The rough worker and my well-groomed wife

Vera and I bought a dacha three years ago. It's an old log cabin on the outskirts of the village—a quiet spot, surrounded by pine trees and intoxicating air. My wife was immediately enthusiastic: "We'll make it a gem!" We searched for craftsmen for a long time, but they either charged exorbitant prices or missed deadlines. Then a neighbor recommended Andrey—a local guy with golden hands, who says he charges a fair price and does a good job. Andrey turned out to be a man of about thirty-five. Stocky, wiry, with calloused hands. He dressed simply—a baggy T-shirt and work pants with knee pads—but there was something... animalistic about him. Energy, perhaps. He'd come early in the morning, while I was still getting ready to go to work in the city, and stay until evening. At first, Vera simply supervised the work, but then she began going to the dacha alone more and more often—"to check on the progress of the renovation." "Andrey says the old veranda needs to be completely gutted," she chattered over the phone. "And the stovework there is terrible. We'll have to go out more often, you know." I understood. Or rather, I thought I understood. But as the weeks went by, my Vera began to change. She, always modest in her clothes, suddenly started buying short sundresses and tight tank tops—"for the dacha, it's hot!" She'd come home late, tired, but with a strange flush on her cheeks. She smelled of something—the tart, musky scent of male sweat. She'd answer my questions evasively: "Well, I have a lot of work; I was helping Andrey carry boards." Carrying boards in a miniskirt? Yeah, right. One day, I decided to throw a surprise—I took a day off and drove to the dacha without warning. I left the car at the entrance to the village to avoid making noise and walked. As I approached the property, I heard strange sounds. Not the hammering or the screech of a saw, but rhythmic dull thuds, interspersed with a woman's screams. I crept through the gate and peered into the window of the still-unfinished veranda. What I saw made me grip the windowsill with my fingers. Vera stood, her hands braced on the freshly planed boards of the workbench. Her sundress was rolled up behind her, and her panties hung somewhere around her ankles. Andrey, sweaty and flushed, positioned himself behind her, driving his tool into her with powerful, measured thrusts. And it wasn't a hammer. His penis was a match for its owner—thick as a shovel handle, dark with the blood rushing through it. I saw Vera's crotch stretch with difficulty, accepting the full length of this tool. Her buttocks, white and tender, trembled with each blow of his rough, calloused palms, leaving red marks on her skin. "Deeper... come on, Andryusha, deeper!" my wife croaked, and it was so unlike her. At home in bed, she was quiet and modest, but here she was a real cat in heat. Andrei growled something unintelligible and continued to furiously pound her deep into her core until Vera convulsed in orgasm, screaming loudly and nearly falling onto the workbench. He didn't give her a break—he flipped her over, sat her on the edge of the workbench, spread her legs wide, and entered her again, this time from the front. I saw his buttocks tensing rhythmically and Vera's white-socked legs dangling in the air, clasping his lower back. She clung to his shoulders, scratched his back, and passionately responded to his rough, animalistic kisses. I could hear the wet, loud squelching of her overworked vagina. I stood there, unable to move. I was choked with rage, but at the same time, my pants were painfully tight. It was the most arousing sight of my life—watching a rough worker "finish off" my well-groomed wife right there on the workbench. He brought her to a scream again, and then, with a low groan, he himself began to cum. I saw his balls tighten and Vera go limp, accepting his hot seed. Then they lay right on the sawdust pile, quietly chatting. I quietly retreated, unnoticed, and drove into town. I was shaking the whole way, but from excitement, not anger. At home, I said nothing. I pretended I didn't know anything. But my thoughts kept returning to that scene at the dacha. I wanted to see it again. And the opportunity presented itself sooner than I thought. Vera was staying late more and more often "during renovations." Sometimes she'd even spend the night in the little house, explaining that "Andrey was finishing up the finishing touches; we had to get it done before fall." I knew exactly what kind of "finishing" he was doing, but I kept quiet. One day, I installed a small camera in the bedroom of the little house—the kind they sell for pet monitoring. On Friday, Vera said she was staying overnight. I waited until it got dark and turned on the live stream on my phone. The picture was clear, even with the backlighting. The bedroom was dimly lit. Vera lay naked on our marital bed, which we'd bought a month ago. Andrey stood next to her, and she diligently worked his penis with her mouth. She did it skillfully and greedily—apparently, she'd learned a lot over the past few weeks. He held her hair and guided her, sometimes forcing her to swallow him so deeply that she began to gag. But instead of stopping, she moaned and continued, looking up at him with devoted, passion-clouded eyes. Then he roughly flipped her over onto her stomach and started working her from behind. I watched his thick cock enter her, her buttocks part, and she squirm like a total slut. The bed creaked, Vera screamed into her pillow, and he kept increasing the tempo until he came all over her back. Then he lit a cigarette, lying next to her, and she clung to him, quietly humming, running her finger over his hairy chest. I turned off the broadcast and sat for a long time in the darkness of our city apartment. I jerked off and imagined myself alternately in Andrey's place and then back in the role of observer. Everything changed when I accidentally found a pharmacy receipt in Vera's bag. A pregnancy test. Two stripes. It was like a scald—Vera bukvoeb.run and I had been using contraception for a year, on the advice of doctors. And then this happened. And who better than hard-working Andrey, who constantly "forgot" about condoms, to be the father? Something inside me cracked. I arrived at the dacha in the evening, without calling. Andrey was alone, finishing laying the laminate flooring in the living room. When he saw my face, he immediately understood. He straightened up and put down his tools. “Do you know?” he asked hoarsely. I nodded silently. He sighed and looked down. — It... happened by accident. I didn't mean for it to happen that way. I stepped closer, my hands clenching into fists, but instead of fighting, something completely different burst out of me: — Do you even realize what you've done to her? You've turned my wife into your doormat. She's pregnant. What now? He remained silent. And in this silence, I heard a familiar voice coming from the stairs leading to the attic: - Don't scold him. I wanted this myself. Vera came downstairs. She was wearing only a short robe, which she only wore at home. Her hair was disheveled, and there was a fresh hickey on her neck. She looked at me calmly and firmly. “I love you,” she said. “But with him, I feel like… a woman. A real one. He’s rough, uncouth, but he gives me what you can’t.” These words made my insides clench. But Vera continued: "I don't want to leave you. But I won't give up on him either. And you know..." She paused and smiled strangely. "You want that too, right? I saw the camera footage. You didn't delete it from your phone, you idiot." I blushed. I stood there like a schoolboy in front of the principal. Vera walked up to Andrey, pressed herself against him, and looked at me with that same lust-filled gaze I'd seen in the video. “Maybe we shouldn’t fight?” she said quietly. “Maybe we should try something different? The three of us?” I didn't know what to say. But when Andrey, looking me straight in the eye, slowly untied the belt of her robe and slipped his hand between her legs, and Vera moaned languidly, I realized that jealousy had retreated again. It had given way to a familiar, sweet feeling of weakness and arousal. So, we finished the renovation. It's even more fun with three of us. Andrey stayed to help with the housework, and Vera gave birth to a healthy little boy seven months later. The neighbors say he looks just like me. Maybe so. I haven't checked. And what difference does it make? The main thing is that everyone's happy. And jealousy... jealousy sometimes returns. But Vera knows how to calm it down. Usually, all it takes is a quick call to Andrey and a bottle of good wine for three. Well, you understand.