*I was encouraged to write a cheating tale, so here’s a classic bored housewife story. I had real writer’s block on this, so I hope you enjoy it in the end. Let me know if you did and how much.*
It was April, 6 months now since Sammy had been let go from her job of 5 years. She and her colleagues had turned up one morning to find the doors padlocked and their access revoked. It had been mere weeks after an acquisition by a larger company, and apparently someone had decided that everything they did was, all of a sudden, surplus.
At 41, having been consistently in work for 15 years, Sammy had not taken the experience of being thrust into unemployment well. While she’d sent out applications and done her best to promote her experience online, there was nothing coming back, and after a couple of months she’d fallen into a slump. Money was becoming a problem. Andy, whom she’d married 12 years ago next month, had resorted to picking up consultancy work in order to make up the discrepancy.
Sammy stood at 5’8”, elegantly beautiful with a round face displaying smile lines and crow’s feet, long, flowing, dark brown hair draped past her shoulders. The lithe, athletic figure of her twenties had transformed over the years, and in her forties she had developed some delicious curves, going up two dress sizes, her breasts having doubled into two satisfying teardrops that hung impressively above her soft tummy. She was well aware that Andy – with his receding hairline and lack of interest in his own grooming – kept an Instagram account for browsing the teasing photos of women half her age. Those who resembled her as she used to be. She suspected him of being subscribed to several women who were selling content, as well, and this was another wrinkle: she knew they couldn’t afford the extra expense, but without being able to prove it and providing nothing herself, she could never quite justify confronting him.
Andy’s additional commitments kept him out of the house much more often, crawling into bed at 2, 3 o’clock in the morning sometimes depending on how distant the engagement was. When the job search bored her, Sammy tried to distract herself, first with television, then with day drinking, but the relentless monotony and subsequent hangovers expended the appeal of those activities, too.
Mornings would be a late rise, breakfast, and then cleaning the house from top to bottom to stave off the boredom. With the homestead immaculate, she would wash, dry herself off, and lie naked on the bed, scrolling Facebook and Instagram. Harmless flirtations erupted in chats with other married men and women in her life; she would disclose her boredom and her husband’s lack of interest in her, and smirk with faint excitement as the remarks flowed back on cue: what she could get up to without him around. What they’d do if only they weren’t married, too. The kinds of remarks that belong to that mutual covenant of inappropriate conversation: this is all fine as long as nobody finds out.
She spent one entire afternoon stroking her breasts and pussy as she extracted a graphic confession from one of Andy’s friends about cheating on his wife with a 25 year-old.
As the subject of spousal betrayal, and conversations she knew Andy would never approve of, became a regular feature of her day, so too did anonymous activity in other parts of the internet. Time spent admiring the photos of thick, young cocks, some drenched in their own ejaculate, posted to self-porn forums. Her cunt ached at the idea of one of these horny young nobodies whiling away the day splitting her open and releasing their hot loads inside her on the very spot that Andy would later come home to sleep. She left salacious responses and found herself drawn into private chats with men as young as 19 who were all too eager to share pictures and videos with a fortysomething housewife, and the more they begged and pleaded for something in return, the more compelled she felt to give in.
Simon, one of the more articulate of her anonymous sexting partners, heaped on particular pressure to post her pictures publicly herself. He often teased her with the thrill of exposing herself, of strangers jerking off to her curves, of the possibility that they might save her pictures and share them elsewhere. She took extra care to pose herself tastefully, erotically, dressing herself in various items of expensive lingerie that barely ever saw the light of day. Her face was never visible, but once she got going, nothing else was off the table. She posted pictures of her breasts hanging dramatically above the camera, of her holes spread open with both hands, inviting her audience to tell her what they’d do. Simon urged her on with glee, unnaturally proud of having turned her out to the world, and she frequently reminded him that it was all his fault as paragraph upon paragraph of graphic, lurid text flooded in, along with photographs of her own images printed out and splattered with cum.
During one of their mutual stroke sessions, Simon asked her when she was going to get on a plane and come get fucked for real. She responded that she could never bring herself to actually cheat on Andy.
“What do you think you’ve been doing?”
The shame had made her cunt throb. Of course it was cheating. Just as much as Andy was cheating when he tugged himself off to those girls, she thought.
Their conversations took a crueller turn from then on, him taunting her for being a cheating whore, her blushing from head to toe and fucking herself with her fingers at her own betrayal of the man who was keeping the roof over her head. At his behest, she worked the theme into her posts too, accompanying her pictures with captions like “my husband’s away on business” and “neglected married pussy waiting”. To her delight, and Simon’s, the responses often included requests for her location. A regular theme emerged where he would control her outfits, poses, and dare her to make bolder and more revealing statements to her entourage of anonymous younger men. During one session, he ordered her to record herself saying “I love your cock more than I love my husband.” The humiliation of speaking those words aloud pushed her into an equally shameful and intense orgasm.
A couple of weeks after that incident, Sammy and Simon had been immersed in their usual routine of sexting and stroking.
“Where’s A tonight?”
“Gone for two days. I’m all yours.”
“Ordering dinner?”
“I wasn’t planning to, I’ve got food in.”
“Order a pizza and fuck the delivery guy.”
She grinned. She loved playing out these fantasies with him.
“You like that idea? A stranger wandering into my house and claiming my pussy?”
“Yes. Do it.”
“Dirty boy. I love how turned on you get by the idea of other men using me.”
“Are you going to order?”
She felt the need to bring the situation back in line just a little.
“lol I doubt I could through with it.”
“I know you could.”
“Haha it’s a fun thought but it’s not happening.”
“You’re going to do it. I want you railed tonight. Stop telling me no.”
“I’m going to make dinner, I’ll catch you later.”
She left her phone in the bedroom. To Sammy, even as months of boredom had warped her, there was a strict boundary between fooling around online and actually letting someone into their home to touch her. Simon knew that, she thought, as she milled around the kitchen, putting together a basic lazy dinner of spaghetti and pesto. It was a genuine disappointment that he couldn’t sense when things were getting out of bounds for her, or if he could, that he couldn’t simply respect it. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten overeager and pushed too hard. It wasn’t as though he could force her to do anything, but he’d put her in a position where she could either capitulate or end the interaction. She’d been enjoying getting off, and here she was eating spaghetti in her silent, empty house instead.
She dumped the plate in the sink and huffed audibly. There really wasn’t a sound to be heard. She thought about the next two nights with Andy gone, how relentlessly boring everything had gotten. Even her exhibitionist stint had fallen into inertia, another rut, another activity to pass the time without purpose. Whatever thrill or entertainment she introduced to stave off the feeling of pointlessness hanging over her life, it would always be facile, insubstantial, and it would always fade. She thought about the cheapness of Simon and her crowd of creeps, the tedium of her dead relationship that they had replaced.
She sat back on her bed and pulled up her phone, ignoring several notifications from Simon and scrolling the various other profiles she was subscribed to, pulling her silk robe aside and teasing her clit with a sliding finger. Determined to at least finish getting off tonight, if nothing else.
She fixated for a few minutes on a looping video uploaded by a married couple. Fingering herself at the image of a handsome, clean-trimmed cock sliding in and out of his wife while she grinned back over her shoulder. She couldn’t get away from the thought of how long it had been since she’d enjoyed her own husband’s cock. Or any cock.
In minutes she was on the local delivery app, looking at pizza menus. She rationalised it as a thought experiment, what she would be doing if she went through with it. Having already eaten, it was easy enough to skip over the menu. It would be silly to commit to having a whole pizza delivered just to get closer to the fantasy. But she could order… fries? Or a drink? Would it look suspicious just ordering a can of coke? They’d probably just refuse to deliver it and refund her. Anxious about wasting their time, she multiplied the price by five and left a tip.
She reopened her chat with Simon.
“I ordered a coke. He probably won’t even come.”
“LMAO, good slut. Make sure he gets the message.”
“What do you mean?”
“Answer the door in something slutty. Or naked.”
“I’m wearing my silk robe.”
“That’s perfect.”
“What if I don’t think he’s hot?”
“Do it anyway.”
She stood up in front of the mirror and fiddled with the belt of her robe, pulling it open, trying to make sure enough cleavage was on display, untying it completely to expose her body, tying it tight again… and more and more doubts rose up. This poor minimum wage guy working a night shift was going to having to look at a dumpy, lonely, middle-aged woman. He probably saw enough desperate, creepy shit, calling round to people’s houses all the time. She was starting to feel deeply unsexy, the more she looked at herself. She slid her phone into her pocket and headed back downstairs to wait for the doorbell.
It rang about ten minutes later. She opened the door to a skinny young man of about 6′ in height, with gaunt, pale features, his head shaved. He wore the standard fleece gilet branded with the app’s logo, and a pair of lycra cycling shorts. “Sammy?”
“Yeah! Hi!” she said, her voice roughly half an octave higher than usual. She had tried to envision herself sultry and seductive, and she’d even managed to get her cleavage to sit so that it spilled out over the lapels of her robe. But she couldn’t deny how embarrassed and nervous she felt right now, as if it was obvious what her intentions had been.
“You ordered a can of coke?” He was half-smiling, nervously. “Just a can? That was a pretty huge tip you left.”
“Yeah, ha…” she feigned a playful laugh. “Well um, it was a dare, and I… I didn’t want to waste your time just for that, so I thought I should leave a tip…”
“Who dared you to order a can of coke? Your kid?”
She burst out laughing. “I don’t have a kid, um… I’m alone in here. No, that wasn’t the dare.”
“What was the dare?”
“The dare um, was… to invite you in…”
His eyes widened. “Oh.” They both let out a little laugh. “Right… I guess I could come in? If you want me to?”
She smiled, more nervous than ever, and stood aside to wave him through the doorway.
He turned around to face her as she shut the door.
“Okay, I’m in. Is that the whole dare?”
“Um…” For the briefest of moments, Sammy was unsure of how to proceed. And then she remembered how much exposing herself turned her on. She undid the cloth belt around her waist and let the robe fall open, the silk gliding apart over the contours of her breasts so that it was draped either side of them, and she stood lopsided in front of him with her soft, curvaceous, ever so slightly sagging body on display, her head cocked to one side, her fingers tracing idly at her soft skin. “The dare is… I let you do what you want.”
She could see him harden through those tight shorts as he approached. The bulge was so obvious. His large, spiderlike hands sliding from her belly around to her waist, feeling out her curves, gliding upwards to cup her breasts, squeezing them together and stooping down, bringing them up to his mouth and sucking generously at her fat, erect nipples. She sighed softly, her mouth hanging open, staring down at the stranger and cradling his head in her arms, stroking his hair, moaning and leaning herself into his lips as he sucked, and sucked. Wetly. The pale, blue-veined skin glossy with spit.
“You like those…?” the answer was a muffled groan of pleasure before he surfaced with a leer. “I love big fat tits” he grinned, and the deep pang of objectification stabbed at her again. He sucked at her right nipple hard, with a loud, wet, suckling sound, before releasing it. “Fat mom tits” he said again, leering at her drool-soaked breasts and massaging his saliva into them with his fingers. She moaned at a slightly higher pitch again, realising she’d invited a stranger to treat her as an object and that’s exactly what he was doing.
While he suckled and licked at her breasts and she squirmed against his mouth, she reached down, tugging at the waistband of his cycling shorts. She got a grip on his cock and pulled it free, tugging at it, rubbing her fingers up and down the hard shaft. She could feel it was slightly clammy with cycling sweat, and hot to the touch; and, shockingly, perhaps twice the size of her husband’s. The two of them were hunched over each other underneath the hallway light, him slobbering greedily at her nipples, her jerking his hard prick with both hands, her arms fully outstretched to reach it.
“You’re really big” she breathed. “Your cock’s so fucking huge.” He reared up and kissed her aggressively, sliding his tongue deep into her mouth so forcefully that she let go of his cock and defensively placed her hands on his chest. He released her, her mouth open in a shocked gasp. “You gotta let me fuck these tits” he was still wearing that cruel grin. “I wanna see my dick between them.” He talked like a teenager. Every grin, every lazily-worded remark, made her feel less and less like the educated, professional, married woman she had been and more like the dirty fuckthing the past several weeks had turned her into. Her nipples were throbbing.
She shrugged off the robe and dropped to a squatting position, and he knelt down a little as well, to bring his cock to rest between her fat, veiny breasts. She could see it up close now – equally vascular, long, thick, curved slightly upwards, with a bulbous head. She thrust her shoulders forward and grasped her breasts by the sides, squeezing them together around his cock, and moved them up and down as best she could manage. It was a new experience for her, Andy had never asked to be titfucked, but her vast, pillowy tits seemed made for it. The middle of his shaft disappeared as she smothered it. She looked up, and he’d locked his fingers behind his neck, rocking his hips gently back and forth and leering callously down at the sight of his cock compressed between her glistening, saliva-drenched breasts.
“I love those fat fuckin’ mom tits” he groaned again. Every time he said it she felt more degraded, more used. Her cunt was dripping wet. “They’re yours” she whispered back, recalling some of the nomenclature from her messages with men his age. “Please fuck my fat old milkers.” She turned bright red as the words left her mouth, and her pussy clenched tight as she heard herself say it out loud.
“Oh fuck…” the surge of arousal overwhelmed her and she lurched downwards, gripping his cock in one hand and stuffing it into her mouth. She tasted the pungent sweat of a day’s cycling, and drew it as deep as she could – she guessed 3 or 4 inches, but she seemed to have only made it halfway down. She had to keep her jaw wide, smothering his glans with her lips and pressing her tongue against the underside as she salivated into him. She moaned involuntarily each time her head lurched forward, gulping his ample cock into her mouth, drool spilling down her chin as he continued to thrust in turn, this time with his fingers trailing and grasping in her hair. She tried a few times to lunge deeper, drawing his head into the back of her throat and retching, pulling back for air before noisily sucking at him some more. The taste and smell of sweat were almost gone – she’d cleaned him, and, she guessed, swallowed his musk, and she couldn’t stop. With every sadistic, porn-addled remark he muttered down towards her, she felt more whorish, more purposed to pleasure the gaunt young stranger standing in her hallway.
She reached down and felt herself. She was so sensitive, so digustingly wet that she let out a little yelp through his cock. With her right hand she frigged her clit obsessively, her knees now spread out on the floor as she kneeled low enough for him to freely fuck her mouth. Her hips squirmed and humped against her fingers. Her left hand jerked at his cock, and squeezed and rubbed his balls, and he gripped her hair tighter and tighter until it became painful. She squealed helplessly, unwilling to stop, enduring the pain and the rough treatment as long as his cock kept sliding roughly back and forth on her tongue. She let her lips go slack, widening her mouth to let him fuck more freely, a foam of spit gathering around his cock and dripping onto the floor between them in wet dollops each time he pulled out.
She lurched back again, her face a blushing mess of her own spit. Her weathered brown eyes half-squinted up at the leering fuckboy she’d lured into her house. Her mouth was still wide open; she clamped her teeth together, returning his sickening grin. He brandished his cock in front of her face, masturbating slowly, keeping his erection, that foam of spit still coating him and oozing down his scrotum.
She eased back on one elbow on the hardwood floor and spread her knees wide, reaching a hand down to pull her pussy open, so wet that it glimmered under the harsh light.
“Come on.”
He dropped to his knees as well, positioning his cock in front of her soaked opening. She eased herself onto her back fully, arching it slightly, locking her arms behind her head to make her breasts as prominent as she could. Of course, they each slumped sideways, shifting and shaking with every tiny movement.
And then that fat, red glans split her open, and her pussy swallowed his entire cock in an instant.
“…!” she exclaimed silently as he entered her, and filled her, her soft torso squirming as her cunt radiated pleasure at its first penetration in an age. “Oh fuck, that’s perfect…”
He grasped her breasts and pressed them together, squeezing a little too tight, so that the blue veins of her years were even more prominent. Then he began to thrust. It was impatient, and rough, as though fucking her mouth had built up his aggression already. He gave her no time to get used to his size, or to warm up, but immediately began fucking deep into her, a rhythmic, harsh pounding that caused her belly fat to ripple and her entire body to lurch back and forth on the floorboards. She lifted her legs in the air, her calves scraping down his back as they moved against her will at the overwhelming succession of penetrations. Her fingers, too, tensed up, and made rigid, random grasping motions against her elbows behind her head. She was moaning uncontrollably – loud enough to alert the neighbours, initially in time with his thrusts and then in long, drawn-out wails, punctuated only when she paused for breath.
The violent shunting of his oversized, impossibly hard young cock into her cunt was more pleasure than she’d anticipated. She moaned and wailed and squirmed and forgot Andy’s existence completely. She forgot Simon, who had urged her into this moment. Getting more of this painfully rough pounding was everything. Her pussy throbbed, clenched, and coated his cock in its juices, grateful to finally be used by this young wiry stranger after years of neglect.
He placed his hands either side of her head, hunching over her to fuck harder, drilling into her pussy. His face was screwed up in pleasure and concentration, and shiny with sweat. She could see his t-shirt sticking to his skin under that gilet. With his hands removed from them, her tits bounced and jiggled turbulently. She noticed he wasn’t looking at her face, but his eyes were fixed on those fat mounds as they wobbled and lurched with the force of each thrust as the gap between them slammed shut. The curve of his prick caused him to scrape her insides and the sensation pulsed a delicious ecstasy through her body. She couldn’t tell whether the successive screams of “yes” were emerging from her mouth, or if she was just screaming. His sweat dripped on to her face and her tits. Her eyes rolled back to the front door just a few feet behind their shuddering bodies and she imagined her husband walking in, home from his trip, standing in shocked silence in the open doorway as the woman he’d spent his life with got fucked senseless on the floor of their home by this callous young stud.
She couldn’t help herself. Her voice peaked at a high pitch. “I’m married.”
He didn’t stop fucking for a moment. “What?”
“I’m married.”
She could tell right away that it had pushed him over the edge. He fell forward a little, steadying himself on his elbows, his body shaking from a tension that started at the base of his cock, his muscles tensing up and his knees shifting around the floor as they shook. She could feel him throb inside her. Warm, guilty joy flooded her cheeks and chest; she knew with certainty that at that second, his doubtlessly sore cock was pumping shot after shot of hot cum against her cervix, all of it pooling inside her, thick, sticky, warm. He was groaning exhaustedly directly in her ear, and she cradled his head to keep him there as his orgasm continued to flood her cunt with semen.
When he pulled out, a small river of his load followed out of her twitching hole, running down between her buttocks into a puddle on the floor.
He didn’t hang around. She didn’t want him to. She’d gotten what she needed and, to her surprise, felt a lot less guilty than she’d expected. As she wrapped her robe back around her and climbed the stairs again, careful to clench as best she could and keep his load in, she thought about how badly he’d neglected her, how economic safety had become their whole life. How she deserved to be fucked by better, harder, younger cocks than her husband’s. How he was probably curled up in his hotel room right now, wishing he could bury himself in those girls he lusted after online. All she’d done was what he wished he could.
Up on her bed, she spread her legs wide, positioned her phone over her sore, reddened pussy, and pressed record. With a little push, the rest of his load came flooding out and on to their bedsheets. Simon would hear all about it in detail shortly, but the world had to know while the moment – as well as his cum – was still fresh. The video went online with the caption “husband away, delivery guy just left”, and that was all.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/12iq0ow/sammy_seeks_a_distraction_41f_22m_cheating