Two sides of the same coin
Stas.
I am quiet, and that is my problem. But not in the sense you might think. A little about myself. I'm 35, a successful businessman, but I look like a dorm student: a slight build, not very tall—175cm, full lips, trusting gray eyes, light blond hair. And this appearance of mine, combined with the cultured behavior instilled in me by my family of generations of teachers, is a big problem. Because when some alpha male walks down the street—two meters tall and two meters wide, with a stone-jawed will, a predatory gaze, and three-day stubble—everyone understands it's better not to mess with that brute. But me...
well, as they say, anyone can offend me. After all, no one knows that my youth fell in the wild '90s, a time of street fights for neighborhood "honor," rampant crime and cruelty. No one knows that in my time I was the regional boxing champion. No one knows that to run a business in the south of our fairytale Motherland, you need balls of steel; only they allow you to look with a slight smirk into the barrel of an automatic weapon, on the trigger of which the finger of a bearded thug from the friendly Caucasian republics is twitching.Vika. The first thing that catches your eye when you see her is breeding, yes, exactly, breeding. Any man intuitively picks out such girls from the crowd. Whatever they do—cooking, talking with a friend, going to work, or drinking tea—they always look simultaneously like the most imperious empresses and the most depraved whores. And Vika was exactly like that. A petite brunette, fragile in appearance, with an athletic figure and cat-like grace, with the piercing gaze of purebred green eyes—well, you already know what that's like. When I first saw her at some conference where she was participating as a trainee journalist, I knew I was DONE FOR. I knew I wanted to possess her, to feel her perfect body writhing beneath me, to have her smile at me in the mornings lying in bed with me.
Courting her was like a prolonged siege of a fortress, and that's another downside of my appearance. But finally, she surrendered under the pressure of dates, gifts, and compliments. I proposed, and she agreed. We had a lavish wedding and spent a hot honeymoon in the Dominican Republic. Three years have passed since then; I was always gentle, sensitive, attentive with her, remembered all anniversaries and birthdays. We never had fights or scandals; in bed, I always tried to give her maximum pleasure: tender and long foreplay, romantic atmosphere, compliments, passionate sex.
But lately, I've started noticing oddities in her behavior: staying late at work, calls from "girlfriends" at night, and when I returned from business trips, she was in such a state as if she'd been on a forced march: disheveled appearance, bags under her eyes, a hoarse voice, a strained smile, and drowsiness. In her gaze, I increasingly noticed a kind of disdain and indifference. Naturally, I suspected infidelity, but I was afraid of a direct conversation with her. It's funny—in business, I often had to resolve issues harshly and walk the edge, but in this matter, I couldn't show firmness. I was afraid to hear from her what I already suspected.
Yesterday, she refused me sex, said she was "on her period," though I know for sure it's only due in a week. Today, when I returned from work, she wasn't home, though she was supposed to be back before me. I waited for her until late evening; her phone was unavailable. At 10:00 PM, she finally answered:
"Vikulya, where are you? I was about to go looking for you," I said, trying to hide my irritation behind humor.
"At a friend's," she spat out shortly into the phone and hung up. And it was said with an "It's none of your business" tone.
The next day, I had to go on a business trip. I tossed and turned alone in bed, unable to sleep. She didn't come home by morning either; her phone was unavailable. It remained unavailable the entire time I was away.
When I returned home, I immediately sensed something was wrong—the apartment door was locked with one turn, though I usually lock it with two. Quietly walking into the hallway, I immediately heard sounds from the bedroom. There was no mistaking it; they were the sounds of copulation: the slap of flesh against flesh, a guttural male growl, the moans of my beloved. When I entered the room, a shocking scene unfolded before me.
My girl, my Vika, my fragile beauty, was moaning and writhing under a huge man. Her slender legs were wrapped around his powerful torso. His ass was moving at sewing machine speed; there wasn't even a hint of tenderness in this—it was hard fucking. He was pounding her like the last bitch, going full length (something I never allowed myself), driving his rod into her pussy, literally hammering her into the mattress with hard thrusts, and she... she... was getting immense pleasure from it. She never screamed like this even during our honeymoon; her crazed gaze wandered around the room, her tender lips greedily, like a fish thrown ashore, gasped for air, her hands passionately clawed her lover's back. Then he growled:
"Bitch! Get in position!"
"Yes, master," she answered in a voice hoarse from strain and passion, and got on all fours, arching her back like a lustful kitten, offering her sweet ass to his cock.
He didn't make her wait long; without foreplay, he swung and drove his tool into my wife's ass. Roughly grabbing her by the waist, he began furiously pounding her. The size difference between my petite, fragile girl and this beast was such that it seemed like he was jerking off his cock with her body. Meanwhile, she helplessly dropped her head, bracing her hands against the headboard, and simply howled with wild lust. Suddenly, she threw her head back, arched her whole body, and let out a heart-rending moan. Vika had an anal orgasm! Even though before this, we hadn't even engaged in anal sex. Her lover wasn't far behind either; at one point, he stopped thrusting and threw her body away from him like a toy.
"Bitch! Work with your mouth!"
She moved toward him and immediately got slapped.
"Bitch, what are you supposed to say when your master gives an order?"
"You're supposed to say 'Yes, master.' Sorry, master."
She got two more slaps, which brought tears to her eyes.
"That's better, you slut. What are you waiting for? Work with your mouth, cum dumpster!"
She knelt before him, provocatively sticking out her ass, and began tenderly licking his hard-worked cock. By the way, not such a big tool, I thought, only a couple of centimeters bigger than mine, but significantly thinner.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost missed him turning to face me. Seeing me, the lover smirked with a nasty little smile, pushed my wife's head away, and stood up. (Porn stories) My beloved only noticed me now, but didn't even try to justify herself, cover up, or even be scared. She looked at me with a mixture of contempt and disdain. I can imagine how we look in her eyes: her lover—a hulk nearly two meters tall with developed muscles and a masculine face, and me—a lanky, skinny intellectual in glasses (which I wear to look more respectable during negotiations) and a three-piece suit, a head shorter than this wardrobe.
But as I said, I am quiet, and that's my problem. When people realize it's better not to mess with me, it's often too late. Right now, I stood staring into emptiness; my world had collapsed. My fragile girl, my treasure, had spread her legs for this ape. What I feared had happened. How to live on? I felt as if a piece of my soul had been torn out.
In the background, the hulk was spouting something with his trademark nasty little smile, flexing his pink bicep. Only fragments reached me: "Your whore wife...", "Working cunt...", "You'll become a girl too, you fucked...", "I'll work your asshole...", "Wifey will help..." And then his paw reached for me. What did he want? To pat my cheek? It was as if a switch flipped inside me; reality crashed down, blood boiled in my veins. This smug animal, who stuck his dirty dick into the tender pussy of MY wife, dares to open his mouth in my presence?!?! An uppercut crashed into the hulk's jaw, cutting off his speech and wiping the nasty smirk off his face. A straight punch to the solar plexus and a knee to the liver. The wardrobe crashed to the floor and squealed like a piglet.
"Does it really hurt? Come on, get up, don't cry," I say and immediately add a heel to this creature's face.
But suddenly, with a cry of "Don't touch him!!" MY WIFE lunges at me!
"Sit still, bitch!" I growl and shove my beloved's body away. A sense of the unreality of what's happening seizes me; until this moment, I couldn't even imagine yelling at my Vika, let alone hitting her. Like an enraged tigress, she throws herself at me again. I grab her by the hair above her ear and bang her head against the door—not hard, but my whore-wifey went limp. I don't hit women, and I would certainly never raise a hand against my beloved, but Vika is now just a dirty, lustful female to me.
While I was dealing with this whore, the hulk disappeared—I run out into the hallway—there he is! Naked, on half-bent legs, smearing bloody snot across his face, the "master" was desperately fleeing the apartment—luckily, I forgot to close the door. This scum's self-preservation instinct is well-developed—you have to give him that, I thought. I return to the room. That whore, who until recently was the dearest being to me, has huddled in a corner and is looking at me with the eyes of a hunted animal; in her gaze, there is surprise and fear...
This story is my "first attempt." If you, dear reader, want a continuation, please write about it in the comments. There, I also await your advice, suggestions, and constructive criticism!