The Unraked Garden
Copyright© 2025 by Infinite Eleven
Chapter 4
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 4 - After secretly discovering my shameful fantasy in my private notebook, my wife initiates a confusing and electrifying encounter with the one man I truly despise.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Reluctant Cheating Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching Oral Sex
The community hall smelled of cheap beer, stale pretzels, and the damp wool of winter coats. A few months had passed since the potluck, and the garden now lay dormant under a layer of frost. The poker night fundraiser was a welcome distraction, a noisy, brightly-lit pocket of warmth against the cold.
Ethan felt comfortable, a beer sweating in his hand, a respectable pile of chips in front of him. He was a good poker player; the game’s logic and calculated risks appealed to the academic part of his brain. Nora sat beside him, an easy, warm presence, her thigh occasionally brushing against his under the table.She’d chosen her outfit with a quiet, devastating precision. She wore a deep emerald green silk blouse that shimmered under the hall’s cheap fluorescent lights. A few extra buttons were left undone at the collar, creating a narrow, shadowed V that offered a tantalizing glimpse of the soft, pale upper swell of her breasts. Her jeans were a dark, expensive-looking denim, and they hugged her lower body like a second skin, the fabric stretching taut across the full, round globes of her ass, cupping them perfectly and accentuating the dramatic curve of her wide hips. To Ethan, she just looked incredible, a vision of casual elegance. He felt a familiar surge of pride.
Across from them, Gus was a study in loud frustration. He was losing badly, his bets growing more reckless with every hand he lost and every plastic cup of beer he drained.
“Alright, alright, that’s it!” he boomed after losing another pot, slapping the table with his meaty palm. “I’m sick of this nickel-and-dime stuff. I’m putting something real on the table.” He puffed out his chest. “A full weekend of my expert landscaping services this spring. Best damn gardens in the county, guaranteed.”
A wave of laughter went around the table.
“Careful, Gus,” someone called out. “The professor here might take you up on that.”
Gus’s watery eyes swiveled to Ethan, a belligerent spark in them. “You think so? You think you got the stones, Professor?”
Ethan just smiled, a calm, noncommittal gesture. But the table was already egging them on.
“Forget these chumps,” Gus said, his voice rising. He gestured grandly at the chips. “You and me. One hand. High-stakes.”
A hush fell over their small corner of the room. Gus leaned forward, his gut pressing against the edge of the table.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, his gaze flicking from Ethan to Nora and back again. “You win, I spend a whole weekend breaking my back in your yard. For free. I win...” He paused, a leering grin spreading across his face. “ ... your lovely wife here cooks me a private, gourmet dinner. At your house. Just the three of us.”
The air went thick. The proposition was so bizarre, so completely out of bounds, that no one knew how to react. Ethan felt a cold knot form in his stomach, immediately followed by a hot, familiar prickle of excitement. He felt Nora’s hand come to rest on his arm, a light, unreadable pressure. He was trapped. To refuse now would look like fear, an admission that Gus had gotten under his skin.
He looked at Nora. Her face was a perfect picture of supportive concern, her eyes wide. But he saw the challenge there, too. A silent dare.
“Fine,” Ethan heard himself say, his voice steady despite the frantic pounding of his heart. “You’re on.”
The table cleared, leaving only Ethan and Gus. The casual chatter of the hall seemed to fade into a dull roar, the world narrowing to the green felt of the table and the cards in his hands. The dealer laid out the final card on the river. The community cards on the table were a King of Hearts, a Queen of Spades, a Ten of Hearts, and a Four of Clubs—a dangerous board, rife with potential straights and flushes.
Ethan looked down at his own cards: a meaningless seven of diamonds and two of clubs. He had absolutely nothing. His only path to victory was to sell a story of absolute, unshakeable strength.
He leaned forward, his face a calm, unreadable study in academic detachment, and pushed a large stack of chips into the center of the table—a classic, powerful bluff. He was representing a straight, daring Gus to fold.
Across the table, Gus was sweating. He looked down at his own hand—a lowly pair of fours—then at the menacing board. Against a bet this large, his hand was garbage. The correct, logical move was to fold and cut his losses. He agonized, his thick fingers hovering over his cards, ready to push them into the muck. He looked up, his watery eyes pleading, searching Nora’s face for a sign.
Nora, standing behind Ethan, had seen this all before. She knew his tells. Not the tells of strength, but the tells of weakness. The subtle, almost imperceptible tensing of his jaw, the way he focused intently on a spot on the felt just past the pot when he was pushing a bluff. He was doing it now.
She caught Gus’s desperate gaze. He was looking at her, his accomplice, for the information he believed she had promised.
She gave him the signal. It wasn’t a nod of encouragement. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. A dismissive “no” that was invisible to everyone else at the table.
Gus understood instantly. He has nothing.
A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. The fear vanished, replaced by pure, arrogant confidence. He knew he held the winning hand, even if it was just a pathetic pair of fours.
“I call,” Gus boomed, sliding a stack of chips forward just large enough to meet Ethan’s bet.
The action was complete. It was time for the showdown. Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He had been called.
As the last bettor, the obligation was on Ethan to show his cards first. The entire table watched, waiting to see the monster hand he had been representing. His face burned with a shame so hot it felt like a physical fever. Slowly, his fingers trembling slightly, he turned over his cards, revealing the worthless seven and two.
A wave of confused murmurs and a few stifled laughs washed over the table.
Gus roared with laughter, a triumphant, ugly sound. To complete the humiliation, he theatrically flipped over his own cards. “Pair of fours is good enough tonight, Professor!” he bellowed.
He felt Nora’s hand squeeze his shoulder. He looked up at her, expecting to see shared disbelief. Instead, he saw a perfect, carefully constructed expression of wifely sympathy, her eyes wide with what looked like disappointment. But for a fleeting, terrifying second, before she perfected the look, he thought he saw something else in their depths. A flicker of something dark, powerful, and satisfied.
The following Saturday, a thick, heavy dread settled over their house. Every tick of the clock was a countdown to Gus’s arrival. Ethan paced the length of the living room, a caged animal in his own home. The memory of his public humiliation was a fresh, stinging wound, made worse by the impending fulfillment of the wager.
Nora was in the kitchen, the scent of roasting garlic and herbs a surreal counterpoint to the tension in the air. She moved with a calm, deliberate grace, plating a beautiful, complex meal he knew she’d spent all day preparing.
She came out as he was making another pass by the fireplace, wiping her hands on her apron. She stopped him, her hands coming to rest on his chest, a warm, solid presence.
“Ethan,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Please. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t do this to me.”
He stared at her, his mind a chaotic whirl. “I have to be here, Nora. I’m not going to just ... leave you alone with him.”
Her eyes, full of a convincing, heartfelt concern, locked with his. “Having you here, watching him gloat, watching me ... it will be unbearable. For both of us.” She took a deep breath, her performance pitch-perfect. “I was the one who pushed you to take the bet. I was the one who stood by. This is my mess. I have to see it through. Let me just get it over with. He’ll eat, he’ll be his usual awful self, and then he will leave. It will be over so much faster if you’re not here, suffering through it.”
Her plea was a masterstroke of loving manipulation. It wasn’t a demand; it was a request framed as an act of mercy for them both. It made his desire to stay, to stand guard, feel like a selfish act, a way of prolonging her ordeal. He was torn, his protective instincts warring with the logic of her argument. The thought of being in another room while that man sat at his table, eating food his wife cooked, was a special kind of torture.
“Please, honey,” she whispered, her thumb stroking his cheek. “Go work in your study. Put on some music. It’ll be over before you know it. Do it for my sake.”
The last three words were the key. For my sake. How could he refuse that?
He finally gave a stiff, reluctant nod. “Okay.”
He walked to his study, the short distance feeling like miles. He closed the heavy oak door behind him, the click of the latch sounding like a cell door locking him in. He was a prisoner in his own home, relegated to the sidelines while his wife faced the consequences of a game he never should have played. He sat down at his desk, staring at the closed door, and waited, his imagination already beginning its cruel, torturous work.
The sound of the doorbell was a gunshot in the quiet house. Ethan flinched in his study chair, the book in his hands forgotten. He heard the heavy tread of Gus’s boots in the entryway, followed by his booming, self-satisfied voice. The muffled sounds from the dining room were a symphony of torture—the scrape of chairs on the hardwood, the clink of silverware, the low, indistinct murmur of Nora’s polite, measured responses, all of it punctuated by Gus’s grating, triumphant laugh.
Ethan stared at the words on the page, but they were just meaningless black marks. His entire consciousness was a satellite dish aimed downstairs, straining to decipher every nuance. He imagined Nora, his beautiful, elegant Nora, forced to sit across from that man, her face a polite canvas hiding whatever turmoil was churning beneath. He pictured Gus’s thick, dirty fingers wrapped around a wine glass she had poured, his wet, chewing mouth consuming the food she had spent all day preparing.
Then he heard the chairs push back. They were moving to the living room. For a nightcap.
The silence that followed was a physical entity. It pressed in on him, thick and suffocating, leaving him alone with an imagination that was now running rampant and cruel. He pictured Gus on their sofa, the one where he and Nora curled up together, patting the cushion beside him. He pictured Nora, trapped by the terms of the bet, her movements graceful and resigned as she sat down. He saw Gus’s heavy hand, a slab of meat, landing on her knee. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, until it was finally broken by a sound that made Ethan’s blood run cold—the faint, rhythmic creak of the sofa springs, a sound he knew with sickening, intimate detail. He squeezed his eyes shut, his cock instantly, painfully hard against the unforgiving seam of his pants, a visceral, traitorous response to the movie playing in his head.
Nora watched Gus drain the last of the whiskey, his watery eyes fixed on her with a raw, proprietary hunger. He set the glass down with a heavy thud on their polished oak coffee table, the sound echoing in the tense quiet. He leaned forward, his bulk straining the fabric of his shirt, his gut pressing against the edge of the table.
“Well, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a thick, slurred growl that was less a compliment and more a demand. “Dinner was fantastic. But a bet’s a bet.” A thick, wet smile spread across his face, revealing stained teeth. “Been waiting for this. The dinner was just the appetizer. This ... this is the main course, isn’t it?”
His gaze, rheumy and bloodshot, raked over her, stripping away the emerald silk of her blouse, lingering on the curve of her hip, the soft swell of her breasts. He radiated an ugly, expectant confidence, a sneer of contempt for Ethan ghosting at the corners of his mouth.
Nora didn’t answer immediately. She simply rose from her chair, her movements fluid and unhurried. The silk of her blouse whispered as she walked to the small bar cart near the window, the fabric clinging to the dramatic curve of her hips with each step. She picked up a heavy crystal decanter, the amber liquid within sloshing gently. As she did, she propped her phone up discreetly against a stack of art books on the side table, the lens angled perfectly toward the sofa. It was a casual, almost absent-minded gesture, one easily overlooked.
With a subtle, steady tap of her thumb on the screen, the recording began.
She poured him another generous drink, the sound of the whiskey splashing into the glass loud in the still room. She walked back to him, her steps silent on the thick rug. As she handed him the glass, she didn’t just let go. Her fingers deliberately brushed against his, a slow, electric drag of skin against the rough knuckles of his hand that made him grunt in low appreciation.
She didn’t return to her chair. Instead, with a calm deliberation that made his breath hitch, she sat on the sofa directly beside him. The cushion sank under her weight, and she settled in, her thigh pressing against the rough denim of his. The warmth and pressure of the contact was a clear, unspoken answer.
“You’re a good woman, Nora,” Gus slurred, his free hand immediately landing on her bare knee, the calloused skin a shocking, rough texture against her own. “A real good woman. Too good for a bookworm.”
He leaned in, and Nora didn’t pull away. His breath washed over her face, a hot, foul cloud of whiskey, garlic, and the faint, sour scent of stale sweat clinging to his shirt. His mouth crashed down on hers. It was a wet, clumsy, forceful kiss, his lips slick and overly soft. She didn’t fight. She parted her lips, allowing his thick, whiskey-flavored tongue to push past them. It moved with a crude entitlement, a sloppy, probing invasion that tasted of his cheap liquor.
As his tongue explored her mouth, his other hand moved from her knee. He didn’t rush. The calloused palm slid slowly up the smooth, stocking-clad skin of her inner thigh, the friction sending a shiver across her skin. The hand traveled higher, relentlessly, until it cupped the warm, soft juncture between her legs, right through the thin emerald silk of her blouse. She could feel the heat and pressure of his palm, a branding iron of ownership pressing against her. He squeezed gently, his thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle against the delicate fabric, feeling the shape of her beneath.
He pulled back from the kiss, his breathing heavy and ragged, a string of saliva connecting their lips for a moment before it broke.
“That’s more like it,” he growled, his eyes glinting with triumph. His hand remained firmly pressed between her legs. “Knew you wanted it. God, you feel good. So soft.”
He pushed her back against the sofa cushions, his heavy body covering hers, pinning her with an effortless, suffocating weight. Nora felt the rough wool of the expensive sofa scratching against her bare shoulders where her dress had ridden up, the coarse fibers abrading her skin. His chest pressed down on her, hard and unyielding, stealing the air from her lungs. The combined scent of his stale sweat and cheap cologne intensified, thick and cloying.
“Gus, please...” she started, her hands coming up to press weakly against the solid wall of his chest, her voice muffled by his proximity. “We don’t have to do this. The bet was just for dinner. Please, this isn’t right.”
He just chuckled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her. “Dinner was the appetizer, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice thick with whiskey and want, his hot breath ghosting across her ear. “This is what you really owe me. Now stop fighting it.”
His mouth descended on hers again, a wet, forceful kiss that tasted of his conquest, his tongue a brutal, possessive invasion. While his tongue probed her mouth, his other hand, still cupping her, fumbled with his belt. The jangle of the buckle was loud and obscene in the quiet room, a harsh metallic counterpoint to the wet sounds of their kiss. With one thick fist, he hiked her dress up to her waist, the emerald silk bunching uselessly against her stomach, exposing her bare thighs and the intimate curve of her hips.
Then, with a single, impatient tug, he tore her delicate panties. The sound of ripping lace was a sharp, violent finality, a crisp, decisive zzzzzip that made her breath catch in her throat. She felt the elastic snap, the thin fabric tearing away, leaving her utterly exposed. A sudden coolness of air washed over her most intimate skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his hand. His calloused fingers finding the wet, slick heat between her legs, rough and exploring against her sensitive folds.
He didn’t wait. Gus pulled back just enough to position the thick, purpled head of his cock at her entrance, a dark, glistening eye pushing against her slick, swollen folds.
“No, wait, I’m not...” Nora’s protest was a weak, breathless whisper, more a formality than a genuine plea. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his face, but she didn’t struggle, her hands still pressed feebly against his chest.
With a low grunt of pure animal satisfaction, a sound that vibrated through her entire body, he drove himself into her. The feeling was a blunt, shocking invasion, a sudden, overwhelming pressure that stole her breath and made her see spots behind her eyelids. He was thick, impossibly so, a crude battering ram of flesh forcing its way inside her. She felt a sharp, tearing sensation as her slick, wet pussy walls, accustomed to the familiar, perfect fit of her husband, were brutally forced to accommodate something entirely new and overwhelming.
He wasn’t fitting; he was forcing space where none existed. The burning stretch continued, deep and insistent, as he pushed past the initial resistance. She felt the tight, muscular ring of her entrance being stretched taut, then a deeper, aching fullness as his shaft slowly, relentlessly, slid further within her. It felt as though he might split her in two, a deep, aching fullness that was both searing pain and a dark, terrifying thrill she couldn’t deny.
Gus groaned, a long, drawn-out sound of pure pleasure as he finally sank to his hilt. He paused for a moment, letting the overwhelming sensation of being completely buried inside her wash over him. His heavy body settled on hers, pressing her deeper into the cushions, his weight suffocating.
Then, he began to move. His thrusts were clumsy and arrhythmic at first, driven by a raw, selfish momentum. His hips slammed into hers with a wet, percussive slap that echoed off the high ceilings of their living room. The heavy, soft belly of him slapped against her taut stomach with each downward push, a grotesque counterpoint to the strained groan and rhythmic creak of the sofa springs beneath them.