A Surprise Date Turns Filthy

It started innocently enough, or as innocent as I ever get. Hubby had texted me that morning: Wear something slutty. Long hair. Meet me after work. My pussy clenched just reading it, that familiar throb of anticipation. So I primped like the eager little whore I am—straightening my dark locks until they cascaded down my back, then weaving in those long, wavy extensions he loves, the ones that give him something to fist when he's pounding me from behind. I slipped into my black satin blouse, the fabric whispering against my skin, with sheer sleeves. Paired it with my shortest black satin mini skirt, it barely skimmed the tops of my thighs, riding up underneath, crotchless tights hugging my legs. No knickers, of course; the cool air kissing my bare, shaved lips and high heels.

The day dragged but the guys chatting to me at my desk looking at my tits was entertaining me. By 6 PM, I was buzzing, nipples hard against the satin, pussy lips already swollen and damp against the open seam of my tights. I met him in a cocktail bar new by. There he was drinking a Martini... but he wasn't alone. Beside him sat this stranger—tall, broad-shouldered, with chiselled jaw, dark hair tousled just enough to beg for fingers running through it.

I froze in the doorway, heart hammering, a flush creeping up my neck to stain my cheeks. Hubby just grinned wider, pulling me into the booth with a hand that grazed my thigh under the table, fingers brushing the bare skin where skirt met tights. "Surprise, ," . "This is Alex. Thought you'd like to play." Alex's gaze raked over me, slow and predatory, lingering on the way my blouse clung to my tits, the sheer sleeves doing nothing to hide the goosebumps rising on my arms. I should have been shocked—outraged, even—but that wicked spark in Hubby's eyes, the heat pooling between my legs? It melted any protest. We ordered drinks and the conversation flowed like foreplay. Teasing glances, Hubby's foot nudging my heel under the table, Alex's deep laugh vibrating through me. Before the ice in my glass had melted, their words wove a spell: ropes, submission, my mouth stretched wide around them both, I agreed. Eagerly. My clit throbbed at the thought, juices already trickling down my inner thigh.

The door had barely clicked shut before they were on me, Hubby's fingers tangled in my extensions, yanking my head back to expose my throat as Alex pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck. "On your knees, slut," Hubby growled, and oh, how I obeyed, sinking down with a whimper, the carpet rough against my stockinged knees. They worked fast, efficient. Coarse rope bit into my skin as they bound my arms behind me, starting high: loops cinched tight around my upper arms, pulling my shoulders back until my tits thrust forward, straining the satin buttons of my blouse. More rope at my wrists, knotted so securely I could barely twitch, the burn of restraint sending electric jolts straight to my dripping cunt. I tested it once, a futile tug that only made the ropes dig deeper, marking me with pretty red welts I'd admire in the mirror later. Helpless, exposed.

Hubby went first, unzipping with that predatory gleam, his cock springing free—thick, veined, already leaking pre-cum. "Open wide," he commanded, and I did, lips parting on a gasp as he fisted my hair extensions, guiding that fat head past my teeth. God, the taste flooded my tongue as he sank in deep, stretching my jaw until it ached deliciously. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking like the greedy cocksucker I am, swirling my tongue around the underside, tracing that pulsing vein while my bound hands clenched uselessly behind me. He groaned, hips bucking, fucking my face with shallow thrusts at first—teasing, letting me worship—before he gripped harder and rammed home. Gagging hit me like a wave, my throat convulsing around his girth as he hit the back, tears pricking my eyes, mascara threatening to run in black rivulets down my cheeks. I choked, sputtering, saliva bubbling at the corners of my mouth, dripping down my chin onto the satin of my blouse, darkening the fabric in lewd spots. But I didn't pull back—oh no, I leaned into it, humming vibrations around him, my gags turning to wet, slurping pleas as he used me, balls slapping my chin with every brutal plunge.

Then Alex stepped up, shedding his shirt, a trail of dark hair leading down to his own monster, longer than Hubby's, curved just right to hit spots that made stars burst behind my eyelids. Hubby pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting us, and Alex was there in an instant, one hand cupping my jaw to pry it wider, the other threading into my straight locks to hold me steady. "Your turn to choke on this, pretty thing," and thrust in without mercy. Fuck, he was relentless—long strokes that buried him to the hilt, my nose grinding against his trimmed pubes, inhaling his clean, aroused scent as my throat spasmed in protest. I gagged hard, retching sounds echoing obscenely in the room, my body heaving as drool poured from my lips, soaking my chin, my neck, trickling between my heaving tits to pool in my cleavage. He didn't let up, fucking my skull, the rope bindings keeping me arched and immobile, every gag forcing my pussy to clench emptily, aching for touch they denied me.

They traded off like that for what felt like eternity of pure, throat-bruising bliss. Hubby would reclaim me, his shorter, thicker cock battering my tonsils until I was a mess of coughs and moans, eyes watering, lipstick smeared along his shaft in crimson streaks. I'd suck him greedily between thrusts, lips pursing around the head to milk those salty beads, my tongue flicking the slit while I fought for air through my nose. Then Alex would shove in, his length snaking deeper, making me choke so violently my vision blurred, body trembling as I fought the urge to tap out knowing they wouldn’t let me anyway, the burn in my jaw, the way my gags made them both growl and swell impossibly harder. . My mouth was their toy, stretched raw, throat hoarse from the endless assault, saliva and pre-cum mixing in a frothy mess that dripped onto my skirt, staining the satin blacker.

By the end, I was wrecked—face flushed, hair extensions tangled and wild, blouse gaping open to bare my lace-clad tits heaving with each ragged breath, cocks throbbing in their fists, and oh, the release... Hubby came first, hot ropes splattering across my cheeks, my forehead, one thick spurt landing on my parted lips for me to taste—bitter, creamy, divine. Alex followed, groaning my name as he painted my chin and neck, cum dripping down to mingle with my tears and drool, marking me like their filthy canvas. I knelt there, bound, tongue darting to lap what I could, the rest cooling sticky on my skin as they finally knelt to untie me. Hubby fetched a warm cloth from the bathroom, dabbing at my face wiping away the mess of cum, spit, and smeared makeup until I looked almost presentable again, though the ache in my throat lingered like a secret bruise. Alex straightened my skirt, his fingers brushing too close to the soaked seam of my tights, sending a jolt through my untouched pussy, but he pulled away with a wink, as if he knew exactly how desperate I was.

"Time for dinner, pet," Hubby said casually, like we'd just finished a movie, not an hour of using my mouth as their cum-dump. They led me out, arm in arm, to the curry house next door. We slid into a booth, the three of us flushed and laughing like old friends, Alex sat next to me feeling my leg. The conversation turned light—work gripes, bad jokes—while I sat there, thighs clenched under the table, my bare cunt throbbing against the open crotch of my tights, slick and swollen from neglect. Every swallow of spicy sauce made me wince, a reminder of their cocks stretching me wide, and god, the frustration built like a storm. My clit ached, begging for friction, for even a single finger to plunge into the mess I'd made for them, but they didn't touch me there—not a graze, not a tease. It was intoxicating, that edge of denial—the way they'd taken their pleasure so thoroughly, leaving me high and so so wet. It thrilled me to my core, that delicious humiliation of being wanted only for what I could give.

We said our goodbyes to Alex on the pavement, his parting kiss on my cheek lingering just long enough to make me squirm. Hubby slid into the taxi with me, his arm around my shoulders, that mischievous glint in his eye as he placed his hands on my thighs—fingers tracing lazy circles on the sheer tights, inching higher but always stopping short, hovering so close to my soaked seam I could feel the heat of his skin, yet never granting the touch I craved. I shifted, thighs parting instinctively, a soft whine escaping my lips, but he just chuckled low, pulling back to watch me simmer in the back seat, the streetlights blurring past as my frustration coiled tighter.

Home at last, we stripped down and slipped into bed, my body still humming with unspent need. Hubby pulled me close, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured, "Not yet, pet. You wait for permission to come. Earn it tomorrow." I nodded, biting my lip against the ache, his words locking that desperate edge in place as we drifted off—me denied, him content, the promise of more torment hanging like sweet smoke in the air. Used, edged, and utterly his.

I woke with the dawn filtering through our curtains in that soft London grey, my pussy still throbbing from the night's tease. Hubby stirred beside me, his hand possessively cupping my tit through my nightie before rolling away with a sleepy murmur: "Be good today, pet." Be good? As if I had a choice. Dressing for work bI chose a crisp white satin blouse, the kind that clings like a second skin, buttons straining over my full breasts, the sheer fabric hinting at the black lace demi-cup bra beneath—nipples already peaked and poking through like traitors begging for attention. A pencil skirt hugging my hips and arse like it was painted on, ending just above the knee but slit high enough to flash thigh when I crossed my legs. Underneath, hold-up stockings in smoky sheer, and a tiny black thong that rode up my crack, the thin strip nestling between my slick lips like a cruel reminder of what I craved. Heels, of course—strappy black stilettos that clicked authoritatively on the tube platform, turning heads as I swayed through the morning rush.

The commute was torture every jolt of the train grinding my thong against my clit until I was panting softly, thighs squeezed together to stave off the flood. By the time I reached the office I was a live wire—pussy lips puffy and pulsing, juices seeping into the fabric, leaving a damp spot I prayed no one would notice. Most of the day I was imagining Hubby's thick shaft battering my throat again, or Alex's length curving down it, while colleagues droned on about quarterly reports. By 5 PM, I was feral—rushing to the loo whispering be good to my reflection as I adjusted my skirt and stockings.

Home at last, I kicked off my heels and collapsed on the sofa, skirt hiking up to bare the tops of my stockings. The ache was unbearable now—a deep, insistent pulse in my core, my thong a sodden mess clinging to my folds, clit so sensitive that even the air from the open window made me whimper. Fingers itched to dive in, to frig myself senseless right there on the cushions, chasing that orgasm I'd earned a thousand times over. But no. Hubby's voice in my head was iron: Earn it. I cooked instead—chopping veg with shaky hands, the knife's rhythm a poor substitute for the thrusts I craved—pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, every brush of fabric against my skin a spark to the powder keg between my legs.

He arrived just as the pasta hit the boil, key in the lock like a key to my undoing. I was at the sink when he stepped in, suit rumpled from the day, eyes glinting as they raked over me. "On your knees, pet," he commanded, voice low and unyielding, no hello, no kiss. Heart slamming, I dropped without a word, skirt pooling around me on the tiled floor, knees spreading wide as I knelt before him. He circled me once, slow, his fingers trailing my shoulder, then yanked my wrists behind my back. Click—cold steel bit in as the handcuffs snapped shut, tight enough to pinch, the chain taut between my cuffed hands, forcing my shoulders back and tits forward in shameless display. No rope this time; just the brutal efficiency of metal, locking me in place, helpless and exposed.

He unzipped leisurely, his cock springing free—hard, veined, the head already glistening—as he fisted my hair extensions, tilting my head up. "Open," he growled, and I did, mouth watering despite the rawness from last night, lips parting wide as he fed it in. Inch by thick inch, stretching my jaw anew, that familiar salty tang flooding my tongue as he sank deep. No warm-up, no mercy—he gripped harder and fucked my face with ruthless strokes, hips snapping forward to bury himself in my throat. I gagged instantly, choking on his girth, tears springing as my body heaved, saliva spilling down my chin to soak my blouse anew. Bound by the cuffs, I couldn't pull away—could only take it, humming wetly around him, my gags turning to slurps as he used me like a toy, balls slapping my chin in a filthy rhythm. He groaned, pace brutal, holding me impaled until stars burst behind my eyes, my denied pussy clenching emptily with every thrust, juices trickling down my thighs inside the ruined thong. It was bliss and agony—his pleasure building as he rammed harder, my throat convulsing in protest, drool bubbling out in messy strings—until he pulled free with a pop, fisting himself to spill hot across my upturned face, ropes of cum painting my cheeks, lips, and tongue in sticky claim.

I knelt there, cuffed and cum-drenched, panting through the haze, my body screaming for release—clit throbbing so fiercely I nearly came untouched from the sheer filth of it. But he just tucked himself away, unlocked the cuffs with a casual flick, and wiped my face with his thumb, feeding me the remnants like a treat. "Good girl. Now, dinner's ready?" No touch below the belt, no mercy for my dripping need. We ate at the table like civilised folk—pasta twirled on forks, wine sipped—me squirming in my seat, the fresh ache in my wrists a twin to the one in my cunt, conversation light as he teased me with glances but denied every plea in my eyes.

Bed called early, but sleep? Elusive. Curled against him, still in my work skirt, I burned—used twice now, pleasured zero times, his final whisper sealing my fate: "Tomorrow, pet. If you beg pretty." The torment builds.

The morning light slanted through our bedroom window like a spotlight on my desperation, my pussy already a slick, throbbing mess from dreams of being filled—Hubby's cock, Alex's, both of them at once, pounding me until I blacked out in ecstasy. But no touching, no relief; his rules held me like invisible chains as I dressed for the office, turning the ritual into a deliberate tease for my own fevered senses. I selected a fitted emerald green blouse in soft chiffon, sheer enough to ghost over my skin, the deep V-neck plunging to frame my cleavage in a black lace push-up bra that hoisted my tits high and proud, nipples stiffening against the fabric like diamonds begging to be sucked. The skirt was a high-waisted leather pencil, glossy and unforgiving, clinging to every curve of my hips and arse, the hem slicing mid-thigh to showcase my sheer seamed stockings clipped to a lacy suspender belt—no knickers again, because why deny the air its kiss on my bare, shaved lips when I'm already soaked? I finished with my favourite red patent heels—four inches of sin.

The train's rumble vibrating up through my heels to tease my swollen folds biting back moans as fresh cream trickled down my inner thighs. At work, it only worsened: spreadsheets blurring as I fantasised about Hubby storming in, flipping up my skirt, and rutting me raw on the conference table. My chair became my enemy, the leather seat slick with my arousal, forcing me to clench and rock subtly just to keep from humping the armrest. Nipples chafed deliciously against chiffon during meetings, every crossed leg flashing stocking tops that had the lads in sales stealing glances, none the wiser to the puddle I was making. By tea time, I was feral—ducking into the loos to hike up my skirt and stare at my reflection, pussy lips pouting pink and glossy, clit a fat pearl pulsing for attention I wouldn't grant. The horniness clawed at me, a constant hum: thighs quivering under the desk, breaths shallow, mind a loop of fuck me, please, now. I ached so fiercely I could taste it—salty desperation on my tongue, body primed like a bomb with the pin half-pulled.

The clock struck five, and I bolted home, heels clattering on the pavement like gunfire, bursting through our front door with a gasp of relief. Hubby wasn't far behind; I heard his key in the lock minutes later, and there I was—still fully dressed, heels on. He dropped his bag, eyes locking on me with that predatory spark, and I couldn't hold back. I crossed the room in three swaying strides, dropping to my knees before him, hands clutching his thighs as I gazed up, voice a husky plea: "Please, Sir... fuck me. I've been so good, so wet all day. I need your cock inside me—hard, deep, now. Make me come, I beg you."

His smile was wicked, . "Eager little slut, aren't you?" Without a word more, he hauled me up by the elbow, guiding me to the dining table—sturdy oak, perfect for what came next. He spun me around, bending me forward until my tits squished against the cool wood, arse thrust out in invitation, skirt riding up to bare the suspender straps framing my dripping slit. My wrists were next: he snapped the cuffs on tight behind my back, the metal biting just enough to make me whimper, chain pulling taut to arch my spine. Then the ball gag—red rubber sphere forced between my teeth, buckled secure at the nape, drool already pooling as it stretched my jaw wide, muffling my cries to needy, garbled hums. Helpless, exposed, heels keeping my arse high and legs spread, pussy clenching on nothing, leaking down my stockings in shiny trails.

I heard his zip rasp down, the rustle of trousers, then—oh god—the blunt head of his cock nudging my folds, teasing those slick, swollen lips apart without entering. He dragged it up and down my seam, coating himself in my juices, circling my clit with lazy swipes that had me bucking back, tears of frustration pricking my eyes as drool escaped the gag in thick strings. "So fucking wet for me," he growled, voice rough, tapping his tip against my entrance—once, twice—dipping just the head in before pulling out, leaving me empty and keening. My pussy wept for it, clenching greedily, the tease building until I was a trembling mess, heels scraping the floor, every nerve screaming for penetration.

Finally—blessedly—he gripped my hips, leather skirt bunching under his fingers, and plunged in. One brutal thrust, burying to the hilt in my sopping heat, stretching me wide around his thick length. I screamed around the gag, the sound a raw, muffled wail as the dam broke—orgasm crashing over me like a tidal wave, walls spasming wildly, milking him as stars exploded behind my eyelids. He didn't stop, pounding relentlessly, cock dragging over that spot inside that made me shatter again, and again—multiple peaks ripping through me in rapid fire, body convulsing, juices squirting down my thighs in hot gushes that soaked the table's edge. Each slam of his hips against my arse echoed wetly, balls slapping my clit, the cuffs rattling with every jolt, gag turning my pleas to sloppy gargles. I came so hard I saw white, thighs quaking, heels slipping in the puddle we'd made, lost in the filthy symphony of flesh on flesh until he groaned deep, flooding me with his release—hot spurts painting my insides as my final climax clenched around him like a vice.

He pulled out slow, cum trickling down my legs, uncuffing me before easing the gag free, my jaw aching sweetly. I slumped over the table, spent shaking softly with aftershocks, his arms wrapping around me as he kissed the welts on my wrists. "My perfect pet," he murmured, and in that moment, after days of denial, I was—utterly, gloriously broken and remade.