I Did My Best Friend A Favor By Sleeping With Her Husband While She Was Pregnant

Shutterstock, Jose AS Reyes
Shutterstock, Jose AS Reyes

From the moment I meet Rebecca’s husband Stan, I know he has eyes for me.

Not that I am dressed to kill. Far from it. For dinner with my old school friend and her husband I’ve chosen a simple knee length grey skirt and a white blouse. I’m wearing my glasses instead of contacts. I can’t help that my breasts fill out my blouse, however.

Stan smiles confidently as he shakes my hand. He doesn’t offer a hug, and I don’t offer a peck on the cheek. We exchange a clear message through our eyes, silently.

My dear friend Becky is eight months pregnant, stuffed like a thanksgiving turkey. Her beauty is marred by the current puffiness of her face and she moves with the slow deliberateness of a ship.

We are having dinner at their posh suburban home and I’m seated right across from the happy couple. Becky’s mother, Minnie, who sits next to me, is there to take her daughter back home with her for the remainder of her third trimester. A retired government servant, Minnie approves of my school teacher looks and my eye glasses.

Becky is chatting incessantly when Stan makes his move.

I feel a sock clad foot on my calf. I am about to jump up but his toes clamp down on my shin as if to warn me. Stan doesn’t even turn to look at me. He stares directly at his wife as she prattles on about Michelle Williams in My Week With Marilyn.

“I feel a sock clad foot on my calf. I am about to jump but his toes clamp down on my shin as if to warn me.”

Stan’s foot inches north, from caressing my shin to parting my knees beneath the dinner table. Instead of brushing his foot aside, I press my legs together. Stan massages my inner thighs. I draw breath sharply enough for Minnie to turn abruptly. Then I plead with Stan with a telling glance and he withdraws his foot suddenly.

A hot flush creeps over me. Stan is my friend’s husband. What am I supposed to do?

After dinner, I head upstairs to the bathroom. On my return, Stan and I cross paths. I’m smiling as we pass each other on the steps when he grabs my wrist and turns me around to push me against the bannister. Up close it’s impossible not to notice how handsome he is, and how gloriously dark his skin is.

“Stan, what is this?” I stammer.

He presses my face into the wall, then he lifts my skirt up until he can squeeze my butt cheeks through my panties.

Dammit, I think. Why did I wear a lace black low-rise thong to dinner with an old school friend?

“School teacher outside, slut on the inside. Mmmmmmm, I like that,” Stan whispers as his hand traverse my upper thighs and ass.

He slaps my rump hard and the sound is loud enough for me to fear Becky might hear it. I bite my lips and push him away.

“I’ll scream,” I warn, but my breasts are heaving with arousal and Stan knows it.

“I have a cock thicker than your wrist, baby. Screaming is a given,” he says, and pins my hands over my head and kisses my lips, slowly at first.

Then, as he feels my resistance weakening, he swoops in for the kill. His hand slips inside my skirt from the front.

Why am I getting excited by the idea of this dark skinned hunk atop my smooth white body?

“His hand slips inside my skirt from the front and he caresses my thighs till he reaches the elastic of my panties.”

“Stan, let go of me. Becky might come around the corner any minute,” I say, pushing him off me.

He smiles the smile of a predator and walks upstairs.

On my way home in the taxi I receive a text from Stan. It reads: “Those school marm thighs are dying to open up for my hard cock. Why don’t you give up the struggle?”

I bite my lips and press my legs together involuntarily. My response: “You are my friend’s husband. Feel shame.”

“Come off it baby, you know you want it. Tell you what. When I do you, I am going to take everything off except those stupid glasses.”

His last message includes the address of his downtown penthouse along with a note that he’ll be there tomorrow evening at 6pm.

The following day, I ring the doorbell at Stan’s penthouse right at 6pm. He answers dressed in a white silk shirt and skin tight jeans. He looks good enough to eat. I am dressed in a short black dress.

In his living room he tries to take me in his arms, but I push him away firmly.

“A couple of things first. Rebecca is my best friend. She must not come to know about this, ever,” I say.

“Yes, honey,” he says as he takes a seat on the plush sofa.

I remain standing.

“Second, this arrangement will only last until the time Becky’s back from maternity leave.”

“Agreed. Are we done yet?”

“Lastly—and most importantly—you don’t get to fool around with anyone but me. I am not kidding, Stan. I teach, so I can detect a lie in under a minute. If you cheat with anyone else, I will find out and so will Becky. Deal?”

“I take my dress off in a single smooth motion. Stan whistles softly when he sees my black lacy bra and panties with garters.”

Stan is pensive for an extended beat. Then he nods, “Deal. Now get down on your knees”

“What?”

“On your knees, baby. Suck my cock while you’re wearing your stupid glasses,” he says and unzips his jeans.

Grimacing, he pulls his cock out. I feel weak in my knees as his hard, thick manhood springs free. He is certainly the most well-endowed man I have seen and my lady parts tingle at the thought of submitting to him.

I take my dress off in a single smooth motion.

Stan whistles when he sees my black lacy bra and panties with garters. I leave the glasses on and sink my knees into the soft carpet. He holds my hair and shoves my face towards his meat. Before I can open my lips to take him in he holds his cock in his hand and rubs its wet tip against my face and lips. I open my lips with a sigh and let him put his cock in my mouth. He moans as he feels my tongue slide across the base of his shaft. I touch his balls with the tip of my tongue once and then settle into a steady back and forth rhythm.

Stan leans back in the sofa and spreads his legs wider. He messes with my soft dark hair. I unhook my bra, letting the straps fall from my shoulders. Stan lazily cups my breast with one hand. His calloused palm triggers goose bumps on my soft skin and my nipples flush.

Eyes closed, Stan moans as I go about my work. Right before climaxing, he stands up, holding his cock in his hands. I know what he wishes and even though I find it disgusting I let him spray my face with his juices.

When I return from the washroom after cleaning Stan’s come off my face, he is lying with his eyes closed on the sofa again. The sight of his toned abs and muscular thighs make me shiver.

“He watches as my nipples perk up again to his touch.”

Smiling, he opens his eyes. I stand before him in my panties and garters—and my glasses, of course.

Stan walks up to me and strokes my breasts with both hands. He watches as my nipples perk up in response to his touch. He slips his hand between my legs and strokes my pussy lips through the thin fabric of my panties.

“Turn around and bend over,” he says.

I obey. I feel his large palms against my ass cheeks. He strokes and separates them a little. It’s humiliating to be inspected like some fucking piece of meat.

“This ass could use a little spanking,” he says, and slaps me hard.

I try hard not to fall over but do not get up from my bent position. Stan administers quick slaps to both cheeks and then pulls my panties down.

“Ok, time to make you my personal bitch,” he says.

I feel his erection pressing on my womanhood. I spread myself a little and Stan thrusts hard. I cry in pain and pleasure as his battering ram spears my tight cunt and settles in. He holds my thin waist in both hands and starts to pump. He starts slowly but soon he is hitting it so hard that I am struggling hard to stay on my feet. I turn to face him and he strokes me as if I were his pet.

We turn a little so I can bury my face in the sofa cushion and muffle my screams. Stan bends on top of me and holds my breasts through my armpits. I steal a look in a full length mirror and go crazy at the sight of this dark skinned man using my soft milky body. Stan is biting and scratching my back and buttocks and I don’t care. The feeling is at once liberating and shameful.
Stan finishes with me there and then carries me to the upstairs bedroom. He lights a fire and we lie on the rug with blankets wrapped around us. My whole body aches pleasantly as I fall asleep. He wakes me in the night once and does me in the missionary position. Then we fall asleep again.

“Stan is biting and scratching my back and buttocks and I don’t care.”

The next morning, I cook him breakfast. Before leaving, I kneel to give him head once more as he sits like a king on the living room sofa. Then he lets me dress but does not let me wear my panties.

“You can have these back when you come back tonight,” he says.

“Oh Stan, I am so sore I don’t think I can manage.”

“Baby, you hold your end of the deal and I will hold mine,” he says and kisses me hard.

When I hail a cab in front of his apartment I am dying of shame at being pantyless in public for the first time in my adult life.

That noon, I go to a chic café downtown for a late brunch. Rebecca is already waiting for me.

“Maya,” Rebecca says.

“Ms. Tyler,” I say. Now that Stan is no longer around, we are back to being formal.

“I wanted to ask if the plan was successful, but then I noticed how gingerly you walked in and how pale you look. Been there, done him. Congratulations,” Rebecca says with a smile.

I smile back but say nothing. Rebecca slides a check across the table. The sum is large enough for me to keep servicing her husband throughout the next several months while she’s absent. Rebecca knows it’s impossible for her cock master of a husband to go without sex for so long, so she’s hired me to help keep him satisfied.

“Of course you will keep photos, you know, just in case,” she says.

Standing, I pocket the check and put on my glasses.

“Yes, I will, but if it comes to that we’ll have to negotiate the additional cost of the photos.”

Rebecca thinks this over and nods. Then I exit the café, stepping out into the noon sun. Stan has sent me a message: “Bet your pussy is still sore from my rod. Tonight I am going to do you till you beg and cry for me to stop. Be prepared.”

Laughing, I tuck the phone into my bag. Men. I’ve always suspected that the man-on-top position was invented by some clever woman. A few minutes of bearing a man’s weight and you can fool them into anything—like the notion that they’re actually in charge.

What a ridiculous idea. TC mark

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