Park XX's Confession 2
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Assistant Manager Oh worked himself with mounting ferocity while I held my breath, darting glances between my wife and him, cold sweat streaming down my face.
I could not have said how long it went on.
“Nngh.”
His whole body shuddered, and at last he came. Pale yellow ropes of his semen sprayed across the living-room floor — another man’s seed, soiling the floor of my own house.
The sheer volume was impressive enough, but what truly stunned me was the range. Those jets shot like bullets, reaching the hardwood near the sofa. A little higher, a little farther, and they would have soaked my wife’s mesh panties. I even wondered, for a wild moment, whether he had deliberately aimed at them. Of course it was an absurd idea by any reasonable standard — but the scene before my eyes was so unreal that even that ridiculous suspicion felt entirely possible.
A short while later, Oh carefully zipped up his pants and rose quietly from the floor. He yanked a thick wad of tissues from the box on the table and began wiping up the mess he had scattered across the living room. Midway through the cleanup he stole a glance toward me — checking, I supposed, that I was truly asleep.
The irony of it almost made me laugh. While he was actually masturbating, he had not looked my way even once — as if to say, Watch if you want. I’m jerking off to your wife right now. Bold as brass. And now, after the fact, he was suddenly fretting over whether I might wake. Post-nut clarity, maybe? That was what crossed my mind.
In any case, I snored with convincing naturalness, even adding a little nasal rattle, and put him at ease. Once he had finished tidying up in a hurry, he went to the bathroom and returned to the living room. I figured his business was done and he would go back to sleep; we both had to be at the office in only a few hours, after all.
But then — instead of settling down again — he came right back over to my side and checked once more whether I was out cold. I threw everything I had into the performance of a man dead asleep. Apparently satisfied, he turned away.
I thought he would finally lie down. The place he headed for, though, was not the spot where he had been sleeping. After a brief hesitation, Oh crept slowly toward the sofa where my wife lay.
My heart began to hammer as if it might burst. Was he actually going to jump her? I considered bolting upright and seizing him by the collar — and found I did not particularly want to. The truth was, somewhere deep inside, I was hoping this impossible situation would not end. So I stayed still and decided simply to watch whatever he did to my wife.
She was never a light sleeper to begin with. On top of that, she had knocked back far more liquor than she could usually handle the night before. Anyone could have carted her off and she would never have known; she was that far under.
Oh knelt beside the sofa and stared down at her for a long time. Her skirt was still hitched high, leaving her voluptuous hips and smooth legs completely exposed. Mouth slightly open, he fixed his gaze on her lower body — then abruptly raised his right hand.
Was he really about to touch her?
My heart pounded so hard it felt ready to leap out of my chest.
But no. Fortunately, his right hand did not move toward her body. Instead he reopened the zipper he had so carefully closed and drew out that dark, heavy cock, stroking it slowly in his fist. Only minutes after climaxing, the thing stiffened and lifted its head again without delay.
Oh let his eyes roam over every inch of my wife’s body as he worked himself with unhurried strokes. The first time, he had finished as if something were chasing him. This time he seemed to have room to breathe — or perhaps he simply wanted to savor the thrill a little longer — because he did not rush at all. My wife, knowing nothing, remained sunk in deep sleep even as another man sat right beside her with his black cock in hand, committing that shameless act.
After fondling himself for quite a while, he flicked a quick look toward me. Confirming once more that I was out, he edged even closer to the sofa — and then bent his head toward her bare hips.
What the hell was he trying to do?
His face stopped with her ass right under his nose. He pressed close to the curves of her hips and began to sniff, drawing in her scent again and again. Excited, he wet his lips with his tongue. I could understand it. My wife’s scent had a way of driving men out of their minds — a strange, intoxicating blend of fragrant cosmetics and the smell of her own skin. In elevators and other closed spaces I had more than once caught men stealing glances at her after catching a whiff. And since she had clearly gone to bed without washing the night before, that lewd fragrance would only have been stronger.
Worked up beyond control, Oh buried his nose in the cleft of her ass and inhaled greedily. Because she was lying on her side, the folds of her pussy were pressed together and stood out brazenly beneath the mesh of her panties. He put his nose exactly there and drank in the smell. The scent of her cunt was nothing like the rest of her body — a sharp, sweet-and-salty perfume all its own, and the longer she went unwashed, the more intense it became. He sniffed without pause, his right hand flying faster on his cock.
Face flushed with arousal, he turned his attention next to her legs — from those full, meaty thighs, past the jut of her kneecaps, down the sleek calves — sniffing obsessively, luxuriating in every trace of her scent. After a long stretch of that he lifted his head, as if somehow unsatisfied. He hesitated a moment, then turned back toward her hips. I thought he simply meant to smell the folds of her pussy again — but what he wanted this time went well beyond a scent.
After breathing in the aroma seeping through the fabric for a while, he suddenly stuck out his tongue. He brought the tip lightly against the mesh where her folds pressed together — and then, like a snake, began to flick and lap at the fabric over her pussy. His saliva soaked the mesh around her sex until the panties looked wet the way they might if an aroused woman had soaked them with her own juices.
I do not know how much time passed before Oh suddenly raised his head, sweating heavily. The angry red flush of blood in his glans told me he was about to come. Yet he hesitated, as if finishing just like that would leave him unsatisfied. After a brief waver he suddenly reached his left hand toward her hips, his right still pumping his cock. With extreme care he pinched one edge of the mesh panties that cupped her plump ass — and tugged them aside.
My wife’s pussy, hidden until then behind the mesh, was laid bare. Her soft, moist folds, lightly overlapping, finally presented themselves right before his eyes. The skin around them glistened unusually; his spit must have soaked through the fabric and wet her cunt itself. The moment her pussy appeared in front of him, Oh’s mouth fell open and he stared as if he could not look away. He shifted his stance, as though at last ready to finish. Holding her panties open with his left hand, he drove his right fist harder and faster.
Perhaps thirty seconds went by.
“Hhk—”
A short groan escaped him as he came. Gulp after thick gulp — an enormous load for a second round. But mid-spasm he jerked in sudden shock and flinched back. Some of the semen he had sprayed wildly into the air had landed on my wife’s thigh. Oh froze solid, still gripping his cock in his right hand. Mercifully, she only stirred a little and did not wake. Letting out a breath of relief, he half-rose and headed for the bathroom. After a quick cleanup he came back with tissues. Fresh, undried semen still clung to her thigh; he wiped it away with careful strokes. Then he tugged her hiked-up skirt back into place, crept back to his spot, and lay down. In less than a minute he was snoring.
I rose quietly and stood looking down at my sleeping wife’s face. In the space of a single night, my beloved wife had become another man’s jack-off material — and she slept on, knowing nothing. The sight flooded me with a tremendous rush of thrill and excitement. My own cock swelled until it felt ready to burst, erectile dysfunction be damned.
Morning arrived as if nothing at all had happened.
“Man, Madam, this hangover soup is incredible.”
“Is that so? Shall I get you another bowl?”
“Yes, please — I’d love that.”
Oh slurped down the bean-sprout hangover soup my wife had made and bantered on as if the night before had never occurred.
“Wow, Manager, I really envy you. Maybe I should get married soon myself.”
“Why the sudden interest?”
“If I married someone as beautiful as the Madam, I could eat hangover soup this good for the rest of my life. Seriously — I’m jealous.”
“If you’re jealous, go find yourself a girlfriend.”
“I know, right? Is there anyone out there like the Madam?”
“Hmm. Want me to look around for you?”
“Really? You’re the best, Manager!”
This was the same guy who had used my wife as jerk-off fuel twice during the night — and now he was asking me to introduce him to a woman like her. To my ears it almost sounded like he was asking me to hand her over. I was so floored I could only manage a hollow laugh.
Worse still, all through breakfast the way he looked at my wife was anything but ordinary. She had put on a full face of makeup that morning and worn a dress that subtly traced the lines of her figure, her full C-cup breasts especially prominent. On top of that, she had a habit of leaning forward whenever she sat at the table — which naturally left both breasts resting on the tabletop. That morning was no different; her rounded breasts lay draped across the surface as usual. The two full mounds sitting right there on the table. Oh, seated across from her, looked as if he could not keep his wits about him.
Naturally, my wife — knowing nothing — stayed just as she was. Completely unaware that the man sitting right in front of her had spent the night pouring his semen onto her thigh.