A story I wrote for my wife
Posted: Tue May 13, 2025 5:17 pm
She sat on the edge of the bed, her dress still clinging tightly to her body. The soft fabric stretched across her thighs and chest, a choice her husband had made — and one that now felt like a second skin under the weight of the moment.
The man stood before her now, calm, deliberate, his eyes drinking her in with a slow hunger. She could feel the tension in her own body — a mix of nerves and want, the heat of being seen by someone new, while still being under the watchful gaze of her husband across the room.
He stepped closer.
He didn’t touch her at first. Just stood there, letting his presence linger. She could smell him now — warm, faintly spicy, masculine. Her breath slowed. Her fingers curled slightly into the sheets.
Then, finally, he reached out. One hand brushed her shoulder. Then her collarbone. His fingers slid down, slowly, exploring her through the thin fabric. She looked up at him, unsure whether to breathe or speak — and then he brushed over her chest.
Her lips parted. The contact wasn’t forceful — it was intentional. He moved his hand with slow pressure, just enough to make her gasp and lean in. His thumb traced over the curve of her breast, through the dress, then slipped lower, pressing into the soft fabric, feeling the warmth beneath. She arched toward his touch, involuntarily.
He leaned down, his mouth grazing her skin, lips finding the hollow of her neck, then moving lower, toward the top of her chest. He was exploring her like he had time — like he enjoyed taking his time. And that patience only made her ache more.
Behind him, she saw her husband — still seated, still watching. His jaw was tight now. His eyes focused. He hadn’t moved, but she could feel his desire like heat rolling across the room. The tension between the three of them was becoming unbearable — deliciously unbearable.
The other man’s hand slid down her side now, grazing her waist, slipping beneath the hem of the dress. Her thighs parted slightly, welcoming the approach. And when his fingers found the heat between her legs — over the thin fabric — she shuddered.
He didn’t rush. He circled slowly, almost lazily. Watching her. Studying the way her body responded. Her breath hitched. Her hips shifted. Her pulse pounded. She wasn’t thinking anymore — she was feeling.
She reached for him then — her hand brushing his stomach, then lower. She wanted to know him now. To feel him. Her palm found him hard, thick, full of potential. Her eyes widened. He was… big. Different.
She wrapped her fingers around him — slow, unsure at first, then with growing confidence. The weight of him in her hand made her lips part again. She stroked him gently, then more firmly, feeling the heat, the readiness. She could barely believe what she was doing — but her body knew. Her body wanted this.
And still, her husband watched. She glanced at him again — and saw no hesitation. Just fire. Just hunger. Just… pride.
That was when the man moved forward again, guiding her back onto the bed.
And she let him.
She lay back slowly, her body humming with sensation. The room felt warmer now — not from the temperature, but from the slow burn that had built between all three of them. Her breath was shallow, her skin alive under every brush of air. The dress was pushed up, her thighs open, her body pulsing with anticipation.
The man looked down at her, and she could feel the power shift — not from dominance, but from readiness. He had waited. He had explored her, tested her, felt her react. Now he knew she was ready.
When he moved over her, she felt the weight of him — not just physical, but emotional. He was a presence, new and unfamiliar, but one she had chosen to let in. His hands slid beneath her, lifting her just slightly as he positioned himself between her legs.
She reached for him again, guided him into place, and her fingers trembled at the size of him. She felt a flicker of nerves… then excitement… then need.
He pressed into her slowly.
And she gasped — sharp, immediate. Her body responded before her mind could catch up. There was pressure, stretch, fullness. It was more than she expected. Not painful… but intense. She arched, hips lifting, breath caught somewhere between surprise and surrender.
He paused, reading her face.
She nodded.
He moved deeper.
Her mouth opened, soundless at first, then a long, broken breath escaped. Her hands clutched at his back, then the sheets, not knowing what to hold onto. Her body was filled, her senses overwhelmed. He was unlike anything she’d felt before — every motion making her feel taken, expanded, claimed in a way that was unfamiliar… and deeply arousing.
But it wasn’t just his size.
It was the feeling of letting go. Of doing something so completely raw, while still being seen — by her husband, across the room, who hadn’t looked away for a moment.
The man above her began to move with more purpose. She met his rhythm, adjusting, opening, giving him more. Her body started to crave it, to chase it. She was moaning now — softly at first, then louder, breathless, lost. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Then opened again — and found her husband.
That was when the emotion hit her hardest.
Because she was in the middle of something wild and carnal and new, but the thing that made it powerful wasn’t the stranger inside her — it was the man across the room who had given her permission to feel all of it.
She held that look as long as she could.
But the sensations grew too sharp.
Her climax built fast — too fast. She wasn’t ready, but her body was already unraveling. Her breath became a series of soft cries. Her hips lifted. Her thighs tensed. And when it hit her, it was like falling — a deep, full-body wave that pulled her under and didn’t let go.
She cried out, high and raw, fingers digging into the sheets, chest rising sharply. Her whole body clenched around him, everything inside her echoing with heat and release and surrender.
And even in the aftershocks, she could feel him — still moving inside her, slower now, deeper, his breath coming heavier. He was close.
She kept her eyes closed, letting her body guide her. Her hips shifted beneath him in a silent invitation: don’t hold back. This moment wasn’t just hers — it was his too. And she wanted him to take it.
He groaned low, a sound more primal than composed. His pace grew more urgent, more ragged, and she felt the tension rise in his body — the way his arms braced harder, the way his breathing stuttered. His release came quickly, deep and heavy, his body collapsing forward just slightly as he finished inside her.
She kept her hands on his back, grounding him, holding him through it. Not with intimacy, not with affection, but with quiet permission — this part of her was his only for a moment. It had been shared, yes. Given. But not kept.
When it passed, he stilled. His breathing slowed. And then, without a word, he withdrew — carefully, respectfully — and sat at the edge of the bed, giving her space.
She stayed still, body warm and pulsing, caught in the final silence of something that had burned so bright, so hot, that all that was left was a hum in her bones.
And then she turned her head.
Her eyes found her husband — waiting. Watching. Feeling.
And suddenly, the pull was stronger than anything else.
Everything she had just experienced — the intensity, the surrender, the difference — it had all led her back to him. Her body might have been claimed for a moment by someone else, but her soul had never left the man sitting in that chair.
And so she rose.
She rose from the bed slowly, her legs still weak, her skin tingling from everything that had passed between them — the other man, the weight of it, the surrender, the noise, the silence. But now, all of it felt like a tide receding.
What remained… was him.
Her husband hadn’t moved. Still in the chair. Still watching her like she was everything. His hands were resting on his thighs, but there was tension in him — coiled tight, restrained, aching to be released.
She stepped toward him — barefoot, bare, her dress bunched and forgotten. She didn’t hide her body. She didn’t look away. She wanted him to see her like this: undone, flushed, filled with what she had just lived through. Not to shock him, not to prove anything — but because she knew he wanted it. He needed it.
She stood between his knees, her breath shaky, her voice low. “I want to be yours again,” she whispered. “Now.”
That’s when he moved.
His hands came up, gripping her hips — hard, possessive, trembling just slightly. He pulled her onto his lap in one motion, their bodies colliding with an urgency they had both held back too long. She straddled him, her knees on either side of the chair, her chest pressed to his, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Their mouths met — not gently. There was nothing gentle left.
His kiss was fire. Hungry. Devouring. She opened to him without resistance, moaning softly against his lips. His hands explored her back, her thighs, her waist — not like a man discovering, but like a man reclaiming. She could feel the strength in him, the raw want, the heat he’d been holding back the entire time she’d been with someone else.
“I watched you,” he murmured into her ear, voice rough. “Every second. And I’ve never wanted you more.”
His words made her gasp — not from surprise, but from how deep they cut. Because she felt it too. Her body had just experienced someone else, yes. But now… it craved him. The contrast only sharpened the hunger. What had been distant fire was now an inferno.
“I’m yours,” she whispered back, her lips brushing his. “Only ever yours.”
And as their bodies pressed together again, there was no need for jealousy, no shame, no doubt.
There was only desire — deep and sharpened by everything they had just been brave enough to share.
Later, the room was quiet.
The other man had long since gone — with no ceremony, no awkwardness. He’d dressed quietly, offered a respectful nod, and disappeared, as if he knew instinctively that what remained between the husband and wife was something sacred… something no one else could be part of.
Now, they lay in the bed together. She was curled against him, head on his chest, her fingers tracing slow patterns across his skin. Their bodies were warm from the afterglow — not just of sex, but of everything that had led to it. Her thighs still ached faintly, and her chest still rose and fell a little unevenly. But she felt safe. Held.
He hadn’t said much at first — just kissed her slowly, deeply, pulled her against him, and breathed with her until the tension in both of them softened into stillness.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You were incredible.”
His voice was quiet. Measured. Honest.
She smiled against his chest, but there was emotion behind it. “I was scared,” she whispered. “Not of him… of how it would feel afterward. If it would change us.”
He tilted her chin up so she had to look into his eyes. “It has,” he said. “But not in a bad way.”
She searched his face. “You weren’t… hurt? Or jealous?”
He took a long breath. “I won’t lie. Watching you with him — seeing the way your body reacted — it was intense. And yeah… it hit something deep. But it wasn’t pain. It was more like… awe. You were so free. So alive. And knowing I could give you that — let you have that — made me feel closer to you, not further.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Relief? Gratitude? Something deeper?
“I needed to feel you again after,” she said, voice cracking just a little. “Not because he wasn’t enough — but because you are.”
He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “I know.”
They lay there for a long time in silence after that. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who trust each other completely — who’ve gone somewhere risky and raw, and come back with something stronger.
And when they eventually drifted off to sleep, limbs tangled, hearts steady, they knew something had changed.
Not broken. Not damaged.
Expanded.
They had made space for something new — and filled it together.
---------------------
My wife isn't ready to take the leap. May never be, so I wrote this story and shared it with her. While we made love after she read it, she asked me "how big do you think he'd have to be to get that reaction from her?" I asked her what she thought. She said, "maybe another inch or two, but it would be the thickness that made the most difference."
As you might imagine, I didn't last much longer. Who knows what the future holds...
The man stood before her now, calm, deliberate, his eyes drinking her in with a slow hunger. She could feel the tension in her own body — a mix of nerves and want, the heat of being seen by someone new, while still being under the watchful gaze of her husband across the room.
He stepped closer.
He didn’t touch her at first. Just stood there, letting his presence linger. She could smell him now — warm, faintly spicy, masculine. Her breath slowed. Her fingers curled slightly into the sheets.
Then, finally, he reached out. One hand brushed her shoulder. Then her collarbone. His fingers slid down, slowly, exploring her through the thin fabric. She looked up at him, unsure whether to breathe or speak — and then he brushed over her chest.
Her lips parted. The contact wasn’t forceful — it was intentional. He moved his hand with slow pressure, just enough to make her gasp and lean in. His thumb traced over the curve of her breast, through the dress, then slipped lower, pressing into the soft fabric, feeling the warmth beneath. She arched toward his touch, involuntarily.
He leaned down, his mouth grazing her skin, lips finding the hollow of her neck, then moving lower, toward the top of her chest. He was exploring her like he had time — like he enjoyed taking his time. And that patience only made her ache more.
Behind him, she saw her husband — still seated, still watching. His jaw was tight now. His eyes focused. He hadn’t moved, but she could feel his desire like heat rolling across the room. The tension between the three of them was becoming unbearable — deliciously unbearable.
The other man’s hand slid down her side now, grazing her waist, slipping beneath the hem of the dress. Her thighs parted slightly, welcoming the approach. And when his fingers found the heat between her legs — over the thin fabric — she shuddered.
He didn’t rush. He circled slowly, almost lazily. Watching her. Studying the way her body responded. Her breath hitched. Her hips shifted. Her pulse pounded. She wasn’t thinking anymore — she was feeling.
She reached for him then — her hand brushing his stomach, then lower. She wanted to know him now. To feel him. Her palm found him hard, thick, full of potential. Her eyes widened. He was… big. Different.
She wrapped her fingers around him — slow, unsure at first, then with growing confidence. The weight of him in her hand made her lips part again. She stroked him gently, then more firmly, feeling the heat, the readiness. She could barely believe what she was doing — but her body knew. Her body wanted this.
And still, her husband watched. She glanced at him again — and saw no hesitation. Just fire. Just hunger. Just… pride.
That was when the man moved forward again, guiding her back onto the bed.
And she let him.
She lay back slowly, her body humming with sensation. The room felt warmer now — not from the temperature, but from the slow burn that had built between all three of them. Her breath was shallow, her skin alive under every brush of air. The dress was pushed up, her thighs open, her body pulsing with anticipation.
The man looked down at her, and she could feel the power shift — not from dominance, but from readiness. He had waited. He had explored her, tested her, felt her react. Now he knew she was ready.
When he moved over her, she felt the weight of him — not just physical, but emotional. He was a presence, new and unfamiliar, but one she had chosen to let in. His hands slid beneath her, lifting her just slightly as he positioned himself between her legs.
She reached for him again, guided him into place, and her fingers trembled at the size of him. She felt a flicker of nerves… then excitement… then need.
He pressed into her slowly.
And she gasped — sharp, immediate. Her body responded before her mind could catch up. There was pressure, stretch, fullness. It was more than she expected. Not painful… but intense. She arched, hips lifting, breath caught somewhere between surprise and surrender.
He paused, reading her face.
She nodded.
He moved deeper.
Her mouth opened, soundless at first, then a long, broken breath escaped. Her hands clutched at his back, then the sheets, not knowing what to hold onto. Her body was filled, her senses overwhelmed. He was unlike anything she’d felt before — every motion making her feel taken, expanded, claimed in a way that was unfamiliar… and deeply arousing.
But it wasn’t just his size.
It was the feeling of letting go. Of doing something so completely raw, while still being seen — by her husband, across the room, who hadn’t looked away for a moment.
The man above her began to move with more purpose. She met his rhythm, adjusting, opening, giving him more. Her body started to crave it, to chase it. She was moaning now — softly at first, then louder, breathless, lost. Her eyes fluttered closed.
Then opened again — and found her husband.
That was when the emotion hit her hardest.
Because she was in the middle of something wild and carnal and new, but the thing that made it powerful wasn’t the stranger inside her — it was the man across the room who had given her permission to feel all of it.
She held that look as long as she could.
But the sensations grew too sharp.
Her climax built fast — too fast. She wasn’t ready, but her body was already unraveling. Her breath became a series of soft cries. Her hips lifted. Her thighs tensed. And when it hit her, it was like falling — a deep, full-body wave that pulled her under and didn’t let go.
She cried out, high and raw, fingers digging into the sheets, chest rising sharply. Her whole body clenched around him, everything inside her echoing with heat and release and surrender.
And even in the aftershocks, she could feel him — still moving inside her, slower now, deeper, his breath coming heavier. He was close.
She kept her eyes closed, letting her body guide her. Her hips shifted beneath him in a silent invitation: don’t hold back. This moment wasn’t just hers — it was his too. And she wanted him to take it.
He groaned low, a sound more primal than composed. His pace grew more urgent, more ragged, and she felt the tension rise in his body — the way his arms braced harder, the way his breathing stuttered. His release came quickly, deep and heavy, his body collapsing forward just slightly as he finished inside her.
She kept her hands on his back, grounding him, holding him through it. Not with intimacy, not with affection, but with quiet permission — this part of her was his only for a moment. It had been shared, yes. Given. But not kept.
When it passed, he stilled. His breathing slowed. And then, without a word, he withdrew — carefully, respectfully — and sat at the edge of the bed, giving her space.
She stayed still, body warm and pulsing, caught in the final silence of something that had burned so bright, so hot, that all that was left was a hum in her bones.
And then she turned her head.
Her eyes found her husband — waiting. Watching. Feeling.
And suddenly, the pull was stronger than anything else.
Everything she had just experienced — the intensity, the surrender, the difference — it had all led her back to him. Her body might have been claimed for a moment by someone else, but her soul had never left the man sitting in that chair.
And so she rose.
She rose from the bed slowly, her legs still weak, her skin tingling from everything that had passed between them — the other man, the weight of it, the surrender, the noise, the silence. But now, all of it felt like a tide receding.
What remained… was him.
Her husband hadn’t moved. Still in the chair. Still watching her like she was everything. His hands were resting on his thighs, but there was tension in him — coiled tight, restrained, aching to be released.
She stepped toward him — barefoot, bare, her dress bunched and forgotten. She didn’t hide her body. She didn’t look away. She wanted him to see her like this: undone, flushed, filled with what she had just lived through. Not to shock him, not to prove anything — but because she knew he wanted it. He needed it.
She stood between his knees, her breath shaky, her voice low. “I want to be yours again,” she whispered. “Now.”
That’s when he moved.
His hands came up, gripping her hips — hard, possessive, trembling just slightly. He pulled her onto his lap in one motion, their bodies colliding with an urgency they had both held back too long. She straddled him, her knees on either side of the chair, her chest pressed to his, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Their mouths met — not gently. There was nothing gentle left.
His kiss was fire. Hungry. Devouring. She opened to him without resistance, moaning softly against his lips. His hands explored her back, her thighs, her waist — not like a man discovering, but like a man reclaiming. She could feel the strength in him, the raw want, the heat he’d been holding back the entire time she’d been with someone else.
“I watched you,” he murmured into her ear, voice rough. “Every second. And I’ve never wanted you more.”
His words made her gasp — not from surprise, but from how deep they cut. Because she felt it too. Her body had just experienced someone else, yes. But now… it craved him. The contrast only sharpened the hunger. What had been distant fire was now an inferno.
“I’m yours,” she whispered back, her lips brushing his. “Only ever yours.”
And as their bodies pressed together again, there was no need for jealousy, no shame, no doubt.
There was only desire — deep and sharpened by everything they had just been brave enough to share.
Later, the room was quiet.
The other man had long since gone — with no ceremony, no awkwardness. He’d dressed quietly, offered a respectful nod, and disappeared, as if he knew instinctively that what remained between the husband and wife was something sacred… something no one else could be part of.
Now, they lay in the bed together. She was curled against him, head on his chest, her fingers tracing slow patterns across his skin. Their bodies were warm from the afterglow — not just of sex, but of everything that had led to it. Her thighs still ached faintly, and her chest still rose and fell a little unevenly. But she felt safe. Held.
He hadn’t said much at first — just kissed her slowly, deeply, pulled her against him, and breathed with her until the tension in both of them softened into stillness.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You were incredible.”
His voice was quiet. Measured. Honest.
She smiled against his chest, but there was emotion behind it. “I was scared,” she whispered. “Not of him… of how it would feel afterward. If it would change us.”
He tilted her chin up so she had to look into his eyes. “It has,” he said. “But not in a bad way.”
She searched his face. “You weren’t… hurt? Or jealous?”
He took a long breath. “I won’t lie. Watching you with him — seeing the way your body reacted — it was intense. And yeah… it hit something deep. But it wasn’t pain. It was more like… awe. You were so free. So alive. And knowing I could give you that — let you have that — made me feel closer to you, not further.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Relief? Gratitude? Something deeper?
“I needed to feel you again after,” she said, voice cracking just a little. “Not because he wasn’t enough — but because you are.”
He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “I know.”
They lay there for a long time in silence after that. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who trust each other completely — who’ve gone somewhere risky and raw, and come back with something stronger.
And when they eventually drifted off to sleep, limbs tangled, hearts steady, they knew something had changed.
Not broken. Not damaged.
Expanded.
They had made space for something new — and filled it together.
---------------------
My wife isn't ready to take the leap. May never be, so I wrote this story and shared it with her. While we made love after she read it, she asked me "how big do you think he'd have to be to get that reaction from her?" I asked her what she thought. She said, "maybe another inch or two, but it would be the thickness that made the most difference."
As you might imagine, I didn't last much longer. Who knows what the future holds...