My wife´s dare

Mike had always been a big man. Broad through the shoulders, thick through the chest, the kind of build that made furniture look flimsy when he sat down on it. What I had never known — what no one knows about a friend until the moment the information becomes unavoidable — was that the rest of him matched.

It started as nothing. It was a Saturday evening, warm, inviting, with a bottle of gin, a hot tub that Anna had been begging me to use all summer. Mike brought beer, a story about his divorce. The three of us sank into the water with the jets humming, the sky going the colour of a peach. Anna floated between us. She had worn the black bikini, the one with the triangles that barely did their job.

She looks like something out of a magazine in that thing. A short dark brown bob cut sharp at the jaw, tucked behind one ear, the other side falling loose over her cheekbone. Sharp little chin, wide full smile, white teeth. Sunglasses pushed up onto her head at first, then folded onto the deck. Pale, creamy skin that goes pink across the nose in the sun. A tiny mole sitting high on her chest, just below the hollow of her throat, that I have kissed a thousand times. Her shoulders are narrow, bony in a way that makes the rest of her look indecent by comparison — the rest of her is indecent. Full, heavy, almost too much for her frame, sitting in the water like two pale buoys, the black fabric pulled tight, doing very little to hold them in place. Water beaded on her collarbones. The line of her belly disappeared under the surface. Slim hips, the little waist she's proud of.

She had been watching Mike's trunks for ten minutes. Not his face. His trunks.

"Babe," she said, without turning her head, "is Mike bigger than you?"

The jets burbled. Mike took a long pull of his beer, set it down on the coping.

"Why don't you find out?" he said.

That was it. That was the whole dare. He said it mean, too — flat, unhurried, like it was obvious, like he was doing me a favour by letting the evening proceed.

Anna climbed out of the tub. Water sheeting off her thighs. She did not look at me once. She likes a dare, a challenge. She took Mike's wrist, led him through the sliding doors into the living room. The jets kept humming behind us while I followed like a man walking to his sentencing.

The living room was dim, with one lamp, the blue flicker of the TV on mute. She turned in the middle of the rug, hooked her thumb into the waistband of her bikini bottoms, drew them aside — not down, just aside, so the black strap cut across her hip, the whole of her bared to the warm air. She was already wet in a way the pool could not account for.

"Are you going to fuck this pussy?" she said, put a hand on her hip, tilted her head.

Mike looked down at himself. His trunks were tented obscenely, but not fully.

"I'm not hard, darling," he said.

"Oh, let me."

She went down. Not gracefully — she dropped, knees hitting the rug, both hands going to the waistband of his trunks. She pulled the front of them down. His cock came out, fell heavy against his thigh, half-swollen, still filling.

Her breath caught. She actually said ...oh... — a small, involuntary sound. Her eyes came up to mine for the first time, in them something like an apology, something like greed.

Even half-hard, he was bigger than me. Longer by a length, thicker by a margin you could see from across the room. The shaft was thick, pale, with a vein running up the left side of it, the head broad, blunt, already shining. His balls hung low, full in the open air.

She wrapped her hand around the base. It did not close. She had to work at it.

Then she put her mouth on him.

She started at the head, lips barely parted, kissing it, dragging her tongue across the slit in small wet licks while her hand stroked slow, steady at the root. Her eyes were closed. Her bob swung forward, hid her face. She took the head into her mouth, held it there, tongue flat, working. I watched her jaw stretch around it before she had even tried.

Mike made a low sound, put his hand on the back of her head — not pushing, just resting.

She took more. An inch, then another. Her hand came up to meet her lips, stroking what she couldn't fit. The sound of it was wet, rhythmic, loud in the quiet room. She pulled off to breathe, a string of it breaking from her lower lip, looked up at him.

"God," she said, hoarse. "You're so thick."

She went back down, took him deeper. I could see her throat working, her eyes watering, one hand braced on his thigh. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolled them gently. His hips jerked.

"We have to do this properly," she said, pulling off. She pushed at his trunks. He stepped out of them, kicked them away across the rug, stood there naked from the waist down in my living room. She sat back on her heels, looked at him, all of him, then leant in, started licking again — up the shaft, tongue flat, broad, from root to head, over and over, lapping at him like she was trying to taste all of it at once, then taking him back into her mouth.

"Darling," she said around him, muffled, then pulled off. "Darling, please undo my bikini. For Mike."

My hands were not steady. I found the knot at the back of her neck, pulled it. The strap went slack, then the one between her shoulder blades. The triangles fell away. She shrugged her shoulders. The whole thing dropped to the rug.

She knelt there with her tits out, her mouth full. She was – God, she was so much better than the photograph. The weight of them, the way they hung when she leant forward, full, pale, heavy, the nipples drawn tight, dark pink from the air, from wanting. The mole on her chest. The soft crease under each breast. Her back arched, her spine a ladder of small bones, the dimples at the base of it, the round of her ass sitting back on her heels. Sweat on her upper lip. Her bob stuck to her cheek where she'd been working.

She pulled off him one last time, wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, climbed onto the sofa.

She lay back against the arm, pulled her knees up, open, drew the bikini bottoms aside again with two fingers, held them there. The strap cut across her hip. Her cunt was open to the room, pink, swollen, shining.

"Mike," she purred. "Do me. Please, be a good boy."

...

He knelt on the sofa between her thighs. He took himself in hand, dragged the head of it through her, up, down the length of her slit, wetting it. She lifted her hips to chase it. Then he set the head against her, pushed.

It did not go.

He pushed harder. Her mouth came open. Nothing happened. Then all at once the head of him forced its way in. Anna ...cried out ...—a raw, torn sound, half a yelp, her whole body going rigid from her toes to her jaw. Her fingers clawed at the sofa cushion. Her head went back, her throat stretched.

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh—oh God—"

He held there. Just the head of him, she was already full, already stretched around it, he hadn't even begun. Her thighs trembled, pressed at his hips, wanting, not wanting. Her face contorted in that way that is half welcome, half protest — brows drawn, mouth open, a fine sheen breaking out on her forehead. She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, wet.

"Slow," she managed. "Slow, slow —"

He went slow. An inch at a time, every inch cost her something. Her back came up off the cushion. Her grunt was low, guttural, forced out of her by the pressure. She grabbed at his forearm, dug her nails in. Her cunt was fighting him, gripping, releasing, gripping again, trying to make room, losing the argument.

It was my fault. All of it. We hadn't had sex in — God — a year. Not since the spring before last, not properly, not once. Somewhere along the way the not-doing-it had become the normal thing, neither of us had said anything about it. She must have been so tight. Closed up. Sealed. A year of nothing, now this.

He worked in deeper. She made a sound I had never heard her make. Pain, pleasure in the same breath, braided together so you couldn't separate them, a long wavering cry that broke into pieces at the end. Her heels drummed once on the cushion. Her eyes rolled.

"Big," she panted. "You're so — you're so big —"

I stood at the end of the sofa, watched him sink into my wife. I could see his balls. Huge. Swollen, tight-drawn under him, swaying with the small shallow thrusts he was using to work himself in, they looked heavy enough to hurt. Then, between one push, the next, I saw it clearly. My stomach dropped.

He was bare. No condom. Nothing but skin against skin. I had not seen him roll one on, he hadn't gone for his wallet, she hadn't asked.

Was Anna still taking the pill?

I ran it back. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen the little blister pack on the bathroom shelf, next to the toothbrush cup, where it used to live. Not for months. Maybe not since the winter. She'd stopped mentioning it. There was no protection in that bathroom anymore; I was almost sure of it. Neither of us had thought about it in a year because there had been no reason to think about it.

Unprotected. He was inside my wife, unprotected.

He pushed again. She took another inch. Her cry pulled me back to the room. Her hands had gone to his chest, flat, not pushing, just braced. Her head thrashed once against the cushion, then she found my eyes, held them, there was something wild in her face, something like ...look, look what's happening to me....

"Nearly," he said. "Nearly there."

She nodded, quick, desperate. He drew back a fraction, drove in. She ...sobbed ...then another, then — the resistance gave, the last of it, he seated himself to the root in one long grinding push, she felt it land.

Deep. All the way deep, hard against the mouth of her womb, she went silent. Utterly silent, mouth open, eyes wide, fixed on the ceiling, her whole body strung tight as wire. His hips were flush against the backs of her thighs, his balls resting against her ass. Nothing between them. Nothing at all.

Then the sound came out of her. Long, low, shaking, relief, shock, want all poured into it. Her legs came up, wrapped loose around his waist.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, I can feel you in my stomach."

...

He fucked her slowly.

Long, slow pulls back, almost all the way out, so she gasped at the emptiness, then long, slow pushes home, so she gasped at the fullness. Over and over. A steady, patient, grinding rhythm. The sofa creaked under it. She took it with her eyes closed, her mouth open, her hands twisted in the cushion above her head.

I could see the slide of it. The way her cunt clung to him as he drew back, the wet pink of her dragging out with him, the way it swallowed him again as he came forward. The shine of her on his cock. The sound — thick, liquid, obscene, underneath it the creak of the frame, her breathing, ragged, high.

"Look at that," Mike said, glancing back at me. "Look at her take it."

Her tits moved with every push. The whole heavy weight of them rocking, settling, nipples dragging across his chest. He lowered his head, took one in his mouth. She arched up into it with a moan.

Then her breath changed. Caught, stuttered, went thin.

"Mike —" she said, it was a warning, then it wasn't. "Oh — oh — I'm —"

She came.

Inside a minute. Inside the first minute of it. I had never seen that happen before, never once in all the years. I stood there, watched my wife come on another man's cock with her mouth wide open, her heels dug into his back.

Her cunt clamped down on him in waves. Visible waves, the whole of her fluttering, squeezing. Mike groaned, had to stop, buried to the root, while she shook around him. Her hips bucked up off the sofa. Her voice came out in a broken high ribbon of sound, then cracked, died into panting.

"Jesus," she breathed.

He started moving again before she had finished. She whined. He kept the same slow, patient, relentless rhythm. The whine stretched out, turned into something else. Inside another minute she was climbing again.

Twice more she came on him. The second time she cried out my name ... oh God ... the third time she just broke, silent, shaking, tears at the corners of her eyes, her hand flung out, gripping the arm of the sofa so hard the leather creaked.

I could see his balls drawing up. Tightening, tucking in close against the base of his cock. His rhythm had gone shorter, harder, more urgent, the careful patience burning off him.

"Mike," I said. "You better pull out."

My wife's legs locked around his back.

"No," she moaned, it came out slurred, drunk on it, her eyes half shut. "No, you stay right here."

Mike's head came round. He looked at me — checking, or maybe just enjoying it — his hips never stopped.

"Anna," he said, breathless. "Anna, are you —"

"Stay," she said again, dragged her heels down his back, pulled him in. "Stay right there. Don't you dare."

His body went taut. Shoulders up, back bowing, a shudder running through the whole of him. His face screwed up, his jaw clenched, his thrusts went ragged — two, three, four short hard ones, then he drove in deep, held, ...groaned....

"Give it to Mommy," Anna cooed. Her voice had gone soft, thick, syrupy. She was smiling, actually smiling, glassy-eyed. "Give me your baby seed, Mike. All of it. Go on."

He came.

I saw it start. The first pulse went through him like a current. His whole body jerked with it, a sound came out of him that was almost pained. His ass clenched. His balls pulled up tight, hard against her, lifted. The second pulse rolled through. His hips bucked again, involuntarily, shoving himself deeper.

Anna's mouth fell open. Her eyes went wide, then fluttered, then closed. Her hand came up, pressed flat against her own lower belly like she was trying to feel it arrive.

The third pulse. Fourth. His cock jumped with each one — visibly, the shaft twitching where it disappeared into her — each time she made a small, helpless sound, a soft ...uh... forced out of her, her legs tightening around him. Fifth, sixth. His groan broke into something rougher, drawn out. He pushed deeper still, grinding, working himself into her as far as he could get. I watched his balls pump, pulse against her ass with every spasm.

She took all of it. Every pulse. Her cunt milking him, gripping, releasing in a slow-rolling rhythm that matched his. Her hips tilted up. She held herself there, tilted, like she was making sure gravity would help.

Seventh. Eighth. The pulses came further apart, weaker. His body sagged down over her, his forehead dropped to her shoulder, he was panting against her neck. Still his cock twitched, one last weak throb, one last little spill.

Then it was quiet. Just the TV flickering on mute, the lamp buzzing, the two of them breathing.

He didn't pull out. He stayed there, softening slowly inside her. Anna lay under him with her hand on her belly, her eyes closed, her lips parted. After a while she let her legs slide down off his back, one then the other, lay open, spent on the sofa.

"Jesus Christ," she said at last, to no one, to the ceiling.

I came round the sofa, knelt by her head. She turned, looked at me. Her eyes were bright, wet, her cheeks flushed pink all the way to her ears, her bob stuck to her forehead in damp strands.

"Hi," she said softly, smiled — that wide, white, entirely unrepentant smile from the photograph, the one that has never once asked permission for anything.

"Hi," I said.

She reached up, touched my face. "You're not mad."

"I don't know what I am."

"Good," she said, let her hand fall. "Keep it that way."

Mike eased back at last, slipped out of her. She winced, then reached down, put her fingers where he had been, pressed, holding it in, lifted her hips a little off the cushion to keep it there.

"Don't move," she said. "Either of you. I'm not losing a drop."

She lay back, closed her eyes, smiled at the ceiling again. The lamp buzzed. The TV flickered blue over her pale, flushed, ridiculous body. I thought about the empty bathroom shelf, the blister pack that wasn't on it, how in nine months' time there might be three of us in this living room instead of two.

Anna opened one eye, looked at me. She must have read it on my face, because her smile went crooked.

"Darling," she said. "Go get me a towel. Then come and sit down. We should probably talk about the pill."

To be continued.