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The New Order, Part 2: Dinner for Three

By Juliet Monroe · BNWO hotwife erotica · 8 min read · part 2 of 10

The apron

You cooked all day Saturday. Short ribs, because I told you he liked them. You ironed the tablecloth. You ironed it twice.

Vivienne came over at five with a gift bag and a bottle of champagne. She kissed me on both cheeks and handed you the bag without looking at you.

"For later," she said. "Juliet will know what to do with it."

You looked inside and went very pale and put it on top of the fridge, and Vivienne laughed, delighted, and reached up and tied the apron around your waist herself. It was white, with a frill. It wasn't yours. She'd brought that too.

"There," she said. "Now you look like a husband."

I wore the red dress. The short one. No bra. Vivienne fixed my hair, and at the last minute she knelt and fastened something cold around my ankle, and when I looked down there was a thin silver chain there, and a little spade.

"Just a loan," she said. "Until you've earned your own."

Saturday

Dante arrived at seven exactly, with flowers. Not for me. For you.

"For the cook," he said, and put them in your arms, and you said "thank you" before you knew you were going to.

He was so polite all through dinner. That was the worst of it, wasn't it, darling? He asked about your work. He complimented the short ribs. He talked to you like a nice man talks to the caterer at a wedding. And the whole time, under the table, his hand was on my thigh, higher and higher, and you could see my face, and you kept refilling the wine.

When you stood up to clear the plates, he said, "Juliet. Come here."

I went and sat in his lap. He didn't have to ask twice.

He had to wait until the silence between courses deepened, heavy and expectant, before he moved. "Juliet," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my thighs as I settled deeper into his lap. My red dress was already hiked high, exposing my bare ass cheeks and the wet triangle of my pussy, which throbbed in time with his hand sliding between them. You stood by the table holding the dessert plates in your white frilly apron, and you froze as I sank onto Dante's thick thigh.

"You're soaked," he growled, his black fingers finding my entrance without a second touch. He didn't hesitate; his thick digits plunged deep inside me, stretching my wet, eager pussy walls while I gasped and grabbed his broad shoulder. "Put those down and kneel," he told you, without looking at you. "Right here, beside the chair. Watch her." You obeyed, setting the porcelain plates down with a clatter that echoed too loudly in the quiet room, and knelt so close to us I could feel your breath on my knee.

"Come for him, darling," I whispered, my voice trembling as his fingers worked me closer to the edge. "Let your husband see exactly what he bought you." My clit swelled and throbbed against his hand, and with every thrust of his thick fingers, my inner muscles clamped around them, milking him harder. You watched, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, as I moaned his name over and over, shaking visibly in his lap, my wetness dripping down to pool on his dark trousers.

He pulled one finger back, then two, leaving me gaping and dripping, before he slammed them all the way inside for a final, bone-deep snap that made me scream and arch off his knee. "That's it," he said, pressing the head of my clit with his thumb while he curled into my depths. My body convulsed around his hand, trembling violently as I came hard, my inner walls pulsing rhythmically on his thick fingers while you knelt beside us, your apron already stained with our secret feast.

When I collapsed back against him, breathless and spent, my pussy still twitching around his lingering touch, he slowly withdrew his hand, glistening and wet with my juices. Then he wiped his fingers clean on your apron, slowly, and said, "Delicious dinner."

The rules

There was a sheet of paper in Vivienne's gift bag, folded in three. She'd typed it. Of course she had.

Dante read it aloud while you knelt by my chair, and then he handed it to me, and I read it aloud again, and then I made you stand and put it on the fridge with the magnet shaped like a lemon that your sister gave us.

It's still there. You read it every morning when you make my coffee. But I want it here too, in the story, so it's written down twice.

1. Juliet belongs to Dante. Her body is his whenever he wants it.
2. Her husband stays locked. The key is kept by his wife, until she gives it away.
3. Her husband never says no to Dante, and always says thank you.
4. Her husband cleans up after them.
5. The ring stays on. You are still married. You are married more than ever.

You read rule five three times. Then you cried, quietly, still on your knees, and I put my hand on your head, and Dante watched us both with something that looked almost like tenderness.

"Good," he said. "Now the bag."

The cage

It was small and clear and heavier than it looked. A ring, a curved tube, a little brass padlock. And a key on a thin chain, the same silver as my anklet.

I knelt in front of you. I'd never knelt for you before, not once in nine years, and I think that's what undid you more than anything. I unbuckled your belt. Dante sat on our couch with his arm along the back of it and his legs spread wide, and watched.

You were hard. Of course you were. You'd been hard all through dinner.

"Oh, baby," I said. "That won't fit. We'll have to wait."

You were still in your trousers and your apron. I unzipped you and pulled you out, small and red and so hard it was almost sweet. I held the clear little cage up beside it so you could see the problem.

"Kneel there and watch," I said, and I turned around on my knees to Dante.

He was already out, heavy and dark and half hard on his thigh, and I took him in both hands the way I'd learned in the sauna and licked him from his balls to the tip while you watched from a foot away. Then I opened my mouth as wide as I could and sank down on him, slurping, gagging, drool running down my chin onto my red dress. I pulled off only to talk to you. "Look how thick he is, baby. Look. I can't even close my hand around him. You'd fit in my mouth twice." I sucked him deep again and moaned around him so you could hear exactly how much I loved it.

When I looked back at you, the shame had done its work. You were soft, shrunken, staring at his cock in my hand with your mouth open. I slid the ring behind your balls, pushed the tube over you, threaded the little brass padlock through and squeezed. I hung the key on the silver chain around my neck and let it fall between my breasts. You were already straining against the plastic. The little lock clicked shut, and I went straight back to him.

Dante finished on my tongue and I showed it to you before I swallowed, the way Vivienne told me the wives do. You were straining against the plastic so hard it must have hurt. You didn't touch it. You'd already learned that much.

"You're still watching him like that," I murmured, though my eyes were fixed on the way Dante's hips ground against my thighs, leaving a slick trail of my juices over his thick black shaft. The living room felt smaller than before, the air thick with the scent of musk and sweat as he lifted me higher onto the couch cushions, spreading my legs wide until they rested on either side of your knees. You were still there, kneeling beside us, in your frilly apron, your new clear cage straining against your own useless hardness—a cruel reminder of what you couldn't use while he claimed everything inside me.

Dante didn't go slow this time; his black cock shot into my wet center like a bolt of lightning, stretching me to the point where every nerve ending screamed in pleasure until I was shaking uncontrollably. "Look at how full she is," he growled, gripping my waist hard enough to bruise, and I bit down on his shoulder, tasting iron and salt as I surrendered to the depth of him. My pussy clamped around his thick shaft, pulsing rhythmically as he thrust deeper, hitting that sweet spot where I could feel his pulse racing against my clit. "You can't touch me," I whispered, turning my head just enough to grab your hand, dragging your thumb across my swollen lips before pressing it harder into my palm. "He's filling me up, darling, and all you get to do is hold my hand."

The sensation of being stretched so completely made my vision blur, the rhythm of his thrusts syncing with the beat of my heart until I couldn't tell where my body ended and his began. Every time he pulled back, I felt the vacuum sucking me inward, then slammed back down as he buried himself to the hilt, claiming me again and again. "That's it," I gasped, feeling the damp heat of his sweat coating my inner walls as he drove harder, faster, until I was screaming his name. "You'll never fill me like this," I sobbed at you, "never, not ever," and I came so hard my whole body bucked off the cushions while he groaned and pumped his hot cum deep inside me. I squeezed your hand so hard my ring cut into your fingers.

He left at midnight. He shook your hand at the door. "Thank you for dinner," he said, and you said "thank you" back, and then you went and did the dishes, and I sat on the counter in my red dress and watched you, with the key on its chain lying warm between my breasts.

When the last plate was dry, you turned around and asked, very carefully, "When is he coming back?"

"Saturday," I said. "And next Saturday he stays the night."

You looked toward the stairs. Toward our room.

"Yes, darling," I said. "In our bed."