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I heard her before I saw her—the soft click of the front door, the slow, tired tread of her heels on the hallway floor, the faint rustle of her coat being peeled off. It was her usual night out with the girls… except I knew this was that week. The one night each month when she didn’t join them at all, when she slipped into one of her slutty little fuck-me outfits and went hunting for male company instead.

And even half-asleep, before she reached the bedroom door, my cock was already stirring—because it was late, later than her normal nights, and that always meant she hadn’t been alone.

The bedroom door eased open a moment later.

I blinked up at her in the low light. Her hair was messy, her lipstick just a little smudged, her breathing slow and deep from the cold November night air. I could smell her before she even reached the bed—perfume, sweat, and something unmistakably sexual underneath.

She didn’t say a word.

She stepped out of her heels, letting them fall where they landed, and reached back to unzip her dress. It slid down her body in a single, fluid motion, pooling at her feet like she’d rehearsed it.

My heart raced; she was bare beneath it, her pretty panties gone—almost certainly taken as a trophy by whatever man had used her tonight. But she’d no doubt brought her own trophy home too… something she was keeping warm between her thighs, waiting for me to find.

She climbed onto the mattress with the deliberate confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. The bed dipped beside my hips, then again near my ribs, and I didn’t need to guess what came next; I knew the ritual. A moment later, she was straddling me—knees braced on either side of my chest. My hands instinctively lifted toward her hips, but she caught them immediately, her fingers wrapping around my wrists with a firm, practised grip, pushing them down into the pillow above my head.

“You keep those right there,” she breathed, settling her weight over my chest, then sliding forward. “You’re not touching that cock… not once. I want you fully attentive.”

She lowered her weight, just enough for her inner thighs to brush my cheeks, her warmth hovering over my mouth. Her scent flooded me—thick, warm, unmistakably recent. My body shuddered beneath her, feeling the heat and subtle tremble of her thighs against my face.

“You were sleeping…” she murmured, tightening her grip as she slowly lowered herself toward my mouth, “…but I’m not done with tonight.”

My fingers flexed uselessly in the air, already aching with the instinct to stroke myself, but she didn’t give me an inch of freedom.

CREAMPIE CLEANUP

I swallowed hard, the taste of her already ghosting across my lips.

“Open.”

Her hips settled, soft and heavy, smearing the wetness she’d brought home across my lips. Her thighs trembled slightly, pressing warmth and slickness against my cheeks—a constant reminder of what she had endured and what I now tasted.

“You’re going to wake up properly,” she whispered, grinding slowly against my mouth, “and you’re going to taste everything I’ve taken tonight.”

Her fingers tightened on my pinned wrists, and she pressed herself fully onto my face. The moment my lips parted, the taste hit me, not just her, not just the sweetness of her arousal, but another.

That unmistakable, salty‑deep trace woven into her wetness—the taste of another man’s cum still inside her. It melted across my tongue as she ground down, mixing with her own slickness and coating my mouth in a way that stole my breath.

She heard the tiny sound I made.

“Oh… you taste it, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice breaking into a soft moan as her hips settled harder against my face. “You taste both of us… inside me.”

My wrists strained against her grip—reflex, humiliation, need—and she tightened her hold immediately. “No,” she hissed, grinding her pussy down until my nose was buried against her. “You don’t get to touch yourself while you clean me. You’re going to lie there and take all of it.”

She rocked forward again, and the flavour deepened—the warm, sloppy mixture that proved exactly where she’d been and what she’d done. My tongue moved without permission, lapping it up, tracing her, trying to keep up with the pace she set.

Her heat and scent were flooding my senses, and I felt a fresh spill of her wetness coat my mouth as she groaned. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop. You’re going to drink every drop he left in me, and more.”

“Thirty minutes ago…” she whispered, hips making a slow, devastating grind against my mouth, “I still had his pulsing cock inside me.”

My tongue faltered for half a second as I took in the scene, but she didn’t give me room to freeze. She rolled her pelvis forward, pushing herself deeper against my mouth, smearing the warm mix of her wetness and his cum across my tongue.

Her voice dropped into something molten. “Mmm… yes… keep licking while I tell you.”

“He had me on my back first. My legs up… pushed open. He didn’t even tease me. He just slid in—one long stroke—and I swear, Mike…” She gasped as she ground harder, “I felt my whole body shake.”

I shivered at the thought. Even imagining it, my cock throbbed painfully. If I had been there—really watching—it would have been unimaginably intense, a sexual high. The way he took her, her moans, her urging him on, either ignoring or oblivious to my presence… I would have been frozen, desperate, humiliated, undone, unable to think beyond their coupling. Every stroke, every gasp, every shiver would have left me quivering, begging, utterly helpless—and likely embarrassingly spent.

My wrists strained, instinctively wanting to reach for my cock, but she pinned them harder, as she leaned forward over me.

As if reading my thoughts, she said, “You’d have lost your mind watching it. The sound I made when he bottomed out… god.”

Her hips began to rise and fall, shallow, rhythmic. “He fucked me just like this,” she murmured, rolling her hips on my mouth the same way she’d move on his cock. “Slow at first… deep… like he owned my body.”

A small, involuntary moan slipped from her throat. “And then he flipped me over. I didn’t even have time to breathe—just hands on my hips and that big, thick cock slamming back into me.”

My tongue moved faster, desperate, helpless, drinking the story and her taste in equal measure.

She heard how hard I was breathing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she moaned, “you’re getting so turned on by this, aren’t you? Licking me clean while I tell you how another man fucked your sweet wife? A man bigger, harder, more skilled, a more confident lover than you—made love to me. The way he moved, the way he held me, the way he filled me completely, the size of him stretching me, leaving me gasping and trembling… all of it so much better than anything you could have done.”

Her thighs started shaking, just a little, sending warm little pulses against my face—and she knew exactly how much this drove me wild, how it fed that desperate hunger she loved stoking in me.

And as I drank her in, I couldn’t stop the thoughts that always crawled through me on nights like this… the honest truth that not every man she picked up was some giant who could split her open. Some had been smaller than me. Some were tiny, a few finishing almost as soon as they’d pushed inside her, yet she couldn’t help praising them—even when it had been faked—murmuring how each had brought her thrills I couldn’t, how every one had played their part in leaving her trembling and gasping, and she told me all of this knowing it would be humiliating.

But that excited me just as much—because she still let them fuck her. She still spread for them, still let them take her, still came home to tell me exactly how she’d behaved… and we both got off on every filthy, imperfect detail of her bad-girl nights.

She felt that in me now. Felt how much the whole spectrum of her sin lit me up. And she trembled harder, knowing she owned every bit of it.

“He fucked me so hard I had to bite the pillow. God, Mike… I was still dripping from him when I walked through the door.”

Her hips suddenly ground down sharply—not to hurt me, but because the memory took over her body.

“He came heavy inside me,” she breathed, her voice cracking with pleasure. “I begged him to, he came in hard streams… and I can still feel it warm inside.”

She was close. Then her eyes dropped to my mouth, dark, hungry, and commanding. That slow, predatory smile lingered as if she were reading my every thought and revelling in my helplessness.

“Open,” she whispered, low and dangerous, and I obeyed instantly, my lips parting as my throat tightened with anticipation. She shifted slightly, raising her hips, giving us both a perfect view. My tongue hovered beneath her swollen, reddened pussy lips, slick and trembling—then I saw it. She clenched deliberately, slowly tightening the walls of her pussy, forcing it out with every pulse.

A long, thick glob of love juice, warm and sticky, slid from between her folds and hung there, stretching toward my waiting mouth. The stretch of it, heavy and pulsing, caught in my sight before it reached my lips, teasing me as much as her scent and heat did.

Her eyes never left mine as she controlled every second, her fingers gripping my pinned wrists. The glob extended, stretching from the slick depths of her, heavy and glistening, until the tip brushed my lips. I let it rest there a moment, letting her see it, savouring the taste of both her and him as it coated my tongue and throat.

She watched every second of it. Not just glancing — watching.

Her eyes flicked from my open mouth to my tongue, to the way I was trying to show her I wanted it and I was greedy, desperate, hungry for her approval.

Her lips parted slightly. That tiny intake of breath — that almost smile she tried to hide — hit me harder than the taste itself.

“God… look at you,” she murmured, her voice low and tight, more aroused than she meant to reveal. Her thighs trembled, not from grinding on me — she kept herself purposefully raised, hovering, letting me look up at the slickness between her legs without being allowed to touch it. “You’re… opening for it. You’re really doing that. “You’re eagerly eating another man’s cum.” Her expression flickered, almost disbelieving, like she still hadn’t fully accepted just how many times I’d done exactly that for her this past year… how many men I’d tasted because she let them use her. She inhaled, slow and sharp, as if she could smell the submission leaving my body with every swallow.

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice low and satisfied. “That’s it… take all of it.”

I gulped again as another warm bead followed, dripping along the first and spreading across my lips, the long, extended glob linking me to her, marking me as hers completely. She pressed slightly, letting it flow just enough for me to see, to feel, to taste every inch of what she’d carried inside, and I shuddered, helpless and obedient.

“He finished so deep,” she breathed, shifting again so I lapped up the trace still inside her. “And you’re eating every drop of it.”

HER ORGASM

And then she pressed forward again, hips grinding slowly, her wetness mixing with what I had already tasted. Her whole body seized above me, thighs locking around my head as she crushed herself down onto my mouth.

She came. Hard.

The first pulses were thick and slick, but as her orgasm tore through her, the fluid grew thinner, hotter—spilling in fast, quivering waves straight into my mouth.

I tried to swallow everything. All of it. Every pulse. Every spill.

The heat flooded my tongue, filling my mouth faster than I thought I could manage, but I forced myself to swallow it all—desperate, obedient, barely keeping up as it slid past my lips. The taste shifted wildly with each pulse—salty, then sweet, her entire body trembling above me—and I took every drop, because she wanted me to.

Her moans cracked into raw, ragged cries as she ground down. My throat convulsed helplessly beneath her, working in deep, messy gulps as I just managed to swallow and breathe, each shaky inhale slipping between the pulses she fed me. My chest trembled with the effort, but I kept up, taking every drop she gave me, swallowing again and again until my entire body felt wired, straining, determined not to waste a single spill of her climax pouring straight into me.

She writhed, crying out my name, tugging my pinned wrist harder, forcing my face tighter against her as if she could anchor herself on me while she fell apart.

HER ALL

And then it hit—the final wave.

A sudden, unmistakable, scalding rush of golden, bitter heat. Not the last pulse of her orgasm. Her pee.

It streamed directly into my open mouth in one long, shuddering release, hotter than anything before, flooding me faster than I could swallow. I tried—god, I tried—closing my throat around each desperate gulp, half-choking as it spilled back out from the corners of my lips, running down my cheeks, soaking the pillow, marking me completely. My body jolted with the shock of it, the taste deep and raw and intimate, and I felt the burn of humiliation in every gulp—drinking her warmth, knowing exactly what I was taking into my mouth, completely exposed and obedient—but I didn’t stop.

I swallowed as much as I could. Because she was giving it to me. Because she wanted me to take it. Because I wanted it—all of it, and the humiliation that came with it.

By the time the stream slowed, I was drenched—mouth burning, chest trembling, pillow soaked—and she was shaking violently above me, her breath broken, her thighs quivering against my jaw. She collapsed forward, still panting, still holding my wrist down, staring at the mess she’d made of me as her final drops slid over my lips.

I lay there beneath her, gulping air, face wet and shining, tasting everything she was—everything he’d left inside her, everything she’d just emptied into me—and I felt nothing but submission.

Her voice trembled with leftover pleasure. “…god… and you’re not even allowed to touch yourself…”

She let out a soft, bliss-heavy laugh — a woman freshly used and knowing exactly what she meant to me.

“I swear, baby… I picked the perfect husband.” Her hips settled with lazy ownership, her weight a reminder of where I belonged. “A real man could never make sex this good for me… not when I get to walk in the door used by any man I want.”

Her tone turned warm, wicked, almost affectionate in its humiliation.

“I love that our marriage works like this. Our love is so damn strong because you get your pleasure from mine… from knowing I’m out there letting other men fill me, use me, fuck me senseless.”

A soft exhale, thick with satisfaction.

“That’s what makes me a married cumslut for them… and yours. Because you’re the one who lies back and opens your mouth when I come home messy. You’re the one who wants every drop they leave in me… and every bit of extra my body squeezes out just for you.”

She lifted herself barely an inch—just enough for me to breathe—her thighs still caging my face, her scent heavy on my tongue. A thin, shimmering thread stretched from her slick heat to my lips before breaking, sliding warm down my chin. She let out a soft, bliss-heavy laugh—a woman freshly used and knowing exactly what she meant to me.

She let the silence stretch, the smell of their sex and her release heavy in the air I breathed.

“You have no idea how different my orgasms are with you,” she murmured. “With them—the lovers, the men I pick up, the random strangers who use me—I get fucked. Hard. Rough. Taken exactly the way they want—and the way I crave to be taken to reach full pleasure, to hit the deepest, most satisfying orgasms, in ways you can’t.” They leave me shaking and dripping… but they never see what you see.”

Her hips pressed down just slightly, as if to underline it.

“When you’re under me, licking me out, begging for the taste they left… my orgasms go somewhere else. They get filthy. Uncontrolled. The kind that make my whole body snap and buckle because I’m still stretched open from them and you’re pulling even more out of me.”

“You know… the first time it happened, I was terrified.”

Her tone softened even as her thighs tightened faintly around my face, like the memory lived in her muscles and the silence stretched.

MY RECOLLECTION

In that silence, I remembered that particular night vividly, emblazoned in my mind. So many unanswered questions hung there, swirling with every memory—how she had said nothing, even after all this time. Yet it had changed us; the reclaim sex was never the same after that night.

I had waited, as usual, in fevered, aching anticipation, a slight pang of jealousy twisting in my stomach, desperate for her return. Usually, after her nights out, I knew what to expect—a man, a conquest, a filthy, unforgettable story she would tell as I reclaimed her, slipping into her hot, wet pussy. But the moment the door swung open and she stepped inside, everything in me froze.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t greet me. Didn’t even look in my direction.

She just tried to slip past me toward the bathroom like she needed to rinse the night off her skin before I could see it.

But I saw everything.

She was still wearing that short, pleated skirt—the one she chose when she wanted to feel wanted, when she wanted to be grabbed, bent, fucked. It was as inviting as always, but it was her white blouse that drew my attention, soaked through—sweat… cum… something. It clung to her like a second skin, turning nearly transparent. Her nipples were hard, sharp little points cutting through the thin fabric because she never wore a bra on her special nights out. Every movement made the blouse pull and stretch over the shape of her breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Her makeup was a wreck. Mascara streaked down her cheeks in dark, dried lines, obviously from tears. Not fresh ones; her eyes were dry now, flat, almost empty. But something had broken in her earlier, and the tracks it left were unmistakable.

Her hair was a tangled mess, clinging to her throat and jaw like hands had been in it—hard, controlling hands that had used her without hesitation. It was also wet and sticky in places.

She kept her head down, her steps stiff and too careful, like her thighs hurt, like she couldn’t close them fully, like every shift of her hips reminded her what had been done to her. Her scent hit me as she moved—heavy, layered, unmistakably sexual—masculine, on her skin.

And she still didn’t look at me. Not once.

Her shame was physical—shoulders tight, breath quick, almost panicked, as though making eye contact with me would expose something she wasn’t ready to admit.

She wasn’t running from me. She was running from herself. From what she’d let happen. From what it meant.

Even before I touched her, even before she said a single word, her body told me the truth:

This hadn’t been the usual one-man night. This had been something else—something overwhelming, excessive, brutal in its intensity. Something she’d never dared before… and couldn’t hide now.

And the look in her dry, mascara-stained eyes—haunted, raw, afraid—told me she knew it too.

She tried to pass me, stumbling toward the bathroom, murmuring, “I… I need to shower… to clean myself,” as if to push me away. My heart tightened with worry—what if someone had truly taken advantage of her, gone too far, beyond her will, had raped her? I reached out, gently bringing her back, feeling the tremble in her body.

“Were you hurt?” I asked softly, hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“No,” she whispered, voice shaking.

“Forced against your will?”

“No,” she breathed.

“And… did you enjoy it?” I pressed.

She faltered for a moment, then whispered, barely audible, “Yes… but…” Her eyes drifted away, shame and desire tangled across her face.

I moved my hand slowly to slip around her neck, steadying her as I pressed my lips to hers softly, feeling the warmth and fragility of her shiver sink into me. She tried to pull back, murmuring, “I… You… shouldn’t, not tonight” as if to stop me, but I held her gently, resisting her protests. Breaking the kiss just long enough to whisper, “I want to share the night with you,” I slowly sank to my knees in front of her. My gaze fell to her soaked blouse, clinging to every curve, the wetness spreading across her torso. My hands slid down to cup her hips, steadying her as I ducked my head under her skirt. The heavy scent of sex—so potent and raw—hit me, and I could taste it on my breath as my eyes fixed on her thighs, slick with the remnants of the night, cum leaking down them, her panties utterly soaked, sticky and dark.

She shivered, pressing back instinctively, eyes wide. “No… no, it’s too… I’m too dirty,” she whispered, trying to pull away. “It’s too much. I can’t—”

Her fragility made my chest tighten. “Shh… it’s okay,” I soothed, gently holding her, feeling her tremble. “I want all of it. I want to be part of this.”

“But… you shouldn’t,” she whispered, voice breaking, almost on the edge of tears. “I’m… so filthy, too many… too much… you don’t want this—”

“Yes, I do,” I murmured, pressing my hands to her hips, guiding her gently, patiently. “I want it. I want you. Every drop, every trace. Let me take it from you.”

Her legs quivered, the slick warmth still smeared across her thighs. She tried to pull her skirt lower, tug at herself, resist, but her strength faltered. I lifted her skirt just enough to see, to drink in the proof—the sticky trails marking her completely—my mouth hovering, tasting, inhaling, a flicker of fear gripping me at how far I was about to degrade myself even as my excitement rose, my heart thumping, blood racing, making me feel light-headed.

Her hands went to my head instinctively, weakly holding me back, her pulse thrumming under my fingers. “I… I’m too… too much,” she gasped, trembling. “You can’t…”

I pressed gently, letting my lips brush the soaked fabric of her panties, tasting the proof of the night as I gripped her shaking hips to steady her.

HER CONFESSION

My mental reverie was interrupted by her confession, the first time she had ever divulged any detail from that night.

“I’d just come home from being fucked stupid by a group of guys I barely knew. I’m not sure how many… but enough that I stopped keeping track of…”

She hesitated again, as if expecting me to say something, but I kept still and silent, desperate for her to finally reveal everything that had happened that night.

She took a shaky breath, eyes half-lowered as she finally continued.

“I didn’t plan it,” she murmured. “I was just… lounging at the bar in that little skirt and blouse, looking out for….. Anyway then this guy started chatting to me. Just small talk at first. He was sweet — bold, but not pushy. He made me laugh.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she began, her head tilting slightly as if she were letting the memory wash over her.

“And then he introduced me to one of his colleagues. Taller, louder… and very obviously interested. I should’ve stepped away, but I didn’t. I liked the attention and the thought that I might get double the pleasure tonight. One drink became two, and suddenly there were four of them around me, all wanting my time.”

She glanced at me then, almost as if checking whether I could handle hearing it — and continued anyway.

“I told them I was married,” she said, voice dropping to a low, wicked softness. “But I said it with a smile… the kind that tells a man it isn’t a warning. More like… a little challenge. I even told them I just needed some excitement now and again.” She gave a small, helpless laugh. “And they understood exactly what I meant.”

Her pupils were blown wide; remembering excited her.

“I let them flirt with me. I let their hands wander a bit. Nothing happened that I didn’t want. I wanted all of it.” She swallowed. “Being surrounded like that—all of them watching me, wanting me—it did something to me. I felt… alive.”

Her voice dropped even lower.

“So when one of them mentioned they had a suite booked in the hotel next door, and asked if I wanted to ‘continue the fun’…” Her smile widened, slow, shameful, and utterly honest. “I didn’t resist. I didn’t even pretend to. I wanted to see how far the night could go, which of them I could hit it off with—perhaps two—and they wanted me to go with them.” She paused, letting the memory sink in. “And that’s how I ended up right in the middle of their office Christmas gathering.”

She held your gaze then—direct, steady, unashamed.

The moment I stepped in, it hit me—I wasn’t their guest anymore. The hotel suite was decked out with Christmas party banners, tables laden with food and drink, and a whole group of office workers already mingling inside. Their eyes roamed freely, devouring every inch of me through the thin blouse and short skirt, drinking in the swell of my breasts, the curve of my hips, the bare skin they could glimpse.

Whispers brushed my ears, little murmurs of hunger and amusement, and I felt myself trembling under their gaze. Every look, every subtle brush of hands through the crowd, made it unmistakable: I could have backed out right then, slipped away with one of the guys to another room, found an excuse to escape—but I didn’t. I was here to be watched, to be desired, to be taken as their living, breathing entertainment. I could already feel the wetness pooling between my legs, and the thought sent a shiver of heat straight through me, mixing humiliation with a dark, pulsing lust.

One more drink, one compliment, one hand up my skirt, exposing me as another’s hand slipped inside my panties, tugging them down and revealing just how wet I already was—my arousal obvious to everyone. That’s all it took before their hands roamed greedily, treating me like the filthy, dripping present they’d been waiting for.

They passed me around as they guided me toward the bedroom, hands everywhere—cupping my breasts through the thin blouse, squeezing my arse, fingers brushing the slick heat between my thighs as if they couldn’t help themselves. I passed an older man with a young woman in her finest party dress, her eyes on me eagerly, his presence radiating authority and control. At first, I thought she might share the sexual burden with me, but she didn’t follow—at least not then—and I realised it was entirely on me to satisfy them all. Every step felt slower, heavier, because each of them needed a turn touching me, testing how wet I was, showing the others what they’d found.

By the time we reached the large bedroom with the king‑sized bed, my skirt was bunched around my waist, my blouse half‑unbuttoned, my panties dangling uselessly around one ankle. They kept groping me as if claiming pieces of me before anyone else could, palms sliding over my hips, thumbs teasing the lips of my soaked pussy, my body swaying helplessly between them.

Then he guided me to the king‑sized bed in the centre of the room, the tall guy from the bar, cheers rising from the gathered office workers as he dropped his pants and pressed me down onto the soft sheets, taking me as his prize. “God, you’re hot, wet, and so tight,” he bragged, grinning as he plunged deep into me, sliding hard and claiming me openly while the others clapped and whistled, already eager for their turn. Every thrust, every grunt, every moan from me seemed to excite them further, feeding the frenzy that surrounded my helpless, trembling body.

Others didn’t wait long. A few of the more hesitant, likely sex-starved ones approached almost tenderly at first, trailing kisses along my neck, cupping my breasts, whispering in my ear how beautiful I was, as if they wanted to make love to me—their hesitation only stoking the room’s tension as the others pressed them to hurry and finish so they could have their turn, the mix of lust and anticipation thick and electric.

But soon my blouse and skirt were discarded, tossed aside, leaving me completely naked and exposed. The bolder men treated me like nothing more than a sex doll, plunging hard into my pussy, slamming me down onto the sheets, leaning over to shove themselves into my mouth, claiming me without restraint. Every thrust, every gasp, every shudder of my body sent ripples of lust through the room, and I was utterly consumed, a trembling vessel for their pleasure.

Then there were the ones I wasn’t even touching—just standing close, stroking themselves, waiting for their turn, smearing their precum on my cheeks, in my hair, or brushing it across my lips as I tried to breathe between thrusts.

I was wanking one man off with my hand while sucking another, all while someone else lifted me onto their cock from behind. It stopped being separate bodies and became this blur of hands and cocks and heat, all shifting me where they wanted me, using every part of me like I belonged to whoever reached me first.

I was sinking, dissolving, humiliated, and turned on in a way that made my stomach knot and my breath break apart. By the time another pair of hands lifted my hips for the next man, I wasn’t even thinking anymore—I was just responding, swallowing, humping, yielding, letting the degradation wash over me and pull me deeper.

And somewhere in that blur, I felt tears sliding down my cheeks—not from hurt, though with some of them, that was real, but from the sharp, delicious ache that ran from my swollen lips deep into my pussy, a burning fullness that made me tremble and gasp, teetering on the fine line between pleasure and pain. I wanted it, craved it, every bit of pressure and stretch and raw, invasive sensation feeding the fire building inside me.

I found myself squealing, crying out for them to stop—little desperate sounds that echoed through the room, empty pleas, because part of me didn’t want them to stop. They knew it, too, and pushed harder. They didn’t pause. They didn’t care. They carried on, thrusting, stroking, fucking me, yanking, spreading, taking every opening they could reach. My mouth was full, my fingers busy, my thighs trembling violently, yet they didn’t ease up—not for a second.

Then she was there, the secretary I presumed, watching. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide and disgusted, biting her lip at my desperate, messy performance. Her gaze burned into me, but she didn’t intervene—only watched as I was stretched, used, and made utterly helpless.

At one point, she reached over and slid her fingers inside me, tentatively at first, exploring, teasing, trying to bring me pleasure with her touch. But it didn’t take long for her to realise just how thoroughly I had already been opened up by the men I’d taken—my walls loose, slick, and trembling around her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she curled her fingers into a fist, pushing deeper, her wrist disappearing inside me as she tested my limits, driving me further into helpless, eager surrender. The older man knelt beside my face, his presence commanding, reaching over to caress her cheek, his fingers curling into her hair as he guided her while feeding me his cock to suck, his eyes locked hungrily on her every reaction.

I turned my head obediently, opening wide to take him into my mouth. Around us, the other men had gathered, some drinking, some catching their breath, all of them openly watching the scene unfold, as if it were perfectly natural to stand around a bed and admire a woman taking another apart with her hand. I gasped and shuddered under her touch, my walls clenching and trembling around her arm.

Part of me was humiliated beyond words, exposed in the most intimate, degrading way imaginable, aware of every pair of eyes fixed on us—on the two of us—watching the prim-and-proper secretary work a slut wife open, listening to the wet, squelching sounds, feeling the cum leaking out, watching me take it, watching the raw, obscene closeness between two women as she used me. And yet another part of me burned with an impossible, aching craving for more—hungering for every inch she could push and stretch, every depth she could reach, every deeper layer of humiliation I was being driven to.

Then she pulled her hand free, slick with the remnants of the men who had used me, and wrapped it around the old guy’s cock, stroking him deliberately over my face as his gaze shifted between her and my gaping, ruined pussy. The girl’s eyes had locked onto mine—wide, sharp, almost disgusted—staring straight through me and then, turning back to him with a softened, almost encouraging warmth meant only for him, she urged softly, almost tenderly, “Go on, Sir… cum all over this slut.”

And he did, too — earning a round of applause from the watching audience.

That was the last I saw of those two for a while—likely slipping back into the main lounge area—but their departure seemed to wind the others up even further, as if their absence somehow freed everyone to push things to an even wilder level.

They treated me like a party game — not a woman, definitely not someone’s wife, just something to use, a toy. I remember their laughter, the way they egged each other on, turning my body into a scoreboard. Who could push the deepest. Who could make me gasp the loudest. Who could cover me with the most cum. They goaded each other relentlessly — teasing the older guys to “show the youngsters how it’s done,” mocking the smaller guys to “prove they could make the slut moan too.”

They took turns bragging as they used me, each one trying to outdo the last, their hands everywhere, their voices mocking and hungry, like my trembling, soaked body was nothing more than the centrepiece of their Christmas entertainment. And the worst part — the part I still can’t say without shaking — is how much of me responded to it, how my pussy clenched around each of them as if begging for more.

And the more they ignored my cries, the louder my body begged. Each harsh grip, each sharp press inside me, each rough thrust drove me higher. I was burning with need, gasping and moaning, sobbing and squealing all at once, lost in a heady ache that was equal parts torment and ecstasy. My pussy throbbed, hungry for more, aching in a delicious, unrelenting way, and even as my mind wavered on the edge of shame, my body screamed for the next bite of pain, the next wave of degradation, the next hand or cock to push me further.

Every rough word they threw at me made my thighs tremble harder. Every time someone pushed my head down or held my hips open, the tears came faster—not because I wanted it to stop, but because part of me was terrified that I didn’t.

I could feel the humiliation twisting into pleasure in a way I had never expected, never admitted, never even imagined I’d crave… and the weight of that truth cracked something open in me. I was ashamed—ashamed of wanting it, ashamed of how deep the desire went, ashamed of how my body begged even as my mind tried to understand what it meant.

My mind spun—I’d imagined that night countless times, fantasised about it over and over—but hearing her speak it aloud was far more erotic, more filthy than anything I’d ever conjured. Her repeated words, describing how she’d felt, how she’d wanted it, how she’d needed it, hit me like a revelation. This wasn’t just a confession; it was a raw, intoxicating truth laid bare before me—her sex nights out since then had only scratched the surface, a mere tease of what she truly needed, and she hungered for more.

“And under all of it, flickering like a warning I couldn’t ignore, was the fear of what this could do to us… to our marriage. If I could come undone like this by a group of strangers—if I could be turned on by being degraded, by being a cumdump—what did that say about the life we’d built? About the person I was supposed to be with you?

The tears kept falling as another man pushed into me, my breath catching, my body giving in, my pussy clenching around his shaft even as my heart clenched around the terrifying, trembling truth: Because some part of me wanted to be taken like that… wanted to let them use me, wanted to let them reduce me to a trembling, messy little cum-slut wife — and I hated myself for wanting it.

And the final, degrading insults came when I went to retrieve my clothing—only to discover my panties already soaked in cum before I’d even stepped into them, clearly used as a target for one of their games. Then, as I walked back through the lounge, the secretary came over, brazenly trying to press money into my hand in full view of everyone, smiling like she loved watching me squirm. I let the notes slip from my fingers and fall to the floor as her hand idly traced over my wedding ring— reminding me exactly what she thought I was: a whore.

I was disgusted by them, ashamed of the night… but mostly, I was ashamed of myself. Of what I felt. Of what I let happen. Of what I’d become to you. And that’s why I’ve stayed silent about that evening.”

She inhaled, slow and unsteady, remembering exactly how her body had felt.

“I was still shaking when I left. My pussy was throbbing, swollen… stretched wider than I’d ever been. I could still feel them inside me—layered, overlapping—like my body hadn’t realised they were gone yet. Every step I took made their cum shift deeper in me. My thighs were wet. My panties were thoroughly soaked, ruined. My blouse clung to me. I felt completely degraded, like I’d been used past the point of having any dignity left.”

HER FIRST LOSS OF CONTROL

A small pause. Her voice dropped lower.

“And I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you it was more than one or two. I thought you’d break. I thought it would be too much. I thought you’d finally say no. So when I walked in and saw you waiting… god, I felt filthy. I felt marked by all of them. I felt like no wife should ever feel walking into her own home. I felt that I needed a shower to cleanse my body if not my mind.”

Her breath trembled, catching on the next memory.

“But then you touched me. You were quietly insistent, taking me all in, and you knelt between my legs and opened your mouth. And when your tongue pushed inside me… all those sensations hit me at once. All those men. All those orgasms they’d wrung out of me. The ache. The stretch. The dripping. The heat.”

A shudder went through her entire body.

“My legs gave out. My stomach tightened. I couldn’t hold anything in. It was like every leftover pulse from every orgasm they’d forced out of me slammed back into my body the moment you started licking. You were swallowing a taste that wasn’t yours… and I felt it. I felt your mouth pulling all of them out of me, reclaiming me, accepting them.”

She exhaled sharply, almost a moan.

“My body just… broke. I came so hard my vision went white. I couldn’t stop my muscles. I couldn’t stop my bladder. I let everything go on your face because I couldn’t fight the aftershocks they’d left in me.”

Then softer, intimate, certain:

“And no man who used me that night would have stayed beneath me for that. Not one of them. Only you. Only my loving husband w a heart weŵŵeould take the final, messy part of me they pushed loose.”

Sue looked down at me through half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling, her breath uneven. For a moment, she didn’t speak. She just watched.

Watched the shine she’d left all over my lips.

Watched the wet patch spread across the pillow where she’d been grinding.

Watched the way I was panting already, desperate, helpless, waiting for her to lower herself again.

A slow smile curved across her face—dangerous, satisfied, almost tender in its cruelty. “And now it’s our ritual,” she murmured, brushing her thumb across my cheek and dragging more of her slick across my skin. “No more pathetic, lukewarm, sloppy seconds that never felt like enough for either of us. That was never satisfying… not for you when I’d just taken someone much bigger and I was left all loose and you were slopping around with no real feeling, and definitely not for me—there were never any more real orgasms for me, not from your cock. My night was over, and I lay back, recounting my night’s exploits to turn you on, wanting you to take pleasure as you had let me find mine that night, putting on a show and just hoping you’d hurry up and finish so I could finally get some sleep.”

Her thumb slid to my chin, lifting it so she

could study the shine on my lips—her shine—my breath already trembling for her.

“This,” she went on softly, “is real participation. Real belonging. You earn your place in my sex by cleaning me properly, licking every drop of their cum, swallowing it, tasting what’s mine and theirs. That’s how you share in my nights, how you become part of every man I take now, part of everything I am.”

Her smile grew warmer and filthier at the same time, while I imagined what real participation, truly being part of her nights would be like, experiencing the full intensity, the raw, consuming pleasure she let herself have.

“Look at you,” she whispered. “My good little mouth. Always ready to take whatever I give you.” She leaned in, voice dropping to a purr. “Honestly? I think you’re as big a cumslut as I am. And it’s obvious you love the taste—even when it’s washed down with hot piss.”

Her eyes dropped again, hungry, assessing.

“You’re a mess.”

Another beat. She drank in the sight—my flushed face, the glaze on my lips, the need in my eyes she knew she put there.

MY RELEASE

One of my wrists stayed locked in her grip as she rolled off my face and stretched out beside me. My free hand hovered for a moment—aching, desperate, but still not daring to move. She kept me waiting.

Only then—only when I was shaking—did she say softly, “Touch yourself.”

My hand flew down, almost frantically. I was so turned on, so close, that the first stroke nearly broke me. She watched me like a predator, her fingers still wrapped around my restrained wrist, her chest rising and falling as she ground lightly on my cheek.

I didn’t think about him—not about the night’s lover—only about her, her party gangbang confession spilling between us. I remembered how I had wanked my cock while licking her clean, spilling my seed over her calf and foot, and how later I had slipped on her cum-soaked panties as she slept and jerked myself off once more, letting my cum mix with theirs, coating my fingers and sliding over the soaked fabric. Every thought, every stroke, every shiver of memory built the fire that had me trembling beneath her now, utterly consumed by her, by this moment, by the filthy, intimate truth she had given me.

And somewhere under all that heat, a darker spark flickered—wondering whether she was already thinking about next month… whether she’d go out again wearing that same little skirt and sheer blouse… whether she’d slip away from her so-called girls’ night and let herself become their entertainment all over again.

My breath caught.

A second stroke.

A third.

Her smirk widened as my hips jerked, as my hand moved faster, messy, needy, sloppy.

Then it hit me.

My back arched violently, legs shaking as wave after wave of thick, hot cum spurted oh, so satisfyingly over my stomach and thighs, soaking me. Each pulse left me gasping, utterly surrendered. The sheer flood of it overwhelmed me, leaving my body quivering and drenched in my own release.

She laughed softly as I came apart beside her, watching every last twitch run through my body with that dark, entertained satisfaction she only ever let slip during these nights.

Watching me utterly undone, she traced a finger along the wet mess I’d made of myself, leaning close so her lips brushed my cheek with a possessive, almost worshipful tenderness. “You always come so fast on these special nights,” she murmured, her voice low and warm, eyes drinking me in. “And look at how much you give yourself… every shiver, every pulse, all over you, so much more than in our vanilla lovemaking. Every drop, every gasp—you surrender it all, and I love every filthy, beautiful part of it.”

Her fingers drifted down, gathering the mess from my stomach, lifting it like evidence, sharing it between us.

“You never cum like this in me. Never this hard. Never this much.”

A quiet chuckle. “It’s almost funny, really… the way your orgasms with me in bed feel like the faked ones I put on for you. Cute. Polite. Performed. I can tell your mind drifts elsewhere when we fuck—chasing other nights, other pleasures, other bodies—and yet here you are, giving yourself over completely when it counts.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, warm and cruel at once.

“But this?” She displayed the slickness on her fingertips. “This is real. Our real orgasms only ever show up on nights like this. You when you’re broken open… and me when I’m being exactly who I want to be.”

She leaned closer, her breath touching my ear.

“It’s because you love this,” she whispered. “You love what I let you see… what I let you taste… what I let you want. Is it my touch?” Her lips brushed my jaw. “Or is it the taste of a man that makes you lose control like this?”

Her voice softened—but the softness was the most dangerous part of her.

“I love watching you in these moments,” she breathed. “Seeing the real you… the one who can’t hide, can’t pretend, can’t lie about what actually gets you off.”

CHRISTMAS PARTY…

Then her thumb stroked my cheek, slow and proprietary, her smile turning wicked.

“And you know…” she murmured, “I think I need another night like last year.”

A pause. Heavy. Loaded.

“You know it now—how utterly I lost myself.” Her eyes burned, dark with lust and want, her lips parting in a gasp of need. “I need it… again. I need it so badly.”

I was panting—spent, shaking, my body still twitching from what she’d dragged out of me—while my mind reeled ahead, already imagining her next night out in December… her degrading herself in front of them, letting them use her as they wanted, and then me degrading myself in front of her afterwards, doing everything she needed to make the night complete, to share her shame, and this time fully aware of what I was reclaiming from her.

But beneath it all was the same helpless ache as always—how much I wished I could truly be a part of it, used and humiliated alongside her while she watched, or taken into another room if she was too ashamed to share our degradation.

My own darkest, deepest, filthiest little secret was still hidden from her, even in moments like this—when her most degrading truths were spilling out and I yielded completely, accepting it all, loving her fiercely through every humiliation, my heart still aching with desire and devotion for the woman who had claimed me utterly.

She still didn’t realise how much it meant to me, how each time I swallowed the cum of the men who used her—whether she fed it to me from her pussy or I licked it straight from her body—it wasn’t just obedience. It wasn’t just humiliation. It awakened something raw and hungry inside me. A need I’d never dared speak aloud. Because the truth was… I craved them too—the taste of them, not just through her, but directly, on my tongue, pulsing in my mouth, sliding down my throat, sticky and hot. The dominance threaded through every touch, every pulse of their bodies lingering in me.

When I cleaned her while they watched, licking their cum from her swollen, used slit, and then cleaned them while she watched—my mouth taking what was theirs, swallowing every drop—it wasn’t just arousal. It was that filthy idea of their bodies using mine the same way they used hers.

Every drop of cum I’d eaten from her, forced by circumstance but taken willingly, eagerly because it fed something in me I couldn’t deny. It wasn’t just submission—it was a confession my mouth made for me, one she still hadn’t fully understood.

I wanted to be used too.