Deans new picture

Mark’s jaw ached from clenching too hard. His hands sat flat on his knees, fingernails biting deep enough into his thighs to leave dents. He could taste copper in the back of his mouth from grinding his teeth.

Beside him Dean sat legs open watching his wife, smirk cutting wider every time his eyes dragged over Emma’s body.

The lace cut into her skin, thirty years ago it would have still looked cheap but now. Yellowed, sagging and crusty it was something that a cheap hooker would wear. The little blue bows that once hinted at innocence were grey, frayed, barely hanging on. The bra didn’t fit her. Her tits bulged through gaps in the old fabric, nipples pushing sharp against the thin lace. The panties were worse, almost see-through, her slit on full display

Dean sat back, scratching himself, eyes narrowing like a dog sniffing meat. “Christ. Just look at that. Standing there like a slut who finally stopped pretending she ain’t one.”

Emma’s jaw twitched, her lips tight, her eyes burning with something between rage and shame.

Dean didn’t move. He just stared, sucking his teeth, making her squirm without touching her. Then, he barked “Fetch me a drink. Whiskey. Glass and bottle. Hurry up.”

Emma hesitated, half a second, no more. Mark saw her hands clench, saw her body stiffen, then watched her move. Bare feet on sticky carpet, lace clinging up her ass as she walked to the shelf. She poured, careful, like a waitress, and placed the glass and bottle in front of Dean.

Dean grinned. “Good girl.”

He poured heavy, booze spilling over his fingers, licking it off like he’d earned it. Then he waved her back with a flick of his wrist. “Now bend. Hands on your knees. Show me what thirty years does to a pussy.”

The air went cold. Mark’s throat closed. He nearly spoke, nearly told her to stop, but the open envelope on the table froze his tongue. Pictures spread wide.

Slow, stiff, Emma bent. The single thing string between her legs stretched, biting into her hips and cunt riding high. The flimsy scrap of fabric did nothing, it showed everything. She was split open by fabric that hadn’t belonged to her in decades, and Dean’s grin spread like a wound. As she tried not to wince as the sensation of crusty material rubbing against her hardening clit.

His hand slid down to his crotch, rubbing lazy. His breathing thickened. He didn’t care that Mark was there, no, he loved that Mark was there.

Dean muttered, tongue running over his lip. “Thirty years, and it’s better now. You know how many times I’ve had my cock in my fist with those knickers rapped around it? Couldn’t count if I tried. Every time I dragged ‘em out of that drawer, I saw this. You bent like that, your not as tight as you used to be, that is obvious but fuck me, you still make me hard.

Emma made a sound low in her throat, like she’d been punched. Mark’s chest burned, and yet—sickening, shameful—his cock pressed against his jeans, swelling despite the bile in his gut.

Dean noticed. He laughed, sharp and ugly, pointing like a bully in a schoolyard. “Go on, Mark. Don’t sit there sulking like a stiff. Get your cock out. Let’s see what you’re packing. Fair’s fair.”

Mark’s stomach turned over. His head spun with bile and fury. But the heat in his jeans was undeniable. He unzipped, hand shaking, dragging himself free.

Dean’s laugh barked out, mean and loud. “Jesus Christ. That’s it? No wonder she looks hungry. You’ve been starving her all these years, that's not a cock, that's embarrassing.”

The words cut, but Mark’s cock twitched in his hand, stiff in defiance of everything his brain screamed.

Dean leaned back further and pulled his own cock out, thick, veiny and dripping at the end. He stroked himself slow, smirk never leaving. “Game time, big lad. You beat me, you get the envelope. First one to shoot wins. Simple.”

Mark’s face went hot. Rage, humiliation, arousal, all tangled into a knot he couldn’t pull apart. His hand tightened, and he began to stroke himself looking at his wife degrading herself.

Dean pointed at Emma, still bent, asshole and pussy full visible. “On your knees, darling. You know the rules. Make it fair.”

Emma froze. Her eyes flicked to Mark, seeing him had pump his cock, but he had no words. None that would matter. She trembled as she lowered herself onto the filthy carpet, knees sticking to the stains.

She cralled on all fours her tits breaking free of the bra and handing under hear, her eyes fixed on Deans leaking cock. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth and took his head in her mouth tasting piss and musk. Dean rested one hand on the top of her head and controlled the motion. “That’s it. Show him what you’re best at.”

Mark’s stomach flipped. He couldn’t believe what he was watching, but his hand wouldn’t stop.

Dean groaned low, tilting his head back. “Now be honest, Em. Whose cock is bigger?”

Emma gagged, pulled back, spit hanging from her lip. Her eyes darted to Mark, before snapping back to Dean. Her voice cracked, broken “…Yours.”

Dean howled, triumphant, and said "Now there is no need for you to miss out why don't you play with yourself"

Emma's hand slid down her body and pulled the think rough fabric to the side and began to play with her clit, shame filled her as the wet noise of her own arousal was obvious.

Dean's breath was coming in waves as he said "How many fingers can you fit in now, I remember when it was only two and that stretched you"

With her free hand Emma held Deans cock and continued rubbing it, Her eyes were cold and defiant "Four, I can fit four in now, are you happy with that"

Mark’s chest heaved, his cock jerking in his hand. Shame fed arousal, arousal fed anger, and the cycle spun out of control. Emma’s hands shook between her thighs, rubbing frantic, lost in the mess they’d all allowed.

The air reeked—booze, sweat, rot, and now sex. The light flickered overhead. The carpet sucked at her knees. Dean’s grunts grew, mean and guttural. Emma could feel herself dripping onto the carpet mixing her own juices with god knows who else's.

And then Mark’s body betrayed him. His cock twitched, spraying across Emma’s bare skin. Heat splattered her shoulder, her tits, dripping onto the ruined lace clinging to her. He came with a grunt.

Dean roared with laughter, Pumping Emma's face faster. “Knew it! Too quick! Always too fucking quick!” His cock jerked, spurting into Emma’s lips, forcing her to swallow or ****. She coughed, spit smeared on her chin, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, disgust carved deep into her face.

Silence followed, thick and filthy. Only their breathing filled the room.

Emma stood, fast, coat snatched off the chair, pulling it around herself. Her face pale, her body trembling. Mark shoved his cock back into his jeans, grabbed the envelope with white knuckles. Emma tore the faded photo from the wall, crumpling it in her fist and putting it in her pocket.

Dean zipped up slow, smirk glued to his face. “Go on then. Take your prizes. Didn’t want ‘em anyway.”

Mark shoved the door open. Emma stormed out, coat clutched tight, not looking back. He followed, chest heaving, shame and fury boiling together. Dean called out, "I hope you like the undies, got knows how many whores have worn them whilst I fucked them I hope you don't get a dose of crabs"

The door swung shut. Dean sat in silence, grinning. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a photo he’d palmed earlier. Emma, spread wide, everything on show, eyes burning at the camera.

He kissed the edge of it, and put it on the shelf replacing the old one, he went into his bedroom and picked up the black dress she’d left behind. He balled it in his fist, sniffed deep, grin widening.

“New wank rag,” he muttered to the empty room, chuckling low. “Better than the last one.”