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The house was packed: twenty-five, maybe thirty people laughing, dancing, spilling drinks, shouting over the music as midnight came and went. Fireworks popped outside, but inside the heat was all bodies and bass and champagne. Amelia owned every inch of the room in her cherry-red dress: bright, glossy, almost wet-looking under the lights, cut low in front and high on her thighs. Every time she moved the fabric shifted against her skin, catching eyes, including mine.
She had been different since she fucked Robbie a couple of weeks ago: bolder, hungrier, playful in a way that made my chest tight and my cock hard at the same time. Tonight she was a live wire, charming everyone: hugging old friends, dancing with the girls, teasing the guys with that laugh that promised things. We’ve been through this cycle before, she gets wrapped up in fucking around, goes mad for it, even makes some bad decisions, only to eventually lose the taste for it for a long while. Now though, she was radiantly horny and who else should show up but Jake?
He had shown up late, around 11:30, jacket slung over one arm, moving with that lazy confidence he has never lost. Same old Jake: our small-town golden boy who fled to L.A. for modeling, came back every holiday with taller tales and the same need to be looked at. He’s not a bad guy, just thinks he’s special because of his looks and thee at women treat him.
I have outdone him in every way that matters to me: career, money, the life we have built. And I won Amelia when he was still fumbling compliments in college bars. That has always eaten at him. So he pokes: little jabs about guys who “overcompensate” with money or trucks, eyes sliding to me, then to her, like he is measuring what he never got. Tonight those digs landed harder, maybe because Amelia laughed at them a little too warmly, maybe because she had already crossed the line with Robbie and the jealousy in me had turned into something addictive.
The touches started small, hidden in the crowd. I didn’t see most of it, guessed at some of it but she told me the details later. Her fingers grazing the front of his jeans when she reached past him for a bottle: slow, deliberate, tracing the thick line of him until she felt him twitch and start to harden. She pulled back with a tiny, secret smile, cheeks hotter, eyes brighter. It happened again and again: a brush of her palm when she handed him a glass, her hip grinding lightly against him in the hallway press, fingers stealing another feel of the growing bulge straining his denim while she laughed at something he said.
Each time she would drift away to mingle again: charming the room, dancing, pouring drinks, flirting with others to make him jealous. But minutes later she would return to him, drawn like a magnet, finding new excuses for contact no one else could really see.
Later, when the party finally wound down around one-thirty, the last guests started calling Ubers on the front porch, laughing and hugging goodbye in the cool night air. One by one the rides pulled up, doors slamming, taillights disappearing down the street until the house was silent except for the low hum of the fridge.
Jake lingered in the kitchen, nursing a final glass of water, chatting casually with the last couple who were waiting on their ride. When their Uber arrived and the door shut behind them, he stretched, gave a sheepish grin, and said, “Man, I shouldn’t drive. I’m staying at my mom’s while I’m in town. She’s a light sleeper and I’d wake the whole house if I rolled in now. You guys mind if I just crash on the couch?”
Amelia and I exchanged a quick glance. No one would ever be the wiser; it sounded perfectly reasonable. “Of course,” I said. “Guest room’s made up.”
She pulled me aside in the kitchen a moment later, eyes bright, lips swollen from biting them all night. “I kept touching him,” she whispered, voice husky. “Every time I went back. Felt him get harder and harder. He squeezed my ass so many times I lost count. Once he slipped his hand under my dress in the hallway, just for a second, felt how wet my panties were. Told me I was wet for him.” My throat was dry. “I saw some of it.” She smiled, wicked and soft at once. “Good.”
I was wiping down counters when Amelia and Jake ended up alone by the dishwasher, bodies inches apart, tension thick enough to taste. The house was truly empty now; no music, no guests, no distant laughter, just us.
She murmured something I could not hear. He laughed, low and rough. Then she turned fully toward him, the cherry-red dress brushing his chest, and tilted her face up: lips wet, eyes heavy with intent.
Jake’s gaze flicked past her shoulder and locked on mine in the shadows. “What about him?” he asked, voice quiet, almost challenging. Amelia did not turn. She did not hesitate. She just smiled: slow, filthy, certain. And said, “He likes to watch.”
The words hit like a match to gasoline. Jake’s eyes went wide as he processed the words and he held my gaze a beat longer, surprise melting into pure triumph. Years of quiet competition, and now this: me handing him what he had always wanted most. The consensual surrender sent a dark thrill straight through me: old rivalry finally settled in the most visceral way, humiliation twisting into the sharpest edge of arousal I had ever felt.
Psychologically it is a perfect storm: sperm-competition response firing on instinct, masochistic thrill from turning inadequacy into erotic fuel, compersion watching the woman I love lost in pleasure. All of it braided so tight I could barely breathe. He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her: slow, claiming, letting me see her mouth open for him, hear the soft moan she fed into it. Her hands slid up his chest, nails dragging, body arching to press her breasts against him. It was so tender and loving, not at all lusty, that I felt a huge wave of panicky angst and moved a step forward. When they broke apart her lipstick was smeared, pupils blown wide.
We walked him upstairs to the guest room. Amelia paused in the hallway, fingers trailing mine, and said softly, “I’ll just make sure he has fresh towels and everything.” Ir was a lie for no audience, we were literally walking him upstairs to fuck her but these are the little things that a cuck remembers forever, a small, unnecessary lie that hung in the air with no answer.
I knew exactly what it meant. I followed and stopped just outside the cracked door. Inside, the lamp cast a warm, low glow. Jake sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off his shirt. Amelia stepped in, left the door open enough for me to see everything, and straddled his lap without a word. She kissed him again: hungry now, grinding slow circles against the bulge straining his jeans, soft whimpers rising in her throat.
He glanced toward the door, saw me watching, and smirked against her mouth. “He’s right there,” he murmured, hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the cherry-red dress higher. “Getting exactly what he asked for.” Amelia moaned, nodding, rocking harder. “Let him see how wet I am for you.”
He stripped the dress off her in one slow pull, leaving her in just tiny black lace panties already dark with arousal. His mouth found her breasts, sucking hard enough to make her gasp, back arching. Fingers slipped beneath the lace, stroking her clit in tight circles until her thighs shook and she shuddered with a small pre-orgasm and a muffled cry against his shoulder, hips jerking.
Then he stood, unzipped, and let his cock spring free: heavy, thick, curving slightly upward, bigger than the rumors had ever let on, way bigger than me by 2-3x. Amelia’s breath caught. She wrapped her hand around it immediately, fingers barely meeting, lifting it, testing the weight like she was marveling at it. Then she turned her head toward the door, found my eyes in the shadows, and mouthed a silent, exaggerated “wow,” lips rounded, eyes wide, a huge grin breaking across her face before she turned back to him. He followed her glance with a huge smile, self satisfied.
She sank to her knees eagerly, hungry to taste him. She licked up the underside, swirled her tongue around the head, took as much as she could into her mouth: lips stretched, cheeks hollowed, hand stroking what would not fit. But he was too thick, too long; she could not take more than half before gagging softly. Saliva glistened on him as she pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him fast and slick, looking up at him with frustrated desire.
Jake tried to pull her up, murmuring something about returning the favor, guiding her back onto the bed to spread her thighs. But Amelia shook her head, impatient, almost frantic. “No,” she breathed, guiding his cock to her entrance, rubbing the head through her slick folds. “I’m so wet. Just fuck me. He can do that later.” She glanced toward the door again as she said it, knowing I heard every word.
Jake pulled his body up so that his was sitting on top of her mound, her pink slit slick and wet and the inner lips parted slightly like they do when she’s really turned on. He lined up the big head of his cock and pushed in slow, resistance building, her eyebrows wrinkling until the pop happened and he was letting her feel every inch stretch her open. Amelia’s head fell back, mouth open in a silent gasp that turned into a low, trembling moan as he seated himself fully inside her and paused to give her a minute to realize she was full of him. A beat later, she wanted the fucking and impatiently moved not understanding the tease of it all. Her legs locked around his hips, heels digging into his ass, urging him into rhythm he leaned down to kiss her again, this time full of lust and she bit his lip.
They moved together in a steady, building rhythm: her hips rising to meet every thrust, the wet sounds of her pussy taking him filling the quiet room. She came the first with a sharp cry muffled against his shoulder, “Ohhhhh mmmmm yes yes,” nails raking down his back, body shaking hard around him.
Her legs were still shaking when he flipped her onto her stomach after, pulled her hips up slightly, between prime and doggie, raised up on kid knees, thumb on his cock and drove back in from behind: deeper angle, harder strokes, hand fisted gently in her hair. Amelia pushed back greedily, moaning into the pillow, body begging softly for more.
He obliged her and picked up speed, looking up to the ceiling as he was fighting the orgasm he knew was coming too soon. He was probably reciting baseball stats or IMDB credits, anything so he wouldn’t cum in her in under 5 minutes. He balls we’re slapping her pussy as he pulled in and out, grazing her lips, not banging around. They were big and it was kind of hypnotic to watch them.
When he got close, his voice rough and throaty, he asked, “Where do you want it?”
“In me,” she gasped urgently, pushing back harder. “Come in me. He’ll clean me out.”
That through his rhythm off a bit from long stroking and for a half-second, eyes widening, he tried to start again but then let out a stunned, drawn-out “What the fuuuuck?” The shock and filthy thrill of it clearly hit him like a wave. His hips snapped forward once, twice more, and he unloaded deep inside her with a guttural groan, pulsing hard, clearly reveling in the mindfuck of the whole thing: the rivalry, the permission, the depraved cherry on top. He held her hips so hard that she complained the next day and had purple bruises where his fingertips had been.
You always read here how much the third seems to cum and it’s always been true for us. I think the thrill Ofmit makes them release so much more cum. It was definitely true for him, he came for a solid 30 seconds, balls jumping in time to his whispered “ohmigods.”
Afterward she slipped out naked, thighs absolutely smeared and glistening with their combined release, skin flushed and marked. A big pour of cum plopped out with his cock when he was done and landed on the sheets. I suppose he slept in it that night.
She found me in the hallway, pressed her body to mine, kissed me slow and deep so I could taste his cock on her tongue along with the taste of his whiskey on her breath. Her hand slid down to grip my aching cock through my jeans.
“Come to bed,” she whispered but loud enough for him to hear. “Your turn to have me while I’m still full of him.”
As she led me away, I glanced back through the cracked door. Jake was lounging against the headboard, still half-hard and probably ready to go again, skin slick with sweat, watching us go with a look of pure, quiet victory: eyes heavy-lidded, lips curved in a small, satisfied smirk that said he knew exactly what he had done, exactly how thoroughly he had won tonight, and exactly how often I would be replaying it in my head.
We barely made it to our room before she pushed me onto the bed, straddled my face without a word, and lowered herself onto my mouth.
“Clean me up first,” she murmured, grinding slowly, letting his thick load drip onto my tongue. I licked her eagerly, tasting them both: the salty bitterness of him mixed with her familiar sweetness. Humiliation flooded me as I swallowed every drop, and it was so much, and so thick that I gagged on it, my cock throbbing painfully with every lap.
There is a raw psychology to it: the emasculation of knowing she is craving something I cannot give her, the masochistic high of surrendering to that truth, wishing in that dark corner of my mind that I had a cock like his, one that could stretch her like that, make her come undone so completely, fill her in ways that leave her gasping and trembling. It is the ultimate eroticized inadequacy, turning self-doubt into fuel that burns hotter than anything else.
She moaned softly, rocking against my face, using me to chase another small orgasm before she finally slid down my body.
Only then did she guide me inside her: still slick, open, warm from him. Every thrust reminded me exactly how thoroughly he had just had her, how much deeper he had gone, how much more she had needed. She wrapped around me tight, whispering filthy details in my ear until we both came hard, trembling, clinging to each other in the dark.
Morning light crept in quiet on January 1. Jake left with coffee and a polite nod, that familiar smug tilt to his mouth. Amelia and I lingered over our mugs, thighs brushing under the table, eyes locked until we went back to bed around 10:00 to relive it; her pussy still slick and stretched.
We did not need to say it out loud. We were already aching for the next time.
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