Heather decides to stay home. With you.

"John Doe," you sigh.

Your head's still buzzing from the shock of your orgasm. You've just come all over Heather's beautiful face after using her throat like a pleasure tool. The gorgeous older woman took your rough treatment with unnerving grace and only seemed more eager to please.

"Mhmm." Her fingers quickly tap the name into her contacts list, and then the phone is discarded. Her attention is back on you. "Can I do anything else for you, John?"

She scoops up stray strands of your thick seed off of her smooth, dark skin and, holding your gaze the entire time, she sucks her fingers clean. The way she licks her fingers is deliberate, almost teasing, as if savoring every last drop. You can't help but watch, captivated by her confidence and the unspoken promise of more. Her bright eyes, two pools that reflect satisfaction in your reaction to her actions and desire for more, never leave yours. The room feels heavier, the air thick with the scent of sex and anticipation.

"I thought you had plans?" You feel a tug at the corner of your lips as Heather squints at you.

"Sugar? You are my first priority." She says huskily. She rises to her feet gracefully and cups your chin. "This was good progress - sucking my tits, fucking my face - but I think you're up for more. Aren't you?"

You nod eagerly against her soft hand.

"So we're not going?" Dale asks his wife with a raised eyebrow.

"I think you'd better. Sis would appreciate it," Heather replies smoothly. She turns to you and quirks an eyebrow. "And I think you'd feel better if it was just us, wouldn't you?"

Your cock lurches to attention, and Heather curl into a satisfied smirk.

"Let me get cleaned up?" She asks sweetly.

"Alright, sure." Dale gets to his feet. The walking wall of muscle stops next to your seat on his way to the door and clasps your shoulder. "Make yourself at home, alright?"

"Uh, sure?" You reply awkwardly.

"I mean it, dude. I'll be gone for the weekend. This is the perfect time to get to know her," Dale emphasizes. "Just stay over, alright? We've got spare keys in the bedroom, and I want you to take one."

You stare at him for a moment. His patient and encouraging demeanor has chipped away at the intimidating image of him that you’d painted in your mind. You find yourself saying, "That's your wife, dude."

"Look, man." He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. "She's special, and I know how lucky I've been. But you deserve this." He squeezes your shoulder firmly and stares at you, serious and unblinking, but smiling at the same time. "You don't need permission to come fuck her, John. You don't need to think about the circumstances or anything. This isn't a weekend-long deal; she's yours whenever and wherever you want her."

Dale's ridiculous words hang in the air. Dale, this towering figure of muscle and confidence, is not just permitting you but actively encouraging you to indulge in his wife. And as surreal as it is, too many absurd things have happened today for you to close your eyes to the truth: the rules of reality have changed to your benefit. Dale's eyes reflect sincerity; this man truly believes what he's just said.

"You look convinced," Dale remarks lightly and removes his hand.

"You're convincing. Both of you," you say and get to your feet. You mentally wince as you think about how you're still half naked and talking to another man, but say, "I'm gonna go."

Dale gives you one last smile before he turns to leave. You watch him walk out of the front door and then, heart pounding in your chest, you turn in the direction Heather had left.

You push open the door to find yourself in a surprisingly understated room, considering the opulence you’d subconsciously expected. While the area is spacious, coziness has not been sacrificed. Some pieces of modern art adorn the walls that when compared to the worn movie posters you put on your walls, make the room look much more refined. A large, cream-colored bed stands opposite you, flanked by table lamps. There’s a comfy-looking armchair near the curtains in the corner, and some magazines rest atop the small table next to it.

To the right you see the slightly ajar bathroom door, from which you can hear the faint rhythmic sounds of a shower. Images of Heather, sensually washing her incredible body, come unbidden to your mind.