My husband’s best friend fucked me like a whore. And I loved every second of it.
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My husband goes away for work. Too often. It started off as short trips here and there, but now it’s weeks at a time. Two, sometimes three.
And every time he walks out the door, something in me sinks a little deeper.
He says it's necessary, says he’s doing it for us. I try to believe him. But it gets harder every time. The silence. The distance. The nights alone. I can’t help but wonder what he does when he’s not calling. Who he’s with. What he’s thinking about. Certainly not me.
While he’s gone, his friend Derek comes by to help with the house. Mowing the lawn, taking out the garbage, the kind of things my husband usually does. It’s generous of him, I guess. But I can’t help thinking it’s also to keep an eye on me.
I always offer him a beer when he’s done. Just being polite. Lately though, he’s been sticking around longer. Sitting at the kitchen island. Talking more. Making himself comfortable.
So have I.
It’s not easy to ignore someone like Derek. He’s tall, well over six feet, with thick arms and a heavy frame that looks built from real work, not gym mirrors. His forearms are sun-kissed, his voice low and gravelly. There’s a presence to him that you feel when he walks in a room. A kind of weight.
My husband is in shape. But he’s nothing like Derek.
And it doesn’t help that summer has arrived. The other day, I caught myself watching him mow the lawn shirtless. Sweat glistened along his back. His jeans rode low, revealing just enough to make my mind run wild.
I knew I should have looked away.
But I didn’t.
And when he turned and caught me staring, I didn’t flinch. I wanted him to see me.
Later that day, something in me snapped. The ache had been building for weeks. I felt starved. Like something inside me had been ignored for too long. I went upstairs and changed into a thin tank top, soft and slightly sheer. I didn’t wear a bra.
Not because I didn’t need to.
Because I wanted him to look.
I wanted to feel exposed. Tempting. Slutty. I wanted to take that risk. To see what it would feel like to offer myself without saying a word.
My tits are big, the kind that always get attention. Men stare without even realizing it. My husband used to. But now… I don’t know.
Maybe he’s forgotten.
But I hadn’t.
And something about letting Derek see what my husband keeps leaving behind made my whole body hum.
When Derek came inside, I met him with a cold beer and a smile that lingered.
“You’re staying for dinner,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t argue. “Yes ma’am,” he said with a grin.
His eyes dipped for a split second. Right to my chest. Just long enough to confirm everything I needed to know. I didn’t hide it. I just turned back to the stove and started cooking like nothing had happened.
He sat at the kitchen island while I moved around the kitchen, my body aware of him in a way that made my skin buzz. I could feel his eyes on me. Especially when I bent forward. Especially when my shirt shifted.
He tried to make conversation, but I could hear the tightness in his voice. Like something was building in him too.
I bent low to grab a pot from the lower cabinet. As I stood, I turned and caught him staring again. He didn’t even pretend to look away.
I gave him a smile that wasn’t entirely innocent. “You keep staring like that, and I might start thinking you want something.”
He didn’t respond. Not with words.
He stood. Walked around the island. His movements slow, deliberate. He stopped just inches from me. I could feel the heat coming off him, the tension in the space between us.
And then he kissed me.
There was nothing gentle about it. He grabbed my waist and pulled me in. His mouth crashed into mine, hungry and rough. I gasped, but I didn’t stop him. My hands clutched at his shirt. I kissed him back, just as hard.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Carried me into the dining room and laid me flat on the table. My heart was pounding. My skin was flushed. My nipples already hard beneath the thin fabric of my tank top.
He pulled my clothes off and tossed them to the side. His mouth found my tits, his hands exploring me like I was something he had waited years to touch. I moaned, louder than I meant to. But I didn’t care.
I was already soaked.
He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. His belt came undone next. Then his pants hit the floor.
And I saw it.
I stared. Speechless.
It was massive.
Bigger than I’d imagined. So much bigger than my husband.
I wanted him. Desperately.
He didn’t need to ask. Didn’t need to tease. He knew I was ready.
He pulled me to the edge of the table and pressed the head of his cock against my opening. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching me until I whimpered.
I was losing myself in it all, getting fucked on the dining room table where I sit down to eat with my husband. Where we have had holiday dinners with his family.
When he bottomed out, I was already gasping. Already trembling.
“I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” I whispered.
He took that as a challenge and started ramming his full length in and out of me.
His hands gripped my waist tighter now, fucking me like a whore. I loved every second of it. This was what I had been craving. My whole body started to tense. He had me on the edge faster than my husband ever had.
But he didn’t stop there.
He pulled out suddenly, grabbed me by the throat, and kissed me again. Then without a word, he lifted me off the table, turned me around, and bent me over the edge. His strength made me gasp. My husband could never have done that, not like this. Not with this kind of force.
I felt him line up again, and then he was inside me. Deeper this time. Angled to hit everything.
He pounded into me from behind, one hand tangled in my hair, the other slapping hard against my ass. His cock slammed into me with wet, punishing rhythm. My tits bounced with each thrust as I gripped the edge of the table to stay upright.
He growled in my ear, “You like getting used like this, don’t you?”
All I could do was moan. I had no control left. I was soaked. Shaking. Shameless.
My back arched. My legs started to tremble. My pussy clenched around him like I was already close.
“Fuck,” I gasped, “I’m gonna cum.”
And I did.
Harder than I had in years. My orgasm ripped through me. My thighs shook. My moans turned into cries as I clenched and spasmed around him. He didn’t stop.
When I collapsed onto the table, completely wrecked, he pulled out slowly.
“On your knees.”
I slid to the floor. My mouth open. My body still trembling.
He stroked himself in front of me, groaning as he came. Hot ropes splattered across my face and tits. I held my tongue out, catching what I could. Let the rest drip down my chest.
He gripped my throat gently and looked down at me, breath heavy.
“Good girl,” he said. “You’re a fucking whore for it.”
And I was.
I had never felt so wanted. So used. So full.
And now that I’ve felt it…
I don’t think I can ever live without it.
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