I never planned to tell anyone how it really happened, but the memory won't leave me alone. It started at that work party, the one my wife Lisa didn't want to attend. She looked incredible in that tight black dress, the fabric clinging to her hips and pushing her breasts up just enough to make every man stare. I watched her laugh with my boss, Derek, a tall, broad-shouldered guy who always took what he wanted. At first it was innocent flirting, but then his hand rested on the small of her back, and she didn't pull away.
By the time we got home, Lisa was flushed and quiet. I asked if she liked the attention. She admitted Derek had whispered how he'd fuck her better than I ever could. My cock twitched at her words. I told her it was okay if she wanted to text him. She did, right there in our bedroom, and within an hour he was at our door.
Derek didn't waste time. He pushed past me like I wasn't even there, pulled Lisa into a deep kiss, and slid his hand under her dress. I stood frozen while he bent her over the couch, yanked her panties down, and buried his face between her thighs. Her moans were louder than I'd ever heard. She came hard on his tongue, her legs shaking, and when he stood up and freed his thick cock, she begged for it without looking at me once.
He fucked her right there, pounding into her pussy with long, hard strokes that made her scream. I could see every inch stretching her, her juices coating his shaft. She kept saying his name, telling him how much bigger he felt than me. The humiliation burned, but my own cock was rock hard and leaking.
Derek noticed and laughed, ordering me to sit and watch while he claimed her. He flipped her onto her back, spread her legs wide, and drove deeper, his balls slapping against her ass. Lisa's eyes rolled back as she came again, her walls clenching around him.
When he finally pulled out and painted her stomach and tits with thick ropes of cum, she looked at me for the first time. Her voice was hoarse. "Clean me up," she said. I dropped to my knees without thinking, licking every drop from her skin while Derek watched and stroked himself hard again. That night set the pattern. He started coming over regularly, sometimes staying the weekend. I'd listen from the hallway while he bent her over our bed, her cries echoing as he stretched her ass or filled her mouth. She stopped letting me inside her, but she'd ride my face after he left, making me taste what he'd left behind.
The worst and best part was how much I craved it. Watching my wife get stolen turned me into a desperate, aching mess. Derek would text me photos of her sucking him off at work or bent over his desk. Each one made my stomach twist with jealousy and my cock throb. Lisa grew bolder, dressing sluttier for him, wearing lingerie I bought that he got to rip off. One night he made me kneel beside the bed while he took her from behind, gripping her hair and making her look at me. "Tell him whose pussy this is," he growled. She moaned that it was his, that she was his slut now.
Months later, nothing has changed. Derek still owns her body, and I still watch, clean up, and ache. The stolen moments have become our new normal. Lisa kisses me softly afterward sometimes, whispering that she loves me for letting it happen. The shame and the lust twist together until I can't tell them apart. Every time he claims her, I feel more lost and more alive than I ever did before.
