My pussy wept at feeling his mouth on my nipples, the pinching of the pins an added bliss of torment. With a trail of ‘thank you’s emitted from my breathless lips, I hoped he saw how grateful I was; however, only one thing could prove that, and it was worshiping his cock with my mouth.
I went to the bathroom to clean myself up and catch my breath. I open the faucet and let the water run. I stare at myself through the mirror. Did that just happen? Is this happening to me? Really? The past events rushed through my head quickly, a montage memory bank system replaying them, answering my own questions. “Yes, this happened to you. So shut the fuck up, and enjoy it!” The me in the mirror was pretty ballsy, but right. I smiled, and got to business. I had another round to prepare for.
“Lay down on your stomach facing me,” he commanded. Sir placed his crotch near my mouth, apparently no words were needed while I nuzzled my nose against him, taking in his scent. “Go ahead, sub. Wake him up,” and I wanted to but I was afraid to soil his pants with my red lipstick.
Wednesday night was interesting to say the least.
Sir Dre and myself have been getting to know each other very well, speaking on the phone every day, and very rarely on weekends, to give us distance. He has quickly become a close friend. I go to him for advice, especially in my marriage. He was married once; it didn’t work out but he is wise, and sees objectively, giving me honest yet fair advice, the same as my closest friends in my inner circle. The only difference is I want to fuck him.
On Thursday night, Sir Dre gave my very first assignment: To do to Henri what I do best. In my case, that means a blow job. I had expressed that if I were to fuck Henri senseless, it wouldn’t last long. At least with a blow job (which is my specialty) I can control how long it would take him cum. So, fully aware of what I had to do, when I got off the phone with Sir Dre, I went to the living room, where Henri was laying on the sofa reading from his laptop placed squarely on his chest. His friend Maurice was there too; he comes here frequently to hang, plus he’s become family. Anyway, whispering as low as I can so as not to be heard by his friend, I tell Henri in his ear “Sir Dre told me to do what I do best to you tonight. Blow job…” and gave him a lingering look. He kept his eyes on the screen, but his lips curled into a smile, and I walked away.
Last Wednesday, multiple things happened.
I was talking to this man, who I will simply refer to as M. Only one year younger than me, we began talking on the phone Monday, where in a span of 4 hours (we spoke three different times in the day) he came 5 times from my phone sex voice. The next day, he came three times over the phone. Our conversations were intellectual, but mostly sexy voice talking, masturbation, and sending photos. Hot stuff. Plans were made to meet this past Saturday, until he cancelled and told me that he could not fuck a married woman due to his religious convictions because he would have so much guilt over it. Thing is, I spoke to him again on Tuesday night, and plans were back on. And then he cancelled again on Wednesday, minutes before I was to walk out the door to meet Alejandro.
Here is the thing about this moment: it felt virginal, youthful. I was scared of getting caught. What grown woman gets “caught” by a man’s mom? But it was exciting, and I wasn’t thinking about any of the issues I had been going through earlier. No time for tears; once I crossed the threshold of the door to his room, I was 17 again.
I took off my blouse and pulled on a t-shirt, took off my pants and laid down (I came home without my panties on; they were still soaked from my wetness). Henri appears, takes off all his clothes and lays down with me. I press into him and moan delightfully.
I finally did it. I cannot believe it. I fucked someone that was not my husband.
There is something completely wrong about the way I think of you. I can’t help myself; but I know that I’m not the only person who you’ve affected this way. It’s not your looks, although you’re not hard on the eyes; and even though you can hold a conversation, it’s not what you say, but how you say it. You remind me of alcohol; at first glance, an unassuming liquid, but the moment you ingest it, it’s going to burn. And you make masochist out of women because you burn so good.
Let me sit you down on the dining room table chair, the one without no arms, with cushioned brown leather. No place for your hands to rest. I grab a pillow and throw it down in front of your chair. I bend at the waist and grab the bottom of your shirt, pulling it over your head and throwing it on the sofa. Allocating my knees to the square pillow on the ground, I undo your belt buckle, and pull at the brass ring that is the zipper, exposing the gray cotton briefs.
There are moments, very precious to me during the day, when I get a slice of stillness. No one calling mommy outside my door, no husband to see just because sometimes, I need my peace from him too. It lasts about 20 minutes the most. I take this time to do random things, like listen to the news, or check my email; the simple things that are so easy to do, we never find the time to do them. Mostly I read things online or browse through photos, both funny and explicit. While there is muffled chaos outside of my bedroom, the only thing I hear is the humming of the fan. I reach up to my collar-bone and graze it with my fingers, bringing on the goosebumps. And sometimes, that’s all it takes. I trace a finger along the cotton line of my shirt, using the other hand to peruse the local free porn sites, one naked couple fucking after another scrolling along my screen. I look at hard, rigid dicks, drooling voraciously at the ones with the most veins protruding, imagining my tongue out stretched, licking the trails from base to head. I see a variety of colors and sizes, trying every one of them in my tight pussy. I suckle at pink/tan/brown/pale nipples, varied sizes, though I prefer those like my own. My hand casually sweeps down into my bra, pinching my nipples, mouth agape, looking for more. This is around the time where I can now feel the wetness in me starting to seep, and I go for the next step: a quick session before reality sets in.
There comes a time in every relationship (because I have yet to find one couple whom this does not happen to) that the amount of sex one has falls drastically. Either he’s tired, or you’re tired or the libido of either one of you is just not up to par. I have found my own personal solution to it…
I just finished fucking my husband. He had to go to sleep and couldn’t go another round; there was a busy morning awaiting him and had to make sure he got enough rest for it. But I couldn’t sleep; I was restless with need. I didn’t want to use my
This weekend, New York was swept up by Hurricane Irene. Not knowing what to expect, the mayor placed a state of emergency on all of New York State. People in high risk areas were evacuated, civilians were warned to stock up on supplies, and all public transportation was shut down
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