I never meant for it to go this far, but once the door closed behind her that afternoon, everything I had kept hidden for years came rushing out in one raw, unstoppable wave. My wife had left for her weekend trip earlier than planned, and the house felt too quiet, too empty. I had been reading those gay sex stories online for months, the kind that describe two men losing control in the back of a car or against a kitchen counter, and each one left me aching. That day I texted my old college roommate Mark, the one I had always wondered about, and told him to come over. He knew what I meant without me spelling it out.
He arrived twenty minutes later, and the second he stepped inside I pulled him into the hallway. Our mouths met hard, tongues sliding, the taste of his coffee still on his lips. I had never kissed a man before that moment, not like this, and the roughness of his stubble against my cheek made my cock twitch instantly. We didn’t bother with the bedroom. I shoved him against the living-room wall and dropped to my knees, yanking his jeans open. His dick sprang out thick and already half-hard, the head flushed dark. I wrapped my hand around the base and licked a slow stripe up the underside, tasting salt and skin. Mark groaned above me, fingers threading into my hair.
“Fuck, I knew you wanted this,” he muttered. I took him deeper, letting the head push past my lips until it hit the back of my throat. The stretch burned in the best way. I bobbed my head, saliva dripping down my chin, while my free hand worked my own cock out of my pants. The wet sounds filled the quiet room. Mark’s hips started to thrust, fucking my mouth in short, eager strokes. I gagged once and pulled off, strings of spit connecting my lips to his shaft, then went back down harder.
We moved to the couch. I stripped fast, skin prickling with nerves and heat. Mark bent me over the armrest, spreading my cheeks with both hands. His tongue found my hole and I nearly shouted. He licked in long, wet circles, pushing inside, getting me slick and open. My cock leaked onto the fabric beneath me. When he stood and pressed the blunt head of his dick against me, I pushed back, desperate. The first inch hurt, then gave way to a deep, full feeling that made my vision blur. He sank in slowly, letting me adjust, until his hips met my ass. Then he started fucking me in earnest, long strokes that dragged over that spot inside and made my legs shake.
I was lost in it, moaning his name, one hand jerking my cock in time with his thrusts, when the front door clicked open. My wife stood there, suitcase still in her hand, eyes wide. Time froze for half a second. Mark stopped mid-thrust, still buried inside me. I stayed bent over, face burning, but my body betrayed me. My cock stayed rock-hard, pulsing in my fist.
She didn’t scream. She set the suitcase down and closed the door. “Don’t stop,” she said, voice low. “I want to see.” The words hit me like a spark. Mark looked at me, questioning, and I nodded. He started moving again, slower this time, each thrust deliberate. My wife walked closer, eyes fixed on where his cock disappeared into me.
She sat on the chair across from us, legs crossed, watching. The humiliation and the thrill mixed until I couldn’t tell them apart.
Mark picked up speed again. The slap of skin, the wet slide, my own broken sounds filled the room while she observed. I came first, spilling over my hand and the couch in thick pulses. Mark followed seconds later, groaning as he pumped deep inside me, heat flooding me. When he pulled out I felt his come trickle down my thigh. My wife stood, crossed the room, and ran two fingers through the mess on my skin. She brought them to her mouth, tasted, and smiled.
“Next time,” she said, “I want to join.” Mark and I stayed silent, breathing hard, while the afternoon light shifted across the floor. The stories I had read had never prepared me for this, but the reality felt better than any of them.
