The Tech Bull Takes My Wife

First Glimpse of the Bull

Pam glared at her laptop, the screen frozen, the progress bar crawling along like it was mocking her. Pop-ups kept exploding, files vanished or turned to gibberish, and the fan screamed like it was about to die. She slammed the lid, opened it again, praying for a miracle. No luck.

“Fuck,” she muttered, shoving sweaty auburn hair out of her face. Paul was upstairs, probably jerking off to his own voice on another endless call. No help there. Some coworker had raved about a tech guy who made house calls—Don, or something. She found the number, called, and tried to sound like she wasn’t about to throw the laptop out the window.

He arrived forty-three minutes later.

The doorbell rang. Pam padded barefoot across the floor, tugging her thin white tank top down over her tits. No bra, of course—she hadn’t expected anyone to see her like this. Her yoga shorts were practically painted on, the fabric damp with sweat and her own irritation. She opened the door and just stared, her brain short-circuiting for a second.

Don stood there, filling the doorway. Tall, broad shoulders, black polo stretched tight over a chest that looked like it could break her in half. Tattoos snaked up his arms, disappearing under the sleeves. He had a short beard and blue eyes that raked over her body, lingering on her tits before he gave her a crooked, not-at-all-professional smile.

“Pam? Don Holt. You said your machine’s throwing a tantrum.”

His voice was low and rough, like he’d just finished yelling at someone. She stepped aside, catching a whiff of sweat and cologne as he brushed past her, close enough that her nipples tightened. He carried a toolbox in one hand, laptop bag over his shoulder, moving like he owned the place already.

“It’s in the office,” she said, leading him down the hall. Her heart pounded, shorts riding up her ass with every step, nipples poking through the thin tank top. She felt like a horny teenager. He was here to fix her laptop, not to make her pussy throb.

The office was tiny, sunlight leaking through the blinds. Her desk faced the window, the dead laptop sprawled open like a corpse. Don dumped his bag, yanked the chair back, and sat down without asking. Pam hovered behind him, arms crossed under her tits, trying not to stare at his shoulders.

“Mind if I take over?” he asked, glancing up. Those eyes again—direct, unhurried.

“Go ahead.” She leaned in, pointing at the screen, and his arm pressed right into her breast. Neither of them moved. Her pussy clenched, heat flooding her stomach.

He started hammering away at the keyboard, muttering to himself. Every so often he asked her something—when did the pop-ups start, did she download any porn, did anyone else use her laptop. His forearm flexed, tattoo peeking out, and Pam couldn’t stop staring at his hands, thick fingers and hairy knuckles. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the ache between her legs.

“Looks like malware piggybacking on an old torrent client,” he said, not looking up. “Deep in the system. Gonna need admin access.”

She leaned over his shoulder again, this time pressing her breast right into his arm on purpose. He tensed, just for a second. She typed in her password—K3llyL0vesJ, some old joke with Paul. Don glanced at the screen, eyebrow raised, but didn’t say a word. Just hit enter.

The recovery program started, files popping up. Then a folder opened by itself—private photos from some beach trip years ago. Bikini shots, and a few topless ones she’d sent Paul and never bothered to delete. They flashed on the screen, and Don’s eyes lingered on her tits before he clicked away.

“Quite the archive,” he said, voice dry but warm. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

Pam’s face went red. “They’re old. I forgot they were even there.”

“Still look good on you.” He said it like he was talking about the weather, but his eyes were glued to her chest. He kept working, but the air felt thick, heavy. She stayed behind him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, hyperaware of his gaze tracking her fingers.

When she finished typing, his hand settled lightly on the small of her back, guiding her to sit on the edge of the desk beside the laptop.

“Better view for you,” he said, his hand lingering, thumb stroking the bare skin above her shorts. Her breath hitched, pussy throbbing.

Don started running deeper scans. More personal files popped up—screenshots of dirty texts from before she married Paul, a folder called “naughty” full of lingerie selfies she’d sent her husband. Every time something new appeared, Don made a low sound, half amusement, half something filthy.

“Someone likes attention,” he muttered, clicking through the pictures. One shot filled the screen: Pam on her back, legs spread wide, fingers shoved in her pussy, staring at the camera. She remembered taking it—Paul had begged for it. Her face burned, pussy clenching hard.

Don finally closed the folder. “Your system’s alive again. I got most of it back, but there’s still some junk hiding. I should remote in tonight, run some deep scans. Make sure nothing dirty is left behind.”

Pam swallowed, throat dry. “How does that work?”

“You give me your login. I connect from home. You can watch if you want, or just let me do my thing.” His eyes dropped to her tits, nipples poking through the tank top, impossible to miss. “Up to you.”

She should say no. Should change every password the second he left. Instead she found herself nodding, reaching for a sticky note. Her hand shook slightly as she wrote down her primary account—username, password, even the security questions. When she handed it over, their fingers brushed. His skin was warm, calloused. He folded the note slowly, deliberately, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Appreciate the trust, Pam.” He stood up, towering over her as she sat on the desk. Neither of them moved. She could smell him now—sweat and something raw. Her thighs parted slightly, shorts riding up, pussy aching.

He smiled, small and knowing. “I’ll message if anything urgent comes up.”

Don grabbed his tools, paused at the door. “Nice setup. Shame it was acting up.” His eyes dropped to her bare legs, then back up to her tits. “Call me if anything else needs fixing.”

The front door clicked shut behind him.

Pam sat there, frozen, heart pounding in her cunt. She slid off the desk, shoved her hand down her shorts. She was soaked, pussy dripping. Two fingers slid in easy, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning, replaying his hand on her back, the way he’d stared at her naked photos like he wanted to fuck her right there on the desk. She came hard, thighs shaking, wishing it was his thick fingers stretching her instead.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number: System looks good from here. Thanks for the access. –R

She stared at the message, chest heaving, pussy still throbbing. Paul was upstairs, clueless, while she dripped for another man.

The phone buzzed again.

R: Found a few more personal files. You want me to delete them… or keep them safe?

Her fingers hovered, arousal spiking fresh and vicious. She typed before she could think.

Pam: Keep them safe.

Three dots. Then:

R: Good girl.

Upstairs, Paul refreshed the shared cloud dashboard out of habit—old developer paranoia. New remote session active. Unfamiliar IP address. Cursor moving through directories he knew intimately. He clicked the live mirror link, heart suddenly in his throat.

The screen filled with thumbnail previews: his wife, years younger, naked and wanton. Then newer files—ones he didn’t recognize. A chat window opened in the corner. Don’s name at the top.

Paul’s hand tightened on the mouse. He didn’t close the window.

Screened and Stroked

The house was dead quiet, except for the air conditioning and the sound of Paul’s ice rattling upstairs. Pam was downstairs, lights turned low, stretched out on the couch in nothing but a pair of pink silk shorts and a matching camisole. The thin fabric stuck to her tits and ass, still damp from her shower. Her hair was wet, spread out behind her, and one bare foot hung off the edge, toes twitching as she stared at her laptop.

Don had logged in twenty minutes ago. She watched his cursor prowl through her files, opening and closing folders, running scans. Every click felt like his hands on her body.

A chat window popped up in the corner of her screen.

R: Still awake?

Pam’s heart thudded. She squirmed, thighs rubbing together, pussy already wet.

Pam: Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.

R: Good. Want to walk me through what you were doing when the glitch hit worst?

She bit her lip, remembering she’d just been cranking out some boring client crap. Nothing hot about it. But the way he asked made her pussy throb.

Pam: Just work stuff. Boring spreadsheets.

R: Doesn’t have to stay boring. Open the webcam for me. Let’s test video stability.

Her stomach twisted. She barely hesitated before turning on the webcam. The preview showed her face flushed, tits straining against the camisole, nipples hard and obvious through the silk. She tilted the laptop so he could see her from mid-thigh up, skin glowing in the low light.

Don’s video popped up. He was shirtless in a dark room, big chest covered in hair, tattoos crawling down his arm. His beard made him look rough, and his eyes were glued to her, hungry.

“Evening, gorgeous,” he said, voice gravel-rough through the speakers. “You look a hell of a lot better than spreadsheets.”

Pam laughed, nervous and thrilled. “Thanks for the late-night service call.”

“Anytime.” He leaned closer to his camera. “Tilt the screen down a little. Want to see what those silk shorts are hiding.”

Her face burned, and her pussy throbbed. She moved the laptop, showing how the shorts had ridden up, her ass half out and a wet patch spreading at the crotch.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Already wet for me?”

She nodded, throat tight.

“Show me.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. Pam’s hand slid under her shorts, fingers sinking into her soaked pussy. She gasped, already too sensitive.

Upstairs, Paul sat stiff in his chair, headphones on, watching both his work screen and the mirrored feed. He pretended it was for security, but the second he heard Pam moan and saw Don’s video, his cock was rock hard in his sweatpants.

He couldn’t look away.

Don’s voice filled the room downstairs. “Spread your legs wider, baby. Let me see how pretty that pussy gets when it’s needy.”

Pam spread her legs, shorts pulled tight. She yanked them aside, showing her pussy to the camera. Two fingers rubbed her clit, then shoved inside with a loud, wet noise that made her whine.

“Good girl,” Don praised. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“You,” she breathed. “Your hands. That day in the office. How you looked at my pictures like you wanted to bend me over the desk right then.”

A low growl from him. “I did. Still do. Pinch those nipples for me—hard.”

She shoved the camisole up, tits bouncing free. She pinched a nipple hard, the jolt of pleasure shooting straight to her pussy. Her hips bucked against her hand.

Paul was panting, jerking his cock in time with Pam’s fingers before he even realized it. He should stop, should go downstairs and put an end to this. Instead, he zoomed in, watching his wife finger herself for another man, obeying every filthy order.

Don’s voice dropped lower. “Add a third finger. Stretch yourself like my cock would.”

Pam moaned, louder now, shoving a third finger in. The squelching was filthy, echoing through the house. Her back arched, tits bouncing as she fucked herself.

“Tell me how long it’s been since your husband fucked you properly,” Don said.

The question hit her like a slap. She felt a stab of guilt, but it vanished as her orgasm built.

“Too long,” she admitted, voice shaking. “He’s… sweet. But not like this.”

Paul winced. Sweet. The word made his gut twist, but he just gripped his cock harder, jerking faster.

Don’s eyes darkened. “You deserve to be fucked filthy, Pam. Used until you can’t think straight. You want that?”

“Yes—God, yes.”

“Then come for me. Right now. Say my name when you do.”

Her thighs trembled. Fingers slammed deep; thumb ground against her clit. “Don—fuck—Don!”

The orgasm slammed into her. She screamed, back arching off the couch, pussy squeezing her fingers as she drenched the silk shorts.

Paul came right after, biting his arm to keep from yelling, cum splattering his stomach as he watched his wife get off for another man.

On screen, Don’s chest heaved. “Beautiful,” he rasped. “Send me something to remember that by.”

Pam, still trembling, grabbed her phone. She snapped a close-up—fingers buried, thighs shiny with her release—then hit send before doubt could stop her.

His reply was instant: a photo of his own. Thick cock in a rough fist, flushed and glistening at the tip. The sight made her clench all over again.

R: Tomorrow I’m coming back in person. Need to run a full hardware diagnostic. Hands-on.

Pam: What time?

R: Noon. Tell your husband you’ll be working from home.

She stared at the message, heart racing. Paul never checked her schedule closely; he trusted her. The lie would be easy.

Pam: I’ll be ready.

The call ended. Don logged off remotely. The screen went dark.

Pam lay there, used up, silk stuck to her sweaty skin. Her head spun with excitement and guilt she didn’t want to think about. She yanked the camisole down and went to the kitchen for water, acting like nothing happened.

Upstairs, Paul wiped himself off with shaking hands. He closed every window, deleted his history, but the images were burned in his head. His cock was already twitching again, useless and hungry.

Morning came too fast.

Pam stood at the kitchen island in a light sundress, no bra, no panties, sipping coffee when Paul came down for his usual travel mug. He looked tired, shadows under his eyes.

“Working from home today?” he asked casually, voice steady despite the storm inside him.

“Yeah,” she said, meeting his gaze with a bright smile. “Big deadline. Might need quiet all day.”

He nodded, throat tight. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”

Their eyes held a second longer than usual. Something unspoken flickered—recognition? Suspicion? Then he kissed her cheek, quick and polite, and headed to his office.

Pam watched him go, pulse already thrumming. She glanced at the clock: 11:47 a.m.

The doorbell rang at noon exactly.

She opened it to find Don in the same black polo, sleeves tight around inked arms, toolbox in hand. His gaze raked over the sundress, lingering where her nipples pressed against thin fabric.

“Hardware check time,” he said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with deliberate quiet.

Pam’s breath hitched. “Office is this way.”

He followed close, hand brushing the small of her back, guiding her down the hall. The touch burned through cotton.

Upstairs, Paul opened the nanny cam feed he’d never admitted to installing. Heart hammering, he watched Don’s hand slide lower, cupping her ass possessively as they disappeared into the office.

The door clicked shut.

Bent Over the Desk

The office door clicked shut, a sound that somehow managed to be louder than a gunshot in the dead quiet of the house. Sunlight slashed through the blinds, painting the desk in prison bars of gold. Don dropped his toolbox with a clatter that made Pam jump, her bare feet digging into the rug. She was standing there in a sundress that stuck to her hips, no bra, no panties, nipples poking through the thin cotton like she was begging to be noticed. Every breath made the fabric scrape her tits, and she felt like her whole body was wired for sex.

Don just stared at her, eyes crawling over every inch—her red face, tits straining against the dress, hips that begged to be grabbed, the hem already halfway up her thighs. He didn’t say a word, just let the silence drag out until she could hear her own heartbeat pounding like she’d been caught doing something filthy.

“Lock the door,” he said quietly.

Pam’s hand shook as she fumbled for the deadbolt, thumb sliding it shut with a click that sounded like a prison door. She was locked in, and her pussy throbbed at the thought.

He moved in, close enough that she could smell him—sweat, wood, and something that made her want to drop to her knees. He brushed her hair off her shoulder, fingers trailing down her arm, leaving goosebumps and a trail of heat that went straight to her cunt.

“You’ve been thinking about this since I left yesterday,” he said. Not a question.

“Yes.” The word came out husky.

“Tell me what you thought about.”

Her throat tightened. “Your hands. Your mouth. The way you looked at me like you already owned me.”

A low hum of approval. “Good girl.”

He crowded her backwards until her ass smacked into the desk, scattering papers everywhere. A coffee mug went flying, but neither of them gave a shit. His eyes stayed locked on hers, daring her to look away.

Don’s hands slid up her thighs, bunching the sundress up until her pussy was on display—bare, wet, and already glistening. The air hit her skin and she felt her cunt throb, knowing he was staring right at it.

“No panties,” he murmured. “You planned this.”

Pam nodded, biting her lip like a slut caught in the act.

His thumbs traced the crease where thigh met hip, teasingly close but not touching where she ached most. “Spread.”

She spread her legs, the desk digging into her thighs, pussy open and waiting for whatever he wanted to do.

He shoved a thick finger through her soaked slit, spreading her open. Pam gasped, breath hitching as he rubbed her clit, then shoved his finger inside her like he owned her pussy. Another finger joined, stretching her, curling up to hit that spot that made her legs shake.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growled. “Been a while since anyone’s taken proper care of this pussy?”

She whimpered, grinding her hips into his hand like a bitch in heat. "Way too fucking long."

Upstairs, Paul stared at the nanny cam feed on his largest monitor. He’d angled the hidden lens perfectly years ago—paranoid about break-ins, he’d told himself. Now it gave him a crystal-clear view of his wife bent slightly over her own desk, dress rucked up, Don’s tattooed forearm flexing as he finger-fucked her with slow, deliberate thrusts.

Paul’s cock was already out, leaking against his palm. He stroked in time with Don’s rhythm, shame burning hot in his chest even as pleasure coiled tighter.

Don shoved a third finger in, stretching her pussy wide. Pam clung to the desk, knuckles white, the filthy sound of her cunt getting fingered echoing in the room.

“Look at you,” Don said, voice rough. “Taking my fingers like you were made for it. Bet your husband’s never made you this wet.”

Pam squeezed her eyes shut, a flash of guilt burning through her before it got drowned out by the need to cum all over his hand.

“Answer me.”

“No,” she gasped. “Never like this.”

He yanked his hand away, making her whine like a needy slut, then spun her around and bent her over the desk. Her dress flipped up, ass bare and ready, nipples grinding into the cold wood through the thin dress. Don smacked her ass, hard, leaving a red handprint that burned.

“Count,” he ordered.

“One,” she breathed.

Another smack, harder. “Two.”

By the fifth smack, her ass was bright pink and her eyes stung, but her pussy was dripping, desperate to be filled. Don rubbed her sore skin, then spread her cheeks wide, pressing the fat head of his cock against her hole. She hadn’t even noticed him getting his dick out, but now it was right there, ready to shove inside.

“Tell me you want it.”

“Please,” she begged. “Fuck me. Please.”

He slammed into her with one hard thrust, burying his cock to the hilt. Pam cried out, stretched wide and stuffed full—he was bigger than Paul, thicker, longer, filling her up like she was made for it. Don grabbed her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and started fucking her with deep, rough strokes that made the desk bang against the wall.

Paul watched every thrust, the way Pam’s mouth fell open in silent screams, the way her fingers clawed at scattered papers. His own hand moved faster, breath ragged. He should be furious. Instead he was harder than he’d been in years.

Don leaned over her, beard scratching her shoulder as he bit down, not gentle at all. One hand found her clit, rubbing it hard, while the other yanked her head back by the hair.

“You love this, don’t you?” he rasped in her ear. “Love getting fucked by a stranger while your husband works upstairs like a good little boy.”

His words set her off, and she came hard, pussy squeezing his cock, legs shaking, moaning like a whore as she gushed all over him.

Don kept fucking her through her orgasm, not letting up until she was sobbing, begging for mercy. Then he pulled out, spun her around, and hauled her up onto the desk, crushing papers under her ass and nearly knocking the monitor over.

He shoved his cock back in, this time face to face. Pam locked her legs around him, heels digging into his ass, trying to force him deeper. Their mouths smashed together, sloppy and desperate, her own taste thick on his tongue.

“Gonna come inside you,” he warned against her lips. “Fill this married pussy up.”

“Do it,” she panted. “Please—want to feel it.”

His thrusts got wild, and then he slammed in deep, groaning as he shot his load inside her. Pam squeezed down, milking his cock for every drop, cumming again just from how filthy it all was.

They stayed tangled together, panting. Don’s sweaty beard dripped onto her tits. When he finally pulled out, cum leaked down her thighs. He stuffed himself back in his pants, then grabbed some tissues and wiped her up, surprisingly gentle for a guy who’d just fucked her brains out.

Pam slumped on the desk, dress bunched up, legs spread, the room reeking of sex and sweat. Reality started to seep back in—the house creaking, cars outside, the faint sound of Paul typing away upstairs, probably clueless that his wife just got railed on her own desk.

Or not.

Don zipped his toolbox, leaned down for one last slow kiss—soft this time, almost affectionate. “Keep those passwords the same,” he murmured. “I’ll check in tonight.”

He left as quietly as he’d come, front door clicking shut behind him.

Pam stayed sprawled on the desk, feeling Don’s cum oozing out of her, marking her as thoroughly fucked. Her legs shook as she tried to pull her dress down and gather up the mess of papers, hands still trembling from the aftershocks.

Footsteps on the stairs—heavy, deliberate.

The office door opened.

Paul stood in the doorway, glasses slightly fogged, hair disheveled. His gaze swept over her: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the faint red marks on her hips visible where the dress had ridden up again. His erection strained obviously against his jeans.

Pam froze, heart slamming into her ribs. This was it—rage, accusations, the end.

Instead Paul stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and locked it.

His voice came out low, raw. “I watched everything.”

The air left her lungs.

He moved closer, eyes dark with something fierce and hungry. “Every fucking second.”

Pam’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

Paul stopped inches away, hand rising to cup her cheek—thumb brushing her lower lip, still wet from Don’s kisses. His pupils were blown wide.

“I’ve never been this hard in my life,” he confessed, voice cracking.

Her world tilted.

Confession in the Afterglow

The office reeked of sex: sweat, pussy, and the sharp stink of cum. Papers were everywhere, the desk a mess, and a mug had dumped coffee all over, leaving a big ugly stain. Pam was still half-sprawled where Don had finished with her, sundress bunched at her waist, her thighs smeared with his cum and her own. She was panting, tits heaving, staring at Paul in the doorway.

He just stood there, not moving, staring at her. His glasses were crooked, hair a mess from running his hands through it, and the bulge in his jeans was obvious. The silence was heavy, pressing down on her like a hand.

Pam’s mind raced. He watched. Every thrust, every moan, every filthy word Don had growled into her ear. Shame flooded her, hot and prickling, chased immediately by a darker thrill that made her pussy clench around the slow leak of another man’s cum.

Paul came in and shut the door, locking it with a loud, deliberate click. He leaned against it, arms hanging, but his fists were clenched tight on his thighs.

“I saw everything,” he said, voice low, rough at the edges. “The nanny cam. The remote feed last night. All of it.”

Pam pushed up on her elbows, dress falling to cover her modestly—too late. “Paul—”

He shook his head once, sharp. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain yet.”

He crossed the room in three strides and stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his own release on him, the sharp scent of arousal still clinging to his skin. His hand lifted, hesitated, then cupped her jaw—thumb stroking over her lower lip, still swollen from Don’s teeth.

“I’ve never been so fucking turned on in my life,” he admitted, the words scraping out like they hurt. “Watching him take you apart on our desk. Hearing you beg for his cock. I came twice upstairs just from the sound of you screaming his name.”

Pam’s breath caught. She looked for anger or disgust in his face, but all she saw was hunger, dark and obvious.

“You’re not… mad?”

“Mad?” He laughed, short and bitter. “I’m fucking destroyed, Kel. In the best way. I’ve fantasized about this for years—somebody else using you, owning you, while I watched. I just never thought you’d…” He swallowed hard. “Never thought you’d actually do it.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs. “I didn’t know you wanted it.”

“I was terrified to ask.” His thumb pressed into her lip, parting it. “Thought you’d think I was sick. Weak.”

Pam turned her face into his palm, kissing the center of it. “I thought the same thing about myself today. That I was broken for wanting him so bad.”

Paul let out a shaky breath. He looked at the monitor, still showing the nanny cam feed with Don’s empty chair. He shoved it aside and yanked Pam to her feet. Her sundress dropped back down, but the fabric scraped her sore nipples, and the mess between her legs made her thighs stick together.

He pushed her back against the desk, hands running up her sides, thumbs pressing under her tits. “Show me,” he said. “Tell me how it felt.”

Pam’s voice trembled. “He was rough. Held me down. Spanked me until I cried. Fucked me so deep I saw stars.”

Paul groaned, forehead dropping to hers. His cock pressed hard against her belly through denim. “More.”

“He called me filthy names. Said my pussy was made for strangers. Made me admit you hadn’t fucked me right in months.”

A shudder ran through Paul. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging in exactly where Don’s bruises were forming. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “God help me, yes. But this—this right now—feels like coming home and catching fire at the same time.”

He kissed her, hard and desperate, tasting Don’s cum on her tongue and growling into her mouth like it turned him on even more. Pam kissed him back, grabbing his shirt and yanking him closer. When they broke apart, both of them were gasping for air.

Paul reached past her and woke the monitor. With a few clicks he pulled up the saved recording—high-definition, timestamped twenty minutes ago. Don bending her over. The first slap. Her first cry.

“Watch it with me,” he said, voice hoarse. “Tell me every sensation.”

He dropped into the chair and dragged her into his lap, facing the screen. Her dress bunched up again, and his bare cock—already out—pressed hot and wet against her ass. He didn’t fuck her yet, just let her feel how hard he was while the video played.

On screen, Don’s hand cracked against her ass. Pam flinched in Paul’s lap at the memory sting.

“Right there,” she breathed. “It burned so good. Made me drip down my thighs.”

Paul shoved his hand between her legs, fingers sliding through the sloppy mess of Don’s cum. He sucked his fingers clean, moaning like a pervert right against her back.

“Keep going,” he urged.

She did, telling him every thrust, every filthy word, every time she’d lost it. Paul rocked her on his lap, his cock sliding between her ass cheeks, rubbing her hole but not fucking her yet. His other hand pinched her nipples, twisted them, yanked until she sobbed.

By the time the recording reached Don’s final thrust and release, Pam was grinding desperately against Paul, chasing friction. Paul paused the video on a frozen frame—her face contorted in ecstasy, mouth open, eyes rolled back.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So fucking beautiful when you’re ruined.”

He hauled her up just enough to shove his cock at her pussy and yanked her down. She was so stuffed with Don’s cum that Paul slid in easy, the wet squelch loud and dirty. They both groaned, loving how nasty it was.

Paul fucked her slow and deep, hands tight on her hips, making her bounce on his cock the way he wanted. “You want more of him, don’t you?” he growled in her ear.

“Yes,” she admitted, no hesitation now.

“Want him to use you again while I watch?”

“God, yes.”

Paul sped up, hips snapping. “Tomorrow. You invite him back. I’ll hide in the closet. I want to see it live—every thrust, every drop of cum he pumps into my wife.”

Pam clenched around him at the words, orgasm already building again. “You’d let him fuck me raw? Fill me up while you stroke yourself in the dark?”

“Fuck yes.” His voice cracked. “And then I’ll take you after, covered in him, and add mine.”

The image shattered her. She came hard, pussy spasming, milking him as she cried out. Paul followed seconds later, thrusting deep and spilling inside her, mixing with Don’s load until it leaked out around his cock.

They clung together, trembling, sweat-slick and breathless. Paul’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her like she might disappear.

“We’re doing this,” he said quietly. “But we set rules. Safe words. Boundaries. I need to know you’re still mine at the end of it.”

Pam turned in his lap, straddling him properly, and kissed him slow and soft. “I’ve always been yours. This just makes me yours dirtier.”

He smiled against her mouth—small, shaky, real. “Text him. Tell him to come tomorrow. Same time.”

She reached for her phone on the desk, thighs still trembling. Cum dripped steadily down her legs as she typed.

Pam: Can you come back tomorrow? Noon again. Still having… issues.

The reply bubbles appeared almost instantly.

R: Thought you’d never ask. I’ll bring extra tools.

Pam showed Paul the screen. His cock—still half-hard inside her—twitched at the words.

Paul kissed her shoulder. “Go clean up. I’ll set up the closet.”

She stood up, legs wobbly, feeling their cum leaking down her thigh. As she headed for the door, Paul called out.

“Leave the dress off when he gets here.”

Pam paused, looked back. He was already moving the spare chair into the walk-in closet, arranging sightlines.

The doorbell would ring in less than twenty-four hours.

Watched and Wrecked

The master bedroom reeked of vanilla from the candle Pam had lit, trying to cover up the smell of sex that always seemed to linger. She’d changed the sheets that morning, tucking them so tight you’d think she was expecting a hotel inspector, not the man who was about to fuck her in front of her husband. Pam spent the rest of the morning pacing, bare feet slapping the floor, heart pounding every time she glanced at the closet. Paul was already in there, door cracked just enough to watch, sitting on a stool he’d dragged in for the perfect view. He’d left his phone in his pocket this time, too afraid he’d jerk off and ruin the moment before it even started. He wanted to see it all, no filter, just his wife getting ruined by another man.

Pam had on nothing but a flimsy black silk robe, the belt barely tied. Underneath, her skin was still streaked with pink handprints from yesterday, a roadmap of where Don had slapped and grabbed her. Her nipples poked through the fabric, hard and obvious, and she’d been wet since she woke up, pussy aching for more. Every time she saw herself in the mirror, she remembered what was coming: her husband hiding in the closet, about to watch another man use her like a toy.

The doorbell rang at noon sharp.

She walked down the stairs, the silk robe barely covering her ass, every step making her more aware of how soaked her pussy was. She was already dripping, desperate for Don’s rough hands and filthy mouth. When she opened the door, Don was there, muscles bulging under a tight gray T-shirt, toolbox in one hand, black duffel in the other. He stared at her tits and thighs, not even pretending to be polite.

“No dress today,” he observed, voice low and approving. “Good girl.”

Pam stepped aside and Don grabbed her, yanking her against his chest. He kissed her hard, tongue shoved in her mouth, beard scratching her chin. She moaned, clutching at his shirt, already melting for him.

He broke the kiss but kept her pinned. “Bedroom?”

“Upstairs,” she whispered.

Don dropped his bags and picked her up like she weighed nothing, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. The robe fell open, one tit hanging out for him to see. He carried her upstairs, not even bothering to close the bedroom door, showing off his prize.

In the closet, Paul watched through the slats, cock already straining against his zipper. The sight of Don carrying his wife like a prize made his stomach twist with jealousy and lust in equal measure. He stayed silent, barely breathing.

Don deposited Pam on the edge of the bed and stepped back, surveying her. “Take it off. Slow.”

Her hands shook as she fumbled with the belt. The robe hit the floor, leaving her naked—tits out, belly soft, pussy already glistening with need. She stood there, exposed, waiting to be used.

“Fuck,” Don muttered. “You’re even better than the photos.”

He shrugged off his shirt, revealing the full spread of ink across chest and arms—compass, raven, intricate geometric patterns. Belt buckle clinked as he unfastened it. Pam’s gaze dropped to the thick bulge straining his jeans, mouth watering.

“On your knees first,” he said.

She dropped to her knees, eager. Don yanked out his cock—thick, red, already leaking. He grabbed her hair and shoved her face toward it.

“Open.”

Pam took him in slowly, lips stretching around the head, tongue swirling. The taste of him—salt and skin—made her moan around his shaft. He let her set the pace for only a moment before tightening his grip and thrusting deeper, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged softly, eyes watering, but didn’t pull away. Saliva coated him as he fucked her mouth with controlled strokes, beard-shadowed jaw clenched.

Paul grabbed his cock through his pants, stroking as he listened to his wife gag on another man’s dick. The sloppy, wet sounds and her muffled moans made his balls ache.

Don pulled out abruptly, strings of spit connecting her lips to his glistening cock. “Enough. On the bed. Ass up.”

Pam crawled onto the bed, spreading her knees wide, chest pressed to the sheets, ass in the air. Her pussy was swollen and leaking, asshole twitching, everything on display. She felt filthy and perfect, ready to be fucked.

Don retrieved his belt from the floor, doubling it. The first snap across her ass made her yelp, heat blooming instantly. He alternated cheeks—sharp, measured strikes that turned skin from pink to red, each one drawing a sharper cry. Tears pricked her eyes, but her hips rocked back greedily for more.

Paul watched every welt rise, cock leaking steadily now. The cruelty of it—the way Don marked what was his—should have enraged him. Instead it made him ache to join, to add his own handprints, to reclaim her afterward.

Don threw the belt away and shoved two thick fingers into her pussy, no warning. She was so wet he could have fit his whole fist. He curled his fingers, rubbing her hard inside, thumb grinding her clit.

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to right now,” he growled.

“You,” Pam sobbed into the sheets. “It’s yours—please—”

He shoved in a third finger, stretching her wide until she whined, then pulled out, leaving her gaping and desperate for cock.

Don stood, rolled on a condom with practiced efficiency, and lined up. One brutal thrust buried him to the hilt. Pam screamed into the pillow, back arching. He gave her no time to adjust—just gripped her hips and started pounding, skin slapping skin, the bed frame creaking in protest.

In the closet, Paul finally yanked out his cock, jerking off fast as he watched Don’s tattooed back flex with every thrust. Pam’s tits bounced, her face twisted in pleasure, every slap and moan making Paul even harder.

Don shifted angles, hitting deeper. “Look at you—taking stranger cock like a desperate slut while your husband’s probably jerking off to spreadsheets downstairs.”

The words hit Pam like a slap. She glanced at the closet, knowing her husband was watching her get fucked like a whore. The humiliation made her pussy clamp down, orgasm ripping through her so hard she screamed Don’s name, body shaking around his cock.

Don didn’t stop. He flipped her onto her back, threw her legs over his shoulders, and slammed back in, folding her up. Every thrust ground his cock against her clit. Sweat dripped from his beard onto her tits as he stared down at her, eyes wild.

“Gonna fill this cunt up,” he promised. “Leave you leaking me for days.”

“Do it,” she begged, nails raking down his back. “Come inside me—please—”

He slammed deep one last time and stilled, groaning long and low as he pulsed inside the condom. Pam felt every throb, every hot spurt against the latex barrier, and came again—smaller but sharper—milking him helplessly.

They stayed locked together, breathing ragged. Don lowered her legs gently, kissed her slow and filthy, then pulled out. He tied off the condom, dropped it in the wastebasket, and dressed with unhurried calm.

“System’s running perfect now,” he said, smirking. “But I’ll swing by next week for maintenance.”

He left without another word, footsteps fading down the stairs, front door clicking shut.

Silence fell.

Pam lay sprawled, thighs trembling, pussy throbbing and slick. Red welts glowed across her ass; cum and her own juices painted her inner thighs. She turned her head toward the closet.

Paul came out, cock still in his fist, face red. He stared at his wife’s ruined body—red marks, cum everywhere, her eyes glazed with fucked-out pleasure.

He didn’t say a word. He climbed onto the bed, shoved her legs open, and rammed his cock in, balls deep. She was soaked and loose from Don’s cock, but still squeezed Paul like she needed him to finish the job. He fucked her hard, taking back what was his, whispering filthy things in her ear.

“Mine,” he growled. “Even when you’re his, you’re mine.”

Pam wrapped around him—legs, arms, pussy—and met every thrust. “Always yours,” she gasped. “Dirtier now. Better.”

They came together, messy and loud, his cum mixing with the mess already inside her. After, they lay tangled up, sweat drying, both of them wrecked.

Paul ran his finger over a welt on her ass. "Next time," he muttered, "I want to see him cum in you raw. I want to feel it when I fuck you after."

Pam shivered, arousal already stirring again. “We’ll ask him.”

They both knew this was just the beginning. The door was wide open now—filthy, dangerous, and exactly what they wanted.

Downstairs, Don’s duffel sat by the door. Inside was a USB drive labeled 'Diagnostics.' He’d copied every photo, every video, every filthy session. Maybe it was insurance. Maybe he just liked to watch.

Neither Pam nor Paul had noticed it yet.