Me the beta cuck

Somebody shook my shoulder.

I came up out of a shallow doze with my heart already going. It was Anna, crouched by the couch in a dark green silk robe she'd only half tied, one knee on the floor. The morning was in the room behind her — flat white daylight through the blinds, the room all at once ordinary, wrecked, towels, glasses, the smell of gin gone stale.

"Darling," she said. Kissed my forehead. "Get up. Make breakfast. Three big ones. Mike needs his energy back."

She smelled of him — her hair, her skin, her breath. She kissed my forehead, smelling of him.

I got up.

...

The kitchen was bright enough to be an accusation. I put the kettle on, got the pan out, cracked eggs into a jug, set bacon going under the grill. The fat spat. The kettle roared. The whole time the ceiling above my head had the ghost of the night in it.

They came down together while the eggs were in the pan.

Anna first, in the robe, her feet bare, her bob wet at the edges from a face-splash, pushed behind her ear. Then Mike behind her in my clothes — one of my good shirts, pale blue, the shoulders pulled so tight across his back that the seams sat nearly at the deltoid, the buttons straining in a line down his chest, the sleeves ending short on his forearms. My trousers, cuffed once, still too long. The shirt untucked. He looked like a man wearing someone else's life.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

Anna went straight to him at the counter, put her hand flat on his chest, slid it down, left it there, resting on his stomach, while she talked to me about the eggs. She didn't take it off. Not once. She stood at the counter with her hip against his thigh, her palm on his belly, her fingers moving in small idle circles while he ate, while I ate, while she picked at her own plate.

"Good?" she asked him.

"Very."

"Eat the bacon. All of it. You'll need it."

He ate the bacon.

She got up to put her plate in the sink, came back, stood behind his chair instead of sitting down, put both hands on his shoulders, worked her thumbs into the muscle there. He made a low sound, let his head drop forward. Her robe had come open at the front. She didn't close it.

Then she said it.

"Let me suck it."

...

Mike turned his chair out from the table. Anna came round, knelt down between the two kitchen islands, on the tile, in the open robe with the daylight all over her pale back, reached for his flies.

She got the button, the zip, pulled the waistband of my trousers down over his hip. His cock came out, hung there against the chair.

Flaccid. Heavy. Thick even asleep, the shaft pale, full, blunt, the head sitting out of the loose skin, the whole weight sagging down between his legs. Bigger soft than I am hard. I looked at it from the table, did the arithmetic that men do, lost it. Something turned over behind my ribs.

Anna looked at it the way you look at something you've missed.

She didn't start fast. She took it in her hand — had to work to close it, even now — lifted it, put her mouth to the side of the shaft, kissed it, dragged her tongue slowly up the whole length from the root. The skin moved under her tongue. He swelled a little as she went.

She did that again. Again. Long slow flat licks up the underside, root to head, wet, patient; on each pass she went a little further over the head, a little further past it; on the fourth she took the head into her mouth, closed her lips round it, hummed.

Mike's hand came down onto the back of her head.

She sucked. Small, wet, drawing pulls at first, her tongue working at the slit, her hand stroking him slowly at the same time. He thickened in her mouth as she did it — I could see it happen, see the shaft fill, lengthen, lift, see the vein come up along the left side, see his balls draw up, sit heavier under it.

She pulled off to breathe, looked at what she'd made.

He was fully erect. Standing up out of my trousers, long, thick, pale, curving very slightly up, the head broad, dark, shining with her spit, the whole of it so big it looked almost absurd against the ordinary daylight of a kitchen. A beautiful cock. That's the thing I had not expected, could not argue with — it was beautiful, symmetrical, smooth, heavy. I sat there with my breakfast going cold, thought God, look at that.

Anna thought so too. She made a small satisfied noise, went back down on it. This time she took him deep.

Her jaw stretched. Her lips went pale with the stretch, her cheeks hollowed, and she took him until he was at the back of her mouth, then further, her throat working, her eyes watering, then closing. She held it there, made a wet strangling sound, pulled off with a gasp, a long string of spit breaking from her lip to the head.

Then she took him again, set a rhythm — hand, mouth together, her fist working the root while her mouth took the rest. The sound filled the kitchen, wet, rhythmic, greedy. She went at him like a woman with something to prove.

She played with his balls as she did it. Cupped them, weighed them, rolled them in her palm; when she found they were tight she made a soft pleased noise around his cock.

The whole time she had her eyes up on his face.

That was what did it. Not the technique — she has always been good at it, she's always done it well — but the way she was looking at him. Eyes up, locked on his, watching him come apart, watching for every twitch, adjusting to whatever made him breathe harder. She sucked him the way a woman sucks a man she has decided she loves. It was worship. It was adoration with a wet mouth, a working throat. I sat three feet away with my coffee, felt the jealousy settle in me like a stone.

I couldn't compete. That was the plain fact of it. She'd had me in her mouth a hundred times, never once looked at me like that while she did it.

Mike finished his coffee. Set the cup down. Put his hand on her head, held her still, pushed up into her mouth twice; she took it. Then he pulled out, tucked himself back into my trousers, looked down at her kneeling there with her chin wet.

"Come on," he said. "Living room. On the carpet."

...

Anna got up off the tile, took his hand, went through, then stopped in the doorway, looked back at me over her shoulder.

"You too," she said. "You're going to help."

"Help?"

"Help him fuck your wife." She smiled, slow, warm, entirely serious. "Get his cock inside my cunt for me, won't you, darling?"

I put my cup down. Dumbfounded. I followed them through like a man in a dream.

The living room was full of flat white sun, the rug warm, cream, the sofa still pushed out of place from the night before. Anna went down onto the carpet on all fours in the middle of it, shrugged the robe off her shoulders; it pooled round her knees. Her back sank into the arch. Her tits hung under her, the nipples dark in the daylight, the mole on her chest catching the sun. Her ass lifted. She looked back at me with her cheek on the carpet.

"Go on," she said.

Mike came down on his knees behind her, got his trousers open again. His cock came out rigid, curving up, wet still from her mouth. He held it at the root, looked at me.

I knelt down at her side, reached for it.

My fingers didn't go round it. That was the first thing — my thumb, middle finger met, there was still shaft left over; I had to press in to make them touch. It was hot. Hotter than I'd expected, hard the way a bone is hard under a thin layer of give, moving a little in my grip when he breathed.

"Put it in me," Anna said.

I guided the head down, found her. She was already wet, wide open, shining in the daylight; the head of him went between her lips, nestled there; she drew a sharp breath through her teeth.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Let go."

I let go. Mike pushed.

Her mouth came open at once. The head forced in, her whole back went rigid, her hands clawed at the carpet, she cried out — that same torn yelp from the night before — the sound of it in the daylight somehow worse. Her brows drew hard together, her jaw clenched, her thighs began to tremble.

"Oh — oh God —"

"Breathe," I said. It came out hoarse.

"Big," she gasped. "He's so big, he's — oh —"

"Breathe, Anna. Let him in. Let him all the way in."

She nodded fast against the carpet. He pushed again; she grunted, long, low, guttural, took another inch; her shoulders came up round her ears, the muscle in her back standing out.

"Come on," I said. "You can take it. You took it before. Take all of it."

"Talking," she panted. "Keep — keep talking —"

"Take him. All the way. Come on, Anna."

He pushed, she pushed back, they met in the middle. She was straining, shaking, groaning steadily; then the resistance broke, he slid the last of it into her, she cried out — relief, shock, the whole of it. Her forehead dropped to the carpet. She lay there gasping with her hips up, his thighs against the backs of hers.

"God," she whispered. "God, God, God."

I sat back on my heels.

"Fuck my wife," I said. "Please."

Mike grinned at me. Wide, easy.

"Sure thing," he said.

...

He started deep and slow.

Long, slow, full pulls out of her, long slow pushes back home; each push drove the breath out of her in a huff, each pull drew it back in a gasp. Her back arched deeper with every stroke. Her tits swung in the sunlight, cast moving shadows on the carpet. Her hands opened, closed on the pile.

"Oh," she said. "Oh — oh, that's good. That's so good."

Slow, deep, steady; he was bottoming out on every stroke, every time her voice cracked upward, her toes curled.

"Oh God, so deep. So deep, Mike, you're so deep —"

I watched his shaft go into her, come out of her — all of it, the whole length every time; on each push his hips flattened against her ass, his balls tucked up under her, nothing left outside her at all. I watched it hit. Every stroke, the last inch drove up against the end of her, her whole body took it — a jolt, a grunt, the breath punched out of her.

Right up against her womb. I could see the shape of it in her. The way she lifted at the very bottom of each stroke like something inside her was being nudged, the way her eyes went wide, glassy each time.

"Oh," she said, high, thin, "oh —" then the sound turned into a cry, the cry turned into his name.

She came. Fast, the way she had all day. Her arms gave out, she went flat to the carpet with her ass still up, her cheek grinding into the pile; she shouted — "Mike!" — shook all over; her cunt clenched on him in rolling waves.

I counted. Four times downstairs. Three up here. Once over the kitchen counter before dawn, that I'd heard through the floor. Eight. Nine, now, in my living room on the carpet, in the morning, with the sun on her back.

Nine times in one day.

He didn't stop for it. He kept the same deep slow rhythm; she came down off it moaning, then climbed again; inside a minute she was crying out on every stroke.

"Oh God — oh God — oh —"

Then he sped up.

...

The hips went. He got both hands on her waist, pulled her back onto himself; it went from slow to hard in three strokes. The carpet burned under her knees. The sound filled the room, flat, fast, loud. Anna's voice went up into a wail, stayed there.

"Yes — yes, yes, yes —"

"Like that?"

"Like that — God, like that, don't stop —"

Her whole body was moving now, shoved forward by each stroke, hauled back by his hands; her bob was in her face, her mouth hung open, a sheen already on her back; the sun made it look like oil.

"Fill my womb," she said. "Come on. Fill it up — fill my womb, Mike, knock me up —"

He grunted, went harder.

"Knock me up," she said again, wild. "Come on, come on — put it in me —"

The rhythm got ragged. His hands tightened on her waist, pulled her back hard; she cried out, shoved her hips back to meet him. I could see his balls drawing up, tightening, tucking in against her.

"Now," she panted. "Now, now, now —"

He drove in, jammed up, held; the whole of him went rigid, his back bowed; his balls contracted — one hard deep squeeze, then another, another; each one made his cock jump, his hips push.

Anna screamed.

"Mike! — oh — oh God —"

She came with it, straight into it, her whole body seizing, shuddering, her voice breaking to pieces; her cunt clamped down on him, held, milking. I watched the third pulse roll through his balls, his whole body shake with it.

Fourth. Fifth. Her hips were working in tight circles back against him, greedy; she was crying out with every one, broken little cries; underneath her the carpet was darkening.

Because it was already coming out of her.

Before he was finished. It was pushed out around his cock by the sheer volume of it, thick, milky, whitish, running down over her thigh in a slow rope while he was still pumping more into her, dripping from her onto the carpet in fat drops. Sixth pulse. Seventh. She kept crying out, grinding back into him; he kept giving it to her; the drip became a runnel; her thighs were slick with it down to the knee.

Eighth. The last, weak, a twitch; his forehead came down onto her back. He lay there over her panting.

Anna went flat. Her cheek on the carpet, her eyes shut, her mouth open, her hips still faintly twitching; between her thighs the mess spreading in the sun.

"God," she said at last, to the floor. "Oh my God."

Mike pulled out slowly; she winced, pressed her thighs together; it welled up out of her, over her fingers.

I stayed where I was, on my knees on the carpet, looked at the two of them, at the clock, at the bright ordinary morning outside the window.

"Right," Anna said, into the carpet, without opening her eyes. "Now somebody make more coffee."