Our family dinner with the boss

When Yulia told me she'd invited my boss to dinner, I didn't understand the implication at first. I figured my wife was trying to give me a career boost, feed him some homemade food, and win him over. I wasn't opposed. Viktor Sergeyevich, my direct supervisor for the past five years, is a generally decent guy. He's in his early fifties, with a hint of gray hair, a trim figure, and always smells nice. He's a widower. Yulia cooked all day. She twirled around the kitchen in a short robe, and a couple of times I caught myself staring at her bare thighs as she reached for spices on the top shelf. I also noticed something else: she had put on her robe without underwear. Her pussy, still untouched by the razor but already neatly trimmed, flashed with every careless movement. I slapped her on the ass, laughed, and said something about a horny housewife. She smiled, but it was a bit too mysterious. "Maybe I should walk around like this in front of the boss too?" she said over her shoulder, stirring the sauce. I froze. Something clicked in my head. She was testing my reaction. “Well, if you want me fired in disgrace,” I joked, but my groin was already starting to warm up. “Or promoted,” she added quietly, and I heard how quickly she began to breathe. We both understood everything without words. *** Viktor Sergeyevich arrived promptly at seven, carrying a bottle of good cognac and a box of expensive chocolates. Yulia greeted him in a dress—black, form-fitting, with a low neckline that threatened to reveal more than was permitted with every movement. I noticed the way his boss's gaze slid over her figure, appraisingly, like a man, not like a boss looking at a subordinate. And I noticed I liked it. Dinner passed in a strange, vibrant atmosphere. We talked about work, about some projects, but I barely followed the conversation. I watched Yulia pour her guest's wine, lean over to show off her cleavage, touch his sleeve when she laughed at his jokes. My wife. My slutty girl, whom I fucked this morning, and now she sits across from me, making eyes at my boss. After dinner, we moved into the living room. Cognac, dim lighting, a soft sofa. Yulia sat not next to me, but in the armchair opposite, tucking her legs under her and letting her dress ride up almost to mid-thigh. I saw Viktor Sergeyevich's glances increasingly flicker to where the dark fabric met his pale skin. The decisive moment came when I went to the bathroom. On my way back, I paused in the hallway, listening. From the living room came the sound of quiet conversation and—I heard it right—the soft, wet sound of a kiss. I walked in and saw a sight that made my cock harden so suddenly it made my groin ache. Yulia was sitting on Viktor Sergeyevich's lap, his hand resting on her bare thigh, the other already unbuttoning the back of her dress. She turned to look at me over her shoulder, and a familiar lustful fire blazed in her eyes, mingled with a silent question: "Do you mind?" I silently sat down in the chair and nodded. “Yulia, you’re such a whore,” the boss said hoarsely, and these words, spoken in the voice of a man I was used to seeing at planning meetings, made me shudder with excitement. Then everything rolled along quickly, as if a dam had burst. The dress fell to the floor. Yulia was left in stockings—she'd deliberately added a garter belt, my favorite detail—and now she stood before two grown men, breathing heavily and rubbing her thighs together. Her nipples, hard and dark, jutted out, and a trail of glistening material was already visible between her legs. "Go to your husband," Viktor Sergeyevich commanded. "Show him how wet you are." Yulia came up to me, spread her legs, and sank onto my knees, pressing her crotch against my fly. The fabric immediately became wet. I could feel the heat of her cunt even through my jeans. She reached for my mouth, but the boss interrupted: - No. My husband will be watching. Now you're working with me. He stood up. A solid, large man, with a noticeable erection beneath his trousers. He unbuckled his belt, and Yulia, as if hypnotized, slid off me and onto the floor, kneeling before him. Her fingers deftly handled the zipper, and the boss's thick penis, with a prominent vein running its entire length, burst forth. She took him into her mouth. Not the way she takes him from me—slowly, lazily—but greedily, choking, swallowing him down to the very core, making those same vulgar gurgling sounds that always drive me crazy. Viktor Sergeyevich held her by the back of the head, not letting her pull away, and looked at me over her head. His eyes read, “See? Your wife. Here. With me.” I jerked off through my pants, unable to look away. Cum and saliva dripped down Yulia's chin, and she gasped for air when the boss allowed her to rest, then impaled herself again with a kind of desperate pleasure. "Enough," he exhaled. "Go to your husband, let him participate too." I finally unzipped my fly. My cock, wet with my own precum, pressed against Yulia's lips, and she accepted it with the same greed with which she had just sucked another man. The taste of someone else's flesh on her tongue, the saliva mixed with the boss's precum—all of it drove me crazy. I could smell Viktor Sergeyevich on her face. Then they settled down on the couch. The boss sat back, and Yulia climbed on top of him, guiding his cock into her heated, flowing core. She sat up slowly, with a drawn-out moan, and her cunt swallowed him whole with a slurping sound. I approached from the side. I simply watched as my wife's engorged labia stretched around his cock, as she rose and fell, leaving white rings of secretions on his skin. Then I took her chin and turned her toward me. “You’re a whore,” I said quietly, almost without malice. "Yes," she sobbed, thrusting harder. "I'm your whore. Yours and his." Viktor Sergeyevich seized the initiative. He flipped her over, positioned her doggy style on the sofa, and entered from behind—hard, deep, so hard that Yulia cried out and dug her fingers into the upholstery. Her ass, white and round, jiggled with his powerful thrusts. I saw her anus contract and expand in time with his movements, and, unable to resist, I moved closer. “May I?” I asked either her or him. “Go ahead,” the boss exhaled, slowing down. I spat on my fingers, spread my saliva over Yulia's anus, and, positioning myself, began to enter. Narrowly. Very tightly. But she was so wet and hot that after a few bukvoeb.run thrusts, the hole gave in. I entered completely and froze, feeling the boss's penis move into her vagina literally through the thin septum of flesh. They began to move together—at first out of sync, interfering with each other, but quickly finding a rhythm. My wife, sandwiched between the two men, made inarticulate sounds, more like growls. Her cunt squelched, stretched to its limits, and my balls slapped against her crotch with each thrust. They came almost simultaneously. The boss's sperm filled her vagina, mine her intestines. Yulia, exhausted, collapsed face-first into the sofa cushions and went silent, only her back heaving with rapid breathing. The three of us sat there, sweaty and exhausted, silently sipping cognac. Yulia, having come to her senses, slipped into the bathroom. Viktor Sergeyevich glanced at me with a grin. — You know, there's a meeting on Monday at ten. Don't be late. “I’ll try,” I replied, and we both laughed. In the morning, after the boss had left, I woke Yulia up with my tongue between her legs. She still smelled of another man, and that immediately aroused me. We fucked for a long time, slowly, and I kept trying to figure out if she could feel the sperm inside her that had lingered from the night before. And on Monday, at the meeting, Viktor Sergeyevich and I shook hands as usual. But he held my hand for a second longer than necessary—and I realized: this wasn't our last supper.