"I can't cope with fifty two," I pleaded. "I'll just die."
"Well, I'll tell you what," Armstrong continued rubbing my tortured tush, sending delicious endorphins into my bloodstream. I was still in pain, but it was almost like I was lifted up onto a cloud. My body and brain felt like helpless, compliant clay he could mould with those amazing fingers of his. "Do you remember what else you told me that Christmas, when you were sitting on Santa's lap?"
In my dreamy state, I would actually hear my own voice - telling Santa that if he came down my chimney, he'd get more of a treat than milk and cookies.
"If you can make it up to fifteen," Armstrong purred, his fingers straying between my thighs, hovering above my shaven snatch, "I'll trade you those remaining switches for Santa's treat, okay?"
With that, his rough fingers spread me open - and I felt his thumb press against me.
I gushed wetness. Like quicksand, my pussy sucked his thumb inside. His knuckle rubbed against my clitoris.
My tortured backside was still throbbing, but the sensation of pain and pleasure had become totally entwined now. My pussy throbbed to the same heartbeat as the burning lines across my ass. It was intense - like my upturned rump was burning with nerve endings.
Armstrong's delicious fingers slid wetly from between my thighs, leaving a tingling, hollow feeling once they'd gone. Then he straightened up and I heard the birch whistle through the air.
"Fifteen, remember," he warned me.
And then he swung.
It was the most delicious type of torture. He'd swing the switch and it would strike my trembling tush like fire, painting yet another burning brand across my upturned ass that would throb and pulsate long after the wood had left my skin. Then he'd wait long, lingering seconds - enough for the intensity of the strike to fade into the burning aftermath of recovery.
"One," he'd count. When I'd breathlessly managed to murmur `thank you' he'd swing again. `Two.'
Tortuously, one after the other, he counted out fifteen more swishes of the stick. Fifteen more red lines across my bum. Fifteen more groans of `thank you.'
And then finally, blissfully, it was done.
I knelt there, still stick in the window. I couldn't feel my ass any more. It just felt like my stomach ended and this great big, burning mass began.
When Armstrong bent over me to wrench open the sash, I barely had the strength to pull back and free myself from the window. I just slumped into the flowerbed, feeling the wet soil against my skin.
Drifting dreamily in and out of consciousness, unable to concentrate on anything except the steady, pulsating pain in my roasted rump, I let Armstrong scoop me up in his strong arms and carry me to the back door. There, hanging limply across his shoulders, I watched him pull out his keys and unlock our back door.
"Your husband gave me a spare," he explained, "the last time you went on vacation."
I was laid gently across the bed, face first so my birched-backside was protected. Then, half asleep, I heard the sound of running water as Armstrong ran a bath.
Then I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I was being gently carried to the bathroom. Armstrong stripped me of my muddy bathrobe and slid me into the overflowing bathtub.
The big bath was brimming with bubbles. The water was so hot, it nearly scorched me. The moment the heat hit my tortured ass, I cried out in pain.
"There there," Armstrong rolled me onto my tummy, so my weight wasn't resting on my bottom. "Be brave."
And I was. The water felt amazing. The pain was still there - but it dulled to a delicious ache.
As I floated there in the water, like a lifeless doll, I watched my neighbor strip.
He pulled off his sweater, revealing his muscular brown torso. His belt unbuckled and his khakis fell to the floor. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his jockey shorts, he pulled them down and out flopped an enormous cock, half swollen and falling almost three quarters of the way down his thigh.
Armstrong carefully folded his clothes and left them by the door: `So they don't get wet."
Then, naked, he knelt by the side of the bath, reached for the baby oil and started slathering me up.
I just lay there, floating in the water. Armstrong's rough hands would pick me up and slather me with oil, which he kneaded in, massaging every inch of me with his big, strong fingers. He cupped and squeezed my breasts. Ran fingers down my spine. Kneaded my thighs like dough. He caressed my bottom, stroking each painful welt with pride and affection.
Then, just as I thought I'd melt into the bathwater itself, he slid his fingers back inside me.
I was so turned on by this point. The switches might have been tortuously painful, but they'd awoken my body's senses like never before. I'd never felt so alive to every touch and sensation. As Armstrong's thick fingers stretched me open and his callused thumb circled my clit, I bit my lip and surrendered to an orgasm every bit as blissful and intense as the birching.
Feeling floppy and helpless, I let Armstrong position me on all fours, my weight resting on the end of the bathtub. Then there was a splash and he clambered into the hot water.
I peered over my shoulder, watching him drop to my knees behind me. Sticking up from between his legs was a thick, black rod that looked far more daunting than the switch he'd tortured me with.
With his rough fingers closing around my thighs, I let him spread my ass. Then I felt his thick, engorged cock press against my pussy.
He sunk into me like I was hot butter. Immediately, I felt deliciously full. His magnificent dick slid so deep inside me, I could feel my spine straighten.
My fingers gripped the lip of the bathtub and I braced my feet against the taps. Somewhat secure, I then surrendered myself to him.
Armstrong was a passionate and powerful lover. He dug deeply into my pussy, spreading me wider and more open than I'd ever been before. His muscular, brown body was hot against mine. His dick throbbed and swelled inside me.
The thought of being fucked so forcefully by a man other than my husband made me wilt in wicked pleasure.
As Armstrong pounded into me, the water sloshed and splashed over the edges of the bathtub. His big dick rubbed and teased my g-spot. His bony hips slapped against my fleshy rump and each thrust set my sore bottom screaming in delicious agony.
Then I heard him grunting.
I had to brace myself against his pounding. Bucketfuls of water sloshed onto the bathroom floor. His rough fingers grasped my buttocks and wrenched them apart, so he could plunge his pulsating cock even more deeply inside of me. He was splitting me in two - and I loved it. Closing my eyes, I uttered a low moan as he drove me over the brink into orgasm.
And then he cried out.
His weight crushed mine. His cock, lodged deep inside me, swelled and pulsated, stretching me wider than ever before. I felt myself fill with warmth. He was coming inside me - another man's sperm was spurting into my body and just the thought of that alone was enough to make me twist and tremble in a third and final climax.
We'd stayed connected at the groin for what seemed like forever, both gasping for air. Eventually, he slid his flaccid cock out of me inch by delicious inch and it flopped wetly into the water. I slumped back, feeling his seed dribble down my thighs.
Still weak as a kitten - by the climaxes as much as the caning - I let Armstrong help me from the bath and wrap me in a fluffy white towel. He led me to the bedroom, where I slumped onto the covers while he mopped up the water in the bathroom and helped get the place back into some semblance of order.
Eventually, he came back into the bedroom, pulling on his clothes.
I was more awake now, lying on my tummy with my naked rump exposed. It was criss-crossed by a dozen angry red lines.
"What on earth will I tell my husband?" I demanded. "My ass looks like a checkerboard!"
"Well, Mrs Hunt," Armstrong knelt by the bed and gave me a wet kiss on the lips, "that's no longer my problem."
With that, my magnificent nei
ghbor left by the back door, whistling cheerfully and swishing that willow branch through the air.
I reached rather frantically for the cocoa butter. I had six hours until my husband was home. Perhaps, by some miracle, I'd be able to make the redness go down by then...
The End
Thank you for reading this book!
In the back of most books, authors give thanks to the people who inspired and motivated them. And in that vein, I’d like to dedicate this book to you.
Because if you know anybody who’s a writer (or maybe you are one yourself) you’ll know that we don’t do this for the money.
We writers write because of you – the people who read out books, and breathe life into them. I write erotic stories about what turns me on – but it’s knowing that they turn other people on that gets me up at five in the morning, or keeps me up until long past midnight, just so I can finish writing another chapter.
You make what I do worthwhile, and I love you for it.
Please keep reading my books, and I’ll work hard to make sure they’re everything you could want them to be.
Love and kisses,
Felicity Fleming
Princeton, New Jersey
September 2015
[email protected]
p.s. Don’t forget to check out the FREE BONUS STORY in the back of this book!
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Bonus Story!
Sealing The Deal
By
Felicity Fleming
Justin Giordano was having a bad morning.
It would have been bad enough because he was dragging his ass into work that morning to get reamed out by his boss and district manager – they’d started wondering why his accounts weren’t generating more revenue.
But it got worse because his wife, Gina, was giving him a hard fucking time about it.
“Every single day, Justin,” she yelled, as he struggled to tie his necktie and slip his cufflinks on. “I swear to God, you spend more time at that office then you do with me!”
Gina was a hot blond in her thirties – a high-maintenance type who’d filled out a little after nearly ten years of marriage. She was standing there in her bra and panties – her tan curves practically spilling out of them, to be honest – and yelling at Justin as he got ready.
“I’m sick of this,” she snarled, as he pulled on his suit jacket. “You’re home late every night – and when you do come home, you’re a fucking zombie. I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. We don’t share a home these days – this is a flophouse.”
Justin rolled his eyes.
“Listen,” he laid both his hands on Gina’s shoulders, and refused to budge when she tried to shrug them off. “You think all this comes easy?” He jerked his head, indicating their luxurious home, replete with lavish furnishings. “I’ve got to bring home the bacon to make this happen – and right now, at work, if I don’t make my numbers it’s my ass they’ll be frying up.”
Gina pouted.
“Well, this can’t continue for too much longer,” she growled. “I’m feeling neglected. Hell, we haven’t even made love in over a month.” She shook her head. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to outsource that, like you did all those call center jobs to India.”
Justin snorted, not entirely convinced she was joking. But at least Gina had calmed down enough for him to kiss her chastely on the lips and button up his jacket.
“It’s this Rossi account I need to crack, honey,” he explained. “If I don’t get them to sign, I won’t hit my figures for this month – and that means…”
He didn’t even want to think about what that meant.
“Well, what can I do to help?” Gina asked. “Do you need to invite him round for dinner? Take him golfing or something?”
She glowered at him.
“I want my husband back, Justin. If this Rossi guy is the one keeping you at work late – well, hell, I’d sleep with him if it meant getting the deal for you.”
Justin rolled his eyes.
“You know what, honey? I’m tempted to take you up on that offer.”
“Well,” Gina frowned. “I know you’re a busy man – but you should be more worried about landing this account,” she indicated her tan, sexy body.
Justin feigned a smile.
“I know, I know. And I’ll try and be home early, okay honey?” He squeezed her shoulders. “I need to lavish some time and attention on you, don’t I?”
“You’d better believe it,” Gina nodded. “If you don’t, I’ll find somebody who will.”
Justin narrowed his eyes at her comment.
But he shook it off, and gave Gina another kiss as he headed to the door.
A few moments later, Justin was zooming down Interstate 95 in his BMW, an audio book buzzing through the speakers and thoughts of work, accounts, figures and numbers swirling through his head.
* * *
As expected, the meeting did not go well.
“Dammit, Justin,” his boss, Brian Hoffman, had yelled as soon as he and the District Manager had shut the conference room door. “Your figures are way off this month. At this rate, you’re not going to just miss your target – you’re going to bring my target down as well.”
Dennis Waite, the district manager, nodded: “Not to mention the figures for the whole district.”
Justin felt his stomach churn. This was bad. Really bad. The cardinal rule is business was not to miss your targets. The unspoken rule – the one that made or broke careers – was that if you did miss your targets, you didn’t bring down your colleagues or bosses when you did so.
If Justin missed his monthly target, the whole team was going to take a ding – and that spelled the end to his career with this company.
“Look, let’s sit down and go through the accounts,” Dennis growled, firing up the overhead projector. “We’ve still got a week left. Perhaps there’s a rabbit we can pull out of the hat to fix this.”
Justin frowned. Personally he thought he’d make better use of the time by calling his clients – seeing if he couldn’t wring a few more last-minute deals out of them to make up the balance of what he was missing.
But Brian and Dennis were his bosses – and the sort of people you couldn’t ignore.
“Sure.”
Just then, there was a buzzing in Justin’s pocket.
He slid his hand into his pants and pulled out his phone, checking to see who was calling. His heart sank when he was that it wasn’t Robert Rossi , from the account he was desperately trying to close. It wasn’t even one of his other clients. It was Gina.
“Sorry, I’d better get this…” He flipped open the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Gina? Why are you calling me?”
There was nothing on the other end. Nothing but muffled bumps and static.
“Gina?” Justin raised his voice. “Gina? Are you there?”
He waited, but there was nothing. Just the sound of muffled movement.
“Gina, honey?” Justin barked down the line. “I think you dialed me by accident.” He covered up the receiver and looked apologetically across at Brian and Dennis. “Sorry, I think my wife butt-dialed me.”
They nodded – unamused, but not upset.
Justin called Gina’s name down the line a few more times, but it was clear she couldn’t hear him. He was about to hang up in frustration when he heard it.
Her voice. Muffled. Smothered by her pocket, or bag, or whatever – but still clear
ly audible.
At first he figured she’d just dialed him by accident while out shopping, or on her way to the gym. But then he heard it; and froze.
“Mmmmmm,” it was his wife’s voice as he’d never heard it before – at least, outside of the bedroom, that it. “That’s good, baby.”
Justin froze like a statue and pressed the phone closer to his ear.
“Oh yeah, right there,” Gina was saying, loud and clear down the phoneline. “That’s the spot… Mmmmm.”
Justin felt sweat bead on his brow.
If he didn’t know better – and he knew better, right? – he’d swear that was the sound of his wife getting… turned on.
Justin shook his head. He must be imagining it.
Maybe she was out getting a massage. Hell, perhaps just one of those Danishes from the corner deli. Those things were, in her words, ‘better than sex.’
It just sounded bad, he told himself. There was no way she’d be up to any…
“Oh, yeah,” Gina’s voice was unmistakable. “T-that’s it. Now reach down and unhook my bra.”
Justin nearly fainted.
Unhook her bra?
“Mmmm,” Gina was continuing to moan. “You like my titties, don’t you?” And then there was a wet squelching sound – like somebody kissing, or even…
Justin’s eyes narrowed. Somebody sucking on nipples?
“Mmmmmmm,” Gina was moaning down the phoneline. “That’s so fucking good.”
Holy shit, Justin realized. Something really was up. Did Gina’s butt-dialing just reveal her… her… Messing around with somebody else?
“Justin!” It was Dennis, looking impatiently at his employee. “Are you getting off the phone or what?”
“Yes, c’mon,” Brian growled. “We have a lot of figures to cover.”
Meanwhile, on the phone, Justin heard Gina groan: “Ohhhh. Here, get closer. Let me unbuckle your pants.”
Holy shit!
Justin was torn. He needed to do something – anything. He needed to get in his car and track his cheating wife down. Or he needed to switch off the phone and take this meeting with his bosses (although how would he ever be able to focus on it?)
Stuck in the Window: A Lonely Wife Finds Herself Alone With Her Sexy Black Neighbor Page 2
