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Poking the lion.
There, he is greeted by my cock-starved better half, who undoubtedly wastes no time wresting his engorged dick-meat from his fly and bending over to let him jam it into her to the hilt.
Regrettably, the intricacy of our arrangement and the inherent need for alacrity prohibits me from being there in the kitchen when Abigail gets her first highly anticipated shot of adulterous cock. I imagine that first urgent impaling is the hottest, because the hours spent getting ready for the party and the few minutes I take to double-knuckle finger-bang her before the real fun begins always have her beside herself with desire. In any case, I usually have enough time to excuse myself and make it back into the kitchen while the first tryst is still in progress. Without fail, I find my blushing betrothed sprawled across the counter or kitchen table and one of my neighbors behind her mercilessly pounding his fat shaft into her like he's trying to hammer her through a wall. Often, they're going at it so hard that she has an oven mitt or dish towel stuffed in her mouth to keep her from crying out in pleasure or spewing some vulgar urging which would be heard by the wives in the living room.
By that point, it's usually just a few seconds before the guy tenses up from head to toe, bites back a feral howl, and dumps the contents of his bloated balls deep in the clenching valleys of Abigail's grateful gash. Ever the thoughtful hostess, my girl always turns around quickly, squats down, and thoroughly cleans the freshly milked pecker from base to bulbous tip with her luscious lips and lapping tongue. Then, without a word, she tucks the happy joint away, zips up my friend's pants, and sends him on his way back down the hallway. It's not uncommon for us to hear the man's wife in the other room asking, "Are you okay, honey?" as he rejoins the others, since burying one's prick in my beloved's beautiful baby box tends to leave a man more than a little flush-faced and out of breath.
It goes on like this for a good, long while, one husband after another coming up with some bogus reason to leave the room ("I think I left my phone in the car.", "Didn't you say you just remodeled your den? Mind if I go take a look?" etc., etc., etc.) and slip off to hurriedly skewer Abigail with his raging erection. I pop into the kitchen from time to time, enjoying the spectacle of watching my wanton wife frantically drain one bulging ball sack after another with her bucking hips and slurping cooze cavern. Typically, I end up doing most of the actual cooking, as Abigail is far too busy being used and drilled like a shameless whore to focus on meal preparation. I don't mind, though. Few things give me more pleasure than seeing my dirty sex kitten rocked by one volcanic orgasm after another as she is savaged in rapid succession by a veritable parade of gigantic, purple-veined man-missiles.
Once a week, the couples drop in and Abigail gets fucked by Tom, Mike and DeWayne (none of whom ever miss a party), and occasionally by Rick, Anthony, Jerry, and/or Kyle, while their wives sit blissfully ignorant of the brazen infidelity happening right in the very next room. To date, we've not had a single wife wander into the kitchen and catch one of the philandering husbands buried balls deep in the hostess' love tunnel. Unless we get an inkling that one of the men isn't interested in partaking of the secret entree that night, the unspoken rule is that no matter what we're having for dinner, the table doesn't get set nor the food served until every one of our masculine guests has shot his semen into my wife's slit, and had his post-orgasmic pole polished clean by her wet, hungry mouth. Suffice it to say, there are an awful lot of very happy men sitting around our dining room table when the first appetizer is eventually served.
Dinner itself is my favorite part of these get-togethers.