I still remember the exact moment it crossed the line. My wife had gone to her sister's for the weekend, and her best friend Lena was crashing at our place because her apartment was being painted. We'd always flirted in that safe, married-couple way—jokes about how good she looked in a bikini during group trips, the way she'd squeeze my arm a little too long when laughing. But alone in the house with her, the air felt different.
Lena walked out of the guest room wearing one of my wife's old tank tops and nothing else underneath. The fabric clung to her full breasts, nipples pressing hard against the cotton. She caught me staring and didn't look away. "Your wife said I could borrow whatever I needed," she said, voice low. "Hope you don't mind."
I swallowed. "Not at all."
We drank wine on the couch, conversation turning quickly filthy. She admitted she'd always wondered what my cock looked like. I confessed I'd jerked off thinking about her mouth. By the second glass her hand was on my thigh, sliding higher until her fingers brushed the hard ridge in my jeans. "Show me," she whispered.
I unzipped and pulled myself out. Lena stared, licked her lips, then wrapped her warm fingers around the shaft. She stroked slowly, thumb circling the head, spreading the precum. "Thicker than I imagined," she murmured, then leaned down and took me into her mouth. The wet heat of her tongue sliding along the underside made my hips jerk. She sucked me deep, gagging softly when I hit the back of her throat, saliva dripping down my balls. I grabbed her hair and fucked her face in steady thrusts, watching her eyes water while she moaned around me.
When she pulled off, strings of spit connected her lips to my cock.
"I need you inside me," she said, already shoving her shorts down. She climbed onto my lap, reached between us, and guided the head to her slick entrance. She was dripping. I watched her pussy lips stretch around me as she sank down inch by inch, taking every bit until she was seated fully, grinding her clit against my pubic bone.
We fucked like that for a long time—slow, grinding circles at first, then hard bounces that made her tits slap against my chest. Her cunt clenched tight every time I bottomed out. I reached around and rubbed her asshole with a wet finger, teasing the rim until she begged me to push inside. Two fingers worked into her ass while my cock stretched her pussy; she came hard, shaking and cursing, juices running down my shaft onto the couch.
I flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and pounded her deep. The wet sounds of her soaked pussy filled the room. She kept telling me how much better I felt than her last boyfriend, how she wanted me to fill her up. When I warned her I was close she wrapped her legs around me and held me in. I came in thick pulses, flooding her, watching my cum leak out around my cock with every final thrust.
We didn't stop there. In the shower I took her from behind, soaping her tits while I fucked her again. Later in bed we sixty-nined until she squirted across my face. By morning we were sore and sticky, both knowing it couldn't happen again once my wife came home—but neither of us regretted a single second. The memory still makes me hard whenever Lena visits.
