I stand watching, rubbing myself some ten feet away as my wife of fifteen years buries her head at the base of his shaft, while holding the tip gently...with her hand. The smile she gives him, watching his expression(s) as she licks and worships the cock that satisfies her most.If you are astute at reading people she doesn’t have to say a word. Her emotions (and actions) are never revealed verbally to me as I fuck her sloppy seconds afterwards. But you know. You know she really enjoys his. It took me a second to process what I was seeing, and when I did I staggered backwards. It looked like a bunch of furniture storage at first, a jumble of irregular shapes, some draped with tarps. But as my eyes adjusted I realized that one of the things I was looking at was a torture rack, complete with crank wheels at either end. Off to the side was a St. Andrews cross, built of a thick, heavy looking wood. I felt a flash of embarrassment at how quickly that name had come to mind. I walked. More

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