Knowing that Cheryl would be in their group, I gave my wife a credit card and cash, just in case she needed a cab or Uber or some alternative means of transportation. She also had her phone with her. I made her promise to call me around midnight just to let me know she was in safe hands.

I stayed home to watch our son. After bathing him and rocking him to sleep, I made a light dinner for my wife, just in case she didn't get anything to eat at the club. I also put out some flowers on the sofa and a heart-shaped box of chocolates in the fridge, anticipating that she might want to talk about her wild adventures once she returned home.

Midnight came and went. I called my wife's phone, but only got a voicemail. Because it rang a few times, I assumed she would call me back soon. Around one in the morning, I dialed again. This time it went straight to voicemail. I hoped she had decided to spend the night at a friend's house instead of hitching a ride with Cheryl.

I tried calling Cheryl's phone, but it was disconnected. This didn't surprise me, as she seemed like the sort of woman who would forget a bill payment deadline.

Our son woke up crying a few times in the night, so I didn't get a wink of sleep. Around four, a car pulled up in the driveway. I was relieved to hear my wife's laughter. There was also a booming male voice. I didn't recognize the car, but I assumed she had gotten an Uber.

Our son was fast asleep. I tucked him into the crib and went downstairs to greet my honey. To my surprise, there was the distinct sound of audible kissing and light moaning in the hallway.

We had company.

I crouched down on the staircase, in full view of the living room sofa. Presently, my wife and her lothario appeared. She was pulling him to the sofa, lightly sighing with pleasure as he kissed and groped her.

Anticipating the hot lovemaking to come, I slipped off my pajama pants and boxer shorts, fist at the ready to stroke. The brute beast atop my wife had become less tender and more dominant in his ministrations, roughly manhandling her. Even through his jeans and jacket, I could see the well-defined musculature that spoke to many a day spent with free weights. He was already panting, his rich voice resonating with that deep timber indicative of the high testosterone undoubtedly coursing through his veins. Tonight he wasn't pumping iron. He was going to pump my wife.

I could hear the shuffle of clothing as he tried to lift up my wife's blouse. He pulled her up, and I could see that she was swaying a little. She collapsed against his chest. It seemed like she was about to pass out. He pulled up the blouse, exposing her naked back, but when he tried to lift the front of the shirt, she suddenly pushed him off. "No." She collapsed back onto the sofa, disappearing from my view.

He seemed unfazed and went back to kissing her. Her sighs became more deep-throated and lusty. I assumed he was rubbing against her skirt, teasing her clit and pussy (wish I knew how!). Just the sound of her voice made my scrotum tighten, as I shot a dribble of sperm from my tiny erect cock.

He was fumbling with her shirt again. My wife offered verbal resistance once more. There was a sharp rip of fabric. He bent her over the sofa, violently disposed of her skirt, pulled down his own pants, entered her, and began to plow.

It happened so fast, I couldn't even process what was going on. My wife's cries were an odd mixture of terror and pleasure. There were definitely some blurred lines with consent, but I couldn't tell if this was just rough sex or whether he was actually raping my wife. I realize that it's possible to have orgasms during a rape, but when my wife's cries became full-throated passionate encomiums to his virility and cock size, it made any sort of interference very difficult to actually muster. I was surprised by the fierce urgency of his sexual plundering, delivered with an elemental force I hitherto associated only with the gravitational pull of justice on history's long arc. To be fair, it's possible he was reclaiming the word "slut" in the sex-positive sense. I don't want to throw accusations of misogyny lightly.

I ejaculated about five times in their entire sexual marathon, watching as he flopped her about from doggy-style to missionary to spooning and crisscross. At one point they even tried cowgirl, but she was having trouble remaining upright. It was a riot of arms and legs, her tousled hair and his barrel chest. He slapped and choked her with free sadistic abandon. Finally, I heard a long satisfied roar issue from him, delivered, I assume, with his meaty flume jetting manjuice deep into my wife's engorged pussy. He stood over her, milking out the last drops from his thick cock. Only then did I realize what a truly big member he possessed, one that in flaccid form could put my mightiest erection to doleful shame.

He zipped up, rummaged through the fridge, took some soda pop and chocolates. The door slammed, an engine turned, and soon the car had pulled out into the night.

I scampered down into the living room. The flowers I bought were pasted into the couch, their fragrance now musked with fresh sweat. On the floor was the crumpled card with the poem I had written for my wife. Next to that paper was my crumpled naked wife, semen dribbling from her exposed cunt. She was fast asleep.

I got a blanket for her and figured this was another wild night!

When she woke up, my wife was nursing a dreadful hangover. I helped her to the shower and threw the blanket in the laundry. After cooking breakfast, I cleaned up the sofa.

But when I pressed her for details about the mysterious stranger who had ravaged and pleasured her with such devilish abandon, she couldn't recall anything. Then I started to worry. Consent is really important. This man clearly hadn't used protection either.

We went to the clinic, got some STI screenings and emergency contraception.

The doctor wouldn't tell me anything. My wife says she remembers nothing. I tentatively broached a few details, but there were no triggers. She seems mysteriously distant from me now.

Consultations with her friends occupied most of our evening. Piecing the clues together, it seems my wife and Cheryl went to another bar, and then Cheryl left with two DJs. She remembers my wife talking to a tall man in a motorcycle jacket, but nothing more.

The plot hasn't thickened, but thinking of that night, my tiny cock guiltily does. Is this wrong?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3015574&forum_id=2#28955882)

okay this made me lol

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3015574&forum_id=2#28956438)

LOL. Such brütal imagery.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3015574&forum_id=2#28958062)