For some time now, my wife Ellen has been … uninspired. She’s an artist—a gifted painter who has produced dozens of stunning pieces since we first met in college. But recently it seems like the creative “spark” has been missing from her work.
Ellen is incapable of producing anything ugly … she is far too talented for that. But her paintings have definitely been “off.” She normally uses a rainbow of colors to capture the world on her canvas, but black and gray have been taking up more and more space on her palette.
We’ve talked to all the experts. Her doctor, therapist, and life coach all say she isn’t depressed. She is just in an “artistic dry spell.” It kills me to see her struggling like this, and I think I know what could get her creative juices flowing again: a new sexual adventure.
I’ll say right upfront that if you are the husband of an artist who captures the human form through their work, you get pretty comfortable with her being in rooms with other naked men and women. It comes with the job.
When we started dating back in college, she made me promise that I wasn’t the jealous type, because it wouldn’t work out otherwise. She was simply too much of a free spirit. When we were having this discussion, she even teared up a bit because she thought it would be a deal breaker for me. But she didn’t have anything to worry about.
I told her, “As long as you’re mine and I’m yours at the end of the day, nothing else matters.” I meant it then and I still mean it now.
Which is why I was so happy to find out my wife was fucking the neighbor boy this afternoon.
Just before I left for work, Ellen was sitting on the porch drinking a cup of tea. She seemed lost in thought, and when my eyes followed her gaze, I noticed she was looking at our objectively good-looking neighbor next door. Blake is 19 and home from college for the summer. This morning, he was diligently sweeping off his parent’s porch.
“I’m about to leave for work, Elle,” I said. I broke her trance, and she smiled up at me. “Bye, darling. I hope you have a wonderful day.” She always managed to put on a “normal” face for these little interactions that define a relationship, but I could tell this was one of her gloomy days.
“Are you going to the studio today?” I asked, trying to sound cheerful. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied with a little shrug. I looked back over at Blake. He’d attended a few of our summer barbecues before leaving for school, and he always seemed to make her laugh.
“You know, Elle, I’m fine if you want to have Blake over … if you’d like him to keep you company today,” I said. “Keep you company” was one of our longtime code phrases that meant I was fine if she spent the night with one of her models if she wanted to be visited by a “muse.” Muse was our code word for a model’s cock or, if she were painting a woman, a strap-on.
Sometimes when I suggested that one of her models could “keep her company,” she responded with, “You should come along too.” This was sort of a pun because she actually meant “you should cum along too” … the phrase roughly translated to her model friend being open to me watching or—more often than not—joining in.
It had been a few years now since we’d had one of those encounters, and I was starting to think we were long overdue.
Back on our porch, Ellen shifted the mug in her hands nervously and a small smile crossed her lips. Her skin was flushed. I saw a glimpse of my girl, the one who loved life and leapt headfirst into new experiences before channeling them into her art. She was hesitant though. “I’m too old for him, he’d never want to … I mean, do you think he would … surely not … “
I could tell from her stammering that Blake was precisely what she wanted.
“Babe, you’re gorgeous,” I said with a laugh. “Any college kid would leap at the chance to spend the day with you.” I was serious. Ellen was in her mid forties, and she hadn’t lost an ounce of her youthful beauty. With her petite frame and spritely facial features, she is stunning.
She has always worn her hair in an eccentric pixie cut, with little waves of strawberry blonde hair going in every direction … it was especially messy after she’d just been fucked by myself and whoever her model happened to be at the time. In her baggy painter’s clothes, you’d think she had small breasts, but our bedroom guests were always pleasantly surprised to discover her firm C-cups when she undressed in front of us.
Ellen’s pussy is also very tight, something that was confirmed by the third party in our most recent threesome, back in 2018. He practically refused to take his cock out of her grippy pussy lips, which was fine by me … Ellen has two other holes that are just as tantalizing in situations such as these. She is an attentive lover, no matter how many people are fucking her.
In other words, my wife is a dream. I will always consider myself the luckiest man alive. Occasionally we choose to share my luck with a few fortunate people who happen into our lives.
And I could tell this morning from the way Ellen was looking across the fence and biting her lip: If Blake was interested, he was about to become one of those lucky people.
I kissed my wife on her forehead and said, “Keep me updated,” with a wink. She winked back and sat up a little straighter in her chair. Her empty schedule for the day suddenly had an objective penciled in. She was going to try to get Blake into her bed.
On my drive into the office, I pictured how Ellen might go about her task. She’d probably bop up the stairs and throw open her closet. Short shorts? Skirt? Sundress. Definitely a sundress. Thong? Cheeky panties? No. Neither. Nothing underneath. This was a seduction, remember?
She’d touch up her makeup in the mirror—subtle, but eye-catching. She’d pull her dress up in the mirror and look at herself. At her pussy. She had just gotten waxed two days ago, and she was smooth. Pink. Wet. She’d grin at the little trace of cum running out of her lips and down her thigh. And then head downstairs.
My commute ended, so I had to pause the movie that was playing in my head. I walked into the office, smiled at coworkers, shook hands, got coffee. All the professional stuff you’re supposed to focus on instead of thinking about your wife getting fucked senseless by the teen next door.
When I finally sat down at my desk, my phone vibrated. It was Ellen. “Gonna ask Blake to sweep our porch … thx for the idea ;)” I felt my cock get hard. “Have fun, babe!” I replied. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I smiled to myself and prayed that everything would go smoothly. That Blake would bring some of the color back to her paintings.
I tried to make some progress on work projects before that afternoon’s meeting. We had a big pitch with an important client, and I needed to be focused. So much for that.
I envisioned my wife strolling over to the fence that separated our yard from our neighbors’. She’d smile and wave to Blake, beckoning him to come over. Without thinking about it, she’d probably be playing with her hair like she always did when she was horny. When she wanted a muse between her lips. Or between her legs.
She’d say something flirty like, “Looking so good over here!” and intentionally wait a moment or two before clarifying, “The porch I mean, haha.” She’d ask if she could pay him to sweep up our patio—last night’s storm had knocked a lot of leaves off the trees, and she’d be sure to emphasize how much she’d appreciate it. *How could Blake turn that down?*
He’d grab his broom and hop the fence effortlessly—he was at school on a basketball scholarship, the result of all the afternoons he spent shooting hoops in his parents’ driveway. This display of athleticism would make Ellen ache. She’d want him to jump her bones.
Blake would start sweeping, and they’d talk. About school, grades, games. About Blake’s success with the college girls … or lack thereof. He’d probably blush a bit when he’d admit to Ellen that between practice and maintaining his perfect 4.0 GPA, he didn’t have much time for the girls on campus. And she’d feel bad for him.
Artists are often empathetic at their core, and my Elle was no exception. More specifically, she had some sixth sense for sexual needs. She could tell when one of her models was full of cum. When it was affecting their ability to sit still for her in the studio. When she’d have to use her body to calm them. Empty them. She took pleasure in this—in giving other people the pleasure they needed.
Upon hearing about Blake’s dating difficulties, Ellen would start to make her move. She would lean back in the chair where she was watching him work. She’d slowly uncross her legs and her fingers would start to dance in place on her thighs, pulling the thin fabric of her dress up. Inch by inch. Until Blake would notice.
He’d look up from his chore, possibly in the middle of a story about their latest basketball game, and see my wife’s pussy. She’d be looking up at him with fire in her eyes. His mouth would fall open, and he’d frantically look around like people always do when they see something forbidden in public. But there would be no one around. Just him and her in our back yard.
Ellen would then move her fingers down onto her exposed legs. She’d run them inside her pale thighs, up and down. She had caught his attention and now she would be reeling him in. She would say something like, “I bet you’re really thirsty from all this hard work. I think you deserve a break.” And then she would bite her lip. Her fingers would finally find her pussy and spread her lips. She was inviting him inside.
This would be it: the determining moment. *Would Blake say yes and walk into our house? Would he say something like, “But what about your husband?” Would he turn her down?* The suspense was killing me. I checked my phone for any updates. Nothing.
At this point, 30 minutes had passed and I hadn’t gotten a damn thing done. I knew I had to do something or my portion of our pitch presentation was going to fall apart. I picked up an old profit report from my desk and made my way to the bathroom, using the small stack of papers to hide my erection from my coworkers’ eyes. I needed a release.
In the bathroom stall, I started stroking my hard cock, which was already slick with precum. I imagined Blake nodding, taking Ellen’s extended hand and walking through the back door to our home. Just inside the door, she would double check: “Is this something you want to do, Blake?” Wordlessly, he would nod yes. This would be his chance to relieve a whole semester’s worth of sexual frustration. His chance to fill my wife with his cum.
She’d smile warmly and lead him upstairs. She would sit down on the edge of the bed and tell him to take his clothes off. And then marvel at how his shorts had concealed his massive cock. She would reward him by pulling the top of her dress down, exposing her blushing tits. He’d take them in his hands, roughly. And then she’d open her mouth.
Just then, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I ignored it and kept rubbing my dick. The idea of Blake fucking my wife was driving me crazy. I heard the buzz of another text and started to get frustrated. It was probably Steve. That slacker always needed me to finish his slides the day of a big meeting. What an asshole. Another text came through, and I wanted to smash my phone into the wall so I could finally just cum and start my day.
I violently pulled my phone out of my pocket and looked at the screen with wild eyes. It wasn’t Steve.
It was Elle. She sent me a photo of a cock in her mouth. Blake’s cock.
And a message: “We’re having an early lunch. You should come along too.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/psmf8k/my_wife_is_fucking_our_teenage_neighbor_im_so