I fuck an old man in front of his wife

The air in the Dubai penthouse was cool and scentless, a stark contrast to the humid tension simmering between the three of us. Crystal glasses held remnants of amber whiskey, and the city glittered below like a spilled treasure chest. Charles and Eleanor, a couple in their early sixties, were my hosts. He, with a vestige of commanding presence in his broad shoulders; she, a meticulously preserved beauty whose eyes held a lifetime of quiet judgments.

It had started as a dare over that third drink, a subtle challenge from Eleanor about the “vulgarity of modern young women.” I had merely smiled, letting my gaze drift to Charles. “Perhaps it’s not vulgarity,” I’d countered, my voice a low murmur. “Perhaps it’s a question of appetite. Some are content with a taste. Others crave the full banquet.”

The shift in the room was palpable. Charles hadn’t looked away. I saw the flicker, the dormant beast stirring behind his civilized facade. Eleanor’s smile tightened. “And what does a banquet entail for a woman like you?”

“This,” I said simply, rising with a fluid grace. I walked to Charles, my hips swaying in a deliberate, pauseful rhythm. I didn’t look at her. My entire world narrowed to the man whose eyes were darkening with a hunger I recognized. I placed a hand on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart. “It entails taking what you want, and allowing yourself to be taken in ways you’ve likely forbidden.” I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, my voice dropping to a intimate, conspiratorial whisper. “It entails surrendering to a perversion you only dream of. I can show you what your wife refuses to.”

A sharp intake of breath from Eleanor. Charles’s hand came up to clasp my waist, his grip surprisingly firm. “Eleanor prefers to keep some doors locked,” he said, his voice rough with desire and something else—defiance.

“Then watch me open them,” I purred.

I led him to the vast leather sofa, guiding him to sit. I positioned myself before him, a deliberate spectacle for his wife, who stood frozen, a silent, horrified statue. My eyes locked with hers as I slowly, torturously, unzipped my dress. The silk sighed as it pooled at my feet. I was naked beneath, and I saw in Eleanor’s wide, incredulous eyes the full comprehension of my challenge. I was not just a younger woman; I was a different species. A woman unafraid of her own depravity.

I showed him, and her, everything. I demonstrated, with slow, undulating grinds against his lap, that I was a more insatiable bitch than she could ever comprehend. I whispered the filthiest encouragements in his ear, my language becoming precise, clinical, and unbearably lewd in its descriptions of what I wanted him to do to me. When I guided him inside me, a low, guttural moan escaped him. It was the sound of a man being unleashed.

And my God, the man could fuck. For a man his age, he had a stamina that men my age would envy. He took control, flipping me onto the cool leather with a strength that stole my breath. He drove into me with a focused, relentless power, each thrust a punctuation to a lifetime of suppressed desire. His hands were everywhere, gripping, claiming. I met him thrust for thrust, my cries echoing in the sterile luxury of the room, a symphony of raw, unadulterated carnality performed for an audience of one shattered wife. I came, screaming, my body convulsing around him, and he followed with a roar that seemed to shake the very windows.

Afterward, as I dressed with the same slow precision, he approached me. His face was flushed, his eyes clear and bright. He didn’t speak. He simply pressed a fold of crisp bills into my hand. Two thousand dollars. A gratuity for a service his wife had never rendered.

It was, without hyperbole, one of the best fucks of my life.