She is your second wife and you love her. Trust her. With all the soul you have left after your journey through life and love.
And so when she asks you to sit down in the armless chair newly placed in the corner of your shared bedroom, the very moment you get home, you agree. Without resistance or concern. An expectant smile plastered across your face as she instructs you to sit, watch, and not to speak.
For in your naivety, you expect her to strip for you. Peeling her thin, red silk robe from her shoulders and body. It dropping to the floor before she gives you a lap-dance that you will never forget.
But suddenly, as your own left hands moves down to your zipper, taking hold of the metal tiny metal pulley and pulling with an audible announcement of bound teeth freed, the door to the master bath opens.
Just the unexpected opening shocks you, but when you see who comes through it, your smug jaw drops. Your ex-wife strutting confidently into you and your new wife’s bedroom, wearing not more than a pair of pitch black bra and panties and a cruel glare on her face. One aimed not at you, but your beautiful wife.
“April!” You mutter loudly, suddenly terrified and not turned on by whatever is happening in front of you.
“Hush, Michael….” April, the most recent woman to say yes, reprimands you — her tone making clear her irritation at your failure to follow the directions she just gave you. And though she hushes you, never does she turn your way. She instead sauntering slowly towards the woman who just walked out of your past and master bath.
“You didn’t tell him?” Your ex-wife Chelsea asks, not of you, but of your focused and hip-swaying wife.
A wife who without a word in response shrugs her shoulders and lets fall her robe from body to ground, the silk of it sliding over one sexy curve after another until finally she is free of it.
“Since there’s no chance of me cuming first, there was no reason to tell him.” In a way, it hurts. In a way, it angers. Hearing them talk about you like a piece of meat. Like a pet, who can’t comprehend what is being said about him.
And yet as your current and former wife climb onto your marital bed — each nearly nude, you cannot help but feel excited. Neither moving as they normally do, but instead like cats. Like predators, every move slow and intentionally dramatic.
“I’ll remind you of that when I’m dragging Michael back to his true home.” Oh the words were vicious and hissed, and yet as you hear them, finally you can put the pieces together. What is happening in front of you. What your wife has agreed to without your knowledge.
And though for a moment your lips part, and lungs fill to allow you protest. As your wife nears the woman she will battle, and softly pulls the left strap of that same woman’s bra down her bicep, you find yourself frozen.
Not with fear.
Not with indecision.
A desire to see it. Your current and former fighting. Fucking. And setting their wills against one another for you.
“The only one getting drug….” Your wife says softly as she leans in closer to her rival. “….is you, honey. After MY husband and I are done fucking your beaten pussy.” Just as the last word of her retort crosses her lips, she presses the same to Chelsea’s.
They beginning to kiss softly. Slowly. And without even a hint of tongue. Neither rushing. Neither overwhelmed by desire or a fear of outcome. Not because they have nothing to fear, but because they are certain the other will be the one to suffer it.
Suffer it, as they claim you.
A thought that pushes you to pull your already steel-hard cock from your boxers and black slacks, only to cup it with your right hand a moment later.
A mutual and simultaneous moan from the warring pair on the bed leading the first drips of pre-cum to escape your head as you watch them unblinking.
The tension, electricity, and contrary certainty of each so thick in the air that you can feel it. Taste it. Smell it, even over the smell of perfume escaping the master bath.