He lay awake, the quiet creak of the front door signaling her return deep into the early hours. Though exhaustion tugged at him, sleep eluded him—too restless to find peace without her presence.
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Step by step, he listened as she ascended the stairs, the soft rustle of clothes falling away, and finally the tender slip of her into the bed beside him. With arms gently wrapping around his waist from behind, she whispered, “Are you still awake?”
“Yes,” he admitted quietly, a shadow of sadness threading his voice. “I can’t sleep when you’re out with him.”
She smiled softly, savoring the memory. “It was incredible. A proper date — dinner in the city, then drinks at that trendy bar. He loved showing me off, walking hand in hand, his arm resting possessively on my waist. Tonight, I belonged to him completely, and everyone knew it.”
He mumbled something in response—hungry, petulant words lost in the dark. But she wasn’t concerned.
Lowering her voice, she asked, “Did you touch yourself tonight?”
“No,” he confessed. “It didn’t feel right this time.”
“Good,” she purred. “I love knowing you go to bed soft, imagining what I might be doing with him. It’s such a turn-on.”
Her hand drifted to his aching length, fingers exploring with a teasing giggle. “Look at you—so eager. You must crave the idea of me belonging to him tonight. Such a pity you couldn’t see us together.”
“Want me to touch you now?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“Ask nicely,” she teased.
“Please,” he begged.
“Please what, darling?”
“Please stroke me.”
Her laughter was sweet as her fingers began their slow, deliberate dance, tormenting him with every teasing stroke.
“You two are so different,” she mused. “He simply takes what he wants, but you have to beg for even the smallest touch. It’s unfair, isn’t it? So cruel of me.”
He tried to thrust against her hand, desperate for more friction, but she halted him each time, only resuming once he stilled himself.
“When we got back to his place,” she continued, “he took everything—every inch of me. I lost count of how many times he made me come. He came in my mouth and twice deep inside. Think about that while I stroke you—he owns all of me, and you get just two fingers and a thumb. Does that make you sad?”
He nodded wordlessly, trembling with need yet restrained.
“Listen to those desperate whimpers,” she whispered. “I love hearing you like this—so needy, so powerless. This is your true calling: a submissive cuckold who can’t satisfy his wife, so she turns to a younger, stronger man. And he’s better than you could ever be. A real man. I’m so lucky I found him — aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” he murmured, ready to say anything that would please her and grant him the release he craved.
A soft giggle escaped her lips. “Poor boy, are you close? Are you desperate now? Would you do anything just to come?”
“Yes, anything. Please,” he gasped.
“Good,” she whispered, increasing the pace of her touch just a bit. “He loved us out in public so much he wants more—a whole weekend together. Just the two of us. I’ll be his alone, like his wife. Here, in our home, he’ll fuck me right in our bed. Isn’t that thrilling? Just say yes, and I’ll let you come.”
“Where will I go?” he asked, confused.
“You’ll sleep in the shed out back—camp bed, food, drinks. You can watch us through the window. Seeing us together, like a real couple—that’ll drive you wild, won’t it? Just say yes. Knowing you’re close by, helpless and hard, will make it so hot.”
He hesitated briefly, wrestling with his pride, but her fingers held him on the edge, expert and unyielding.
“Y-yes,” he whispered, defeated and desperate.
“Good boy,” she cooed softly. “Now, squirt for me.”
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