Perfect.
“Maria, Jason, this is Wendy. She’s feeling a bit shy at the moment, I’m afraid. Wendy, say hello.”
“Hello,” she whispers. “How lovely to meet you.”
I know how difficult she must be finding this. How impossible it must be for her, in that hot swamp of her embarrassment, to find the right social chitchat. So I make things easy for her: “Wendy, you’re to be silent now. Open your legs.”
She eases her thighs apart. I could explode with pride. Jason is standing with his hands in his pockets, a big grin plastered all over his face. Maria goes forward and stoops, kissing her on the cheek.
“What a lovely outfit, Wendy,” she murmurs. “Ade has told us so much about you.”
I take our guests through to the kitchen to pour the first drinks and open the rice steamer and explain how teppanyaki works, but only one tiny part of my mind is on the small talk or the cooking. My hard-on is verging on the distressing. This is the first time I’ve allowed anyone else to admire Wendy so intimately and my physical reaction surprises even me.
We return to the dining table; Maria insists on helping me carry the food through. Before dinner begins, I push Wendy’s skirt up her thighs to reveal the plump lace-covered mound of her sex, and hook a finger under her panty elastic. The kitchen scissors shear through the fabric without effort, and I drop the ruined underwear beneath the table. Her pussy is, of course, perfectly shaven—anything less would be too untidy for Wendy—and as I pat it softly, she twists and whimpers. I hear Jason chuckle and make some remark to his wife in a low voice.
Hooking a foot around the leg of Wendy’s chair, I drag it closer to the table so she is within reach as I sit.
Dinner begins. Teppanyaki is a sociable, interactive way to eat. Lumps are plucked from the block of butter and dropped on the hot griddle, slicking the black metal plate. Then food is laid on with chopsticks to cook as we wait, each piece needing only a few minutes to fry, and replaced as soon as it’s plucked by fresh morsels: steak slices and tuna and chicken, asparagus spears and mushrooms, crisp mange-tout pea pods and—defying tradition—white strips of halloumi cheese that brown without melting. The smell of hot butter and griddled meat is enticing. We dip the cooked food in tiny individual bowls of soya sauce stirred with hot green wasabi paste, and my lips tingle. We talk, inconsequentially, ignoring Wendy and her predicament, but each of us glancing at her often.
Of course Wendy can’t feed herself. She is dependent on me to cook her food for her and offer it to her lips with my chopsticks. She seems a little reluctant to eat, preoccupied with her own woe, but she takes each piece obediently. It’s not easy to be neat, either. The first time a drop of melted butter falls from a pea pod onto the white lawn of her dress, Maria pipes up, “Oh—you don’t want to get oil on that, Ade. It’ll never come out!”
I nod, standing, and go over behind Wendy. She realizes what I’m doing and the cuffs rattle as she jerks her arms, trying to stop me before she remembers that she has no chance. Shock dances in her eyes. “Please!” she squeals as I start on the little buttons over her jiggling breasts.
I grip her jaw, pulling her head back. She stares up in terror, her hazel eyes so dilated that they’re almost black. “Shut up. What did I tell you, Wendy? You’re to be quiet.” And, magically, she goes still in my grasp, trembling a little but no longer fighting me. I undo her blouse buttons without any fuss, revealing a magenta bra that matches the panties I’ve already destroyed and the creamy slopes of her generous cleavage. Scooping her breasts from the lacy cups, I bare her to our guests.
“Wow!” says Jason, a cup of sake frozen halfway to his lips.
“Your wife has beautiful tits,” Maria agrees, awestruck. As she should be. Wendy’s breasts are magnificent. I take her nipples between the finger and thumb of each hand and pull them out, encouraging the flesh to swell and harden.
“I’m thinking of having them pierced,” I confide, as Wendy moans low in her throat.
“You should,” says Jason. “Have you thought of having a chain strung between them?”
I smile darkly. I’ve thought of lots of things. With my open hands I slap her tits to make them bounce, one after the other. Jason shakes his head, grinning, and Maria mimes an “Ow!” and flashes her eyes. But Wendy only quivers.
Back to dinner, and from now on I make sure that the food I offer my wife is well soused in the hot butter. It drips generously upon her tits, dribbling down to grease her erect nipples. It’s a little painful, of course, but Wendy is well used to that. She only jerks and moans a little with each splash, and her discipline in the face of suffering makes my blood race. What I really want is to see her self-control—that same self-control I enjoined upon her—crumble. But I get the most response when I take a stem of asparagus, brilliant green and glistening with warm butter, test its heat against my wrist and then inveigle it into the split of her plump sex before plucking it out again and inserting it, piquant with new sauce, into her mouth. Then she writhes with shame.
Despite all my culinary efforts, no one’s mind is on the food now. When I follow up the asparagus by dabbing my fingertip in the wasabi and soya mix and painting it delicately over Wendy’s clit, Jason sits back and adjusts the bulge at his crotch, his eyes bright and hard. “Oh, that’s cruel,” he says appreciatively.
Wendy’s breath hisses between her clenched teeth as the burn starts. I take a thoughtful sip of my sake as she presses her thighs together, trying to relieve the sensation. There’s a dew of sweat at the cusp of her throat and I want to taste it. Soon she’s rubbing her thighs against each other, her tits quivering in a breathtaking manner as she wriggles.
“Is that hot, honey?” I ask.
Wendy doesn’t speak, but she nods rapidly.
“Oh, please, Ade,” says Maria suddenly. “Please let me lick it off her.”
Now that takes me by surprise. I’d warned Jason there’d be no hands-on stuff. But now, with my cock threatening to burst my fly and my balls practically blue, the thought of that pretty little woman lapping at my wife’s pussy has distinct appeal. Maria has a pouting cocksucker mouth and her lips are parted eagerly as she awaits my permission. “Go on then,” I say gruffly. Standing, I pull my wife’s chair out a little. “Wendy, get your feet up on the table.”
She lets slip a thrilling groan as she obeys, though whether this is further evidence of her humiliation or simply dismay at having to open her burning pussy, I don’t know. She’s wearing strappy red high heels to match her skirt. I stand behind her and tilt her chair back on its rear legs to make it easier to get her feet up on the table edge, admiring the view of her spread thighs and pointed toes.
Maria has to kneel to duck under Wendy’s leg and get between her thighs. I like that; I can’t help wondering if she’d kneel with such alacrity for me. Probably, yeah, I think. She has a round, eminently spankable bottom despite being such a forward little hussy—but that’s a thought I put away for another day. Right now I’ve got more than enough to occupy my attention with what’s going on, as she delicately parts Wendy’s pussy lips with her fingers and tongues the flushed, pink split between.
God, that’s a sight to remember for a lifetime: my wife with thighs spread wide and bare breasts upthrust, a dark head busy between her pale legs, her wrists tied mercilessly behind her. It’s a sight Jason can’t resist, either; he leaves his place and comes round to get a good look at his wife at work on mine. He’s enough in command of himself to pull the electric flex on the griddle first, though—like I said, a sound guy. There’s melted butter slicked all over the jiggling mounds of Wendy’s tits and I want to smother my face in them. But it’s my task to hold the chair so she can’t fall, my task to watch as she bucks and slides to her first orgasm, forgetting the command to be silent as her squeals break free.
She doesn’t shut her eyes as she comes. She doesn’t look down at Maria, or across at Jason. She has eyes for me only, staring up at me, transfixed and accusing, in full
acknowledgment that I alone am the source of her degradation and her pleasure. I’m the only one who can take care of her in her extraordinary and humiliating need.
Maria doesn’t stop. I’m impressed despite myself; she shows real dedication to eating out my wife. Because that’s the thing about Wendy: once she gets started on oral she can come over and over again with only a few moments between, like a string of Chinese firecrackers. Six, nine, a dozen times, on occasion—until she’s hysterical with exhaustion but still capable of being wrung out one more time.
I glance over at Jason as she shrieks again, grinding her pussy against Maria’s mouth. He’s standing very politely, one hand cupping his clothed crotch and an expression of concentration on his face as he watches. Something goes off in my head. A door never opened before.
“Wendy, honey,” I say, “open your mouth for the nice man.”
We don’t swing. I don’t let my wife fuck around with other guys. But the notion of being able to give her away at my whim—and to someone she’s never met before—that lights a fire in my balls.
“Oh!” she cries, half protesting.
I grip her jaw. “Open.”
So Jason steps in, unzipping, catching his cock as it bounces out and angling it toward my wife’s open mouth. I tilt the chair to present her at the easiest angle. It’s a veiny dick, still pale despite being engorged. When Wendy takes it in all the way, gobbling it eagerly down, I feel a rush of pride. She’s just so good.
Then he fucks her mouth, rather more gently than is my own habit, while his wife lashes Wendy’s clit until my beautiful, horny little slut comes again. And again. Her cries are muffled this time though, by all that cock down her throat. She bucks eloquently instead.
I feel like a god. Lord of all I survey.
“Okay,” huffs Jason, eyes slitted. “What should…?”
“Mess up her tits,” I say. I sound calm, though my racing blood could fuel rockets right now. Jason obeys me, too: he pulls out and directs his cock over her chest, and with a few tugs he pumps his load in great splashes all over Wendy’s big tits. The sight is branded on my inner vision forever. Wendy’s sobs of shame are like music.
Maria lifts her head, grinning.
Jason’s little grunt of release is followed by a long sigh of satisfaction.
“Come on,” says Maria, wriggling out from under Wendy’s legs. “Time for us to go home, I think.” She catches what must be my look of surprise. “Twenty minutes home,” she explains, “and then he’ll go all night on the strength of that. And you don’t need us around, Ade.”
I don’t argue. I do see them to the door; it’s only polite, after all. By the time I make it back, Wendy has caught her breath and is upright, sagging forward a little against her bonds. Her breasts glisten.
“They said ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’” I tell her.
She looks up at me, her eyes round. She’s smeared with butter and jizz and sweat. Her makeup is running.
“You,” I grunt, unlocking the cuffs and hoisting her to her feet, “were the perfect hostess.” I relock the steel bracelet so that her arms are still caught behind her, only now free of the chair. It gives me the opportunity to push her facedown onto the table. Crockery clatters and cups spill, but I ignore them. I think she has one breast squashed into a plate of soya sauce. “You were the good time had by all,” I continue, slapping her asscheek good and hard. Wendy gasps, her senses not entirely numbed yet. I even up the slaps by swatting her other buttock, just in the interest of fairness. Then, pinning her over the table with one hand, I reach with the other to the block of butter. It’s softened while sitting near the hot griddle into a yellow, slippery cream. “Look at you,” I chide, sliding my fingers and a great oozing gobbet of butter between her asscheeks. “Look what a fucking mess you are. You dirty…fucking…girl.”
The clench of her anus offers no resistance to my fingers. I lube her up well, plunging two broad digits into her as deep as they’ll go, enjoying her whimpers.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” I ask, as I poise my cockhead at her back entrance, its blunt bell end threatening the ultimate humiliation.
“Please Ade,” she moans. “Please fuck my ass!”
“Like this?” I push in, slow and hard.
“Yes! Oh, fuck yes!”
I’ve been feeling like a loaded gun all evening. Now the safety catch is off. “You dirty girl,” I groan, just before I lose the power of speech altogether. “You dirty, dirty girl.” Then I’m shafting her buttery depths, ramming up to the hilt, spreading her cheeks with my hands so that on the backstroke I can see my cock impaling her great big beautiful ass.
Hearing her come, one more time.
Just before I do, too. In my dirty, beautiful, wonderful wife.
GREASING THE WHEELS
Madlyn March
My hands felt shaky as they typed on his computer. I looked back to make sure he wasn’t coming. I took a lucky guess at his password.
And then I found it. I actually found it.
Thanks for last night. Love, Debbie.
It was an email that proved what I’d long suspected: my boyfriend was cheating on me. I felt—well, obviously anger, but also relief. So I wasn’t crazy, after all.
The email came with an attachment. It was a photo of Mark wearing women’s underwear, and Debbie was by his side, kitten with a whip.
I couldn’t believe it. Of all the men I’d dated, Mark seemed the most conservative. Last time we were together, I had lightly patted his ass, and he got super freaked out, saying he wasn’t into any of that weird stuff.
Well, it doesn’t get any weirder than a hairy dude dressed in some frilly lingerie with all his appendages attached to a chair.
I looked at the photo again. She was blonde, blue-eyed and busty—just the kind of woman you’d expect your boyfriend to cheat on you with. As for Mark, his face looked like he was in a tremendous amount of pain and yet his cock was enormous.
I know, I know: it was wrong of me to get turned on by such a creep, but I couldn’t help myself.
Now, what was I going to do about it?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a candlestick. Mark had gone into the bathroom just five minutes ago, so I was sure I still had plenty of time. It was a little difficult slipping the candlestick in me because I wasn’t very wet yet, but it eventually reached its destination. I lay there for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of being filled by something so huge. I gently stroked my swelling nub and pinched my hard nipples. And then, just as I was about to get down to some real fucking, Mark flushed the toilet.
“Shit!” I yelled. I massaged my clit some more, hoping to eke out some kind of fast orgasm, but it didn’t work. I tried to get the candlestick out; it wouldn’t budge. Lord, I’d die if I had to explain this to some emergency room doctor.
I pulled up my panties. I didn’t know how I was going to have a normal conversation with what felt like John Holmes’s dick inside of me, but I was going to have to try.
Mark came out of the bathroom, talking about how he was now a full ten pounds lighter.
“Where’s my candlestick?” he asked.
“What?”
“My mother’s candlestick. It’s always here, right on the coffee table.” He crouched down to look under the table.
“Oh, yeah, well, that,” I said, casually. “Yeah, well, you see. It’s, um, up my crotch.”
He got up off the floor and his eyes slowly grew wide. “What? What the hell is it doing there?”
Being used in a new type of menorah, I almost answered, but then thought better.
“I was, um, masturbating,” I said, my face reddening.
“You were what?”
“Listen, you’ve got to help me!” I said, shaking him. “I can’t get it out!”
“All right, all right. Calm down. Let me see.”
I opened my legs. He stared at my cooch, like a plumber would at a leaky sink. “Wow. You really jammed that thin
g up there, didn’t you?”
He bent down and tried to pull it out, but it still wouldn’t come loose. “I think the problem is that you’re too dry. Is there anything I could do to, you know, uh, grease the wheels, as they might say?”
Part of me was excited by this suggestion, but the other part was sad, as I realized it took a major medical crisis for my boyfriend to ask what I wanted sexually. “Well, this is probably a strange thing to request, but would you mind wearing my underwear?”
He looked down at the floor, obviously fearful that I would see the excitement spreading on his face. “Oh,” he said. “That turns you on? Well, sure. I guess I can. I mean, if it’ll help.”
I couldn’t believe him. What was the big deal, admitting he liked wearing women’s panties? I handed him my underwear and sat on the edge of the couch while he changed. I took a quick gander around the room and noticed the whip hanging in a closet. He was still struggling, trying to fit in my panties, so he didn’t see me grab it. As he stood up, I smacked his ass with it, hard.
“What the—?”
“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” I said. “I know you like it rough. I saw your little photo with Debbie there, you big cheater.”
“You went through my emails?”
“Well, what was I supposed to do? I had a feeling something was up. Just didn’t know it was your dick in another woman.”
“Shit,” he said. “Look, Megan, I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
I put a hand up. “Save your breath. I don’t care.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Because after tonight, I’m through with you.”
“Oh, Megan, no, please. I love you.” He reached for me, in an attempt to give me a hug, but I pushed him away so hard he fell on the floor.
“Don’t,” I warned.
He folded his arms. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it. But I really hope you’ll reconsider, maybe in a few—”
“Listen to me,” I said, pulling on his hair. “I’m not reconsidering anything, you fucking jackass. You don’t deserve to have me as a girlfriend. You don’t deserve to have any woman as your girlfriend. So let’s just get this out of the way so I can get this fucking candlestick out of me, okay?”
Anything for You Page 5
