SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

It started with a simple declaration that shattered what little remained of my manhood. My wife, Sarah, sat me down one evening after dinner and told me, flatly, that she wouldn’t let me fuck her anymore. Not ever again. She’d been seeing her bull, Marcus, for months now, and the closest I’d come to penetrating her was when she let me use a strap-on dildo on her—a thick, veined silicone cock that was probably three times the size of my pathetic 4-inch hard-on. And even then, she’d just lay there, bored, telling me to go faster, harder, like I was a machine she was testing.

I accepted it. What else could I do? I was a small-dicked husband who couldn’t satisfy his wife. That was my reality.

Then came that Thursday afternoon.

I was at work, buried in spreadsheets, when my phone buzzed with a text from Sarah.

“I’m so fucking horny right now. I’ve masturbated 5 times already, and I still can’t get enough. Marcus is out of town, and I’m dying to have a dick inside me.”

I felt my cock stir in my office chair. She rarely texted me like this anymore. Usually it was about Marcus, about how good he fucked her, about the size of his cock. But this? This was directed at me.

Another text came through: “If you can come home early, I’ll let you fuck me. I’m desperate.”

My heart pounded. I didn’t even think. I told my boss I had a family emergency, grabbed my bag, and practically ran out of the building. On the drive home, she kept texting me, her words dripping with lust.

“I need it so bad. I’m soaking through my leggings. I’m gonna make you cum so hard, baby.”

The dirty talk was electric. My cock was already throbbing, leaking precum into my underwear. I sped through yellow lights, my mind racing with fantasies of finally burying myself inside her again. Maybe this was a turning point. Maybe she missed me.

I pulled into the driveway, barely turned off the engine, and burst through the front door.

She was standing in the kitchen, wearing tight gray leggings and a loose tank top, no bra. Her nipples were hard, visible through the thin fabric. Her dark hair was messy, her cheeks flushed. She looked at me with hungry eyes.

“Finally,” she breathed.

We collided. Our mouths met, hot and desperate, tongues sliding against each other. I grabbed her ass, squeezing the firm curves, and spun her around. I bent her over the kitchen table, her hands bracing against the surface. I pressed my hips against her from behind, my cock straining through my pants, grinding against the seam of her leggings.

But before I could even unbutton my pants, she let out a moan—not from me, but from the rounded corner of the table pressing into her cunt through the leggings.

“Holy shit, baby,” she gasped. She pushed her hips back, rubbing herself against that wooden edge. “Oh fuck… maybe I don’t need you after all.”

She pushed me away. Hard. I stumbled back, confused, as she gripped both sides of the table and started grinding against the corner with increasing urgency. Her hips moved in tight circles, her back arching. She slid one hand up her shirt and started rubbing her nipple, pinching it between her fingers.

I stepped forward, reaching for her ass, but she swatted my hand away.

“Stop. You can watch, but I don’t… mmmm… need you anymore. Holy shit.”

Her voice was a breathless moan, barely coherent. She ground against that table corner like it was the most exquisite cock she’d ever felt. Her leggings darkened with her wetness, a stain spreading as she rocked her hips.

I stood there, frozen, my hand still hovering where she’d smacked it. My cock was painfully hard, leaking through my pants, but she didn’t care. She was lost in the sensation.

For three or four minutes she kept going, her breathing ragged, her moans filling the kitchen. Then she clenched the edge of the table, her knuckles white, and smacked the tabletop with her palm as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. Her body shuddered, her hips bucking, her voice rising in a long, shaky cry that went on and on.

When it finally subsided, she leaned over the table, panting. I thought it was over. But she started grinding again, slower this time, savoring it.

“Fuck, that felt good.” She turned her head to look at me, her eyes half-lidded. She pointed at the wet spot on my pants where my cock was visibly leaking. “That has never made me feel this fucking good. Holy shit.”

She kept grinding.

“How fucking humiliating… mmmmm… for you.” She struggled to speak through the moans. “A kitchen table fucks your wife better than you can… but… mmm… fuck… this is actually a big piece of wood… unlike that…”

She pointed at my crotch again at my small cock.

I couldn’t help myself. I unzipped my pants and pulled out my hard-on—a pathetic 4-inch dick, slick with precum, twitching in my hand. I wrapped my fingers around it and started stroking.

“That’s it. Stroke it with two fingers like the tiny dick loser you are.” Her voice was mockingly sweet. “Just know… ohhh fuck… fuck fuck fuck…” She moved her hips faster, riding that table corner like a stallion. “Mmm, just know I’d rather have a fucking table than that pathetic thing.”

I watched her. Watched her hips roll, watched her hand knead her breast, watched the way her body responded to that inanimate piece of wood. And I couldn’t hold back. My balls tightened, the pleasure surging, and I exploded. Cum sprayed from my cock, splattering across my shirt, my pants, the kitchen floor. Thick ropes of it, more than I’d ever shot before, as if my body was trying to compensate for my inadequacy.

She laughed—a genuine, breathless laugh.

“Look at that. You came just from watching me fuck a table. That’s so sad.” She kept grinding, her voice teasing. “I can’t believe I ever let that little thing inside me. What was I thinking?”

She rode the table for another few minutes, mocking me between moans, telling me what a horrible fuck I was, how I’d never made her feel even a fraction of the pleasure she was feeling now. And then she came again—just as loud, just as powerful. Her whole body convulsed, her voice cracking as she cried out. She slumped over the table, gasping.

When she finally stood up, there was a huge wet spot on her gray leggings, dark and glistening. She looked down at it, then at me, still standing there with my softening cock in my hand, cum drying on my clothes.

“I guess I wasn’t desperate enough for that after all,” she said, her tone flat. “You can go back to work.”

She turned and walked upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the smell of her sex and the sticky mess on the floor.

I cleaned myself up as best I could. I wiped the cum off my shirt with a paper towel, buttoned my pants, and grabbed my keys. On the drive back to the office, I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in my head—the way she’d pushed me away, the way she’d moaned for that table, the way she’d laughed at my tiny dick.

And the worst part? I was already getting hard again thinking about it.

 

The End.

*The opinions/views expressed in this story (and in any comments) are those of the author and do not represent this site. We support freedom of speech. This story has been submitted directly to this website for publication. Thanks for your submission.