Perhaps, this should be posted elsewhere or in a new topic.
The worst bout of intense jealousy I ever experienced with sharing my first wife made no sense. At 3 pm she called me at work to tell me that one of our "special friends" from our old town was on a short business trip that would place him 50 miles from our place and he wanted to visit us afterwards, which of course meant have sex with her. She had given him the okay and she was leaving her work early to quickly shower and tidy up our home. I loved the idea, as it had been half a year since her last encounter with another man, but the timing sucked. I knew that after the sex, I would have to drive back to work and keep working, as we had huge office problem. I didn't leave early; in fact, I left more than half an hour later than usual. As I drove home, my mind was on work, on the damned problem, not sex.
Almost an hour later than usual, swinging open the door to my apartment, I was startled. First, the open door poured out oppressively hot air, as she liked to up the heat to a toasty 82 degrees when she was going to be naked. Second, right at the end of the short hallway that opened to the living room, I witnessed both of them perpendicular to me and both naked, save for her high heels and gold arm bracelet and Bill’s brown socks, while they were in the act of fucking while standing.
She stood facing of an overstuffed chair, bent at her waist, her torso at a right angle to her straight legs, her arms locked and her hands clutching the arm rests, her shoes almost touching, her long red hair pouring off her head, her breasts dangling free and rhythmically swaying back and forth, as Bill stood upright behind her, his hands gripping her paper-white ass, while driving his stiff cock deep into her vagina, the powerful thrusts making slapping sounds against her wonderfully round ass and smooth thighs; and the air was thick with the smell of sex, but not the usual sexual scent we made together, but the oddly different musky smell that she made only with Bill.
As I quickly put away my things, she lifted her head up and turned it to face me, revealing passion-drunk, half-opened eyes and glossy red lips that formed a small smile that quickly dissolved with her moaning. If Bill had been ten years younger and handsomer, the sight would have been porno picture perfect. Better than porn, in fact, as this sex scene was real, as real as his brown socks, the moans honest and the passion genuine. His cock was actually moving in and out of her and she was sincerely glad that his cock was inside her body.
I, too, felt a passion build in me, but it was not sexual, just the opposite. Jealousy gripped me, clutching my throat, squeezing my stomach, and blurring my vision. Jealousy raged in my head. If I had carried a gun, Bill might have died that night. At the same time, I was greatly confused, as I was getting everything I wanted: she looked gorgeous and she was being fucked by another man, an old friend of mine that I had always liked. If I didn't want her to fuck Bill, she would never would have. And the way they were fucking was my favorite to behold: standing, with him behind her.
I was nine inches taller than she was and the only time I could fuck her in that sex position was when she stood on one stair-step higher than I did. I loved when a shorter man fucked her, as he could suck her nipples and she could wrap her legs around his shoulders, both of which I could not do in the missionary position.
Not wanting them to know how I felt, I hid in the kitchen, pretending to make myself a drink, desperately trying to figure out why I was feeling as bad as I did. It made no sense, I kept telling myself. I had seen her being fucked by other men many, many times. And 90% of the time, it was my idea. In fact, at first, I had to do quite a bit of convincing to get her warmed up to the notion of letting Bill have access to her naked body. Moreover, Bill was anything but threatening, standing at least six inches shorter than me, balding, with good-sized spare tire about his waist. He was about 37 at the time, but he looked closer 45. He was not handsome and his cock was far smaller than mine, appearing almost boyish with its bubble-gum pink head and a pale white shaft. No, it wasn’t Bill that was causing my jealousy, in spite of his freckled hands tightly gripping hold of her hips, his sweat raining off his forehead, his tightly closed eyes and low grunts and moans. (My God was he sweating. The room was quite warm, but he was generating more heat with his frantic all-out fucking.)
No, my anger was with her. I felt that she had betrayed me, but I couldn’t say just how.
Was it her appearance? She wore her best shoes, which I had bought her and they cost a fortune and yet were worth every penny, all 40,000 of them. Italian made, black leather, thin-strapped, three-inches of heel, these shoes made her feet and legs look sexy beyond the constraints of the elastic in my underwear. In addition, when she wore them, she felt doubly seductive and sensual. Unfortunately, because they cost so much, because they were so special, she seldom wore them. After much pleading from me, she would model in them for me, but as soon as my hungry hands held her to me, she would remove them, fearing that they might be scuffed during sex. And here she was wearing them for Bill, while he fucked her hard.
I also noticed that she had rubbed a thin film of baby oil over her entire naked body, a trick which made her pale, fair skin gleam and sparkle in the dim light, the thin film of oil subtracting the rawness from her skin, making it look more sumptuous; I also knew that she only applied a full oiling after a full leg and pussy shave. And her long head of red hair was beautifully brushed, recently soft-curled, and not in its usual ponytail. In fact, she was at her prettiest that night, her hair at its longest length, her legs and thighs taut from long walks, her waist tight and flat from years of aerobics. She looked great and she was also enjoying the pounding Bill was giving her, her face revealing a near stupor-like loss of control, her mouth gasping for air, while her eyes rolled in their sockets much like her breasts swaying erratically from Bill's pounding.
Maybe that was it?
Yes, although I wanted her to be as sexually happy as she could be and I delighted when another man made her orgasm, this time she seemed too happy, too turned on. Although I would have never expected her to stop, meet me at the door and give me a big kiss, I was somewhat disappointed that she hadn’t. Instead, she was lustily enjoying all that Bill was slamming into her. Moreover, her broken chanting of “Fuck me; fuck me Bill; fuck me hard” did not help my mood.
I finally stripped and joined them. My jealousy slowly melted away and was replaced with desire and lust and, even, love. I loved that she had planned the scene for me to see, having moved the furniture to set the scene for me upon entering the room. I loved that she loved sex, that she let Bill see her naked and let him fuck her, and that she let Bill cum inside her. I even had a super warm feeling for Bill. When we were finished, I sincerely thanked Bill for fucking her so passionately.
The crazy workaround to jealousy I came up with after that night was to make her promise—paradoxically enough—not to hold anything back. I told her that she had to know that I expected to her fuck in earnest, holding nothing back, giving her new lover everything she could offer, including her orgasms. Above all, she wasn’t to play the submissive that just lies on her back and lets things happen to her vagina. The other man would be our guest and, as such, he deserved royal treatment, such as dressing as seductively as she could, trimming her pussy hairs around her opening, asking how she could make it better for him, thanking him for giving her such a hard cock, making sure to lick his cock clean after he has cums. This way, if she seemed overly pleased or too captured by his charms, she was only following my orders.