I'm doing a quick midweek shop for stir-fry ingredients at my local supermarket, and when I can barely enter through the sea of red rose bouquets and a floor-to-ceiling display wall of lovey-dovey cards, I gag a little. I hate Valentine's Day with a passion.

Then I remember what we have planned for it and quickly correct myself, grinning ear to ear self-righteously. There's nothing wrong with V-Day; it's these roses and cards being shoved down everyone's throats I have a problem with. That's not the kind of thing I like being shoved down my throat. Yes, you've guessed right, I prefer a big thick cock in there.

And that is exactly what I am getting. Apparently. Because that's the husband's kink. And I can't say I mind. I've also bought him some perfume samples because he's experimenting with new scents at the moment and a bottle of his favourite booze. Both will sweeten our devilish plans for the night. Of course, my main present is providing a nice wet pussy for his threesome fancy. Hehe.

Am I the perfect wife, or what?

Thanks. I probably will have a badge with that title one day, or a tattoo, or a necklace to wear along with my 'slut' and 'kinkster' ones.

My point is, those damn roses and cards will only end up in the bin. Wasteful and boring. Buy a potted plant instead, a bottle of something or my personal favourite: a sex toy. I'm getting one of those again, too. I just haven't decided what I want yet because I already have so much junk. But at least those do get some use. Some of them more than others. (Anyone interested in a toy review story series by any chance?) None of them ended up in landfill yet, apart from a pair of vicious magnetic nipple clamps. Urgh. Avoid those at all cost. Torture - and not in a good way.

'Roses are red, violets are blue...

All I want for Valentine's is a nice cock

Better still, make it two'

I sing to myself, browsing the veggie aisles for oyster mushrooms.

Yeah, I'm a bit high, in case you're wondering. Not on drugs, though. Let me elaborate...

So, after a huge identity crisis, borderline mental breakdown that saw me smash things around the house disguised as aggressive cleaning, now I'm taking my husband's advice and switch my brain off a little and just 'be chill'. I've cut back on work, and instead of my stressing, overanalysing self I'm taking his 'just go with the flow' approach.

Just as he has his trademark theatrical eye-roll, I now have my shoulder-shrug streak. I'm still perfecting it with a sideway pursed lip-twitch or a lip roll depending on the level of fucks given.

I will not bore you with the details of how this approach translates to everyday life. The only thing you need to know is that I've put all the control into his hands when it comes to swinging dates.

I still run my own account to chat, and if I like someone, I send them his way to set something up, but now he has the final say when we have a meet and whom we are seeing. This new arrangement also came about after a night with a certain guy called Jack. We met him a few weeks ago after much protest from me - simply because he reminded me of one of my exes. After the other two timewasters dropping out and he becoming our only choice...

Well, it turned out to be the best night in a very long while. (I've written about him in my previous story, will write about him in a series, and he will probably become one of our new regulars.) Sometimes, the best ones are the ones you normally wouldn't go for.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, so hubby chose this guy for the Valentine's Day meet; let's call him G.T., which is the initials of his profile name. I did ask Quinn to show me pictures of him, and once again, I wasn't too happy; he was not my type at all. But instead of turning my nose up, like I usually do, I shrugged my shoulder and said, 'Whatever'. It was his Valentine's Day wish, after all. I didn't know anything about G.T. at this point. If Quinn had told me what he was, I wouldn't have been on my account trying to find someone better. And did I? Did I fuck. A thirty-four year old six foot four bi dom god. With a fucking cock piercing! Who 'loves and specialises in couples'. What??? Which planet did you say? I was literally soaking my panties just looking at his pictures and reading his profile. Then we started talking filth, and I was like, 'I'm gonna die if I can't have this one'. I slutted to hubby and begged him with not a speck of shame left in me. But by that time, it was all set up with G.T., and it would have been nasty of us to pull out because of that.

Well, Mr Darksoul33, do not disappear on me! I'm begging you on my hands and knees, kissing your feet. Next time!

Isn't it a bit rich of me to trash red roses and consumerism when I consume men this way? Bad kitty! Needs a real good spanking; you do!

Be careful what you wish for, though.

Because then, a few hours later, G.T. showed up, and after a brief initial chat about likes and my preference of being called 'kitten', I found out that he is also both bi and dominant. And though, still not my type, he was not bad-looking either. The new set of eyes I suddenly looked at him with sparkled like the Hope Diamond in the soft glow of the TV, playing porn that no one was interested in.

Oh, and let's not forget that not only he was hot, really polite - asking for limits and likes but he was also packing a fucking space rocket. When he told us, "I need both of you filthy sluts on your knees sucking me," I was losing my mind already. He never stopped talking smut, which drove me insane in the best way possible. He was just on and on and on and on and on and on about how I 'need to take his full length' (impossible!) and how I 'have to gag on it' and 'try harder'.

"I can take a long one or a thick one," I giggled when he let me come off it for a few seconds, "when it's both, then we have a problem." They burst into a fit of laughter at that. The amount of thick saliva I was producing and how it was smeared all over my face by one of them was no joking matter, though.

"Go on, take it, get back on it," G.T. rambled on. When he called me a little champ, I just had to try my hardest, and for like half a blink of an eye, I did manage to swallow him fully.

I like to treat giving head as a sport because then I get very competitive and give my absolute best. And they all love it. Win-win, if you ask me. Now that I think about it, my obsession with giving BJ as if my life depended on it might have originated from the days when I was having a fling with my handball coach. The same way he used to cheer us on with 'come on girls, you can do better' from the bench, he had the same spirit in the bedroom (or more often on his car's back seat). I think my mind might have fused those two. But faulty wiring is the sexiest fucking thing; gives the best damn spark, doesn't it?

So, I was there, really enjoying myself while hubby also tried his best, joining in taking that absolute monster, and I spurred him on by pushing his head on it.

Oh, don't feel sorry for him; you should have seen how he was forcing me on it or how he was holding me by the neck.

Shit, now I'm wet again writing about it. :D And I have come like five times since. Or fifteen. But who was counting? So, don't feel sorry for him; he loves it, and I still do 95% of the job, always. When it became evident that we needed to progress further, they got rid of my bra and rolled on, pinching and twisting my nipples. I instinctively began pulling away as my nipples are very sensitive, and G.T. was really rough with them.

But instead of slowing down or being more gentle, he started slapping them with his big open palm, going especially ruthless on my right one closer to him. It did hurt, a lot, and I cried out many times, but he didn't seem to care. If anything, he was getting more and more merciless because I was not stopping him.

"You're in a lot of trouble here," he said when it was clear that I both loved and hated the ill-treatment.

The unpredictability of when and where the next smack landed and how hard exactly, was really fucking with my mind. He was also using the back of his hand (I think), which resulted in some more gentle blows.

I can't remember whether they pushed me, or by trying to escape, I fell backwards onto the bed, but I ended up on my back with both of them kneeling over me.

And the rain of sweet abuse never stopped. Now it wasn't just my tits; it was my thighs, my stomach and when I tried to roll away to protect my sensitive and burning flesh - my ass too. "You can go harder there," I tried a smart suggestion to lessen the harm, but he was having none of it and rolled me back to continue his assault on my front.

They were both kneeling by my legs, G.T. on my right side, Quinn on my left and at this point, they decided to pin me down by straddling my legs.

Oh my, if reading this story does half of what it does to me writing it...Then I want to hear about it.

So that is when the real intense mess began because 1. my cries for mercy only made him more sadistic, 2. he had found my favourite magenta paddle on the TV stand. I honestly don't know which one was better or worse. His bare hands burned more, but the paddle stung like stings from a hundred bees.

With every blow, I cried out, not really caring any more whether I was waking the kids or the neighbours or Quinn's deaf aunt on the other side of the city. I desperately tried to pull away and tell him to stop.

But he didn't.

Why?

Because 'stop' is not a fucking safe word! Nor is 'enough' or 'it hurts'. For both of our miswired brains, it was just another squirt of fuel into the flames.

I was getting so fucking wet that our bed was in danger of being turned into a water bed. And he knew exactly. Because between administering the cruel whacks, he checked. The misfit knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he knew he could go harder, still. And he did just that. Until the barrage was constant and everywhere. Until my brain finally told me I had enough.

Then what did I do? Safeword out? Hah. Nope. Never have, and I don't intend to, but I really, really love to see them try to make me. Instead, I tried to wrestle them off me.

Now, neither of them is exactly small built. My husband, while not a gym rat type, has arms and shoulders that wouldn't look out of place in a boxing ring, and G.T. is that athletic, lean, 15% body fat type. Both around six feet or just above. So I stood no chance in catty hell. But damn me if I didn't try.

Considering my five foot six, size twelve assets, I was surprised just how much strength I had against them. Adrenaline supercharge blast, I guess. I couldn't push them off me, but they needed all of their four arms and G.T.'s full body weight to keep me still. Relatively. I still got what I wanted because now he didn't have a free hand to hit me with.

We froze in that truce suspense for a moment while I instinctively clenched my teeth and growled at them.

"That feral cat will be purring soon," G.T. said, stroking my face, and I melted like never ever before.

I like it when the afterplay is peppered into the rough stuff. In fact, I've recently written a whole story about it. And this was just the sweetest of that kind. Just pure lush. Who cares about love and roses when I can have this??? What he said next was even neater.

"Have you had enough?" Checking in on me in that twisted, mock condescending way took all the knotty, hard-to-please spots in my body and mind on the best joyride there is.

With my chest heaving rapidly, my voice somewhere between a sob and a voodoo chant, I pointed to my right breast. "I think this one had too much," when I added, "too much 'fun'", they both laughed, and I was in happy kitty heaven because not only was I a champ, but apparently a funny one too.

"Doesn't mean you're getting out of anything," G.T. threatened, and I purred a deep chesty growl again. I'm still getting shivers thinking about it. And about what came next.

“Look how fucking wet we got you,” G.T. mused, playing with my soaked, puffy labia, separating them and making a slow trail up to my clit. He pinched my little sensitive button with a growl that seemed to be resonating the walls around us.

“How does it feel?” he asked. I would have replied but couldn’t quite form the words. At least not in a language he would have understood. But maybe I did answer. That bit is a bit foggy because I was too gone, riding the waves of pleasure as he played with me, mapping my most sensitive areas – probably for future reference. And I threw my palms high above me against the cold wall with its stupid copper butterflies and just enjoyed what he was doing to me. I have never been this vulnerable with anyone. I usually can’t stand when they play with me this way or try to go down on me. I have my own fucked up reasons, ok? I only want my husband between my legs like that.

But G.T. opened me up like a two-thousand-page anthology, flicking through my best pages, getting off on it and seemed to be quoting my favourite lines from it too.

I desperately needed to cum. Fraught behest on the tip of my tongue, yet never leaving my lips, my body was in complete submission. And I’m not one to go there willingly. My mind, still not letting go of the same control that was ruining my life, I remained silent.

His physical power over me made me weak, showing a side of me I seldom let slip. I looked at my husband, hoping he would understand what I needed. His eyes were glassy; he was somewhere else, and I didn’t want to bring him back from his sweet little trip. Also, deep inside, I didn’t want to cum...

What I really wanted was G.T. to tease me to the very brink and then deny my orgasm. Over and over again. That’s what I really wanted or needed. But that is not the kind of topping from below I’m willing to do. So, I have to go about it in this very roundabout and elaborate way. I hope you don’t mind, S.

“Go on all fours. I need to prepare you for my thick cock,” he said, then he explained what he was about to do to me, and again I lost my fucking mind.

I begged and whimpered, cried and pleaded with him not to while riding the Seventh Heaven jet to Bliss Island at the same time. My cries of ‘please don’t’ and ‘I can’t take that’ needed no Google translate to be interpreted as ‘I fucking love what you’re doing’. Every new digit he introduced stretched me to a whole new level of heaven and hell.

His constant ‘yes, you can’ and ‘good girl’ were the most mind-blowing accords to the guitar strings of my gyroscope brain. I wanted this song on a loop till the end of time. “We’re almost there,” he raised his voice, making sure I could hear him loud and clear, “four fingers.”

Quinn was taking a back seat at this part and just enjoyed his favourite hardcore porn with his favourite little porn star, and I couldn’t see him, but I did hear his familiar, “fucking hell,” comments.

“I really don’t think I can,” I whined, trying to straighten my voice and my alphabet. And even though G.T.’s “Yes, you can, kitten,” took my head on another stratospheric orbit, the reality was that I was fucking ripping.

“No, you need some lube!” My wise, problem-solver brain finally managed to put the solution into words.

According to my husband, much later, I ‘completely went off my head’ at this point when they couldn’t find the bottle. Well, yes, I probably have. Imagine stopping a scene THERE and being faced with the fact that the nice fruit-flavoured, flower-scented £15 bottle of lube that I bought less than a week ago just poof been swallowed by this damn Bermuda Triangle of a house. I can absolutely imagine myself going into a teeth-rattling rabid rage over something like that. But honestly, I don’t remember because all I can remember is that I was whole torso in, waist down behind the bed, which is the disgusting dumping ground of the kid. Among his sticky dinosaurs and broken toy soldiers, I did find the old, almost but just almost empty bottle of plain watery lube. Who’s the little star champ again who saves the day?

As it turned out, my little hissy fit was unnecessary because we jumped right back where we were as if nothing had happened. And all I heard was G.T.’s moans of, “Mmm, yeah, this is much better”.

And the next thing I know is this strange but very welcome feeling, like being a bottle in the sea, floating with a now illegible message inside, riding the waves – except the waves were also inside me. His constant murmuring voice added another soft ripple to my happy little bottled-up tropical paradise.

The last time I was fisted like this was some twenty years ago, and that was my then-girlfriend with her tiny feminine hand. I just couldn’t believe it was happening and how amazing it felt.

It seemed to go on forever, but even forever wouldn’t have been enough. I wanted to put some cushion into this little cosy corner and live there. A tiny, really insignificant part of me came up with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I needed to cum. But again, when you’re having this much fun, you don’t want it to end. Sometimes that doesn’t matter. And this was undoubtedly one of those occasions. Luckily, I wasn’t the ringmaster; otherwise, we would have been stuck there till the end of times...

My dear husband bore down upon me, pressing my head sideways into the bedding as he told me, “You need to take his cock now.”

His palm was covering my ear, and I couldn’t hear the discussion between them, only the deep murmuring sounds, but I asked him later, and according to him, the conversation went something along the lines of ‘the little slut took that well’. Happy to be the test subject for such games. Any time.

When G.T. grabbed me by my hair and shoved his fist into my mouth to ‘taste myself ‘, I turned into my filthy cock-tease self again and licked his hand clean, finger to finger, knuckle to knuckle, every little line of his palm, even going down to his wrist while purring the most contented kitty purr of my life. I tasted absolutely divine, a bit like peach syrup. And I’m not making it up like ‘honey’ and ‘nectar’ No, I will stay clear from those descriptions from now on because it doesn’t flipping taste like honey, but I do taste like sweet, fruity, syrupy peach juice. I bet you want to have a taste now. Lol.

And when I thought that might just have been one of the best experiences of my life, my kooky husband pushed my face into the soft bed, and G.T. patted my cheek with the paddle.

Fuck me! Most would not go there, not on the first meet, for sure. He’s the real deal. “Harder,” I begged him, gritting my teeth, wanting him to go really hard but praying that he wouldn’t.

I have absolutely no idea how he did it, but it was just what I needed. Hard enough to get off on the sting but not hard enough to really hurt. I was considering telling him ‘more’, but we had to leave some fun for next time, so that got downvoted quickly in my mind.

“Now, the best part,” he said as they both got off the bed, and he pulled a condom out of his pocket.

Usually this bit can be awkward, but with these two... We were still having fun shooting some jokes about how we were running out of XL condoms and how he probably could have filled an XXL.

Does that even exist?

If it does, he needs that one.

And me? Possibly a restraining order.

Before he rolled it on, a sudden greed took over me to feel him in my throat again – my mouth and pussy going into a vicious catfight over which one wanted it more.

Thank the stars, it wasn’t my decision to make. Otherwise, it would have involved some cloning or a really sharp knife and a solution akin to the Judgment of Solomon. Yeah, not a good idea.

“Let me go underneath her,” my husband said, putting the scene in motion.

This is the kind of sick one-eighty-turn you get with switches. One minute, I’m a purring kitten; the next, I’m the rabid panther and him... one minute, he’s choking me with all his might; the next, he is the humble pathetic cuck thirsting for our combined juices.

It took my brain a few minutes to catch up because I didn’t know if I should have switched into domme mode or if I was overthinking it again.

Luckily, we had someone who didn’t give a shoot and was secure in his position of always being on the top. He instructed me to take hubby’s cock in my mouth as he slid that standout cock into me with ease. I felt like a five-thousand-piece puzzle after the last piece had been pressed into place. I was ready to be framed and hung on the fucking wall.

I don’t blame Quinn that this is his very favourite position. I couldn’t pick just one, but it would be in the top ten for sure. If you have never tried being filled on both ends, well, you definitely should. Absolutely nothing compares to it. Your mind just disintegrates while your whole body is being used for their pleasure.

The mind-blowing feeling of that hefty cock filling me completely and my cucky hubs licking my clit... I know that this is the ultimate fantasy of many cuck husbands and for a reason. Even though I really enjoyed playing with his cock – and by playing, I mean keeping it down and choking on it – he had to keep pulling it out of my mouth to keep himself from cumming... Until, on one of those occasions, it was too late.

The taste of his control lost that way was the final push my mind needed to let go. I came, trying to arch my back while still being trapped between them. I never experienced anything quite like that.

I think there is a term for this kind of orgasm when your mind lets go, but your body is restrained. Whatever it is, I want more of it. And some more extreme versions of it, too, please. I stretch my arms and purr writing this. Please. Cat got the cream and now wants the cottage cheese. Grin.

Of course, under those circumstances, G.T. wasn’t likely to hold it much longer either.

“Where do you want me to cum, Wolf?” he addressed my husband.

“On our faces?” he replied hesitantly.

Did I hear that correctly? Our? As in plural?

What an excellent, delicious idea! And coming from him? Wow. Just wow.

A very passionate ‘Are you serious?’ was on the tip of my tongue, and I wanted to sit back with a glass of something strong and write a story about it. Neither of those would have been an acceptable reaction, of course.

We’ve been talking about this milestone forever, me begging, urging him to go there, him saying he won’t. And here, just like that it was happening.

All three of us got up from the bed, and I found the hesitation, borderline fear on Quinn’s face irresistible. As much as I wanted G.T. to fuck his sweet stubbly face into oblivion and then drench it with cum like a firehose, it was his first time, and I had to be considerate.

I put my palm against G.T.’s buff thighs as I took him into my mouth, and I felt his legs tremble. It was unbelievably hot. There was this cruel beast of a dom who didn’t take no for an answer and was capable of pushing me to my absolute limit, yet was now standing there on shaky legs, and my mouth and hand had all the power to make him come undone. Hmm, let me file that under panther tricks.

We were taking turns sucking him, getting him closer and closer to the edge. In my twisted mind, there’s nothing hotter than being on our knees side by side with my kinkster husband and sharing some well-deserved delicious cum. Mmmm.

My hand worked his unbelievable length and girth, together with his own fist around it while I was kissing my husband. Then Quinn put his puffy nervous lips around it's head with a nervous look asking for my approval and encouragement.

"Hmmmm, yes baby, let's do it together," I purred, my lips joining his.

I can’t exactly tell where he spurted, but I got at least some of it in my mouth. Some of it on Quinn’s cheek, I think.

Rolling my tongue around, I savoured that very sharp, raw chestnut flavour. Strong and potent like the guy himself.

They all taste so different. Quinn’s is quite sweet (my favourite of course); I don’t mind feasting on it. Most of them I’d label ok, to be honest. Like ok to swallow, but I 'wouldn’t have it on my granola' kind of ok. There was one recently that was so bitter I just had to spit. (Ok, more like discreetly shovel out of my mouth. I don't spit, I'm a lady after all. Lol.) So next time you ask someone whether they spit or swallow, well, keep in mind we don’t know how you taste. So it depends. At least for me. And that was the sex education bit again, lol.

Whatever I had in my mouth, I swallowed once, carefully, making sure I still had the taste in my mouth. Then pounced on the unsuspecting husband and gave him a big (barely) cummy kiss.

Then I was back for some cleaning duties. I usually don’t do that. Aren’t they just too sensitive? But I’ve recently read in a (very disturbing slave trade) book that it is the ‘proper way’, so while I find the original idea and that book very disturbing and wrong (haven’t finished) I thought I’d try something new. They both seemingly enjoyed the show.

When I later discussed that kiss with Quinn, he told me it was very watery, and I enlightened him that it was because, being his first time, I was considerate and swallowed most of it. He looked at me funny, and I was tempted to go into a rant about how I fucking hate it that he doesn’t trust me and sometimes acts like I was the most rotten, most pushy creature on Earth and just 'too much'. I hate being labelled too much. But I don’t care any more. Just take as much as you need and leave some for the next. Yeah, I’m rotten and insatiable. So what? Till next time, my kinkster friends. Please misbehave!

So this is the story of my Valentine’s Day without roses and chocolate. I don’t think I missed out on anything, did I?