I want this. I need this. I hate this.
This is all my fault because this is what I asked for. My wife with another man, fulfilling my fantasy. I should be loving this but I’m not.
Every moment he’s touching her is like torture to me, but I can’t look away. The way that he’s satisfying her, the way that he’s using her for his pleasure. The way that she’s loving it. I hate it all.
My wife and my best friend. The two of them doing only what I asked them to and yet now that it’s happening I don’t understand why. I don’t know why I ever wanted this, this thing that I couldn’t possibly love.
And it’s all too late that I realize it and far too late that I realize why. He’s already got her wrapped around his little finger. He already has her begging for more.
Her need for him is stronger than it ever was for me. Her craving, her desire, is higher than I’ve ever seen before. Inch by inch he’s taking her, claiming her for his own.
All I can do is watch, as he takes everything from me.
Excerpt
I like the way he fucks me. I like the fact that he’s almost ragged in his desperation for me. I love the way he worships my body and the way that he always sees to my needs, making sure, even if he finishes first, that I always have my own little satisfaction.
That night he confessed that he wanted someone else in my bed and in the hour between our conversation and bed I was filled with worry that his request meant that I wouldn’t have this anymore. I was so terrified that what he wanted would mean an end to this kind of love, to him desperate in his need for me.
Having him reach for me and whisper to me how much he wanted me, how lucky he was to have me, was the reassurance I needed to make me start on the path back to normalcy.
So it was fast, yes, but by the time he was tugging down my pants I was ready for it to be fast. We’d had fast before, after all. We were married and had been for years we’ve had fast and we’ve had slow and we’ve had lovemaking and we’ve had fucking. It has ended too soon and it has gone on far too long and no matter what, it’s always been its own kind of good.
This was just a variation on that, and one that was not unfamiliar to me. I could deal with it. I could accept it. I could certainly love it.
But I needed for it to actually happen in order for it to qualify.
I don’t really understood what went wrong. One minute I felt him behind me and he was so desperate and I knew it. I felt his hardness pulsing against my ass, throbbing and aching and ready for me and it was so strong and so potent that I think it might have even been hotter than it was before, that he might have even been harder than he had ever been before.
His thickness pressed against me, throbbing against me for one moment before he pulled back and I gasped as he tugged my pants down. This was the desperation I needed, so fast that he nearly tore the cloth and so quick that he couldn’t even bother to warm me up but didn’t need to. I was home and I was mewling and I was ready for him to give me what I’d wanted and needed for so damn long.
I heard the rustle of his pants and I felt him thrust forward and the only way I can describe it is that it felt wrong. No. I can use another term.
It was disappointing.
I’d been promised something big and achingly hard, throbbing for me, and what I got instead was half-hard softness and a half-hearted thrust. He barely even managed to get it into me but he did and I moaned for him as if he’d filled me so fucking completely, hoping that would spur him to attention, but it only made him pause.
For an instant before pulling back and halfheartedly thrusting forward again but it wasn’t working and I think he knew it. He pushed and pulled at me, moving his hips in a vain effort to try to restart what I was pretty sure was there before but thrust by thrust it all fell apart. Push by push, he grew softer and softer.
All told it was a minute of halfhearted fucking. It felt like an eternity.
He didn’t so much as fall out of me as he mainly just softened out of me. He slipped out of me and I felt his hands holding my hips so tight before letting go, his body just pressing against mine.
The two of us staying together without really knowing why. This odd sort of quiet between us as the heat that had been there dissolved to warmth and then dissipated away to nothingness and faded away.
And then it was just two bodies, two minds and two spirits, not knowing what to do or what to say. It was inadequacy and awkwardness that isn’t supposed to happen when you love someone and when you’re with them for as long as we have been together.
And then it’s just slow simmering resentment. Mine. For him.
“Who do you want to do this with?” I asked him, “Who do you want to have fuck me for you?”
My voice is flat and my mind is made up and I’m going to do this because he’s pushed me to it. I’m going to give him exactly what he wants because this is his fault. It’s his stupid fetish and his desires and his needs and his wants.
But if he wants it I’ll give it to him. I’ll feed it to him piece by piece and hope that he chokes on it.