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How I Met Your Wife! - Second Version

I sat in front of my computer one afternoon to run through my social media accounts. I saw that I had an unanswered message waiting for me on Twitter. The sender didn’t have a photo in his profile, and his page was protected, so I had no clue what sort of fellow he was. I deduced it was a ‘he’ from the simple note he had left me.

“Hi, Master Shango. I want you to fuck my wife.”

Succinct and straightforward as only a man can be. Yet I never take on missions without knowing whatever amount of details to gleam from the provider, regardless of whether it was someone I’d encountered before or not. There was ample reason not to take on such a mission in this case. I despise people leaving me open-ended messages without bothering to include an introduction. A simple: ‘Hi, I’m so-so-and-so,’ would suffice without sounding off as rude. When it comes to corresponding through social media these days, rudeness tends to be a neglected trait overlooked by wanton excitement.

“Who the fuck is this?” I wrote back.

I went about doing other stuff. Minutes later, I received a response.

“A concerned husband.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I typed. “Who are you?”

Seconds later: “What would you like to know?”

I gritted my teeth; this fellow was already starting to piss me off.

“Tell me who you are: name, age, and whatever else info you can share. I need to know who I’m speaking with here.”

He finally got the message and replied: “I’m sorry, sir. Name’s Jeff. 54yrs old. My wife is Rebel, 50yrs old. Been married thirty years. It’s soon going to be our anniversary, and I’d like something special for my wife.”

“Something special like what?”

“I would like for someone to fuck her for me. She and I have talked about it, and she says she’s all for it. You seemed like the sort of man to talk to about this.”

That raised a smile on my face. It got me into calculating how best to follow this supposed new client.

Jeff had likely done his research to know the sort of things I do to lonely, horny wives. Majority of the details that I often post on social media and my online blog. Details involving my explicit meet and greets with wives whose husbands are incapable of satisfying them sexually in and out of the bedroom. Call me a gigolo if you want (not that I would consider myself one); just don’t think of me as a male prostitute. I don’t do what I do for money. Sure, if there’s money to be earned legally, then I’ll all in for it. What I offer is time and pleasure, emphasis on pleasure. For most husbands, I’m a lot safer than they are seeking some unknown/untested John on Craigslist. Only the bold would dare to find me, and depending on how serious and less delusional they are, can afford my time.

I once again inquired from Jeff about his location. He surprised me by telling me that he was in the city next door. It wasn’t until I’d made sure of how legit he was that I finally hit him about us meeting face-to-face. The day was a Wednesday. We decided to meet during the weekend, when Jeff would have informed his wife about me and of my desire to meet with her. I furnished Jeff with several photos from my catalogue. We exchanged phone numbers before signing off.

Whenever I’m done corresponding with any couple with an intention for a live meet, my mode of activity is to act as subdued about it as possible. The last thing I want is to jinx the moment by fisting myself a victory punch; only when the meet is concluded is it appropriate to celebrate. I have encountered couples before with whom things often fell off after our first meeting. People are different, so you can’t ever be assured until you have the real thing.
Saturday afternoon arrived, and I called Jeff just before leaving my apartment to let him know that I was on my way to our rendezvous spot. He assured me that he would be there, as would Rebel. I got into my car and drove off to the rendezvous location.

Along the way, I checked in my glove compartment to make sure I wasn’t lacking anything for the mission ahead: a packet of XXL condoms, a cock ring, a bottle of lube, and a small stash of weed in case we further needed to loosen up. I had masturbated a half hour ago, so I felt refreshed with myself. I had no idea if I would be fucking the wife today, but it’s good for a Black Dom to always go to war armed and ready in the auspice that I was.

Jeff had furnished me with snapshots of his wife while we corresponded. She had the attractive goods of a cougar: huge pair of cantaloupes for breasts, meaty arms and thighs, and a shapely behind—good thing she wasn’t flat-assed. Nothing I hate most than a woman that was all tits but lacking in the booty department. True, not every woman is deemed to look stacked, but for a cougar, it’s preferable to have some booty for a brother to play with. Know what I mean?

The drive took nearly two hours—imagine the lengthy I’d go for some pussy—partly because I stopped halfway to eat some snack and fill up my tank. The good thing was that I was making good time. I called Jeff to let him know I was close by after consulting my GPS. He replied that he was already there waiting.

I pulled into the parking lot of Wendy’s restaurant and went inside. Jeff waved at me the instant I walked in; his wife sat beside him. They came to their feet, and we shook hands as he then introduced me to his wife, Rebel.

Rebel looked even prettier in person than in her photos. Her cheeks stayed rosy red the entire time we sat there getting to know each other. Although her husband did much of the talking at first, he later stopped to allow her room to ask me whatever questions were on her mind. She inquired about the length of time I’ve engaged in this lifestyle. Many times, couples often ask me this same question, like I’m presenting them with my driver’s license or something to prove that I was an old pro. Not that I would ever claim myself to be one. I enjoy giving wives the hot, pounding satisfaction that’s been denied them for years. This isn’t like a college degree or something, although it sure pays well to communicate with wives/couples better. Plenty of bulls out there presume that the power lies solely in them whipping out their dicks for the wives to inspect. Sure, it pays to have a huge cock, but that can sometimes scare the wives off, and the last thing any bull wants is spoiling a deal before even signing the ink. A little finesse is like adding spice to the works.

I did entertain Rebel, and she seemed more engaged the longer I talked. At some point, she excused herself and went to find the ladies room. Jeff told me their secret means of communication: if Rebel returned from the restroom and handed him her panties, that was the sign that she wanted to fuck right now. However, if she didn’t, then we’d have to reschedule for another day. I wasn’t fazed by any of that; I was certain that I was going to score.

Rebel exited the ladies room minutes later and made her way over to our table. She came and sat beside me inside and audaciously threw her balled-up panties at Jeff, who caught it with a mischievous smile.

“How about we all go for a drive,” Rebel said to me. “You and I can ride together while Jeff leads the way.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

We settled our bill and then got up and left the restaurant. Rebel rode with me in the passenger seat while Jeff drove alone ahead. If you must know, the ride to her home wasn’t exactly a smooth one.

Want to hear more?

I drove with one hand wrapped around the steering wheel while my other caressed Rebel’s thigh underneath her flower dress. She wore nylon stockings—I felt the urge to want to rip them off her to get a better feel of her soft, warm flesh.

She, too, was busy caressing me as well. My eyes stayed on her husband’s tail lights as he then drew to a red-light stop. I imagine he’d wish he was in the backseat wanting to see what was ongoing between us right now.

Rebel surprised me by reaching both hands onto my crotch and then working my zipper.
“Let’s see what you’ve got hiding under here?” she moaned as she sat sideways to do what she was doing.

“I guess you don’t want to wait for us to get to your home,” I said.

“No, I can’t,” she fumbled her hand inside my jeans and soon was able to extract my semi-flaccid penis out of its dark place. “Jeff showed me a photo of your cock. I’m so horny for Shango’s cock right now.”

She unclipped her seatbelt and adjusted herself so she could then lean forward to taste my dick. Her lips felt warm against my penis. It sent a wave of goosebumps travelling across my arm that got me to stiffen for a second. Rebel didn’t stop even as the red-light became green, and I shifted the car into gear and continued tailing her husband. I glanced at either side of my vehicle to see if any other driver might have noticed. Not at all; it was another glorious Saturday as you’d expect.

I don’t know if anyone has ever mentioned this to you before, but it’s tough maintaining an erection while you’re driving. Especially when you’ve got a sexy cougar sucking your cock. I have fucked wives in my car before—nothing beats that type of experience—but never when I’m behind the wheel. It’s a good thing that we arrived at their home some minutes later. This show works best when you’re indoors, away from peeping eyes and of someone filming you while you aren’t observing so they can put you up on YouTube for the rest of the world to see.

Jeff parked his car into his driveway and then I came in behind. I killed my engine then Rebel and I got out of the car. Jeff was gushing with excitement as he opened the front door and ushered us inside. They were empty-nesters, so we were going to be fine with ourselves.

An abridged version of this story was recently published in my Medium publication. You can find the complete work in my ongoing book: "Naughty Wives, Horny Daughters" on Kindle Vella. Another option is to go listen to the audio version on my Shango's Zone podcast.

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