My wife Donna does dirty

"Is that your wife Donna?" my best friend asked, as we were sitting at one of the bars in the local swinger club.

I didn't even look up to where he was pointing, because my wife was out of town to a convention.

Instead, I ordered two more drinks for us. Perhaps two too many. We drank a lot that night.

But Jason kept looking at a woman on the other side of the little dance floor, so I decided to look too.

It was my wife!

And with her, a fella I didn't know. But apparently, she knew him, because she was caressing his cock through the fabric of his pants. And from where I was sitting, I could clearly see how big that cock was, its outline massive, straining against the material as she stroked him with deliberate, teasing motions.

She whispered something in his ear, her red lipsticked lips brushing against his lobe, and I watched his hand slide to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Donna didn't resist—she melted into him, her body pressing flush against his, her hips swaying in subtle circles that ground against his trapped erection. Even from across the room, I could see the smile playing on her lips, the way she bit her lower lip and looked up at him through her lashes with an innocence that was completely feigned.

They began to dance, though calling it dancing seemed generous. She turned in his arms, presenting her back to him, and his hands found her hips immediately, gripping her possessively. Donna reached back, looping her arms around his neck, arching her spine so her ass pressed firmly against his groin. She moved with agonising slowness, grinding against him in time with the music, each roll of her hips deliberate and torturous.

"Fuck, she's teasing him," Jason muttered, his eyes glued to the scene.

She was. She'd pull away slightly, just enough to let him feel the loss of her heat, then push back harder, wiggling against his obviously straining cock. Her head fell back against his shoulder, exposing her throat, and the stranger took the invitation—his mouth found her neck, and I saw her mouth open in a silent gasp, her eyes fluttering shut. But she wasn't passive. One of her hands travelled down, behind her back, and I realised she was touching him again, reaching between their bodies to cup him through his pants, squeezing gently, then firmer, measuring his length with her palm.

He spun her around suddenly, and she laughed—that bright, musical laugh I knew so well, but throatier, hungrier. Now they were face to face, her arms draped over his shoulders, her fingers playing with the hair on his neck. She rose on her toes to whisper in his ear again, and whatever she said made him groan visibly, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested against hers. She pulled back just enough to hold his gaze, then slowly, deliberately, dragged her hand down his chest, his stomach, and cupped him again, right there on the little dance floor.

The stranger's hand shot out, gripping her wrist—not to stop her, but to guide her, to show her exactly how he wanted to be touched. Donna obeyed, her fingers working him through the fabric, her wrist twisting in practised motions. She leant in, her lips brushing his jaw, then his throat, placing open-mouthed kisses that I knew would leave marks. When she pulled back, she held his gaze and brought both hands to his belt, her fingers toying with the buckle, flicking it open, then closing it again, a maddening game of promise and denial.

She stepped back, just out of his reach, and crooked her finger at him—*come here*—then turned and walked towards the corner of the room where a velvet couch sat in shadows. He followed like a man possessed, catching up to her in three strides, spinning her around and pinning her against the wall besides the couch. Their bodies pressed together, his thigh pushing between her legs, and I could see her riding it, grinding down against him, her dress riding up dangerously high.

"You like?" I saw her mouth move; the silent words clear even from a small distance.

He said something back, his hands gripping her ass and lifting her slightly, and she threw her head back in laughter again, breathless, flushed. She pushed him back onto the couch, and he sat, spreading his legs, his erection now a prominent tent in his trousers. Donna stood before him, swaying her hips in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, her hands running up her sides, cupping her breasts through her dress, pinching her own nipples until they showed clearly through the fabric.

She turned around, giving him a view of her backside, and looked over her shoulder with a smirk. Then, with excruciating slowness, she began to lower herself—not onto him, not yet, but to her knees between his spread legs. She kept her back arched, her ass presented to him like a gift, as her hands finally, finally, reached for his zipper.

I watched, transfixed, as Donna sank fully to her knees right there on the club floor, her elegant dress pooling around her. She looked up at him with an expression I'd never seen her wear for me—hungry, worshipful, and utterly shameless. Her manicured fingers worked at his belt, then his zipper, and with a deliberate slowness that made my throat dry, she reached inside and drew him out.

He was magnificent—thick and heavy even only half-erect, the shaft veined and pulsing in her small hand. She stroked him gently, almost reverently, her thumb circling the crown as he swelled against her touch. I could see her lips part, her tongue dart out to wet them, and then she leant forward to place the softest, most tender kiss against his tip.

"Jesus," Jason breathed besides me. "Look at her go."

She did more than kiss him. She dragged her tongue along the underside, tracing the vein with the point of her tongue, then opened her mouth and took him inside. Not all of him—just the head at first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked gently, her eyes fluttering closed in apparent bliss. Her hands moved to his thighs, gripping him as she began to work him deeper.

I looked at the staff, but they were watching too. They didn’t intervene and stop the whole thing.

Jason made it even worse by knowing what I was thinking, as he saw me look at the staff watching her suck a cock in public.

“Nothing beats mouth-to-cock advertising.” He chuckled.

I understood right away what he meant with that. If something exciting happens at the club and people talk about it, the guest list would be full next week.

With every passing second, he grew harder in her mouth, expanding until she had to stretch her jaw to accommodate him. And as he grew, her technique changed. What started as tender and exploratory became wild, desperate. She bobbed her head faster, taking him deeper with each downward stroke, her hair swinging, the wet sounds of her mouth obscene and unmistakable even from across the room. She used her hand too, twisting around the base where her lips couldn't reach, pumping him in rhythm with her sucking.

I could see the strain in the stranger's body, his head thrown back, his hands fisting in her hair—not guiding, just holding on for dear life. Donna was relentless, her movements becoming sloppy and fervent, her need to make him lose control evident in every frantic motion. She pulled back to catch her breath, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his rigid shaft, then dove back down with a moan that vibrated through him.

He was close. I could see it in the tension of his thighs, the way his hips began to buck involuntarily. Donna sensed it too—she knew exactly how to read him and when to back off. With a final, lingering suck on his swollen crown, she pulled away completely, leaving his cock throbbing and twitching in the air, denied release. She smiled up at him, wicked and knowing, her chin wet, her lips puffy and red.

Then, without a word, she stood up. She turned her back to him, and with deliberate, teasing movements, she reached down and began to lift her dress. Inch by inch, the fabric rose—revealing the backs of her thighs, the lace tops of black stockings I'd never seen her wear, the clips of a garter belt, and then—

Nothing. No panties. Just her bare, completely shaven cunt, the lips swollen and glistening with arousal in the dim light.

She walked the two steps to the bar stool, her heels clicking sharply, and bent over it, arching her back to present herself like an offering. Her dress bunched at her waist, her ass bare, her married pussy on full display. She looked back over her shoulder at him, her expression begging, inviting, demanding.

The stranger didn't need to be asked twice. He stepped forward, his massive cock still rigid and bobbing before him, gripped her hips with both hands, and in one brutal, claiming thrust, he buried himself inside my wife to the hilt.

Donna's cry cut through the club noise—a sharp, guttural sound of pure, shocked pleasure. Her fingers whitened on the stool as he began to move, pulling out slowly just to slam back in, setting a punishing pace that rocked her body with each impact. I could see every entry, the way her lips stretched around him, the way her arousal coated his shaft and made him gleam in the red light. She pushed back to meet him, her stockings rubbing against his legs, her heels planted wide, taking everything, he gave her and begging for more with every desperate moan.

"She's taking it all," Jason murmured besides me, his voice thick with awe. "Every fucking inch."

He was right. I'd never seen her like this. With me, sex was tender, predictable—lights off, missionary, quiet. But now she was illuminated by the club's red glow, completely exposed, pushing back to meet his thrusts with an eagerness that made my own cock strain against my jeans. She'd never let me take her from behind. She'd never worn stockings for me. She'd never shaved herself bare, presenting that glistening, swollen slit to be used like this.

I glanced around and almost all guests were watching my wife getting fucked from behind in plain view.

The stranger's pace quickened, his hips slapping against her ass with sharp, wet cracks that I could somehow hear even over the music. Donna's hair had fallen forward, creating a curtain around her face, but I could see her mouth—open, panting, whispering words I couldn't hear but could easily imagine.

“Harder. Deeper. Use me.”

"Touch yourself," I whispered to myself, not realising I'd spoken aloud until Jason laughed.

"She can't hear you, man. But he can." The stranger glanced over his shoulder, his eyes finding mine across the 30 square foot dance floor. A smirk played at his lips as he slowed his thrusts, grinding deep and hard, making Donna whimper and squirm. He held my gaze as he pulled her hair back, forcing her to arch completely, her throat exposed, her breasts thrust out.

He was claiming her. Marking her. And he wanted me to watch.

My hand moved to my own crotch, pressing against the painful erection there. The humiliation burned like alcohol in my veins, but it was nothing compared to the raw, visceral arousal of seeing my wife—my proper, reserved Donna—reduced to a quivering mess on a stranger's cock.

She came first. I saw it ripple through her body—the sudden tension, the violent trembling, the way her knees buckled and he had to hold her up, impaled and helpless. Her cry finally reached me, a sharp, broken sound that cut through the noise.

He wasn't done. He waited for her shudders to subside, pulled out and then lifted her completely off the stool and carried her three steps to the wall. He pinned her there, her back against the brick, her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back.

She lowered her hand to guide his throbbing cock against her birth canal, and in one hard shove he sank balls deep into my wife's cunt again.

From this angle, I could see her face. Her eyes were glazed, her lipstick smeared across her cheek, her expression utterly lost to pleasure. She clung to his shoulders as he drove into her with renewed force, each impact shaking the wall, her breasts bouncing freely now, her dress completely forgotten around her middle.

"Please," I saw her mouth. "Please, please..."

He gave her what she begged for. With a final, brutal series of thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt and held there, his body shuddering, his head thrown back. I knew he was pumping her full, flooding her with his seed, claiming her married cunt in the most primal way possible.

They stayed like that for long moments, joined and trembling, his forehead pressed to hers, her legs still locked around him. When he finally withdrew, I saw the evidence of their coupling trickle down her inner thigh, stark white against her black stocking.

He lowered her onto the floor and zipped up, simply walking away without even looking back at her.

Donna leant against the wall, her dress falling back into place, her chest out of breath. She didn't look around. She simply sat there, legs spread, her cunt ruined but a radiant after-glow on her face, while I watched from across the room, my drink forgotten in my hand, my marriage forever changed.

I quickly finished my drink and walked the other way towards the exit, not wanting to confront her. Just before exiting, I looked back and saw her sit on her bar stool again, carefully applying that red whorish lipstick, as an athletic black guy approached her. He said something flirty to her, and she smiled at him, right away patting with her hand on the free bar stool nearest to her.

To be continued.