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The New Order, Part 1: The Book Club

By Juliet Monroe · BNWO hotwife erotica · 10 min read · part 1 of 10

Thursdays

You remember the first Thursday, darling. You were the one who told me to go.

"You need friends here," you said, standing in the kitchen of the new house with a box of plates in your arms. "Vivienne seems nice. Go. Drink wine. Talk about a book."

So I went. I put on the blue sundress you like and walked three doors down Larkspur Lane with a bottle of white wine and a paperback I had not read, and Vivienne Hart opened the door in silk trousers and bare feet, and the first thing I noticed was the anklet.

A thin silver chain. A tiny charm hanging from it, catching the porch light. A spade, like the one on a playing card.

"Juliet," she said, and kissed my cheek, and the second thing I noticed was how good she smelled. "Come in. Don't worry, nobody has read the book."

The anklets

There were seven women in Vivienne's living room. I counted later, lying awake next to you. Seven women, seven glasses of wine, and seven thin silver chains on seven ankles, and every one of them with the little spade.

Nobody talked about the book. They talked about husbands. Not the way women usually do, complaining about socks and golf. They talked about their husbands the way you'd talk about a dog that had finally learned to stay.

"Gerald cried the whole night," said a redhead called Shannon, laughing, "and then he made us both breakfast."

"Mark's been locked forty days," said someone else. "He's never been so sweet."

I laughed along. I didn't understand, and I understood perfectly, and my face was hot, and Vivienne watched me over the rim of her glass the whole time with a small, patient smile.

At ten o'clock the doorbell rang. Vivienne didn't get up. Her husband, Gerald, a soft grey man in an apron I hadn't even noticed in the corner, went to answer it.

The man who came in was black, enormous, and wearing a suit that cost more than our car. He nodded to the room. Every woman in it went quiet. Gerald took his coat.

"Excuse me, ladies," said Vivienne, standing and setting down her glass. "That's my ride." She touched my shoulder on the way past and leaned down to my ear. "Stay, Juliet. Watch from the hall if you like. Everybody watches, the first time."

I should have gone home to you. I went to the hall.

I stood in the hall, my blue sundress slick with sweat, watching from the shadows as Dante took Vivienne in the kitchen. The marble counter was white and shiny, and the only light came from the hallway and the kitchen window. The room was quiet, except for the sounds of Vivienne.

Vivienne's silk trousers fell to the floor and Dante's huge black cock, easily twice the size of any penis I'd ever seen, throbbed, pale against the dark skin. He grabbed Vivienne's hips and bent her over the counter, his hands squeezing her ass cheeks. Her face was hidden behind a curtain of black hair but I could see her lips part and her mouth open in a silent moan as Dante took her from behind.

"Fuck, Dante," Vivienne moaned, and then, louder, "So fucking big, so fucking hard!" Dante grunted, and I could see him move inside her, the tip of his cock just catching the light. The wet sounds filled the kitchen, louder than I'd ever heard in my life, and Vivienne cried out again, her hands flying to her face.

On the floor, Gerald watched, his head in his hands, kneeling in the middle of the kitchen floor. He looked so small, so lost, and I felt a rush of pity for him, for all of them. But then I saw Dante looking at me, his dark eyes burning into mine, and I felt a different kind of rush, a hot, wet feeling in my pussy that I had never felt before.

I slipped my hand under my sundress and pushed it into my panties, spreading my thighs wide. I didn't even know what I was doing, but I felt so hot, so desperate, and I couldn't stop. I rubbed myself, hard and fast, the wet sounds of Dante filling the room, Vivienne's moans echoing in my head. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything but the heat, the wetness, the ache between my legs.

Then Dante moved inside Vivienne, his cock hitting something deep inside her, and she screamed. A long, loud, wordless scream that seemed to echo in my own body, and then a moment later, she went quiet, and I felt a strange, hot feeling inside me, like a rush of electricity, and then a long, slow burn that spread through my whole body.

Dante pulled out, slow and hard, and Vivienne collapsed on the counter, her face buried in her hands. I couldn't see her pussy but I could see the wet spot on the marble, dark and shiny. Dante stood over her, his cock dripping, and then he looked straight at me in the doorway, and he smiled. He looked right at me in the doorway, and he smiled.

The gym

I didn't tell you, the next morning. You asked me how the book was and I said "boring," and you kissed my forehead and went to work, and I sat at the kitchen table for an hour with my coffee going cold.

On Friday a card came through the door. Thick, cream, a spade printed in silver. On the back, in Vivienne's handwriting: Ironside Gym, Monday, 6 pm. Ask for Dante. Wear something small.

You know Ironside, darling. You drive past it every morning. You said once that you'd join, and laughed at yourself.

I wore my black leggings and a sports bra that I'd bought two sizes too small. I told you I was going to yoga.

Dante was waiting at the front desk.

He was not the man from Vivienne's kitchen. He was younger, and bigger, and he looked at me the way you've never once looked at me, the way a man looks at something he has already decided is his. He didn't say hello. He said, "Juliet," as if he'd known me for years, and put his hand flat on the small of my back, and walked me past the weights and the mirrors and the men who stopped lifting to watch me go, to a cedar door at the very back that said PRIVATE.

The sauna was hot and dim. He sat down on the bench and leaned back against the wood and opened his towel.

I want you to understand something, darling. I want you to know exactly what I saw. You were my husband for nine years, and I thought I knew what a man was.

He sat there, letting his towel drop to his lap, and I saw him. I saw it, I saw it all. He looked like a boy, with a man's body. His skin was dark, like rich chocolate, smooth and flawless. His thighs were thick and strong, like tree trunks, and they were covered in hair, dark and thick, almost like a carpet. And then there was the cock.

It was enormous. Huge. I'd seen your cock, of course, but it was like comparing a pencil to a tree. Dante's cock was so big, so heavy, it looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. It was thick as my wrist, and long, so long I couldn't even see the end of it. It was a dark brown, with a few veins running through it like rivers. The head was a little swollen, and the tip was a dark pink, almost purple. It was throbbing, hard as a rock, and it was covered in this shiny, sticky fluid. Cum, I thought, watching it trickle down his shaft.

He didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. I knew what to do. I knelt down between his legs, on the wet cedar floor, and pressed my hands to his thighs. They were so hot, so hard, and I could feel the heat coming off his cock, even through the towel. I wrapped my hands around his shaft and stroked it, slowly at first, then faster, then as hard as I could. I worshipped him with my hands, squeezing and pumping, and the heat inside me was growing, spreading, filling me up.

I looked up at him, at his dark face, and I saw a smile playing on his lips. "That's it, baby," he said, his voice deep and rough. "That's how a real woman takes care of her man."

I wanted to say something, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I was so hot, so wet, so desperate. I leaned forward and buried my face in his lap, and I put my mouth on his cock.

He didn't pull away. He just held me, his hands in my hair, and let me suck him. I took him deep, gagging and gagging, my tongue swirling around the head, my lips stretched wide. I couldn't believe how big he was, how hard he was, how it felt to have him inside me. I swallowed and swallowed, trying to get as much of him as I could, and I drooled and I gagged and I cried and I moaned. I didn't know what I was doing, but it felt so good, so right, so perfect.

"That's it, baby," he said. "You're doing so good. You were made for this. You were made for me."

I was too far gone to think. I just wanted more, more, more. I wanted to feel him, all of him, inside me, and I wanted him to fill me up, to make me feel good, to make me feel everything. I wanted him to come, and I wanted him to come inside me, and I wanted him to come and come and come.

He was so hard, so big, so heavy, and I could feel him throb, and then, all at once, he started to come. He came hard, fast, and hot, and I felt it all, every drop, every second, and I swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, until my throat was full, until my stomach was full, until I was full of him.

He held me, and he held me, and he held me, and then he pulled away, and I collapsed to the floor, on my hands and knees, gasping for breath, and he stood up, and he wiped his cock on my face, and he smiled at me.

"Don't wipe your mouth," he said. "Go home and kiss him."

Home

You were on the couch watching the game when I came in. You looked up and smiled and said, "How was yoga?"

I crossed the room and sat on your lap and kissed you. Deeply. Slowly. With everything still on my tongue.

You kissed me back. You didn't know. Or you did, and you didn't want to. You got hard under me the way you always do, quickly, eagerly, and you whispered "bedroom?" against my neck, and I thought, one last time. I didn't decide it. I just knew it, the way you know it's going to rain.

So I let you. I want to be honest about that night too, darling, because it's the last time it ever happened.

That night, after you'd watched the game and I'd kissed you and climbed into your lap, you asked me, "Bedroom?" and I said yes, one last time. I wanted to be honest with you about that night, about how it felt, how it went. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to understand.

I wanted you to know how small you felt, how pitiful. How I didn't even feel you inside me. You touched me, yes, but I barely felt it, like a feather tickling my skin. I felt nothing.

And you finished, so quickly, so shamefully. It was over in less than a minute. "Oh, god," you moaned, your hips twitching and your face contorted in pleasure, and I thought, how pathetic. I thought of Dante's cock, the taste of him, the feeling of him stretching me, filling me, making me scream. And it made me wet again, right there, and I could feel my pussy clench and squeeze, and I thought, this is what it's like to be a woman.

You pulled out, and I looked down at you, my eyes boring into your face, and I said, "That's it? You call that sex?"

You looked up at me, lost, and I said, "You know I wanted more, don't you? I wanted you to make me feel something, anything. I wanted you to give me what I needed, but you couldn't. You couldn't even make me come."

I leaned down and whispered in your ear, "In the sauna, while you were in that cage, I was with Dante. He was inside me, and he made me feel so good, so full, so complete. He made me come over and over again, and I felt so dirty, so wrong, so good."

I felt you get hard again, pressing against my thigh, and I thought, he still wants it. I thought, he still wants me. And I knew then, as I looked down at you, at your face, at your cock, at your hands, that I had made my choice. And I knew that there was no going back.

And while I told you, you got hard again against my thigh.

You didn't shout. You didn't leave. You lay there in the dark with your hand on my hip and your breath shaking, and after a long time you said, very quietly, "Is he going to be nice to you?"

I loved you so much in that moment, darling. More than I ever had.

"He wants to meet you," I said. "He's coming to dinner on Saturday."

I felt you swallow.

"And Vivienne says you should wear an apron."