The Biggest Cock My Wife Ever Took

About five years ago, a good friend of my wife's passed away after a long battle with cancer. Anne had always been close with the woman, and with the woman's husband, Carl, and their children as well. This past June, the youngest of those kids graduated from high school and headed off to college in the fall, leaving Carl alone in the big empty house that still smelled faintly of his late wife's perfume on quiet evenings.

Anne and I had planned our usual September trip to the cabin we own on a quiet lake in the Northwoods of Minnesota. The leaves would be just starting to turn, the mosquitoes long gone, the water still warm enough for a late-afternoon swim. Anne thought it might be a kindness to invite Carl up for a few days so he wouldn't have to sit alone staring at the walls. I agreed. It seemed like the decent thing to do. Anne called him; he accepted, and we set the dates.

Carl arrived on a Tuesday afternoon under a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. The temperature sat at an unseasonable eighty degrees. Anne showed him the guest room, he unpacked the single duffel bag he'd brought, and the three of us sat on the screened porch drinking lemonade while the lake glittered beyond the pines. Carl looked thinner than I remembered, a little hollow around the eyes, but he smiled when Anne asked about the kids and the house.

Like me, Carl loves to fish. After lunch we took the boat out while Anne laced up her running shoes and headed down the gravel road for a ten-mile loop, the same loop she runs four or five days a week rain or shine. At fifty-two Anne still has the body of a woman fifteen years younger. Five-foot-two, a hundred and fifteen pounds, round natural 34C breasts that sit high and firm without a bra, a flat stomach with the faint ridges of muscle from endless sit-ups, long smooth legs, and a tight little bubble of an ass that fits perfectly in both my hands when she rides me. Her auburn hair falls to her shoulders and frames a pretty freckled face, green eyes, and a mouth that always looks like it's waiting to be kissed. For years she kept her pussy completely bare; about a year ago she let a small postage-stamp of soft hair grow just above her clit because she said it made her feel more like a woman. The rest stays smooth. She stopped wearing underwear years ago—no bra, no panties—so whatever she puts on clings and reveals.

Carl and I talked while we drifted over the deep holes where the walleyes hide. He told me, after a few careful minutes of small talk, how quiet the house had become. How he still reaches for his wife in the night. How it had been more than five years since he'd felt a woman's body against his. I felt genuine sympathy for the man. Five years is a long time to go without the simple animal comfort of sex.

That night after Anne and I made love—slow, familiar, her legs locked around my waist while she whispered how much she loved me—I told her what Carl had said. She was quiet for a while, then murmured that it must be lonely as hell. I heard myself say, almost casually, that if the mood ever felt right maybe she could help him out. A hand job. Maybe a blow job. Something to take the edge off for a man who'd been without for so long. Anne looked at me like I'd grown a second head.

“He's my friend's husband,” she said.

“Was,” I answered. “She's gone. And I'd be right there. I wouldn't mind watching you make him feel good for one night.”

She studied my face in the dark, then said the two words that started everything: “We'll see.”

The next two days passed in the easy rhythm of lake life. Fishing in the mornings, long walks in the afternoon, fish fries and campfires at night. Anne moved through the cabin in tiny shorts and thin tank tops, nipples always visible, the outline of her bare pussy lips clear against the soft cotton when she bent over. Carl's eyes followed her more than once. I watched him watching and felt a strange heat settle low in my belly.

Friday dawned perfect—mid-seventies, no wind, water like glass. Carl was scheduled to leave Saturday morning; I would drive him to the small regional airport. We spent the day doing whatever he wanted: fishing until the cooler was full, a hike through the birch and pine, then back to the cabin to clean the fish. While I filleted the walleyes on the outdoor table Anne mixed margaritas. She loves tequila. It softens her edges and turns her horny in a way nothing else quite matches. I made the first pitcher strong and poured her an extra shot when she wasn't looking.

By the time we finished eating and moved into the living room the second pitcher was half gone. Anne sat beside me on the couch in a pale-blue tank top so thin her hard nipples poked through like tiny erasers, and a pair of short white cotton shorts that rode up high enough to show the lower curves of her ass. No panties. Bare feet. The tequila had put a flush on her cheeks and a slow smile on her mouth. Carl sat across from us in the big overstuffed chair, nursing his drink, eyes rarely leaving her.

Conversation drifted. Anne laughed more freely, touched my arm, leaned into me. When Carl excused himself to use the bathroom I turned to her and kissed her the way I do when I want more. Her mouth opened immediately, soft and wet and tasting of salt and lime. I slid my hand under the tank top and cupped one full breast, thumb circling the tight nipple. She moaned into the kiss and arched. I pulled the tank up over her tits and kept kissing her, pinching and rolling the stiff peaks while she squirmed.

Carl came back into the room and froze.

“Don’t go,” I said. “Come sit with us.”

Anne finished pulling the tank over her head and tossed it aside. She patted the cushion beside her. “Please, Carl.”

He hesitated only a second longer, then sat. Anne turned, slid one arm around his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. At first he was stiff, almost shy, but she kept her mouth on his, slow and patient, until his lips parted and he kissed her back. She took his hand and placed it on her bare breast. He cupped the soft weight, thumb brushing the nipple the same way I had a moment earlier. I watched my wife’s tongue slide into another man’s mouth while his fingers played with her tit and felt my cock thicken against the front of my shorts.

I moved the coffee table out of the way and knelt between Anne’s knees. She lifted her hips so I could peel the tight shorts down her legs. They clung to her damp skin; I had to work them off slowly, revealing the smooth mound, the little patch of auburn hair, the full pink lips already shiny with arousal. I spread her thighs wider, scooted her forward until her ass hung off the edge of the cushion, and put my mouth on her.

She tasted sweet and salty and already wet. I licked the outer lips, then pushed my tongue between them, fucking her slowly with it while Carl continued to kiss her and knead her breasts. Anne’s hips rolled against my face. When I found her swollen clit and flicked it with the tip of my tongue she broke the kiss and cried out, a long low sound that ended in a shudder. Her thighs clamped around my head. Pussy juice flooded my tongue and I drank every drop I could get, loving the way she tasted when she came hard.

She pushed my face away gently when the last tremor passed. “Give us a little time alone,” she whispered.

I understood. I stood, walked to the chair Carl had left empty, and sat. Anne slid off the couch onto her knees between Carl’s spread legs. She unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his shorts, and tugged them down along with his underwear.

The sound she made was pure surprise—a soft, startled gasp.

Carl’s cock sprang free, already half-hard and still growing. It was the biggest cock I had ever seen outside of internet videos. Easily ten thick inches, maybe more, and girthy enough that Anne’s small hands couldn’t close around it. The head was broad and flared, the shaft veined and heavy, hanging with a weight that made my own average cock feel almost delicate by comparison. Even soft it would have been impressive; fully hard it looked almost unreal against Anne’s petite frame.

She stared for a long second, then leaned in and opened her mouth as wide as it would go. She managed to take only the fat head, stretching her lips thin around the ridge. Her hands wrapped around the shaft—two hands, stacked, and still there was more cock left below them. She sucked wetly on the head while she stroked the long thick length, spit dripping down the shaft and over her knuckles. Carl’s head fell back against the couch. A low groan rolled out of him.

I watched my wife of twenty-seven years give another man the kind of slow, devoted blow job she usually reserved for me. She worked the head with her tongue, swirling, flicking the underside, then tried again to take more. Her jaw strained. She gagged softly when the head bumped the back of her throat, pulled off with a wet pop, and went back to stroking and licking the shaft like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

After several minutes she released him, climbed onto the couch, and straddled his lap. She reached between them, gripped that massive cock, and rubbed the broad head up and down her slit, coating it with her juices. Then she positioned herself and began to sink down.

The head stretched her open wider than I had ever seen. Her pussy lips flared around the thick crown, white-knuckled with the effort. She took it slow—an inch, then another, pausing to breathe, then another. I could see the outline of him pressing against the soft skin of her lower belly from the inside. When she finally bottomed out, her ass resting on his thighs, she sat there for a long moment just feeling the way that enormous cock filled her.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “It’s so fucking big.”

Carl’s hands settled on her hips. Anne began to rock, short careful movements at first, then longer strokes that lifted her almost off him before she sank back down, taking every thick inch. Her tits bounced with each rise and fall. Sweat gathered in the valley between them and slid down her stomach. The wet sound of her cunt swallowing that cock filled the room—obscene, rhythmic, unmistakable.

She rode him harder. Her hands braced on his shoulders. Her head fell back. The little postage-stamp of hair above her clit was soaked. Every time she dropped down the impact made her moan. Carl’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass, guiding her, helping her take him deeper. I could see the way her pussy stretched around the base, the lips thin and shiny, clinging to the shaft on every upstroke.

“That’s it,” Carl murmured, voice rough. “Take it. Fuck yourself on it.”

Anne answered with a broken sound and bounced faster. The couch creaked. Her thighs trembled. I watched her climb toward another orgasm, the same tight expression she gets when she’s close, the way her mouth opens and her eyes go unfocused. When she came she slammed down hard and stayed there, grinding, crying out while her cunt fluttered and clenched around the massive intrusion. Clear fluid squirted out around the base of his cock and soaked his balls.

Carl lasted maybe another minute of her continuing to ride him through the aftershocks before he grabbed her hips, pulled her down hard, and erupted. I saw the thick pulses travel up the underside of that long shaft. Anne felt them too—her eyes flew open and she moaned, “Yes, fill me, give it to me,” as he pumped load after load into her. When he finally finished, white cum leaked out around the seal of her stretched pussy and ran down his shaft in thick rivulets.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard, sweaty, her forehead against his. Eventually she lifted off him. His cock, still half-hard and glistening, slapped against his stomach. A thick rope of cum stretched from the head to her open cunt for a second before breaking.

Anne dropped to her knees again and cleaned him with her tongue, slow and thorough, licking every drop from the shaft and the heavy balls. I couldn’t wait any longer. I stripped, moved behind her while she worked, and lifted her hips. Her pussy was loose and flooded—open, pink, dripping Carl’s thick load. I pushed into the sloppy heat in one thrust. The difference was shocking; she was so stretched I could barely feel the usual tight grip, only the wet heat and the way her walls fluttered. I fucked her hard and fast from behind while she kept licking Carl’s softening cock, her moans vibrating against his skin.

I lasted only a few minutes. The sight of my wife’s face buried in another man’s crotch while I slammed into the creampie he’d left behind was too much. I buried myself deep and added my own load to the mess already inside her. When I pulled out, a mixture of our cum spilled from her open hole and ran down the insides of her thighs.

Anne climbed back onto the couch beside Carl and rested her head on his shoulder. She kissed the side of his neck, soft and almost affectionate.

“That was a one-time thing,” she said quietly. “I love you for it, but we’re not doing this again.”

Carl nodded. He didn’t argue. He thanked her, then stood, collected his clothes, and went to shower.

Anne and I showered together in silence. In bed later she lay on her side facing away from me. I could still smell the sex on her skin, the faint musk of another man’s cum. I wanted to ask how it had felt to take something that big, whether she had come harder than she ever had with me, whether the stretch still lingered. I didn’t. I already knew the answers from the way she had ridden him, the way she had begged him to fill her, the way her body had opened for him like it was made for that cock.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

The next morning Carl was quiet at breakfast. Anne made eggs and toast, moving around the kitchen in one of my old T-shirts that barely covered the tops of her thighs. When she bent to get the juice from the bottom shelf of the fridge the shirt rode up and I saw the faint marks Carl’s fingers had left on her hips. She caught me looking and gave a small, almost shy smile.

I drove Carl to the airport after breakfast. The conversation on the way was polite and careful. At the drop-off he shook my hand and said thank you again, more quietly this time. I watched him walk into the terminal carrying the same duffel bag he’d arrived with, and I wondered if he could still feel the phantom grip of my wife’s cunt around his cock the way I could still feel the ghost of how loose she had been when I took her after him.

The cabin felt different when I returned. Anne was on the porch in a thin sundress, bare feet on the railing, a book open in her lap. She looked up when I stepped out.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She set the book aside. “Come here.”

I sat. She climbed into my lap, straddling me the way she had straddled Carl the night before, and kissed me slowly. Her hands found the front of my shorts and stroked the thickening length of my cock through the fabric.

“I keep thinking about it,” she whispered against my mouth. “How full I felt. How deep he was. The way it stretched me open.”

My cock jumped under her hand. She smiled, a wicked little curve of lips, and slid off my lap long enough to free me. Then she sank down again, this time onto me, taking my smaller cock easily into the still-soft, still-loose heat of her pussy. She rode me slowly, telling me in filthy detail how Carl’s cock had pressed against places inside her that mine never quite reached, how the head had felt like it was rearranging her, how the thick pulses of his cum had painted her walls.

I came hard while she talked, flooding her again. She kept moving, chasing her own orgasm, grinding her clit against the base of my cock until she shuddered and clenched around me.

We spent the rest of the day in and out of bed. Each time she took me she was a little tighter again, the stretch fading, but the memory stayed. That night she asked me to fuck her from behind while she imagined it was Carl’s bigger cock filling her. I did. I told her how beautiful she had looked bouncing on that massive dick, how her little cunt had stretched around it, how the cum had run down her thighs. She came screaming into the pillow.

Saturday night turned into Sunday morning. We stayed in bed late, dozing and fucking and talking in low voices about what had happened. Anne admitted she had never felt so completely taken. She said the size had scared her for a second and then the fear had flipped into pure greedy need. She said she could still feel a faint ache deep inside, a pleasant reminder.

By the time we packed up the cabin on Monday the ache had faded, but the shift between us had not. Something had opened. Anne moved differently—looser in her hips, quicker to touch me, more willing to talk dirty about other cocks, bigger cocks, the idea of being filled past the point of comfort. I found myself looking at other men differently when we went into town for supplies, measuring them against the memory of Carl’s heavy hanging length.

We returned home to the suburbs and the ordinary rhythm of work and grocery runs and evening television. But the ordinary no longer felt quite the same. Anne started leaving the bedroom door open when she showered so I could watch her soap the soft folds of her pussy and remember how wide they had spread. She bought a thick realistic dildo online—nowhere near Carl’s size, but thicker than me—and used it while I watched, narrating how it still wasn’t enough, how she wanted the real thing again.

Two weeks after we got home Carl texted Anne to thank her again for the invitation and the hospitality. The message was polite. Anne showed it to me. That night she asked if I thought he still thought about the way her cunt had taken him. I said yes. She asked if I wanted him to. I said yes again.

She replied to the text with a photo of herself naked on our bed, legs spread, two fingers holding her pussy open so the camera could see the soft pink inside. No caption. Carl answered almost immediately with a photo of his cock, fully hard, the thick shaft curving slightly under its own weight, a bead of pre-cum at the tip.

Anne stared at the picture for a long time. Then she handed me the phone and said, “I want him to fuck me again. Properly. Not just once. I want to feel that stretch for days.”

My cock was already hard. I told her to invite him.

Carl drove up the following weekend. We met him at the door. Anne was wearing the same thin white shorts and pale-blue tank from the cabin night, no underwear, nipples already tight. She kissed him in the entryway, slow and deep, while I closed the door behind them.

This time there was no pretense of drinks or small talk. Anne led him straight to the bedroom. I followed. She stripped while he watched, then helped him out of his clothes. His cock rose thick and heavy between them. Anne dropped to her knees and worshiped it with her mouth the way she had before, only now she was hungrier, less careful, trying to force more of the fat head into her throat even when she gagged and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

When she couldn’t take any more she climbed onto the bed on all fours and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Fuck me. Don’t go easy. I want to feel it tomorrow.”

Carl knelt behind her, rubbed the broad head up and down her already dripping slit, and pushed in. The stretch was visible—her pussy lips flaring wide, the slow progressive fill as inch after thick inch disappeared inside her. She moaned the whole way down, a continuous broken sound that rose in pitch when he finally bottomed out and his heavy balls pressed against her clit.

He fucked her with long deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out so I could see the way her cunt clung to him, then driving back in hard enough to make her tits swing and her breath punch out of her. Anne pushed back to meet every thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. I sat in the chair in the corner and stroked my own cock while I watched my wife take a dick that made mine look average, her face twisted in pure animal pleasure.

Carl lasted longer this time. He flipped her onto her back, hooked her knees over his elbows, and folded her nearly in half so he could drive straight down into her. The position let me see everything—the thick shaft pistoning in and out of her stretched hole, the way her clit peeked out above the stretched lips, the clear fluid that leaked out with every withdrawal. Anne came twice like that, loud and shaking, before Carl buried himself and pumped another massive load into her.

When he pulled out the cum poured out in a thick white river. Anne scooped some onto her fingers and pushed it back inside, then licked her fingers clean while looking at me.

I took her next, sliding easily into the flooded, open heat. She was so wet and loose I could fuck her as hard as I wanted without resistance. I did. I told her how good she looked full of another man’s cum, how her little cunt was ruined for the night, how I could still feel the shape of Carl’s cock inside her. She came again around me, and I followed, adding to the mess.

We didn’t stop. Carl recovered faster than I expected. Anne sucked him hard again, then rode him reverse so I could watch her ass bounce and the thick shaft disappear between her cheeks. Later he fucked her on her side while I lay in front of her and she sucked my cock, the two of us filling her from both ends. She took every load they gave her—in her cunt, on her tits, across her freckled face—and asked for more.

By Sunday morning Anne moved carefully, a soft limp in her walk, a faint wince when she sat. The lips of her pussy were swollen and puffy, the little patch of hair matted with dried cum. She smiled every time she caught me looking. Carl left after brunch with the same quiet thank-you as before, only this time Anne walked him to the door naked under a robe that she didn’t bother to close, and kissed him long enough that I saw his cock twitch against the front of his jeans.

After the door closed she turned to me, robe falling open, and said, “I want him to come back next month. And the month after that. I want that big cock inside me on a regular schedule.”

I pulled her against me and felt the soft give of her body, the lingering heat between her legs.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” I said.

She smiled against my mouth, reached down, and wrapped her fingers around my cock—smaller, familiar, still hard for her.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I already miss the stretch.”

We fucked on the living-room floor with the curtains open, her legs over my shoulders, my cock sliding easily through the leftover slick of Carl’s last load. She came talking about how deep he had been, how thick, how she wanted to feel that pressure again soon. I came answering that she would.

The weeks that followed settled into a new rhythm. Carl visited once a month. Sometimes more if schedules allowed. Anne started preparing for those weekends the way some women prepare for vacations—shaving carefully, choosing the shortest shorts, the thinnest tops, leaving herself bare and ready. On the nights he stayed she took him in every room of the house: bent over the kitchen counter while I made coffee, on her knees in the shower while the water ran over both of them, spread open on our bed while I held her hand and watched.

She learned how to take more of him in her mouth. Not all of it—never all of it—but enough that the head could push into her throat and stay there while she breathed through her nose and drooled down the shaft. She learned the exact angle that let him reach the deepest places inside her cunt. She learned how to relax and open for the first impossible stretch every time, and how to beg for it once the burn turned into pure need.

I learned how much I loved watching. The jealousy never fully disappeared, but it mixed with the arousal until the two feelings were almost the same heat. I learned the particular sound she makes when a cock that size first breaches her, the way her eyes go wide and then soft, the way her toes curl and her fingers clutch at whatever is nearest. I learned that after he finished and left her full and dripping, my own cock felt perfect inside the loose heat—less about stretching her and more about claiming what was still mine.

One rainy Saturday in November Carl arrived early. Anne met him at the door already naked. She dropped to her knees in the entryway and sucked him until he was fully hard, then led him upstairs by the cock. I followed. She wanted both of us at once that day. Carl on his back on the bed, Anne straddling him and sinking down until every thick inch was buried, then leaning forward so I could press the head of my cock against the stretched rim of her cunt and push in beside him.

The double penetration was slow and careful at first. Her body resisted. She breathed through it, eyes closed, until both of us were inside her at the same time—Carl’s massive shaft and my smaller one sharing the same tight, wet space. The pressure was incredible. I could feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding against mine inside her. Anne came almost immediately, a long shaking orgasm that made her walls clamp down hard enough to force both of us deeper. We fucked her like that until Carl flooded her and I followed seconds later, the combined loads so much that they pushed out around our cocks in thick pulses.

When we pulled out she stayed on her hands and knees, head down, ass up, cum pouring out of her open hole in a steady stream. She reached back with both hands and held herself spread so we could watch.

“Look at what you did to me,” she said, voice hoarse. “Look how wide you stretched your wife’s cunt.”

I looked. Carl looked. The sight of her—ruined, dripping, smiling—was enough to get both of us hard again within minutes.

We spent the rest of the weekend filling her. By the time Carl left on Sunday evening Anne could barely walk without a careful, rolling gait. She sat on a towel at dinner because the leftover cum kept leaking out of her. She smiled through every bite.

That night after he was gone she curled against me in our bed and whispered, “I think I’m becoming addicted to that cock. To the way it forces me open. To the way it makes everything else feel small after.”

I kissed the top of her head and slid two fingers into her still-soft pussy, feeling the easy give.

“Then we’ll keep feeding the addiction,” I said.

She pushed back onto my fingers and sighed.

“Good. Because next time I want him to fuck my ass with it.”

The words hung in the dark between us. I felt my cock twitch against her hip.

“We’ll work up to it,” I told her.

She nodded, already half-asleep, the last of Carl’s cum still slowly leaking onto the sheet between her thighs.

And that was how it began—the quiet rearrangement of our marriage around the biggest cock she had ever seen, the one that stretched her beyond what either of us thought possible, the one she still craved months later every time she looked at me with that particular hungry light in her green eyes and said, simply, “I need him again.”

I always said yes.

Because watching my wife take that massive dick—watching her struggle and then surrender and then beg for more—had become the hottest, filthiest, most perfect thing I had ever seen. And I never wanted it to stop.