Shadows in the Penthouse

My name is Kael Voss, and I still remember the exact moment I realized I wasn’t just okay with watching—I needed it. Amara and I had danced around the fantasy for months, but when we invited Lucien into our penthouse overlooking Seattle’s glittering skyline, the air turned thick with something darker, wetter, and far less polite than our first experiment. This is the night I stopped pretending I was in control.

The elevator doors slid open at 11:47 p.m., and Lucien stepped out like he already owned the place. Tall, olive-skinned, with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass and a smirk that said he’d read every filthy thought in my head before I’d even voiced them. He wore a charcoal shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the inked serpent curling over his collarbone. Amara—my wife of nine years, all dangerous curves and crimson lips—met him halfway across the marble floor, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder as she kissed him hello. No small talk. No wine. Just tongue and teeth and the soft click of her heels.

I stayed by the bar cart, pouring three fingers of bourbon I didn’t drink. My pulse hammered in my throat as Lucien’s hand slid down Amara’s spine, fingers splaying possessively over the small of her back. She arched into him, letting the robe fall open completely. Underneath: black lace, crotchless, chosen specifically to ruin me.

“Bedroom,” Lucien said—not a request. His voice was low, accented with something Eastern European that made every syllable feel like a command. Amara glanced back at me, eyes glittering. “You coming, Kael? Or do you want to watch from the doorway like last time?”

I followed. Of course I did.

The master suite was all glass and shadows, city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Lucien didn’t bother with the lights. He pushed Amara against the pane, her palms flattening on the cold glass, tits pressed to the window for anyone in the high-rises across the street to see. I leaned against the doorframe, cock already straining against my slacks, and watched him drop to his knees behind her.

He didn’t ease in. No teasing licks, no gentle buildup. Lucien spread her open with rough thumbs and devoured her—loud, wet, obscene. Amara’s moan cracked the silence, her breath fogging the glass in frantic bursts. “Fuck—yes—” she gasped, hips grinding back against his face. I could hear everything: the slick sounds of his tongue, the way she dripped down his chin, the filthy praise he growled in a language I didn’t know but understood perfectly.

My hand moved to my belt without permission. I freed myself, stroking slow, matching the rhythm of Lucien’s mouth. Amara’s eyes found mine in the reflection—dark, blown wide, mine even as another man ate her like she was his last meal. “Tell him,” she panted. “Tell him what you want.”

Lucien pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with her. “Yeah, Kael. Use your words.”

I swallowed hard. “I want… I want to watch you fuck her. Hard. Make her scream.”

He grinned, wicked. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He stood, shedding clothes with impatient efficiency. His cock—Jesus, thicker than mine, flushed dark and already leaking—sprang free as he kicked his boxers aside. Amara whimpered, spreading her legs wider, ass tilted in shameless invitation. Lucien didn’t make her wait. One brutal thrust and he was buried to the hilt, her cry echoing off the glass. He set a punishing pace, hips snapping, balls slapping against her clit with every stroke.

I couldn’t stay still. I crossed the room, drawn like a moth, until I was close enough to smell them—sex and sweat and Amara’s perfume. Lucien’s hand shot out, fisting my shirt, yanking me in. “On your knees,” he ordered. “Taste how wet she is on me.”

I dropped. The carpet bit into my knees as I leaned in, tongue dragging up the shaft still pistoning in and out of my wife. Salt and musk and her—God, she tasted like sin. Amara reached down, fingers tangling in my hair, holding me there as Lucien fucked her harder, using my mouth like a toy. “That’s it,” she moaned. “Lick him while he wrecks me.”

I did. Over and over, until my jaw ached and precome smeared across my lips. Lucien pulled out suddenly, cock glistening, and shoved it into my mouth. I gagged—took him deeper than I thought possible—while Amara watched, fingers circling her clit, dripping onto the floor between my knees.

“Switch,” Lucien growled.

They moved like they’d rehearsed it. Amara pushed me onto the bed, straddling my face, grinding her soaked pussy over my mouth as Lucien lined up behind her again. This time he took her ass—slow at first, then relentless. She screamed into the pillow, nails raking my chest, and I licked her clit in frantic circles, tasting both of them where they joined. The room was nothing but wet sounds and broken curses.

At some point, Lucien flipped her onto her back, legs over his shoulders, and fucked her so deep the headboard slammed the wall. I knelt beside them, jerking myself, until Amara grabbed my wrist. “Inside me,” she begged. “Both of you.”

Lucien pulled out, slick and raging, and I slid in—her cunt clenching around me, stretched and dripping with another man’s spit. Lucien didn’t wait. He pushed into her ass again, the thin wall between us letting me feel every thrust. We moved together, a filthy rhythm, Amara trapped and writhing between us, coming so hard she squirted across my stomach.

I lost track of time. Of who was where. There was just heat and pressure and the moment Lucien pulled out, painting her tits with thick ropes while I emptied myself inside her, her walls milking me dry.

After, we collapsed in a sweaty heap. Amara’s head on my chest, Lucien’s arm draped over both of us. The city lights flickered through the window, indifferent. My voice was hoarse when I finally spoke.

“Again,” I said. “Next weekend.”

Lucien chuckled, fingers tracing lazy circles on Amara’s hip. “Greedy bastard. I like it.”

Amara just smiled, wicked and sated, and licked a stray drop of come from my neck.