I never thought I’d be the kind of husband who gets hard listening to his wife describe sucking her own father’s cock. But after her mom died, something shifted. The old man was lonely, still solid for 72, and my wife my thick, soft, heavy titted BBW started looking at him differently. One night after I’d just finished buried balls deep in her, sweat cooling on my chest, I told her straight:
“If you want to take care of him, do it. I want every detail. How you seduce him. How his old cock tastes. How it feels stretching that fat cunt of yours. Don’t hold anything back.”
She looked at me like she was checking if I was serious. I was. My cock twitched against her soft thigh just saying it.
The first time she came home from his place I could smell it on her sex and something older, muskier. She didn’t shower. She stripped in our bedroom, her heavy tits swinging free, soft belly and wide hips still flushed, and climbed onto the bed. I was already hard. She sat on my face without a word and I tasted him bitter, thick, mixed with her own juices that had already started leaking out of her.
While I licked her clean she told me everything in that low, filthy voice she only uses when she’s really gone.
She’d walked into his house in a thin white tank with no bra, nipples already poking through, tiny black shorts riding up those thick thighs. Dad’s eyes locked on her tits the second the door opened. She pressed that soft body against him until his cock started swelling against her belly. Then she dropped to her knees right in the hallway, yanked his sweatpants down, and took that heavy, veiny oldman cock into her mouth.
She described the weight of it on her tongue, the way the head was already shiny, the salt and musk taste that was pure him. How she stroked what she couldn’t fit, spit running down her chin onto her tits while she sucked wet and loud. How she pulled off just long enough to tell him I knew and that I wanted every second of it before she swallowed him deeper until she gagged.
When he came she swallowed every thick rope. Then she stood up, kissed him so he could taste himself on her tongue, and came home to me with his load still warm in her stomach.
I flipped her onto her back and fucked her hard while she kept talking. Every detail made me thrust deeper. The way his hands had trembled when he finally grabbed her soft ass. The broken sound he made when she called him Daddy with her mouth full. I came so hard my vision went white, pumping into her while she whispered,
“That’s two loads in me tonight, baby. His and yours.”
It got worse. Better. Both.
The next time she stayed the night. She came home the following morning still full of him, thighs sticky, that same heavy scent on her skin. She told me how she’d straddled him in the recliner, pulled her panties aside, and sank down onto his cock in one slow, wet slide. How thick it felt stretching her. How her soft ass slapped against his thighs while she rode him, tits bouncing in his face. How he sucked one fat nipple while she ground her clit against him and told him to fill his daughter’s cunt.
She described the moment he came deep, pulsing, flooding her then how she lifted off so he could watch his cum leak out of her stretched hole and run down her thick thighs. Later in his bed she got on all fours and let him fuck her from behind, hands sinking into the soft flesh of her ass, the wet slap of his hips against her loud enough to echo. He rubbed her clit while he pounded her and she came hard around him before he flooded her again.
In the morning she woke him with her mouth, climbed on, and rode him slow while the light came through the curtains, her soft belly pressed to his, heavy tits hanging in his face. Another load. She left with it still dripping out of her.
I made her sit on my face again that morning. I licked every trace of him out of her while she detailed the exact angle of his cock, the way his gray pubic hair scratched her soft lips, the filthy things he whispered “Good girl… take Daddy’s cum… such a tight little slut for your old man.” My cock was so hard it ached. When I finally fucked her I came in under a minute, growling against her neck that I wanted her to go back tomorrow and get another load so I could taste it again.
It became our ritual. She’d go over in the afternoon, drop to her knees in his kitchen, and suck him off while something simmered on the stove. Or she’d spend the night and come home the next day with his cum drying on her thighs, ready to recount every thrust, every moan, every time he gripped those wide hips and used her.
Sometimes she’d text me from his house:
“He’s hard again. About to climb on. Want me to put the phone on speaker so you can hear him fuck me?”
I always said yes.
I’d sit in our living room with my cock in my hand, listening to the wet sounds of my wife’s fat cunt taking her elderly father’s cock, her voice breaking as she told him how good it felt, how she was going to go home and tell her husband every filthy second. When she came home I’d already be waiting. She’d strip, bend over, and let me push into her still slick hole while she gave me the play by play how deep he’d been, how his balls had slapped against her, the exact moment his cock pulsed and he filled her.
I never asked her to stop. I never wanted her to stop. Watching and tasting my thick, soft wife become her father’s personal cumdump after her mother died was the most honest, dirtiest thing that had ever happened in our marriage. And every time she walked through the door with that look in her eyes and that scent on her skin, I got harder than I had the day before.
She was still mine.
She was also his.
And I got to hear, taste, and fuck every detail of it.
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