CUCKOLD: My wife brings home a stranger after work

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“Jesus Christ,” the guy said, his head lolling back for a second.

I had my own hand down my pants now, my cock gripped almost as tight.

She went down on her knees in front of him, worshipfully, the little eye of his dick at the same level as her own twinkling eyes. She pulled it down just a bit. Mouth level. Her lips hung open like a hungry dog. I thought maybe she’d salivate.

Take it, I thought. I stroked my dick.

He didn’t take him in her mouth all at once, but instead stuck out her tongue tentatively, running it along the mushroom head, the tip across the slitted hole. He shuddered. Lynn moved her hand up and down the shaft once; he shuddered harder.

I glanced through the legs of the coffee table and saw Lynn’s other hand under her skirt.

She inhaled like she was going underwater for an extended period of time, and then his cock was in her mouth, sliding along her lips, her booze soaked tongue guiding it to the back of her throat. She took him in until her lips met her own fingers, still coiled on the base like a spring.

“Sweet Jesus,” the guy said, and his hands, both discretely at his sides to this point, wrapped around the back of her head, fingers in her hair. I thought she might protest, but she let him control the blow job. He pulled her head back and forth, back and forth, and after he did that a few times (her massaging his tightened ball sack), he stopped and moved his hips, stroking his cock in and out of her moist mouth. Never one for an overly sloppy blow job, Lynn grabbed any extra moisture that might dare drip and massaged it into the base of his member and on his balls.

I’d undone my pants and held my dick out for all to see. I felt like I might explode. I knew if I did, if I lost my desire after a huge orgasm, I might find myself emotionally spent and would kick the kid out before anything more could happen. I didn’t want that. Still, it took all the will-power I could summon to let go of my own penis and put my hand on the arm of my chair.

Lynn had, through all of this, managed to unbutton her blouse. It now hung off her shoulders, her tits still inside the lacy, cream-colored bra unclasped at the back. She stood, letting the guy’s cock-head pop out of her mouth with an audible plop—but she kept at one hand on it, stroking. Always stroking.

She licked his nipple again, he kissed her with a wide open mouth, and ran his fingers over her shoulders, pushing her bras straps down into the sleeves. For the first time, she took her hands off his dick—he winced with displeasure at the sudden loss—and with a fluid motion that seemed well practiced, Lynn unzipped the side of her skirt and pushed down all the clothes—blouse, bra, skirt—along her legs until they rested in a circular pile around her feet.

The guy had to bend over almost in half due to his height, but he couldn’t circumvent his desire to suckle at her tits. His tongue—which I noted was extremely long, like, Gene fucking Simmons long—ran from nipple to nipple, back and forth, as if it couldn’t decide which was better. Lynn had never been one for much nipple play, her’s weren’t very sensitive. Instead she spread her legs—in fact, she lifted one leg in the air, putting a foot up on the coffee table. It gave me a perfect view of her ass and pussy.

Still, the guy didn’t seem to get it, so entranced was he by her chest. I knew how he felt, I’d been there many a time.

Lynn wanted more, and she wasn’t going to wait. She grabbed his hand, which rested on her hip. In fact, she grabbed it by two fingers, the index and middle. She brought them to her crotch.

He quickly got the point.

“Yes, put them in, finger me,” she said, holding his head, pushing his mouth against her nipple like it suddenly felt fantastic. I think sometimes there’s a direct nerve connection between her pussy and nipples. This did nothing to dissuade me.

He inserted first one finger, then another, to the first knuckle. Lynn’s back arched. I saw a drop of her own wetness travel down the inside of her thigh and realized I was again stroking myself. I didn’t even know I’d moved my hand.

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