Maya - My young wife

It was my fifty-ninth birthday, and I had said, out loud, more than once, that I didn't want a party.

Two months into a new city and a new job, and I was still auditioning for a place in the group. Derek, Marco, Mike, Simon, Theo and Blake — all of them under thirty-five, none of them married, none of them capable of calling it a night before midnight — had picked me up at the Thursday pub quiz, which was really the office team and which they took far too seriously. Somehow, I had become the honorary adult of the set. Fifty-nine and still trying to be liked. It's undignified, and it's completely unavoidable, because all six of them were fit as professional athletes — five or six sessions a week at the gym, or squash, or something else exhausting — and I preferred a good book, and my belly showed it. I had joined them at the gym in the beginning. Then I saw all six of them naked in the collective showers, all those hard rippling six-packs, those long, virile cocks and I quietly stopped going.

Derek was the biggest of them and the loudest, which was saying something. Six foot three and built like a front-row forward, Black, with a shaved head and forearms like a bricklayer's, with a laugh you could hear across a car park. He was also the one who decided things, and nobody had ever voted on it.

Maya found the whole arrangement funny. My wife is twenty-two — brunette, small, sharp-eyed, entirely unbothered by being the youngest person in any room we walk into. We had been married a little over a year. The gap raised eyebrows for about five minutes and then stopped mattering to anyone who actually knew us.

The party was meant to be takeaway Thai, cheap wine and six men crammed round our table. Maya had other plans. She had been strange all afternoon — disappearing upstairs, reappearing with that particular smile — and when she came down at seven, I finally understood why.

The dress was black. The first thing I noticed was the transparency: you could see at once that she was not wearing a bra, and that her young breasts were pushing against the thin fabric, wanting out, inviting somebody to grab them. It was very, very short. It buttoned down the entire back, hem to throat, every last button done up, like it was daring somebody to undo one. When she crossed the room, she had to keep one hand low to hold the hem, and it was fitted so closely that the little row of buttons ran down her like a seam on a piece of fruit. Between the hem and the top of her hold-up stockings, there was a clean band of bare, smooth thigh. Every time she tugged the dress down, her breasts almost escaped the tight fabric. If she'd walked the streets in it, she could have charged five hundred an hour. Hell, I'd have paid a thousand for the night.

"You didn't tell me we were dressing up," I said.

"I'm not dressing up," she said. "It's your birthday."

The doorbell went at quarter past seven. Six men, two bottles of wine each, and a chorus of whistles the moment she opened the door. Derek kissed her on both cheeks and told her she'd got prettier — which surprised me, because I thought they had never met. Marco stared a beat too long and then pretended he hadn't. Simon asked twice whether we were sure this was the casual dinner we'd promised and looked her up and down while he asked.

We ate. We drank. I had dimmed the lights to make the room cosier, and Maya had put herself at the head of the table, and the table was small, which put her at the centre of everything. I sat nearest the kitchen, opposite her, and I didn't mind the walk back and forth with the food. The talk was loud and overlapping — football, the quiz, somebody's ex, and the strip club out on the ring road that the lads went to on Fridays and that I had somehow never been to.

"You'd love it," Theo said. "The girls are ridiculous. Proper table dances."

"Not that the girls are the point," Mike said, grinning. "The point is the garter belts."

"Not often do you see a girl in a garter belt these days," Marco agreed, and the whole table looked at my wife as though the answer might be somewhere under her dress.

"Any tattoos?" Derek asked her.

Maya only smiled and drank. "For you to find out," she said.

And then a chair broke.

Blake — the strongest of them, sitting next to my wife, and the one who had been tipping his chair back on two legs all evening like a man who'd never been told the rules — went over. The chair came apart under him with a crack, and he landed in a heap on the floor with his glass somehow still upright in his hand. The table howled. Blake got up, dusted himself off, surveyed the wreckage, and looked round at us and at one seat fewer than we needed.

"Well," he said, and took a sip of his beer as though nothing had happened. "What do we do now?"

And my wife — because of course it was my wife — said, "You take my chair."

"No, no, I couldn't—"

"Blake, take the chair." She was already standing, already sliding her chair towards him. Then she turned to me with a smile that made me feel like the last person to hear the joke. "I'm light. I'll sit on his lap. You don't mind, do you, honey?"

Everybody said they minded, loudly, and none of them meant it. Or did they? Perhaps they were all thinking about my young wife sitting on their laps.

I went into the kitchen for more food. When I came back, Theo was switching off the living room lights entirely. "More romantic," he said, grinning at me.

Maya settled onto Blake's lap, slightly sideways, one arm round his neck, her legs crossed, and the conversation picked up where it had left off. It should have been simple. It should have been me, for once, in the warm centre of things. But I could hardly see what anybody was doing now the room was dark, and each time I came back from the kitchen, my eyes needed three or four minutes to adjust. And in that dark, and on every trip I made to the kitchen, something small and irreversible was happening at the head of my own table.

I could barely see her, even though she was so close, and the dress was short enough that it kept riding up her young thighs whenever she leant in for a bite of her plate. Her hair was against Blake's cheek, and he didn't mind at all. Every time she reached for the wine she leant out over the table, and everything in front of her leant with her, and every man at the table stopped talking for half a second before finding his thread again. Blake held her by the waist most of the time, as if keeping her in place at the centre of his lap.

The questions came faster now, and with a purpose. What did she do for a living? What did she do for fun? Had she really been to that gym? Had she ever been to the strip club? Had she ever been to the strip club with any of us, which made no sense, since she never had? And everybody laughed at the man who asked it.

Under the table, Mike, Blake's direct neighbour, was doing something that made Maya's eyes close briefly.

"Are you alright?" I asked her.

"He's telling me about his new big stick," she said softly. "You know. He plays hockey."

"His stick," Marco grinned. "Right. And that's why you're gripping the table."

I smiled and went back to the kitchen for wine.

When I came back, she had closed her eyes again. I walked around the table, topping off everyone's glass. When she opened them, she took a long drink, and when she set the glass down, I saw that the first button on her back had come undone. She hadn't done it herself—I'd have seen that.

And with each trip to the kitchen, somehow, another button went. I decided the dress was simply too tight for the cramped situation. The second went. Then the third. Somewhere between the olives and the next bottle, the dress had begun to open down the back, and nobody was pretending not to look anymore.

She shifted on his lap to reach the olives, leaning out flat across the table, and Marco, sitting besides us, leant back to make room and stayed leaning back — looking at the whole length of her naked back, at the hem riding up, at the black band of the stocking where it met bare thigh.

"She's got stockings on," Marco said, in the tone of a man who has just won something.

"Course she has," Theo said. "It's his birthday."

Maya came back into Blake's lap slowly and deliberately and looked at me. Her eyes had that soft, slow-focus look of a woman a couple of drinks down and enjoying it. "More wine," she said, and I stood up and went down to the basement where the rest was stored.

When I came back, I refilled her glass while she sat on him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She was sitting square on his crotch now, right in the middle of his lap, leaning back against his broad chest, comfortable. By then the fourth button was open and her smooth back was showing, and she had turned to face Simon on her other side. She glanced at me once and smiled, and I understood, distantly, that I had been quietly demoted from participant to audience.

Then somebody suggested another good bottle from downstairs, and because there was only one of me and the stairs were steep, I went.

When I came back up, the scene had moved on without me, the way these things do. Maya was now on Marco's lap. The dress hung open nearly to the waist like a coat she had forgotten to take off. Marco had his hands on her hips and his mouth in the crook of her neck, and she had her head tipped back and her eyes shut, her mouth a small round O, letting out silent little moans. Theo, on the other side, was doing something with his hand under the table that I couldn't see.

"Do you have more French fries?" a voice asked me.

"Sure!" I said happily and went into the kitchen to switch on the fryer. It was an old-fashioned one, the element under the pan, and preheating alone took half an hour; the frozen fries took another fifteen, and I have an eye for detail, so even the presentation mattered to me. All in, I was gone nearly an hour, and I walked back into the living room proudly carrying a bowl of perfect crispy fries.

She was on Simon's lap now, or Mike's, or Theo's — it blurred — and the dress was rolled up onto her waist, her pussy barely hidden behind a scrap of red fabric. She was moving gently back and forth, and the small firm weight of her breasts moved with each bounce. The men on either side of her quickly pulled the top of the dress down to join the rest of it, bundled round her stomach, and two of them took a nipple each into their mouths, sucking and rolling them, and Maya made a sound I had never heard her make in our own bedroom.

And all six of them looked at me, the way men do when they want to know whether the husband is going to make a scene.

I didn't. It was just some good-hearted fun my wife was having with my friends. Technically, she was only teasing, I thought. Not making love.

We'd had something similar on the beach the other day. I'd gone for ice cream while a stranger chatted her up. The shack was almost a mile away, and there was a queue, so I looked back at my wife and saw her, in the distance, pull down her bikini top and offer him her hard nipples. Some bet she'd lost, I thought. That would teach her. He knelt down between her legs and started sucking on those pretty pink little rocks of hers, alternating left and right.

By the time I got to the front of the queue, I had decided to buy him an ice cream too. As I walked back, Maya pulled her bikini bottom to one side, and I had to grin. Quite a bet she must have lost. She opened her legs wider, and I watched him start to finger her shaved pussy. I wanted to shout to her that this was beyond any boundary we had agreed on, but I was still too far away to be heard. She was enjoying it, though — I saw her lips move, saying something to him. Encouraging. Praising him.

He nodded and slid two fingers into her, and her head tipped back, and she let out a moan, I could see her mouth forming that typical round O. And then it happened: he pressed his thumb against her, and she bolted and shuddered, her legs spasming. A minute or two later she recovered, and the stranger held his two wet fingers up in front of her mouth,. She sucked them clean, gladly. Then he stood and walked away, as I was about to arrive with the ice creams.

...

"Maya needs more wine," Simon said, in a commanding tone.

I stood up and went down to the basement again, hoping there was one bottle left. There was — the last one. If they wanted more after that, I could always go to the 7/11.

As I brought it up and held it out in the half-dark, I saw Derek grab something off the dining table and into his pocket. A scrap of red. My wife's underwear. Was that my wife's underwear? I wondered.

All of them raised their empty glasses for a refill except the one with my wife on his lap, holding her by the waist. As I poured, I noticed that Maya was moving differently now — not back and forth but grinding, bracing herself on the table edge with both hands, her mouth half open as though something hurt her and having her eyes half shut. As she heard me pour, she locked her eyes on mine and kept grinding, her pelvis making slow undulating waves.

"Can you switch the telly on?" Theo asked. "I want to check the game."

"Sure. Come with me." I was diverted from my wife again. We walked into the TV room and, as the screen came alive, Theo admired the set. "Is that Dolby surround?"

"Yes, it is. You like it?"

"Can you put on a good WWII air battle film? With the Dolby?"

"Er — yes, I suppose. I'll have to find it."

"OK, call me when you've got it. I'll be at the table."

And from the dining room, as I began scrolling, I heard him say, "He's searching for a film. Can I have her now?"

I started scanning the first provider for something with Spitfires in it. But I could not pretend or ignore any longer the sounds coming out of my own dining room. The wet, slapping sound of flesh against flesh, unhurried. Then the wetter sound of a mouth. Then my wife's voice, small and high and broken up, mmh — mmh — mmh, timed to somebody else's hips. Then a long, drawn-out 'ahhh' that went up at the end and hung there, and a man's low voice saying something I couldn't make out, and Maya answering with a noise that wasn't a word.

The rhythm went up. The slapping got wetter and faster, the chair creaking underneath it, her breath coming in short, sawing gasps between the sounds. Oh — oh — oh, and then a break, a pause, a shuddery little laugh, and then the rhythm again, harder, and her voice climbing on top of it, higher and thinner, until it cracked and fell apart into a long low moan that seemed to come out of the floor of her, and then, over the top of that, a man's grunt — one, two, three of them, deep and pulled out of his chest — and Maya's moan turned into a series of short soft grunts, pushed out of her one at a time by each throb, as he emptied himself into her. Then nothing. Then two people breathing like they'd run for a bus.

Minutes later, as I heard how my wife had a new cock inside her married slit, I gave up on the film and went back to the dining room.

Maya was on the carpet on all fours, working herself backwards onto Derek's large black shaft.

He was behind her on his knees, shirt off, and the whole of that thick muscular back was in it, and every slow stroke pulled her body backwards onto him. His cock was thick and veined, and the way it stretched her was visible even in the dark: her body opened around him and gripped him and slid back and gripped him again, and each time he bottomed out, she let out a low cracked 'uhh' from somewhere behind her ribs. She had stopped being the girl in the black dress. She was a woman on a carpet being filled and refilled by a man twice her weight, and she was pushing back onto every stroke with her arse, chasing it.

"Good girl," Derek said, very quietly, and my wife moaned at him.

He took her like that for a long time, patient and unbothered, and she came twice on him before he was finished—the first orgasm small and sudden, the second one long, her whole back dipping and her hands scrabbling at the carpet, and both times Derek didn't change his rhythm at all, just kept going through it, stretching her wider and filling her deeper, until her thighs shook and her voice broke and she pushed her face into the carpet and simply took it. And then, with a soft grunt and a hard clench of everything, he pushed all the way in and held her there and pumped his black seed, thick and slow, deep into her, and I watched her body accept it, spurt after spurt, her toes curling, and then he stayed buried in her, breathing, forehead down onto her back.

Black baby cum – my wife would call it later, and she was right.

And I did the only thing a man in that situation can do. I sat down, kept quiet, poured myself a drink, and watched.

It went on for hours. She would open her eyes, find me, hold my gaze while somebody had his large cock inside her, then close them again and let the room do what it liked. At one point she ended up kneeling on the end of the sofa besides me and worked her way down the line of them with her mouth — Derek, Marco, Mike, Simon, Theo and Blake — and she never once touched me until the last of them was done. She'd look up at me with her eyes watering and her mouth full and make sure I had seen.

And God, she was good at it. She did not rush, and she did not waste anything. She took each of them in both hands first, one over the other, and got them wet and shining, and then put her mouth on them and worked down with her hand twisting at the base and her tongue flat, and she took them deeper than a woman that small has any business taking anything.

Her cheeks hollowed, her throat worked, and when she came off one of them to breathe, she did it with a slow, wet pull, all the way to the head, so that he felt every inch of it leaving her mouth. When they finished, she did not pull off. She stayed on them, hand milking, mouth still working, and swallowed in slow, deliberate gulps — one, two, three — while they twitched, as they punped her stomach full and then licked the head clean and moved on. Not a drop wasted anywhere. She came up off each of them with her chin wet and her eyes up on me, and every single time she made sure I had watched her swallow.

When she finally reached me, she was a wreck, and I was harder than I had been in years. Without even looking, she took me in her mouth with the same unhurried patience, as though there were all the time in the world and the whole evening had been built to arrive exactly here.

And then, abruptly, she let my hard cock go and shook her head in disbelief. She mumbled something like "waste of time."

She looked around in the room and found another big cock, hard and ready. "Come sit here," she cooed, tapping the cushion beside me. "I want to ride you."

He sat down. She swung a leg over him and settled — and this time she did it facing him. Chest to chest. Knees on either side of his hips, tits right in his face, her mouth an inch off his. Then, without any hurry at all, she put one hand flat on his chest and lowered herself onto him in one long, unhurried slide, and she let her head go back moaning all the whole way down — a low, open, unembarrassed 'ohhhhh' — as he filled her to the root.

Then she looked at him. Straight at him. And said it to him, and not at me, "There. That's much better."

Her hand came down and found my shoulder, and she stayed like that — holding on to me while she looked into another man's eyes.

She started slow. Long rolling grinds, arse working down into his lap, taking him all the way and then staying there and grinding on him while she breathed through her open mouth. "Mmh. Oh — oh god, that's deep." Then faster: short quick bounces, arse slapping off his thighs, her tits jumping against his chest, and his hands came up and took a fistful of each. "Fuck," she said into his mouth. "Fuck, yes. Just like that. Don't you dare stop."

She said it to him, and she said it about him, and she made sure I heard. Over her shoulder, eyes half shut, between breaths — "Told you, darling. It's just — mmh — it's a different thing."

Then back to him. "Harder. Come on. You're not going to break me." And he did it harder, and she stopped talking for a while and just made the noise — ah, ah, ah — pitched up at the end of every bounce, her hand tightening on my shoulder in time with it, her nails starting to bite. She leant in and kissed him wet and sloppy, still bouncing, still moaning into his mouth, and then pulled back and looked down at where he was going into her and said, "Look at that. Look how far in you my cock is."

Her hips changed gear and she rode him in long slow grinds again, deliberately, dragging it out, and came like that — quite quietly, a small shudder and a long sigh against his neck, holding herself down on him, milking it. And then, before she'd finished, she lifted and started bouncing again, and built a second one right on top of it, and that one was not quiet. "Oh — oh fuck — oh god —" getting louder with every drop, grinding down on him and holding there and shaking, her whole body locked, and she turned her head and found me mid-orgasm, mouth open, eyes gone, and said, "That's what it's supposed to feel like."

The man under her put both hands on her hips, pulled her down hard and pushed up into her, and finished with a long shudder, and she stayed sitting on him while he did it — taking all of it, arse to his thighs, staying right there through every throb. Her fingers dug into my shoulder hard enough to leave marks. When he was done, she didn't get up. She just sat there impaled on him, facing him, forehead against his, breathing like she'd run upstairs, and let her hand rest on my shoulder a moment longer than she needed to.

He came inside her. I felt it happen through her — the way she stopped moving, the way she pushed down onto him and stayed there and took it, the way her hand on my shoulder went tight and then slack. She kept him buried the whole way through it, grinding down on him and working him, and she talked him through it, low and warm, right into his ear. "Ohh, there it is. Good boy. That's it — all of it, give me all of it." And then, softer, almost to herself, with her eyes shut: "Oh, that's warm. Oh god, you've filled me right up. Feel that. That's you, right inside me."

She stayed on him. She didn't move off him for a long minute; she just sat there chest to chest, breathing on his mouth, letting him soften inside her while she stroked his neck and told him he was good. And when she finally lifted off him — slow, deliberate, up onto her knees — it came straight back out of her.

She was facing him, so it had nowhere to go but down. It slid out of her in one thick rope and landed on him, on his thigh, on the cushion between his legs, and then another line of seed ran down after it, and a third, and it kept coming, and it was making a wet patch on the sofa the size of a hand before she'd even got her knees together.

She looked down at it. And she smiled.

"Look at that," she said, and she wasn't embarrassed; she was pleased. "Straight out of me. God, there's so much of you." She reached down with two fingers, scooped a little of it off his stomach, looked at the shine on her fingertips, and put them in her mouth and sucked them clean — slowly, watching him the whole time. Then she swung her leg off and stood up, and it was still going, a thin line of it making its way down the inside of her thigh, and the patch on the cushion glistened in the lamplight, dark and obvious, right where a person would sit.

She looked at the sofa, then at me.

"Sorry about that, darling," she said, with absolutely no sorrow in it.

She didn't clean up. She didn't even wipe. She came over and dropped onto the rug exhausted.

I saw how wrecked she was; she lay on the carpet while I covered her with a blanket. The six of them drank the good wine and argued about whose idea it had been.

It had been nobody's idea. That was the joke of it.

"I think it was Maya's idea," I said quietly.

When they all looked at me, I told them.

That my birthday wasn't today but in three days. That she was ovulating this week. That she had often talked about big cocks to me, in a way that sounded less like an observation and more like a fantasy — especially when she got onto the subject of those big cocks having big, heavy, full of baby seed balls, which was usually the point at which I changed the subject.

The room went quiet.

To be continued.