She kissed it.
Just once — soft, slow — lips brushing the shaft like a promise. Then she smiled around the filter of her cigarette and slid it back between her lips.
“Don’t touch it,” she said, dragging smoke into her lungs. “Let it hurt.”
I was standing there with my cock out, throbbing in the night air, aching from everything she’d just done. She didn’t smack it. Didn’t spit. Didn’t humiliate. No — she’d treated it lovingly, with the kind of slow affection that made it worse. Like I was something to be treasured… but denied.
She stepped back, barefoot in the grass, the hem of her dress clinging to her thighs.
“I have to pee,” she added casually, like we weren’t in the middle of a park, like she hadn’t just been used by two strangers. “Stay here.”
She walked toward the tree line — not quite a strut, not quite a stumble — hips loose, spine relaxed. I watched her disappear into shadow, the ember of her cigarette bobbing with every step.
She slipped just far enough off the path to feel hidden — not truly in the woods, but veiled by branches and shadow. The grass was damp beneath her bare feet, cool against the heat still humming between her thighs.
With a soft sigh, she crouched.
A slow stream spilled onto the earth, quiet and deliberate. She let her head tilt back as she pissed, smoke drifting from her lips, the tip of her cigarette glowing in the dark like a tiny altar flame.
She made no attempt to rush. No attempt to hide. If anything, she seemed to relish the exposure — like her body needed to let go in more ways than one.
By the time she stood, smoothing her dress back down over sticky thighs, two car doors clicked open.
They weren’t together. Two separate men. Two different vehicles.
But they moved the same — slow, quiet, drawn toward the same gravity.
They followed her into the trees, not saying a word. Just… following.
She stayed on the path, barefoot. She had to. The gravel and brush would’ve shredded her feet. But I think she liked the path anyway — how exposed it kept her.
She stopped under the edge of a tree, lit from the side by one flickering streetlamp and the moon above. Just visible. Just enough to make my pulse spike.
One of the men spoke.
“You alright?”
She didn’t flinch. Just looked over her shoulder, ass still visible under the sheer cling of her dress.
“You following me?” she asked, her tone lazy and amused.
“Do you want us to?”
Her answer was a smirk — and a hike of her dress.
They moved quickly. One behind her. One in front. She dropped into a squat between them, one cock already sliding into her mouth as she reached back for the other.
There was no hesitation.
She took them both — shameless, feral — moaning around one cock while her hips ground against the other.
From the picnic table, I could see everything. Her silhouette lit by moonlight. The way her mouth opened wide. The way her fingers curled around their thighs. The way she looked up at them with adoration and hunger all at once.
“Fuck,” one of them groaned. “Your pussy’s so wet.”
She pulled off the cock in her mouth, just long enough to whisper, “It’s not for you. It’s for him.”
She nodded toward me.
They turned, barely glancing. But it was enough.
“You like watching your girl get ruined?” one of them laughed.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
She answered for me.
“He lives for it.”
She came hard — grinding against one cock while sucking the other. She didn’t stop until they were both twitching, moaning, releasing. One in her mouth. One deep inside her. She swallowed without flinching, licked her lips, and stood up without a word.
They pulled away like dazed animals. One zipped up, eyes down. The other didn’t even look at her again. They walked back to their cars, got in, and drove off — fading into the dark without a single goodbye.
She walked back barefoot, dress clinging, legs shaking just slightly. She sat beside me like nothing happened, reached across the table for the bottle of wine, and took a long drink. Her cigarette case, lighter, and a small pack of towelettes were scattered beside it — all arranged like this was just another night out.
Then she lit another cigarette.
I thought it was over.
But one car remained.
A door opened.
He stepped out — tall, broad-shouldered, slower than the rest. He hadn’t moved the entire time. Just sat and watched.
Now he was walking toward us, eyes locked on her, the bulge in his jeans obscene.
She didn’t move. Just looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted around the filter of her smoke.
“Took you long enough,” she murmured.
“Didn’t want to interrupt.”
She smiled, took another drag, then reached out and unzipped him.
Her fingers hesitated.
“Holy shit…” she whispered, wrapping both hands around his cock. “You’ve been hiding this monster the whole time?”
He was thick. Long. Heavy enough to make her jaw twitch just looking at it.
“I can’t fuck this,” she said with a laugh. “And if I try to suck it, I might not be able to talk for a week.”
She didn’t get on her knees. Didn’t bow. She just stayed seated on the edge of the table, legs crossed, cigarette hanging from her lips as she began to stroke.
Slow. Elegant. Erotic.
Smoke poured from her nose as her fingers glided up and down his shaft. Her grip was perfect. Confident. She looked like she was born to do it.
“You like that?” she asked, her voice low, cigarette bobbing with every stroke. “You like watching me jerk off this big fucking cock while I smoke like I don’t give a damn?”
He groaned.
“Yeah… you do,” she whispered. “You love this. Watching my rings shine while I stroke you off like you’re mine.”
Her other hand slipped lower — cupping his balls, teasing lightly, her tongue flicking the corner of her mouth.
“You don’t need to come in me. You don’t need to come on me. You just need to come for me. Right here. Right now. While I stroke you off like a dirty fucking queen.”
Her pace quickened. Her hand twisted just right.
“Look at that,” she said to me. “You’re still hard, aren’t you? Still watching your wife take care of the biggest cock she’s ever touched. And all she’s using is a cigarette and a fucking wrist.”
He tensed.
She grinned.
“Give it to me,” she whispered. “Come for me.”
And he did.
The first spurt shot across her knuckles — hot and thick. She kept stroking. Another shot hit her wrist. Then another. Long, strong, twitching pulses that covered her hand and dripped to her thigh.
She moaned at the feeling — low and warm — and flicked the ash off her cigarette like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Only when he sagged, breathless and weak, did she finally let go.
She looked up at him through the haze and stroked him once more — gently, possessively.
“You live around here?”
He nodded, still catching his breath.
“Good.” She tapped his hip with the back of her cum-slick hand. “Same time next week. No text. No name. Just be here.” She paused — smiled — and added, “And don’t jerk off that day. I want you full next time. I want to see what you give me when I’m not already wrecked.”
Then she turned to me, wine in one hand, cigarette in the other, and said the only thing I needed to hear.
“I’m done now. Take me home.”
