Lying between my wife and a stunningly beautiful female friend under the stars sounded exciting, but it was torture.  

That weekend, we facilitated an ecstatic dance retreat at a nudist resort along the coast. Anais, our friend and fellow instructor, taught dance there. She was incredibly popular, with her long dark hair, perfectly tanned body, thick French accent, and charming demeanor. She also had a reputation: she was known for breaking up relationships—especially married ones. In my ignorance, I didn’t see that she’d set her sights on mine.  

That weekend had been intoxicating. We danced in the woods and under the stars by night, sharing meals filled with laughter. Anais had suggested we sleep in her outdoor bed early that evening, and my wife and I had accepted. But I knew it was dangerous.  

Ecstatic dance at the resort was often done in the nude, and Anais was a goddess—just the right mix of muscular and curvy. Over the years we’d known each other, I had studied her body, memorizing every freckle, every curve. I noticed when she shaved her mound and when she let her hair grow. I knew her earthy, musky scent, and I remembered the time I had stood behind her in class, watching cum drip from her opening after she’d been with one of her beefcake boyfriends.  

She was wild, Wiccan, and unpredictable. And now I was lying in bed with her—and my wife.  

At first, I rolled onto my back, placing my hand on my wife, who lay to my left. Anais was on my right, close enough that I could feel her heat. My wife fell asleep quickly, but sleep was impossible for me. Sweating, I rolled onto my side, and my hand landed on Anais’s taut, smooth belly.  

She was sweating too; my hand found a slick pool on her skin. My senses sharpened—I could smell the patchouli in her thick black hair, her natural musk mingling with it. Touching her belly was almost too much. We both lay still, silent except for her quickening breath. My cock began to swell.  

Slowly, so my wife wouldn’t feel the movement, I slid my hand down Anais’s belly. Past her navel, my fingertips brushed the small patch of hair above her mound. I stopped, my heart pounding, and she didn’t move. Her breathing quickened further. Encouraged, I moved my hand again, applying the faintest pressure as I slid my fingers lower, trying not to feel like I was groping.  

For the last two years, I had wanted this woman. I had watched her have sex on the banks of a river—she was an exhibitionist, after all.  I had masturbated countless times to fantasies of her. Now, as I moved with deliberate slowness, I found her clit. Swollen and protruding, it responded instantly to my touch. We both almost lost control.  

She moved slightly, leaning into my touch but still silent. I wanted so badly to kiss her, to taste her, to take her in every way I had imagined over the years. But with my wife at my back, all I could do was glide my fingers over her clit, circling and stroking, trying to find the rhythm that turned her on.  

Her breath came faster, sharper. My wife stirred, and I froze. Anais moaned quietly, almost inaudibly, then covered my hand with hers, guiding me back into motion. Time stretched as I worked her, feeling her hips shift in subtle movements. Then it happened. Her belly—the same belly I had stared at endlessly in yoga class—contracted sharply.  

She began to squirt, wetness spilling out and soaking the sheets. Her scent was overwhelming, primal. We lay there for what felt like forever, my hand resting on her slick, trembling mound.  

Eventually, I fell asleep.  

The sun woke my wife and me in the morning. Anais was gone, but the wetness on the sheets where she’d lain was undeniable. My wife got up, saying she needed to find the bathroom down the road. I excused myself and urinated off the deck.  

As I stood there, Anais appeared behind me, her voice a low, sultry whisper in my ear.  

“Next time...”