My Steamy Story: Sex with: Multiple men and one woman ...

My Story Time:

The sun was barely up, spilling tea all over my kitchen floor. No cap, my world was ending. I’d just found the texts on my husband Marcus’s phone—my 62-year-old husband who I married at 18, the father of my kids. Texts to Lily, my son Aiden’s best friend, the girl I kept calling my “future daughter-in-law.” My heart was in my throat.

I confronted him, shaking. “Marcus, what is this?”

He just looked at me, all calm, while I stood there in my robe. “You’re 37, Eleanor. You’re too old. Chronologically, it’s just a fact.” My brain short-circuited. Too old? I still looked 18, high-key. I’d just had our toddler, Leo, I was still nursing him. My body was literally making milk.

He stood up. “The clothes, Eleanor. Take them off. All of them.” I was shook. He wasn’t even angry. It was worse—detached, like he was tidying up. I was frozen, so he did it himself. He untied my robe, pushed it off my shoulders. I was naked. He gathered my robe, then walked to our closet. He started pulling out every dress, every skirt, every pair of heels. He piled them in the center of the room. “These aren’t yours anymore.”

“What are you doing?” My voice was a whisper.

“Freeing you from the pretense.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket. I watched, numb, as my entire wardrobe—the miniskirts, the boujee sandals—went up in flames in our marble bathtub. The smell of burning silk filled the air. Period. I was officially just… a naked body in his house.

That’s when the door opened. It was Aiden, my 19-year-old. He looked from the smoke, to my naked body, to his father. His eyes weren’t a son’s eyes. They were dark, hungry. “Dad said you’re the household milk supply now,” Aiden said, his voice flat. “That we need to keep you pregnant.”

Marcus nodded, like they were discussing grocery shopping. “She needs to be useful. Do it, Aiden. Get her started.”

Before I could scream, Aiden was on me. He slapped me across the face, hard. “Don’t look at me, Sloppy Seconds.” That was it. My new name. My degrading title. Sloppy Seconds. Because I was used up, apparently. He shoved me over the couch arm, my bare ass in the air. I felt his jeans unzip, then the brutal, dry thrust of his cock into my pussy. I tried to hold in the moan, the pain was so sharp. He slapped my ass, red handprints blooming on my skin. “Louder, Sloppy.”

He fucked me with a hatred that stole my breath, choking me with one hand while his dick pounded my cunt. I felt him bite my shoulder, then my nipple, his teeth latching on hard until I cried out. He drank from me then, sucking the breast milk straight from my tit while he kept brutally pumping into me. “This is all you’re for now,” he grunted, his cum flooding my womb hot and deep. He pulled out, his dick slick with my juices and his cum, and rubbed it all over my face, marking me. Then he slapped me again, sending me to the floor. “Get lost.”

I lay there, leaking his cum and my milk, as I heard sounds from down the hall. Moans. Giggles. I crawled to the doorway. There, in our—his—bedroom, was Marcus. And Lily. She was on her back, her little sundress around her waist, and Marcus, my husband, was between her legs, moving inside her with a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. He whispered, “My sweet girl,” and she wrapped her legs around him, meeting his gaze with pure love.

Lily saw me. Her eyes went wide, her moans hitched. She mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ over Marcus’s shoulder, even as her hips kept rocking to take him deeper. That’s when I knew. I was Sloppy Seconds. And this was just the beginning.