Lay has always been the perfect wife—at least, that's what everyone thinks. To the outside world, she's poised, elegant, with her long dark hair cascading down her back, her warm smile lighting up any room, and those deep brown eyes that seem to hold quiet secrets.

We've been married for eight years now, and on the surface, everything looks idyllic. We have a comfortable home in the suburbs, steady jobs, and weekends filled with dinners out or cozy nights in. But beneath it all, there's something simmering in her that I can't quite touch.

It started subtly, years ago. In bed, Lay is responsive enough—she moans softly when I kiss her neck, arches her back as I thrust into her, and always whispers "I love you" afterward, curling up against my chest.

She never complains, never pushes me away. On the outside, our sex life seems fine: we make love two or three times a week, missionary mostly, with the lights dimmed low. I finish inside her, satisfied, rolling over to sleep while she lies there, breathing steadily.

But I notice the little things. The way her eyes glaze over sometimes midway through, staring at the ceiling as if her mind is elsewhere. How she never quite reaches that explosive peak I read about in magazines or see in porn—the kind where a woman screams and shakes uncontrollably.

With me, it's always a quiet sigh, a gentle climax if any at all, and then it's over. She fakes it sometimes; I can tell by the way her body tenses just a bit too perfectly, her moans timed like clockwork.

Lay doesn't say anything, of course. She's too kind, too considerate. She doesn't want to hurt me. But I've caught her late at night, when she thinks I'm asleep, her hand slipping between her thighs under the covers. Soft, frustrated whimpers escape her lips as she touches herself, chasing something I apparently can't give her. Her fingers move faster, circling her clit with a desperation that's never there when I'm inside her. She bites her lip to stay quiet, her hips bucking subtly until she shudders and goes still, a faint wetness on the sheets the only evidence.

I pretend not to notice. What kind of husband would I be if I confronted her? But deep down, I know: my beautiful Lay is unsatisfied. Her body craves more—deeper, harder, something wilder than the gentle routine I provide. She hides it well, smiling at me over breakfast, kissing me goodbye in the mornings. But in those stolen moments alone, or in the quiet after our lovemaking, her hunger lingers unspoken. Little do I know, that hunger is about to find a way out.

It's been years since I've seen Jake. We go way back to college—roommates, drinking buddies, the kind of friends who shared everything from late-night pizza to secrets about girls. Life pulled us apart after graduation: I got married, settled into a steady job, while he went to med school and specialized in obstetrics and gynecology. Now he's a successful OB-GYN with his own practice in the city, and I'm just a regular guy with a mortgage and a wife.

We bump into each other by chance at a downtown bar on a Friday night. I'm out for a solo drink after a long week, and there he is, looking sharper than ever in a tailored shirt, flashing that same cocky grin.

"Holy shit, man! It's you!"

We hug it out, order a round of whiskey, and settle into a booth, catching up like no time has passed. The conversation flows easily—jobs, old mutual friends, sports. A few drinks in, it turns personal.

"So, how's married life treating you?"

Jake asks, swirling his glass. I tell him about Lay: how beautiful she is, how sweet, how we're happy. I pull out my phone and show him a photo from our last vacation—her in a sundress, smiling on the beach, her curves subtly outlined in the sunlight. Jake's eyes light up as he leans in closer, studying the screen.

"Damn, bro. She's stunning. Those legs... and that body. You're a lucky bastard."

He hands the phone back, but there's a spark in his gaze, something hungry that I haven't seen in him before. He takes a sip, then casually says,

"You know, as your old pal and a professional, I could give her a check-up sometime. Free of charge. Make sure everything's... healthy down there."

I laugh it off at first, punching his arm lightly.

"Yeah, right. Like I'd let you anywhere near my wife's pussy."

The words come out joking, crude like our old banter, but saying them out loud—"my wife's pussy"—sends a weird jolt through me. Jake just smirks, not backing down.

"Come on, man. It's clinical. Totally professional. I'd be thorough, though—better than whatever quick annual she gets now."

His voice drops a notch, teasing.

"Bet she's got a perfect one. Tight, pink... responsive."

I shake my head, chuckling.

"You're fucking insane."

But even as I say it, I feel it—a sudden twitch in my pants. My cock stirs, hardening against my thigh as the image flashes unbidden: Jake, my trusted friend, gloved hands spreading Lay's legs on an exam table, his face inches from her most intimate place. Her shaved mound, the soft lips parting slightly under his touch. His examining her thoroughly.

I shift in my seat, trying to hide the growing bulge. Why the hell is this turning me on? It's ridiculous, forbidden. Lay's never even met him. But the thought lingers, mixing with the whiskey warmth in my veins. Jake notices my discomfort—or maybe he doesn't—but he keeps that glint in his eye, like he knows something I don't.

The night goes on, but that conversation plants a seed. As I head home later, buzzed and half-hard, I can't shake the twisted excitement bubbling up inside me.

I come home from work one evening and find Lay at the kitchen table, flipping through the mail. She's in her usual after-work outfit—tight yoga pants that hug her round ass and a loose tank top that shows just a hint of cleavage. She looks up and smiles as I walk in, but her eyes are on this glossy brochure in her hand.

"Look at this," she says, holding it up.

It's from Jake's clinic—a fancy promo mailer with pictures of the modern office, happy patients, and big bold letters about

"comprehensive women's health services."

Special offer for new patients: full exam, ultrasound, the works, at a discount. Lay goes on,

"It came in the mail today. This place looks really nice. New equipment, private rooms... and it's not too far."

I remember she gets her annual gyno check-up like clockwork. Last year, she bitched about the old clinic—the cold speculum, the rushed doctor who barely looked at her, the uncomfortable pap smear that left her sore. She'd complained for days.

"This one's got great reviews online." she adds, scanning the brochure again.

"Maybe I should try it this time? What do you think—should we give it a shot?"

My heart starts pounding the second I realize it's Jake's place. His name is right there on the letterhead: Dr. Jake, OB-GYN. I play it cool, leaning over her shoulder like I'm just curious. Her hair smells like vanilla, and I catch a glimpse down her tank top—those full tits barely contained in her bra.

"Yeah, looks good," I say casually, even though my cock is already twitching in my pants. Inside, excitement is boiling up, hot and twisted.

"Why not? Better than that shitty place you went last year."

She nods, folding the brochure and setting it aside.

"Okay, I'll call tomorrow and book it."

That's when the image hits me hard: Lay in one of those flimsy paper gowns, legs up in the stirrups, spreading wide for Jake. His hands—my old friend's hands—gloved and professional, but sliding along her smooth thighs. Parting her pussy lips with his fingers, checking her "thoroughly." Her clit swelling under his touch, maybe getting wet even if she doesn't want to. Him leaning in close, breathing her in, while she lies there exposed and vulnerable.

My dick throbs fully hard now, straining against my zipper. I turn away quick so she doesn't notice, pretending to grab a beer from the fridge. But the fantasy won't stop—Jake's fingers inside her, stretching her, making her gasp in ways I never do. Fuck, what am I turning into? But I can't deny it: the thought of my perfect wife opening her legs for another man... especially him... it's driving me insane with lust.

Today was the day. Lay left for Jake's clinic right after lunch, wearing a simple sundress that hugged her hips and showed off her legs. She kissed me goodbye like it was any other errand.

"Won't be long," she said with a smile. But I knew what was really happening. My wife was about to spread her legs for my old friend. The whole day at work, I couldn't focus. My cock stayed half-hard in my pants, throbbing every time I pictured it: Lay on the exam table, feet in the stirrups, dress pulled up, panties off.

Jake's gloved hands touching her pussy, spreading it open, sliding fingers inside to "check" her. I barely got anything done, sneaking to the bathroom twice just to adjust myself and calm down.

Finally, she came home around five. The second she walked through the door, I noticed—her cheeks were flushed, eyes a little brighter than usual, like she'd just come back from a secret thrill.

"How was it?"

I asked, trying to sound casual as I hugged her.

"Fine," she said quickly, avoiding my eyes for a split second.

"The place is really nice. Doctor was... thorough."

She laughed it off lightly, but her voice had this breathy edge.

"I'm gonna take a shower real quick."

She headed to the bathroom, and the moment the water started running, I couldn't resist. I slipped into the laundry room and dug through the hamper. There they were—her panties from today, the soft black lace ones. I pulled them out and turned them inside: the crotch was soaked, a thick white streak of her cream right in the center. She hadn't just gotten a little wet. My wife had been dripping excited. Jake had turned her on bad.

The realization hit me like a punch: today, Lay showed her pussy to my friend. Let him touch it, probe it, stare right at it while she lay there exposed. And it made her so horny she creamed her panties.

I couldn't hold back anymore. My dick was rock hard, straining to get out. That night, after dinner and TV, we went to bed early. Lay fell asleep fast, curled up beside me. I waited until her breathing was deep and steady, then quietly got up and went to the computer in the living room.

I pulled up porn—videos of women getting "examined" by their doctors, the kind where the check-up turns into full-on fucking. The doctor bends her over the table, slides his thick cock into her wet pussy from behind, pounding her while she moans. I stroked myself slow at first, imagining it was Lay and Jake. His hands spreading her ass, his dick pushing deep inside her tight hole, filling her in ways I never have. Her face buried in the paper sheet, gasping as he fucks her hard.

I came fast and hard, shooting ropes onto my stomach while picturing Jake's cum leaking out of my wife's used pussy. The guilt was there, but the rush was stronger. Tomorrow she'd act normal again, but I knew the truth: my sweet Lay got off on letting another man see and touch her most private place. And fuck, it made me want more.

The next day, I couldn't stay away. I made up some bullshit excuse at work and drove straight to Jake's clinic during my lunch break. My heart was pounding the whole way, cock already stirring just thinking about what happened yesterday. Jake's receptionist waved me through like she knew I was coming. He was in his office, feet up on the desk, smirking when I walked in.

"Knew you'd show up, man," he said, closing the door behind me. We didn't waste time on small talk. He leaned back and started telling me about Lay's exam yesterday, casual as hell, like he was describing the weather.

"She was nervous at first," he said, eyes lighting up.

"Cute as fuck in that sundress. When I told her to strip down and put on the gown, her hands were shaking a little. But once she got on the table and put her feet in the stirrups... damn. Perfect pussy, bro. Smooth, pink, already a little glossy. I took my time spreading her open. Checked everything real slow. Her clit got hard the second I touched it. She tried to play it cool, but I felt her get wetter every time my fingers went inside."

My face burned, but my dick was throbbing hard. I couldn't hide it anymore.

"Fuck, Jake... hearing this is making me crazy. I've been jerking off thinking about you touching her. I'm fucked up, man. It turns me on."

He just laughed, not surprised at all. I'd forgotten how much of a perv he always was—back in college he'd brag about hidden cams, sneaking peeks, all that shit. Guess he never grew out of it.

"You wanna see it?" he asked, grin getting wider.

"The real thing?"

Before I could answer, he stood up and led me through a side door into a small back room. Wall of monitors, hard drives everywhere.

"Every exam gets recorded," he said, no shame.

"Audio too. All of them. Hundreds of women, legs wide open, getting felt up. Best collection you'll ever see."

I stared at the screens, dick leaking in my pants. This motherfucker had videos of every patient who'd ever spread for him—including my wife. He pulled up yesterday's file and hit play.

"Watch this. Your Lay put on one hell of a show."

Jake hit play, and there she was—my Lay—on the big screen in high definition. The hidden camera angle was perfect: straight up from the end of the exam table, catching everything between her spread legs, with another view from the side showing her face and upper body. She walked into the room in her sundress, looking a little nervous. Jake's voice came calm and professional from off-camera.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Jake. You can change into the gown behind the curtain, then hop up on the table when you're ready."

A minute later, she came out in the thin paper gown, climbed onto the table, and lay back. Her feet went into the stirrups, knees bent and dropped wide open. The gown rode up just enough to expose her completely—smooth shaved mound, neat pink lips pressed together.

She stared at the ceiling, hands gripping the sides of the table, breathing already a bit fast. Jake rolled his stool between her legs, gloved hands visible as he adjusted the bright light.

"We'll start with the external exam," he said evenly. His fingers—two gloved fingers—landed gently on her outer lips, pressing softly along the left major labia first. He traced the full length from top to bottom, slow and deliberate, like he was checking the skin. Lay's thighs twitched just a little, a tiny involuntary flex. Her lips down there parted slightly from the pressure, showing the softer pink inside.

He switched to the right side, doing the same—pressing, sliding down the full outer lip. This time her hips shifted a fraction, barely noticeable, but her breathing got deeper. The camera caught it clear: a faint sheen starting to form on her inner folds.

Then he used both hands, thumbs on each outer lip, and gently pulled them apart. Not rushed—slow, steady pressure that opened her wide. The inner lips came into full view, delicate and already glistening a little. Her clit peeked out at the top, small but starting to swell.

"Everything looks healthy," he said casually, but he didn't let go right away. He held her open longer than needed, letting the cool air hit her exposed parts. Lay's chest rose faster; her fingers tightened on the table edges. A soft, almost silent exhale escaped her mouth.

One gloved fingertip moved to her inner lips now—tracing the left minor labia from bottom to top, feather-light. When he reached the top, the pad of his finger brushed right over her clit hood, just once. Lay's whole body tensed; her knees tried to close but couldn't because of the stirrups. A tiny shiver ran through her thighs.

He did the same on the right inner lip—slow trace up, another soft brush across the hood. This time her clit visibly thickened, pushing out more. A clear bead of wetness appeared at her entrance.

Now he circled her clit directly, but still "clinical"—small, gentle circles with one fingertip, like he was examining sensitivity or swelling. Once, twice, three full circles. Lay's hips lifted off the table just an inch, then dropped back. Her face flushed pink; she bit her lower lip hard, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

He moved lower. Two fingers at her vaginal opening, pressing lightly around the edge, checking the muscle tone. First the left side of the entrance, then the right, then the bottom. Each press made her opening flutter a bit. More wetness gathered, starting to coat his glove.

Finally, he slid one finger inside—slow, straight in to the second knuckle. Lay gasped out loud, back arching slightly. He turned his finger gently, feeling the walls, pressing forward toward the front wall. Her insides clenched around him once, hard. Another soft moan slipped out before she could stop it.

He added a second finger, stretching her a little more, scissoring slowly. Her pussy lips gripped his fingers tight, shiny with her juices now. Every small movement made her thighs tremble. Her breathing was ragged; face deep red, eyes half-closed.

The "exam" went on like that—slow, thorough touches everywhere, each one making her wetter, more swollen, more obviously turned on. She never said a word, just took it, body reacting more with every second.

I sat there frozen, cock throbbing painfully in my pants, watching my wife get opened and touched in ways she'd never let herself admit she wanted. Jake paused the video and looked at me with that smirk.

"Told you she was responsive."

Jake unpaused the video, and the exam continued right where it left off—Lay still spread wide in the stirrups, pussy shiny and swollen from all the touching. He pulled his fingers out slowly, her walls clinging to them with a wet little sound the mic picked up clear. A string of her juices stretched between his glove and her opening before it broke.

“Now I’ll disinfect the area,” Jake said in that same calm doctor voice. He peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and rolled his stool a little closer. No new gloves, no swab, no spray—nothing. Just his bare hands parting her outer lips again, holding her open.

Lay’s eyes flicked down for a second, confused, but she stayed quiet. Then Jake leaned in. His face dropped between her thighs, and his tongue came out—flat and wide—swiping up from her entrance all the way to her clit in one slow lick.

Lay jolted hard. Her hips bucked off the table, a sharp gasp ripping out of her throat. Hands flew to grip the edges tighter, knuckles white. Jake lifted his head just enough to ask,

“Uncomfortable? We can stop if it’s too much.”

I leaned forward in my chair, heart slamming. I was sure she’d say yes—tell him to stop, that this wasn’t right. My good, faithful wife would put an end to it. But after a second of heavy breathing, eyes half-lidded and cheeks burning red, she whispered, “No… it’s okay. Keep going.”

Jake’s smirk flashed straight at the hidden camera, like he knew I’d be watching this part. Then he dove back in. This time there was no pretending it was medical. He licked her properly—long, hungry strokes up her slit, circling her clit, sucking the swollen nub into his mouth.

His tongue pushed inside her hole, fucking her with it slow and deep. Hands spread her ass cheeks wider so he could bury his face completely. Lay lost it. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent O at first. Then the moans started—soft at first, then louder, needy.

“Oh… oh god…”

Her thighs shook around his head, trying to close but held open by the stirrups. Hips rolled up to meet every lick, chasing his mouth. Juices poured out of her, coating his chin, dripping onto the paper sheet. He slurped it all up noisily, groaning into her pussy like he was starving for it.

She came fast and hard—back arching high, a strangled cry breaking free as her whole body spasmed. Pussy pulsing against his tongue, gushing even wetter. Jake didn’t stop. He kept licking through her orgasm, drawing it out until she was whimpering, oversensitive, legs trembling uncontrollably.

Only then did he pull back, face shiny with her, licking his lips.

“All disinfected,” he said casually, like nothing wild had just happened. Lay lay there panting, eyes glassy, pussy red and soaked, twitching with aftershocks. I sat frozen in the dark room, cock throbbing so hard it hurt, pre-cum leaking through my pants. My wife had just let my best friend eat her out on an exam table—and she begged him not to stop.

That evening, I couldn’t keep my hands off Lay. The second we finished dinner, I pulled her to the bedroom, kissing her hard, stripping her clothes off like I was starving for her. She didn’t resist—in fact, she melted into it faster than usual, her breath already coming quick.

I pushed her onto the bed, spread her legs wide just like in the video, and buried my face between her thighs. Her pussy was still a little swollen from yesterday, lips puffy and pink, tasting faintly sweet and musky. I licked her exactly how Jake had—long, slow drags from her entrance to her clit, then circling the hard little nub, sucking it into my mouth.

The whole time, the thought hammered in my head: this is where my best friend’s tongue was yesterday. He licked this same spot, made her drip, made her beg. That thought alone doubled the rush—my cock throbbed against the mattress, leaking pre-cum as I ate her out harder.

Lay reacted like a different woman. Her hands grabbed my hair, pulling me closer. Hips rolled up to meet my mouth, thighs shaking around my ears. She moaned loudly, real moans, raw and needy, nothing like the quiet sighs she usually gave me.

“Oh fuck… yes… right there…”

Her pussy got soaked fast, coating my chin, dripping down to her ass. I couldn’t wait anymore. I climbed up, lined my cock at her entrance, and pushed in deep in one thrust. She was hotter and wetter than I’d felt in years—her walls gripped me tight, pulsing like they were still remembering yesterday.

I fucked her hard, deeper than usual, trying to reach the places I imagined Jake’s tongue had teased. She wrapped her legs around me, nails digging into my back, gasping with every stroke. It didn’t take long—her back arched high, pussy clamping down hard as she came, crying out my name mixed with wordless moans. Her orgasm rolled on longer than I’d ever seen, body trembling under me.

When it faded, she lay there panting, eyes soft and hazy, looking up at me with a lazy smile.

“God… that was incredible,” she whispered, stroking my face.

“You were different tonight. So intense. I loved it.”

I kissed her, tasting myself on her lips now, heart pounding with the secret truth. I knew I hadn’t changed.

She had.

And tomorrow, I was already wondering how soon she’d need her next “check-up.”

To be continued