Becky and Eric
Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2025 6:58 am
Becky slipped through the front door just after midnight, heels dangling from two fingers, hair tousled in the way Eric loved—soft waves that looked like someone had been running desperate hands through them for hours. Her lipstick was gone, cheeks flushed rose-gold, and the little red dress he’d zipped her into earlier now clung to her body like it had been through a storm.
She found him exactly where she knew he’d be: on the couch, blanket pushed aside, cock half-hard in his loose pajama pants, eyes bright with that nervous, adoring hunger she’d come to crave almost as much as the sex itself.
“Hi, baby,” she whispered, voice honey-thick and a little hoarse.
Eric stood up slowly, like he was afraid she might vanish if he moved too fast. “Hey, beautiful. You okay?”
“More than okay.”
She smiled, soft and luminous, and stepped close enough that he could smell Marcus on her skin—clean sweat, expensive cologne, sex. “I missed you the whole time.”
She took his hands and guided them under the hem of her dress. No panties (she’d stopped wearing them on these nights months ago). Her thighs were slick, warm, sticky. A slow trickle of another man’s cum still eased from her, coating the inside of one leg almost to the knee. Eric’s breath caught; his cock surged against the fabric.
“Feel what he did to me?” she murmured, pressing his fingers gently into the mess. “He was so deep, Eric. So thick. I came three times before he even let himself go. When he finally did…” She bit her lip, eyes fluttering. “God, there was so much. I’m still dripping him.”
Eric groaned, a broken, reverent sound. Becky kissed him—slow, tender, tasting faintly of Marcus and red wine—and then pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his.
“I love you,” she said, meaning it with every cell. “I love that you let me have this. I love coming home to you like this.”
She slipped the dress over her head in one fluid motion and let it drop. Her body was a map of the night: faint pink handprints on her hips, a small bruise blooming where Marcus had sucked at the curve of her breast, her nipples still swollen and dark. She looked ravished and radiant.
Eric sank to his knees without being asked. Becky threaded her fingers through his hair, guiding him gently between her thighs.
“Clean me up, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Taste how happy he made me.”
He did—slow, worshipful licks, gathering every trace, swallowing like it was communion. Becky sighed above him, rocking just a little, petting his head.
“That’s my good boy,” she crooned. “My perfect husband.”
When she was satisfied, she tugged him up to the couch and curled into his lap, both of them naked now. His cock pressed hot and aching against her hip, but she didn’t tease him cruelly; she simply wrapped her soft hand around him and stroked in that slow, maddening rhythm she knew drove him crazy.
“Want to hear it?” she asked, lips brushing his ear.
“God, yes. Please.”
She told him everything—how Marcus had kissed her against the restaurant elevator mirror, hand already under her dress; how he’d bent her over the hotel chaise and taken her from behind while she watched them in the window’s reflection; how he’d pulled out at the very last second the first time just to paint her ass and back, then pushed back in and filled her so full she felt it for hours. She whispered every detail like a bedtime story, voice warm, eyes locked on Eric’s the whole time.
Halfway through, she shifted so his cock rested against her still-slick entrance—just resting, not entering. She rocked gently, letting him feel the wet heat, the slippery evidence of another man, while she kept stroking.
“You’ll never be inside me again, baby,” she said softly, not cruel, just true. “This belongs to men who can make me feel like that. But you—you get all the rest of me. You get the girl who comes home glowing and kisses you with another man still on her tongue. You get to hold me after. That’s ours.”
Eric was trembling, tears in his eyes, hips jerking helplessly into her grip.
“I love you so much,” he whispered.
“I know,” she breathed, kissing the tears from his cheeks. “Come for me now, Eric. Come while I’m still full of him. Show me how happy you are that I’m happy.”
He did—hard, shuddering, spilling over her fingers and onto her belly and breasts in long, worshipful pulses. Becky held him through it, murmuring endearments, stroking him gently until he was spent and boneless against her.
Afterward she carried him to bed—and curled around him like a cat. She tucked his head against her breast, still sticky and smelling of sex, and kissed his temple.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his hair. “Thank you for giving me everything I need… and for letting me give you everything you need.”
Eric fell asleep to the sound of her heartbeat and the faint, lingering scent of another man on his wife’s skin—peaceful, grateful, and utterly, perfectly hers.
She found him exactly where she knew he’d be: on the couch, blanket pushed aside, cock half-hard in his loose pajama pants, eyes bright with that nervous, adoring hunger she’d come to crave almost as much as the sex itself.
“Hi, baby,” she whispered, voice honey-thick and a little hoarse.
Eric stood up slowly, like he was afraid she might vanish if he moved too fast. “Hey, beautiful. You okay?”
“More than okay.”
She smiled, soft and luminous, and stepped close enough that he could smell Marcus on her skin—clean sweat, expensive cologne, sex. “I missed you the whole time.”
She took his hands and guided them under the hem of her dress. No panties (she’d stopped wearing them on these nights months ago). Her thighs were slick, warm, sticky. A slow trickle of another man’s cum still eased from her, coating the inside of one leg almost to the knee. Eric’s breath caught; his cock surged against the fabric.
“Feel what he did to me?” she murmured, pressing his fingers gently into the mess. “He was so deep, Eric. So thick. I came three times before he even let himself go. When he finally did…” She bit her lip, eyes fluttering. “God, there was so much. I’m still dripping him.”
Eric groaned, a broken, reverent sound. Becky kissed him—slow, tender, tasting faintly of Marcus and red wine—and then pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his.
“I love you,” she said, meaning it with every cell. “I love that you let me have this. I love coming home to you like this.”
She slipped the dress over her head in one fluid motion and let it drop. Her body was a map of the night: faint pink handprints on her hips, a small bruise blooming where Marcus had sucked at the curve of her breast, her nipples still swollen and dark. She looked ravished and radiant.
Eric sank to his knees without being asked. Becky threaded her fingers through his hair, guiding him gently between her thighs.
“Clean me up, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Taste how happy he made me.”
He did—slow, worshipful licks, gathering every trace, swallowing like it was communion. Becky sighed above him, rocking just a little, petting his head.
“That’s my good boy,” she crooned. “My perfect husband.”
When she was satisfied, she tugged him up to the couch and curled into his lap, both of them naked now. His cock pressed hot and aching against her hip, but she didn’t tease him cruelly; she simply wrapped her soft hand around him and stroked in that slow, maddening rhythm she knew drove him crazy.
“Want to hear it?” she asked, lips brushing his ear.
“God, yes. Please.”
She told him everything—how Marcus had kissed her against the restaurant elevator mirror, hand already under her dress; how he’d bent her over the hotel chaise and taken her from behind while she watched them in the window’s reflection; how he’d pulled out at the very last second the first time just to paint her ass and back, then pushed back in and filled her so full she felt it for hours. She whispered every detail like a bedtime story, voice warm, eyes locked on Eric’s the whole time.
Halfway through, she shifted so his cock rested against her still-slick entrance—just resting, not entering. She rocked gently, letting him feel the wet heat, the slippery evidence of another man, while she kept stroking.
“You’ll never be inside me again, baby,” she said softly, not cruel, just true. “This belongs to men who can make me feel like that. But you—you get all the rest of me. You get the girl who comes home glowing and kisses you with another man still on her tongue. You get to hold me after. That’s ours.”
Eric was trembling, tears in his eyes, hips jerking helplessly into her grip.
“I love you so much,” he whispered.
“I know,” she breathed, kissing the tears from his cheeks. “Come for me now, Eric. Come while I’m still full of him. Show me how happy you are that I’m happy.”
He did—hard, shuddering, spilling over her fingers and onto her belly and breasts in long, worshipful pulses. Becky held him through it, murmuring endearments, stroking him gently until he was spent and boneless against her.
Afterward she carried him to bed—and curled around him like a cat. She tucked his head against her breast, still sticky and smelling of sex, and kissed his temple.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his hair. “Thank you for giving me everything I need… and for letting me give you everything you need.”
Eric fell asleep to the sound of her heartbeat and the faint, lingering scent of another man on his wife’s skin—peaceful, grateful, and utterly, perfectly hers.