Sigrid had just split from her husband. She was eight years older than him. At thirty-six, Sigrid had walked down the aisle for the first time two weeks earlier, after a relationship that barely lasted three months with her future—and now ex—spouse Torsten.
After an expensive wedding paid for by the groom, the newlyweds jetted off at his expense to Tenerife for their honeymoon, where their fresh marital bliss shattered almost immediately. After four days alone by the ocean, Torsten’s friends and colleagues from the IT firm joined them, as planned, and that’s how Sigrid and Torsten were supposed to spend the rest of the trip.
The bond didn’t hold when the young husband unwillingly witnessed his not-so-young wife screwing his best man and supposed best “friend” Jens in the back seat of a rented car, parked two blocks from their shared spot on the island. As for the “not-so-young wife,” that referred to the age gap of over eight years by which Sigrid outpaced her chosen one.
You could overlook it, but the questions about age started at the couple’s first public appearance and the introduction of the then-new girlfriend to all of Torsten’s friends and relatives. She didn’t look old, but older. Next to the skinny young guy whose face showed not a trace of stubble, as if puberty hadn’t even kicked in yet, the broad-shouldered Sigrid came across with all the traits of those women who get labeled “mommies” in adult circles.
Tall, wide across the shoulders, like she’d spent a decade swimming or rowing; lush, full breasts straight out of Renaissance paintings; a small, slightly sagging belly; deep-set, voluminous hips and a massive ass with the first hints of cellulite; strong, solid legs without any delicate curves—something between the body of a Scandinavian warrior queen and a waitress from a West German beer hall.
Pretty rough features that still didn’t repel, quite the opposite: wide cheekbones accentuated the Mediterranean cut of her light-gray eyes, and the cone-shaped chin harmonized with her plump lips. Long, straight, light-blond hair reached down to her lower back and seemed, for whatever reason, to hint at simple, folksy roots.
Back to the candy-and-flowers stage of their relationship: Sigrid had no intention from the start of keeping her intimacies limited to Torsten alone. Put simply, the woman was putting horns on her guy’s head, spreading her legs at every chance.
The new acquaintance and the engagement that followed didn’t stop Sigrid from carrying on her sex life just like before this partner and life companion. Plus, among Torsten’s circle, there were some who banged his sweetheart behind his back and then toasted the young couple’s health at the wedding—like his childhood buddy Jens (or as the crew called him, Jenny-boy).
Torsten was stunned when he stumbled upon the blue Renault Mégane estate with the panoramic roof, the one he’d been driving around Tenerife with his wife and the guys the whole time, parked a few blocks from their shared cabin. He stood a couple meters from the car, towel around his neck, a can of Spanish soda in hand, fresh from the ocean, staring through the side window of the back door, trying to make out what was going down inside.
A woman who looked damn like his beloved wife had pushed down the straps of her summer dress, bared her not-small breasts, tucked her naked feet under her, and was straddling a man whose face he couldn’t see because it was buried deep between the rider’s tits. With her right hand, she hugged her fucker around the neck, pressing his head tight to her seemingly endless milk glands; with her left, she gripped the leather seat back, digging her nails right into the upholstery.
The hem of the dress covered her lower body and wide hips, the bikini zone stayed hidden from the viewer, but from the thrusting motions of her pelvis, it was clear this wasn’t just harmless petting. The rhythm and amplitude of the supposed wife’s body swings suggested she was impaling her pussy on a cock whose owner was apparently dying from lack of air.
Torsten walked up right in that phase of the fuck where his presence could easily go unnoticed, since the participants were in ecstasy, on the home stretch. That state of agony where the veil of passion blinds the eyes, blocks peripheral vision, and all world info runs through the genital nerves.
The car’s soundproofing couldn’t muffle the sounds of the revved-up slut, who didn’t hold back in her moans of pleasure and commands.
—Fuck me harder, you asshole!
—Oh yeah, just a bit more and I’m coming!
Torsten pressed against the window. He saw it clear, but couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, the suspect’s head turned toward him, and for a second, the guy felt dizzy. His better half was caught red-handed cheating, no turning back.
The can of half-drunk soda slipped from his sweaty hand, crashed to the ground. His knees buckled. Jaw dropped. Body demanded a timeout.
Sigrid stared with her light-gray, lust-fogged eyes into those of her rightful husband, but refused to give up one step before the longed-for orgasm. Her nonverbal message through the glass: “Honey, he’s finishing me off now, then we’ll talk.”
The fucker’s face was still stuck between the woman’s tits, and his hands rummaged under the dress, trying to grasp Sigrid’s immense ass cheeks. The hero-lover tried to lean back, but the physically superior Sigrid followed, throwing herself with the full force of her hot, trembling body onto the poor guy.
The until-now unknown was pinned between the seat back and the flesh of the unfaithful, two-faced, horny cow who was copulating with him right in front of her husband’s eyes. The jerky rhythm of the now-public banging promised all involved a quick, colorful climax.
He shifted his hands from Sigrid’s ass to her sides, in pre-orgasmic frenzy; the “bottom” managed to push the cheating wife off him, grab her by the waist, and add more swing to her vertical moves. By bucking his hips, the guy thrust against his battle partner’s rocking, as if wanting to drive deeper into her with his dick.
Hypnotized by the bouncing, swinging bosom right in his face, the caught “Don Juan” didn’t notice the cuckold glaring at him, whose marital duties he was currently fulfilling.
The “cuckold” Torsten meanwhile recognized his old pal, which triggered a fresh wave of dizziness. Fighting off the surge of helplessness, in the heat of the moment, the husband yanked at the door handle, but the car was locked.
The stunned spouse could think of nothing better than to wake the fuckers by slapping the roof several times with his palm. That worked. Jens, snapped back to reality by the outside interference, stopped the process with sheer willpower, just a few thrusts from squirting.
His partner didn’t like that; she was dead set on coming. When he saw the grim Torsten, Jens hurried to abandon “ship” through the opposite door, tossing the aroused but unsatisfied Sigrid aside. In retreat, the unlucky lover frantically stuffed his still-stiff cock into his jean shorts.
The caught-in-the-act cheater showed no signs of agitation or confusion. She leisurely tucked her Jens-slobbered “balls” back into the dress, smoothed her hair, pulled on the panties she’d taken off earlier and thrown onto the dashboard.
Some time passed searching for the flip-flops that had slid under the front seats and applying a light but pointedly mocking makeup touch-up toward Torsten.
While Sigrid fixed herself up in the car without getting out, outside the confrontation between the guys escalated into a brawl. The loud exchange of accusations and justifications, insults and curses drew passersby, who intervened when it got physical.
The penultimate conversation of the official spouses, an hour later in the rented vacation house, cleared everything up. Torsten learned it was all his fault, though no one explained exactly how. Sigrid learned she was a whore, and didn’t deny it.
Packing the suitcases, buying tickets for the next flight, returning the blue Renault Mégane estate with panoramic roof to the rental place, and all the prep for the early departure from vacation fell, as tradition dictated, on the shoulders of the injured party.
Handling the paperwork, dividing the jointly acquired stuff, the legal dissolution of the two-week marriage—and soon the freshly divorced Sigrid was back at her “workstation” in the travel agency “Cuckold Tour,” playfully selling a trip to Tenerife to a customer named Michael, “which is super popular with vacationers this season.”
Michael likes everything, and in the back of his mind, he’s planning to invite the pleasantly scented girl for coffee during lunch break. No doubt, she won’t say no.
