Chapter 3 — The Pleasure Game of Nameless Men - Part 1 (3)

Cash poker, hold'em, slots.

To the man with silver glasses, the scene before him resembled something he'd once seen abroad—a lone figure on stage, spotlighted, receiving a striptease. But this was no paid performance, no scripted exchange of bodies. This was real—raw arousal, involuntary head tilts, gasps torn from the throat. Genuine, physical pleasure, unfiltered.

More crucially, it wasn't just any woman being driven into ecstasy by any man while the silver-glassed man watched. It was her—his respected older brother's wife, the one whose face radiated a purity so untouched she seemed above even stepping into a bathroom. And it was him—the very man the silver-glassed man revered, the one he quietly, desperately looked up to in spirit.

Lying on the sofa, pretending to sleep, his own erection had long gone numb, so hard it felt lifeless. His underwear was damp, soaked through as if he'd urinated himself. His heartbeat roared so loudly it threatened to deafen him.

All he wanted now was to leap up, pull out his cock, and violently jerk off until he erupted in a frenzy.

The silver-glassed man questioned whether he'd ever in his life felt such a bursting, overwhelming thrill. It was shocking—this pleasure bordering on pain.

But it wasn't over. He remained tense, hyper-aware, careful not to let his presence be sensed. There was still more to witness.

The tall man, watching the woman torment her own nipples with an expression of bored detachment, raised a single finger—turn around.

The woman, biting her lip tightly as if suppressing moans, suddenly seemed to snap back to reality. She slowly turned.

Now fully facing away from him, she presented her backside to the tall man. As if inviting him, she placed her hands on her hips, subtly accentuating the curve of her buttocks.

Without the innocence in her face, she'd've been indistinguishable from a streetwalker flaunting her rear. But no—her outfit was even more obscene, more provocative than any woman on the street.

"Bend over."

Until now, the tall man had spoken in whispers. But now, his voice rose just enough for the silver-glassed man, hidden in the dark, to hear.

A strange gratitude swelled in him. It filled the gaps—what he could only imagine, now he could hear.

The woman slowly began to bend at the waist while standing. Her thin dress crept upward with the motion.

One by one, her firm thighs emerged, adorned with band stockings and garter belts.

She bent nearly at a right angle, instinctively bracing her hands on her knees to steady herself.

She held the pose with practiced ease—no wobbling, no hesitation.

With her hands on her knees, the hem of her dress barely clung to the lower half of her buttocks.

Now, nothing but the strings of her thong and garter belt covered her. Her large, bare buttocks gleamed under the light like a flawless product on display.

Her long hair cascaded down, nearly covering her face. Her full breasts strained against her dress, pulled downward by gravity.

To the tall man, the thong strings barely concealing her sex and rear would have been even more pronounced—framing them perfectly at eye level.

The silver-glassed man swallowed involuntarily.

He couldn't see, but he strained to imagine himself in the tall man's place, visualizing every detail.

"Why are you so wet?"

The tall man's voice, unexpectedly kind, added context—painting the image of her soaked panties and glistening sex into the silver-glassed man's imagination.

"I… don't… know…"

Her voice was strained, but louder now—just audible enough to carry through the dark.

Whether from shame or arousal, he couldn't tell.

"You don't know?" The tall man's already cold, mocking tone dropped even lower. Dry. Empty of excitement.

The woman hesitated, flinched. From between her hanging strands of hair, her voice emerged.

"Because I'm wearing this obscene outfit… and I can feel your eyes on me. That's why I'm wet."

As her strained voice slipped through the hair, the tall man seemed to soften slightly, his tone relaxing.

"You're wetter than usual. Is it because you know someone's watching from the dark?"

His voice wasn't accusing. Nor was it joyful. It was ambiguous.

The silver-glassed man flinched inwardly. He'd just been indirectly acknowledged—and yet, he couldn't decipher the tall man's intent.

"I only do what you want, sir."

She spoke pitifully.

Sensing the ambiguity in the tall man's tone, she responded vaguely—yet layered her voice with helplessness, subtly defending herself.

Then, slowly, she spread her legs, keeping her knees together in a childish, pigeon-toed stance. Once balanced, she lifted her hands from her knees and slowly brought them back toward her buttocks.

Her right hand gripped the fullest part of her right cheek. Her left hand used her middle finger to gently pull aside the thong string guarding her sex.

Soon, her left hand joined her right, gripping the left cheek.

Then, with both hands claiming her buttocks, she pulled them apart—fully exposing herself to the tall man's gaze.

At that moment, the silver-glassed man thought he heard a wet snap—as if her slick, dripping sex and anus were being pried open.

He desperately envied the tall man's position.

If only he could trade everything he owned to be in that seat.

From there, he could not only see her wide-open sex and anus—but slowly savor the scent of her arousal, thick and sweet.

His excitement was unbearable now—mixed with maddening envy and jealousy.

He was also amazed at how naturally she moved. Her skill in arousing a man was terrifying. Her obscenity, flawless.

And strangely, he was grateful for her hair covering her face.

It erased the unnatural contrast between her innocent looks and obscene posture. It freed him from the last traces of moral hesitation he still held toward his older brother's wife.

She spread her buttocks as wide as possible, then whispered something—but too quietly for the silver-glassed man to hear.

"What?"

The tall man's voice carried a hint of irritation.

"I said… what do I look like?"

She raised her voice just enough for even the silver-glassed man to hear, asking again, carefully.

"Be specific. What exactly do you mean?"

The tall man controlled her completely.

His tone—his attitude—implied no further pleasure would come unless she met his expectations. No force needed. Just that, and she became obscene.

The silver-glassed man felt himself following along, as if pulled by an invisible leash. He ached with thirst—yet sank deeper into the pleasure.

This wasn't for his benefit. He was incidental.

"What do my pussy and asshole look like?"

Even though she was his close older brother's wife—held by tradition as older brother's wife—he knew her too well, had known her too long. That made it even more shocking.

Could such words truly come from that delicate mouth? It was astonishing that she'd use such language—even in front of her husband.

He'd only ever heard such words in crude jokes among friends, never from a woman's lips—let alone a beautiful one. And certainly not from the wife of a man he'd long respected.

To the silver-glassed man, such vulgar, base words were shocking—yet in this moment, nothing could have sounded sweeter.

It was more moving than hearing "I love you" from his own wife for the first time.

Somehow, her pure-looking sex and anus felt like they were transforming—becoming the most obscene, filthy, and yet irresistibly sexy tools, offered solely to him.

For the silver-glassed man, who had only ever indulged in visual pleasure, a new world of sound was opening.

And the tall man's response was just as shocking—just as vulgar.

"Both holes are twitching, craving a man's cock."

It wasn't just the woman who delivered such crude, filthy words. The tall man answered in kind—his voice thick with depravity.

Between the two of them, there seemed to be no limit to expression. It felt as if they were different people entirely.

The fact that this was happening between a man who never lost his composure, and a woman whose dignity and pride seemed innate—this reality delivered an even greater shock, an even deeper pleasure and excitement to the silver-glassed man.

"Ah…"

Stimulated by the tall man's words, the woman let out a short moan.

Then, in an instant, she clenched her sex—then spread it wide again.

She repeated the motion—clenching and spreading her sex and anus, as if acting out the word twitching. To the silver-glassed man, it sounded wet, slick—like fluids squelching. He could almost smell her obscene fragrance.

She clearly knew how to appear as the filthiest woman in a man's eyes.

The silver-glassed man, watching through half-closed eyes, felt blood rush to his head, threatening to burst. His heartbeat pounded past its limit. His cock had lost all sensation—just a hard, rigid rod.

Even certain he couldn't be seen, he didn't dare open his eyes wide. He couldn't bear to look directly.

"Go outside."

The tall man spoke, his tone firm—almost commanding—after staring intently at her opening and closing sex.

As if she'd been waiting, the woman slowly straightened her aching back, adjusting her thong string precisely over her sex.

Then, as if preparing to go out, she pulled her skirt down fully and smoothed out the wrinkles.

But even pulled all the way down, the skirt didn't cover the lace of her band stockings. The outline of her chest, her nipples, her garter belt, her thong—all remained visible through the thin dress.

Clicking her heels, she walked straight toward the front door.

Was she really going outside like this? The silver-glassed man felt a sudden, irrational worry.

She walked without hesitation to the door, opened it, and stood quietly, holding it—waiting for the tall man.

Suddenly, as if remembering, she peeked slightly from the doorway, glancing toward the sofa.

The silver-glassed man, unable to resist instinct, squeezed his eyes shut.

For just a second, he saw it—her face flushed red, her eyes dazed.

The tall man slowly rose from his chair and walked toward the door.

When he bent slightly to put on his shoes, the woman clung to his arm, affectionate, clinging.

Like a puppy begging its owner for more food, rubbing against him, demanding more.

Once the tall man finished, he paused—gave a glance toward the sofa, unreadable—then left, the door closing behind him with a soft chime.

"Phew…"

Only after both had left did the silver-glassed man finally rise from the sofa. He sat up, unaware he'd let out a deep sigh.

He couldn't tell if it was relief from released tension or regret that the show had ended.

All strength had drained from his body. He sat blankly.

He'd always thought himself quick to adapt to new experiences, eager for change. But this was different. It was electrifying.

Learning of a friend's unusual taste was shocking. Watching it secretly was even more so.

But the greatest shock? That the tall man had arranged this for him to witness.

Was it kindness—sharing a new world? Or was voyeurism itself just another one of his tastes?

Either way, witnessing such an extraordinary, obscene relationship between a married couple was beyond anything he'd predicted.

He'd only watched with his eyes, listened with his ears—yet he'd climaxed as if he'd come inside her.

He realized something else. The strange current between them—the woman's dependence, respect, even reverence toward the man—implied much.

That atmosphere, so unlike her image, was clearly tied to this taste.

Without thinking, the silver-glassed man walked toward the bathroom.

As soon as he entered, he dropped his pants—didn't even close the door—yanked down his underwear in an instant.

His cock stood hard, rigid, long past sensation.

Like hypnotized, he began furiously jerking off.

"Ah… ah… her pussy… her asshole…"

Not speaking to anyone—just mouthing her words, repeating them—he jerked harder.

A massive jolt surged through his numb cock. He came faster than expected.

"Hah."

An instinctive gasp burst out—and at the same time, thick cum erupted violently from his cock.

A huge amount shot out, splattering.

It was pleasure that made masturbation feel more euphoric than sex. A cleansing rush—like expelling toxic cells from his body.

He could've traded his life for this pleasure.

He hadn't climaxed like this in years. This level of ecstatic release—perhaps the first in his life.

He didn't wipe the dripping cum clinging to his softening cock. He just stared.

He feared that once he cleaned up and pulled up his pants, this pleasure would end.

As the euphoria slowly faded, his senses returned.

He looked around—saw himself in the mirror, pants down, cock exposed.

Spots of cum were splattered across the walls.

Heaving a deep breath, as if regaining strength, he straightened his clothes and cleaned up the mess.

The silver-glassed man stepped into the living room and sent a text to the tall man.

Older brother, I woke up and no one was here. I didn't get to say goodbye. I'm heading home. I'll call you tomorrow.

He looked around the room one last time, then opened the very door the two had walked through—and stepped outside.