make sure it’s all out.”
He dropped the loofah. It floated on the water’s surface like a strange, neon fish. He pressed two fingers into her. She was still impossibly soft, loosened, slick with water and the last remnants of Ben. A low moan escaped her. It wasn’t for him. It was a memory.
“You feel that?” she murmured, her eyes closed. “You feel how fucked-out I am? Your little fingers are just swimming in there. You couldn’t even touch the sides if you tried.”
He pumped his fingers slowly, a pathetic mimicry of what had happened here just an hour before. His other hand fumbled with the tie of his robe, then wrapped around his own aching, half-hard cock.
“That’s it,” she cooed, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Jerk your little dicklet while you finger my used-up cunt. Do you wish this was your cock? Do you wish you could even begin to fill me up like he did?”
“Yes,” Matt choked out.
“You never could. You know that, right? You’re just a spectator. A janitor. Your only purpose is to clean up after the real men who fuck your wife.”
She lifted a foot from the water, planting her slick heel on his shoulder, and pushed. Not hard, but with enough force to make him lose his balance. He stumbled back, his hand slipping from himself, his back hitting the vanity.
“Get out,” she said, the warmth gone from her voice. “You’re pathetic. You can’t even do that right. I’ll finish myself.”
She brought her own hand between her legs, her fingers working with a focused, brutal efficiency he’d never seen from her in his presence. She was thinking of Ben. She was getting herself off on the memory, right in front of him. Her breaths turned into sharp, quick gasps. She came in under a minute, her body arching, a single, satisfied sigh hissing from her lips.
She opened her eyes. They were clear and cold. She looked at him, crumpled on the bathmat, his small, leaking penis exposed.
“Go sleep in the guest room. And for god’s sake, put that thing away. The sight of it is just depressing.”
SHE HUMILIATES HIM.
The guest room smelled of dust and forgotten things. Matt lay on the narrow bed, the thin blanket pulled to his waist. Sleep had been a series of jagged images—Amber’s smirk, Ben’s thrusting hips, the stain on the couch that wouldn’t come out. Dawn bled grey light around the edges of the blinds.
He heard movement in the master bedroom. The shower. The hum of her hair dryer. Normal sounds that felt like artifacts from a dead civilization.
He was still lying there, staring at a water stain on the ceiling, when the doorbell chimed. His heart seized. Ben? He wasn’t sure he could handle a repeat. Not so soon. The hollow ache in his gut twisted into something else, a nervous, electric anticipation.
He heard Amber’s quick footsteps, the click of the front door opening. A low, unfamiliar male voice rumbled. Not Ben. This one was younger, lighter. Matt crept to the guest room door, easing it open a crack.
“Shut up,” Amber’s voice floated down the hall, sharp and sweet. “I don’t care about your day. Just get in here. It’s only your dick I want, Ethan. The rest is background noise.”
Matt’s breath hitched. Ethan.
He watched as a tall, lean man with close-cropped dark hair followed Amber into the master bedroom. She closed the door. For ten agonizing minutes, Matt stood frozen, listening to the muffled sounds of kissing, of fabric rustling. Then her voice, clear as a bell. “Matt. Get in here. Now.”
He pushed the door open. The scene was staged. Amber stood beside the rumpled bed, wearing only a black silk robe, untied. Ethan stood naked by the window, completely comfortable. He was lean but defined, and he was fully, impressively erect. His cock was long and thick, curving slightly upwards, the head a smooth, dark plum. It looked functional. Powerful.
“Come here,” Amber said to Matt, her eyes on Ethan’s body. “Look. I want you to see what does it for me.”
Matt shuffled forward, his worn pajama bottoms loose around his hips.
“See that?” Amber said, pointing at Ethan’s erection. She stepped close to Ethan, not touching him yet, her finger tracing the air an inch from his shaft. “The thickness. That’s what stretches me. Yours…” she glanced dismissively at Matt’s crotch, “…it’s like a finger. It’s nothing. But look at the head on this.” She finally touched it, using her thumb to smear a bead of pre-cum that had welled up. “Big. Smooth. When that pops past my lips, I feel it everywhere. Yours is like a fucking button. I don’t feel it at all.”
Ethan just smiled, a lazy, confident smirk, his hands on his hips.
“And the length,” Amber continued, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. “When he goes deep, he hits a spot you’ve never even brushed against. I cream myself on that spot. Every single time. You make me work for it, and then you go soft. This?” she wrapped her hand around Ethan, giving him two slow, firm pumps. “This stays. It’s a tool. Yours is a toy.”
Matt felt his own pathetic response stir in his pajamas. The clinical humiliation, the comparison, was the most potent arousal he’d ever known.
“Okay,” Amber breathed, her own arousal becoming visible, her nipples hard. “Enough talk. Ethan, on the bed. On your back.”
Ethan obeyed, lying back against the pillows, his cock standing straight up from a thatch of dark hair. Amber turned to Matt. A flicker of something—pity? contempt?—crossed her face. “You first. You want it so bad. You can try.”
She turned her back to him, bending over the edge of the bed, presenting the lush, round globes of her ass. She reached back with both hands, spreading herself open for him. The pink, glistening proof of her excitement was clearly visible. “Go on. Take your wife from behind. Do what you dream about.”
Matt fumbled with his pajamas, his hands shaking. He freed himself, already half-hard from the spectacle. He stepped up behind her, his tip brushing her wetness. He pushed. The head slipped in, just past her outer lips, into the hot, tight channel.
And that was it. He met immediate, humiliating resistance. The feeling of her walls around just his tip was incredible, but he couldn’t advance. He was too short, too soft, the angle was wrong. He hips stuttered, pushing uselessly against her, his entire shaft only halfway into the vestibule.
A frustrated groan escaped him.
Amber sighed, a sound of profound irritation. “For fuck’s sake, Matt. You’re not even in. You’re just bumping the damn door. Move. Get out of the way.”
She straightened up, pushing him back with her hip. He stumbled, his pathetic cock already wilting from the rejection. “Ethan. Show him how it’s done.”
Ethan slid off the bed. He didn’t say a word. He positioned himself behind Amber with the easy confidence of a craftsman. He placed one hand on the small of her back, the other guiding his thick crown to her entrance. He didn’t push. He pressed, steadily, and the broad head began to disappear, stretching her visibly.
Amber gasped, a sharp, hungry intake of breath. “Yes. Oh god, yes. Just like that.”
Ethan sank in, inch by brutal, beautiful inch, until his hips were flush against her ass. Amber let out a long, trembling moan. “Fuck. You’re so deep. I feel you in my guts.”
Then he moved. Withdrawing almost all the way, then plunging back in with a force that rocked her whole body forward. The sound was obscenely wet, a rhythmic slap of flesh. Matt sank to his knees on the carpet, a prime viewing spot, his hand moving automatically on himself.
“Fuck me!” Amber chanted, her face turned to the side, pressed into the duvet. “Fuck me, Ethan! Don’t stop! Oh god, right there! You’re hitting it, you’re hitting that spot! Fuck! FUCK!”
Ethan’s pace was relentless, machine-like. His abs were tight, a sheen of sweat already on his skin. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, holding her steady for his pounding. Amber’s commands dissolved into wordless cries, each driving thrust punctuated by a choked-off sob of pleasure.
“You see?” she managed to pant, turning her head to look at Matt on the floor. Her eyes were glazed, her mascara smudged. “You see how he fills me? You see how he owns this? This is what I need! FUCK, ETHAN, YES!”
Matt could only watch, stroking his small, leaking cock, completely transfixed by the detailed view of Ethan’s thickness vanishing into his wife, by the way her body yielded completely.
Ethan’s grunts grew sharper, faster. “Gonna come,” he growled, his rhythm starting to fracture.
Amber’s voice was a slurred command. “Do it. Fill me up. Matt…”
Matt looked up, his hand still moving.
“I don’t want the mess dripping out of me all morning,” she panted, each word punched out by Ethan’s thrusts. “Open your mouth. You take it. You clean it up. On your knees. Now.”
Matt scrambled forward on his knees, positioning himself directly beneath where they were joined. He tilted his head back, mouth open like a baby bird.
“Now, Ethan!” Amber screamed.
With a final, shuddering roar, Ethan slammed deep and held. Matt watched, from inches away, as Ethan’s cock pulsed inside her. A second later, a thick, pearly strand of come dripped out from where they were joined, then another, falling in a warm, viscous line onto Matt’s waiting tongue. It was salty, bitter, musky with her. He closed his mouth, swallowing.
Ethan slowly pulled out, soft now, and a heavier flow of their mixed release followed, splashing onto Matt’s face, his lips. He lapped at it, cleaning her, cleaning them both, while Ethan caught his breath above him and Amber trembled, still bent over the bed.
She finally pushed herself up, looking down at her husband, his face slick and streaked. “Good,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Now go get me a towel. Ethan needs a glass of water.”