I didn’t really look at my husband at first. My eyes fixated on her - on those pretty young cheekbones and pert lips, with not a wrinkle or blemish daring to tarnish her silky skin.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty, with long slim legs and a bust that defied her petite frame and elfin waist. I hated her for it. Any woman would’ve done.
I thought of my own tits - he’d always loved them. But she was at least a cup size bigger and without a saggy stretch mark in sight. They were real, too - I could tell by the way they leapt back and forth like loose blancmanges as he fucked her.
She looked undeniably beautiful with her slender, gazelle-like shape bucking back and forth, blue eyes gazing adoringly up at my husband as she lay sprawled across my kitchen table with her legs spread.
I wanted to shout out - to call her a whore, a slut and a bitch.
That’s my fucking husband you’ve got inside you!
But I didn’t. I just stood there, silently watching, trembling, my mind whirring over and over.
He pulled out of her and for a second I got to stare at her as she lay fully exposed. Her petals flared in full bloom, their thick pink folds flourishing like a flower embracing its moment in the sun. And such was the attention she’d received, her immaculate florets glistened wet - all proudly engorged.
I’d never shaved my cunt. He’d always told me that that I didn’t need to - but hers was completely bald, allowing her labia to protrude unhindered with a youthful flourish and a bolshie, knowing flair.
He ducked down and started eating her. She giggled, in that way young girls think men will adore - and they probably do - and then started to moan with emboldened theatrics as she reached out a willowy arm and stroked the back of my husband’s head.
Oh, how your ego must love that, my darling.
My stomach churned. He did still eat me. He was a good man, an attentive man. I know how lucky I am. But he ate for love when he was with me - which was so very different from the way he was devouring the girl on my table. With her, it was an act which bore a greater resemblance to a man long starved of more exotic delicacies. His tongue worked ferociously, desperately, keenly - his groans deeper, hungrier, needier.
She came. He made her cum. She wasn’t faking it. A woman knows, regardless of her noisy theatrics. My husband was giving her his best.
They kissed as he stood back up. She reached for him, throwing her lithe arms around his neck and embracing him with all the passion of a girl getting to fulfil all her deepest inner fantasies with a man over twice her age.
He was groaning more loudly now, with his hands fondling her beautiful firm breasts. His mouth roved across her, nibbling her ear before kissing her delicate, ostrich-like neck.
She knew what he wanted. She cupped each heaving bosom in her dainty fingers, offering each breast up to him in turn, with doe eyes full of dutiful longing. It was galling to watch. My stomach churned. But I couldn't turn away. I had to see it all, to observe her magnificence. It seemed bad enough that she could have such a slim waist, but then having to gaze on her large, full breasts as she struggled to contain each fleshy orb in her open cupped palms - that was delicious agony.
Perhaps that was her intent - to display her majesty as the swell of each imperious bosom overflowed and cascaded over the sides of her little hands, leaving her soft pink areola expanding across her palms as her perky nipples pointed keenly upwards.
She’d not had children. Her tummy hugged her frame with toned perfection, her nipples stood proud and un-ravaged, her pussy fresh and untarnished. I suddenly felt an astonishing sense of pride in my husband for his accomplishment. She was a staggeringly attractive young woman, and this delicate, immaculate beauty adored him.
When he’d finished his gratuitous appreciation of her perfect breasts his hands suddenly clasped her slender waist. He scooped her up - something my more buxom size had always prevented, and lifted her easily from my kitchen table before dropping her down and bending her over its wooden top. It was only then that I noticed her seamed stockings and the implausibly tall heels she teetered effortlessly in.
He slapped her ass. She cried out and begged him to do it again.
Please, Daddy!
He did. Several times. She really liked it. She’s his good girl, apparently, and why wouldn’t she be when she’s got butt cheeks as firm and round as the freshest, most unblemished peach?
I sensed the culmination approaching. I snatched a glimpse at my husband's cock. He was throbbing, pulsatingly huge, for her. He mounted her, clutching her waist and rolling his head back in triumph as he does so. A rumbled groan was emitted, like thunder rolling from a moody sky. It’s the sort that came all the way from the trunk of his cock and spoke of the tightness of the young pussy he had just forced his way into.
How long has it been since you felt that sort of tightness, my darling? It must be fifteen years, at least.
He reached down her slender, arched back and snatched a clump of her pretty blonde locks in his fist. Her head lurched backwards under the duress and she gurgled with delight. And then he thrust. At first, it was slow but extremely firm - each hip drive a singular battering that shuddered her thighs against my kitchen table. There was a pained squeak as the wooden legs shunted over the kitchen tiles under the duress of their screwing.
I felt so jealous of her, of the way she could elicit my husband’s very best - of how she could bring forth the aggression that he was unleashing on her. Each piston-like gyration of his hips smashed into her elfin frame with ferocious passion. She yelped, screamed, and hollered with delight. Her long slender arms reached up my table as her perfectly manicured fingers desperately clutched the sides for support.
I felt another gut-churning swell of pride;
I love you! Bastard, that you are, I love you!
He climaxed. I knew he was going to. That’s what I have left - knowing him the way only a wife of twenty years can know her husband, regardless of whether what he’s doing is with another, much younger woman.
He didn't pull out of her. With me, he’d have rolled off, lit a cigarette and poured himself a drink. But with her he fell forward and lay with his body atop hers, stroking the streaks of blonde hair from her cheeks as he whispered into her ear. They lay like that for a while. She giggled and played to it, masterfully massaging his ego.
I don’t know how long the girl on my kitchen table will be in our lives. Until the next one, I should imagine. She’s beautiful, overtly sexual, and certainly deserving of the role and position my husband has given her.
My role must be one of support - to help him nurture his newfound interest and to find ways that he can enjoy it to its maximum. Perhaps, when he’s a spare moment, he’ll still find the inclination to use me. The waiting was ecstatic agony.
I took a sip of wine. He’d pulled out of her and she sat on the edge of my table, watching my husband pulling his trousers up. Everything about her was incessant chatter and innocence - and all with the self-confidence to sit naked and happy, post-coitus.
My husband checked his watch. She nodded understandingly and immediately slid off my kitchen table, leaving a slithering, glistening snail trail of her wet sex and my husband’s semen. She looked back and giggled. He laughed and kissed her cheek affectionately. Neither made any effort to wipe the tabletop wet patch away.
The video stopped, freezing on her face as she gazed knowingly into the camera. She was mocking me, taunting me and revelling in her moment of victory. It was in her eyes. And he was letting her do it.
I felt faint. But my focus didn't waver from my phone’s screen. I needed to linger on that frozen moment for just a second longer. My fingers trembled, but I knew what to do. Somehow, completely overwhelmed, I managed to text my husband.
She’s beautiful. Can see why you like her. Somehow bustier than me too (which really hurts, sweetheart!). Thanx so much for letting me share in your moment together. I know how weird it is, but I’ll treasure the video. Love the way you humiliate me. Always will. Lucky for you I’m so fucked up! (And don’t worry, I’ll clean the kitchen table when I get back). P.S. Can I come home now, please? x
I tugged my earbuds free and glanced around the bistro from my corner table. Nobody was paying me any attention at all. It was just the usual Friday late afternoon bustle as jubilant folks strode buoyantly through the doors to savour the end of their working week.
My phone vibrated. It was the reply from my euphoric, top of the world, hubby.
Isn’t she gorgeous! She’s desperate to meet you. She likes knowing you’re getting to watch us, so perfect for all! Love you for understanding all of this. Makes it much more fun! x
I smirked. The feminists would lash me to a post, for I was somehow inwardly praising my husband over having the decency to thank me for my humiliation.
So can I come home now? x
Have you done the vid I asked for? x
No x
I want that done and sent before you can come home x
I felt a tingle of excitement at his demand, and then a shit ton of nerves. I slugged my wine back, slung my handbag over my shoulder and tried to wander discreetly into the women’s loos. Two office types chatted bitchily about a co-worker as they slouched over the basins. I smiled politely and ducked into a cubicle.
I ducked forward, pulled my tights and knickers down and then plonked myself down on the seat. I allowed myself a quick rub, which further confirmed how obscenely wet I was, and then swiftly unbuttoned the front of my dress before leaning back against the cistern.
With a bit of frantic effort, I managed to heave my breasts free of my bra until they were spilling out of the front of my dress. My hand then reached down and into my handbag. I grabbed my phone and held it aloft… and pressed record.
I started to masturbate, spreading my legs and flicking and rubbing my clit with one hand as the other held the phone aloft to record my every move. It felt nauseatingly arousing to have such fresh images of her in my mind as I stared back at myself and my middle-aged body.
It was the perfect humiliation and I felt so grateful to my husband for making me do it. I thought again of her cunt, of its smooth, bald tightness and pinched at my own slack, hairy lips - pulling at my leathery labia so she could see how far my gnarled lips could stretch.
And then I aimed the phone at my tits, cupping each one individually so she could see the stretch marks, the way they hung with a sorrowful sag, and of my chunky, cork-like nipples - used by two children and then ravaged further by years, and gravity.
I started to piss and rubbed myself as the squirt gushed over the front lip of the toilet seat and drenched my tights. I didn’t care and made no effort to adjust myself. All that mattered was capturing each moment on camera - for them. I started to cum, barely able to contain a groan as my fingers nimbly nuzzled my clit as my cunt piss-squirted me to orgasm.
My climax was swift. Embarrassingly so. The humiliation consumed me. But it felt glorious, and I lay back panting, briefly taking a few snaps of myself all prone and spent.
Then I attached the video and hurriedly, nervously, typed.
To her. Some thoughts from me;
Mummies wear tights, have slack hairy cunts and sagging, used udders. This attached video shows what you do to this Mummy when you fuck her husband the way you just did. Thank you for my humiliation. x
The text whooshed away and I stood up, suddenly rather light on my feet, and tried to make myself look vaguely respectable. Two minutes later I was out in the fresh air, breathing in the heady scent of an early evening laden with opportunity.
My phone vibrated.
Come home. I love you x
I smiled and strode more purposefully through the milling passers-by. Even in my humiliation I knew one absolute truth;
He might be fucking her, but he’d always love me.
(c) Fraid Seams
