Me My Slutwife & Brian

"I have no idea where Brian is," I lied to the man's wife, while my ears strained to detect any muffled grunts or moans from behind the closed door slightly down the hall from us. The stud had been pretty quiet, but my wife Kitty is a fucking screamer, and I think the guy was keeping her noises down while fucking her with his massive cock by shoving his tongue -- or a couple of fingers, possibly -- in her mouth. It's the only way to shut Kitty up when she's taking eight or more inches of meat in her bald Asian cunt.

The rounded, 30-something mother of four scowled, her gelatinous face confused by the misdirection I was providing her. "Hmm, Mary said she saw him coming into the house," the rotund blonde muttered to me, scratching her double chin. She clearly believed my bullshit, that I had been down here in the home's "man-cave" for a while, and her husband Brian had been nowhere around. Cross the basement of Mary's house off of the woman's list of places to look for her cheating husband.

As I watched the confused woman bobble down the basement hall and head back up to the neighborhood party in the home's backyard, I turned to spy on the closed door of the man-cave. I'd been playing lookout for a good thirty minutes, maybe more, and already I had to deflect a couple of different people from trying to go into the room. Inwardly I exhaled, trying to relax from my nerves being aggitated by the last person on Earth I needed to walk down this hallway, the stud's wife. I sure hoped I wouldn't have to keep doing this.

Not that I wanted my wife to hurry up while getting what she really wanted -- a man-sized, super-huge penis stuffed in her petite body with her ultra-tight pussy -- but, frankly, I hoped she would hurry up. I didn't want to be responsible for someone barging in on the two of them, and ratting out the guy who was getting some Asian cunt for his big fat and very married dick.

Checking my watch didn't make the time go any faster. They'd be done when they were done, I figured. Time for me to man up and be the diligent foot-soldier, and keep the place secure for my wife to pleasure herself. It's a husband's job, isn't it, to make sure his wife is as satisfied and happy as possible? If you love her, right, then make her happy. That's how I see it, at least, I so don't understand why people don't get it.

"C'mon," I nervously mumbled to myself, tapping my foot against the floor and leaning my shoulders back into the wall of the basement hallway. Looking at the door -- which didn't make it open -- I began to imagine what was happing behind it. My cock throbbed in my jeans, as I smiled and nodded, enjoying what my imagination conjured.

* * * *

"YOW!"

About two hours earlier that afternoon, my wife's small hand had suddenly squeezed my interlocked fingers so hard, she cut off circulation to my digits. I must have exclaimed a soft yelp in surprise, because I had only been loosely holding her hand as we walked through the crowded back yard; I was not expecting the intense pressure she applied and was unprepared for a moment.

I knew what the vice-like squeeze of her hand meant. It was a signal we'd developed in the nearly two years we'd been together, since she left her first husband to move out with me.

Kitty saw a hot stud and her tight, bald Asian pussy was creaming in her thong.

***[My brain quickly flashed back to an intense memory. We had gone to a club near our old apartment, pretty late on a Saturday night. She and I had been fucking at our place then went out to dinner, and weren't really intending to make a big night of it. But she looked so good in her white blouse and tight black skirt, I suggested I show her off at the dance club. Just for a little while, nothing too eventful. We'd been there maybe 30 or 45 minutes, doing some dancing and also standing around a tall little table sipping our drinks, when her hand found mine under the table and squeezed the shit out of it. Painfully hard grip. "Don't look," she muttered to me, her gorgeous, slanted brown eyes staring past my shoulder into the vicinity of the bar, "holy shit, baby, there's the hottest man I've seen in ages, and he's fucking staring and winking at me, and he just blew me a kiss!" Then, collecting herself, she adopted a determined but sweet tone. "David, baby, can we please -- I hope you don't mind -- but, since you always tell me to tell you what I want, well -- you HAVE to take me over to the bar for a drink, seriously, right fucking now!"]***

***[Given her honest feelings demonstrated by the energy level of her hand squeezing mine, I wasn't about to say "no" to her. We went to the bar to order drinks, standing right near this very tall, muscled 30-something guy in an expensive black dress shirt and white tie, and Kitty looked up at him and just muttered, "Hi." Lying to him with purpose, she introduced her husband to the stud as just a "friend from work." Not ten minutes later, we three were sitting in a darkened booth in the back corner, me across from them while Kitty was practically in his lap. Her hand certainly was in his lap, fondling something huge in his pants. The last words my wife spoke to me that evening, as she was climbing out of the booth while holding the man's hand, were: "I know we came together but, David, I hope you don't mind being by yourself here the rest of the night, do you -- I think I've got some other plans!" I acted like a non-sexual acquaintance from her nonexistent "work," saying I hoped she had a good time and "I'll see you Monday."]***

***[In fact the next time I saw her was the next afternoon; she stumbled into our apartment about 2 o'clock in the afternoon the next day, missing her bra under her white blouse and her long dark hair completely tangled and sweaty. "Jesus, David," my wife purred in my arms as I kissed her hello and tasted musky, salty male flavors in her mouth, "thank you so much for that, he was the hottest fuck, you're so sweet for letting me have that -- I'm so fucking sore, I can't move, can you please carry me to bed baby?" That, to me, is what it meant when Kitty squeezed my hand.]***

Walking up to the guests in the backyard party, my eyes roamed the crowd of parents and neighbors gathered under the late summer sun. She and I had been living year just over a year, but we hardly had met anyone, so most of the faces of our neighbors were unknown to me. I knew the homeowners throwing the party, Mary and Mitchell, having befriended them while jogging past their house in the early morning a few times. But unlike most of my neighbors, Kitty and I didn't have kids -- well, mine didn't live with me anymore -- so I had little reason to mingle with the families in the homes that surrounded us.

Like a machine scanning its human targets, I sized up each of the males I could see. My slutwife would tell me which of them she immediately found sexually appealing, but I wanted to guess to myself first. The assortment of options was pretty typical for a suburban neighborhood, I figured -- mostly men in their 30s and 40s, some older, mostly with slightly out-of-shape bellies (like me), balding and/or graying hair, and farmers' tans bespeaking their professional careers while the wives took the kids to the pools every day. There didn't seem to be, however, that one stud who stood out from the crowd. Pretty much all of them were cut of the same cloth. Maybe she didn't see just one who suddenly attracted her attention; maybe it was the fact that we had a gaggle of semi-attractive men living around us that had made her juices start to flow.

Her soft voice muttered the answer. She didn't lean up to speak to me, but remained looking off to the side, in the direction of the male earning her affection. "Orange shirt," she reported with a tinge of emotion, her small hand continuing to squeeze mine tightly.

Mr. Orange Shirt, whom I immediately identified after she told me, had escaped my attention moments earlier. Dark hair, strong jaw, steely blue eyes, and a distinct set of bulging muscles both on his arms and inside the shirt. His tummy was flat, his shirt was loose hanging around a small pair of jogging shorts, below which is hairy, athletic legs were exposed. The guy was taller than me, probably around 6 foot 2 or something. I wouldn't say he was the most muscular guy here, nor the tallest, nor maybe the very most handsome. But I guess he had a pretty complete package -- looks, build, body. I had no idea who he was. The guy was holding a soda can, chatting amicably in a small circle of married couples.

We hadn't come to the neighborhood party for Kitty to find a date. She'd been doing just fine for herself, using the Internet and two local gyms -- and, on occasion, the local bars and clubs -- to meet men. Currently, at the time of this party, she probably had three "serious" boyfriends and maybe two or three other men on the side too. Kitty had to keep a calendar, so she wouldn't forget the morning, afternoon, evening and weekend dates she had regularly. So it wasn't like Kitty was desperate for yet more male attention. But like a typical slut, if something tasty was offered, she'd bite.

***[My memory instantly flashed back. Maybe a month ago, something like that. Her cellphone chirped demandingly, interrupting my soft, romantic kiss with my wife. She groaned, rolling away from me on our sofa, grabbing her small purse that fortuitously had been perched on the small end table next to our sofa. The sun had set an hour earlier but we hadn't turned on any lamps, so the light from her cellphone erupted like a small explosion in her hand. Weary from a very physical day, she winced from having to move at all. The light necking with her adoring husband had been about all she could muster. But seeing who was calling, she answered the phone. It was a name I hadn't heard before -- "Oh, hi, Joey!" -- and I was privy to only half of the conversation, and none of the background or context. "Oh really? Is that right . . . you sure, now? . . . Um, actually, no not really . . . um yeah I could . . . you sure? . . . um, sure, yeah, definitely . . . okay, then, yes I do, uh huh!"]***

***[She snapped her cellphone shut, and looked at me in the darkness over her petite shoulder. "Baby, I hope you don't get mad, but -- I can't believe I'm doing this after, you know, seeing both Patrick and Joseph separately today." She snickered and then sucked in some air, trying to refresh herself. "Shit, this hot guy I met online, he lives in Westover, we were gonna do lunch or something someday -- but, he just said, his wife just left for her mom's or something and he's alone -- and wants me to come over tonight!" Her voice suddenly had enthusiasm that she'd lacked since I came home a couple hours earlier; my twice-fucked wife was hungry for her third big cock of the day.]***

***[Despite having had a combined 15 or 16 inches of prick stuffing her earlier, she couldn't resist Joey's invitation. "David, baby, do you mind, he REALLY wants me to come over!" Well, you know how the rest of the evening went. Soon after that call I found myself helping her put on sexy clothing, and even opening her car door for her. Kitty doesn't miss any opportunity to fuck a handsome, horny married man.]***

No, we came to the party to behave like a normal married couple, something she liked to do with me to offset all of the sex and passion in her multiple relationships. She didn't have a full-time "normal" relationship with any of her fuck-buddies. Some of her studs knew she was married and "slutted around," whereas other male friends thought she was cheating behind her hubby's (my) back. On occasion she'd have a non-sexual date or weekend with one of her friends, but mostly they just wanted to fuck her. Even the couple of her relationships that had become heavy -- laden with more than sexual lust, but developing real emotions and love -- drained her of much emotional energy, she didn't get a chance to relax around those guys very often. I'm her husband, I'm the one she normally comes home to each day or night, so my unique job is to relax her, get her mind off of cocks and her pussy, if only for a short while time to time. For a slut who's horny constantly, that's no easy job, let me tell you.

***["I love you too . . . no, more than that . . . yeah, okay, almost as much as death-by-chocolate . . . well, if you do then, me too, more than that . . . yeah, as much as you then, I love you! . . . soooooooo in love you too honey! . . . miss you already, okay, bye baby, bye, see you later, love you!" Kitty hung up her cellphone, curled in a ball over at her edge of our marital bed, her playful voice immediately replaced with a frown on her small triangular face. She pulled her ankles to her ass, wrapping her slender arms around her legs and planted her thin chin on a bent knee. "It's not fair," she moaned, biting her lip for a second, holding back a rush of emotion, "his FUCKING wife makes him move like an hour farther away and now I can't hardly see him anymore, and he's now twice as alone, out there in the fucking country or wherever they are, and I'm here every day but he's way the FUCK out there -- it's not FUCKING fair!"]***

***[If she was sobbing she held it back, silently composed in her curled-up state, even as I scooted next to her and began massaging her shoulders and back. I said all the things you'd expect her loving husband to say to try and make her feel better, but she was just going to need time to get used to seeing one of her two favorite boyfriends a lot less. Instead, I myself was mulling over what I could do to distract her. It was late in the evening on a "school night," which for me meant work early in the morning. But, my love for my wife sometimes dictates less sleep. "Come," I instructed her, over her protests, taking her hand and having her step into a pair of jeans, "time to get your mind off of things." It was nearly midnight when we left for the late-night show at the nearby theater, followed by whatever meal you eat at 2 a.m. at an all-night diner. Then we fucked when we got home, she was so appreciative, loving, and thankful; my three hours of sleep that night was a small price to pay for that slice of heaven.]***

So much for my plan to empty her head of sexual thoughts for a little while. We'd only been at this party 20 minutes before walking into the backyard where most of the guests were assembled, and right away, she started to cream in her thong for Mr. Orange Shirt.

I looked down at my short Asian wife, finding her big brown eyes blinking up at me expectantly. Her soft, pretty lips turned up with a wry smile. She brushed her long, flowing jet-black hair over her shoulder, shrugging her slender shoulders at me. I knew that, inside her loose-fitting sundress, her brown nipples were probably already hardened on her A-cup titties. She didn't have to say anything; the gaze from her brown orbs sparkling at me explained what she had on her mind.

She wanted to meet Mr. Orange Shirt. As outgoing and adventurous as she was with men online, in person Kitty is unexpectedly shy. She'd flirt with her eyes, then with a few jokes, but typically in person she's not aggressive with a male. Instead, men love her thin body, her small ass, her perky little titties, and her pretty face -- so invariably men would make passes at her, and at that point she would be ready to say "yes." So that's what she needed. Maybe he was a neighbor who had enough time in his schedule to accommodate the attention of a very slutty, cock-hungry married woman down the block. Maybe, with her smiling up at him and her eyes checking out his fit body, he'd play along and make up some flimsy excuse for a private get-together later that week or something. Then Kitty could pretend to think it over, pretend to be shy about it, then agree to a harmless rendezvous. Which, usually, would end up involving two naked, sweating bodies.

***[Instantly I recalled a day at the community pool early in the summer. Still unsure about driving around her newly-adopted home state, Kitty wanted me to drive her to the pool on her maiden trip. It was an exquisitely hot summer day. Kitty sported a brand-new white bikini, very appropriate for wearing in front of children but equally good at attracting attention of adult males. She loved it when I showed her off, and although she wasn't particularly there that day to find a date -- she planned to return to the pool on later days, alone, for that purpose -- she didn't mind flirting as the opportunity arose.]***

***[Sure enough, as I laid back on a chair across the deck, I spied her standing in line for a bottle of water and chatting with an older married guy who stepped behind her. I think he'd been checking her out, and took his opportunity to go talk to her. She was animated, chatting with him and joking, then going to a table to sit with him while she drank her water. He was interrupted ten minutes later when a teenage girl came over to him, whom later I found out was his babysitter, watching his young things in the baby pool. Kitty returned to me with a toothy grin. "He's pretty nice, isn't he? He says he's going to call me later, if you don't mind." Why would I mind about my wife having fun? And the guy clearly liked her. Driving home from the pool a couple hours later, he called her cellphone -- making plans to meet at a Starbuck's for a coffee late in the morning later that week.]***

***[I took off of work that morning, and drove her to the store, where I waited in the car while she went in. She wasn't sure what would happen. The guy, who was in his 50s probably but nicely fit and sporting a healthy tan, arrived about five minutes later. A good 45 minutes passed before my cellphone rang. Kitty was chirping excitedly. "David honey, you're so sweet for waiting for me." She always makes sure to acknowledge my feelings; I'm her husband, not a slave. Then with a rush of energy she quickly informed me, "I'm in the bathroom here, about to go back out to him. You don't have to wait around any more, you can go home or to work, honey, he's going to take me home. But you are so great for waiting for me, I love you!" I told her I loved her too and immediately turned the car on, proceeding to the office to catch up on my work.]***

***[I was lost in paperwork and emails until my cellphone range about three hours later. "Oh shit, David," my slutty wife informed me with a weak moan, "he just left, and I can't move -- he fucked cummed in me four times, he was so fucking horny, I can't put my fucking knees together, he was a fucking dream!" I heard her trembling even, she was so shaked from the hot fucking. "I'm so glad you took me there today, I owe you for it -- but I'm, like, so sore, please don't wake me when you get home, 'kay? I'm gonna sleep I think about until Friday!" And that's about a typical result for Kitting making a rendezvous with a married guy.]***

Keeping my still-pulsing hand interlocked with her small fingers, I led my wife into the crowd of married couples and parents, pretending to make acquaintances, but really to get Kitty face-time with the very hot Mr. Orange Shirt.

* * * *

Brian was his name. His wife, a talkative blonde named Patty who probably had been very cute before she had her four children, was working the other side of the crowd. Brian gave me a strong, manly handshake, then he turned and daintily greeted my small, slender wife with a pleasant grin.

My Kitty has some magic about her. Men who like sluts know the look in her eye. If guys don't cheat on their wives, they probably don't know that look; but some men, the ones whom Kitty seems to be able to find in a crowded bar or gym, fixate on her instantly. Maybe it's how she shook his hand, or how she looked up at him, or how she stood or something. I don't know. I met her online, and I fell in love with her long before actually making physical contact with her. But Brian saw it, and instantly, his smile to her wasn't just friendly, it was . . . hungry. Or, so I told myself. Maybe at the time it was just my wishful thinking.