The Boarder Stole My Wife: Part Three
- Lisa X Lopez
- 6 days ago
- 11 min read
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Forbidden Tastes
Carl stumbled back to the archway, his body moving like a puppet yanked by strings, no control left in him. The pasta sauce bubbled on the stove, the smell of tomatoes and garlic filling the air, but it was just a joke now—a pathetic reminder of normal life while his world was about to get fucked. The living room was dark, the last bit of sunlight turning everything purple and ugly. In that gloom, Carl watched his marriage get slaughtered.
Laurel was splayed out on their couch, legs spread so wide it was almost cartoonish. Her tank top was shoved up, tits out, nipples hard and dark like she’d just been slapped. Her yoga pants were gone, tossed somewhere, so her pussy was bare and on display. Jeremy was on his knees between her thighs, face buried in her cunt, eating her out like he was starving and she was the only meal in town.
The room was full of wet, filthy sounds—slurping, sucking, Jeremy’s mouth working over Laurel’s cunt like he was trying to drink her dry. Laurel moaned, high and desperate, her back arching off the couch, shoving her pussy harder into his face. Her fingers were knotted in his hair, holding him there, grinding herself on his mouth like she was trying to smother him.
“Oh God,” Laurel gasped, her voice high and breathless. “Oh God, Jeremy, yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”
Carl had never heard his wife make those noises. Not once in fifteen years. He’d tried to eat her out—maybe a dozen times, tops—and every time she’d pushed his head away, told him it was fine, she didn’t need it. She always acted like oral was some weird, embarrassing thing. Like his tongue was a joke.
But now? No embarrassment. No gentle push away. Laurel was writhing under Jeremy’s mouth like she was possessed, hips bucking, thighs shaking. She was hungry for it, greedy, taking everything Jeremy gave her and begging for more.
Jeremy’s hands gripped Laurel’s thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. He spread her wider, exposing her completely, and Carl caught a glimpse of glistening pink flesh before Jeremy’s mouth descended again. His tongue flicked rapidly over what had to be her clit based on the sharp cry that tore from Laurel’s throat.
“Fuck,” Laurel sobbed, her head thrashing on the cushion. “Fuck, that’s so good. Your tongue—oh God, your tongue—”
Carl’s cock was rock hard in his pants, throbbing so bad it hurt. The wet spot on his boxers was spreading, precum leaking out in pathetic little spurts. He was shaking all over, stuck between wanting to puke and wanting to cum right there in his pants.
This was all kinds of wrong. His wife, his house, his marriage getting fucked on the same couch they’d bought at a church yard sale. Carl should be pissed, should be yanking Jeremy off her and tossing him out on his ass.
But Carl couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe. He just stood there, glued to the floor, watching Jeremy eat his wife’s pussy like he owned it, like he’d been doing it for years.
Then Jeremy’s eyes flicked up, locking onto Carl’s face.
Jeremy didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink at being caught. He stared right at Carl, holding his eyes, and dragged his tongue up Laurel’s pussy in a slow, filthy lick. It was a show, just for Carl—a big fuck you, a reminder that he was nothing.
Jeremy smirked, eyes full of contempt and victory. He knew Carl was watching. Knew Carl was hard. Knew Carl would just stand there like a loser, watching another man make his wife cum.
Jeremy’s tongue flicked again, this time clearly targeting Laurel’s clit based on the way her whole body jerked. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him harder against her. “Yes! Just like that! I’m so close!”
Carl was panting, chest heaving in time with Laurel’s moans. His hand jerked toward his crotch, desperate to grab his aching cock, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t jerk off while watching. That would make him part of it. That would make him a cuck, right there in his own living room.
But he already was. Standing there, cock about to explode, watching his wife get eaten out by another man—he was already a cuck, whether he touched himself or not.
Laurel’s moans crescendoed, becoming sharper, more desperate. Her thighs clamped around Jeremy’s head, her back arching impossibly high off the couch. “I’m coming! Oh fuck, I’m—”
Her orgasm hit her like a physical blow. Laurel’s whole body convulsed, her mouth opening in a silent scream before sound finally erupted from her throat—a long, guttural moan of pure ecstasy. Her hips ground against Jeremy’s face as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, her pussy visibly spasming.
Carl had never seen his wife cum like that. Never made her cum like that. The truth hit him like a punch to the gut—he was useless, a joke, nothing but a warm-up act for the real thing.
Jeremy kept licking through Laurel’s climax, prolonging it, drawing out every tremor and gasp until she finally pushed weakly at his head, her body too sensitive to take more. He pulled back with obvious satisfaction, his mouth and chin glistening with her wetness, and wiped his face with the back of his hand before standing.
Laurel lay sprawled on the couch, her chest heaving, her skin flushed pink from neck to breasts. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused, lost in the afterglow of the most intense pleasure she’d clearly ever experienced.
“Dinner’s probably ready,” Jeremy said conversationally, as if he’d just finished helping with homework rather than eating Carl’s wife’s pussy to a screaming orgasm.
Moving to the dining room felt like a bad dream. Carl went through the motions—draining pasta, dumping food on plates, setting the table. Laurel had her clothes back on, but her hair was a mess, lips swollen, face flushed. She looked freshly fucked, and Jeremy hadn’t even put his cock in her yet.
Yet. That word echoed in Carl’s head like a death sentence. He knew it was coming. He knew he’d watch.
They sat in their usual spots—Carl at the head, Laurel to his right, Jeremy to his left. It looked normal, but it was sick. Steam rose from the spaghetti, the smell of sauce and garlic filling the room, like nothing had happened. Like Carl hadn’t just watched his wife get her pussy destroyed.
Jeremy twirled pasta on his fork, took a bite, then looked directly at Carl with those piercing blue eyes. “Dude, you have no idea how good your wife’s pussy tastes.”
Jeremy’s words hung in the air, filthy and on purpose. Carl’s fork slipped from his hand and clattered on the plate. He felt like his fingers had turned to jelly.
Laurel’s face went red, but she didn’t say a word. Didn’t tell Jeremy to stop, didn’t act embarrassed. She just looked down, a little smile on her lips, eating up the compliment, loving how crude he was.
“Sweet,” Jeremy continued, taking another bite of spaghetti. “And she gets so fucking wet. I thought I was gonna drown down there.” He laughed, the sound easy and confident. “You’re a lucky man, Carl. Though I’m guessing you don’t go down on her much, based on how she reacted.”
Carl’s throat worked, trying to form words. Any words. But nothing came out except a strangled sound that might have been agreement or protest—even he couldn’t tell which.
“It’s okay, man,” Jeremy said magnanimously. “Not every guy knows what he’s doing with his tongue. That’s why Laurel’s teaching me. Making sure I know how to properly take care of a woman.” His gaze slid to Laurel, hot and possessive. “And she’s an excellent teacher.”
Laurel’s flush deepened, spreading down her neck. Her nipples were visible through the thin fabric of her tank top, still hard from her recent orgasm. She met Jeremy’s eyes, holding his gaze in a way that communicated volumes.
Carl’s appetite was gone, but he forced himself to shovel pasta into his mouth, chewing without tasting a thing. Dinner dragged on, broken up by Jeremy’s filthy comments and Laurel’s breathy little giggles.
When the meal finally ended, Carl stood to clear the plates. Laurel and Jeremy remained seated, their heads close together, whispering. Carl caught fragments as he moved back and forth between the dining room and kitchen.
“…upstairs…” Laurel’s voice, soft and eager.
“…show you what else I learned…” Jeremy’s response, thick with promise.
Carl loaded the dishwasher, hands shaking so bad he almost dropped a plate. Behind him, chairs scraped. He heard footsteps heading for the stairs.
He turned and saw them leaving—Laurel’s hand locked in Jeremy’s, fingers tangled together as they walked to the stairs. To the bedroom. To the bed where Carl had slept with his wife for fifteen years, now about to get defiled.
Neither of them looked back.
***
The dishes could rot for all Carl cared. He froze, plate in hand, as the sounds started drifting down from upstairs—no mistaking them. He was drawn to it, helpless, like a loser moth flying straight into the fire, knowing he’d get burned and not caring.
Laurel’s moans. High and desperate and absolutely shameless.
Carl wiped his hands on the towel, slow and careful, even though his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Every step toward the stairs felt heavy, like he was walking to his own execution. Or maybe his marriage’s. Didn’t matter.
The stairs creaked under him. He crept up, quiet as he could, but he knew it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t notice if he stomped. They were too busy fucking, too wrapped up in each other to care about the loser husband sneaking up.
His bedroom door. His and Laurel’s. Their marital sanctuary.
The hallway felt endless, walls closing in. Flickering light spilled from the bedroom—candlelight, warm and golden. Laurel had never lit candles for Carl. Never bothered with romance for him. But for Jeremy? She’d turned their bedroom into a fuck palace.
But she’d done it for Jeremy.
The sounds got louder as Carl got closer. Laurel’s gasps, the bed creaking, Jeremy’s low grunts. And underneath it all, the wet, filthy slap of flesh on flesh—Carl’s brain tried to deny it, but his cock knew exactly what it was.
Carl reached the doorway and peered inside, his breath catching in his throat.
Candles covered every surface—the dresser, the nightstands, the windowsill. Their flames cast dancing shadows across the walls, turning the familiar room into something foreign and dreamlike. The covers had been pulled back on the bed, exposing the white sheets that Laurel had changed just that morning.
And there, on those clean sheets, Jeremy was balls-deep in Carl’s wife, fucking her like he owned her.
Laurel lay on her back, completely naked, her legs spread wide to accommodate Jeremy’s body between them. Her auburn hair fanned across the pillow—Carl’s pillow—creating a halo around her flushed face. Her breasts bounced with each of Jeremy’s thrusts, the nipples hard and flushed dark. Her hands clutched at Jeremy’s back, nails raking down his tattooed skin and leaving angry red trails in their wake.
Jeremy was above her, arms flexed, hips pounding forward with the confidence of a porn star. His cock—huge, thick, making Carl’s look like a joke—slammed into Laurel’s pussy, stretching her wide, filling her up in a way Carl never could.
“Yes,” Laurel gasped, her voice raw. “Yes, fuck me. Harder, Jeremy, please.”
Jeremy picked up the pace, hips slamming into Laurel so hard the headboard banged the wall. Thump, thump, thump—each hit was like a drumbeat of Carl’s humiliation.
Laurel’s mouth fell open, her eyes rolling back as pleasure overwhelmed her. She looked transported, her expression one of absolute ecstasy. Carl had seen her face during their infrequent sexual encounters, had watched her try to fake enthusiasm, to pretend she was enjoying herself for his sake. The comparison gutted him.
This was real. Laurel was getting fucked for real, cumming for real. The kind of pleasure Carl had never given her, never could—not with his small dick and clueless hands.
Carl stood frozen in the doorway, cock straining against his pants, so hard it hurt. Horror and humiliation screamed in his head, but his body didn’t care. He was so turned on it was almost painful.
Jeremy’s head turned, his blue eyes finding Carl in the shadows. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He didn’t stop fucking Laurel. If anything, his thrusts became more aggressive, more deliberate, each one designed to prove his dominance.
“Take it,” Jeremy growled, his voice rough with exertion and satisfaction. “Take my cock. You love it, don’t you?”
“Yes!” Laurel cried out, her back arching off the mattress. “I love it! God, I love your cock!”
The words hit Carl like a punch to the face. His wife—his good, church-girl wife—was screaming about how much she loved another man’s cock.
Jeremy’s smile widened, his gaze never leaving Carl’s face. “Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me how much better it is.”
“So much better,” Laurel panted, her nails digging deeper into Jeremy’s back. “So big. You fill me up so perfectly. I’ve never—oh God—I’ve never been fucked like this.”
“Your husband could never fuck you like this,” Jeremy stated flatly, still looking directly at Carl. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact, delivered with absolute certainty. “Could he?”
“No,” Laurel whimpered, her hips rising to meet Jeremy’s thrusts. “Never like this. Never this good.”
Carl’s hand went to his crotch before he even realized it, pressing down on his rock-hard cock through his pants. The touch sent a jolt through him, hips jerking forward. He was already close, just from watching, just from hearing his wife beg for another man’s cock.
“He’s watching,” Jeremy said, slamming into Laurel even harder. “Your pathetic cuck husband is standing right there, jerking off while I ruin this pussy. Look at him—hand on his tiny dick, getting off like the loser he is.”
Laurel’s head turned, eyes glazed, finding Carl in the shadows. For a second, maybe she felt something—guilt, shame—but then Jeremy slammed into her again and her eyes rolled back, all that gone, just pleasure left.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, her attention returning completely to Jeremy. “Please don’t stop. I need more. I need—”
“You need a real man’s cock,” Jeremy finished for her, his rhythm becoming irregular as his own orgasm approached. “You need someone who can actually make you cum. Someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing.”
“Yes,” Laurel sobbed, her whole body trembling. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Jeremy’s jaw clenched, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Fuck, I’m close. Gonna cum all over you. Mark you up so your husband knows who owns this pussy now.”
“Do it,” Laurel urged, her voice high and desperate. “Please, Jeremy, I want it!”
Jeremy pulled out abruptly, his massive cock glistening with Laurel’s wetness. He straddled her stomach, his hand working his shaft in rapid strokes. His face contorted with pleasure, his muscles tensing, and then he was coming—thick ropes of cum shooting across Laurel’s breasts and stomach, painting her skin white.
Something snapped in Carl’s head. His cock jerked in his pants, and he came, hard, without even touching himself. His underwear filled with cum, the wet spot spreading across his khakis for everyone to see. His knees buckled and he had to grab the doorframe to keep from falling over.
Pleasure and shame twisted together as Carl watched Jeremy’s cum drip down Laurel’s tits and stomach. He watched her smile up at Jeremy, eyes full of worship. Watched her smear his cum over her skin, marking herself like she belonged to him.
Jeremy got off Laurel, his cock still big even as it softened. He looked at Carl, saw the giant cum stain on his pants, and laughed—a sound full of contempt and victory.
“Pathetic,” Jeremy said simply.
And Carl knew Jeremy was right. This would happen again. The ‘lessons’ would keep going, get worse, get filthier. Carl would watch every time, helpless, his cock getting hard while his marriage got torn apart.
Worse than knowing it would keep happening was realizing he wanted it. He wanted to watch Jeremy fuck his wife again and again. He wanted the humiliation, the shame, because somewhere along the line, that was the only thing that could make him hard. The only thing that could make him cum.
Carl was a cuck. Totally, hopelessly. And as he stood there, cum soaking his pants, watching his wife glow in the aftershocks of another man’s cock, he knew it. He accepted it.
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