Anniversary Surprises: A Taste of Temptation

Perry had been married to Lacey long enough to know that when she said "don't come upstairs until I text you," the wait was always worth it. Sixteen years since NYU, twelve anniversaries, and every single one of them had ended with his heart pounding in a way that hadn't faded since he'd first watched her walk across the dorm common room in a stolen traffic cone as a "hat."

Tonight was anniversary number twelve. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a beer he wasn't drinking, picking at the label, listening to footsteps move around above him. Lacey had been upstairs for forty minutes. He'd heard the shower run twice — once for her, he assumed, and once for someone else, which was the part that made his palm sweat.

His phone buzzed.

**Lacey:** *Come up. Don't knock. Just open the door.*

He took the stairs two at a time, which at six foot five was less impressive than it sounded — he practically took them one at a time anyway. He paused at the bedroom door with his hand on the knob, took a breath, and pushed it open.

The room smelled like maple syrup. That was the first thing. Warm, sweet, buttery maple syrup, which was not a smell that belonged in their bedroom unless Lacey had been making pancakes in bed again, which she had done exactly once and had been banned from ever repeating.

The second thing was Hayley.

Perry knew Hayley from Lacey's book club, which was a book club the way a strip club was a club about strips. Hayley was the loud one, the one with the enormous brown hair and the enormous everything else, the one who'd once made a joke at a barbecue about her own bra size needing its own zip code and had made Lacey laugh so hard she'd snorted wine through her nose. Perry had always suspected Lacey and Hayley were closer than book club. Now he knew.

Hayley was sitting on the edge of the bed in a leopard print bra that was losing a heroic battle with her chest, her long brown hair spilling over shoulders, a small bottle of maple syrup dangling from two fingers like she was a pinup model for a diner in hell.

"Happy anniversary, big guy," Hayley said, and her voice was a smoker's rasp that had no business being as sexy as it was.

Lacey was already there, sitting in the rattan chair they kept by the window, and she had that look. Perry knew that look. It was the look she'd had at the villa in Holland when Leti had walked out in nothing but a sarong. It was the look she'd had in the dungeon last spring when she'd handed Perry the flogger and told him exactly where to put it. It was the look that said: *I planned this. I've been planning this for weeks. You're welcome.*

"Happy anniversary, baby," Lacey said, crossing her legs. She was fully dressed, which somehow made it filthier. "Do you like your present?"

"I—" Perry looked at Hayley. Hayley looked back at him with the unbothered confidence of a woman who had absolutely been briefed. "I like my present a lot."

"Good." Lacey tilted her head. "Hayley's going to show you what's under the leopard print. Hayley?"

Hayley stood up. She reached behind herself with one hand, and the bra popped open like it had been waiting years for permission. Her tits came out heavy and huge, triple-E pendulums that swayed when she laughed, and she did laugh, because Perry made a sound he'd never made before, a kind of strangled "hnngh" that he would deny until his death.

"Wow," he said.

"Wow," Hayley agreed, jiggling them at him. "They're real, they're heavy, and they've ruined my back since I was nineteen. Enjoy."

She hooked her thumbs into her thong. And this was where the smell hit him properly — because the syrup was sweet, yes, but underneath it was something else, something musky and ripe and unmistakably female, the kind of smell that came from a full day and a long car ride and a pair of panties that had been marinating. Perry's nostrils flared.

The thong dropped to her ankles. Hayley stepped out of it and kicked it toward him with one bare foot.

Her bush was a wild, dark continent. It started high on her mound, thick and untamed, and ran down between her legs and around everything, all the way back to her asshole, untrimmed and unbothered, a 1970s centerfold situation in a world of waxing strips. Her inner thighs glistened.

"Pick up the thong," Lacey said pleasantly. "And the bra, when you get a chance. Smell them."

Perry looked at his wife. His wife nodded encouragingly, like she was telling him to try the appetizer.

He bent down and gathered the thong off the carpet. It was damp in his hand, warm from her body, and the crotch of it was soaked through — not a little damp, soaked, a dark wet patch that had been pressed against her for hours. He brought it to his face and inhaled and his knees nearly buckled. Fish and musk and sweat and something sweet-sour underneath, the smell of a pussy that had been working all day. He breathed in again, deeper, and his cock went from half-interested to fully committed in the space of one heartbeat, straining against the leopard print thong Lacey had dressed him in an hour ago before sending him downstairs — his own leopard print, she'd said, a matching set with Hayley's, which was the kind of detail that told you exactly how long Lacey had been planning this.

"Oh my god," Perry said into the fabric.

"Told you," Hayley said to Lacey. "He's a sniffer."

"He's a sniffer," Lacey confirmed fondly. "Get the bra too, sweetheart. Then get on your knees."

Perry pressed the bra cups to his face next — they smelled of her skin, of sweat and a faint trace of perfume and underneath it that same ripe funk — and his cock finally won its fight with the thong, springing out over the top of the waistband, fat and hard and bobbing in the syrupy air. He dropped to his knees in front of Hayley without being told twice, holding her bra in one fist like a perverted bouquet.

Hayley lay back on the bed and spread her legs.

"Pour the syrup," Lacey said. She'd stood up now, and as Perry turned to look, she was peeling off her own clothes — the sundress, the bra, everything, until she was naked in the chair again, one leg over the armrest, a dildo already in her hand that had definitely been hidden in the cushions. His wife had staged the chair. His wife had staged the entire room. "Pour it on her pussy, baby. Don't be shy. She wants it warm but I told her cold from the bottle is part of the fun."

Hayley gasped and giggled as the syrup hit her, a thick amber ribbon poured straight over her mound, running down through the wild hair, pooling in her slit, dripping slow off her perineum onto the sheets. The smell in the room doubled — sugar and cunt, maple and musk, a diner breakfast and a locker room, and Perry's mouth was watering before his tongue even made contact.

He leaned in and licked one long stripe from the bottom of her opening up through the syrup to the top of her mound. He groaned. She groaned. Somewhere behind him, Lacey groaned, and the wet sound of a dildo sliding into a very wet pussy joined the party.

"Oh, you *like* that," Lacey said, and her voice had that teasing, cruel, delighted edge he loved. "You like my book club friend's stinky little pussy? You like that fishy tuna smell? Because I know you do. I've seen you look at her at barbecues, Perry. I've watched you sniff when she walks past. You dirty, dirty man."

Perry didn't answer, because his mouth was full. He was working her slit in long flat licks, gathering syrup and her own flavor together, and the combination was obscene — the sugar and the salt and the ripe, tangy, unmistakable taste of a woman who'd been sitting in a car for two hours thinking about this. He sealed his lips around her inner lips and sucked and Hayley grabbed his bald head with both hands, pulling his face in.

"His head's so smooth," she said to Lacey. "It's like a second dildo."

"It's not a dildo, it's a tongue, and he knows how to use it," Lacey said. "Lick her asshole, baby."

Perry dragged his tongue down past her opening, down through the damp thicket of hair, down to her asshole, and licked around it, and Hayley's thighs clamped his ears. He went back and forth — pussy, taint, ass, pussy — his face getting absolutely glazed, her sweat-slicked pubes grinding against his cheeks and nose and mouth, syrup in his stubble, her smell so deep in his sinuses he figured he'd be tasting her until Thursday.

"That's it," Lacey purred behind him. The dildo was making sloppy sounds now, faster. "Get your face all the way in there. Motorboat it, honey. Motorboat that nasty, unwashed, fishy cunt. She told me on the drive over that she hasn't showered since yesterday *on purpose.* She said, and I quote, 'he seems like a man who appreciates a ripe one.' Is that true, Perry? Do you appreciate a ripe one?"

Perry pulled his face out of Hayley's crotch long enough to say, hoarsely, "I married you, didn't I," and Hayley shrieked with laughter and Lacey said "aww" in the exact tone of a woman who'd been complimented and insulted at the same time and would be punishing him for it later, and then Perry dove back in, shaking his head side to side, motorboating her hairy mound until his face was a glazed mess of syrup and spit and her juices, her tits shaking above him as she laughed and moaned at once.

"God, look at him," Lacey said, and now she was narrating, fully narrating, the way she did when she got going, her voice breathy over the wet slap of the dildo. "You know how many dicks she's taken, baby? You know what a whore this woman is? I've known Hayley eleven years. Eleven years of book club. You know what we actually do at book club? We talk about dick. Hayley's dick count is over two hundred. Two hundred dicks, Perry. She told me she stopped counting at one-ninety-something because it felt 'like homework.'"

"Best homework I ever quit," Hayley panted, grabbing her own tits.

"She's taken loads in her pussy, loads in her ass, loads on her face, in her hair — she once had a train run on her at a bachelorette party by the entire male review, all six of them, and she still made brunch the next morning. She takes dick *daily*, baby. DAILY. Some women do yoga, Hayley does dick. She's got a pussy like a toll booth — everybody pays, everybody passes through. And it's never been douched, not once, not ever. She's all-natural. Farm to table. That fishy smell you're huffing like glue right now? That's eleven years of organic, free-range, cage-free cunt. That's a pussy with a résumé."

Perry was moaning into that pussy like it was a religion he was converting to. He couldn't get enough. He licked syrup out of her pubic hair strand by strand. He tongue-fucked her hole until she was humping his face. He went back down to her asshole and rimmed her in slow circles while she made sounds like a dial-up modem.

"Put your legs up," Lacey commanded. "Hayley, bend over. Show him the full menu. Spread your cheeks."

Hayley flipped over onto her knees, bent over, and reached back and spread her ass wide open, and then reached further and pulled her pussy lips apart too, and everything was right there on display — the pink of her, the wet of her, the hair around it all matted and dark with syrup and spit.

Perry buried his face between her cheeks and ate her asshole like it was his last meal, his fat cock swinging underneath him, dripping onto the carpet.

"That ass has taken more nuts than a squirrel's den," Lacey said, working the dildo faster, her own tits bouncing. "She told me the number once. Up the ass specifically. You want to know, Perry? She's had fifty-two loads busted in that ass you're licking. Fifty-two! She keeps a journal! It's got a *spreadsheet*, baby, she color-codes it. Green for pussy, yellow for ass, red for face. She's the most organized whore in the tri-state area. A whore with a five-year plan. A whore who does her taxes. A big, fat, filthy, fishy, hairy, cum-guzzling, ass-stretched, dick-drunk WHORE —"

"I'm cumming," Hayley announced, and came, hard, all over Perry's face, gushing against his mouth, her whole body shaking, her tits swinging wildly, and Perry lapped at her through it, greedy, while Lacey came too, loudly, in the chair, her dildo buried to the hilt.

The room went quiet except for breathing.

Hayley rolled over, sweaty and glazed and grinning like a cat. She looked down at Perry — dripping, dazed, syrup in his eyebrows, her scent painted on him like war stripes, his cock still achingly hard.

"You earned something," Hayley said.

"What—" Perry began.

"Close your eyes," Lacey said from the chair, and there was a smile in her voice he did not trust, and did not want to trust.

He closed his eyes.

The warm spray hit him square in the face, then his chest, then his still-hard cock — Hayley sighing with relief as she pissed on him, golden and endless, absolutely soaking her husband's anniversary present from her hairless head to his knees.

"There," Hayley said, shaking off the last drops. "A little thank-you. Compliments of the management."

Perry opened his eyes, soaked, sticky, grinning like an idiot. "Best anniversary ever?"

"Baby," Lacey said, rising from the chair with the dildo still in hand, walking toward him and the bed with purpose, "the night is young, and you haven't even had your present from *me* yet. Hayley, hand me the syrup. And somebody put a towel on that chair before I sit in it."

Hayley saluted, and reached for the bottle.