My wife’s best friend

I can’t sleep. It’s eating me alive, and I have to get this out.

That morning my wife’s best friend walked in on me getting out of the shower. I was naked, dripping, towel in hand. She froze. Stared. My cock—thick, heavy, hanging low—was right there, and her eyes locked on it. Wide. Hungry. I could’ve covered up faster. I didn’t.

All day she kept glancing down. Every outline in my shorts, every shift—she bit her lip, crossed her legs. I knew she was wet. I was half-hard thinking about it.

Then my wife left for lunch.

My wife’s best friend was at the kitchen sink. I came up behind her, pressed close, asked if she was still thinking about it.

She pushed back. Ground against me.

I yanked her shirt up, shoved my hand in her panties—she was soaked. Two fingers deep, and she moaned.

I pulled my shorts down. Rubbed my hard cock along her, then pushed in slow. She gasped, “You’re so big—” I stretched her open inch by inch until I was buried deep.

I fucked her hard against the counter. Hand on her throat, rubbing her clit. She came fast, shaking, clenching tight.

Spun her around, lifted her up, slid back in. Watched my thick shaft disappear inside her over and over. She stared too, whispering how full she felt.

When I was close, she begged: “Inside. Fill me.”

I did. Groaned her name, pumping deep, flooding her until it dripped out.

We stayed there panting, my cum leaking down her thigh.

I’m not sorry.

Every time she’s here now, I remember how she felt wrapped around me. How she begged.

I love my wife.

But if my wife’s best friend gave me that look again… I’d fuck her in a heartbeat.

I’m a piece of shit.

And I still want more.