This story is the third in a series, following on to "Thin Ice" and "A Slippery Slope" - you might want to check them out before reading "Leftovers" for maximal enjoyment. Like those, this story has a strong element of cuckoldry and wife sharing, so please only read it if that is something that appeals to you.
This story contains graphic sex and is intended for the entertainment of adults. All characters depicted are both fictitious and over the age of eighteen.
Comments and ratings are welcome. Check out my website (there is a link on the Contact tab of my profile page) to see more of my work. Enjoy!
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The photo arrived on Sunday afternoon, a quick chirp from his phone announcing the incoming message. He checked the number - it was from her special phone, not the one she usually used. His hands shaking, he tapped the screen.
The photo popped open, a picture of a woman's bare breasts with a necklace draped over them. He knew the necklace at once, a thin gold chain with a flower at the end of it, leaves and petals picked out in tiny emeralds and rubies. He'd given it to her on their fifth anniversary.
Nestled across and around the necklace were strands of semen. They traced several paths across her breasts, one spurt on her left nipple, another dangling in her cleavage, yet another dashing up her sternum towards her face, disappearing off the edge of the screen.
He licked his lips and scrolled down. There was a text under the photo.
Back around nine,
he read.
Love you lots xoxo.
He glanced at the time on his phone. Three thirty. Another five and a half hours until she got home. He stared at the photo, then dragged his fingers across the screen to enlarge it. Her nipples were engorged and her skin was flushed. She was probably looking up at the cock that had sprayed come all over her. Had it been in her mouth? In her cunt? God.
His cock was throbbing in his pants. He unzipped and reached inside, grabbed himself. He'd been rationing himself, not jacking off whenever he felt like it, whenever he thought of her. She'd been gone almost forty-eight hours now and he'd had to exercise rigid self-discipline. It wouldn't be good if she got home and found him spent, not after she'd been gone for a weekend at a beach cottage with her... what was he anyway? Her boyfriend? Her lover? He shrank from that word, it sounded so... intimate.
He slid his pants down and perched on the edge of the bed. It was okay to get some relief. This was a special occasion, the first message from her since the one she'd sent Friday night, and that one had just said she'd arrived safely. And this was... he slid his hand down his cock. This was amazing. Everything was just off the edge of the screen, where his imagination had to kick in. Her face, glowing with pleasure, The cock, throbbing as come pumped out of it in hot musky ribbons. And of course, her belly and her cunt.
His hand moved up the shaft. A drop of pre-come oozed from the tip and he smeared it on his palm, using it as a lubricant. He wanted to see her face, wanted to grind his own face into her pussy. But not for five and a half hours. Five and a half fucking hours, to be precise.
What were they doing?
Where were they doing it?
Why hadn't he said no, don't go with him? She would have understood, would have known that the fever that had gripped them both, had driven them into this erotic delirium, had broken. That they were back to normal, man and wife, fucking only one another.
But he hadn't said anything.
He stared at the necklace in the photo. It was so delicate. The semen that spattered it was a terrible violation, in some ways worse than anything else.
His legs were thrusting wildly now. He spat on his hand to add to the lubrication. He wanted her to come home, to lie in the bed next to him, above him, beneath him. He wanted to pound into her while she groaned and gasped his name.
He was getting close. He didn't want to come, wanted to keep going, wanted to keep thinking about her all afternoon. Not to think about that other cock, the cock that had spewed on her breasts and plunged into her cunt. But he couldn't help it. He was coming. Her cunt. Her cunt, that cock. He moaned and curled forward, his hand filling with sperm.
---
It was after ten when her car pulled into the driveway. He heard her shoes crunching in the gravel, then clicking on the front walk and on up the steps.
"Hi," she said from the doorway. She smiled at him. How did she look? He couldn't even really tell.
"Hi," he answered. He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly, his heart pounding.
She dropped her overnight bag with a little thump and came across the kitchen to him, snaking her arms up around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held tight, relief flooding over him.
"God," he murmured. "I've missed you so much."
She tipped up her face and kissed him. "I missed you too," she said softly, then kissed him again. Her lips were just as he'd remembered them, warm and firm, and a thrill went through him. "It smells like Chinese food in here," she whispered.
"Oh yeah," he said. "I ordered out."
"Anything left?" she asked.
"Some," he said. "You hungry?"
"Ravenous," she said. "We were going to stop for dinner on the way back but we got a late start."
He didn't want to know, didn't want to hear about
we
and why they had had a late start. He kissed her again. "You want me to heat it up?" he asked, hoping that she would say that dinner could wait, they had important things to do in the bedroom.
"I can do it," she said. She smiled at him. She was wearing the necklace from the photo but she'd cleaned it up.
He lowered his arms. "I can take your bag up," he offered.
"Such a gentleman," she said. "Thank you, kind sir."
Upstairs, he snapped on the light in the bedroom and put her bag on the bench next to her vanity, then paused. What had she packed? What had she worn? He hadn't been home when she left.
He slid the zipper of the bag open. The first thing he saw was the sheer red robe, the one he loved so much. He pulled it out of the bag and, without thinking, lifted it to his nose. It smelled faintly of her perfume. He held up the robe and imagined her body inside it, her breasts heavy against the thin fabric. He blinked, then laid it down on the bed and reached back into the bag.
His hand struck something hard and plastic. Her diaphragm case. She'd taken her diaphragm with her.
Of course she'd taken her diaphragm
, he told himself fiercely.
They hadn't gone to the beach to collect seashells.
But he felt a little queasy. He put the diaphragm back in the bag. Then he heard the loud
ping
from the microwave downstairs. He zipped the bag shut and hurried down to the kitchen.
She was sitting at the table, smearing hoisin sauce on a Mandarin pancake. A beer bottle was open on the table in front of her, a half-full glass next to it. He opened the microwave and brought over the container of
moo shu
pork.
"Thanks," she said. She scooped up some of the mixture with her chopsticks and rolled it in her pancake. "Want some of my beer?"
"Um," he said. "Sure." He glanced at her glass but instead picked up the bottle and took a swig.
What to say now?
he wondered.
She caught his eye and shrugged ruefully. "Sorry about eating in front of you," she said.
"No, no," he assured her. "You're hungry. I ate."
She took a sip of beer and blew him a kiss, then went back to her pancake.
"I got your photo," he blurted out.
She darted a glance at him but went on eating. "What'd you think of it?" she asked.
"It was..." he paused. "I liked it," he said finally.
