I Became the Neighborhood’s Shared Cheating Slut

Five Married Men Take Turns Using Me

Photo by Dmitry Mineev on Unsplash

It started with one bored husband who couldn’t stop staring at my ass when I bent over to grab my mail.

Now there’s a private group chat, a rotating schedule, and five married men who text me like I’m their shared on-demand fuck toy.

I’m Rihana, 34, and I’ve never been wetter in my life.

I moved into the quiet cul-de-sac after my divorce, the kind of street where everyone mows on Sundays and pretends their marriages aren’t quietly dying. I work from home, so my days are wide open…actually, too open.

I started noticing the looks, the way Mark from next door lingered when he helped with my boxes, the way Derek two streets over slowed his car when I was out walking in those tiny running shorts. I didn’t plan any of this.

But when Mark’s wife left for a three-day trip and he texted me at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, “You free? I can’t stop thinking about you." I sent back a photo of my hand between my legs instead of a polite no.

He was at my door in eight minutes. We didn’t make it past the entryway. He bent me over the console table, shoved my shorts down, and fucked me so hard the vase fell and shattered.

I came twice or maybe thrice before he did. When he pulled out, panting, wedding ring still on, he looked almost guilty. I just smiled, scooped some of his cum onto my fingers, and sucked them clean while he watched. “Your wife doesn’t let you do that, does she?”

He texted his friend Derek that same afternoon.

By the end of the month there were five of them. Mark, he is quick and sweet, always wants to eat me first.

Derek, the rough one, the one who calls me names and makes my legs shake.

Tyler with the pool, he loves when I call him Daddy in that breathy voice.

Jake the contractor who is into using his belt on my wrists and quiet Ben from the end of the block, whose wife never stops talking about their renovations, he’s the one who makes me squirt every single time, like he’s got a map to my g-spot.

They made the group chat without asking.

“Rihana’s Rotation.” I could have left.

Instead I sent the first photo, me on my back, legs spread, Mark’s cum leaking out of me and captioned it “who’s next?”

The replies were instantand desperate.

They started coordinating around their wives’ schedules like it was a fantasy football league. “Wife’s at book club Thursday 7-9.” “I’ve got her Friday lunch.” “Ben says he made her squirt again, pics or it didn’t happen.”

I run it now, actually. I tell them what I want that day.

“Tonight I want to be used hard, no mercy, someone send proof your wife left.” or “I’m sore, be gentle and make it last.”

They compete. The one who makes me cum the most times that week gets first pick the next round.

It’s the hottest power trip I’ve ever had, these respectable dads, these guys who coach Little League and grill on weekends, reduced to begging in a group chat for a turn with my pussy.

But the real addiction is the sessions themselves, especially the rushed ones, when they only have an hour and they’re already hard before they even pull into my driveway.

Last Thursday with Derek was one of those. If you and your partner want that frantic, “I need to be inside you right fucking now” kind of sex, this is exactly how it went down.

The group chat pinged at 1:47. Derek: “Wife just left for her sister’s. Free till 4. You in?” I didn’t answer in the chat. I sent him a private photo instead, standing in my living room in a white button-down sundress, nothing underneath, two fingers spreading my smooth, already-glistening pussy.

And I wrote back, “Door’s unlocked. Don’t knock. Don’t talk. Just take.”

I had time to get ready, quick shower, legs and pussy shaved the way they all like, a little perfume between my tits and on the inside of my thighs. I left the front door unlocked and waited on the couch, heart hammering, nipples tight against the thin cotton. When I heard the door open and click shut, my cunt actually clenched.

Derek walked in wearing work clothes, button-down, slacks, that thick silver watch.

No hello, nothing, he just looked at me for three long seconds, then crossed the room, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and kissed me like he was punishing me for existing. His tongue was hot and demanding.

One hand shoved the dress up, found me bare and soaked, and two thick fingers pushed straight inside without warning. The wet sound was obscene, that thick, juicy squelch that only happens when you’re dripping for it.

“Fuck, Rihana,” he growled against my mouth. “You’re already this wet? You been playing with yourself waiting for me?”

I nodded, breath shaky. He pulled his fingers out, held them up so we both saw how they glistened, then pushed them into my mouth. I sucked them clean while he watched, eyes dark. “On your knees. Now.”

I dropped. The hardwood was cool under my knees. I undid his belt with shaky hands, freed his cock, already thick and heavy, the head shiny with pre-cum. I licked a slow, flat stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and skin and that faint clean-laundry smell he always has.

Then I took him deep, relaxing my throat, letting him slide past my tongue until my nose pressed against his stomach. He groaned, both hands in my hair now, and started fucking my face in short, controlled thrusts.

Spit ran down my chin onto my dress. I gagged wetly every few strokes and he loved it, I could feel his cock twitch on my tongue every time.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Neighborhood slut on her knees in the middle of the day. Bet the whole block would lose their minds if they knew.”

I pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Then fuck me like you want them to hear.”

He yanked me up, spun me around, and bent me over the back of the couch. The dress flipped up. Cool air hit my wet cunt for half a second before the blunt head of his cock dragged through my folds, coating itself in my cream.

He didn’t rush, he rubbed the head over my clit in slow circles until my thighs were trembling, until I was pushing back, whimpering.

“Please…”

He sank in with one long, steady thrust that made my eyes roll back. I felt every inch stretching me open, the slight burn that fades into perfect fullness. He bottomed out and stayed there, grinding his hips in tiny circles so the head kissed my cervix.

One hand reached around and found my clit, rubbing tight and fast while he started to move, long, deep strokes that made the couch creak and my tits swing under the dress.

The sounds were filthy. Wet skin slapping. My moans turning into broken little cries every time he bottomed out. The occasional sharp spank on my ass that made me clench around him. He leaned over me, chest to my back, mouth at my ear.

“Tell me whose pussy this is right now.”

“Yours,” I gasped. “Fuck, Derek, it’s yours — use it — ”

He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in harder. The pace turned rough, desperate. Every thrust shoved me forward into the cushions. His balls slapped my clit.

I could smell us. His wedding ring was cold against my hip where he gripped me. The contrast made me even wetter.

I came first, sudden and hard. My whole body locked up, pussy pulsing around him in tight, rhythmic squeezes, a gush of wetness soaking his cock and dripping down my thighs onto the floor. I moaned his name loud enough that I was half-afraid the neighbor across the street heard. He fucked me straight through it, never slowing, chasing his own release.

When he came, it was with a low sound, hips jerking as he pumped thick, hot spurts deep inside me. I felt every pulse. He stayed buried until he stopped twitching, then pulled out slow. A thick rope of cum followed, sliding down my inner thigh.

We were both breathing like we’d sprinted. My dress was stuck to my back with sweat. His shirt was wrinkled, hair messy.

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