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Jessicas Secret

Greg’s glass hit the table with a thud. "I’d pay to see that." His gaze dropped to her bouncing breasts. "Bet he’d ruin you."

Jessica’s laugh dissolved into a gasp as Richard pushed two fingers inside her. "He—oh god—he’s got these *hands*," she babbled, hips jerking. "Big. Ink stains." Her thighs trembled. "I think about them tearing my skirt open."

Mike stubbed out his cigar, stepping closer. "Keep talking." His voice was gravel-rough. Jessica met his gaze, drunk on their attention. "Once," she breathed, "he ‘accidentally’ brushed my nipple when handing back papers." Richard’s fingers crooked inside her, wrenching a cry from her throat. "I came in my panties during his next lecture."

William groaned against her breast. "Fuck. That’s it." He hauled her onto his lap, his cock pressing against her ass. "Show us how you’d ride him."

Jessica grinned, reaching back to guide him inside her. The lie tasted like victory.

She slid down on him. His cock, fully inside her now, she began a slow bounce, up and down. William’s hands clamped onto her hips, but she didn’t let him set the pace—not yet. Instead, she rolled her pelvis in lazy circles, savoring the way his breath hitched against her shoulder blades. "Like this, Professor?" she murmured, arching her back so her breasts swayed inches from Richard’s face. The oldest man groaned, dragging his tumbler across her flushed skin—the ice cubes leaving trails of condensation between her nipples.

Greg’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. Jessica caught the screen lighting up with a wife’s name—*Linda—*before Mike snatched it and tossed it onto the couch. "Eyes on the prize," he growled, stepping closer to drag his thumb across her parted lips. Jessica sucked it into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks just enough to make William curse beneath her. His hips jerked upward, but she resisted, lifting herself until only the tip remained inside. "Uh-uh," she chided, pressing a finger to his sweat-slicked chest. "You watch first."

The room smelled of sex and spilled bourbon. Richard palmed her breast, his other hand still working between her thighs. "Fuck," he muttered, watching her clench around nothing. "Look at her." Jessica rocked forward, letting them see how wet she was—how her body glistened where William’s cock had just been. Mike’s belt buckle clicked as he unfastened it. "Now," he ordered, nodding at William. "Take her like you mean it."

Richard reached under her ass as she was riding William. He gently poked her asshole with his finger, gauging her reaction. She moan in delight. He stood behind her, and with one hand guiding his cock, and the other hand reaching around to cup her breasts, he sheaved himself into her asshole.

Jessica let out a yelp, then continued to slowly guide herself up and down, enjoying every moment of this new experience that had, up until now, only been a fantasy.

"Easy," Richard murmured, his hands gripping her waist as he rocked his hips forward, filling her completely. "Jesus—she's so fucking tight."

William groaned beneath her, thrusting upward in tandem with Richard's movements, the dual sensation making Jessica's vision blur. She clawed at William's chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps as they found a rhythm—slow, deep, relentless. The stretch burned, but the ache was delicious, amplified by the way Mike's dark eyes tracked every twitch of her body.

Greg's hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head back. "Look at you," he muttered, thumbing her swollen lower lip. "Taking it like a fucking pro." Jessica whimpered, her hips stuttering as Richard bottomed out inside her again. The wet slap of skin echoed in the dim room, mingling with the clink of ice cubes in abandoned glasses.

Mike stepped closer, his cock brushing her cheek. "Open," he ordered. Jessica obeyed without hesitation, her tongue darting out to lick the flushed tip before taking him into her mouth. The taste of salt and pre-cum coated her tongue as he rocked forward, his fingers tightening in her hair.

William's thrusts turned erratic beneath her, his hips jerking as he neared his climax. "Fuck—gonna come," he gritted out, his grip bruising on her thighs. Richard chuckled darkly behind her, his pace never faltering. "Let her feel it," he urged, dragging his teeth along her shoulder.

Jessica's moan vibrated around Mike's cock as William spilled inside her, his release hot and thick. Richard followed moments later, his groan rough against her ear as he pulsed deep in her ass. Mike pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, stroking himself over her flushed face. "Eyes open," he commanded, and Jessica watched, dazed, as he shot his cum streaks across her lips and cheeks.

Greg's laughter was low, approving. "Perfect fucking slut." He dragged his thumb through the mess on her chin, smearing it across her collarbone. Jessica panted, boneless between them, her body still thrumming with aftershocks. Richard withdrew slowly, watching her clench around nothing. "Christ," he muttered. "Wife would kill me if she knew."

Mike's grin was wolfish as he tucked himself back into his slacks. "Good thing she won't." Jessica giggled, drunken with power, and licked her lips clean.

Greg didn't waste time—he pushed her onto the ottoman before she could catch her breath. Jessica's thighs splayed open, still glistening from William's release. Greg's fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave bruises as he drove into her with a single, brutal thrust. The ottoman screeched against the hardwood, nearly tipping over. Jessica gasped, arching off the leather as Greg set a punishing rhythm, her breasts bouncing wildly with each snap of his hips.

"Look at those fucking tits," Richard muttered from the armchair, still catching his breath. Greg obliged, reaching up to palm them roughly, his thumbs grinding over her swollen nipples. Jessica moaned, her legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. The ottoman groaned beneath them—an obscene counterpoint to the wet slap of skin.

Greg's thrusts turned jagged, his hips stuttering as Jessica clenched around him. "Fuck—fuck—" His grip on her breasts tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh. She felt it then—the telltale twitch of his cock buried inside her, the way his breath hitched against her throat. Greg yanked himself free so fast her thighs trembled. "On your knees," he rasped, shoving her off the ottoman.

Jessica barely had time to kneel before Greg's release painted her chest in hot, uneven stripes—some spattering her collarbone, others dripping between her breasts. She arched into it, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop near her nipple. The men erupted in approval, their laughter rough with arousal. Greg's fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her face up as his cock pulsed a final stripe across her lips.

William leaned forward. He dragged a fingertip through the mess on her sternum. "Christ," he muttered, bringing his finger to his mouth. Jessica grinned, watching his pupils dilate at the taste. Richard's phone buzzed again—another ignored text from Linda—as Mike stepped between her spread knees.

Mike's thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing the last of Greg's release. "Still thinking about your professor?" he murmured, watching William work. Jessica's breath hitched as William's teeth grazed her nipple. "Only when you're not fucking me," she lied sweetly, her thighs squeezing around nothing.

Richard chuckled from the couch, swirling the dregs of his bourbon. The ice cubes had long melted, but he drank anyway—his gaze locked on the way Jessica's chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. "Bet that desk of his gets sticky," he mused, tossing back the last sip. William stared at her breasts.

Greg stretched out on the ottoman, lazily palming himself as he watched. "Should invite him next time," he said, smirking when Jessica's eyes widened. Mike exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Would you let him watch?" His voice was casual.

Jessica squirmed. Her skin tacky with drying sweat and their combined releases. Her pulse jumped at the thought—Professor Daniels' startled expression when she walked into his office wearing nothing but that pink lace bralette. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily.

"Yes," she breathed. The admission hung between them—filthy, delicious.

Richard's laugh was low and knowing as he stood, his shadow falling across the bed. "Atta girl." He said. "Maybe we'll arrange a field trip." Jessica whimpered, her hips lifting off the mattress instinctively.

Mike stubbed out his cigar. The patio door creaked as he stepped back inside, his silhouette framed by the city lights. "Thursday," he said, his voice rough with promise. Jessica's stomach swooped. Thursday—his wife's book club night.

"Think you can behave until then?" Jessica grinned, stretching like a satisfied cat. "No promises." The men erupted in laughter—rough, approving—as she curled onto her side, her breasts pillowed against her own sticky forearm.

Greg's phone buzzed again—Linda, inevitably. He silenced it with a swipe, his gaze never leaving Jessica's spent body. "Fuck," he muttered, half-admiring. Mike's shadow loomed over her, his fingers tracing the mess on her stomach. "Good girl," he murmured. Jessica preened under the praise, boneless and sated—the lie still sweet on her tongue.

But reality prickled at the edges of her euphoria. She glanced at the clock—7:18pm. Jason would be texting soon. "I should—" she started, pushing up on shaky arms. The men groaned in protest, but she grinned, swinging her legs down to the floor. The bralette hung in tatters, one strap snapped, her nipples pebbled and raw from attention. She tugged it into place anyway, fingers brushing the bite marks William left. The skirt was worse—barely clinging to her hips, the lace torn at the seam. Jessica giggled, smoothing it down. "Like it matters," she muttered. Richard's chuckle followed her as she stepped into her stilettos—miraculously still strapped to her ankles.

She went to Greg first—still sprawled naked on the ottoman, his softening cock resting on his thigh. Jessica leaned down, pressing a kiss to his slack mouth. He tasted of bourbon and her. "Thursday," she whispered against his lips. Greg's hand slid to her ass, squeezing possessively. "Bring that pink thing again," he rasped. Jessica laughed, pulling away. William was next—half-dozing in the armchair, his wedding band glinting as she kissed the salt from his throat. "You were great," she teased. His fingers dug into her hip in warning, but his smirk gave him away.

Richard intercepted her before she reached Mike, his palm rough against her cheek. "You're a menace," he growled before kissing her—deep, thorough—his tongue claiming her mouth like he hadn't already claimed every other part of her. Jessica melted into it, her thighs slick anew. When he pulled back, her lips tingled. Mike waited by the door—still dressed, still in control. Jessica hesitated, suddenly shy. His fingers tilted her chin up. "Room 214," he reminded her, voice low. His kiss was chaste—a barely-there brush of lips that burned hotter than the others. Jessica nodded, breathless.

The hallway air hit her—cool, sterile, so unlike the musk of the suite. She felt a hand slap her ass as she left. She didn't know who it was, but she didn't care. Her stilettos echoed as she walked, the torn skirt riding up with each step. Somewhere behind her, a door opened—a businessman's startled gasp as he took in her disheveled state. Jessica didn't turn. She smiled, letting him look.

Room 214's door clicked shut behind her. Silence. Her phone glowed on the rumpled bed—Jason’s text bright against the screen: *"Party at Liam’s tonight? We could head over around 9."* Jessica chewed her lip, fingers hovering. The ghost of Greg’s grip still ached on her hips. She typed fast: *"Sounds fun! Be home soon xx"* and hit send before she could overthink the lie. The shower hissed to life, steam curling around her as she stepped under the spray. Water sluiced between her thighs, swirling pink-tinged down the drain. She scrubbed until her skin stung, but the scent of bourbon and sex clung stubbornly. Cum doesn't just rinse off, especially that many loads.

Dressed—jeans now, a loose sweater swallowing the bite marks—she paused at the mirror. Pink lace peeked from her purse where she’d stuffed the ruined set. *Keep it*, Mike had said. *A souvenir.* The elevator doors slid open on the lobby. Richard stood by the concierge desk—suit immaculate, phone pressed to his ear. His gaze flicked to her, lingering. Jessica grinned, adjusting her purse strap higher on her shoulder. His mouth quirked in silent approval before he turned away, murmuring something about a *"late meeting"* into the receiver. The automatic doors parted for her. Outside, dusk painted the parking lot in gold. Her car waited, innocuous under a flickering streetlamp. Jessica slid inside, exhaling as the engine purred to life. The hotel shrank in her rearview mirror—its secrets tucked safe beneath her sweater.

Thursday became ritual. Hotel keycards tucked into textbooks, excuses polished like silverware before family dinners. Mike’s friends multiplied—a silver-haired lawyer here, a retired professor there. Sometimes they brought colleagues: men with wedding-band tans and expensive watches who stared at her like she was dessert. Jessica thrived on their hunger. Senior year, she let a stranger’s wife watch from an armchair, sipping Chardonnay while her husband bent Jessica over the minibar. The woman’s nails dug into the upholstery. *"Look at her,"* she’d hissed, glass trembling. *"Just look."* Jessica came harder knowing she was seen.

Jason moved out after graduation—something about *"growing apart."* Jessica kissed him goodbye, her nipples still tender from Greg’s teeth the night before. She dated a lacrosse player that summer. He took her to frat parties, never noticing how her eyes tracked the alumni donors’ hands as they poured scotch. When he asked why she kept Thursday nights free, she smiled. *"Yoga."* The breakup text came while she was on her knees in a corporate suite, two new associates fisting her hair. She laughed around the cock in her mouth, her phone buzzing facedown on the carpet.

Seven years later, Jessica knelt in a garden bed, fingers digging into damp soil. *"Mrs. Hart?"* The realtor’s heels clicked closer. Jessica wiped her palms on her sundress—yellow, modest, sleeves to the elbow—and stood. The house was perfect: Colonial, picket fence, *normal.* Her husband’s hand settled on her waist as he discussed mortgage rates. The scent of his aftershave—clean, citrusy, *young*—clung to his collar. Jessica leaned into him, smiling. He didn’t know she’d chosen him for his soft hands, his easy laugh.

That night, Jessica scrubbed dinner plates while her husband scrolled through Netflix. Steam curled from the sink, fogging the window above it. Her reflection blurred. She startled when his arms slipped around her waist, his chin hooking over her shoulder. *"Early bed?"* he murmured, lips grazing her neck. Jessica nodded, drying her hands on a towel embroidered with *Home Sweet Home.* In the dark, she arched beneath him, nails biting into his shoulders. His thrusts were earnest, uncomplicated. After, she lay awake counting ceiling cracks, imagining Mike’s cigar smoke curling against the bedroom’s popcorn texture. Her husband snored softly. Jessica’s fingers trailed down her stomach—past the stretch marks, past the *new* her—and dipped between her thighs. The sheets muffled her whimper. Outside, a car door slammed. Thursday nights smelled like cut grass now.

She spotted him in the cereal aisle on a Tuesday. Seventy-something, maybe older, with a Harris tweed jacket straining at the shoulders. His cart held single-serving meals and a six-pack of Ensure. When their eyes met, his grip tightened on the handle. Jessica slowed near the granola, pretending to compare sugar content. His gaze burned through her cotton blouse like it remembered the weight of her breasts. She lingered, letting him look his fill before turning down aisle seven.

The Starbucks barista had liver spots. Jessica’s latte steamed untouched as she studied his knuckles—the same gnarled twist as Richard’s when he’d pinned her wrists to the headboard. *"Extra caramel?"* he asked. She nodded, fingertips brushing his when he passed the cup. His wedding band was warm from the espresso machine. *"Thanks"* she said. His chuckle was rough as gravel. *"You’re welcome, darlin’."* Outside, a minivan honked. Jessica sipped scalding foam, watching him wipe down the milk steamer.

A thunderstorm rolled in after midnight. Jessica lay listening to rain slap the roof, her husband’s arm slung across her ribs. Lightning flashed—illuminating the dresser where her *Home Sweet Home* towel hung neatly folded. She imagined it crumpled under Greg’s work boots. Her thighs pressed together under the comforter. The storm passed by dawn.

At the farmer’s market, she lingered by the honey stall. The vendor—mid-sixties, sun-leathered hands—leaned closer to recommend clover over wildflower. His thumb brushed hers when passing the sample jar. Jessica held his gaze a beat too long, lips parted around the tasting spoon. *Had his fingers once hooked inside her, pulling her open for Mike’s camera?* The man cleared his throat, adjusting his apron.

Later, the pharmacy cashier’s wedding band caught the fluorescent light as he bagged her vitamins. Deep grooves marred the gold—like Richard’s, after decades of being twisted off before touching her. She wondered if this man’s wife knew how he lingered near the family planning aisle, watching college girls giggle over condoms. Jessica’s receipt fluttered to the floor. He knelt to retrieve it, knuckles grazing her ankle. *Was that the callus from gripping a desk edge while she rode him?*

Her phone buzzed in the parking lot—husband asking about dinner. Jessica thumbed *"whatever you want"* while staring at the pharmacy’s neon cross. Inside, the cashier was wiping the conveyor belt, slow and deliberate. She could’ve sworn he winked.

Pasta boiled over as she stirred, steam curling the *Live Laugh Love* decal above the stove. Her husband kissed her temple, oblivious to how she froze at his touch—the softness of his lips so unlike teeth on her spine. Jessica forced a smile, passing him the colander. Normal.

But later, while folding laundry, she found it—a scrap of pink lace in the closet. Old, frayed, unmistakable. Jessica pressed it to her nose and inhaled bourbon, cigars, shame. The dryer buzzed. She stuffed the fabric into her pocket just as her husband called from upstairs.