My kinky wife

The water was still beating a steady rhythm against the shower tiles when I heard the finality of the front door closing. That was it. She was gone. For the entire weekend. A strange, liberating silence descended upon the house, broken only by the spray of water. I turned it off, the sudden quiet feeling louder than any noise. I stepped out onto the bathmat, not bothering to wipe the steam from the mirror. There was no one to look presentable for. A slow, wicked grin spread across my face. This was freedom.

I didn’t even reach for a towel. Why would I? The house was mine, every inch of it. Dripping wet, I walked naked from the bathroom, my bare feet leaving damp prints on the cool hardwood floor. The air felt different on my skin, charged with a permission I hadn’t felt in years. I went straight to the special drawer in our bedroom, the one we jokingly called the “toolbox.” I rummaged past her vibrators and the scented massage oils until my fingers closed around the cool, smooth silicone of my favorite prostate massager and a large bottle of premium, thick lube. Then, I made my way to the living room.

I plopped down on the large, forgiving leather of our couch, the material cool and shocking against my bare skin. The remote was right where I’d left it. With a few clicks, I found what I was looking for—a video that was all raw, masculine energy, no pretense, just the kind of hardcore, unfiltered action that got my blood pumping. The sound of grunts and slapping flesh filled the room, a soundtrack to my solitude. I squeezed a generous amount of lube onto my hand, the clear gel slick and cool. I warmed it between my fingers for a moment before wrapping my hand around my cock, which was already half-hard with anticipation. I started slow, a lazy, familiar rhythm, my eyes glued to the screen where two well-built men were going at it with a focused intensity.

This was the plan. A long, unhurried session of self-indulgence. Just me, my own hand, the toy, and the porn. I was building up a nice rhythm, my hips starting to buck slightly into my own fist, my free hand tracing patterns on my inner thigh, teasing the entrance to my body. I was lost in it, the world outside the windows, the responsibilities, the constant hum of married life—all of it had faded into a distant buzz.

That’s when I heard it. The distinct sound of a key turning in the front door lock.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it plummeted into my stomach. My hand froze around my cock. The porn was still blaring, the actors moaning. I was buck naked, sprawled on the couch, lube glistening on me, the toy sitting right there on the cushion next to me like a damning piece of evidence. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She rounded the corner into the TV room, her eyes scanning, probably looking for whatever she’d forgotten. Her gaze landed on me, on the screen, on the entire, undeniable tableau of my secret afternoon. Her expression was unreadable for a solid three seconds that felt like three hours. A hot wave of embarrassment washed over me, mixed with a strange, defiant thrill. What was she going to do? Yell? Lecture me?

“Hey babe,” I said, my voice a little too high, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. “Care to join me?” It was a stupid, desperate joke, a Hail Mary pass. I knew she was in a hurry. I could see her friends’ car still idling in the driveway through the window. I expected a scowl, a shake of her head, a muttered “We’ll talk about this later” before she snatched her forgotten item and left me to stew in my shame.

She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me, her eyes dark and intense, and then turned and walked out of the room.

I was paralyzed. This was worse. The silence was a punishment. I fumbled for the remote and paused the porn, the sudden quiet in the room deafening. I listened, straining my ears like a kid who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I could hear her moving around in our bedroom. Grabbing her thing and leaving, I thought. I’m in for a world of shit when she gets back. I was already mentally preparing for the cold shoulder, the tense conversation.

The footsteps came back, quicker this time. She reappeared in the doorway, and my brain short-circuited. Her top was off, held loosely in one hand. Her magnificent tits were bare, the nipples already hard. And in her other hand, she held her largest, most intimidating black silicone butt plug. My mouth went dry.

She pointed a sharp, commanding finger at the frozen image on the TV. “Start the show,” she said, her voice low and husky, leaving no room for argument.

I fumbled with the remote, my fingers clumsy, and unpaused it. The sounds of sex filled the room once more. She didn’t break her stride. She walked over to the couch, her eyes locked on mine, and gracefully got on her knees between my spread legs. She didn’t tease. She didn’t start slow. She leaned forward and took my entire length into her mouth in one swift, aggressive motion.

I gasped, my back arching off the couch. “Jesus, babe…” I groaned. This wasn’t her usual sweet, loving blowjob. This was something else entirely. It was hungry, possessive, and punishingly good. Her head bobbed with a frantic, skilled energy, her tongue working miracles, her hand cupping and squeezing my balls. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave building up from my toes. “I’m gonna cum,” I warned her, my voice tight. “I’m serious, I’m gonna—”

She didn’t stop. If anything, she took me deeper, her throat relaxing around the head of my cock. That was all it took. With a guttural shout I didn’t even recognize as my own, I erupted, pulsing jet after jet of hot cum directly down her throat. She took it all, every last drop, her throat working to swallow. When I was spent, completely drained and shuddering, she slowly pulled back, a thick string of saliva and my cum connecting her lips to my tip for a second before it broke.

She looked up at me, and she smiled. It wasn’t a sweet smile. It was a wicked, knowing, triumphant smile. My mind was reeling. She had swallowed. In over twenty-five years together, she’d done that maybe two or three times, and always on special occasions. This felt anything but celebratory; it felt like a claiming.

Still holding my gaze, she brought the butt plug to her lips. She opened her mouth, letting a little pool of my own spend, mixed with her saliva, drip onto the tip of the black silicone. Then, with a sharp, deliberate movement, she spat the rest of it onto my balls and my asshole. The sensation was shocking, warm and wet and utterly depraved.

Without a single word, her eyes burning into mine, she brought the lubed-and-spit-slicked plug to my entrance. I was still sensitive, still reeling from the orgasm, but a new, different kind of tension was coiling in my gut. She pressed the tip against me, not gently. There was a brief resistance, and then, with a steady, relentless pressure, she pushed. I groaned as the widest part of the plug stretched me open and slid snugly into place, a feeling of intense, satisfying fullness. As it seated itself inside me, she just smiled that same dangerous smile and leaned in, kissing me hard. I could taste myself on her lips, a salty, intimate flavor.

She stood up, pulling her shirt back on as if nothing had happened. She looked down at me, a naked, spent, and now plugged mess on the couch.

“Leave it in,” she commanded, her voice firm. “Enjoy yourself this weekend.” She turned to walk out, but paused at the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder. “Because when I get home,” she added, a dark promise in her eyes, “you are in big trouble.”

And then she was gone. The front door clicked shut again. The car in the driveway pulled away. Silence. I was left alone, the porn still playing, the plug a constant, demanding presence inside me. And to my absolute astonishment, I felt a fresh, hard erection already stirring, pressing against my stomach. The entire encounter had taken less than five minutes, but it had rewritten a part of our marriage. I had no idea what she had in mind for me, but my God, I couldn’t wait to find out. The weekend stretched before me, every minute an eternity of anticipation.