For nearly two years, my husband had gently, yet persistently, expressed a particular fantasy—sharing me with another man. It began as casual curiosity about trying a threesome, but eventually, I compelled him to be honest and straightforward, or we’d drop the subject entirely.
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We’re a young couple in our early twenties, married admittedly a bit early, but with no regrets. My love for him grows stronger all the time. When he finally confessed that he wanted me to feel another man’s touch—someone with a larger endowment—I was hesitant. Yet, over time, he convinced me to try a cock sleeve he purchased. At first, it felt strange, but when he used it on me, the sensation was electrifying—the best sex we’d ever shared up to that point.
Although it felt taboo, my husband eventually talked me into taking the leap and experiencing the real thing. He took charge of finding the right man, someone tall, muscular, who fit my preferences regardless of race. The man he found—a white guy in his mid-thirties—seemed perfect. For simplicity, I’ll call him the bull.
Meeting the bull at a bar was nerve-wracking but manageable. However, the moment we stepped into our hotel room, a wave of nervousness washed over me, causing me to tremble. My husband soothed me with tender kisses, reassuring me that everything would be okay. He asked if I trusted him, and when I said yes, he gently guided me onto the bed, holding my hand tightly before slowly stepping aside.
The bull began undressing me deliberately, his hands exploring my curves, stroking my breasts and wetness. His lips captured my nipples, sucking and gently biting, which helped calm my nerves. Then, the moment came that I had dreaded—his firm hands grasped my hair, guiding me down to his pants. As he revealed himself, massive and throbbing, a primal desire surged within me, and without hesitation, I eagerly took him into my mouth. It surprised me; usually, I wasn’t a fan of oral, but at that instant, I wanted him badly. My body responded with growing wetness, craving more.
The bull didn’t need to ask twice—I surrendered to him completely, taking in all he offered. Soon after, he laid me back on the bed and lavished my most sensitive spots with his mouth for what seemed like an eternity. His skillful tongue left me begging for more. When he finally positioned himself at the headboard and invited me to ride him, I was so lost in the moment that I didn’t even notice we hadn’t used a condom. His primal growls and filthy praises—calling me a tight slut—pushed me over the edge, spilling over him with abandon.
Everything after that blurred—the deep, pounding doggy style that left me breathless and sore, but craving more. Our connection was electric, and the dirty talk that flowed between us was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. At first, I was too overwhelmed to respond, but when the bull demanded answers, I unleashed a flood of explicit words I barely even remembered afterward. When he asked if my husband ever fucked me that well, I didn’t hesitate to say no. Though a pang of guilt lingered, my husband only smiled and said he loved it.
The bull climaxed on my face during our first round. I cleaned myself up, and as we relaxed and chatted for a while, he began fucking me again—quicker this time and much harder. I could feel soreness creeping in, but I didn’t stop. After his second climax left him spilling across my stomach, he left, and my husband immediately “reclaimed” me. His touch was gentler, his concern evident as he asked if I was okay and if I had enjoyed the experience. I told him I did. We stayed entwined for about an hour before receiving a message that surprised us both.
And let me tell you—this bull could fuck. He returned, contrary to expectations, rekindling my nerves but also my desire. For the next three hours, he pressed into me two more times, never ceasing to explore and play with my body when not driving into me. He wore a cock ring, which might explain his stamina, and he left me exquisitely sore.