Thrusts Under Watchful Eyes

Everything shifted in our quiet suburban home. For years, I’d suppressed my desire to dress boldly, but now, with my husband Tom’s encouragement, I embraced it fully. He’d come with me on shopping trips, his eyes lighting up as we picked out clothes that screamed sex — tight little dresses that hugged my curves, miniskirts so short they barely covered my ass, lacy lingerie that teased more than it hid, strappy heels that made my legs look endless, and perfumes that clung to the air like a promise. My closet became a playground of seduction, and Tom couldn’t get enough of it. He’d run his hands over my toned thighs, smack my round backside, and cup my perky breasts, urging me to flaunt every inch of myself — my sultry hazel eyes, my pouty lips, all of it.

It didn’t stop at clothes. Three nights a week, I’d slip into the arms of my lovers, and Tom was all for it. He knew about Derek, the rugged mechanic I’d confessed to sleeping with, and he’d seen Nick take me in our own living room one night, hiding in the shadows as Nick pinned me to the couch. But he hadn’t caught wind of the filthy afternoons I’d spent with Sean and Tyler — two guys who’d left me trembling and sore, and who I’d be seeing again soon.

Tom started watching more often. One night, he pushed me to invite Derek over. “Tell him I’m out of town,” he said, smirking, though he had no intention of leaving. I called Derek, and when he arrived — tall, broad, smelling of motor oil — Tom slipped out the back, only to circle around and peer through the blinds. I led Derek to our bedroom, my heart pounding as I peeled off my dress. He didn’t waste time—his rough hands yanked my thong aside, and he bent me over the bed, his thick cock stretching me open with one brutal thrust. I gasped, my fingers clawing the sheets as he fucked me hard, his hips slapping against my ass. Sweat beaded on my skin as he gripped my hair, pulling my head back while he pounded deeper, grunting like an animal. I came fast, my pussy clenching around him, and he followed, flooding me with heat. Tom saw it all — the way Derek owned me, the way I moaned like a slut — and it only made him hungrier.

I wasn’t working then. I’d married Tom at 18, dropping out of college, but he’d pushed me to go back and finish my nursing degree. At school, guys noticed me — my tight jeans and low-cut tops made sure of that — but none of them sparked that deep, primal shiver I craved. Until one day, leaving class, I heard a familiar voice call, “Lydia!” I turned, and there was Ben — my high school sweetheart, now 23, same as me. He’d filled out, his arms thick with muscle, his jaw sharp. I still looked young, my style a mix of sweet and slutty — ponytail high, skirt short, lips glossy. We hugged, and I felt his eyes roam my body, lingering on my ass and the swell of my chest.

Men stared at me everywhere — catcalls on the street, whispers in the halls — and Ben was no exception. He invited me for coffee that day, and I said yes. We talked for hours, the tension building. Soon, he was at school all the time, waiting for me. One evening, he suggested beers in his dad’s old pickup. I climbed in, and we drove to a wooded spot off the highway, the air thick with dusk and desire. Inside the cab, he leaned in, his lips crashing into mine. I pushed back at first, murmuring, “I’m married,” but his tongue silenced me, hot and insistent. My resistance melted as he unhooked my bra, freeing my tits. His mouth latched onto a nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak while his hand shoved up my skirt. His fingers found my soaked slit, plunging in, curling against my walls as I whimpered, my hips bucking against him. He begged to take me somewhere private, but I played coy, whispering, “Maybe next time,” though I knew I’d cave soon.

Two weeks passed without Derek or Nick, and I was antsy. I told Tom about Ben, lying that he’d asked me out for Friday. Tom’s cock twitched at the thought — he got off on me being fucked senseless. That night, I called Ben, purring that Tom would be gone all weekend. He got the hint. Friday, Tom teased me mercilessly — kissing my neck, grinding against me, slipping just the tip inside before pulling out, leaving me dripping and desperate. “You might get pregnant, running around like this,” I teased. His eyes darkened, his dick throbbing as he growled, “Plenty of room for more.” He dressed me up — black garter belt, sheer stockings, a red bra and thong set, a crimson dress that barely reached my thighs, and stilettos. I was a walking wet dream.

Tom dropped me at the bar, slipping inside first to watch from a corner booth. I strutted in, heads turning, but Ben’s gaze burned hottest. He stood, aiming for a peck, but I grabbed his face and kissed him deep, my tongue dancing with his. We drank, his hand sliding up my thigh, fingers brushing the edge of my thong. After a few rounds, he was shameless—kissing me like he owned me, his tongue fucking my mouth while his fingers slipped under the lace, rubbing my clit in slow, maddening circles. I was drenched, my hand squeezing his bulge, feeling how big he’d gotten. “Ben, baby, come with me,” I breathed, leading him to the men’s room.