My girlfriend and I share an open relationship, trusting each other fully in our explorations. She maintains a steady friends-with-benefits connection with our neighbor, and we’re comfortable enough that I sometimes watch them, quietly pleasuring myself as they enjoy each other.
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On most Friday nights, we head to the club, both trying our luck at meeting someone new. Naturally, she has the charm and success that usually outshines my own efforts.
Last Friday was no different. I received a text from her, mentioning she was about to leave with a guy. At the club’s entrance, I spotted them together—he was a towering man, easily 6’3″, while she stood petite at around 5’2″. He casually slipped his hand beneath her skirt, firmly squeezing her ass as they made their way outside.
I followed at a distance, watching as they approached his car and climbed in. The engine started but the vehicle remained idling. Curious, I edged a little closer, catching an intimate glimpse through the untinted windows—she was on her knees in the back seat, face moving rhythmically on his cock, his hand resting possessively on her raised ass, one finger teasing inside her. I didn’t want to be caught staring and tried to appear casual, walking by several times to steal quick looks.
Eventually, they shifted to the front seats, and I caught sight of her giving him road head as he pulled away.
I chose to head home, aroused and eager for her return, imagining all the stories she’d share as we made love. I sent a few texts, but exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep.
At seven in the morning, my phone buzzed. It was her, asking if I could pick her up since she was far out in the suburbs. Apparently, an Uber would cost over $60, and the man she’d spent the night with wasn’t offering a ride or to pay.
Accepting the role of devoted boyfriend, I drove out of the city for nearly an hour. Upon arrival, I called her—no answer. Again—silent. Frustration crept in, but I had little choice but to wait. The thought of confronting the man who had just moments ago been inside my girlfriend stirred complex emotions.
Finally, a text: “Coming!” I saw her emerge—disheveled and utterly worn out.
“Sorry,” she said breathlessly, “he asked for one last blowjob before I left, and I couldn’t say no… then we ended up fucking again.”
My annoyance wavered as she described the night—no sleep, relentless passion, him climaxing four times, then once more when they fucked in his kitchen. The scent of him clung to her breath, while dried traces of cum still marked her hair near her forehead, evidence of his intensity.
She called him an asshole but admitted he had a remarkable cock and knew how to use it. They exchanged numbers, and I suspect I’ll be making trips out to pick her up again—because she’s definitely going to see him again.
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