Fucked Raw in the Garage

Unveiling this part of my life feels like peeling back the skin of a fruit I’ve kept hidden, grown in the shadow of a rigid, judgmental town. I’m spilling secrets here – mine and my husband’s – because he’s the one who dared me to stop pretending. He’s always been loose with the reins on my desires, and what you’ll hear proves it.

I’m 31 now, and I’ve got a face and body that turn heads, even if saying so makes me sound full of myself. I tied the knot at 20 with Daniel, a guy older than me by a decade, and our marriage has been a wild ride – a kaleidoscope of lust and discovery that’s molded me into someone who hunts pleasure like it’s prey.

I met Daniel at 20, working late shifts at a diner. He was a regular, all quiet charm and sharp eyes, and within months, I’d ditched my parents’ rules to shack up with him. They hated it, but I didn’t care. The first few years were a blur of heat – we’d lock ourselves away, tangled in sheets, feeding off each other. He planted seeds of mischief in me, teasing out fantasies where I’d drift into other arms, other beds. He’d murmur names of strangers while we moved together, painting pictures of me as a reckless siren. It was his game, a spark he fanned without knowing it’d catch fire and burn him later.

Five years in, the cracks showed. Daniel’s drinking had gotten sloppy, and after a shouting match one humid July night, I left him sprawled on the porch and bolted. The air was thick, so I slipped into a cropped tank top, a barely-there skirt, and wedge sandals that clicked with every step. No bra, no plan – just me, the night, and a restless itch.

I ended up in a gritty part of town, where neon buzzed over dive bars and warehouses. The streets hummed with strangers, and I let myself drift until I pushed through the door of a low-lit joint, all chipped paint and cigarette haze. Eyes latched onto me – rough guys nursing beers, their gazes scraping over my skin. I ordered a whiskey, neat, and felt the room tilt as I sipped. By my second, a bartender slid a third across, muttering, “From the two at the end,” pointing to a pair of guys – lean, mid-thirties, in worn leather jackets that said they lived hard.

Logic told me to wave it off, but the thrill of their attention hooked me. I raised the glass their way, lips curling into a half-smile – a match struck in the dark. One of them, the taller one, shadowed me when I slipped off to the ladies’ room later. He leaned against the wall as I stepped out, voice gravelly. “You’re too good for this dump. Sit with us.” I dodged with a laugh, brushing past, but my eyes flicked back, daring him to chase.

The whiskey softened my edges. When I slipped off to the ladies’ room again, I tossed them a look – sharper, hungrier – and he followed. I met him halfway, buzzed and bold. “Still want company?” He smirked. “Always, sweetheart.” I leaned closer. “Not here, though – too many eyes. My husband’s got friends who’d talk.” That word – husband – landed like bait, and his grin widened.

We ditched the bar – me, Cole, and Travis, as they called themselves. Mechanics, they said, 33 and 36, with rough hands and rogue charm. We hit a roadhouse off the highway, low on crowds, high on shadows. Small talk fizzled fast; Cole suggested a spin on the patchy dance floor, and I went for it. The jukebox wailed as I moved between them, their bodies brushing mine, testing me. I sidestepped their lips, playing coy, but their heat sank in – hard presses against my hips, waking something feral.

Back at the table, their hands roamed – Cole’s fingers tracing my knee, Travis gripping my thigh. Cole slid higher, finding the damp edge of my panties, nudging them aside to stroke me slow and deliberate. I stifled a gasp, clutching the table. Travis caught my eye, and I kissed him – messy, urgent – while Cole’s touch deepened, unraveling me in public. Cole broke the spell. “Let’s get outta here.” I nodded, pulse racing, already picturing their hands everywhere.

They drove me to Travis’s garage apartment, a cluttered den of oil stains and old couches. Inside, they shed restraint. Travis poured cheap bourbon while Cole pinned me against the wall, mouth hot on mine, hands rough on my waist. “Fuck, you’re a knockout,” he muttered. I grinned. “Prove it.” He tugged my top up, freeing my breasts, and I yanked at his belt, finding him thick and ready. “Gonna suck this?” he taunted. “Try me,” I shot back, dropping low, taking him in with a hunger that surprised even me.

Travis joined, lifting my skirt, palming my ass. “She’s a goddamn dream,” he told Cole. “Sucks like she means it.” Cole groaned, “Wait ‘til you feel her.” They swapped – Travis’s cock was longer, angled, a perfect fit for my throat. Cole knelt behind, peeling my panties down, his tongue diving into me, lapping with a raw edge that made me buck. “Take it all,” I moaned, lost in the spiral.

Cole stood, gripping my hips. “Never had it back here, huh?” I tensed. “No – never.” They chuckled, dark and thrilled, hauling me to the couch. Travis sprawled out. “Ride me first.” I straddled him, skirt bunched at my waist, sinking onto him as he stretched me wide. I came quick, shuddering, clenching tight. “Holy shit, she’s got a grip,” he hissed. “Love this, don’t you?” “More,” I begged, “give me everything.”