5 - The Waiting Game
MMF / Hotwife / Dom/sub / Orgasm Control / Encouraged Bisexuality
He’d circled the date on the calendar with a red Sharpie, then underlined it twice.
That was over a month ago. A full thirty days of edging himself on the idea alone—on the promise that, finally, he’d get to have her again.
The woman who could make him ache just by biting her lip at the right moment.
The one whose body had aged like wine, getting curvier, tighter, more potent with time.
And she wasn’t just his wife anymore—she was a fantasy, a centerfold, a living pin-up he was lucky enough to watch, touch, worship. At least when he was allowed.
Things had changed after that first time she brought another man into their bed.
Hell, even calling it “their bed” felt a bit dishonest now.
The marriage had started out basic enough, a monogamous, kind-of-vanilla thing that had lost its edge quicker than either of them expected.
But once the floodgates opened, once Ben had agreed to let her spice things up, it turned fast. One taste of poly play and Dana had taken to it like a siren to song.
Soon, the staleness was gone, replaced with a revolving door of male perfection—rippling bodies, chiseled jaws, confidence dripping from every cocky grin.
They came through the house like they owned it, these walking sculptures, all bigger, stronger, more successful than Ben.
He was just a road tech, slinging cables and gear for local bands.
No six-pack abs. No private trainers. But Dana loved him for letting her indulge—and for watching.
That was part of the dynamic now. Dana took lovers.
Ben took notes. And when it was over, he cleaned up the wine glasses and the sweat-stained sheets.
At first, it was clumsy. Emotional turbulence. Lots of sitting in the car after, staring into space. But he adjusted. They both did. And over time, she started pushing the limits. Not just of what she’d do with other men—but what she’d withhold from Ben. Her body. Her touch. Her permission.
A game developed. One that stretched his patience and his balls thin.
Weeks at a time without coming. Nights spent hard and aching, his release held hostage behind her teasing words and that wicked little smile.
She turned denial into an art form. Some nights he was allowed to go down on her, to taste her while she got wet for someone else.
But that was as close as he’d get. His cock stayed caged, figuratively if not literally, until she decided otherwise.
But that’s what made tonight special. Tonight was the exception.
His birthday. The one night a year where all that waiting, all that aching, was meant to pay off.
It was tradition. Every year, one night where Dana gave herself back to him.
And not just gave—offered, like a sacred rite.
He’d been fantasizing for weeks. About bending her over, spreading her open, fucking her like he used to before this whole thing began.
She’d promised him control—just for the night. And he believed her.
But first, she made him earn it.
It always started the same way. “Run my bath water,” she said that morning, yawning as she stretched naked in bed, one leg tossed over the sheets like a challenge.
Simple commands, low-stakes requests—on the surface.
But Ben knew better. This was the gauntlet.
The proving ground. The day was hers. From making her breakfast just the way she liked it, to scrubbing the baseboards in the living room “just because,” he would serve without hesitation.
If he wanted his reward, he couldn’t fuck up. Not once.
And Dana was ruthless. She teased him with every word, every glance.
Pulled him close, wrapped her arms around his waist and let her fingers “accidentally” graze his cock, half-hard from a month of denial.
Sometimes she’d jump into his arms, lock her legs around his hips, press her pussy against his bulge through both layers of cotton just to feel him tremble.
Then she’d giggle and walk away like nothing happened, her hips swaying with that deliberate, smug rhythm that meant she knew exactly how hard he was.
Every flirtation was a test. Every “accidental” graze, a baited hook. If he let himself get distracted, got too handsy, he’d lose the prize. Dana wanted to see him sweat. Wanted to break him just enough. She needed his obedience as much as he needed her approval.
And behind that devilish smile she had plans.
Ben didn’t know it yet, but while he was busy hauling trash from the garage and mowing the yard, she’d already texted one of her regulars.
One of the big ones. A guy who knew the rules, who knew just how far to take it.
She watched Ben from the kitchen window, sipping a mimosa while he wiped his brow in the sun, oblivious to what waited for him later.
All of it by design. She believed in pressure, in slow cooking.
Give a man the same treat over and over, and he forgets the flavor.
But if you starve him? Make him crave it?
Then, when you finally give it back, it tastes like heaven.
And tonight, Dana would feed him just enough heaven to keep him starving.
Ben had catered to Dana’s every whim from the moment the sun rose.
By now, the house gleamed with an obsessive shine, every surface scrubbed, every detail perfected, down to the glinting polish on the wine glasses and the faintest trace of lavender oil rubbed into the wood grain of the dining table.
He had massaged her feet until she practically levitated, tended to errands with religious zeal, made every call, set every appointment, folded and pressed every stitch of laundry.
There wasn’t a square inch of his day that hadn’t been devoted to pleasing her.
The running chorus in his head, Dana’s voice—bright, breezy, almost sing-song—taunted and motivated in equal measure: “Keep me happy, and you’ll get your reward. ”
A month and three days he’d been waiting.
Thirty-four days of build-up, edging, anticipation so taut it had reshaped the way he carried himself.
Now, standing at the edge of the bedroom with hands folded neatly in front of his lap, he could feel the hum of suspense crackling beneath his skin.
Dana reclined against a nest of pillows, perfectly poised, like something from a dream or a decadent hallucination.
She was wrapped in lingerie he’d purchased himself—an indulgence at the time, but now it felt like a kind of tribute.
The shelf-bra lifted her breasts in a way that defied gravity and common sense.
Her legs were crossed with casual precision, revealing glimpses of smooth skin conditioned and pampered by spa days and high-end moisturizers he could barely pronounce.
Her dark bob framed her face, drawing focus to her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes that saw through him entirely.
“Well,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I suppose you’ve done everything I asked. But don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The teasing note in her voice was maddening. Even from across the room, Ben could see her fingertips moving idly, trailing over the front of her panties. It wasn’t for her pleasure, not really. It was theater. A reminder of who the night was actually for.
Then—knock knock—a sharp rhythm at the door, and Dana’s eyes lit up with something wicked.
“Come on in!” she called, her voice turning sweet as syrup.
Ben didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He’d been expecting something like this. The only real question had been who.
Aiden stepped into the bedroom, all easy swagger and gym-slick muscle.
Dana’s favorite. Tall, deeply built, a body that looked carved rather than born.
The soft bulge of his cock, already stretching his briefs, was thick even at rest—four inches flaccid, Ben knew from memory, and a full nine when hard, maybe more depending on the night.
Gaelic knotwork tattooed Aiden’s arms and shoulders, fading beneath the hem of the tank top he’d already abandoned.
His auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail, and the glint in his eyes as he kicked off his jeans said everything: he was here to perform.
“Sorry I’m late,” Aiden said, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
Ben glanced toward Dana, his throat tightening. She had promised. She had said he’d earned tonight. He’d been good. But that promise, like so many others, was just part of the game. And now he sat quietly, hands moving toward his cock with the instinct of a man who knew his place.
Dana barely spared him a glance. “Don’t worry about it, Aiden. Ben’s the one who’s twitchy.”
Ben nodded politely toward the bull, a kind of ceremonial bow.
There was no antagonism—only ritual. This was what they did.
His seven inches, average and now trembling with arousal, felt like a private joke.
But he gripped himself anyway and began to stroke, slowly.
This wasn’t what he’d been promised. But it was still something.
Dana uncrossed her legs, the lace of her lingerie stretching as she leaned back, beckoning Aiden forward with a curled finger. He came to her like a soldier summoned to war.
His lips touched her neck first, trailing warm breath and faint stubble. Her eyes fluttered shut, her chest rising as he kissed lower, letting her feel his body brush against hers in measured pressure. Dana moaned softly—not for Ben’s benefit, but because she knew Aiden would make her earn it.