Cheating Under the Spell of His Big Cock

I’m married to Ethan, a man who’s climbed the ranks at his tech firm, overseeing a dozen employees. I work part-time at a local bookstore while finishing my master’s, which leaves me with just enough flexibility to juggle life – and the unexpected chaos I’m about to unravel.

It was mid-January, the kind of biting cold that seeps into your bones, when Ethan left for a two-day conference (Thursday and Friday). We’d planned to attend a close friend’s engagement party on Friday night, but with him stuck in meetings three states away, I faced it solo. The party was for Lily, a friend we’d both known since college, so bailing wasn’t an option.

I roped in my friend Claire to join me. That night, I felt reckless – I wore a slinky black dress that hugged my curves, cut low in the front and high on the thighs, paired with stiletto boots that clicked with every step. A few drinks in, I spotted Ethan’s older cousin, Ryan, mingling near the bar. Ryan’s 41, freshly single after a messy split, with joint custody of his three kids. He’s got this rugged charm – tall, weathered skin from years outdoors, and a solid frame that fills out a jacket. We hugged, swapped small talk over whiskey, and I mentioned Ethan’s absence, nodding toward Claire as my plus-one.

The night blurred into laughter and clinking glasses. Ryan, Claire, and I stuck together, joined by a couple of his old buddies. Between shots, Ryan leaned in and confessed he couldn’t stop glancing at Claire – her sharp wit and red curls had him hooked. I grinned, noticing how she kept finding excuses to ask about him. When the party wound down, Ryan suggested we keep the night alive at his place. We grabbed a bottle of bourbon and piled into his truck, a ragtag crew of five. I texted Ethan updates – he’s never been possessive, just told me to enjoy myself.

At Ryan’s loft, we sprawled across his leather sectional, the bourbon flowing freely. Around 1 a.m., Claire’s phone buzzed – her sister had a flat tire and needed a ride. She bolted, and though I offered to tag along, she waved me off. I stayed, texting Ethan that he’d be home by dawn – maybe 6 a.m. – after his red-eye flight.

The group dwindled, and soon it was just Ryan, me, and his two pals. Someone slurred, “Truth or dare?” and we dove in, too buzzed to care. The dares escalated fast – one landed on me: “What’s your type – rough or refined?” I smirked, heat rising to my cheeks, and said, “Rough,” picturing calloused hands and stubble. The room erupted in laughter.

By 3 a.m., his friends stumbled out, and I dozed off on the sectional, the bourbon heavy in my veins. A shiver yanked me awake at 4:30 – the loft’s heat had died. Groggy, I shuffled toward the bathroom for a splash of water, but froze mid-step. The door hung half-open, steam curling out, and there was Ryan – naked, toweling off after a shower. His body glistened under the dim light, and my eyes snagged on him – thick, uncircumcised, hanging heavy in a way Ethan’s never did. My pulse hammered, not from desire – not yet – but from the raw shock of it. Ethan’s flight was landing soon; I’d have to grab him from the airport.

I rapped on the doorframe, and Ryan flinched, cinching the towel around his waist. “Thought you were out cold,” he muttered. I stepped inside, voice shaky, “Hey, thanks for the throw blanket earlier – any chance you’ve got a spare bed? It’s brutal out there.” He nodded, “Yeah, I’ll fix you up.” Back in the living room, he tossed a quilt over the sectional. Then, casually, he asked, “Did you… see me in there?” I swallowed, nodded, and – blame the bourbon – said, “You’re packing, Ryan.” He smirked, eyes glinting, “That’s just the preview.” We laughed, a nervous edge to it.

The air shifted. I tilted my head, daring him, “Show me the main event, then.” He didn’t hesitate – took my wrist, tugged down his sweats, and let it spring free. I dropped to my knees, mesmerized as it thickened before me, veins bulging, stretching past eight inches, maybe nine, with a girth that made my breath catch. He sank onto the sectional, staring at the ceiling, silent as I reached out. My fingers – then both hands – curled around it, barely encircling its heat. I stroked slowly, feeling it pulse and stiffen, a slick sheen forming at the tip. I was still in my black dress, boots off, a flannel shirt of his draped over me.

“Boots on – lose the flannel,” he rasped. I complied, slipping the stilettos back on, shedding the shirt, the cold forgotten as my skin prickled with heat. My breath hitched as I leaned in, lips brushing the head, tasting salt and musk. I kissed along the shaft, slow and deliberate, down to his balls – tight, smooth, freshly shaved. My tongue flicked out, teasing, then I took him in, sucking gently, savoring the weight of him. Fifteen minutes melted away, my mouth working him as my thighs clenched, dampness pooling between them.

I pulled back, stood, and our eyes locked – a silent fuse igniting. We collided in a kiss, fierce and sloppy, his tongue plunging into me, unbothered by where my mouth had been. I straddled him, his cock pressing against my dress, grinding so close I swore it’d tear through. My moans spilled out, imagining him splitting me open. His hands yanked the dress off, leaving me in a lace bra and thong, boots clicking as I shifted. He stripped bare, then attacked – lips on my nipples, sucking hard, teeth grazing as one hand kneaded my ass, the other roamed my ribs. He wasn’t Ethan’s cousin anymore – he was primal, mine, and I was his, lost in a haze of need.