by Gabi Moore
The ropes of her long hair were shaking with each blow of my hips into hers. I almost felt sorry for her – she had bitten off more than she could chew, poor little thing, and she was getting fucked to pieces now whether she wanted it or not. This woman in front of me somehow wasn’t my wife anymore; and somehow I was entitled to pour abuse into her slender body, here, on the side of the road with nothing but a flimsy cotton dress covering her hungry little body.
“Love …love …a car’s coming…” she squeaked. On the periphery of my awareness I heard a car approaching. Fuck. Fuck.
I picked up the pace to fever pitch and felt her fearful frame tighten and explode all around me into a hot, hurried orgasm. Her worn little pussy twitched violently against me and before I knew it I was tumbling after her, pawing at her belly and breasts.
“Oh god…” I said, exploding squirts of cum deep into her.
The car whizzed by. We were in public. In public.
Slack jawed, she twisted round to face the road, and I saw the slow movement of the car reflected in the wet curve of her eye. That moment lasted forever – the slow crawl of the car on the horizon, her body frozen like a startled deer, nothing but the sound of her hard breathing and harder heart beat. She was looking at them and I was looking at her. The bulk of her body was concealed by our pulled over car, but it was painfully obvious what we were doing, and even if she was covered up, her bare face told more than the full story to anyone caring to look.
“Oh god. They’re staring right at me…” she said, spellbound and unable to pull away her gaze. Then, something magical happened. As the car’s reflection disappeared out the one corner of her eye, her slack expression suddenly curled up, melting with a new wave of pleasure. She was coming. Again. All the tension in her body dissolved and her body crumpled down onto mine; long, vicious shudders worked their way through her exhausted frame. I stared down, thrilled to see dribbles of white streaming out of her.
She snapped her gaze from the road back onto my face, both of us stunned.
With a few hasty movements, she untangled herself from me and came off my dick, adjusted her clothing round her and smoothing down the skirt of her dress nervously.
I quickly zipped up.
Her hair was a mess.
We both stared down at the drops of cum in the sand, then back at each other.
In the 9 years we had been married, I had never seen such a wild look on her face.
We drove home in silence.
Chapter Seven
My wife’s sexuality, it turned out, was something like those joke jack-in-the-boxes: tightly wound, and hard as hell to compress and fit back into the box once it popped.
There was this new room in our sex lives all of a sudden, and she was happily exploring every last inch of it. Pandora’s box had been flung open. My wife’s dirty mind was like a clown car – I was amazed by just how much came out of it - and kept coming and coming.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
That evening after our trip to the fertility doctor was the starting point. She seemed wired, a little drunk, a little scattered. She smiled broadly every time our eyes met; all her movements seemed a little more urgent. She absentmindedly started to chop an onion and then tossed the knife aside, declaring we should just order in and that she felt like cider. She hugged me in the kitchen. “They were staring right at me,” she whispered in my ear, for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening.
And why wouldn’t they stare? She was a beautiful woman, in the throes of delicious, private pleasure. I loved how thrilled the idea made her, loved how buzzed she was. This was my wife, and with a softer, subtler realization I thought how proud I was of her. That they had looked her in the eye, and whatever bliss they saw on her beautiful face was because of me. I held her close. This was something new, something scary – something we hadn’t done in years.
She spoke about it more later that evening, as we drank our cider, and as I watched those flickers of new arousal appearing in her eyes, I knew that I wanted to fulfill every last little dirty desire she could come up with; I wanted to be there, to be the one to fuck her in public like the little show-off she was.
“It is technically illegal, you know,” I said, taking a sip.
She smiled.
“What if, like, they arrested us and threw us in prison and we just carried on fucking right there, in the prison cell?”
I laughed at the thought. There was something so cheeky about it.
“Then we just keep doing it, then we have to go to court, and we keep shagging in court as well, and nobody knows what to do with us,” I said. Her eyes twinkled.
I relished the thought of her bare little rump, her illegally exposed pussy lips, and everyone horrified with us… it was strange. It was also very, very hot.
I took another sip. I loved it when we talked like this. This kind of pointless, loose banter that could go anywhere. We had done so much of this kind of thing when we were both in university. Why had we stopped?
“It really turned you on though,” I said, with a new tone of voice. I reached over and stroked a lock of her hair.
“Yeah…” she said dreamily.
“But it wasn’t just the thrill of being caught. We actually did get caught!”
She nodded, blushing.
She sat up in the chair and looked at me with a new intensity.
“It’s hard to explain. There was just something so sexy about being there, with your dick actually in me, right there in the middle of sex, you know, and looking these complete strangers right in the eye…” she said, trailing off.
“You liked that they saw you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Saw you getting fucked.”
She shot a quizzical look at me. We hardly ever swore around each other. At least, not like this.
She took a long, slow sip of her cider and stared a little. I could feel her thinking.
“I want to do it again.” she said finally, and downed the rest of her drink.
I loved it. I loved this new reckless, naughty side of her. Sitting on the couch that evening, she was different somehow. Her hair was a little wilder, and her voice was a little higher pitched.
I reached out, wanting to hold her, to contain this new burst of energy somehow, and to hold it.
She turned up hungry lips to mine and kissed me. All at once, her body was pressing against mine again, and she was hurriedly tearing off her dress, that same naughty dress, the flimsy accomplice to all our crimes earlier that day. It was though all the new buttons we had pressed a few hours ago were still hot, still zinging with this surprising new energy we had stumbled on. Pushing them again felt easy, and all at once it was though she was turned on again, ready for more.
That evening, I learned something new about my wife, my beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous slut of a wife. I found myself irresistibly turned on by her; there was something so desperate, so urgent in this new side of her.
Animalistic.
She turned her back to me again, and my cock easily found the same passage I had opened earlier that day, and fucked her there again, hard.
She came easily, and I fancied I saw the slow roll of a tiny car over a horizon reflected in her eyes again. I could tell the memory of that day was fresh and aching in her memory still, still filled with juice, still an itch that she was nowhere done scratching. I clutched her beautiful hips in my hands and unleashed all my energy into her, driving everything I had into her flaming hot, tender core. She screamed, body bucking and throbbing, then, tossing the hair out of her eyes, she pulled her legs open even wider and begged for more.
I lost count of how many times she came that evening. After a while, the orgasms blurred into one, she stopped being coherent, her exhausted body eventually conceding defeat as she flopped down on the bed, one sweaty leg dangling off the edge. That morning, we both overslept by 30 minutes.
“Love! You’ll be late for work, come on now, get up,” I said in the
rude morning light.
She nuzzled a dozy face into the pillows.
“Nah …I’ll call in sick. I’m staying home today. You know what, love? I think I do want to go on a holiday with you.” She smiled.
I smiled back at this lovable sleepy lump, wrapped in our duvet. I was pleased. There’s something primal and highly satisfying about fucking your wife so thoroughly that she has to call in sick from work the next day. Better still, she was finally coming round to the idea of a bloody holiday already.
Chapter Eight
“Toothbrush and toothpaste and things?”
“Check.”
“Camera?”
“Check.”
“Booking reference for that place?”
“Check.”
“Viable egg, ready to be fertilized?”
“Don’t even joke!”
She was looking as though she had already been on a luxurious Netherlands holiday. Her long hair was done up in some fancy braids she had been trying to replicate from Pinterest for years, it seemed, and a flowy embroidered shirt, little Denim shorts and a face that looked very much younger than its years.
We packed ourselves up, drew the blinds and locked up, temporarily leaving behind our little home and everything in there. It was fabulous, and both of us were light hearted, chattering all the way in the taxi to the airport. In the week it had taken us to organize this little trip, she had evolved fully into a proper little deviant, and I had already admitted to myself that the seeds of this particular fetish had always been there, right under the surface.
Almost overnight, she had become looser somehow, more expansive. In the evenings, we spoke dirty to each other – our new hobby – about what a little slut she was, and I fucked her raw, her new appetite for rough sex seeming never to be satisfied. In the day time, she seemed free and happy, wearing more revealing clothing than she used to, flitting around with just a little more fluidity than before, a little more sparkle to her voice somehow. I loved it, and was proud of her.
We had a full trip planned – walking tours, a special old church, a trip to the red light district (naughty!) and a restaurant she had been going on and on about. It was going to be perfect. Did I have The Baby in the back of my mind the whole time? Sure, I guess I did. But in a way, we were taking a holiday from that, too. Mercifully, she hadn’t mentioned it in ages. I could write novels about that woman’s pussy, but dear god was I sick of hearing about its multitude of discharges.
The first night we were too tired to do anything but fall asleep in each other’s arms, in the hotel room. We had ordered room service after a long day of walking and seeing the sights. We were in a beautiful part of the country, in the best season, it seemed, and for once we were both, well, relaxing. I knew a holiday would be just the right thing.
The next morning, we woke, and I lazily imagined how sweet it would be for her to suck me as I woke up, then we could have breakfast, and go and see that church or whatever. She had other ideas. She was already up and dressed, looking a little stressed, but fine, we had an itinerary to follow. Day two turned out to have a few more challenges to it than our first. We got lost, twice (I told you she had terrible visuo-spatial skills) and were late to our restaurant reservation, so they gave our table away. We ate some overpriced pancake things that weren’t very good, no matter how hard we both tried to pretend they were, and we were pooped by the time 4 o’clock rolled by and we landed in our hotel room again.
She laughed a little at some Dutch game show and then we settled on the bed for a moment. Now was the time, obviously. I rolled over to her side of the bed and started to kiss her knee, moving just a little further up.
“Well, this is a very flimsy little thing you’re wearing right here, isn’t it…?” I said, starting off again, trying out this new sex vocabulary that seemed to centre around how utterly inappropriate all her clothing was.
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” she said.
I sat back again. Women, right?
I watched the show with her and then after a while extended a hand over to her again, stroking her forearm a little without making any eye contact. It was as though I could feel the atoms in her arm recoiling from me.
There it was, all at once, back on us again: the heavy expectation. We were a pair of pandas in captivity, and we were back on a schedule, having to do it, and do it now, right now, or else. I felt the weight of this crushing in all around us; I felt it pulling her away from me. Nothing changed really, in the moments that followed, but everything was different somehow. We were rushing back, at a hundred miles an hour, to our same old lives again, our same old stale house and the same old stale life had followed us after all.
I pulled back my hand.
We didn’t have sex that day, or the day after it for that matter. With each day that went by, the mood grew more sour, although we both ostensibly acted very interested in all the touristy things happening all around us. The truth was, we had come there to fuck, but we were doing everything but.
She closed up again, and I was just about ready to admit that we had only discovered a small pocket, a little anomalous bubble of fun in the long expanse of boring, married life. And now that it was over, there was nothing to do but spend more money in this dump and then go home and catch up on the washing before work started again on Monday. It was hard, and she was miserable about it, too.
And even when we did manage to get it on, whatever magic needed to happen just wasn’t happening for us. My little swimmers were wiggling up to her egg and saying how do you do and she wasn’t having any of it. My sperm were dying, bored with life, wondering what the point of any of it was, especially something as outrageous as a baby. Or, her egg was too old, too tired, too rushed at work to bother with little swimmers anyway. I don’t know.
Everything was wrong. The planets never quite aligned. We never found that sweet spot. Our holiday was more depressing than we had anticipated, but I tell you, nothing makes you quite so depressed as knowing that you and your chosen mate are failing hard at your single biological imperative. On our last day, she wore some ratty jeans and told me we might as well cancel all our plans that day and just chill at the hotel pool. I couldn’t be arsed to argue with her, so we did.
We sat in the room, the Dutch game shows not seeming quite so hilarious anymore, and waited for the last bits of the holiday to get finished already. As a last ditch attempt, I sidled up to her as she was making tea and tried to rub her bum, hoping the suggestion would be enough, but she shrugged me off and pretended it hadn’t happened. Ouch. I gave up. I suppose I was doomed to get to work on buying a Chinese baby for her on the black market when we got home.
I mumbled something to her and declared I would have a nap.
Chapter Nine
“It’s gross to eat in the room all the time,” she said, “let’s just go downstairs to the restaurant at least.”
“Fine.”
We freshened up and headed downstairs for dinner, the heavy red carpets of the lobby seeming at that moment to be everything wrong with the world. We ate in silence, and I tried to convert the Euros in my head as she picked at a dessert, eventually complaining how she hoped it wouldn’t make her fat.
Then, god bless him, someone stepped in and ended our misery.
He was a good-looking guy, around our age, sitting alone at a table at the far end of the restaurant. He was seated facing our table, and it became clear to us quite quickly that he was staring at Tanya. A lot. Her eyes flickered to meet his and he smiled.
Interesting.
We sat there a little longer, being fabulously obvious. He wouldn’t look away, and every time Tanya noticed this she blushed and looked elsewhere …before looking back at him again.
I was a little miffed. At first.
“Having a nice time flirting, I see?” I hadn’t actually decided if I was insulted or not. Tanya was a beautiful woman, anyone could see that. She had always turned heads. Ordinarily, we skirted around that fact with
all the tact married couples are supposed to have, but this time, something in me was …curious.
She looked at me, trying to decode my expression. Surprisingly, I felt a faint flicker of pleasure at the idea. I had called her a slut so often these last few weeks. Well, here she was, opening up again. To someone else. Like a slut. What I did next …well, let’s just say it took me by surprise as much as it did her.
I turned to look at the guy again, and then gestured for him to come over to our table. A quick flash of panic appeared on his face but he stood up and walked over. I swear I could feel the heat of my wife’s body increasing as he approached the table.
“Hey man. Want to join us?” I said, indicating the empty seat next to her. God, I was such an alpha male in that moment, I was turning myself on. It was more like an order, more like a challenge than a friendly invitation.
I had no idea what I was doing.
Instantly, Tanya extended her hand and burst off into prattle about this and that, her small talk covering up the awkwardness of the moment. Once or twice, she shot a glance in my direction, as if to ask me …something. Permission? For what?
The guy seemed cool enough, and was answering her questions, smiling and asking his own.
I sat quietly.
He had two tanned arms resting on the table, and to my surprise, Tanya lightly brushed her fingers against them, just once, just for a split second. He noticed this. I noticed this. We all noticed each other noticing. For the first time, he looked at me, with a questioning look echoing the one she had shown me moments before.
I smiled and said nothing.
We ordered a round of drinks together and chatted some more, but with each little touch of Tanya’s fingertips, here, there, she was slowly ramping up some strange new tension at the table. I noticed, very faintly, that her fingers were shaking, but then I remembered her devilish face that day on the side of the road, her hungry insistence, her utter disregard for whoever drove by that day… no, she knew exactly what she was doing here, I was sure of it.
