Interrogation in the Chalet

Alina's eyes glittered in the dim light of the mountain chalet as she pressed her husband against the wooden wall just past the threshold. The fight that had dragged on for two weeks had suddenly morphed into a game that had both their skin burning.

"Alright, Mister Investigator," she whispered, running her fingers across his chest beneath his unbuttoned shirt, "you're going to tell me everything. Who's the redhead you were texting on your business trip?"

Sergei smirked, grabbed her waist, and spun her around, pressing her back against him. Outside, the wind howled, snowflakes battered the glass, and inside the air smelled of pine, fireplace smoke, and her aroused body.

"Interrogation with prejudice?" he chuckled into her ear. "Alright, Investigator. But I know how to ask questions too."

Alina arched her back, feeling his hard cock already pressing into her ass through his thin sweatpants. Desire flared instantly, no foreplay needed. She pulled her sweater over her head herself, leaving only a lace bra.

"Then start," she breathed, "or I'll tie you to that chair and torture you with my tongue until you crack."

Sergei didn't wait. In one motion, he tore off her pants along with her panties. Alina gasped as cold air hit her wet pussy. He spun her to face him, sat her on the edge of the massive oak table where a half-finished bottle of wine still stood.

"Position one," he said with mock sternness. "Confess: why did you get so turned on when I said the redhead texted me 'goodnight'?"

He entered her hard, one deep thrust. Alina cried out, digging her nails into his shoulders. Her cunt gripped his cock hot and tight.

"Because… oh-oh… I pictured you fucking her," she admitted, breathless with laughter and pleasure. "And I got so hot I almost came right in the car on the way here!"

Sergei let out a low, throaty laugh and started moving fast, almost rough. The table creaked beneath them, the bottle tipped and fell, wine spreading across the wood. Alina wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. Every thrust echoed with a wet slap and a quiet moan.

"So my wife's a secret pervert?" He leaned down, biting her nipple through the lace. "Admit it, you'd want to watch?"

"Yes… maybe…" she threw her head back, hair splaying across the table. "But only if afterward you come back to me and lick up everything you pour into me."

He pulled out suddenly. Alina growled in frustration, but Sergei had already flipped her onto her stomach, positioning her doggy-style on the same table. Now her tits pressed against the cold, wine-soaked wood, and he entered from behind, even deeper.

"Position two," he said, slapping her firm ass. "Now tell me how often you touched yourself thinking about this."

"Every… fuck… night," Alina exhaled, pushing back to meet him. "Especially when you were snoring next to me. I'd slide two fingers in and imagine it was you and her… at the same time."

The rhythm turned frantic. The sounds of their bodies filled the chalet: wet squelching, the creak of the table, heavy breathing, her muffled moans, and his low laugh. Sergei reached between her legs, found her clit, and started rubbing fast. Alina trembled all over.

"I'm… gonna…" she whimpered.

"No, not yet," he slowed to agonizingly sweet strokes, nearly stopping. "First say this stays our secret. No one. Even if we ever actually do it."

"I promise…" she arched her back, trying to impale herself deeper. "Just don't stop, please…"

He sped up again. Now the thrusts were short, sharp, hitting the most sensitive spot dead-on. Alina came first—hard, with a long trembling moan, her pussy clenching around his cock, squeezing out wetness that ran down her thighs. Sergei couldn't hold back; he drove in to the hilt and flooded her with hot, thick cum, growling into the back of her neck.

They collapsed onto the table, panting. Wine dripped onto the floor. The fireplace crackled. Sergei carefully pulled out, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the wide bed by the window. They lay in silence, pressed together. Snow kept falling soundlessly outside.

For a long while, only their breathing was heard—steady, deep, calm. Alina traced a finger across his chest and asked softly, almost a whisper:

"And the redhead… was she real?"

Sergei smiled in the dark, kissed the top of her head.

"Of course. It was you. Just with a new hair color in Photoshop. Wanted to get you riled up… and turned on."

Alina laughed quietly, burying her nose in his neck.

"Next time I'm definitely tying you up. And the interrogation will be long."

They lay there, listening to the wind howl through the mountains, and smiled. The secret stayed a secret. Only now it was theirs—shared, sweet, and very, very wet.