Our arrangement with our bull has become a thrilling monthly ritual that spans an entire weekend. Each Thursday, my wife indulges in hours of pampering—getting her nails, lashes, and eyebrows perfected, followed by a full Brazilian wax. We top off the day by shopping for new lingerie, a special treat reserved for their shared escapades.
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Friday afternoon, we check into a hotel, transforming our suite into a private playground. While my wife touches up her makeup in the bathroom, I prepare the whiskey, towels, and tissues—everything needed for a seamless experience. When he arrives, I pour him a glass, and we exchange light conversation as anticipation courses through the room.
She emerges, shedding her bathrobe to reveal a stunning red thong and matching bra. Without hesitation, she settles into his lap, their lips locking in a passionate kiss that sets the tone for the weekend. Then she kneels before him, taking him into her mouth with deliberate, devouring attention. Her tongue explores every inch, dipping as low as his balls before returning, lips wrapped tightly around his cock, bobbing steadily. He murmurs praise, guiding her rhythm as her pace quickens, the scene intoxicatingly raw.
Our bull continues casual chatter with me, his cock pulsing within my wife’s mouth—a heady reminder of the power exchange unfolding before my eyes. Eventually, he rises, leaving her standing, turns her around, and caresses her curves. Lifting her effortlessly off the floor with her arms draped over his shoulders for support, he aligns himself to enter her from behind in a position resembling the “flying squirrel” sex pose. Watching her pussy envelop his length inch by inch—a testament to her insatiable appetite—I’m overwhelmed by the raw ecstasy evident in her murmured, breathless sounds.
He pulls her onto the bed and commands her onto all fours, arching her back as he drives into her relentlessly from behind. The dominant intensity sheaths the room; he revels in his control, grinning as he praises her tightness and asks me who she belongs to. I affirm she’s his for the weekend, though I plan to take her back afterward. Laughing, he accelerates, warning me he can’t promise she’ll be the same once he’s finished.
Withdrawing, she collapses to catch her breath before turning to give him another eager blowjob. His hands grip her hair, guiding her mouth up and down as he bends to lift her legs. Hoisting her like a prize, he carries her to me, instructing me to penetrate her midair. I comply, seating myself as he thoroughly fucks her above me. Then, telling me to stand against the wall, he presses my wife—still held aloft—against me and pounds into her, her praises for his size fueling the furnace of our passion.
The heat intensifies until I finally climax, but our bull refuses to relent until he’s satisfied as well, continuing to drive her relentlessly. Nearing his own release, he sets her down gently, then empties himself across her face, leaving her beautifully disheveled. I clean her up carefully, carry her to bed, and we share a tender kiss. I tell her how much I’ll miss her; she whispers that she’ll call.
She stays with him through the weekend, calling me often—sometimes mid-fuck, sometimes deep in a blowjob—with her dirty talk igniting my imagination. Sunday morning is always a highlight; I arrive to pick her up, knowing they’ll grant me a few extra moments alone. Typically, she comes to me with him having fucked her once more, his cum still dripping down her legs.
That Sunday, she climbed into my car with a mischievous smile but said nothing. Noticing her mouth looked full, I asked if everything was alright. Slowly, she revealed it was stuffed with his cum. I laughed just as she swallowed, telling me, “He wanted me to show you before I swallowed.” The silent, shared understanding between us made the weekend’s pleasures all the more intoxicating.
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