The first time I laid eyes on her, it felt like the universe had conspired to bring us together. It was a serendipitous night at a house party, where the air was thick with the scent of youth and rebellion. She was a few years my junior, a transfer student who had caught my eye on more than one occasion as I strolled through campus. Her presence was magnetic, drawing glances and whispers, a beacon of allure in the mundane routine of college life. She is the type that you notice and look forward to seeing on your walks to class.

Our conversation flowed effortlessly as if we had known each other for lifetimes. Her smile was a spellbinding mix of innocence and mischief, and her eyes, a kaleidoscope of colors, seemed to hold secrets of the cosmos. She was accompanied by a friend, both of them surrounded by a sea of admirers. Yet, amidst the chaos, she leaned in and whispered, “Why don’t we get away from all these people?” Her words were a siren’s call, and I was helpless to resist. I invited her to my place, a cozy haven just off campus.

The walk to my apartment was charged with an electric anticipation. As we stepped into the living room, the air seemed to thrum with flirtatious energy. She mentioned wanting to change, and before I could direct her to the bathroom, she began to undress. “Just turn around,” she murmured, her voice a sultry command. I complied, but the reflection in the darkened TV screen betrayed her modesty. Her breasts, full and inviting, defied the petite frame they adorned. I was entranced, unable to look away.

Our connection deepened swiftly as if the fates themselves had intertwined our destinies. She would still venture out with her friends, but always returned to me, her sanctuary. Our nights were filled with passion, a symphony of desire and fulfillment. She would recount tales of admirers, men who vied for her attention, but it was my touch she craved.

However, not all admirers were respectful. Within the first six months of our relationship, a ghost from her past began to haunt her with lewd messages. His words were crude, desperate pleas for her attention. “Are you gonna come see me?” “Please, I’ll do anything,” “I want to stick my tongue in your ass when you cum.” “Show me your pussy, right now.” Her responses were firm, a testament to her loyalty and disdain for his vulgarity. “No, I have a boyfriend,” “Stop talking to me,” “I like my boyfriend way too much to be with a disgusting lowlife like you.”

Her distress was palpable, and I could not stand idly by. I confronted him, armed with righteous indignation. “You’ve been harassing her. She doesn’t like being treated like that, and you shouldn’t treat other girls like that either. Maybe that’s why you don’t have an ass to lick!”

His response was predictably defensive, a barrage of bravado and insults. “She’s fine,” “I wasn’t harassing her,” “I just wanted her fine piece of ass.” He questioned my ability to satisfy her and taunted my role as her protector. But I remained composed, delivering a truth that cut through his bravado. “She asked you to stop. You didn’t. You treated her with disrespect, and that’s not cool. Trust me, that’s how I got her—by being a gentleman. And don’t worry, kid; I fuck her just right. Why do you think she chose me? I’m not trying to scare you; she doesn't want you to talk to her, and I'm letting you know.”

His retort was a begrudging concession. “Alright, bro, I’ll stop.” Yet, he couldn’t resist one last jab. “She’s perfect. Every guy wanted her when she was here. Don’t fuck it up.” I confidently responded, “You don’t need to tell me. I knew she was perfect on the first date.” He kept at it, “I’ll get her when you’re done”. To which I could have told him, “Enjoy my seconds, bro,” but I didn’t. I spoke the truth, “I’ll never be done with her, and you’ll never get girls this way.”

This was when he resorted to derivative insults and comments such as “I am about to make tons of money,” “Shut the fuck up, I do respect girls,” and “She’s a little cunt for giving you my number.”

Then the threats, “Don't worry, I'll handle this. She will probably be crying to you after what I say to her. Let her know she missed out on me, worthless cunt.” I sarcastically pointed out his respectful tone, and he continued, “My brothers and I would like to know if she has the tightest pussy? We've all wanted to tap that, so let us know, or we will have to find out. Do you even like her or do you just want sex from her???”

I finished this game and said, “Oh, you’re in a frat. I get it now.”  He said, “Tell her she should be scared.” I told him to “be careful with his words,” and he said, “She can handle it.” I said, “Watch yourself, bro. I saw your pics. You’re not a big guy.” He never texted me again… from that number.

Despite his promises, the harassment continued, morphing into a series of anonymous texts. Some sought my blessing for a night with her, and others envied her physical appeal over their girlfriends. Some pretended to be females, hitting on me, trying to gather retaliation. It was a twisted game, a test of my faith and her loyalty. But our bond only grew stronger, forged in the fires of jealousy and desire.

Our sexual adventures were a testament to our unbreakable connection. We explored fantasies and boundaries, each experience a step closer to transcendental love. Though our threesomes had always involved other women, I found myself curious about sharing her with the right man. Her happiness, her pleasure, was paramount.

In the years since our marriage, we’ve flirted with the idea of her becoming a hotwife. Our day trips to new cities have become a ritual of seduction. We start with shopping, where I choose outfits that accentuate her voluptuous curves. As we hop from bar to bar, the sexual tension between us simmers, a tantalizing promise of what’s to come.

Passersby can’t help but stare, their gazes fluttering from head to toe, often lingering on her ample bosom and curvaceous hips. I take a perverse pleasure in their admiration, knowing that she is mine. She effortlessly befriends other women, her charm and beauty a siren’s call. I am a laid-back husband, always ready to enhance her pleasure.

Recently, she has broached the topic of an MMF threesome. The idea of watching her unleash her fiery flirtation on another man is erotically tantalizing. Our connection is so profound that her ultimate pleasure is my greatest reward. If she asked for a respectful third to join us, I would not hesitate. I can arouse myself to completion at just the thought.

Our love is a dance of passion and trust, a journey of erotic discovery. We are bound by more than just physical desire; our souls are intertwined. And as we explore new horizons together, I know that our love will only grow stronger, fueled by the flames of our shared fantasies.