Wife and Plumber: Cheating in Front of Her Husband

It all started with a leak. A very mundane one, even mockingly mundane. A pipe in the kitchen, right under the sink, had clogged and started leaking, and no matter how hard I tried to tighten the loose nut, the water only started dripping more quickly. My engineering efforts only elicited a condescending smile from Inga, my wife. "Pavlik, stop it," she finally said, standing in the kitchen doorway and watching my torment. "You don't know how to do anything with your hands. Not in the house, not in bed. I'll call a professional." She uttered those last words with a peculiar, slippery intonation. Inga generally loved to emphasize my masculine inadequacy. She was thirty-three, a striking blonde with a curvaceous but toned figure—the result of endless gym sessions and salon visits. I, a stooped, bespectacled man with perpetually sweaty palms and premature ejaculation, had long since resigned myself to the role of her lapdog. The next morning there was a knock at the door. I opened it. A man stood in the doorway. He wasn't a plumber in my mind—not a drunken dude with a toolbox—but a real man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with biceps that stretched tightly over the sleeves of a simple gray T-shirt. His light brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and a light stubble covered his strong face. He smelled of something elusively masculine, animalistic. His name, he briefly stated, was Bogdan. Inga seemed to tense up as soon as she saw him. She stepped out into the hallway, adjusting her short silk robe, which concealed nothing but merely accentuated the steep curves of her hips and her full, braless breasts. "Come in, Bogdan," she cooed, and I noticed her eyes gleaming predatorily. "It's a complete disaster here in the kitchen." I trailed after them, feeling like a third wheel. Bogdan squatted in front of the sink, his powerful back straining the fabric of his T-shirt so much it seemed like it would split at the seams. Inga stood nearby, deliberately close, leaning over to "examine" the problem. The collar of her robe betrayed him, revealing a deep cleavage. Bogdan glanced sideways, and a knowing smile played on his lips. "It's not the nut," he boomed, standing up. "The pipe needs replacing. But it won't take long." "Perhaps some coffee?" Inga suggested, touching his forearm with her fingers. “You can,” he looked at her point-blank, without a shadow of embarrassment. While I was making coffee, that spark had already flown between them, a spark that needed no words. Bogdan sat at our kitchen table, his work-booted legs spread wide, and Inga sat across from him, constantly adjusting her hair and laughing at his crude jokes. They didn't notice me. I was just a function, a coffee-dispensing machine. "It's cozy here," Bogdan said, looking around the kitchen. "Just boring, I guess. Your husband, I see, isn't much of a worker." "Oh, don't even think about it, Bogdan," Inga chimed in with a mocking sigh. "It's neither hammering a nail nor satisfying a woman. It's all a hassle. You know, sometimes you just want a real, proper... renovation. To make your eyes sparkle." I stood frozen, coffee pot in hand. Blood rushed to my face, and involuntarily, a heaviness began to fill my groin. "Repair is a good thing," Bogdan chuckled, sipping his coffee. "I like working with my hands. And I'm well-equipped with tools." He looked at Inga, and his gaze no longer conveyed a desire to fix the pipe, but something entirely different. Inga, without looking away, slowly licked her upper lip. Then she turned to me. "Pavlik, go to your room for now. Watch TV. Bogdan and I will... work here." This was said in such a tone that there was no room for argument. I left, but didn't go into the room. Instead, I froze in the hallway, where a small crack remained in the kitchen door. My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat. Bogdan wasted no time. He stood up, walked up to Inga from behind, and simply placed his huge, calloused hands on her shoulders. She froze, then threw her head back, resting the back of it on his powerful chest. He leaned down and kissed her neck, roughly, greedily, sucking at the skin. Inga moaned softly, her hand darting back and groping his groin. A bulge, the size of which filled me with horror and awe, appeared through the thick fabric of his work pants. “This is... a tool,” she breathed out. Instead of answering, Bogdan abruptly spun her around and sat her on the edge of the kitchen table, right between the cups. He pulled her silk robe off, and it fell in a weightless puddle at her feet. Inga was left wearing only a pair of tiny white panties, already soaked through in her most intimate area. Bogdan didn't bother removing them—he simply pulled the strip of fabric aside and plunged his thick fingers into her vagina. Inga gasped, grabbed his shoulders, and bucked her hips, impaling herself on his hand. "Look how it flows," he said hoarsely. "Haven't seen a man in a while?" "Never a real one," she groaned, and at that moment her gaze darted to the crack in the door. She knew I was watching. She knew and continued playing her part. "Pavlik—he doesn't count. He's not a man, he's just... a houseplant." These words cut me like a knife, but at the same time my dick was already hard, pressing against my fly. I unzipped my pants and began masturbating, unable to tear myself away from the spectacle. Meanwhile, Bogdan unbuckled his belt. His pants fell down, and I saw what Inga had called a "tool." It wasn't a penis, but some kind of plowing implement. Long, thick, with bulging veins, it stood almost horizontally, with a dark red head, like an overripe plum, from which a viscous drop of precum already dangled. Inga leaned toward him and took him into her mouth. She moaned with pleasure, as if she'd been given a taste of the most exquisite delicacy. She licked him, moaning, swallowing him deep, right down to the roots, gagging and drooling, which ran down his shaft onto his heavy balls. Bogdan stood, hands on his hips, looking down at her with an expression of sated superiority. "Enough," he finally commanded. "Turn around." He lowered her off the table, turned her around, and pressed hard on her lower back. Inga obediently arched her back, resting her elbows on the table and thrusting out her full, rounded bottom. Bogdan pulled off her now-useless panties, leaving them hanging on one ankle, and spread her buttocks. Her vagina was pink, open and ready. He positioned his device at her entrance and, with one powerful, sharp thrust, entered her fully. Inga screamed. It wasn't a cry of pain, it was a cry of triumph. Her body swayed forward, her breasts heaved, and she braced her palms against the wall above the table to maintain her balance. Bogdan grabbed her hips and began working. Powerfully, methodically, mercilessly. The sound of wet, slapping blows filled the kitchen, mingling with the clanking of dishes in the cupboard. Each thrust was like a battering ram. Inga moaned loudly, screamed, and shouted obscenities I'd never heard from her. I stood in the hallway, furiously jerking off. I wanted to go in, watch up close, see every detail of this bestial act. And I walked in. Quietly, sideways, like a beaten dog, I slipped into the kitchen and stood by the refrigerator. They noticed me, but didn't stop. On the contrary, my husband's presence clearly aroused them both even more. "Look, Pavlik," Inga moaned, turning her flushed face toward me, "look how a real stud is screwing your wife! Can you feel the difference? Do you know where his dick is right now? It's in my stomach! And your little worm has never made it past the entrance!" Bogdan merely chuckled and quickened his pace. Now he was thrusting into her with a kind of animalistic fury. Then he leaned over, grabbed her hair, wrapped it around his fist, and pulled back, forcing her to arch even further. These movements caused his cock to plunge at a new, even deeper angle. "I want to cum on your face," he growled. "Get on your knees." He pulled out of her, and she immediately slid to the floor, her mouth open and her tongue hanging out, completely oblivious to the fact that her husband was standing a meter away and witnessing it all. Bogdan gave a few sharp thrusts with his hand, and a thick, white stream erupted from his penis. The first shot hit her forehead, the second directly onto her tongue, the third on her chin, from where it dripped in thick drops onto her bare chest. Inga caught it in her mouth, licked her lips, and looked up at her "master" with sincere, almost religious adoration. Then she turned to me. Her face, smeared with someone else's sperm, was shining. "What are you standing there for?" she asked hoarsely. "See, there's a small leak here. Go and clean up after the master. Lick me." And so I went. My legs carried me to her. I knelt down next to this huge, sweaty man and pressed my lips to my wife's face, licking the salty, tart slime from her cheeks, lips, chin. "A good husband," Bogdan said approvingly, pulling up his pants. "Understanding. You know, Inga, I don't just change pipes. I have a wide range of services. I can stop by at the end of the week; I see the riser is really weak. The whole house needs to be overhauled." "Absolutely," Inga purred as I licked the remains off her collarbones. "Come on Saturday. And you know what... bring a big adjustable wrench. And you can take a partner; there's a lot of work to do here. My husband," she nodded at me, "wouldn't be able to handle it alone anyway." I shuddered, imagining what awaited me on Saturday, and pressed my tongue harder into her hot, strange-smelling skin. I was scared. And I loved it madly.