Free Erotic Stories

My First MFM

She entered not with a flourish, but with a quiet assertion of space. Kate. I didn’t know her name yet, but I knew her presence. She was a compact storm of elegance in a simple black silk dress that didn’t cling so much as converse with every curve it passed over. It was the kind of dress that whispered secrets against skin. Her hair was a waterfall of obsidian, falling in heavy, clean lines past her shoulders, framing a face that was both soft and sharply intelligent. Her eyes scanned the room, not searching for anyone, just taking ownership of what she saw. It took me a full, breathless minute to notice the man who followed her in, holding the door. Henry. He was taller, clean-cut in a dark polo, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, A husband. Of course.

I tore my eyes away, focusing on the empty drink cup in font of me. I was a respectful guy. I understood boundaries, especially those marked by wedding bands. But she was Beautiful. My glances became stolen things—quick, furtive darts across the twenty feet of crowded space that separated us. They settled into a booth directly across from my barstool. He was facing me, she was beside him, her profile illuminated by the soft glow of a faux-Tiffany lamp.

On my fifth or sixth guilty peek, her head turned. Not a glance, but a full, deliberate rotation. Her eyes met mine and held. They were dark, unreadable pools. Then, the corner of her mouth lifted. Not a full smile, but a smirk—a knowing, shared secret that existed only between us for three long, heartbeat-thumping seconds. It was an invitation and a challenge. I felt a flush creep up my neck. I smirked back, a dumb, instinctual reaction, before forcing myself to look down at my drink, my pulse hammering in my ears.

The next few minutes were a blur of internal recrimination and stolen looks. I watched his lips move as he talked to her, saw her laugh at something he said, a hand coming up to touch his forearm briefly. They seemed… normal. Happy. It made the heat in my gut feel even more illicit.

Then, he moved. Henry unfolded himself from the booth and began walking. Not towards the restroom, not towards the bar for another round. Towards me. My mind scrambled. Had he seen me staring? Was this where I got in my first bar fight in a Gainesville dive bar? He stopped a foot away, his expression not angry, but politely curious, with an undercurrent of something else—amusement, perhaps.

“Evening,” he said, his voice calm, level. “My wife thinks you’re hot.” He said it like he was commenting on the weather. No lead-up, no posturing. Just a simple, astounding statement. “Do you want to sit with us?”

My brain not fully understanding what’s happening but before i noticed I allowed a single word to slip out before panic could reclaim it.

“Yes.”

Gathering my glass, I followed him back to the booth, I felt oddly confident- I guess it was because of the drinks. I slid in opposite them at first, but Henry gestured to the space beside Kate. “Here, more room.” I sat on her left, the silk of her dress rubbing against my jeans. He sat on her right, completing a strange, intimate triangle.

“Hi, I’m D,” I managed, my voice steady.

“I’m Kate,” she said, and her voice was lower than I’d imagined, smooth like good whiskey. “And this is Henry, my husband.” Her eyes didn’t leave mine. “We think you’re hot.”

The directness was breathtaking. “Thank you,” I said, deciding to match it. “I think you’re absolutely beautiful. I could not keep my eyes off you all night.”

She took a slow sip of her white wine. “Oh, thank you,” she said, setting the glass down precisely. “I noticed.” The smirk was back, but warmer now, shared openly. It wasn’t cocky; it was the confidence of someone who knew her own worth and saw no point in pretending otherwise.

We talked. Or, we performed the rituals of talking. I told them about managing construction projects, the endless logistics of steel and drywall. Henry mentioned something about working up north, his words weaving a picture of a life of airport lounges and high-stakes decisions that felt galaxies away from my world. He was sharp, quick to laugh at my stories about incompetent subcontractors. Under different circumstances, I’d have wanted to buy him a beer, talk football. But every time Kate shifted, the silk of her dress rustling, or reached for her drink, her perfume—something with jasmine—wafting over, my mind would short-circuit. I’d imagine what that skin felt like under the silk, what that mouth tasted like beyond the wine.

The conversation flowed with an eerie normalcy, punctuated by charged glances from Kate that Henry seemed to observe with a quiet, approving detachment. He was the facilitator, the architect of this surreal encounter. When our glasses were empty, he didn’t ask if I wanted another. He looked at Kate, then at me. “Our hotel is about six minutes from here. Would you like to continue this there?”

The question hung in the air. There was no ambiguity, no “for a nightcap.” It was a clear, polished invitation to cross a line. The five drinks now coursing through me acted as a truth serum, stripping away hesitation and injecting a liquid courage I’d never known. “Yes,” I said again, the word final.

The ride in their rented SUV was quiet. Kate sat up front, her hand on Henry’s thigh. I watched the streetlights of University Avenue wash over her profile in the backseat. No one spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was heavy with anticipation, a shared understanding of what was to come.

The hotel room was a standard suite—clean, impersonal, smelling of floral disinfectant and air conditioning. Henry moved first, heading for the TV remote on the dresser. “Let’s get some music on,” he said, his back to us.

He never found the song.

As he fumbled with the menu, Kate turned to me. There was no pause, no questioning look. She simply stepped into my space, her hands coming up to frame my face, and pulled my mouth down to hers.

The kiss was an explosion of pent-up tension. It was deep, hungry, and tasted of Chardonnay and mint. Her lips were soft, yielding, but there was a demanding pressure behind them. I matched her, one hand sliding around to the small of her back, feeling the delicate ridge of her spine through the silk. My other hand came up, cupping her jaw, my thumb stroking the incredibly soft skin just below her ear. The world shrunk to the heat of her mouth, the scent of her hair, the faint sound of the TV menu clicking in the background.

My hand drifted from her back, sliding up the impossibly smooth fabric of her dress until my palm found the full, perfect weight of her breast. She made a small sound into my mouth, arching into the touch. I broke the kiss, breathless, and guided her backwards until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat down, her dark eyes wide and fixed on me.

I pulled my shirt over my head, the cool air of the room hitting my skin. Before I could toss it aside, her hands were on me. Her palms were warm and slightly damp as they traveled from my stomach up over my chest, exploring the terrain of me with an open curiosity that was intensely arousing. I took one of her hands and gently placed it on my belt buckle. Her fingers fumbled with the leather and metal, the struggle innocent and erotic. I covered her hand with mine, helping her undo it. As I pushed my jeans down, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and pulled them down in one swift motion.

My cock, already fully hard, sprang free. I saw her eyes drop, her lips part slightly in a silent ‘oh’ of appreciation. Her warm hand encircled me, her fingers not quite meeting around my girth. She leaned forward from her seated position on the bed, and her mouth, those soft, confident lips, parted to take just the head of me inside. The sensation was electric—wet, warm, yielding pressure. She sucked gently, her tongue swirling around the tip, and a low groan escaped me. The sight of her, this elegant woman in her sleek black dress, on her knees before me in a hotel room with her husband six feet away, was almost too much.

I gently cradled her chin and lifted her face. She stood, her eyes never leaving mine, and I kissed her again, deeper now, tasting myself on her tongue. It was in that moment I saw Henry. He was no longer at the TV. He stood by the armchair, his phone held up- recording I assumed-.

“Henry,” I said, my voice rough against Kate’s lips. “Come here.”

He did so without a word, setting the phone on the dresser, screen still glowing. I turned my attention back to Kate. My fingers found the thin strap of her dress on her shoulder and slid it down. Henry, taking his cue, did the same on the other side. The dress pooled at her feet, revealing a matching set of black lace. She stepped out of it, completely unselfconscious.

Now it was just us, three strangers in our underwear in a quiet room. I nodded towards Kate’s chest. “Suck on her breast,” I told Henry. My own directive surprised me with its calm authority.

He moved in immediately, his mouth finding one peaked nipple through the lace of her bra. A sharp gasp tore from Kate’s throat. At the same time, I lowered my head to her other breast, sucking the fabric and the hard nub beneath into my mouth while my hand slid down the flat plane of her stomach, over the lace of her panties, and cupped her mound. She was hot there, even through the material. I pressed my palm against her and felt her legs tremble.

I released her breast, kissing a slow trail up her sternum, the salt of her skin on my lips, until I found her mouth again. My hand continued to move over her panties, rubbing slow, firm circles. She was kissing me back frantically now, her hips pushing against my hand. I slipped my fingers beneath the elastic waistband, through the neat triangle of trimmed hair, and found her slick and swollen. My fingertips slid through her wetness, gathering it, before finding the tight, eager bud of her clit.

The moment I touched it, her entire body jolted. She broke the kiss, throwing her head back with a choked cry as Henry continued to nurse at her breast. I circled her clit slowly, precisely, watching her face contort in pleasure. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. I withdrew my glistening fingers and brought them to her lips. Her eyes opened, dark and glazed, and without hesitation she took my fingers into her mouth, sucking them clean with a hungry intensity that told me everything I needed to know.

“Lay back,” I murmured.

Henry released her nipple. Kate sank onto the bed, scooting back until her head was on the pillows. Henry retrieved his phone, resuming his position as a silent chronicler from the foot of the bed. I positioned myself between her spread legs, hooking my fingers into the sides of her panties and pulling them down her thighs. She helped me kick them off.

For a moment, I just looked at her. Completely bare, completely open, her chest rising and falling rapidly. I placed the head of my cock against her clit, not entering, just applying pressure and rocking slowly. She arched off the bed, a beautiful, wordless moan escaping her.

“Oh,” Henry’s voice came softly from behind the phone. “You like that, baby?”

I shifted lower, feeling her heat against me. With one slow, inexorable push, I slid inside her. She was unbelievably tight, a silken, wet heat that enveloped me perfectly. Her back arched, her hands fisting in the white sheets, her teeth sinking into her plump bottom lip to stifle a cry.

I withdrew almost completely, then sank in again, just as slowly. A gasp this time. Every incremental movement—a slight change in angle, a fraction more depth—elicited a corresponding symphony from her: a sigh, a whimper, a sharp intake of breath. I began to move in earnest then, setting a steady, deep rhythm, my hands gripping her hips to anchor us both.

Her reactions were my guide. The way her inner muscles fluttered and clenched around me told me more than any words could. Her heels dug into the backs of my thighs, urging me deeper. Her moans grew louder, less restrained, filling the sterile hotel room with raw, undeniable life. I watched her face, lost in sensation, and I watched Henry watching her, his gaze full of a complex pride and desire. And with every thrust, every sexy, helpless sound she made, I fell deeper under the spell of this forbidden permission—the profound, illicit thrill of pleasing her, completely and utterly, right in front of the man who loved her

---