Christmas had come and gone, but the memory of the party still stirred something deep inside me.
Seeing my wife with my friend had lit a fuse I knew would never burn out. I was determined it wouldn’t be a one-off.
We talked about what had happened, and Sharon admitted—quietly at first, then with growing confidence—that she’d enjoyed it.
Some adventures are planned. Others simply unfold.
That Saturday night, we were out for drinks in a bar called the Bot in Belfast, not far from Queen’s University, right in the heart of student land.
After a few drinks, Sharon was in good spirits, but the bar itself was dull. Nothing was happening.
I encouraged her to flirt with a few of the guys around us, but she wasn’t keen. She was wearing a skirt, black tights, and a tight purple V-neck T-shirt under her coat—enough to draw attention, but she resisted at first.
After another round, I suggested we head out for a walk around the student area.
Before we were married, we used to sneak into back entries for quick, risky encounters. I thought maybe we could rekindle that thrill—maybe even take it further if the opportunity arose.
We wandered past rows of student houses until we heard loud music blasting from one. The place was packed. I looked at Sharon and said, “Let’s chance our arm and go in.”
To our surprise, no one stopped us. Inside, the house was heaving—students everywhere, music thumping through the walls.
Everyone seemed to have brought their own carry-out. We hadn’t.
In the back kitchen stood a big rugby-type lad, built like a brick shithouse, clearly guarding a stash of drink.
I nudged Sharon. “Flirt with him. See if he’ll share.”
She hesitated, then nodded and went over.
The kitchen was dark—no lights, just a table, a couple of chairs, a sofa, and some large cushions scattered on the floor.
She was getting on well with him. I noticed how often she touched his arm, how readily he touched her back, her waist. They seemed instantly comfortable together.
I drifted off to explore the rest of the house. Everywhere I looked, there was flirting, kissing, bodies pressed together. After about ten minutes, I went back to see how Sharon was doing.
He had his back to me. Sharon, much smaller than he, tilted her head up to meet his gaze. He wrapped his muscular arms around her and kissed her deeply, confidently.
A few minutes later, Sharon spotted me. Using the excuse of needing the loo, she slipped past with a bottle of Clan Dew—a “leg opener,” as we used to call it. He shouted after her to hurry back. She handed me the bottle and smiled. “He’s sharing,” she said.
I wandered off again, drinking.
When I returned later, I didn’t see them at first. He’d rearranged the cushions on the floor by the sofa, using the table to shield them from the doorway.
They were sitting together, backs against the cushions, kissing deeply.
His hands were rough on her, gripping her breasts hard enough to make her wince. He pulled her tits free, tugging hard at her nipples, biting them, and leaving dark marks across her skin.
He guided her hand toward his cock, easing his zip down until it sprang free—thick, heavy, already glistening with pre-cum.
By then, Sharon was well plied with drink, and she was loving it. He gripped her head and forced it down onto his fully erect cock.
The charm vanished. He drove himself into her mouth, making her gag, showing no restraint. What followed was merciless.
His hands slid under her skirt, dragging down her tights and knickers.
I watched him push his fingers deep into her. I was sure he was trying to work his whole hand inside her. I heard her gasp as he climbed on top of her and lined himself up at her entrance.
Then he thrust hard, burying himself balls deep. Sharon cried out, but the music swallowed the sound.
He fucked her relentlessly. I could hear the slap of flesh, her hoarse groans, the raw intensity of it.
After fifteen minutes, he finally pulled out and spilled himself across her face.
Laughing, he smeared it into her hair. “Shame to waste the bottle,” he said, clumsily trying to push it into her well-used pussy. He only managed the neck, but kept going, thrusting it while slipping a few fingers into her arse.
“I need a piss,” he said. “Wait here.”
As he left the kitchen, he caught sight of me. “Dirty bitch in there, you should have a go” he said casually. “Might get a few of my mates to have a go.”
I didn’t wait. I gathered Sharon, and we slipped back out into the night.
In a quiet entryway, I took stock. Her tights and knickers were torn. Cum clung to her hair. I bent her over and took my turn.
“Go easy,” she murmured. “I’m sore.”
I barely felt anything—it would take time for her to recover from the pounding she’d taken.
But instinct won out. I emptied myself into her, adding to the mess.
We caught the bus home. She looked ruined—mascara streaked, dried cum tangled in her hair, more leaking from between her legs. I asked her was she alright and she admitted that she had loved it. I told her about him going to get some mates, and she said that might have been nice, perhaps next time
She was a whore, no doubt about it—but she was my whore.
And this was only the beginning.
