For a while, my fiancé and I have shared a passionate, open relationship, engaged for over a year and a half. Recently, life took a thrilling turn when I reconnected with a man I’ve known for six years—44, magnetic, and commanding. What began as a casual catch-up quickly ignited into a blazing chemistry, leading us to invite him to stay with us for an entire month.
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He wasted no time staking his claim—not just on the home, but on me. The boundaries were clear: he had free rein over my body whenever desire struck. Morning, noon, or the depths of night—if he was hard, I was his to pleasure.
Throughout that time, my fiancé was forbidden from touching me intimately; that sacred privilege belonged solely to our bull. And he took full advantage, delivering an intensity of passion that was deliciously raw and unfiltered. One unforgettable weekend, we pushed my fiancé’s limits to the edge. Our bull had been holding back, saving every ounce of his strength to overwhelm us completely. He bred me mercilessly—four times in a single night—until he was drained.
Each time my fiancé dared to hope it was over, our bull rose again in minutes, relentless and insatiable. Between waves of pleasure, I teased with moans like “I want a real man’s baby,” locking eyes with my fiancé, blending humiliation with desire. After the third and fourth times, we feigned surrender, only for our bull to trail kisses down my neck and body, reigniting the flames. The mixture of exhaustion, raw lust, and dominance painted a grin of disbelief across my fiancé’s face. By the night’s end, our bull pounded me fiercely, intense and unyielding, promising to fill me as fully as possible. Held close, swollen with his love, he casually asked my fiancé, “So… boy or girl?” (I’m on birth control, but who knows.) The next day, he even sent my fiancé his recent sperm count—through the roof.
The power play spilled beyond the bedroom’s walls. Our bull commanded my fiancé to stroke in sync with every thrust, denying release until he himself had climaxed. He took delight in seating my fiancé beneath us in a 69, while he fucked me doggy style, his heavy balls pressing against my fiancé’s face. If he wished to cum, my fiancé had to lick and worship them, submitting fully. Our time was filled with messy creampies, teasing denial, and moments where my pussy was off-limits—until our bull decided otherwise. He insisted I recount in vivid, filthy detail how much better he felt inside me, with my fiancé forced to listen, overwhelmed and aroused.
Outside the sheets, the intensity held firm. Our bull whisked me away on dates, indulged me in shopping sprees, and took me out for dinners, all while my fiancé was away at work.
When his friends visited, the atmosphere turned even kinkier. He introduced me bluntly as “his toy” right in front of my fiancé. Yet, when my friends came over, appearances remained normal. Often, he’d make my fiancé prepare meals, then fuck me beside the dinner table—sometimes making me gag on him loudly while my fiancé tried to eat. Other times, he bent me over nearby and pounded me while nibbling off my fiancé’s plate. The blend of domination, friendship, torment, and raw, animalistic need was intoxicating.
Now, long after that intense month, I’m still vibrating with the memory. My fiancé carries a complex mix of being broken, humiliated, and yet more turned on than ever. Already, we’re talking about when our bull will join us again.