We’d been in the cinema lobby for about ten minutes or so when I first saw the middle-aged black man. I only noticed him because of the way he was looking at my wife. I can’t say I blame him—I’d do the same if she wasn’t mine. Drifting towards her late thirties, Cheryl’s still retained her curvy figure even after blessing me with two children. Her body was pretty good before, and I’m proud of the way she’s kept herself in trim since. She’s certainly put together quite nicely, with large 40 DD breasts, a nice ass, and very shapely legs. Oh, and I should add she has full luscious lips that I think just beg to be kissed.

The lobby buzzed with the low hum of anticipation—couples murmuring about the film, the scent of cum and urine mingling with the faint, cool draft from the air conditioning. Cheryl stood beside me, her hand lightly brushing my arm as she scanned the ticket counter line. She wore that simple black dress tonight, the one that hugged her curves just enough to turn heads without trying too hard. The fabric clung softly to the swell of her breasts, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal a hint of lace beneath, and the hem skimmed her thighs, accentuating those legs that seemed endless even in modest heels.

I caught the man’s gaze again, lingering a beat too long on her profile. He was broad-shouldered, his dark skin gleaming under the warm overhead lights, dressed in a crisp button-down that stretched across his chest. There was something unhurried about him, a quiet confidence as he leaned against a pillar, pretending to check his phone but stealing glances that traced the line of her neck, down to the way her hips shifted when she laughed at something I said.

Cheryl didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in our conversation about the movie trailers we’d just watched. But then she turned slightly, tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, and I saw it—the subtle spark in her eyes as their gazes met. It was fleeting, a polite smile from her, a nod from him, but the air between them thickened, like the prelude to a storm. My pulse quickened, not with jealousy, but with a strange, electric curiosity. What was it like, I wondered, to see her through fresh eyes, to feel that pull without the familiarity of years?

As the line inched forward, he moved closer, casually positioning himself just behind us. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—woody, with a hint of spice—mingling with the buttery aroma around us. Cheryl shifted her weight, her hip brushing mine, but I swear I felt the faintest awareness from her, a subtle arch in her posture that made her dress pull taut across her backside. The man’s eyes dipped lower, unapologetic now, and I wondered if she felt the weight of his stare like a caress, warm and insistent.

‘This place is packed tonight,’ he said suddenly, his voice deep and smooth, directed at no one in particular but landing squarely on her. Cheryl turned, her full lips curving into a warm smile, those eyes of hers lighting up with easy charm.

‘It is,’ she replied, her tone light, but there was a softness to it, a lilt that made my skin prickle. ‘Popular show, I guess.’

He chuckled, low and resonant, stepping just a fraction nearer. The space between them shrank, and I watched as his hand—large, steady—brushed the edge of the ticket counter as if by accident, but his fingers hovered near her elbow for a heartbeat too long. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head, exposing the delicate curve of her throat, and I could almost feel the heat rising between them, the unspoken invitation in the way her breath caught ever so slightly.

My heart thudded, a mix of possessiveness and thrill coiling in my gut. The line moved again, pressing them closer still, and in that crowded moment, his knuckles grazed the small of her back—accidental, perhaps, but deliberate in its linger. Cheryl’s eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck, but she met my gaze over her shoulder, her lips parting in a silent question that held more heat than words ever could.

Anyway, tonight she’d dressed up a little bit more than usual—real slutty. Thin fabric blouse that did nothing to hide the way her heavy 40DD tits strained against it, nipples already poking through like they were begging for attention since she’d skipped the bra. That short skirt rode up her thighs just enough to tease the promise of no panties underneath, and those black high heels made her legs look like they were built for wrapping around a man’s waist. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her as we made our way inside, my cock twitching at the thought of how easy it’d be to slide a hand up that skirt and find her bare pussy already slick.

I maneuvered Cheryl toward the back of the theater, claiming the end seats in the back row where the shadows swallowed everything whole. The place was dim even before the lights went down, perfect for what I had in mind—maybe a quick grope during the flick, feeling her squirm under my fingers while the screen flickered. She settled in next to me, crossing those killer legs, the skirt hiking up to flash a glimpse of smooth thigh that had my mouth watering.

But then it hit me—a sharp, gripping pain twisting in my gut like a knife. ‘Shit, babe, I gotta hit the restroom,’ I muttered, excusing myself before she could protest. The movie had just started, previews rolling, but by the time I pushed through the lobby and back, the theater was pitched black, save for the glow from the screen. The action up there had heated up too, judging by the moans and groans blasting from the speakers—some steamy thriller with bodies grinding in the shadows, the kind that made your blood run hot.

I slipped back into the aisle, heart pounding from more than just the stomach crap, and edged along the back row, eyes adjusting to the dark. My seat was empty, but as I scanned the row, scanning for Cheryl’s outline... ‘Fuck,’ I exhaled softly, the word barely a breath. He was there—the middle-aged black guy from the lobby, that broad-shouldered beast with the confident stare—planted right next to her now. No sign of how he’d pulled it off, but there he was, his massive frame taking up space in what should’ve been my spot, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers in the narrow seats.

Cheryl didn’t look panicked; if anything, her posture had shifted, legs uncrossed now, skirt riding higher as she leaned back, those full lips parted like she was holding in a gasp. The guy’s arm rested along the back of the seat, casual-like, but his fingers dangled just inches from her shoulder, brushing the thin blouse where it clung to her curves. On screen, some actress was getting railed hard, her cries echoing through the speakers, and I swear I saw Cheryl’s chest raise faster, those fat nipples hardening into peaks that tented the fabric obscenely.

I froze in the aisle, dick throbbing despite the jealousy spiking in my veins. Part of me wanted to storm over, claim my seat, but another part—the twisted, hungry part—held me back, watching as his hand moved. Slow, deliberate, those thick fingers trailed down from the seatback, grazing the swell of her tit through the blouse. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away; instead, her head tilted toward him, auburn hair spilling over one shoulder, exposing the line of her neck. He leaned in, whispering something low and dirty—I couldn’t hear it over the moans on screen—but her lips curved a soft, needy sound escaping her throat.

His palm cupped her breast fully then, bold as fuck, squeezing the heavy flesh like he owned it. The blouse was so sheer I could see the dark outline of his hand kneading her, thumb circling that stiff nipple until she arched into it, her thighs parting just a fraction. No panties meant nothing between her and the cool air—or his touch if he went lower. My stomach churned again, but it was nothing compared to the heat pooling in my groin as I watched her bite her lip, eyes fluttering shut while he groped her right there in the dark, the movie’s grunts masking her quiet whimpers.

He wasn’t stopping at a feel; his other hand dropped to her knee, sliding up the inside of her thigh, pushing that skirt higher. Cheryl’s legs spread wider, inviting, her breath hitching as his fingers vanished under the hem, questing for that bare, wet slit. I could almost feel it myself—the way she’d be soaking already, pussy lips parting for a stranger’s touch, clit swelling under the rough pad of his thumb. She gasped louder, hand clutching the armrest, but her hips bucked subtly, grinding against his invading fingers like a bitch in heat.

From my spot, hidden in the shadows, I gripped the seatback hard, cock straining against my pants, leaking pre-cum as I watched him finger-fuck my wife. Two thick digits plunged in deep, the wet squelch lost in the soundtrack, but I knew it was there—her juices coating him, dripping down her ass onto the seat. Her tits heaved with each thrust, the guy pinching her nipple hard enough to make her yelp, muffled by her own hand slapping over her mouth.

The thrill hit me like a punch—my slutty wife, spread open for this stranger, her body betraying every vow as she rode his hand toward oblivion. I didn’t move, didn’t stop it; hell, I stroked myself through my jeans, matching her rhythm, lost in the raw, filthy sight of her getting used.

From where I was standing in the aisle, half-hidden by the row in front, I had a perfect goddamn view of her whole body—every curve, every shift, like the screen was projecting my own private porn show. Cheryl’s legs were crossed tight now, that short skirt twisted just enough to ride up her thighs, but she was leaning away from the bastard, her shoulder pressing into the seatback as if she could melt into the shadows. Those full tits rose and fell quicker under the thin blouse, nipples still stabbing the fabric like traitors, but her face—fuck, her face was a mix of flush and flicker, eyes darting toward the screen, avoiding him.

His hand, that big dark paw, dropped out of view between her legs, vanishing under the hem like a snake slithering into forbidden territory. I could see the muscles in his forearm tense, the way his elbow angled just right, and my gut twisted—not from the earlier pain, but from the raw surge of blood rushing south. She was bare under there, no scrap of lace to shield her slick folds, and the thought of his fingers probing, testing, had my cock throbbing hard against my zipper.

My mouth dropped open, a silent curse dying on my lips as Cheryl uncrossed her legs slow, deliberate, like she was fighting it but losing. Her thighs parted just a hair at first, and then more, the skirt bunching up to expose the pale inner flesh glowing faintly in the screen’s light. She slumped back into the seat, head lolling against the cushion, those luscious lips parting on a shaky breath that I swore I could hear over the on-screen gasps. Her hands gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening, but she didn’t shove him off—didn’t even try. Instead, her hips twitched a subtle roll that screamed surrender, even as her eyes squeezed shut.

I edged closer, breath ragged, peering through the gap between seats. There it was—his wrist flexing, pumping slow and deep, those thick fingers buried in her cunt, stirring up her juices with wet, obscene sounds that the movie’s soundtrack barely drowned. Her pussy had to be clenching around him, walls fluttering as he curled inside, hitting that spot that made her arch despite herself. A bead of sweat trickled down her cleavage, soaking into the blouse, turning it translucent over one heaving breast. She bit her lower lip hard, stifling a moan, but it slipped out anyway—a low, throaty whimper that shot straight to my balls.