My husband travels for work two weeks out of every month, and being a thoughtful man, he asked his best friend to check on me while he is gone. His words. Check on me. Ryan has known me eleven years. He stood beside my husband at our wedding in a rented suit and gave a toast about how lucky his friend was. He has been checking on me for four months now, and last Thursday he finally checked on me properly.
I knew he was coming at seven. I made dinner anyway, the good pasta, because seduction in a lonely house runs smoother on a full stomach. I wore the dress I would never wear to a couple's dinner, the one that reminds a man I am a woman first and his friend's wife second, a fact this house has been asking everyone to forget for years. Not Ryan. Ryan never forgot. Eleven years of half second looks across barbecues adds up to a whole sentence, and on Thursday I decided to finally hear it.
"Tom sent me to make sure you are okay," he said at my door, holding a bottle of wine like a permission slip.
"I am not okay," I told him. "Come in and I will tell you about it."
We talked for an hour like adults circling a fire. He told me what my husband never has, that he notices, that he has lain awake two streets over furious at a man who has a wife like me and treats her like furniture. A woman can survive being ignored. What she cannot survive is finally being seen. When his hand found my knee I covered it with mine and held it there like an answer, and he kissed me like a man ending an eleven year sentence.
I took him to the guest room, because even a cheating wife keeps her own rules, and I let him undress me slow, button by button, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered like he was apologizing to it. Then he laid me back on that bed, spread my legs, and put his mouth on me, and sweetheart, I nearly levitated. Eleven years of marriage and my husband has never once gone down on me with hunger. Ryan ate my pussy like it was the meal he had been thinking about for a decade, tongue flat and slow, then two fingers curled inside me while he sucked my clit, and I came with my hands fisted in his hair, loud, shaking, saying his name in a house my husband pays for. He did not let me recover. He flipped me onto my stomach, lifted my hips, and pushed his cock into me from behind in one deep stroke that made us both groan, and he fucked me the way a man fucks a woman he has wanted for eleven years, hard, grateful, relentless, one hand in my hair and the other holding my hip while I begged him into the pillow.
Then I climbed on top of him, because this MILF had eleven years of being unwanted to work out of her system. I rode him facing the door like a dare, my tits bouncing in his hands, taking him deep on every roll of my hips, and I watched his face the whole time so he would know exactly who was using who. He came inside me without pulling out, both of us too far gone to care, his hands shaking on my waist, and I stayed on top of him feeling it drip out of me, more alive than I had felt in a decade of marriage.
He still checks on me, every Thursday my husband is gone, room by room. My husband thanked him last weekend, in front of me, for looking out for his wife. Ryan squeezed my hand under the table.
So tell me honestly. Are you the man who has been watching a neglected woman for years, waiting for your Thursday? Or do you just want to hear a married woman describe, in every detail, what another man does to her in her guest room while her husband is three states away? Either way, I am your girl. I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute. Call me, and I will tell you what Ryan does to me next Thursday, or better, we will write your version, where you are the best friend at my door with the wine. If you liked this one, read how I gave another man permission to take me whenever he wants. The porch light is on, sweetheart.