Bareback Collection

Four short, very short, scenes featuring a common theme: wives and bareback sex.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the following – if it's your bag. If you're not into wives with men other than their husbands, well, you might not want to read on.

If you do read and enjoy what I've done, feedback would be appreciated.

Apologies for any errors remaining.

Thanks for reading.

GA – Da Nang, Vietnam – 14th of March 2016.

***

Sophie's Blue Dress:

"Have you seen my blue dress?" she asked me.

I gulped, anxiety dribbling into the pit of my stomach. "I don't know what you mean," I said in reply, eyes moving from her precipitous heels, up over the dark stockings, my focus caught for a moment by her smooth vulva. It occurred to me she'd recently had her pubic bush waxed, the meaty labia peeping from that intimate place between her thighs.

Dread squeezed my insides when I looked up to see her generous breasts cantilevered over the quarter bra my wife favours, her long nipples extended and thick in the coins of their areolae.

She stood there, posing, fists on her hips in what seemed to be a deliberate taunt, ash-blonde hair piled up, subtle make-up applied, drop earrings dangling from her ears while a triple string of the same beads hung around her neck and nestled in the crease of her precipitous cleavage. Sophie flaunted her body at me, a body which still had the power to enflame my desires after nearly three decades of marriage.

"The halter-neck blue one," she said, rolling her eyes in exasperation, as though she thought me an idiot. "You're useless," breathed Sophie, turning to leave me alone in the lounge.

I watched her buttocks jiggle as my wife hip-swayed away, certain the brief conversation had purely been an exercise in showing me what I was missing, but which I feared she was giving to somebody else. The ensemble of stockings and heels, her choice of bra in conjunction with that damned halter-neck dress was too much for a supposedly innocent night out with 'The Girls'.

The television flickered with Saturday night programmes, ignored by me as I turned over the bleak prospect of my evening ahead. I had questions, the chief one being what time could I expect my wife to return. And it wasn't guaranteed to be the early hours of Sunday morning; Sophie had once come home at 4 p.m. the following day, bedraggled and bleary and full of some bullshit excuse about having too much to drink and landing hard at the home of one of her friends – a lie I swallowed because I wanted to believe her.

"I'm going," my wife said when the car horn sounded outside, "that's the taxi."

*

The four beers were demolished in less than an hour and a half, the buzz doing nothing to dissipate my mood, my head full of Sophie, her dress, and what she might be doing right at that moment.

The torture dragged on, with the television unable to serve as a distraction for more than a minute or two at a time. I was constantly checking my phone, desperately hopeful Sophie might text some endearment, an exercise in futility, of course, but I couldn't stop myself from examining the screen.

The sound of a car door slamming sent a lurch through my stomach. I glanced at my phone and saw the time was close on twenty to one.

"No way," I breathed, hope surging inside, already bracing myself for disappointment. It couldn't be Sophie...

The sound of the key snicking into the lock sent me to my feet. My voice wobbled when I called out her name.

"It's me," came her reply.

A moment later, my wife appeared, dress belted at the waist, the outer flanks of her big boobs visible as she moved into the living room to take a seat in one of the big easy chairs.

I examined her for clues as she stared back at me, crossing her legs so the dress slipped high on her thighs.

"Huh-how did it go?" I managed to ask.

My wife pouted, eyes narrowing to feline slits, her expression suddenly sly. She grinned at me and said, "You'll never guess who I met in the club."

The Club

. I envisioned drinking and dancing and horny young men gathered around my wife, all intent on freeing her large breasts or using her pussy.

I blinked, the emotions mixing inside me like they usually did: jealousy curdling my guts while my cock thickened and grew, dark urges rising up on a tide of the deliciously illicit.

"Who did you meet?" I managed to gurgle.

"Your boss," Sophie told me, uncrossing her legs. She shifted position, squirming her rump against the chair before leaning forward in an inelegant pose, elbows on her legs, hands dangling between her knees like a plumber on a smoke break. My wife kept her stare locked on my face as she added, "You know he's always fancied me, don't you?"

Of course I knew. Just about every man in our circle had a thing for my wife.

I nodded but said nothing, her gaze holding me rapt.

"We danced," she informed me. "And he insisted on driving me home."

My wife reclined in her seat, thighs going wide as she raised the hem of the dress above the level of decency.

"Oops," she said on a chuckle, chin on her chest while she examined herself along the front of her body. "I've mislaid my knickers."

I gulped and shifted around, my cock pressing against my jeans.

"He told me he fancied me," Sophie continued, her voice low and narcotic. "He told me he wanted to fuck me ... He was

very

insistent.

"I told him I couldn't of course, said I was married and didn't do that sort of thing, but he didn't want to listen, just parked in a lay-by and fished out his cock.

"And he's got a very big cock..." Her eyes glistened with mischief when she rolled the last word of her tongue, drawing it out as a taunt.

"Sophie," I mumbled. "Oh God, wuh-what did you do?"

My wife gave me that smirk, the one which sent daggers into my chest. Then she spread her legs wider, splaying the folds of her sex.

I looked at her body and saw my wife's clit all shiny and pink, her core glistening with what I hoped was her own desire, but which I suspected was something more sinister.

"I'm so fucking horny," I heard Sophie groan, one finger slipping over her bean before she hauled one breast free of her dress.

"Jesus," I moaned, eyes locked on my wife.

"He got me in the back seat," Sophie went on, both breasts bared by then. "I said I'd only give him a wank, but couldn't help myself. I had to suck his cock.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked with a grin. "I hope it doesn't make things awkward for you at work."

"Sophie," I gurgled, the confession unprecedented.

Her revelations shocked me. Despite my suspicions, I'd never had anything confirmed before, the crude telling getting me aroused. The sight of my wife diddling her clit made me want to haul out my cock and start tugging.

"He kept telling me how much he loved my tits. He was so excited when I got them out and showed him. Couldn't keep his hands off me." To emphasise her point, my wife hefted her breasts with both hands, teasing me with a provocative look.

Sophie then shunted forward, legs going wider, her bottom close to the edge of the seat. She used one finger of one hand on her clit, teasing herself while the other hand went under her thigh, one digit sliding into her body.

"He kept saying he wanted to fuck me, but didn't have any condoms. I told him he couldn't, that I couldn't take him bareback, but his dick was so thick..."

When Sophie eased the finger out of her pussy, I saw it smeared with gloop, the terrible certainty of what she'd done a dense swelling deep in my guts. She spread the stuff over her clit and dipped in for more, a slide of the stuff dribbling out of her opening to slip along the crease of her arse.

"Sophie, you didn't," I gasped, appalled and aroused, my stare fixed on another man's jizm slipping out of my wife.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her expression belying the words. "I told him he couldn't come inside me. I said it wasn't safe..."

My wife shrugged and pulled a face, pouting before smirking again.

"But he was just too carried away. He kept fucking that thing into me. I honestly think he was just using my pussy to wank off."

By then Sophie was smearing cum all over her sex. I gawped at the rings on her finger: the big jewel on the engagement ring glinting in amongst the gold and jewels of her wedding- and eternity-ring, the symbols of marriage and fidelity right there at the same place she'd allowed my boss to use her body as a place to dump his seed.

"He was relentless," Sophie was saying, the judders beginning. "He wouldn't stop, just kept pumping his cock in and out ... God it felt good," sighed my wife. "I came when he let it go in my cunt."

"Sophie," I growled, standing abruptly, the profanity she used pushing me over the brink of what I could stand. "Please, can I fuck you?"

My wife squirmed and groaned, face going slack as her orgasm hit her. "Yes," she mumbled, body tensing with pleasure. "But only because I want you to stir up his spunk..."

A moment or two later, as my beautiful wife mouthed obscenities, telling me all about how it felt to have his thick shaft inside her, I sank into her pussy, her sex squelching and farting, my hard-on displacing his cum.

I fucked into my wife, hooking her knees with my arms and almost turning her double as I leaned in to kiss her mouth.

We went at it with vigour, her squeals telling me she was coming again, her hand down between us, fingers busy on her clit while I grunted a warning and added all I had to the mess inside her already.

"I'm seeing him again," Sophie informed me, spunk sliding out of her body to stain her blue dress. "I think he might be a regular date..."

The Cubicle

I look at my wife, catching her as she exchanges a look with the good looking boy. He's across the room, sitting at another table with a woman I assume is his mother.

The feeling stirs in my guts, the odd desire tingling down near my balls, cock thick a few seconds after catching Moira's expression. I know it's on, can tell by the way my wife squirms against her chair, like she's rubbing the itch in her pussy.

I can almost smell her lust wafting up from that place between her legs. My cock gets even stiffer as I imagine how wet she'll be down below, her underwear sodden.

Then it gets worse as I wonder if she'll leave her knickers behind. If she'll let him keep them as a souvenir.

Just as I expect her to, Moira stands up to make an excuse. "I just need to pop to the–" she murmurs at me, leaving her destination unsaid, as though she's too prudish to say the word toilet or loo.

I nod my head and pretend to concentrate on the steak, cutting a slice while surreptitiously watching the boy.

There he goes, right on cue. It's as though Moira is pulling his strings. My wife moves past his table and, after a few seconds and a quick glance over at me, he's up on his feet, leaning in to say something to the lady he's with.

I give them some time to get acquainted, then put down the knife and the fork, dabbing my lips with the napkin before standing.

There's a choice, a dilemma, which did she choose? I think about it for a few seconds, then go for the Gents, assuming the boy would be more comfortable using that venue.

When I get in, I see there's a cubicle door closed, the sound from within abruptly silenced when the main door slides shut behind me with a shuck at its seal.

I make pretend I'm at the urinal, unzipping and actually pissing a stream before pushing my cock back within and washing my hands. Then, after opening the door but remaining inside the convenience, I move to the cubicle neighbouring theirs, going quietly, sneaking inside like a burglar inside a house.

"You're lovely," I hear my wife say after a pause.

"What if someone comes in?" he responds.

"Don't worry," she says. "I've bolted the door. All we have to do is keep quiet."

"Your husband–?"

Moira cuts in with, "Is stuffing his face. Now, shut up and get it out. We don't have much time and–

"Oh, Jesus," she gasps. "Would you just look at that thing!"

I can only assume she's pleased by his size, an opinion Moira reinforces by babbling, "I usually just wank them..."

There's a pause in which I can only envisage she's stroking his length.

"...but," Moira continues, breathless and obviously getting carried away, "I want to feel this one inside me."

"You're crazy," he says while moaning out his pleasure. "Wuh-what are you doing?"

"Getting it slick," she informs him. By which I know means she's going to use her mouth on his dick.

There's some shuffling next door, my mind's eye conjuring up an image of my wife taking a seat on the toilet, the boy standing before her with his erection waggling about.

His groan tells me Moira's lips are pursed round his cock, her fingers working his root. I know what it's like to have my wife sucking my cock, her tongue quick over the head as she rubs at her pussy.

The image is there, her skirt up round her waist, knickers taut down at her ankles, face distorted by the lump of male gristle she has in her mouth.

And I bet she's looking into his face, holding his stare with her own as she slobbers and slurps at his meat.

"Shit," my wife mutters. "I'm so bloody horny for this. Do you have a condom with you?"

I hear him grunt out a no, a snort coming from Moira.

Then, her tone all urgent and anguished, my wife floors me by saying, "Fuck it; I don't care ... just put it in anyway."

"Yuh-you're sure," gasps the boy.

"God yes, put it in. Just fuck me. I'm so fucking randy..."

A sinker of despair plummets south. My wife is taking the boy bare, his cock inside her body with no protection at all.

And I know for a fact she's completely vulnerable to his seed. My wife isn't using any form of contraception, hasn't for years.

I hear the sounds of their rutting, Moira whining and groaning while he grunts and mumbles about how wet he's found her.

"You're soaking," he groans, the thwacking of flesh reaching me as I hide next door and yank at my cock. "So fucking wet."

"I'm just so horny," my wife says with a gasp. "I can't help it, I'm always this way. As I get older it just gets worse."

"You're gorgeous," he mumbles, the tone of his voice telling me he's close to the end.

It seems Moira realises he's not going to last. "Don't do it inside me," she whines.

He grunts and snorts and mumbles something I can't quite make out, then my wife yelps and breathlessly urges him to take it out.

"You can't do it inside me!" she cries. "I'm not on the pill. It's too dangerous, please don't let go in my pussy."

If she means it, she doesn't seem to be doing much to stop him. I listen to my wife gurgling on about him not flooding her cunt with his goo while apparently thrusting back onto his cock, long moans coming out of them both.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, those words telling me exactly what's happening. "I'm coming," he adds, confirming the awful truth.

"Me too," Moira whines, her voice high-pitched and squealing. "For God's sake, don't stop fucking. I don't care if you fuck a baby in there, just keep on shoving me full of that cock."

I couldn't help but let out a sob of my own, spunk splashing against the cubicle wall.

The boy gasps out, "Shit, what was that? There's someone in here with us," he adds, fear hissing from him.

My wife says nothing at all in response, just lets out a moan as her orgasm cools.

Fuck," the boy mutters when the door to their cubicle creaks open. "Where are you going?" he asks.

Again, there's no response from my wife, and a few seconds later I hear the shuck of the main door.

When I get back to the table after wiping myself clean and washing my hands, no sound at all coming from where he's hiding away, Moira looks at me as cool as you like. "Finish your steak, dear," she tells me.

And, like the good boy I am, I do as I'm told, knowing I won't say a word about the other man's cum she's carrying inside her when we get home.

Before the Holiday:

"I've been looking at porn," Monica breathes.

There's no need to ask what kind. I know my wife's tastes.

"Have you?" I say with a chuckle.

Her eyes shine with inner excitement as she sucks on her lower lip and gives me the innocent look, which still works despite her being forty-nine years old.

Monica nods and says, "Yes."

To which I reply, while trying to ignore her bare breasts, "And I suppose you've been wanking?"

She sighs, boobs doing that little jiggle which always raises my cock. "With my biggest,

blackest

dildo," she purrs. Monica's eyes tease me while she hefts her big tits and teases teats that are long and thick with arousal. "I'm creamy," she adds, head canted to one side, looking at me.

"And horny?"

Monica's cheeks balloon as she blows out a lungful of air, need cracking her tone when she replies. "So fucking horny ... I want you to fuck me."

I play along with her game, although I'm already hard and yearning to sink into my wife up to my balls. "Show me what you were doing," I growl, resisting the urge to yank out my cock and start tugging.

"I can't do that!" Monica says, eyes going wide as she pretends to be appalled at the suggestion.

"But I want to see it. I want to watch."

"Really?" she asks on a low moan as she squirms around and slips a hand down between her legs.

I make a comment about the geometrically precise triangle down there. "You've trimmed your bush; it looks gorgeous like that."

Monica glances down, thrusting her pelvis forward, chin on chest as she examines herself. She splays her labia, holding the meaty petals apart, the oversized nub of her clit catching my focus.

"I really am so fucking horny," my wife breathes, diddling her bean.

"Then show me what you were doing." I tell her again, "I want to watch," because I know that's what she wants me to say.

"You do?" she replies, big eyes fixed on my face while feigning reluctance.

"Play the game, too," I say to my wife. "Make it dirty. Coming home to you like this has given me a raging hard-on. I'm in the mood for it as filthy as you can make it, Monica. It's the holiday soon..."

"I know," Monica breathes, gulping down on whatever it is she's feeling. "I can't wait."

And I know she can't wait, that's the reason she met me at the door stark naked. That's why she's been looking at smut and fucking herself with one of her dildos.

"You go and get started," I tell her. "I'll come upstairs in a second or two."

I watch her buttocks tremble as she hip-sways away, desire for my wife bubbling up. Monica's mother is English, her dad an Iranian, the combination of genes giving my wife's skin a Middle-Eastern colouring, her hair so black its almost blue, her eyes deep brown pools. Her shape is utterly feminine: lovely big boobs and rounded buttocks to counterbalance the heft of her tits, her waist – not as tight as it was, after all, she is almost fifty – sweeping inwards before swelling out to her hips, her legs toned and shapely.

I go to the kitchen and draw a pint glass of water, taking my time so Monica will be well on her way by the time I reach the door to the bedroom.

When the glass is drained, I make my way up the stairs, going quietly to help create the illusion Monica is alone in the house – alone in the house with her lover.

*

I asked for it filthy. Monica obliged.

By the time I snuck along the landing, I could hear her groaning out her desire, the words indistinct until I got up close. I paused just outside the door, daring to take a quick look around the jamb, finding my wife on our bed, legs wide, her fingers working her sex.

Her eyes were squeezed shut, my opportunity to sneak into the room, where I then moved to the chair by the window.

I glanced at the television and saw what Monica had been watching, her choice in pornography just what I'd expected.