It starts casual.

Just a text on a lazy Saturday morning.

Him: “Pool day today. Invite her.”

I freeze mid-sip of my coffee. I don’t need to ask who. I know who.

Her.

The neighbor.

The one with the perfect mouth and the voice that’s always just a little too soft when she talks to my husband.

The one I’ve caught him lingering around—pretending to be helpful when her groceries need carried in.

The one I once caught him moaning her fucking name while jacking off in the shower.

I remember standing outside the bathroom door, listening. Not saying a word. Just burning.

I text her.

She replies fast.

We’re all in the pool by late afternoon—bikinis, sunglasses, drinks. The air’s humid and sticky. I’m sitting between them. His leg brushes mine under the water. Her laugh rings too close to his mouth.

She knows.
She fucking knows.

But she’s not smug about it. She’s curious. Coy. Like she’s waiting to see if I’ll open the door.

I glance at my husband. He gives me a soft, unreadable smile.

That smile that says: Say yes.

So I do.

“You ever suck cock in a pool before?” I ask her lightly, fingers trailing the surface of the water.

Her eyes widen, then narrow with a grin. “Depends whose cock.”

I look at my husband. He raises a brow.

I turn back to her. “His.”

She bites her lip, glancing between us. “You’d let me?”

“I’ll show you,” I say, swimming closer to her.

I guide her in front of him, and he leans against the wall of the pool, arms resting on the edge like a king waiting to be worshipped.

I reach for the strings of his trunks, undoing them with practiced ease.

His cock springs free—already half-hard.

“Start slow,” I tell her, voice low, breathy. “He likes it when you look up at him while your lips wrap around the head. Lots of tongue.”

She obeys.

I watch as she sinks into the water, then takes him into her mouth. My husband groans low—his hand tangling in her wet hair as she starts to suck.

“Good girl,” I whisper into her ear. “More throat. Let the spit drip. He likes it messy.”

And she does it. Like she was born for it.

I stroke her back as she bobs her head, and my husband moans deep in his chest.

“Fuck, you’re a fast learner,” he breathes.

I smile, slipping a hand between my thighs. I’m soaked, aching, my clit throbbing under the water.

“Can I cum?” I ask softly, already desperate.

“No,” he says simply.

Then to her: “Pull her onto the ledge.”

I blink, confused—until she grabs my waist and lifts me up.

My back hits the hot concrete, legs spread wide. She’s kissing my thighs before I can protest, her tongue tracing every inch of me as the water drips off her lips.

I writhe, moaning shamelessly. “Fuck—yes…”

Then my husband moves.

He climbs out behind me, grabs my wrists, and pins them above my head.

“Thought you were in charge?” he murmurs, bending down to kiss me hard. “That was cute.”

She keeps licking me—soft, skilled, intentional—while he holds me down and whispers filth into my ear.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

“She wants to be our good little toy.”

“She’ll make you cum so hard you’ll forget you broke the rules last week.”

I cry out as her tongue hits just right, body convulsing.

He squeezes my wrists tighter.

“Not yet,” he growls.

He looks at her. “Put two fingers inside her. Make her wait.”

She obeys.

And suddenly I’m being used. Completely. Her fingers thrusting. Her mouth teasing. His voice commanding. I’m shaking, begging, losing control.

“Please. Please I need to cum—please—I’ll be good, I swear.”

He kneels behind her, pushes her hair aside, and whispers, “Not until she tastes me.”

Then he shoves his cock back into her mouth—while she fucks me.

The sight of it… the heat of it…

I lock eyes with her, and then with him—

And I break.

I cum so hard I scream, my back arching, her fingers still deep inside me. He holds me down as my body jerks and pulses, every nerve lit up like fire.

She pulls away from his cock, breathless, lips swollen.

“I think she needed that,” she whispers.

He lets go of my wrists, brushes the hair from my face, and kisses me softly.

Then he looks at her.

“You’ll stay for dinner,” he says.

“She needs to say thank you.”

The next morning...

The sun filters through the sheer curtains, soft and golden. The house is still. Quiet.

Except for the sound of her breath—slow and steady beside me.

She’s still here. Still naked. Still warm.

My thighs are sore. My skin smells like sweat and sex and chlorine. And him. My body aches in the best way.

I stretch slightly, shifting under the sheets. My husband is standing by the window, drinking coffee shirtless, his gaze locked out on the yard.

I watch him.

There’s something different in the way he’s standing. In the quiet tension of his shoulders.

He finally speaks, low and rough.

“She sleeps heavy.”

I smile faintly. “You didn’t.”

He turns to face me. His eyes are sharp. Bright. Dangerous.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

She stirs maybe thirty minutes later.

No one speaks. Not at first.

She sits up, rubbing her eyes, hair wild and beautiful. The sheet falls away from her breasts, and I can feel my husband watching her. His jaw tightens.

I see it coming before he moves.

He kneels on the bed in front of her. Kisses her softly. Slides his hand behind her neck. Pulls her in like he owns her.

Then he looks at me. Like he’s asking permission.

Like he’s daring me to give it.

I nod.

He shifts between her legs, pushing her gently back against the pillows. She gasps as he kisses down her body—mouth soft on her throat, her nipples, the curve of her hip. His hands spread her thighs.

And he enters her.

Just like that.

No warning. No ceremony.

His cock stretches her open, and she moans loud, head falling back, hands gripping the sheets.

I sit up, dazed, heat pooling low in my belly.

He’s never done this before.

He’s never been inside anyone else.

He wasn’t supposed to.

That was the one rule.

He only cums in me.

But now?

He’s inside her.

And it’s turning me on so badly I can barely breathe.

I crawl closer.

She’s gasping. Whimpering.

He’s whispering to her—things I can’t hear. Things I wish I could.

His rhythm is slow. Controlled. Measured.

He looks at me. His voice is hoarse. “Touch yourself.”

I nod, sliding two fingers between my legs.

Still sore. Still soaked.

I moan as my fingers circle my clit.

“Watch,” he says.

So I do.

I watch him fuck her. I watch her melt for him. I watch the muscles in his back tense, the way he grips her hips, the way she claws at his chest.

I rub harder.

“Beg,” he growls.

“Please… Sir, please let me cum. Please, I’m so close—”

“Not yet.”

I whimper.

Then she turns her head and kisses me—mouth hot and open, tongue slick against mine.

It’s too much.

My back arches. My fingers press deeper. I shake. I cry out.

And then—

I feel it.

A pressure like I’ve never known before. A release that doesn’t just hit—it erupts.

Liquid gushes between my thighs, over my fingers, onto the sheets.

I fucking squirt.

For the first time.

“Oh my God,” I sob, body still pulsing, legs trembling.

I collapse, panting, dazed, undone.

I glance up—and my husband is staring.

His pace falters. His breath catches. His jaw clenches.

“Fuck—no. No, no—”

He looks right at me. Right into my soul.

And then he breaks.

He cums inside her.

Loud. Deep. Unapologetic.

And we both know.

The rule is broken.

He pulls out slowly, chest heaving, eyes locked on mine.

And none of us say a word.

Not yet.

None of us speak right away.

The air in the room is thick—hot with the scent of sex, sweat, and something even heavier: the weight of what just happened.

He came inside her.

And I watched him do it.

I made him do it.

My body still trembles from squirting for the first time, my skin flushed, cunt aching and stretched. She’s lying back on the pillows, her chest rising and falling, her thighs slick with the mess he just filled her with.

He stands at the edge of the bed, still catching his breath, his cock slowly softening, shining with both of us.

He looks at me—eyes dark, unreadable.

Then he speaks, voice quiet but thick with command.

“On your knees.”

I don’t hesitate.

I crawl down the bed, breasts swaying, body raw and ready. My skin sticks to the sheets as I slide off the mattress and kneel beside the bed, between her legs.

“Clean her,” he says. “Every drop. Every inch. You don’t stop until she’s dripping wet with your spit instead of my cum.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes, Sir.”

I look at her.

She opens her legs for me.

And I dive in.

Her thighs are still trembling. Her pussy is soaked. Red and swollen, filled with his cum and her own, the taste of them mixing in my mouth with every slow lick.

I moan into her—long, indulgent strokes of my tongue, collecting everything and swallowing like it’s my salvation. I flick over her clit, circle her entrance, press inside with my tongue and lap her clean like I need to.

Because I do.

Because I made this mess.

I fucked up.

And I’m going to own it.

She gasps, fingers fisting in the sheets, her hips rising to meet my mouth. I take my time—nuzzling, kissing, worshipping the place he just came in. Her thighs close around my face, and I let them, sucking on her clit until she starts to moan.

“She’s close,” I whisper, voice wrecked. “Please let me make her cum.”

He walks behind me. I feel his fingers run over my back.

“Not yet.”

I whimper and pull back, licking my lips, her slick shining on my chin.

He holds something out.

A harness. A black strap-on.

“You’re going to fuck her now,” he says. “But I’m in charge of what happens next.”

He helps me buckle the straps around my hips. Tight. Firm. My pussy pulses against the base, already soaked again.

I crawl back up onto the bed between her legs.

Her eyes are wide, lips parted. She’s still catching her breath.

“Ready?” I whisper.

She nods.

I press the tip against her entrance—slowly, gently—and slide it in. Inch by inch. Her walls stretch around it, and she moans beautifully.

I fuck her slow. Deep. My hips grinding down with every thrust, rhythm steady and intimate. Her hands grab my waist, nails digging into my skin.

“She’s perfect,” I murmur. “She feels so fucking good.”

He walks around the bed. Watching. Hard again.

He pulls the toy from her slowly and lifts it to my mouth.

“Suck it.”

My eyes widen.

“Take it like you’re sucking me. Taste her. Feel what you just gave her.”

I open my mouth and wrap my lips around the tip.

It’s warm, slippery, filthy.

I suck it down, eyes locked on his.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Deeper.”

He pushes it slowly, and I take it—inch after inch, choking a little, spit dripping down my chin. I moan around it.

“Now fuck her harder,” he commands.

I thrust back into her while he shoves another dildo down my throat.

“And don’t stop sucking”

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect.

She’s moaning. Writhing. Her hands clawing at my hips while I fuck her relentlessly.

I can’t breathe. I don’t want to.

I just want to serve.

“Look at her,” he says to her. “This is what happens when she forgets who she belongs to. She becomes our toy.”

My moans get louder. Spit dripping onto her stomach as I fuck her harder, gagging around the dildo, my body sweating, shaking, on the verge of losing myself again.

“Make her cum,” he growls. “Both of you. Right now.”

I thrust harder. Her body tenses.

I lock eyes with him as we both fall apart again—me sobbing around the cock in my mouth, her screaming my name as she gushes around the toy.

He steps back, breathless, hard again.

But this time? He doesn’t fuck either of us.

He just stands there watching.

Smirking.

“I think you’ve learned your lesson,” he says. “But we’re just getting started.”