When Wrong Is So Hot

I still am not sure exactly why I did nothing but stare. I made no attempt to stop him. I just stood there, half in shock, half aroused.

Less than an hour earlier, I had decided to call it quits and head home early. It was a random decision. I could afford to do it. I owned the business. I had good people working for me. It was a simple, random decision that ushered me to this moment of paralysis.

The 10 minute drive home was uneventful. Green lights. Red lights. Mindless piloting of the vehicle. By the time I pulled in the driveway, I was already disengaged from the office.

I slid the gear shift into park. I pushed the start/stop button, opened the car door and stepped out. Casually, without much thought of anything, I stepped across the circular driveway that arched across the lush landscape in front of our house. Just before I reached the Corinthian columns that framed the entryway, I noticed the side gate was slightly open.

Curious.

I went to close it. I reached out and grabbed a sheath of the black, ornamental, rot iron fence. But just as I began to pull it...

Curiosity.

Why was the gate open? There was no scheduled gardening or pool service scheduled for Thursdays. Instead of pulling it shut and making my way to the front door, I stepped inside and wandered down the gravel trail that meandered along the perimeter of our home towards the backyard patio and pool area.

My heart rate was elevated just a little bit. My mind was slowly engaging, considering the fleeting possibilities of something askew. It was not fear or terror or anxiety or some dark anticipation of malice.

It was curiosity.

The patio was silent, except for the rain forest like chirps of birds flittering about. The pool was glistening with a glassy surface and that magnetic, Caribbean blue water. All was quiet and in place. No signs of foul play. Yet the gate. Why?

I stepped from the rocky path to the smooth slabs of granite symmetrically aligned poolside leading to the lush greenery of the landscaping expanding along the eastern edge of the backroom of our home. Walls of glass from floor to ceiling, affording picturesque views of the pool through the foliage, made the backroom one of the most scenic points in the entire neighborhood. How ironic that it would be the scene I was about to see while looking inward that would be the view I would never forget.

I was not trying to be stealthy or secretive. But I was marginal cautious. Still unsure of why the gate had been left ajar.

Curious.

I saddled along the eastern wall, dark shadows swallowing me as I ducked beneath the low hanging branches and leaves of the South American themed plant-life. It was about a dozen or so steps along the transparent wall before my vision first registered the first inkling of motion at the periphery. Inside. On the couch.

Curious.

I stood still. I arched my back, trying to peek around the thick base of a Sancoya Tree, straining my eyes to see beyond the glass barrier. Bending my vision.

My heart was beating faster, harder. Now, intentionally lifting my foot in silence and stepping forward with the greatest effort to make not a sound, I inched forward to better position my eyes to interpret the image that was just beyond reach.

There, in the back room. On the couch. The first glimpse of it penetrating my cornea, projecting on my retina, registering in my brain. The image; it was Kay, my wife.

I stood still. She laid prone on the couch, on her back, her long slender legs extended. I stood just behind her, looking over her body from head to toe. She was wearing a white tank top the hung low enough to provide my eyes an ample view of the cleavage between her gorgeous 36c breasts; perky and inviting even as she laid on there on her back; and those tight, denim cutoffs that were too indecent to wear in public, making her 5 foot 8 inch frame seem even longer.

But the image of her was not what paralyzed me. What crippled my ability to move was the arm curling around her hip and extending a hand to her inner thigh just inches from those pussy folds that the obscenely thin strip of denim passing across her crotch could not spread wide enough to cover.

She was not alone!

I swallowed hard as I watched the fingers slowly curl and circle over her flesh. I had no idea who it was... who was laying under her... whose chest was supporting her back.

Paralyzed... Curious... Aroused.

Her dark nipples were pressing against the fabric of her cotton tank top. The impression revealed the marvelous dimensions of her silver dollar sized nipples, puffy enough to almost form a miniature breast atop the larger base.

His middle finger slithered along the pencil thin strip of denim carving a path between her folds as she rocked her hips. Her smooth folds were pressed into the open, swallowing the strip of her shorts... merging with his middle finger, extended like a hot dog in a bun.

Then another arm appeared from under her other side, or the impression of an arm, as it slithered under her tank top. The veiled hand migrated up until the tank top lifted away from the full mound of her breast, the shape of his hand replacing the form of her puffy nipple.

I watched as she slowly began to grind her body against his. His upper hand pinching her nipple. His lower hand plowing the fabric between her folds.

She lifted her hips. His upper hand slid lower as his lower hand slid upward. Then, with the most erotic synchronization of motion, as if choreographed, she wriggled her hips as his hands guided her shorts lower, and lower, and lower. Inching lower as she rippled from hips to knees repeatedly, her shorts were guided to her knees by his patient hands.

She was wearing no panties of course. As the shorts met her knees, she curled her left leg expertly and tucked her foot free, leaving the shorts dangling along her right lower calf.

My eyes saw her pussy. Moist. Smooth. Inviting. Then his finger. Extended. Penetrating. Coated with her wetness.

His body was still obscured by her body, grinding against him. Her back against his chest. Her ass against his crotch. I had no idea if he was clothed or not.

Speechless. Stunned. Shocked.

But, my cock was hard. I watched as he fingered MY WIFE. I did nothing to stop him. Instead, I quietly and carefully pealed my slacks open, freeing my hard cock that was approaching a record thickness of arousal.

Her hands pulled her tank up over her head, leaving her body completely naked... to my eyes... to his hands.

His finger pumped her... in and out, in and out. I was stroking my cock to the rhythm of his penetrations.

Just when I thought I could not imagine a more naughty vision, I watched her hands reach between her legs as she shuffled her body up his frame. Her wrist pressed his finger deeper inside of her as she stretched.

Then, like the huge globe of a full moon rising, I saw the tip of his cockhead in her hand as she bent it toward her pussy, still stuffed with his middle finger.

He pulled his finger out.

She guided his cock in.

And I stood there and watched him fuck my wife! But not just watch, but also stroking my cock.

After an extended period of playful fucking and riding his cock in and out of her, she reached down and pulled his cock free, just seconds before large spurts of creamy white cum splattered up over her hairless mound all the way up to the lower curves of her breasts.

I shot my load so hard that small splatters of cum smeared onto the window in front of me... separating me from them.

As my eyes began to roll back in my head, my cock cumming with bursts of pleasure that I had never felt before, I saw her rock upward . . .

I saw his shoulder lifting upward . . .

I saw the profile of his face . . .

And then, yes, I was confronted with his identity.

Paralyzed...