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A Picture in Black and White (Part 1 or 3)

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We, or should I say my wife first met Charles at my company Christmas party.

I already knew him, of course. I worked with him at the agency. He was a nice guy, charming, handsome . . . but our respective tasks rarely brought us into any sort of regular contact. I didn't normally give him much thought. I doubt he gave much more thought to me.

It often takes a party, and corporate Christmas parties are ideal, to reveal the undercurrents of an organization. Even more than that: the political and social and sexual dynamics that underlie our proper and respectable behavior. Despite the typical reluctance about attending such events, people normally show up in droves. The parties are always an opportunity to demonstrate the fact that we have other lives outside of our workday world. I think people look forward to them as the chance to make personal statements.

And of course, they can always blame it on the alcohol, come Monday morning.

Not that anything happened at this particular event. I relay it only because it set the stage for everything that followed. Let me explain.

I was busy introducing Brigitte to as many of my fellow workers as I could. I learned that lesson well enough the year before, when apparently I failed miserably to do so. This year, I was intent on introducing her to everyone possible, including the caterers and bartender, if it needed to come to that.

At some point, I can't remember when, Charles cruised within our immediate range, and I took the opportunity to introduce Brigitte to him. As he wandered off after exchanging pleasantries, she turned to me and said, "He's the most handsome man in your entire company."

I laughed, having never really thought about it before, but had to agree that she was probably right After all, I like to think she has good taste. I took a second look. And in fact, she was right.

He?s tall, about 6'2", black, and fine-featured. He is slender, but not thin, with broad shoulders. And, not only is he very well spoken, but also extremely cultured, especially in music. I think he has an Ivy-League education, to boot. Hell, he had it all; I had to admit a little reluctantly.

A little spark went off in my head when she mentioned how good-looking he was, but I didn't really give it any thought. What I did do, though, an hour or so later when our paths crossed again in the busy room, was to mention Brigitte's comment to him. "My wife thinks you're the best-looking guy at the agency," I confided, with a grin.

He laughed, pleased, and I could tell that he was both touched and flattered. He told me it made his evening. I think, now, looking back, that that was indeed the case, as I learned shortly afterward that he had just separated from his wife. He's a very nice guy; and who would find such a compliment flattering, especially from someone as lovely as Brigitte?

And there the story would normally have ended.

Our paths at work still crossed as infrequently as before. We passed one another in the hall, or on the stairs, and said 'hi', but that was all. With the exception of a nagging little, subliminal memory of a Christmas party opportunity seen, and missed, things went back to normal. Months went on. Life and work resumed as usual. The memory of a brief Christmas party flirtation receded.

That would have been that -- but then, of course, there are always extenuating circumstances, aren't there?

Brigitte and I went to bed one night, a month or two later, and whether she was feeling amorous, or I was, I can't remember. What I do remember, though, was giving her a massage. Of course, that wasn't so unusual. We often begin this way . . . it's slow, and sensuous, and intimate, and we both know where it will lead.

This particular night, though, I was gently kneading her back, occasionally drizzling warm massage oil into the soft valley of her lower back and rubbing it in slowly, when I had a wicked thought. Only the hardening of my cock, gently pressed against the cleft of her soft ass, would have given me away, but I'm sure she didn't notice.

I said nothing, at first, other than to whisper gentle, sexy words into her ear, as usual, as I continued to rub her lovely, firm flesh, working my way down to her waist, and then across her firm, round ass cheeks.

But this night, as I leaned into her shoulders, slowly rubbing her upper arms in long strokes, and then pressing my palms firmly down on lower back, loosening the muscles, I took a slightly different tack.

"Do you remember Charles, from our Christmas party?" I asked softly, as I pressed my warm hands into her glowing back, now shining in the dim light from the scented massage oil. She mumbled something softly, into the pillow, sounding like 'yes'. I took it as an affirmative.

"I'm thinking of asking him over," I said, as I continued to rub her shoulders and upper arms, then leaning into her upper back, pressing gently but firmly, and working the soft flesh, as I continued to whisper to her. My hard cock was still pressed between the creases of her ass, and as I said the words, I could feel her unconsciously or was it consciously, part her legs a little further.

"Imagine I've asked him to give you a massage," I said. "He's asked you to remove all your clothes, to take off your bra and your panties, and to lie down on the bed."

Brigitte moaned softly as I whispered the words, and then parted her legs further. She seemed suddenly more eager, more willing, and more open. She pressed her warm, wet pussy up against me, seeking a hard cock. The thought of Charles, tall and black, his cock rubbing against my wife's ass as my cock was now, made me harder than I could imagine.

I couldn't resist. I grabbed her hips firmly, raising her lower body up on the bed, spreading her legs and opening her. Her glistening cunt, the swollen labia open and inviting, shone in the soft light of the dresser lamp. She waited to take a cock.

I placed my hard prick against her pussy, opening the soft folds of her lips with my swollen purple cockhead, teasing her. Then the teasing stopped, and I began to push deeply into her. My shaft, slick from her moisture, thrust firmly into her welcoming vagina, and I pulled her hips up against me to drive in deeper.

And as I did, I imagined, with excitement and guilt, a tall, handsome black man, thick with cock, fucking my lovely wife.

That was about it for a while. Fantasies don't really get talked about much around here. My wife is shy, and particularly shy about sex. And I would have felt awkward bringing such a subject up outside the context of love-making.

Still, that little distant spark burned a bit brighter in my mind -- flamed, no doubt, by the memory of my wife's reaction to my whispered words several weeks earlier. I filed it away, though, along with all the other little factoids, literary detritus and vague erotic fantasies that fill the mind of a middle-aged man. Who knew what value it would have in future? Better save it, just in case!

The months went by. Then, in November, just when the pre-winter blues were beginning to set in, I had an idea. Nothing fancy ? no overseas trip ? just a weekend in Boston at the Ritz for the two of us. The hotel was running a 'romantic' special on the room rates, and it struck me as the perfect getaway. Brigitte agreed. I think we were both in need of a date, or at least a brief escape from parenthood.

We managed to find a sitter for the kids for the Saturday and Sunday. And we began to look forward to a day and a half off with as much enthusiasm as if it were two weeks in Paris. Obviously, we needed a break.

The weekend break came up on us quickly, and before we knew it, we were checking in at the Ritz's front desk, the car tucked safely away in the hotel garage. It was a glorious, crisp Saturday noon, nearly 65 degrees, and promised to be one of the last good weekends of the season.

We window-shopped and antiqued that afternoon in Back Bay and on Beacon Hill, had cocktails at the Top of the Hub, and then walked back to the Ritz to change for dinner. We had reservations at a new French restaurant on Mount Vernon Street -- someplace decidedly upscale and expensive, and wanted to dress up a bit just for fun.

As our time together and alone is so rare these days, these getaways always have the added spice of romance and promised sex. And so I was eager, as we showered and changed, to see what Brigitte was going to wear. Not just what blouse and skirt, but particularly what she was going to wear underneath. It sometimes indicates what mood she's in. And besides, being so visual, as all men are, there is nothing I love more than seeing my wife in sexy underwear -- unless it's seeing her absolutely naked.

She's funny though -- she'll dress in the closet so I can't see, particularly if she wants to surprise me with something sexy later on. I did catch a peek of something sheer and lacey, though, before she quickly closed the bathroom door to my prying eyes.

Dinner on Mount Vernon Street was everything the reviews had promised. Braised lamb, confit de canard, tarte tatin . . . We started with a bottle of Pommery, then, for dinner, chose a '94 Graves. We even splurged with a half bottle of Sauterne to accompany the tarte. The meal was exquisite, everything done perfectly and authentically. For a couple of hours, we could pretend we were back in Paris, and we did.

We wandered back toward the Ritz after dinner, tipsy from the wine, wending our way down Charles Street, and diagonally across the Public Gardens through the dark. The walk through the leaves, the city lights creating a golden halo above us, made me realize just how beautiful and romantic Boston could be.

Our long day and the rich meal sent us back toward the hotel, and toward bed. The wonderful meal and the romantic stroll was making us feel, if tired, at least young again, and I think both of us, linked arm in arm, had similar thoughts as we headed for our room.

As we entered the lobby though, and passed through the bar, it seemed a shame to end this night so early. "Let's have a drink," I suggested, and Brigitte agreed.

We wandered into the cozy lounge, and sat down at a corner table, dark and secluded and perfectly in keeping with our mood. The waiter wandered over eventually, and we ordered: Courvoisier for me, and a glass of Chardonnay for Brigitte. We leaned back and let the peace of a weekend alone wash over us.

A few minutes later, I casually surveyed the other tables and the bar, at which there were maybe four or five seats. With a start, I thought I recognized someone seated with his back toward us at the bar. It looked like Charles, from the agency.

Blame it on the alcohol, or the romance of the weekend, but I turned to Brigitte, smiled, and said, "I think the cutest guy at the agency is over at the bar right now."

She turned quickly to the left and looked over, never one to miss an opportunity to get a scoop on what was going on.

"That's Charles, isn't it," she said, more rhetorically than questioning.

"Indeed, I think it is," I answered simply.

"Should we ask him over?" she replied, ever one to make the world feel at home.

"If you like, of course," I agreed, amenably. I was in a wonderful frame of mind ? kind of bombed, actually ? and welcome to just about anything. I got up and walked over to the bar.

Charles was alone, quietly nursing a rum and ginger. "You've been summoned," I joked with him as I leaned over and shook hands. I really did like him, and it was a pleasure to be able to ask him over to our table.

He was obviously pleased to be asked, and I led him back to our table.

"Charles, this is Brigitte; Brigitte, this is Charles," I said with a grin. "I think you know one another?" They giggled -- both of them -- and pecked each other on the cheek.

Charles was as charming as ever. Apparently he was out on the town that night, having finished his weekly poker game with several close friends. A late-night drink at the Ritz bar was often part of his customary habits, he explained.

"You wear a suit to your poker games?" I teased him, and he laughed.

"Well, we like to think of ourselves as sort of an up-market travelling card game," he said, chuckling again.

Brigitte said, "Well, I approve." And then she blushed, although it was difficult to see it in the dark. I'm not sure that Charles noticed, but I did. I smiled inwardly, but a little alarm bell sounded distantly.

"You play poker?" she continued. Charles nodded.

"What do you play for?" she asked. Charles hesitated for a moment.

"Well, mostly we play for money -- nothing significant, just enough to keep it interesting."

"What do you mean ?mostly??'" she persisted.

"Well . . ." his voice trailed off. It looked like he was a little embarrassed. There was a pregnant pause.

"Mostly we play for money, but it depends on who's playing," he answered.

"So, who plays?" Brigitte asked, sensing some kind of opening. She took a sip of her wine, already half empty, and looked him in the eye. Charles laughed.

"Mostly my friends from college," he answered, vaguely evasive. "But sometimes some of their wives or girlfriends want to sit in," he continued. He paused.

"So, what are the stakes?" Brigitte asked, pressing on. The wine was obviously having its effect. I couldn't remember seeing her be this forward before.

Charles took a big sip of his rum and ginger and looked at her, assessing the gravity of her question, and the ramifications of his answer.

"Well . . . sometimes," he said, "depending on whose there, people are feeling a bit more adventurous and want to play for, um, higher stakes."

"Higher stakes, indeed!" she shot back. "Like what . . . Strip Poker?" She giggled.

Charles looked down into his drink and chuckled. "Yes, sometimes," he answered.

"NO!" Brigitte nearly shouted. Then, more quietly, she whispered: "Really?" Charles had her attention; there was no doubt of that. I looked over at my wife in a slightly new light.

"Well, uh, yes," he replied, simply.

"So, if you lose a hand, you have to -- what?" Brigitte was on a roll. Charles blushed.

"Well, whoever wins the hand . . . um . . . he--or she--gets to tell whoever's playing, since everyone's lost but you, who has the winning hand, what to do!" Charles seemed relieved to have gotten this explanation out, however inelegant in its delivery.

"Let me get this right," Brigitte replied. "If you win, you get to tell whoever's playing what to do? You mean you're in charge?" She took another sip of her wine, looking directly at him, waiting for his answer.

"Uh, that's about it," he replied, now clearly embarrassed. Brigitte picked up on his discomfort, and sought to sooth it. However, to do so, she took a tack that surprised even me.

"Wow . . .? she said, her voice trailing off for a moment. ?I love it!"

I looked at her. Charles looked at her. Was this the wine, or was this my real wife, a side of whom I was just now seeing for the first time?

While I sat and thought about it, swirling the brandy in my glass, Charles took it as some sort of cue. He seemed to sense that some sort of subtle Rubicon had just been crossed. I think he realized suddenly that he was now on the offensive.

"Yes, that's about it," he explained. "Sometimes it's a 'do-what-I-request' sort of thing, and sometimes it's just sort of a 'Truth-or-Dare' thing. If you lose, I mean." Charles seemed a tad embarrassed -- although not quite as much as I think I would have liked him to have been, considering what he was saying.

"So, give me an example," Brigitte pressed on.

Charles looked at me briefly, a quick glance asking some sort of permission, and I indicated nothing that would dissuade him from continuing. He took it as a green light.

"I have some cards here," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a deck, blue-backed and worn at the edges. I laughed out loud at his sense of timing, and he shot a grin back at me. Brigitte subtly caught her breath.

"Deal you in?" he asked us both, grinning again -- but the question was really aimed at Brigitte. I nodded, and said, 'Of course'. Brigitte nodded as well, attentive as hell.

Charles quickly shuffled and cut the deck, and then dealt us five cards each. They lay face down on the table, pregnant with threat or promise. "Okay," he said.

We picked up our cards.

My hand was unimpressive -- a Jack, two 4s, a 6 and a 9. I looked over at Brigitte -- she looked literally poker-faced -- and then at Charles, who seemed to have the slightest smile.

"Two," I requested, and Charles put them face-down on the table. I picked them up, and looked -- a 9 and a 10. Brigitte took two -- when the heck did she ever learn to play poker, I wondered? -- and then Charles took two.

He obviously had a winning hand. "Two 'dares' or 'do what I say'," he said, grinning. I decided to fold -- perhaps, if truth be told, to see what would happen. Brigitte decided to fold as well. I put my cards down on the table, revealing the pair of 9s. Brigitte put hers down: two 9s. And then, with a flourish, Charles laid his cards on the table: A pair of 10s and a pair of Jacks. "Guess I win!" he said with a slight chuckle.

I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then at Brigitte, and she looked at me, and then at him. "So what does that mean?" she asked, slightly nervous, taking a large sip of her wine.

"Uh . . . I get to dare you -- or to order you -- to do two things," he answered, just a tad uncomfortably, I was happy to say. "Or," he continued, "since I technically won over both of you, I can dare both of you one thing each."

I looked at Brigitte to see how she'd react. I was curious, to say the least, at what was about to happen.

"And what if I refuse the dare?" Brigitte asked, somewhat defiantly.

"Well, then, I guess that's the end," Charles replied, somewhat wistfully -- but also somewhat firmly, despite his wry smile. It was quite a moment. The evening hung on a delicate fulcrum. What seemed like an entire day passed.

And then Brigitte rose to the challenge.

"Okay, go ahead," she said, a slight tremor in her voice, taking another big sip of wine. "Well . . .? Charles said, looking reflective.

"The first dare is . . . " he finally said, looking directly at Brigitte -- and we both waited expectantly.

"The first dare is . . . ?he paused again . . . "to describe exactly what you're wearing under your blouse and your skirt," Charles finally said, looking directly into her eyes.

Brigitte blushed deeply -- although she must have known that something like this was coming. She stammered a bit. She twirled her finger around the lip of her glass. Then she looked briefly at me to see if it was okay to continue. I smiled softly, and she took it as a 'yes'.

She continued to look down at the table for a minute, and then drained her glass of white wine before looking up at Charles. I quickly ordered another round for all of us as the waiter passed by. When he finished delivering the drinks, after what seemed an interminable amount of time, we resumed our game.

Looking directly into his eyes, she said, slowly and softly, "I'm . . . I'm wearing a black bra." She blushed for a moment, then seemed to find her voice again. "It has a tiny, thin back strap . . . It has small, floral designs along the top of the cups, but the cups themselves are sheer." I looked over at Charles, and could tell he was trying to catch his breath. Brigitte blushed again, but pressed onward, gathering steam.

"My panties match. They're, um, black, high-cut bikinis, maybe a quarter-inch on the side, with tiny flowers along the top edge." She paused. "They're sheer, too. Front and back." She gulped for breath, and paused, her face a bright shade of red.

Charles seized the moment. "Very nice," he began slowly. He paused, then asked, "So, how much of you would I be able to see, considering the fact that they're sheer?"

Brigitte paused again, for what seemed like two minutes. But suddenly she seemed to have found new resolve. My heart was pounding at the prospect of what she would say. I was not to be disappointed.

"You can see all of my breasts, especially my nipples," she explained quietly. "And the panties . . . show everything. From the back you can see my cheeks. And from the front," -- she gulped again -- "you can see all of me. As if I wasn't wearing any panties at all." Brigitte sat back, still blushing furiously, seemingly exhausted from this confession.

Charles and I, of course, were nearly falling off our seats. I think I was about to have a heart attack -- either that or an erection that would certainly lead to one.

I'll admit I was stunned. I could barely get my wife to talk about sex, and here she was describing in detail what she was wearing to a veritable stranger. True, a handsome and elegant stranger, but still . . .

Charles quickly regained his composure. And I think I realized at that precise point, watching him quickly take control of an enormously charged moment, that there was a resolve to him that I hadn't recognized or appreciated earlier.

In fact, he barely missed a beat. "Thank you, Brigitte," he said quietly, with a smile. She gave a weak smile in return. Then he turned to me, still grinning, and rubbed his hands . . . Literally rubbed his hands.

"Okay, then! You have a choice. Because yours was the second-best hand, you can either accept your dare, or you can will it over so that Brigitte has to comply. In other words, she loses twice." He laughed. ". . . or wins twice, depending on your point of view."

Brigitte said nothing -- just took a long sip of wine from her new glass, and looked at me in anticipation, trying to figure out what I was going to do. Actually, knowing me as well as she did, she probably knew exactly what I was going to do, and was merely bracing herself.

"I'll will it over to you," I replied, smiling back. I was eager to see how adventurous he would be. Heck, I was more eager to see how adventurous my wife would be.

"Very well then," Charles answered, knowing full well beforehand what I was going to say. "Let me see," he said, his voice trailing off as he pretended to be lost in thought. He looked at Brigitte, who was blushing again, and looking like she was trying to find a corner of her seat where she could hide. She sought refuge in another long gulp of wine, and looked back up, mildly fortified.

"Let's see . . . " Charles continued, teasing us both, drawing out the tension. "I should think . . . Yes, that's it."

"What?" Brigitte and I asked simultaneously.

Charles, elegantly but firmly, replied, "Your lingerie sounds so lovely the way you described it, I would like to see it."

"No!?" Brigitte sputtered, nearly choking on a mouthful of her Chardonnay. "Here!? You can't be serious. Do you mean here? Now?" Brigitte wriggled on the seat, trying to figure out what to do.

"You did lose the hand, honey," I reminded her, shifting in my seat to accommodate what now felt like the largest erection I'd ever had.

"But not here, not in the Ritz lounge. You can't mean that, Charles!" she whispered to him.

"Bruce is right, you did lose the hand, Brigitte," Charles explained. Then he paused for a minute, to let the implications of his request sink in a bit further. "Actually," he began, looking slowly around our corner of the darkened bar, "it's pretty discreet here. The folks over there are miles away, they have their backs turned, and the bartender is busy." He glanced around again, assessing the setting. "The lights are down low . . . we're in a secluded corner . . . You don't strike me as one to welch on a challenge, Brigitte!" Charles admonished, grinning all the while.

I thought: How could you get annoyed with this guy? He was funny, good-looking, had charm in extremis . . . Plus, I was dying of curiosity. He was right about the setting. We were positioned in a small alcove of the lounge, our backs to the rest of the room, and our chairs shielded somewhat by some tall Kentia palms. The lights were, indeed, down low, and it was so late -- nearly 1:30am -- that most of the patrons had already left for the night.

Brigitte looked around the room slowly, and it dawned on me that she might, in fact, just be thinking seriously about it. My head spun. Surely she wasn't going to go through with this, I thought -- part of me hoping she wouldn't, and another deeper, more private part of me tantalized by the idea. The fact that she hadn't looked to me for agreement was a little bothersome, but to be honest, I was too intrigued with what was unfolding to care.

Suddenly she seemed to have made up her mind. "This is as far as it goes," she said, as affirmatively as the moment and her position would allow. We nodded, eager to agree with whatever she wanted to hear. I could detect Charles' quick, sharp intake of breath, and could feel my heart pounding in my ears. I reached down and took another long swig of brandy.

Slowly Brigitte's hands slid up to the top button of her silk, navy-colored blouse. Glancing first left and then right, she undid it. Her face was flushed, and I could see her blush spreading upward across her chest and neck.

She paused for a moment, and looked around again. Her fingers toyed with the second button, and then that, too, came undone with the flick of a finger. At this point, her blouse was undone to the middle of her stomach. We could see two more white buttons, still fastened, above the waist of her skirt.

Her fingers trailed down to the third button. She looked up at me, and then at Charles, and undid it. Then, with finality, she reached down and undid the last button, glancing subtly around the room as she did so.

She expelled a long breath, and then, looking up at Charles, and, more defiantly at me, gently opened her blouse to our gaze.

I couldn't believe what was happening. My wife was undressing, with almost no urging, for a man she'd barely met. Not only that, but in a public place, no less. I took another, longer and deeper drink of the Courvoisier, and glanced nervously around the lounge. Then I turned back to Brigitte.

She sat, absolutely stunning, in front of the two of us. Her blouse was open, pulled back nearly to her shoulders. She sat upright, proudly, arching her back slightly. I nearly had an orgasm just looking at her. I couldn't imagine what Charles felt like.

The black, lace-trimmed sheer bra showed her off magnificently. Her large, full breasts were beautiful, completely exposed by the filmy, transparent material. Absolutely nothing was left to the imagination. Her nipples were large, dark -- and swollen and erect to a degree I had never, ever seen. They pushed out against the flimsy material proudly, nearly half an inch. I ached to touch them, to roll them between my fingers, to suck them. I could only imagine what Charles wanted to do with them.

For one, brief moment, I saw Charles at a loss. "You are . . . you are, absolutely beautiful," he stammered. Brigitte blushed, whispering "Thank you" -- but made absolutely no move to cover up. She sat there, radiant and exotic and erotic, her lovely body exposed to our view. Fireworks exploded in my head. I imagine they exploded in Charles' head -- and elsewhere -- too.

Somehow, though, he seemed to quickly regain his composure. I was a little distraught at how well he seemed to do so -- at how much he seemed in control. I was beginning to wonder, with a trace of concern, if he had had far more experience at this sort of thing than I could have imagined. But with the beautiful woman -- my wife -- in front of us, I quickly turned away from such thoughts. I filed it away as a nagging little concern, to be dealt with later.

He lost no time with the opportunity that presented itself. "You are absolutely, incredibly lovely, Brigitte." She blushed again, but continued to sit there, open to his gaze. "But I've seen only half." She ducked her head for a second, sucking in her breath sharply.

"Sit on the edge of the chair," Charles ordered, with a firmness that neither of us had heard before. His tone sent a sharp shock of electricity not only through Brigitte, who straightened up immediately, but through me, as well. My hard cock twitched at the implications of his command.

She did so, her blouse still open, her breasts still exposed in the soft light of our darkened corner. Charles did not need to explain what was requested; Brigitte seemed to know.

She sat at the edge of the chair, as he had ordered. Her long, dark, print skirt enveloped her legs nearly to her ankles, but the wrap style of it meant it was slit nearly to her waist. The opening was on her left, and this she undid slowly, glancing back and forth between us as she did so. She uncovered her lower leg, her knee, and then the beginning of her thigh. At this point she looked over at me, again for some sort of permission, and I nodded slightly. Then, shooting another quick glance around the room, and apparently finding it safe enough to satisfy her, she opened the skirt further. Her thigh was revealed further, and further.

Her skirt was now nearly open to her waist, but the reduced lighting and dark shadows in the room prevented either Charles or I, seated directly across from Brigitte, to really see her well.

"Pull your skirt open, and sit on the absolute edge of the chair," Charles said firmly, and my heart pounded.

Brigitte inched forward, sitting up straight, her blouse still open and her nipples seemingly more erect than ever. They poked out fiercely and proudly from the sheer, skimpy bra.

And she did as he said. She opened her skirt, pulling the soft folds of dark material up and away from her legs, tucking it up behind her, out of the way. Her entire skirt sat bunched up around her waist on the leather lounge chair.

I couldn't believe the picture she presented, sitting proudly and completely exposed in front of this handsome black man. Her tiny bikini panties were entirely open to view. They hid nothing. The black, floral edging framed her lovely pussy perfectly. The dark triangle of her pubic hair was wonderfully open to our gaze, and we drank in the sight of her. She sat before us, virtually naked. The crotch of her tiny, transparent panties glistened, wet with her excitement and anticipation.

My wife sat literally naked in front of another man, waiting for his next command.

This Manet-like tableau lasted only for a brief minute, however. Brigitte suddenly seemed to remember that she was sitting in a somewhat advanced state of déshabillé in the middle of a public bar. Her hands flew to her skirt, pulling it down and around her legs modestly, and then shot up to the buttons on her blouse, securing them rapidly, one after another. She sat back, still blushing, and looked down. She avoided Charles' gaze entirely, and only raised her head briefly to shoot quick glances at me -- trying to assess my opinion about all of this, I'm sure.

"I -- I'm sorry," she said at last, looking at me. "I don't know what got into me."

"That's quite all right, sweetie, it must have been the wine, huh?" I said, somewhat disingenuously. After all, I was as guilty as anyone for egging her on. More than anyone.

How could I tell her that I was enormously proud of her -- that she was stunningly attractive? That I was flattered to be her husband. That I knew she must have a thousand admirers, and that I just happened to be lucky enough to have her as my wife?

How, too, could I tell her, as embarrassed as I was by this, that I had never been more aroused than just now, watching her sit gloriously exposed to Charles. The human psyche is far too convoluted to try and fathom, and the English language woefully inadequate when it comes to explaining such emotions. I decided to err on the side of caution, and not attempt any feeble rationale.

Charles, of course, had a somewhat harder time restraining himself. He was practically gushing.

"I am touched -- honored," he began. "You are absolutely gorgeous. You are -- I think -- Bruce is -- Bruce is one of the luckiest men in the world!"

"Yes, he is," Brigitte agreed with a broad smile, but she began to color pink again, and you could tell that his compliments were getting to her, working some small measure of magic.

I looked over at the two of them and the effect his words had on her. Man! The charm and influence that this guy had! What else might he be able to talk my wife into?

At that moment, the waiter made his way over to our dark corner and informed us that the bar was closing. The notice was hardly a surprise, but it was a massive let-down for all three of us, you could tell. The evening had had an emotional, sexual charge that I hadn't remembered in quite some time, and here it was all suddenly draining away with a waiter's 'last call' warning.

I looked over at both Brigitte and Charles, and grinned wickedly to myself. "We have a bottle of champagne in our room," I said, surprised at the way my heart suddenly started beating faster. I made a conscious effort to slow it down. "It seems a shame to let it go to waste."

I looked over at Brigitte out of the corner of my eye as I said it, noticing her quick, sharp intake of breath. Charles seemed, for a second, at a loss for words, but then quickly turned to me and smiled. "What the heck!" he said with a grin. "I love champagne!"

Each of us stood and casually made our way out of the bar toward the lobby and elevators. On the way out I stopped to speak to the bartender and to settle the bill -- knowing that I didn't need to, as he already had my credit card imprint, but wanting to give Brigitte and Charles a few minute to wander on their own.

Call me an instigator, or foolish, but most any man with any degree of self-confidence and self-worth would have done similarly, out of sheer curiosity and a sense of adventure.

I caught up with them a couple of minutes later as they stood at the bank of elevators. Brigitte was blushing again as Charles spoke quietly to her. I couldn't catch their words. As I approached, they both looked at me with a curious, distant gleam in their eyes -- one that made me wonder, for a brief moment, if maybe I'd bitten off more than I could chew.

Screw it, I said quickly to myself, reminding myself that I was in charge here.

Something else had been working at the back of my mind, too, all the while. I had been vaguely curious about Charles' sexual orientation -- ever since I met him, in fact. I mean, there was just something about him -- a sort of flitting nature, his soft-spoken approach, but nothing you could put your finger on -- that made me wonder about his interest in women.

Of course, I realized, standing there waiting for the elevator to arrive and take us to the 10th floor, that I was only trying to console myself. Charles had shown none of that side this evening -- only charm, wit, laughter and the occasional, quiet firmness -- together with an abiding interest in my attractive wife.

The elevator hissed to a stop and the doors slid open quietly. We stepped in. Brigitte moved toward the back, radiant with a glow that I half-heartedly hoped was a result of the wine. Charles moved to her left, and I stood on her right. I pushed the button for '10' and the doors whirred shut. As they did, I saw, from the corner of my eye, Charles' hand slide across to Brigitte's lower back, and then move downward.

I wondered whether to say something. I wondered whether to do something. So, I did. I reached over with my left hand, and slid my hand across my wife's firm buttocks.

Charles' hand was already there. He had moved his hand down, and was slowly and firmly cupping Brigitte's bottom with a firm, tender grip. He looked up at me, and smiled, questioning. I smiled back, giving nothing away, but not saying 'no', either. Brigitte closed her eyes and slowly sank against the both of us. We held her up between us. The elevator continued to whirr softly, moving up. I was glad for its slow progress.

Then Charles moved his hand away -- but not to remove it, I discovered. Instead, he gently slipped it under the opening in her long skirt. She breathed in sharply as his hand slid underneath. I looked down and could see his hand slowly caressing her buttocks under the soft fabric. He moved it slowly up and down, stroking her, first her left cheek, and then her right.

I imagined how her firm cheeks must have felt to him, encased only in the tiny bikini panties. I wondered, in fact, whether he had slipped his hand under the panties themselves, to directly caress her warm, soft skin. She leaned against both of us a little more tightly, closing her eyes, turning to me and giving me a soft kiss on the back of my neck. I smiled, and she let out a long, slow breath.

I decided to give Charles his freedom for now, and moved my own hand away from Brigitte's bottom. Instead, I trailed it gently up the front of her thigh, tracing my finger upward, across her waist, toward her breasts.

Whatever she may have planned on saying later, whatever denials or convenient lapses of memory she might have in store to explain her current behavior, would all be moot, I decided as I studied her lovely figure. Her erect nipples stood out sharply and proudly, practically unrestrained by either the flimsy material of her bra or the light, blue silk of her blouse.

I remembered some cliché from an old novel: The body never lies.

Suddenly, at the 7th floor, the elevator hissed to a stop. "Okay, then," I said loudly to both of them -- and partly to myself -- decidedly uneager to have someone discover us in an early phase of flagrante delicto.

The doors slid open and a middle-aged couple stepped in, smiled briefly, turned their backs, and pushed '12'. Their presence was sobering, and we stood quietly behind them, our behavior once again chaste. It was, I thought in retrospect, fortunate to be interrupted, as I was beginning to feel uncertain about the situation.

Did I want to encourage something like this? Did I want to see my wife so apparently curious and adventurous? Perhaps most difficult to wrestle with was my comfort level with Charles. Not Charles as Charles, per se, but Charles as another man, attentive to my wife. After all, I've never been guilty of underestimating my ego. How did I really feel about all of this, and how far exactly, was I willing to let it go?

The 10th floor arrived quickly, and the doors whirred open again. "This is us," I said cheerfully, and we stepped off the elevator and proceeded down the hall. I found the key, and opened the heavy door, stepping in after Charles and Brigitte.

It was dark in the room. Through the big picture window we could see, below us, the bright, winking street lamps of Arlington Street, the large old oaks of the Public Garden, and, beyond, the distant illuminated windows of Beacon Hill. One of the most appealing vistas in Boston lay in front of us on this late night. We stood and looked out for several minutes, saying little, either out of respect for the scene before us, or more probably due to a certain degree of nervousness.

Finally, I walked over and turned on several table lamps, softly illuminating the suite. I wandered over to the mini-bar, leaving Charles and Brigitte gazing at the view. I pulled out the chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot, and then found three champagne glasses on the shelf above. How considerate of the Ritz to stock these in the room, I thought with a quiet smile.

"Anyone thirsty?" I inquired of the two standing at the window, obviously -- and deliberately -- interrupting their reverie. Both Brigitte and Charles turned to me and reached for the full, bubbling glasses I'd poured, eager for a distraction. It seemed to be a relief to both, neither knowing quite what was to come next.

We sat in the deep soft chairs around the small cocktail table that faced the window, staring into our glasses, savoring the sweet, tart taste of the wine. I looked at them both. The tension was so thick you could have said a single word and cut it sharply.

So, I did.

"Charles," I began . . .

"Mmm," he replied casually -- although not nearly as casually as I knew he'd like to portray.

"Brigitte . . . ?" I continued, and she looked up quickly at me.

"Yes, honey?" She looked the picture of innocence.

But I knew I had their full attention.

I laughed quietly. "Charles seems to find you particularly attractive," I began, deliberately not looking at either of them as I stared down at my glass, twirling my finger around the edge of the flute.

Both of them began to make noises of protest. "I don't think . . . " started Charles. Brigitte cut in, saying, "What do you mean?" as she tried to force a note of indignation into her tone.

I chuckled again. "It's all right," I assured them both. "I don't mind. In fact . . . " I purposefully let the idea trail off, curious to see their reaction. Brigitte responded first.

"In fact, what?" she asked -- then, and forever, insatiably curious. I took a deep breath. I turned to Charles.

"Brigitte is a beautiful woman, and I love her deeply," I began. Both of them studied me closely -- fascinated, worried, thrilled, by what I might say next. I continued.

"There is nothing that I wouldn't do to make her happy . . . " I said looking at both of them closely. "And to give her pleasure," I added with a firm, hard gaze at them both.

Brigitte sucked in her breath sharply. Charles reached down and took a deep, long drink of his champagne, nearly draining the glass. I looked sharply and directly at both of them, but as I said the following, I was looking into Brigitte's eyes.

"Charles, provided it is agreeable to her . . . you may do whatever you like with my wife."

Brigitte nearly choked on her champagne. She sputtered, and fumed. "How . . . How?" she began, but the protest trailed off. She did not say no. My wife did not say no.

I was pleased to see that Charles was far more composed -- in fact, I expected nothing less of him. He merely drained the last of his champagne, and set it down on the table quietly.

"Thank you, Bruce," he said simply. "You're a gentleman, and generous." He sat, reflecting for a moment, looking first at Brigitte, then back at me. "I am flattered, and honored." He paused. "And I will take that as permission to begin."

I nodded. I really did admire his degree of self-composure and confidence.

And, in fact, I did not have long to wait for him to demonstrate it. He took another long sip of champagne, and looked over at Brigitte, who sat staring down at her glass.

"Brigitte," he began, and she started. "Brigitte, please stand up."

Brigitte shot me a fierce look, but did as Charles asked. She stood slowly, somewhat reluctantly, but stood nonetheless.

"Turn around, slowly," he ordered. She looked at him, obviously debating whether to disagree, but did as he asked. Slowly, she turned, deliberately avoiding my eye as she did so.

She was absolutely stunning in her navy blouse and long skirt, her dark hair and eyes catching the soft light. Her lovely curves were shown off sharply, back-lit by the distant lights of the city below us. She stopped, and looked over at Charles.

"Take off your blouse," he said, quietly, but firmly. Brigitte looked at him, defiantly, assessing the situation, debating whether she would. I was hurt, briefly -- but excited, too, it must be said -- by the fact that she did not look at me for permission.

Instead, staring directly at Charles, she flicked the top button of her silk blouse open. Looking steadily at him, she then undid the next one, and the next . . . and finally the fourth and last one. I could see her sheer black bra as the buttons came undone.

Then she pulled the tails of the blouse up out of her skirt, and slowly pulled it off her shoulders, looking directly at him all the while.

I glanced over at Charles and saw him swallow hard.

Then she slipped it gently off one shoulder, and then the other, and let it fall to the floor.

I caught my breath at the picture before me: My beautiful wife, standing before Charles in her revealing bra, her large, full breasts proudly on display for him. Her nipples, as before, stood out sharply, fiercely erect. They poked through the filmy material shamelessly, eager to be touched.

Charles sat, staring at her, drinking in the beautiful woman before him. I watched as his hand slid down to his thigh, and saw the thick, long bulge in his pants. He shifted slightly in the chair, obviously trying to relieve the intense pressure in his cock and balls.

"Take off your skirt," he then said, quietly but firmly.

His command hung in the air, broking no disobedience. And Brigitte did as he ordered.

Her fingers found the waistband of the floral print wool wrap, and the two tiny hooks that kept it clasped firmly around her. She looked up at Charles, and then briefly over at me, and quickly flicked them open. Grasping the expensive material in her right hand, she pulled it up, and off, and dropped it gently on the floor. She stood before us -- no, before Charles -- still in black heels, but clad only in her transparent bra and panties.

Unlike the dark corner of the bar just half an hour before, there were no shadows here, nor any requirements for discretion, to hide my wife's lovely body. Her full breasts stood out proudly, her swollen nipples pinched and tight . . . Nothing hid the dark triangle of her bush, or the firm, soft flesh of her ass -- her tiny panties might as well not have existed, so well did they show her off. Charles slowly let out a long, soft breath.

"Come over here to the center of the room," he said quietly.

And Brigitte once again did as he said, shaking with nerves, but somehow steady nonetheless as she followed him to the center of the plush oriental carpet.

"Get down on your knees," he ordered, and Brigitte looked at him briefly, once again questioning. Then she seemed to think better of it, and slowly did as he asked.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I toyed with the idea of intervening -- of stopping this outrageous scene. But then part of me remembered that it was me who had cast the dice, and that if I put a halt to it at this point, I would have, in some bizarre sense of reverse logic, lost the respect of both of them.

By contrast, to allow them to continue was to retain control.

I wondered, briefly, at the twisted rationale to which I was subjecting myself, but then turned my attention once again to the erotic dance unfolding before me.

Charles stood, tall and regal, proper in his navy suit, before my kneeling wife. Then, as he looked down at her, he unbuckled his black leather belt. Brigitte moaned softly.

Slowly he unbuttoned his trousers, and slowly, teasingly, slid the zipper down, looking at her all the while. Unrestrained, his navy wool trousers slid down to the floor. Brigitte was left staring at his white, silk bikini briefs. The smooth, shimmering material hugged his taut, dark skin -- and the translucence of the silk revealed nearly every detail of the long, thick, black cock that pressed hard against it.

"Pull them down," he ordered.

Brigitte swallowed hard. She hesitated for a minute. She looked down briefly and then back up at Charles. And then, reaching up with both hands, slowly, hesitantly, grasped the waistband in her fingertips and slid the white silk down his firm, dark thighs.

His long dick sprang free, and as she slid the tiny briefs further down his tight, muscular thighs, his heavy, black balls were also revealed.

I wasn't sure whether the image before me was, in fact, real, or surreal. I had trouble catching my breath as I sat in the deep chair in front of them. I thought my head would explode not only from the scene, but also the implications, before me.

Brigitte was on her knees at Charles' feet, clad only in her tiny, revealing bra and panties. She looked up at him, waiting for instructions. His long, black cock stretched out in front of him, thick and hard with his excitement, half an inch from her soft, pink lips. He leaned down and whispered to her -- but deliberately loud enough for me to hear.

"Suck my cock, Brigitte."

She moaned at his words. And then she opened wide, and closed her eyes, and prepared to take Charles' hard cock into her mouth.

Charles pressed the swollen cockhead against her lips and held it there for a moment. He let it slide easily into her mouth until her lips encased the thick, ridged head. Eyes still closed, Brigitte flicked her tongue around it, running it gently down the shaft, looking as though she was trying to suck it deeper down her throat.

Never before had I seen my wife so eager to take a cock into her mouth. Usually it took a suggestion, or a deliberate arrangement of our positions when we made love. But tonight, she opened her mouth widely, eagerly, waiting . . .

Charles pulled back, pulling the thick head of his cock from her lips. A thin trail of cum trailed from the tip of his dick, startling white against his black skin. He reached down. Slowly he ran his finger along the thread of it, gathering it up. He flicked his finger across the thick drops that welled from the hole in his throbbing penis, and gathered them on his index finger.

"Look at me," he said, and Brigitte looked up. "Purse your lips, like you're putting on lipstick," he said simply. A quick, questioning look flickered across her face, but she did as she was told. She closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and pursed her lips.

Then Charles took his finger and brushed it gently, but completely, across her pouting mouth, as though he were applying make-up. My wife's lips glistened with his semen.

Then he stopped. He pulled back, teasingly. "I want to study you first," he said, and Brigitte opened her eyes and looked up at him, wondering, as she slowly flicked her tongue around her lips, tasting him.

"Stay kneeling in front of me," he instructed her.

Slowly, reluctantly, she held her position. Then she looked up again at him, still questioning. She did not have long to wait.

"Reach back and unhook your bra," Charles ordered, simply, but firmly. His long, thick penis still stood out proudly in front of him. Brigitte didn't know which way to look. His voice demanded that she look him in the face, but the hard, black cock in front of her drew her attention shamelessly.

Nonetheless, she did as he ordered. She did not even look at me as he made his request. She simply reached back and quickly undid the two tiny hooks that held her full breasts. As she undid the hooks, her bra began to fall away. Without bidding, she reached up and slipped the left-hand strap off her shoulders . . . and then the right. She pulled the straps down her arms, and her sheer bra fell away onto the floor. She knelt, bare-breasted, in front of Charles.

Her nipples gave her away. They were pinched and swollen, erect to an extent I would not have thought possible. Her round, dark aureoles, too, were taut with excitement. She looked up at Charles, waiting for his order.

"Lift up your breasts for me," he said quietly. "Cup them in your hands," he continued. "Hold them up and out for me."

Brigitte sucked in her breath, but did exactly as he said. She cupped her full tits in each hand, and held them up and out to him, straining to please. Her stiff nipples stood out proudly, almost obscenely, in their excitement.

I couldn't believe what I was watching. My cock throbbed from the image before me. I ached to pull it out of my pants . . . to stroke it . . . to force it into my wife's mouth, her pussy, her ass . . . She presented the most exotic and outrageous picture I had ever seen. Her beauty and eroticism had me aching, my head throbbing. I tried desperately to catch my breath.

Was this the woman I thought I knew? The question ricocheted around in my brain.

Not at all, I answered -- and was thrilled, and grateful, and just a tad worried, to be honest, to discover this alter ego.

Charles' orders cut into my self-examination. "Take your nipples between your fingers," he commanded, without ceremony. I gasped again as Brigitte did exactly as he said, and without hesitation. She reached down and, using both hands, gently grasped each nipple between her thumb and forefinger. She then looked up at him, and waited for his next command.

"Pull them up and out for me," he said simply. Brigitte looked up at him, again questioning, a trace of disbelief on her face. But Charles' look precluded any disobedience.

She did as she was told. Slowly, but surely, she pulled on them, tugging gently. The effort made her wince, but she continued. Holding each nipple firmly, she began to pull her full, heavy breasts up and out for his examination and appreciation. Slowly she held them up, the weight of each breast suspended only by the taut, pink tips.

"That's not good enough," Charles said quietly and firmly, in a tone that, again, brooked no argument. Brigitte hurried to obey. She pinched her nipples more firmly, and pulled her full breasts further out and up for him, wanting to please, to hear his approval. She stretched them out and up, as far as she possibly could.

As if that wasn't enough, she did something even more outrageous, obviously eager to gain his acceptance, to hear his words of approval.

She slid her thumbs and forefingers back an inch or so, and sharply pinched each nipple and aureole between them, holding them, too, up and out. Not only did she support the weight of her lovely, heavy breasts with her nipples, but, doing so, squeezed each one as tightly as she could, offering the stiff, sensitive flesh up to her new, black master.

I ached to cum at the picture before me: my wife, offering her beautiful breasts up to a virtual stranger. I wanted to pull my cock from my pants, to sink it deeply into her . . . to fill her with my sperm.

Instead, overcome by curiosity, I did my best to sit quietly -- unwilling to interrupt, and far too eager to see what would transpire. I did not have long to wait.

"Very good," said Charles appreciatively, making Brigitte blush with his words. "Stand up," he added, unceremoniously.

Brigitte started at this sudden shift in direction, but reluctantly obeyed. She released the hold on her nipples, and stood up slowly. Her breasts and nipples were red and swollen from her outrageous display. I ached to caress them, to massage them with oil . . . to suckle them. But I held back -- sure that Charles would not allow it.

She stood facing him, clad only in her transparent bikini briefs and black heels.

"Take off your panties," he said, and Brigitte, looking him in the eye, and without hesitation, reached up with both hands to her waist. She caught the elastic waistband with each thumb, and pulled her panties down quickly, sliding them past her thighs, her knees, and then letting them drop to the floor at her feet. She kicked them away.

She stood before Charles dressed only in her black high heels.

We both studied her, admiring her luscious body without shame or artifice -- our eyes taking in her lovely dark hair and eyes, her round, full, womanly curves, her most private parts. She was exquisite. My heart pounded in my chest. I wanted to look at her forever.

Charles had other ideas.

"Sit on the edge of the coffee table," he continued, firmly. "Facing me," he added with a stern look.

Brigitte sucked in her breath, and appeared as though she was about to disobey. But the look of resistance flitted quickly across her face and was gone, and she did as he ordered, stepping over and sitting down gingerly on the low, glass-topped structure. "Now what?" she asked defiantly.

"Spread your legs," Charles said quietly.

"Nooooo . . . ." Brigitte's voice trailed off.

He looked at her directly in the eye. "Do you want to stop? We can stop anytime you say," he explained, darting a quick look in my direction.

"Nooooo . . . ." Brigitte said more softly, and my heart sank a little.

"Then, spread your legs," he ordered.

Somewhat to my dismay, Brigitte slowly leaned back, splaying her arms widely apart and far behind her. She tilted her head far back, her long neck stretched out, and closed her eyes.

And she slowly, but surely, spread her legs open for Charles.

Her thighs parted -- a foot, then two feet. She stopped.

"That's not wide enough, Brigitte," Charles said quietly. "As far as you can."

She started at his words. But she did as he said. She spread her legs further, opening them as widely as she could for him, no doubt feeling her hips ache as she opened as completely as she was able. She threw back her head, and arched her spine, and nearly lifted her firm ass off the glass table.

Unbidden, she brought her arms forward -- still leaning back as far as she could -- and slid her hands between her thighs. She reached down and, gently, using both hands, spread the soft, swollen flesh of her outer lips.

Opening them, she reached down and firmly grasped her labia, thumb and forefinger of each hand pinching the tender, sensitive skin on either side.

Staring him in the eye, she slowly but inexorably parted them, revealing her soft, pink flesh. I watched, fascinated, as my wife offered her pussy to Charles.

I couldn't restrain myself. I stood up, moving awkwardly as a result of my throbbing, erect cock.

Charles looked over, and said quietly, "Wait just a minute, please, Bruce?"

What could I say? As reluctant as I was to admit it, I was curious . . . Curious to see what he had in mind . . . Curious to see what he would do, and how he would do it . . . and curious to see how my beautiful Brigitte would respond.

Hesitatingly, but unwilling to interrupt the scenario unfolding before me, I sat back down. My heart beat more quickly.

"Brigitte, you are gorgeous," Charles complimented her, as she sat, naked on the glass coffee table, spreading her legs widely for him.

She blushed, but suddenly seemed to revert to her more typical bashfulness. She quickly seemed to withdraw, to step back and view the situation from afar. Rapidly and modestly she put her legs together and sat up abruptly. In vain, she attempted to cover her nakedness, passing one hand over her breasts, and putting another between her legs to cover her pussy.

"Brigitte?" Charles inquired softly. She looked up at him, questioningly. "Put your hands back behind you, on the table. You're far too beautiful to cover up," he added, almost needlessly. She looked at him, studying him, apparently deciding what to do, and how far to take this. And then she looked over at me, again questioning and looking apologetic.

But, once again, she did as he said. She leaned back on the table, splaying her hands behind her, and kept her long legs open to Charles' gaze. He stood there looking at my wife's open cunt seemingly forever --the soft labia spread wide, the dark, inviting hole of her vagina, the moisture from her excitement glistening on her lips in the soft light.

I wanted to step over to her, to force her legs up over my shoulders . . . to sink my hard cock into her, to fuck her harshly, punishingly, for sitting there spreading herself for another man.

Or, did I?

True, I ached to fuck her. The things Charles had done, and had her do, up to now, had aroused me more than I had ever thought possible. And each additional, intimate act he made her perform only increased that arousal. My balls ached, literally ached, from the need to relive the intense pressure within them. I was constantly shifting in my seat -- trying to find a comfortable way to sit to ease the pain and throbbing. I was dying to unzip my pants, to . . .

But I held back. Somehow, I felt that doing so would mean, once again, relinquishing control. It would be like asking Brigitte and Charles to stop what they were doing, because I wasn't either self-confident, or mature, enough to handle the sexual and emotional dynamics of it. By contrast, to sit and watch with reserve was, in some strange way, to retain a certain degree of rule. At least, this is what I told myself.

After all, while I wasn't sure I could be accused of exactly starting the drama now unfolding in front of me, neither had I taken any opportunity to halt it. My curiosity continued to get the best of me. Charles knew it. Brigitte knew it. And somehow, to call it off now would also, in fact, somehow be unsporting, or ungentlemanly, or both. In some odd sense it was, after all, a game.

There was something else at play here, as well, although I'm sure that more than a few husbands would be skeptical if they'd heard me trying to explain it. It was simply that Brigitte was enjoying it.

Despite her occasional protests, her actions and her body -- her flushed skin, her taut nipples -- told another story. And it simply gave me great pleasure to see how much pleasure she was taking from it all. We are, in the end, supposed to be taking care of one another, however loosely that sometimes might be defined.

My brief reverie ended as I turned my gaze again toward the lurid scene in front of me.

Charles stood before my wife as she sat back on the glass table, legs spread, embarrassed, but nonetheless shamelessly displaying herself for him. He made her hold the pose for what seemed like hours, long legs widely apart, as he admired her naked form. As he did so, he slowly unknotted his tie and pulled it off. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped it off. I was impressed as he did so -- while slender, he nonetheless had the broad, defined shoulders and articulated pecs and triceps of a swimmer.

His stomach was flat and firm -- which only served to accent his long, thick cock, making it appear to stretch out even further in front of him.

I also admired his fortitude and self-control. Not once since he had withdrawn his cockhead from Brigitte's pouting lips had he touched his penis. Yet still it remained rock-hard and erect, bobbing and jerking slightly, his heavy black balls tight in their sac beneath.

His cock looked harder and longer and thicker than ever, no doubt a direct result of the lewd display my wife was putting on for him. It stood out straight and proud, the color of dark chocolate -- and only a foot or two from my reclining wife. She stared at it openly. I myself studied it in admiration, and wondered briefly, guiltily, what it would feel like to touch it.

Charles finished kicking his shoes off, then removed his socks. His white bikini briefs already lay on the floor, where Brigitte had tossed them after pulling them down Charles' long, lean legs. He stood upright again, stark naked, and moved slightly closer to Brigitte as she lay back on the coffee table, open and waiting. I sucked in my breath.

"Brigitte, I want you to lie on the bed."

She leaned forward, taking the weight off her arms, and closed her legs. Shakily, she stood, looking at him both nervously and wantonly, if that were indeed possible. She crossed the several feet to the foot of our king-sized bed, and stood there for a moment, looking down at it, then back up at him.

This is it, I thought, my chest pounding. I'm going to see my wife fucked by another man -- a black man. My head spun with the implications.

Once again, however, Charles proved to be a master of both timing and erotic suspense.

"Lie down on your back," he ordered. "With your feet toward the head of the bed, and your head down here." He pointed to the edge, at the foot of the bed.

Slowly and somewhat uncertainly, Brigitte complied, climbing onto the soft, plush mattress. She stretched out -- naked save for her black heels. She lay down gingerly, apparently hesitant at the degree of control she was relinquishing by doing so. Her dark hair fell softly over the edge. She tried to look up, and around, and back at Charles, her eyes darting nervously. But he stood directly behind her, and she could catch only a glimpse of him.

"Slide your head gently back over the edge of the bed," he continued softly. "Rest the back of your neck against the edge, and let your head just fall softly back." Brigitte hesitated, no doubt reluctant to put herself in such a vulnerable position.

Seeing her delay, Charles continued, "You have nothing to worry about. I'm going to be extremely gentle, and I can assure you this will be nothing but pleasurable.

"For both of us," he added with a soft laugh.

Slowly, she did as he asked. She slid her head back until she could feel the soft edge of the mattress at the base of her neck. Then she relaxed, letting her head drop slowly back, further, and further. By doing so, she could now see both of us, albeit upside-down -- me in the large chair halfway across the room, watching and waiting fascinated, and Charles, tall and black and naked and erect, a mere foot or so behind her.

"There is, of course, a reason I'm doing this," Charles began. And then he turned his head and looked directly at me as he continued his explanation. "Most women, as talented as they might be at oral sex, have a hard time taking an entire penis in their mouth. At least in a conventional position," he added with a chuckle.

I caught my breath, and could hear Brigitte catching hers, too. Charles continued.

"I'm not sure how long my cock is, but at least eight inches, I would guess."

I thought he was being modest.

"This is really the only good way of fitting the entire length of it," he continued, and my heart continued to pound furiously. "And I can assure you that I intend to fit all of it down Brigitte's throat," he said matter-of-factly, still looking directly at me.

I heard Brigitte whimper softly. "Noooo . . . ", she said. I had to shift again in my chair to ease the escalating ache in my balls.

"Close your eyes, my sweet," Charles said, turning back to my naked, recumbent wife. She did as he asked, her long lashes flickering gently, and waited. Inadvertently or deliberately, her legs parted slowly. I could see her puffy, swollen labia even from where I sat.

Charles stepped behind her, and slowly reached down and caressed her face and neck with both hands. She started at first at his touch, but then quickly relaxed, turning her head gently left and right to feel his tender, brushing strokes. Her eyes remained closed. As he continued his soft caresses he moved closer to her, bringing his erect penis toward her mouth, closer and closer. I held my breath.

"Open your mouth, Brigitte," Charles ordered quietly, and without a second's hesitation, she did, as widely as possible. Charles gently slipped the head of his thick penis into my wife's mouth.

The smooth, slick cockhead disappeared between her lips, and he held still for a moment, not pushing any further. She moaned softly. Instead, he began instructing her as he teased her with a mere taste of his black cock.

"I've positioned you like this, Brigitte, because it's the only way you'll be able to take my entire shaft," he began explaining quietly. "Arching your head back this way opens your throat entirely -- and it means that the passage from your lips to your larynx is absolutely straight."

He's done this once or twice before, I thought wryly, my heart still pounding in my chest.

Brigitte moaned again. I could see her tongue flicking around the ridge of his swollen, purple cockhead.

"Are you ready?" he asked -- somewhat rhetorically, I thought, all things considered. "Breathe through your nose from here on," he instructed. "I'm not going to stop." Brigitte gulped, but nodded slightly, acknowledging his orders. And with that, Charles fed his long, black cock down my wife's throat.

He did not go slowly ? and while gentle, he was nonetheless firm. There was an urgency about him now. He had abandoned the soft and tender and gentlemanly side that we had seen so far.

No longer. This was sex -- raw, passionate, pressing and selfish. Charles was going to fuck my wife's mouth. And, more importantly, my wife wanted him to do it.

Her legs were spread widely on the bed. She was cupping both breasts in her hands, pinching and squeezing and pulling her nipples. She arched her head back further, trying desperately to take his thick shaft as quickly as she could. And Charles did not delay her pleasure.

In one strong, steady movement, he pushed his long cock into Brigitte's open mouth. Two inches slid past her lips, then three . . . then four. Her soft, pink lips were stretched around his black shaft. She breathed harder, faster, through her nose, and opened her mouth so widely that her jaw must have ached.

Five inches of cock slid in, then six. Charles did not pause even for a second. He was going to feed the entire length of his thick penis down Brigitte's throat in one, steady movement. I was astonished at the outrageous display before me.

Another inch slid in, Brigitte breathing faster, and faster. Her hands moved away from her taut nipples and sought out Charles thighs. She slid her hands up between them, and through, reaching for his tight ass. Finding it, she cupped a cheek in each hand, and tried pulling him in closer, trying to force the thick dick down her throat even faster.

I practically came on the spot when I saw what she was trying to do.

Charles did not interrupt his firm, steady push. In one final, fluid movement aided by Brigitte's grasping, pulling hands, he slid the last inch of his penis into her mouth. His heavy, black balls came to rest nestled on the bridge of Brigitte's nose.

My beautiful wife had eight inches of black cock down her throat.

Charles held perfectly still, not moving, as Brigitte slowly acclimated herself to this monstrous intrusion. I could hear her quick, harsh breathing even from where I sat. Slowly, however, her breathing slowed. Her hands lost their quick urgency, and slowly began a gentler, more sensual caress of Charles' firm buttocks. The tension so obvious in her limbs just a moment ago began to dissipate, and she settled more deeply into the bed.

My wife suddenly seemed to be able to take all of it in stride. Her eyes remained closed as she caressed her new black lover.

I, of course, was another matter. The picture before me was the most lewd, obscene, intimate and arousing spectacle I had ever seen, and I could barely think straight.

Even from where I sat; six or eight feet away, I could clearly see the thick outline of Charles' penis in Brigitte's throat. More outrageously, I could even discern the ridge of his thick cockhead, pressing out against the soft, thin tissue at the base of her exquisitely long neck.

I didn't know where to put myself, or what to do, or even what day it was.

As if reading my mind, Charles said softly, "Bruce, come over here."

Now what? I asked myself, thrilled, and nervous, and eager, and proud -- and curious almost to the breaking point. But I got slowly to my feet, the thick bulge in my trousers giving me away shamelessly. I walked slowly up to him and Brigitte, staring at the cock embedded in my wife, the startling, erotic contrast of black skin against white.

I was riveted by the sight before me -- and embarrassed at the extent of my fascination. What, exactly, did this make me? I think I was even blushing.

"A little closer, can you? Charles' request interrupted my laser-like concentration. I edged closer, curious -- worried -- about what was coming. Brigitte took no notice of my presence. She never even opened her eyes. She simply held still, continuing to caress Charles' ass, breathing steadily through her nose, enveloping him in her warm, soft throat. She even reached around with both hands to rub and massage his balls, softly teasing them with her fingers.

"Put your hand on Brigitte's neck," Charles ordered. "Right here." He touched the center of her throat ?I want you to feel my cock in her throat."

My heart pounded furiously. This was unbelievable! Was I going to do this?

Sensing my hesitation, Charles cut to the heart of the challenge with one, brief question. "Do you want me to stop now, and leave quietly? I will if you're not sure about this."

He already knew how I felt.

What my answer would be.

What I would do.

I reached down and gently felt his thick shaft through the soft skin of Brigitte's neck. I traced my fingers along it, eliciting a soft moan from her. Unable to resist, I ran my thumb and forefinger lightly across the ridge of his cockhead, tracing it, admiring its width and heft. And then, almost subconsciously, I began to massage it with my fingers.

Brigitte moaned, more loudly this time. I cupped my hand and began sliding it gently up and down her long neck, feeling the thick girth of his cock and running my hand up and down, from the ridge of his cockhead all the way back to her lips, from which the thick base of his cock protruded.

I will not deny it. I wanted to massage his cock until he shot his sperm down my wife's throat. I wanted to rub it until he could no longer resist . . . until the pressure in his balls built to such an extent that he had no choice but to cum . . . Until I watched his sperm leak from my beautiful wife's lips. I, almost in a trance, rubbed the long, thick cock in my wife's throat.

Suddenly I realized what was going on.

What the hell was I doing??!! I asked myself in a shocking moment of guilt and self-realization. I quickly pulled my hand away. I leaned back, caught my breath, and began suddenly to have some serious moments of self-doubt and examination.

But Brigitte was oblivious to, and obviously uncaring about, my concerns. She knew only, from my gentle stroking, what I was trying to do. She was focused entirely on the thick cock in her mouth, and about satisfying both it, and her. Even as I pulled my hand away, she was sliding her hands once again between Charles' thighs.

Fascinated, I stood back and watched as she worked her hands between his legs, his long, thick cock still planted firmly and deeply in her warm and welcoming throat. She slid her fingers between his cheeks, and firmly, steadily, parted them. I caught my breath, knowing exactly what was coming next.

Charles relaxed, also suddenly realizing what Brigitte was up to.

She wasted no time. Almost harshly, she pulled his cheeks apart, but then suddenly, once his cheeks were pried apart, began gently flicking her fingers across the soft flesh near his asshole. Slowly, she traced her fingers down between his tight buttocks until she could feel the object of her attention: his tight, puckered anus.

I understood what she was going to do, and yet I couldn't believe it.

She knew, from our love-making, how easy it was to get me to cum once she slipped her finger into my ass and began fucking me with it. She would do it when she was ready to have me ejaculate, and there was almost nothing I could do to resist once she started it.

I knew now, watching her probing Charles' ass, sinking her middle finger into his tight anus and stroking it in and out -- fucking him deeply and slowly -- that she was desperately trying to make him cum . . . To shoot his sperm down her throat.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure they both could hear it.

Breathless, I watched . . . and waited, for Charles to give in to the deep, rhythmic penetration of his ass . . . and waited for him to close his eyes; for the quiet moans she was coaxing from him to grow to shouts . . . and waited to see his long, thick dick begin to throb.

But I waited in vain.

Charles was a master of self-control. True, he moaned, and closed his eyes. His knees bent, and I could see all his muscles tighten, his body winding up like a spring. He even reached down and gently cupped his balls for a moment. But then his fingers slid up and he grabbed the thick base of his cock, encircling it with a thumb and forefinger in an 'O'.

He squeezed his fingers together tightly, literally choking off the impending flood of semen about to make its way out of his cock and down my wife's throat. At the same time he reached back and gently, but firmly, took Brigitte's hand and withdrew it from between his buttocks. I could hear Brigitte's soft groan of frustration even from where I sat.

Then Charles slowly and very gently withdrew his thick, erect penis from her mouth, careful not to hurt her. It seemed to slide out forever, a slow inch at a time, and I once again marveled at her ability and willingness to have taken it all.

Finally, Charles withdrew the last of it, the deep-purple cockhead, slick with Brigitte's saliva, slipping slowly, reluctantly, from her lips. I heard her moan once again, and could easily imagine the deep, tight tension that had enveloped her, and her search for some release.

As Charles withdrew his cock, he leaned down and gently began to caress and massage Brigitte's neck. Obviously, he knew what an intrusion putting his entire penis down her throat must have been. Her throat surely ached with the effort. He stroked her softly, sweetly . . . and then whispered to her, "I'm very proud of you, my love. You show great talent. Very few women can take a cock of this size on the first try.

"Even more than that," he continued after a brief pause, "you show enormous promise."

Brigitte blushed at his words, obviously pleased at his approval.

I, on the other hand, felt my heart skip another beat, especially when he mentioned 'enormous promise'. What was that supposed to mean? I asked myself quietly and furiously.

"You must be feeling especially in need of some release at this point, aren't you, my love?" Charles continued softly as he stood above and behind her, now softly caressing her face and brushing the dark hair back from her forehead. His impressive cock, still erect and still glistening from my wife's saliva, bobbed just inches from her face.

Brigitte, eyes still closed, nodded her head, slowly. Charles smiled.

"You need to be made love to, don't you Brigitte?" he asked her quietly.

Brigitte blushed again quickly, but nodded again, this time more vigorously.

Charles, still stroking her face, deliberately paused for a minute, drawing out the tension and anticipation of what came next. To say he had the full attention of not only Brigitte but also myself would have been an understatement. Then he spoke.

"Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that you need to be fucked," he said, more bluntly. "Wouldn't that be a better way to put it?"

Brigitte sighed softly, and then nodded more rapidly.

I shifted again in my chair, trying to ease the increasing ache in my groin.

Charles continued. "Let me hear you say what you need." He waited patiently, assured of a response.

Brigitte moaned quietly. Her blush deepened once again, spreading from her cheeks down to her neck. Softly she shook her head. "I . . .? she began

"What, my pet?" Charles asked softly, pressing her for her reply.

"I . . . I . . .? she stammered.

I held my breath. I could never get my wife to say what Charles wanted to hear from her. Then she spoke.

"I need to be fucked," she finally blurted out -- then colored bright pink, once again, to the roots of her hair. But she did not stop there.

"I . . . ," she went on, her voice growing louder, more assured. "I . . . Please fuck me," she asked finally. "Please fuck me with your cock."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This was my shy wife?

"I'm not going to fuck you yet, my pet," Charles answered. "In fact," he added with a small grin, "I might not fuck you at all tonight."

Brigitte whimpered, then moaned "Noooo . . .", her voice trailing off softly. She shook her head slowly back and forth, no doubt beside herself from this teasing.

I could imagine the extent of her frustration. Having undressed in the lounge, and been caressed in the elevator, and then undressing again at his command, and finally forced to perform oral sex . . . Charles must have brought her to the brink of orgasm several times, and he had barely brought his hand or tongue or penis even close to her pussy.

In fact, I didn't have to imagine it. I could see it in her body as she lay on the edge of the bed, now on her stomach, staring up at Charles. The color was high in her cheeks, her eyes sparkling, the flush of sexual excitement having spread itself across nearly all of her body. Her nipples remained taut and erect, and she stared longingly at Charles, first up at his face, and then back at his stiff, bobbing penis.

Charles then changed tack.

"Will you do as I say if I promise to make love to you at the end?" Charles asked her, darting a quick glance in my direction as he posed the question. I held my breath again at the implications of the request, and looked over expectantly at my wife.

Considering all that had gone on so far, Charles' question -- and what I was sure would be Brigitte's answer --seemed a trifle academic. I mean, really. Still, I chose to say nothing for the moment.

Brigitte looked up at him and murmured, "Yes," looking hopeful -- but then at least had the good grace to shoot me a brief, guilty glance. Looking at her, I thought I could detect in her eyes a request for permission, or forgiveness, or a touch of both.

Having told them both that what was agreeable to her was agreeable to me, I didn't exactly have much of a leg to stand on. So I kept my mouth shut, but nodded gently at my wife, to indicate that it was all right.

Charles pondered this turn of events for a moment before saying anything. My impression was that he intended to get the maximum possible visual impact out of whatever it was he chose to have her do -- mostly for my benefit. And, at the same time, to tease and arouse her to the maximum extent possible, to wind her up nearly to the breaking point, to burn the sensuality and tension and pure physicality of the evening deeply into her memory.

At the same time, I was beginning to believe that his own physical pleasure and release was -- by this point -- absolutely irrelevant to him. In spite of his earlier arousal and the way that Brigitte nearly brought him to the edge, I think that he didn't really care whether he was ultimately satisfied.

No. I think he had bigger things in mind -- longer term, deeper and somewhat darker in their implications and, ultimately, more profound in their pleasure. I had the sensation that this evening had suddenly turned, that it had become a mere prelude to something both more intimate, and more grand. I thought I could suddenly detect the spinning of a web -- soft, and welcoming, but as strong as steel. But, for the moment, presented with this tableau before me, I let the thought slip into the back of my mind.

"Very well, then," Charles said, cutting into my brief reverie. "Brigitte, come over here," he ordered. Slowly, reluctantly she got up from the bed and stood at the foot of it, waiting for his next request. He looked her up and down, and then said, "Go over and lean over Bruce's chair. Put your head in his lap, please."

Brigitte sucked in her breath and then slowly walked over to me -- naked, beautiful, aroused -- and stood in front of me as I sat leaning back in the soft leather chair. She seemed uncertain of what to do next, but Charles did not leave her wondering for long.

"Lean over the chair, as I said!" Brigitte did as he asked, and brought her head down to within inches of my lap. I reached out and caressed her soft brown hair, brushing it back from her forehead. She refused to catch my eye, and instead stared downward, suddenly once again embarrassed. As she did, I watched as Charles moved up behind her, closing the distance.

His hard, black body was a startlingly arousing contrast against my wife's soft white skin, and the picture it presented continued to make my head spin.

Suddenly he was mere inches behind her. He reached down, and gently grasped each of her thighs, parting them . . . forcing her to stand with her legs wide apart. As he did, he murmured, "Put your ass as high in the air as you can." I sucked in my breath once again, and Brigitte, too, gasped. But she did as he said.

She leant over further, closer to my lap, and splayed her legs out more widely. Then she pushed her ass up, and out, as Charles had ordered. I reached down, and whispered to her.

"You are absolutely stunning, my love," I said softly, and continued to brush her hair back, to study her lovely face. Still she refused to meet my eye -- excited, obviously, beyond her control, and deeply embarrassed about it.

"I want nothing more than for you to enjoy yourself," I whispered in her ear, and as I said it I could feel her relax slightly. I suddenly realized that, as embarrassed as she might be, what she really wanted and needed was my approval -- that I was not upset, or jealous, about the things that Charles was making her do . . . About the things that she was willingly and wantonly doing.

On the contrary, I needed to convince her of that, and as I sat stroking her hair, and whispering into her ear, I could begin to see that, indeed, she was beginning to understand that. As I saw her relax, I whispered again in her ear. "I want only your pleasure, sweetheart."

She responded to my remark by reaching down and unzipping my pants . . . by yanking them down quickly, and sliding my briefs down my hips. She had no trouble doing so, as I was as eager as she was and ached enormously for relief. My cock sprung free -- harder and thicker and longer than I had ever felt it before. It stood out enormously erect . . . and my wife responded by sinking her lips over it, trying to suck as much of it into her mouth as she could. And that was when Charles cut in.

"Brigitte, you're not allowed to suck Bruce's cock yet," he said quietly and firmly.

How dare he? I thought furiously, and Brigitte looked up questioningly.

What is going on? I wondered, and then asked the question out loud.

"What the hell are you doing, Charles?" I demanded, my cock inches from my wife's mouth, waiting to enter it again -- and being denied.

"I don't want her to suck your cock yet," he said simply. "I want her to do it only when I say," he added.

I nearly exploded in frustration. Brigitte looked up at me, again questioningly, and I could tell she wondered what was happening. She did not have long to wait.

"Do as I say, Brigitte," he said with an even firmer tone to his voice, and both of us took notice. "Reach back and spread your cheeks for me."

Brigitte colored again, this time for me. I'm sure a part of her looked down on the lewd scene and realized that her only defense was a deep blush: Her head in my lap, looking up at me, being denied a husband's penis that was only inches from her lips . . . and being ordered -- outrageously -- to spread herself for another man.

But she did as he said. She actually did exactly as he said.

Still averting my gaze, my cock inches from her lips, I watched as she closed her eyes and reached back and pulled her cheeks apart for the man standing behind her. Charles studied the picture before him.

"Wider," he said with authority. Brigitte moaned.

But once again she did as he said, without hesitation. I could see her strain to pull her cheeks apart, to open her ass to him. And as she did, he moved in closer to her.

Unable to see what was happening, I could only imagine the sight of them as he pressed up against her. Fireworks exploded in my head.

As if reading my mind, Charles said to her, "Brigitte, describe what I'm doing."

My lovely wife gulped hard, and slowly shook her head from side to side, embarrassed at having to tell her husband what this black man was doing to her.

"Tell him," Charles said again, his voice husky and deep. Brigitte moaned again.

"He's . . . " she began. "He's . . . " The words stuck in her throat.

"What am I doing, Brigitte?" Charles asked her again, rhetorically.

"You're . . . oooohhh . . . ." The words trailed off . . .

"What am I doing, my dear?" Charles asked again, much more firmly this time. Brigitte suddenly realized that she had no choice but to explain.

"He's . . . oh, honey, he's putting . . . " she tried to catch her breath again, and then paused, blushing furiously. And then suddenly the words cascaded out.

"He's putting his penis in me . . . in my . . . Oh, Bruce, he's . . . he's . . . he's fucking me. He's putting it in my bottom . . . in my ass . . . It's, it's . . . Oh, God, his cock is so . . . his cock is so . . . Oh, my God, it's so big! Oh . . . !" she began to yell, her nearly incoherent descriptions building to a crescendo. "Please . . . please! Oh, God. Oh God. Oh, Charles . . . harder . . . please!" she screamed.

I could see the deep blush once again flood my beautiful wife's face and neck . . . her nipples tight, pinched, more erect than ever, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, her mouth slack and open -- stunned and thrilled with the realization that a black man's cock was sliding into her anus for the first time. It did not take much to realize that she was excited beyond belief -- and also mortified by the degree of that excitement.

I was stunned, and just a trifle bothered. After all, she had told me that she no longer wanted to take my cock in her ass . . . that it caused too much discomfort. My fingers, yes; my tongue, yes; but not my cock. I was resigned to a life of merely imagining the grip of her tight anus locked around the base of my cock . . . of the snugness and heat of her rectum. Of the intimacy of taking my spouse in the most private way possible.

And here was a handsome black man, a virtual stranger she'd just met, slowly but steadily taking my wife exactly that way.

And she was screaming at him to fuck her!

My exposed cock jerked in excitement at the sight and sound of it all. I ached to thrust it into her mouth, to have her suck me. To have her show me how much she liked my cock.

But I held back. Charles had told her not to, and I suddenly realized, with a sinking feeling, that she would do as he said. If he told her not to touch it, she wouldn't. If he told her to do something, she would. Suddenly, the simplicity of the equation hit me. And shocked me.

"How far up your ass am I, Brigitte?" Charles asked huskily. I looked up at him. I could see him straining, pushing, obviously eager to force the length of his long, thick penis into my wife's tight, hot rectum.

"Ooohhh," was all she said, moaning furiously, eyes still closed, licking her lips. She must have been extremely tight, and still not entirely relaxed. And I knew Charles must have wanted to push hard, to feel the heat of her bowels engulf the entire length of his cock.

Suddenly Charles stopped pushing. Another wicked grin appeared on his face. "Brigitte?" he said, and she looked up briefly, eyes still closed. "God," was all she replied . . . "Please . . . " she added. Her words trailed off again, replaced by a deep sigh.

"Brigitte, I'm going to hold still," he said. "I want you to move yourself against me."

Charles' order once again took my breath away. This man was going to make me watch my wife fuck herself on his cock. Use his cock. Willingly screw herself for their mutual pleasure. I looked over at her, wondering what she'd do. Worried about it. Harder than ever at the prospect of it.

"Nnnn . . . .ooohhhh . . . " she started, and then, eyes still closed, licking her lips, said said, more quietly, "Yesssss . . . ."

My heart -- or maybe it was my stomach -- did a double flip once again. My wife, I had just realized, was going to do anything he requested, no matter how shameful or intimate. My head spun. This was a different woman than the one I thought I had known. Utterly different. How had I missed the raw, sexual passion this woman possessed? What set it off? How unobservant, or unimaginative, had I been or become? Why had she shown no sign of this abandon and eroticism before? The questions made my head hurt.

I quickly realized, though, that I would certainly not gain answers to any of them right now. They would be best saved for a later, more reflective time, well away from the emotions and sexuality at play in front of me.

Brigitte was already straining, pushing back against Charles, onto his erect penis, trying to force it deeper into her bottom. Then she stopped, and pulled forward slightly, perhaps to try and create the momentum that would ease her open and allow him access into her waiting bowels.

But it was clear even from where I sat that it was not going in easily. He was too big. She was too tight. And there obviously wasn't enough lubrication to allow his cock to slide into her -- to do what needed to be done. I had to do something ? to help her.

Slowly, I pushed Brigitte's head and shoulders back, forcing her to stand upright ? although with knees still bent, still crouching over. It was not as I wanted, but I had to stand up. Painfully and awkwardly I did so, tucking my erect cock into my pants. Charles looked up briefly, quizzically, but I gave him a brief nod and my look reassured him. I had to help them.

I stood up, and walked over painfully, my cock still throbbing, to the bathroom. Brigitte and Charles had briefly interrupted their passionate embrace and were, I believe, holding still to see what I was up to.

I did not disappoint them. I quickly found what I was looking for in my toilet kit, and returned to them. I had to hurry. I couldn't bear to see my wife in any degree of discomfort. And I couldn't bear to see her delay her own pleasure.

As I approached them, I reached down and quickly pulled the nozzle of the bottle open. It was lubricating liquid, slick and glistening, designed for just these occasions. I had bought it for ? well, for this sort of moment? Who could tell? The truth was, it looked useful when I found it in the drugstore, and the present situation made me look prescient in the extreme. I smiled to myself as I flicked open the nozzle and poured a generous amount into my hand. I approached the two of them.

Both Brigitte and Charles were once again grunting, straining. His cock, hard and long, still sought to probe my wife's hot bottom, but was getting nowhere. They both turned and looked at me as I approached, and stopped for a moment, expectantly.

I knelt down between them, pouring yet more of the slippery liquid into both palms as I did so. Both of them held still, not sure what would happen next.

I did not delay their anticipation.

With my left hand full of the lubricant, I reached up between them ? to where Charles' hard, black cock penetrated my wife's tight anus. The picture was sublime. I wanted to paint it, to photograph it . . . to cherish it. To lick it . . .

Instead, I reached up with both hands, gently cupping Brigitte's ass in one hand and Charles' balls in the other. Both hands were slick and glistening with the slippery liquid. Slowly, I rubbed it onto their skin . . .

I moved my hands around slowly, carefully, making sure that the slick oil covered every inch of their joined bodies. I slipped my fingers around Brigitte's stretched anus, tracing my index finger around the rim . . . making sure the oil covered Charles' thick dick where it entered her. I even slipped a finger into her tight ring, between his cock and her hole, eliciting a gasp from both of them.

Then I reached down with one hand, picked up the bottle, and poured yet more of the glistening lubricant into my palm. As Charles began to move more easily into Brigitte, aided by the thick, slippery liquid, I reached up again. This time I focused solely on his shaft, knowing that his passage into my wife would only be made easier by one thing ? and that I wanted her pleasure above all.

Without embarrassment or hesitation, I reached up with my hand, covered in oil, and grasped his shaft. Slowly and surely, I held him, sliding my left hand up and down his thick shaft. Each time he slid out of my wife's ass I stroked him, trying to coat his hard dick with as much oil as I could. His thick, black penis glistened in the soft light.

With my other hand I reached up and gently, tentatively, once again cupped his balls. Then, with gathering confidence, I began to rub them, massaging the oil into his sac. I could feel it tighten as I did it, running my fingers around his balls, tracing the separation of them, gently grasping one, then the other. And, with my left hand on his shaft, I could feel him get harder and thicker at my touch. I smiled to myself. I was pushing him over the edge. I was going to make him cum in my wife.

And then, with a wicked thought, I did something completely unnatural for me. I reached down, both hands still slick with the thick lubricant, and began to rub it into my own cock, making it slick, hard . . . ready for penetration.

I stood behind Charles, gently massaging the warm, viscous liquid into my erect cock. The sensation was exquisite, sublime . . . and dangerous. With all the previous excitement and lewd display, I knew that just touching my penis would make me come in a matter of seconds. And I wasn't ready to yet.

So I applied just enough to thoroughly coat my entire shaft, from head to root, making sure every bit of it was glistening and slick. Slowly, almost agonizingly, I stroked it back and forth, teasing myself to the edge of orgasm, and then stopping. Then, gently stroking it again, bringing myself once more to the edge.

When the waves of heat and tension and the urge for release got too great, I stopped. I slid my hand down to my tight balls, rubbing the oil into my sac, around and around, coating them, rubbing them. Making them slippery and slick, and glistening in the light. And then I stopped.

I turned away from myself and looked back at Charles and Brigitte, debating my next move. My stiff cock, greased and ready, ached for the tight, welcoming snugness of a warm cunt ? or a warm ass. Charles stood before me, slowly and steadily easing his black dick up my wife's ass, and I couldn't decide. I ached to fuck my wife ? but Charles was already fucking her. She moaned with each thrust, obviously enthralled with the feel of his thick dick in her tight bottom.


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