Where is she? Bob wondered, for the hundredth time that night. He perched, bored and dejected in front of his computer, idly going through porn sites, occasionally typing one-handed, but just taking up time. Someone had once found that married men masturbated more than single ones did, but that didn't make it any the less lonely.
His wife, Jennifer, was out at her bridge club (who plays bridge in the 21st Century? What's next, whist?), loading up on gossip, which was unfortunate, but they seemed to be playing a lot more of it lately. He ran his fingers through his business-cut hair, blue eyes starting to water from hours of waiting. Why someone would start playing several days a week, instead of just one, didn't make much sense.
And the amount of time it took her seemed to be longer and longer, until he questioned her story. If it hadn't been an all-woman quartet, he might have worried. But no, Jennifer was faithful to him, always had been. She even told him so, from time to time. Still, after all this time, he wondered if he was lying to himself. What if she's cheating? Why would she do it? Why did she always shower right after coming in, was bridge a contact sport? The evidence was adding up, and he smelled a rat.
Looking at the clock, he realized it was 11:30 and both of them had an early day tomorrow. The one thing that made it worth waiting for was when she got home, she usually wanted to drag him upstairs and jump his bones. That was fun, but lately it was kinkier. She'd taken to deep-throating him with more and more ease, and even letting him try anal. The tight, hot hole she presented him with took a lot of the frustration out, but still something empty had replaced the normal sex...
Grumbling, he understood what it was. She'd let him in her pussy, but only to lube him up for the other hole. He tried to remember the last time he'd come inside her, and realized he couldn't. It had been months. Most married men would have been ecstatic to have nightly blowjobs, and their spouses swallow the load, but like a missing tooth, the lack of regular sex seemed to be nagging at him. What one can't have one is wanted the most.
He sighed, going back to his porn parade, when the phone rang. Looking at caller ID, he saw that it was Michael, his college roomie and co-worker.
"'Lo," he said, trying to fake a cheerfulness he didn't feel.
"Bob, you going to be home for a while?" it was Rachel, Mike's wife. That was odd. Rachel didn't like him much, and only because she and Jennifer were friends did they interact at all.
"I'm waiting for Jennifer to get home from bridge."
There was a silence on the other end of the line, and he looked at the Smartphone, puzzled.
"Listen, I'll explain everything when I arrive."
"Something wrong?" he asked, straightening in his seat.
"I'll explain. And don't worry about Jennifer. I'll explain everything.." He looked down at the phone, but the signal was already gone.
That was strange, he thought. He fastened his pants, partial erection already fading, and went downstairs. Mike and Rachael lived about five minutes' drive away, so she'd be at the house soon. He did some preliminary cleaning, policing up the leftover TV dinner and beer, and had the recliner back up to vertical when he heard a car in the driveway. He opened the door, and saw Rachael already out of the car, and heading towards the house.
She was dressed in some sort of thick coat, nothing showing underneath, and her shapely legs were marching on fuck-me-pumps as she looked at him. She slammed her car door with excessive force, looking mad enough to spit nails.
"Close the door behind me," she commanded, as she breezed past him, heels clicking on the entryway tiles. Mutely, he did so, as she turned, standing in the living room, legs apart, looking angry and...He wasn't sure.
"So where's Jennifer?" she asked accusingly.
"She's at her bridge club."
Rolling her eyes, Rachael collapsed onto the couch, and started to cry. "No, she's not, Bob, she never was."
"What do you mean?"
From out of her purse, the distraught woman pulled a DVD case, and thrust it at him like a dagger. "Play that on the computer. I'll be here."
The mystery deepened. "Rachael, what's wrong?"
"Just play the fucking movie. You'll know," she said, tears in her eyes making her mascara run. This was serious. He took the proffered disk, and went back upstairs. Behind him, he could hear her crying. He felt like trying to comfort her, but she just waved him away. He turned and marched up the stairs, as if he climbed a scaffold. Maybe he was.
In a few seconds, he had the disk in, and found it a self-executable, so a full-screen movie appeared. It was a hotel room, unfamiliar, seedy, but empty. A beep and a time code appeared across the top, and started to count. The screen flickered, and the time changed.
The door opened, and he saw Mike enter the room...Jennifer behind him? The image quality wasn't all that good, but damn, a man knew his wife.
She closed the door with her ass, hungrily looked at him. "C'mere," she said, "I want it." She sank to her knees slowly as he came forward, undoing his belt, kicking his shoes off-camera. His pants fell to the floor, his shirt hanging (thankfully) over his now-exposed ass.
As the distance closed, he saw Jennifer turn towards his crotch, licking her lips, her hands rising to take him. What the fuck was she doing?
"Gimmie that monster cock," she begged, as he chuckled. She directed him to take his shirt off, and he stood naked before her, as she opened her blouse and threw it away from her like it was on fire. Clad only in her bra and panties, she arched her breasts towards him.
"Take it off of me," she said, and he reached down and parted the clasp expertly in back, exposing her B-cup breasts, tweaking the nipples as she opened her mouth, moaning softly. From the distance between them, he saw Mikes asscheeks clench as she made a slurping sound, and her head bobbed back and forth. That was something he'd need mental floss to remove from his memory.
There wasn't much to see from the angle, but from the length that she was moving, she had to be taking him deep into her throat, moaning as she moved against it, the room filling with the slick sound of her saliva coating his thick shaft, moving in and out past her lips. Her hands were busy stroking the thick hardness, and he saw her having to move higher and higher as his obvious erection strained upward. Slurps and 'pops' of the suction being broken made it obvious what she was doing, and how it affecting Mike as well.
She played with herself with the one hand, and he watched dumbfounded as he saw her rubbing under her panties, frantically working on her spreading legs. I can't watch this, he told himself, yet he couldn't move. She was on fire, filled with a lust he remembered from their honeymoon and now nearly absent from their shared bedroom.
She pulled away from him, a loud 'smock' sounding in the room as his cock left her sucking mouth. She stood up. "C'mon, lover, I need this," she growled, taking his cock and pulling him towards the bed.
"Don't you get enough at home?" Mike chided her lightly.
"Meh. He's only average, and I want exceptional," she shrugged. "Don't tease me."
"Fuck!" Bob mouthed, shocked and hurt. Average? Seven inches is average? He looked down, and found himself hard as a rock. Someone's fucking my wife, and I'm getting a boner!?
And then he turned around, and he saw what she was working on. Mike was...hung. His cock wasn't even at full hardness, yet it had to be, oh..a foot? And thick. Waves of jealousy consumed him as he saw her slide a pillow under her ass, and pull him down on top of her. Wait, why a pillow?
