She brought her lover home and forced her husband to watch.

I got out of the car first, without even turning around, knowing he was watching me. The evening air was cool, but I was still warmed by the champagne and his hands under the table throughout the banquet. My legs wobbled a little, not from the drink, but from anticipation. I took out my keys, swayed, and he grabbed my elbow. - Be careful, Natasha. His voice was low and calm, with that drawling quality that always made my stomach turn. Viktor Petrovich, my immediate supervisor, forty-six years old, divorced, with arms like an athlete, and such a master of the tongue that I sometimes forget my own name. I opened the door and immediately realized the light in the hallway was on. That meant Kostya wasn't asleep. Of course, how could he sleep when his wife was at the office party? I deliberately didn't tell him I'd be coming with someone. Why? Let it be a surprise. “Come in, Viktor Petrovich, don’t be shy,” I let him go ahead and slammed the door. Kostya stuck his head out of the kitchen, wearing his silly shorts and a baggy T-shirt, holding a cup of tea. He froze when he saw me and not the only one. I looked at him and felt something between disgust and excitement welling up inside me. Well, now it's about to begin. — Kostya, meet Viktor Petrovich, my boss. Viktor Petrovich, this is Kostya, my husband. Kostya set the cup down on the nightstand, too abruptly, and the tea spilled onto the floor. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked from me to Viktor, then back again. Viktor Petrovich stood calmly, his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down at Kostya, even though they were about the same height. “Good evening,” Viktor Petrovich said evenly. Kostya was silent. I saw the vein in his neck twitch and his fists clench. So he'd guessed. He'd suspected it for a long time, he'd just been afraid to admit it to himself. And now, here it is, a living illustration right in the hallway. "Kostya, why are you frozen?" I smiled and took off my coat, throwing it on the ottoman. "Viktor Petrovich and I had a few drinks and are tired. I'm hungry. Have you been cooking?" He didn't answer. He looked at me as if he'd never seen me before. I walked past him into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out some cheese and sausage. Behind me, it was quiet, except for the sound of Viktor Petrovich walking into the room without taking off his shoes. I deliberately didn't offer him slippers. Kostya followed him into the kitchen and stopped at the door. - Natasha, can I talk to you for a minute? “Yes, you can,” I said, chewing the sausage straight from the piece. “Speak.” He glanced sideways towards the room and lowered his voice: — Are you crazy? Who is this? Why is he here? — I told you, boss. We had a drink. He lives far away, I offered to spend the night. What's wrong? "Spend the night?" Kostya turned pale. "Are you even normal? I've never seen him before, and he's already sitting in our apartment without shoes." — So what? He's my boss, by the way. A good man. He could have offered me some coffee, by the way. Kostya looked at me, and I saw something flickering in his eyes—anger, confusion, and something else he didn't expect from himself. I knew that expression. I'd seen it once, when he'd accidentally found condoms in my bag that I'd clearly not bought for him. He'd pretended not to notice. But now he wouldn't be able to get away with it. "Natasha," his voice broke, "I'm asking you. Tell him to leave. Please." I put down the sausage and wiped my hands on a towel. I walked up to him, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look me in the eyes. "Kostya," I said quietly and clearly, "do you really think I brought a man home so you could make a scene for me? I'm tired. I want to relax. And you won't disturb me. Understand?" He swallowed. His Adam's apple twitched. And I saw it start to rise under his shorts. Of course. I always knew he was a closet cuckold. That he needed to be smashed like this, face down, to get truly aroused. Viktor Petrovich’s voice was heard from the room: - Natasha, are you coming? I let go of Kostin’s chin and smiled at him, broadly, almost affectionately. "Go to the bedroom, Kostya. And don't even think about getting dressed. I want you there when we get there." Viktor Petrovich and I entered the bedroom about ten minutes later. I deliberately delayed, finishing my sausage, drinking water, and touching up my makeup in front of the mirror in the hallway. I wanted Kostya to go crazy with anticipation. And he did. When we opened the door, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only his underwear, his hands on his knees, looking at the floor. They were silly boxer shorts, gray, with a stretched elastic band. I almost laughed. “Oh, you’re already getting ready,” I walked past him and sat down in the chair by the window, crossing my legs. “Good job.” Viktor Petrovich stopped in the middle of the room and looked around. On the wall hung a wedding photo of Kostya and me: me in a white dress, him in a suit, both grinning like idiots. Viktor Petrovich grinned, walked closer, and looked at the photo. “That’s a nice picture,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” “I’m still okay,” I stretched and unbuttoned the first button on my blouse. Kostya raised his head, looked at me, then at Victor. There was real pain in his eyes. And a hard-on. I saw the fabric of his underwear stretch and rise. He tried to cover himself with his hands, but I clicked my tongue. "Kostya, don't embarrass yourself. You have nothing to be proud of, we all know that." He flushed, but pulled his hands away. Viktor Petrovich walked up to him, stood directly in front of him, and unbuckled his belt. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it out of the belt loops, folded it in half, and tossed it onto the bed next to Kostya. Kostya flinched, but didn't move away. "Listen up," Viktor Petrovich said calmly, without threatening, simply stating the truth. "Now I'm going to fuck your wife. You're going to watch. If I tell you to do something, you do it. No talking. Do you understand?" Kostya was silent. I saw his Adam's apple bobbing, his fists clenched in his lap. He wanted to jump up, scream, kick us both out. But he couldn't. And not just because he was a wimp. But because his dick was hard, and he could feel it. “I can’t hear,” said Viktor Petrovich. “Got it,” Kostya squeezed out. - Louder. - Understood. Viktor Petrovich nodded and turned to me. I'd already taken off my blouse, remaining in my bra and skirt. He came over, pulled me by the waist, and kissed me. Roughly, with his tongue and hand, he reached under my skirt, straight into my panties. I moaned into his mouth because I knew Kostya could hear. And I knew he was watching. Viktor Petrovich turned me around so my back was to Kostya and bent me over the bed. I braced my palms on the bedspread, right next to Kostya's knees. I felt his breath on the back of my neck and heard the bed creak under his weight. Viktor Petrovich lifted my skirt, pulled my panties down to my knees, and I felt his fingers spread my labia. He always did this—fingers first, checking to see if I was wet. I was wet. Very wet. “Good girl,” he said and entered. I screamed because he entered immediately, all the way, without any preparation. His cock was thick and heavy, and every time he entered, my breath caught in my throat. I grabbed the bedspread and clenched it in my fists. Viktor Petrovich began to move, measuredly, deeply, and the bed creaked in time. I knew Kostya was sitting twenty centimeters from my face, and that he could see everything. He could see how I was being stretched, how I arched, how my legs shook. And I knew he couldn't look away. "Kostya," Viktor Petrovich called, without slowing down. "Come here." Kostya didn't move. Then Viktor Petrovich stopped, pulled out of me, and I groaned in frustration. He turned to Kostya, grabbed him by the back of the head, like a boy, and pulled him closer. - I said, come here. Get on your knees. Kostya sank to the floor. His face was right in front of my crotch. I was completely wet, juices running down my inner thighs. Viktor Petrovich entered again, and this time I moaned right into his face. Kostya's breathing was rapid and ragged. I saw him looking at the spot where Viktor Petrovich's penis disappeared inside me. And I saw his own penis sticking out of his underwear, wet with the precum that had already leaked out from the head. "Do you like watching it?" I asked, barely able to speak. Kostya looked up at me. There was such melancholy, such helplessness in them, that for a second I felt sorry for him. But only for a second. Because Viktor Petrovich grabbed my hair and pulled me back, and all thoughts flew out of my head. "Help her with your tongue," Viktor Petrovich threw over his shoulder to Kostya. "She likes it." Kostya didn't move. Then Viktor Petrovich grabbed him by the back of the head and pressed his face against my clit. I screamed because Kostya's tongue was soft and warm, and he immediately started working, thrusting, licking. He always knew how to do that, the only thing he knew how to do well. I moaned louder, began to move Viktor Petrovich, and now there were three of us—a cock in my pussy, a tongue on my clit, and someone else's hands holding me up and keeping me from falling. I came quickly, too quickly, because it was too much. I arched, squeezing Viktor Petrovich's cock inside me, and he growled, thrusting harder, faster. Kostya didn't pull his tongue away, he continued licking, and I twitched because everything was too sensitive after the orgasm. But Viktor Petrovich didn't let him stop. "Don't you dare clean up," he said. "Until I'm done." He fucked me for another two minutes, then pulled out and turned me around. I knew what was coming. He always did that. Viktor Petrovich walked up to Kostya, who was still kneeling, took his cock in his hand, and jerked it off a couple of times. Kostya looked up at him, and I saw him licking his lips. Unconsciously, simply because his cock was nearby and he was drooling with excitement. “Open your mouth,” said Viktor Petrovich. Kostya opened it. And Viktor Petrovich came all over his face. The first stream hit his mouth, the second his cheek, the third his chin. Kostya shuddered, but didn't close his mouth or turn away. He swallowed. Viktor Petrovich wiped the head on his lips, as if it were a towel, and stepped back. "Clean up here," he told me. "I'm going to take a shower." He left, and I sat down on the bed and looked at Kostya. He was on his knees, his face covered in cum, and he didn't wipe it off. He looked at me, and there was something new in his eyes. Something I hadn't seen before. Not anger. Not resentment. Something like gratitude. I grinned, pulled on my panties, which were still lying on the floor, and went to the kitchen for cigarettes. I finished my cigarette in the kitchen, looking out the dark window. The glass reflected me—disheveled, with smudged makeup, and an unbuttoned blouse. There was no sound from the bedroom. The sound of running water came from the bathroom. Then the water died down, and Viktor Petrovich came out. He was already dressed, only his shirt was wrinkled. He went into the kitchen, took an apple from the bowl, took a bite, and looked at me. — You have a nice apartment. Did you do the renovation yourself? "Kostya did it," I stubbed out my cigarette. "I just chose the wallpaper." "Good job," Viktor Petrovich finished chewing his apple and tossed the core into the trash. "Okay, I'll go. Don't forget the quarterly report tomorrow; I'll ask about it in the morning." — I won’t forget. He went into the hallway, put on his shoes, and threw on his coat. I stood in the kitchen doorway, not seeing him out. He opened the front door and turned around one last time. — Tell your husband to wash his hair. Otherwise, he'll be walking around with my sperm on his face. And he left, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked softly, almost politely. I returned to the bedroom. Kostya was sitting in the same spot on the floor, leaning his back against the bed. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt, but streaks remained on his cheeks. His bukvoeb.org underwear was soaking wet, and I realized he'd come on his own while he was kneeling. Without using his hands, probably. Just from what they were doing to him. “Get up,” I said. “The floor is cold.” He stood up. He staggered, clutching the bed. I looked at him and thought I should say something. Something that would put an end to this. But nothing came to mind. Everything had already been said, and not by me. “You knew,” I said finally. “You’ve known for a long time. About him and me.” Kostya nodded. — And he remained silent. He nodded again. Then he looked up at me, and I saw that the melancholy he'd seen an hour ago was gone. There was only emptiness. A calm, even emptiness. “I’ll make my bed on the sofa,” he said. And he went into the hallway, to the bed linen closet. He walked evenly, no longer swaying. I looked at his back – thin, hunched, in wet underwear that he hadn't even thought to take off. And for some reason, at that very moment, I realized he wouldn't leave. Not tomorrow, not in a month. Not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he needed it. Just like I did. I undressed and lay down on the bed. The pillow smelled of Viktor Petrovich—tobacco and some cologne of his, cheap but lingering. I turned off the light and lay in the darkness, listening to Kostya unfold the sofa in the living room. The springs creaked, the blanket rustled, then everything went silent. In the morning, he woke me up to the smell of coffee. I went into the kitchen—he was standing at the stove, already shaved, in a clean shirt, frying eggs. My quarterly report lay on the table, printed out and filed. I hadn't asked him to do it. “Good morning,” he said. - Kind. I sat down at the table. He placed a plate and a cup in front of me, then sat down opposite me. We ate in silence. The scrambled eggs were delicious, as always. Then I got ready, kissed him on the cheek—just like that, automatically—and went to work. In the office, Viktor Petrovich asked for the report. The report was in order. He flipped through the pages, nodded, then looked at me over the papers. — How is your husband? - Fine. — Did you wash your hair? — I washed it. Viktor Petrovich chuckled and returned to his paperwork. I sat down at my desk, turned on the computer, and got down to my usual work. Everything was as usual. And yet, everything was completely different.