Busselton Bonding

I still can’t believe how perfectly filthy our little West Australian escape turned out.

Mark and I had flown into Perth for a four-night cheeky break, supposedly to meet a delicious forty-something contact we’d been sexting for months and who authored fantastic stories on an adult forum. Flu knocked the poor bloke flat two days before we landed, so there we were, two horny sixty-somethings with an empty hotel bed and a ticking clock. Then Mark’s old high-school mate Trevor messaged: “Mate, if you’re ever down south, crash at my place in Busselton.” Three nights suddenly became remarkably interesting.

Trevor picked us up from Perth in his dusty ute, all sun-leathered skin and easy grins. Sixty-four, widowed five years, still riding that big Triumph of his like he was twenty. From the moment he hugged me hello I felt his hands lingered on my waist a fraction longer than strictly polite and he kept finding excuses to brush my arm while he told stories. I played the demure Ipswich housewife in my sundress and cardigan, but every time he looked away I caught Mark smirking.

By the second night at Trevor’s big rambling house on Geographe Bay, Mark and I were in bed whispering like teenagers.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Mark murmured, sliding a hand between my thighs. I was already soaked.

“He’s been eye-fucking me since the airport,” I laughed quietly. “Poor bastard has no idea what he’s started.”

“Want to invite him to share?” Mark said, voice husky. “We’re running out of holiday and I want to watch you get properly railed before we go home.”

I shivered. “He’s your oldest mate. You sure?”

“I’m sure I want to watch his face when he realises the prim little church-going lady from Ipswich has ‘Slut Wife’ tattooed just above her freshly waxed pussy.”

That settled it.

Next morning Trevor offered to take Mark for a burn on the Triumph. I waved them off in my bikini and sarong, heart hammering. They were gone an hour. When they roared back up the drive, Trevor’s face was flushed scarlet under his helmet and Mark was grinning like a cat.

In the kitchen Mark cornered me. “He said yes, love. Nearly ran us off the bloody road when I asked, but he’s keen as mustard. Wants to know if you’re really up for it.”

I kissed my husband hard. “Tell him dinner’s at seven, and dessert is me.”

That night we ate barramundi on the deck, wine flowing, sun bleeding orange over the ocean. Trevor could barely string a sentence together. When Mark finally said, “Mate, why don’t we take this inside?” Trevor’s hands shook pouring the last of the cab sav.

We led him to the master bedroom. I let the sundress fall. Trevor’s sharp intake of breath when he saw the ink (delicate roses curling around both hips, the words “Use Me” in script just above my slit) was worth every second of laser removal would have taken if I’d ever regretted them.

“Jesus Christ, Wilma,” he rasped. “You’re… bloody gorgeous.”

Mark stepped behind me, unclipped my bra, palmed my heavy breasts. “Trev, mate, our Wilma likes to be told exactly what a filthy girl she is. Don’t hold back.”

I dropped to my knees between them, looked up with my best innocent smile. “Trevor, darling, take your cock out for me. I’ve wanted to taste you since you hugged me at the airport.”

His belt buckle rattled. Mark was already stroking himself, eyes dark. When Trevor’s thick, veined cock sprang free (bigger than I expected, flushed dark with need) I moaned like a porn star and took him straight to the back of my throat.

“Oh fuck...Wilma...” His hips jerked.

Mark chuckled. “Easy, mate. She can take it. Can’t you, love?”

I pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Fuck my face, Trevor. Pretend I’m your dirty little secret you’ve wanked over for forty years.”

He groaned and threaded fingers through my silver-blonde hair, feeding himself into my mouth while Mark fed me his cock from the side. Two silver-haired men, both groaning my name, cocks slick with my spit. I was in heaven.

We moved to the bed. They stripped me completely, spread me wide. Trevor stared at my tattoos like he’d never seen a naked woman before.

Mark lay back, pulled me on top so I was straddling his cock reverse cowgirl. “Show him how you ride, darling.”

I sank down on my husband with a filthy moan, then looked over my shoulder at Trevor stroking himself. “Come here, gorgeous. I want both of you.”

Trevor knelt in front of me. I bent forward, arse in the air, and took him back in my mouth while Mark started thrusting up into me. Spit-roast, just like we’d promised.

“That’s it,” Mark growled, slapping my arse. “Suck his cock like the greedy slut you are while I fuck this married cunt.”

Trevor’s eyes rolled back. “Christ, listen to you two… never heard anything so bloody hot.”

I pulled off Trevor’s cock, strings of spit hanging from my chin. “You like hearing what a whore your mate’s wife is? How I love being passed around?”

“Yes...fuck...yes...”

An hour, he lasted. A whole glorious hour of me riding Mark, then Trevor taking me from behind while I sucked Mark clean of my own juices, then back to the spit-roast until Trevor’s thighs started shaking.

“Can’t...Wilma...I’m gonna...”

“Do it,” I panted. “Fill me up, Trevor. Give me every drop.”

He roared, buried to the hilt, pumping spurt after spurt deep inside me. I felt it, hot and thick, and clenched around him just to hear him cry out again.

Mark had been nursing a touch of the same flu that scuppered our original plans, so he’d held off, content to watch his cock and watch his oldest friend breed his wife. When Trevor rolled off gasping, Mark slid down the bed, pushed my thighs apart and buried his face in my dripping pussy.

“Look at this messy cunt,” he murmured against my clit. “Full of another man’s cum. My favourite sight in the world.”

His tongue scooped Trevor’s load out of me, fingers curling exactly right until I was screaming into a pillow, coming so hard my legs shook.

Only then did Mark climb up and slide home, groaning at how slick I was. “Feel that, love? That’s Trevor’s cum lubing you up for me.”

He didn’t last long after that. A dozen hard thrusts and he added his own load, pulsing deep while I milked him with aftershocks.

We lay tangled and sweaty, Trevor staring at the ceiling like he’d seen God.

Eventually I laughed, kissed them both as we made small talk and reflected on the events of the past few days that culminated in us having a threesome.

“This really happened?” Trevor wondered out loud.

Mark slapped his shoulder. “Welcome to the club, mate.”

Sleep came easily as I relaxed between the two of them on the large king sized bed.

Hours later, with Mark snoring softly beside us, Trevor’s hand found my hip under the sheet prompting me to exhale a soft moan of approval. His fingers gently moved to my pussy and before long he was thumbing my clit whilst using his fore and middle fingers to spread my vulva lips. His whisper was hoarse: “Wilma… can I have you again? Just us?”

I glanced at my sleeping husband, felt that wicked thrill spark, and rolled on top of Trevor without a word. Straddling him in the moonlit room, I guided his already-hard cock inside my already slick pussy and sank down slowly. “Shhh,” I breathed against his lips, rocking gently so the bed barely creaked. “Take what you need, darling. Fuck your best mate’s wife while he dreams.”

Trevor groaned into my neck, hands gripping my arse as I rode him steady and deep. When he was close, his hands groped my tits and he squeezed my left nipple whilst he suckled on my right areola. He then held his breath, shuddered and spilled a second quiet load inside me, both of us biting back moans so we wouldn’t wake the man who’d so generously shared me in the first place.

I continued to grind my pussy on his now rapidly deflating cock and managed to squeeze out my third orgasm of the night. Cupping the opening of my sore pussy, I gingerly rolled over the edge of the bed and waddled to the bathroom. Two thorough douches later (because no one wants a cream pie surprise on a Virgin flight) I came back to bed. Trevor was still grinning like a schoolboy as he shuffled to the middle of the bed and patted for me to lie down. We hugged and fell into slumber once again.

Next morning Trevor drove us back to Perth for our flight. He kept catching my eye in the rear-view mirror, cheeks pink every time. At the drop-off he hugged me tight and whispered, “Thank you, Wilma. Best bloody weekend of my life.” I felt his hand pat and then squeeze my butt cheek as other passengers strolled past us. Mark gave me a wink of approval from behind Trevor's back. Not to be outdone, I very discreetly reached between us and rubbed his manhood and softly said, "Thank you for the extra nightcap" as Trevor blushed.

We landed in Brisbane and caught a Uber home to find half our roof tiles scattered across the yard courtesy of a summer storm, but Mark cursed, I laughed, and we spent the next week fixing gutters and remembering the taste of Trevor’s cum on my tongue while Mark tongue-fucked it out of me all over again.

Some holidays you remember for the beaches.

This one I’ll remember for the two silver foxes who spit-roasted me senseless in Busselton, and for the way my husband’s oldest friend came inside me while calling me a perfect filthy angel.

Can’t ask for better memories than that.