Time seemed to stop. I finally took a ragged breath as I watched his cock jerk in her flying fist.
“Enough,” he gasped, “that feels so nice…so nasty that I just might come if you kept on doing it. But I want to fuck you first!”
He reached down and lifted Michelle to her feet, his hands under her arms. She seemed limp, pliant in his grasp now; ready to do acquiesce to anything he might demand.
Jim Livingston took two steps toward the couch, shoving her down onto it. I saw that her pussy was positively gleaming with lubricant, and so did he.
“Hah, you little slut,” he chuckled, kneeling down beside her, “you’re so turned on by being a dirty girl, you can take this easily!”
He was hefting his fully erect cock as he spoke, aiming it at her glistening entrance. With no further fanfare, he shoved it inside my wife all the way to the hilt and began to violently fuck her.
I now knew what he’d meant by the term “rag doll”. Michelle’s long, lush body was hammered repeatedly by his thrusting loins, his massive dick spitting her open again and again.
She bounced up and down on the couch under his savage assault as if he was fucking her on a trampoline. Her big breasts were flying all about, shimmying and jelling wildly, her grey eyes closed tight, her lower lips clenched between her teeth as he ravaged her body again and again.
I thought at first that he might be hurting her, but then she gasped and her eyes flew open. After a brief, guilty look in my direction, she closed them again and murmured, “Oh, fuck me hard, you bastard! Fuck me hard and make me come!”
Without me even touching it, my cock jerked sharply as I realized that she was enjoying this—ALL of it; even the ass rimming and the tongue-fucking of her rapist’s butt hole!
Moaning, I watched as he rammed himself balls-deep into her juicy, willing pussy endlessly. She twisted and sighed beneath him, obviously on the edge of a huge orgasm.
She opened her eyes and looked piteously at me again and started to jerk beneath him. Michelle gasped, “I…I’m coming! I’m sorry; darling…I just can’t help it!”
Ed Livingston laughed like a maniac and pummeled her spasming pussy even harder, if that was possible. She shrieked out her intense pleasure and came and came under his thrusting cock.
When she was done, he dragged his engorged manhood from her very wet cunt and knee-walked up the couch to her head, demanding in a low, guttural voice as he looked over at me tauntingly, “Suck me off now, bitch! Swallow it all for me, while hubby watches!”
He fed his shiny prick head and half of the shaft into her lips, where she dutifully tongued him and slobbered all over his invading cock. His eyes never left mine as he fucked her mouth, just as he had her pussy; only softer, more sensually.
After a minute or two, he gasped and reached down, holding her head in place. He reamed out her lips and I saw her begin to swallow frantically trying to keep ups with the deluge of ball juice with which he was clearly inundating her mouth.
“Oh, man, it feels good to come in her mouth,” he sighed contentedly as she drained him. “When we’re done here, we’re going to go upstairs, to your bedroom, cuck, where we can get really comfortable.”
He laughed and continued, “I’m really going to put her through her paces, then! There’s nothing this little bitch won’t do, if I order her to! You’ll see…”
A cold fear gripped my heart as he spoke and I watched Michelle suck down and swallow the last of his semen. But my cock stayed rock-hard!
****
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she said to me at four-thirty the next morning. “I’ll move out, file for divorce. You can keep the kids, or I’ll take them with me.”
We lay, cuddled together and somewhat shell-shocked in the bed in the spare bedroom. Neither of us wanted to sleep in our bed; not after what Ed Livingston had done to Michelle earlier in that room.
The two of us were freshly showered. We both smelled of toothpaste and mouthwash and we wore fresh pajamas.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked her, totally blind-sided by what she’d just said.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again,” she said miserably, on the edge of tears, “not after what you saw me do tonight…with him!”
“You did what you had to,” I said as comfortingly as I could. “We both know that.”
Sobs racked her chest as she blurted, “Yeah, but I didn’t have to enjoy it so much! I must have come with him a dozen times tonight, while you watched!”
A tightness gripped my chest as I admitted, “I came, too, remember? I couldn’t help it, honey! You were just so…impossibly…HOT!”
She laughed—which is hard to do when you’re crying—and blubbered, “God, you’re such a perv!”
I laughed, too, relieved at the levity, in light of all we’d been through tonight. I said, “Well, you can’t blame me. I’m married to the sexiest girl in L.A. and she really put on a show for me tonight.”
Michelle wiped her eyes and said, “Yeah, with one of the biggest assholes in L.A.!”
She stared at me and said resolutely, “I don’t want to do that again! I don’t care what it costs us; I don’t want to do that again, EVER!”
My wife shuddered and she went on to say, “And I’m definitely not going down to Mexico with him next month! God knows what he’d want me to do with his…amigos down there!”
“I don’t want that, either,” I said simply. “I won’t allow it.”
She laughed bitterly and said, “Oh, and just how are you going to prevent it?”
“I know a guy I think can help us,” I said mysteriously. “I’m going to go see him tomorrow…”
A half-assed, wild plan had popped into my mind as I had watched Ed Livingston totally dominate my wife for the last few hours. I did know a man—a man whose past included bouts of lethal violence—who owed me a favor.
After watching Ed ream out Michelle’s asshole until it was red and stretched out unrecognizably, after witnessing him make her tongue-fuck his own ass pucker endlessly, after seeing him totally degrade her; I intended to call on Ramon Vega tomorrow!
Chapter Twenty-One
Ramon Vega
The next day was Monday. Michelle wasn’t supposed to be back from her trip to the “east coast” with Ed Livingston until tomorrow, so she slept in.
I had taken that Monday off, too, but I got up at around nine o’clock, went downstairs and made myself a piece of toast and a pot of coffee. As soon as I had downed one cup and had devoured the toast, I went into my den and fired up my laptop, searching for the number of an old acquaintance of mine.
Ramon Vega was probably almost forty years of age by now. He’d been a lot younger when I’d first encountered him; a tall, soft-spoken, very muscular Latino with perfect manners and a movie star-handsome face.
Back then, he’d just separated from the service, bought a run down old gym in a seedy part of L.A., and reopened it as Vega’s Gym and Health Spa. He’d had almost no money left after he’d finished modestly refurbishing the place, but he had known that he needed advertising to help boost his membership and make the gym a success.
I’d just been starting out back then: I was right out of college. I’d gotten my first job as a junior copywriter at a small advertising firm and Ramon was one of the first potential clients I’d met with.
After reviewing his operation, I had agreed that he could use a good print campaign, but I didn’t see how he could afford it. It was the oldest problem in small business: you needed advertising to build sales and attract customers, but you needed customers—and their money—to afford the advertising.
Ramon had clearly been discouraged after our brief lunch, which I had paid for. But he wasn’t about to give up, and something about the attitude and the proud bearing of the military vet got to me.
I remember saying, out on the sidewalk in front of the small café where we’d eaten lunch, “Listen; let me think about this for a few
days. It could be that I could write some copy for you, on my own time. And I’ll see if I can talk one of the guys in the art department into doing some ad mock ups for you, too”
The big Latino had tilted his head disbelievingly and said, “You mean, like, under the table; outside the agency where you work?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t owe us anything,” I had hastened to assure him. “It’s not like that!”
He’d looked more bewildered than ever after I’d said that, so I had hastened to explain, “You’re a war hero. I didn’t serve a day in the military.”
I had looked away and added, “Like a lot of Americans, I’m quickly losing whatever belief I might have had in the Middle-Eastern wars. But I still believe in the guys who went there and bled for us. And I want to do something to help pay you back.”
And so that was how one of my present partners, Tim Rice, did the artwork and I came to write the copy for Ramon’s first ads. We did it on the sly and swore him to secrecy, knowing that we’d be fired on the spot if our employer ever found out what we’d done.
I contacted some guys I knew from college who had gone to work some of the newspapers around the area, and Ramon got a real deal on ad rates as well. It all paid off.
Ramon’s gym business suddenly skyrocketed. Then I heard he’d gotten an infusion of money from a silent partner, and soon he was opening a whole string of very successful weight-loss, tone-up-your-body salons all across the Southland.
In the ensuing ten years, he’d expanded even more. And he’d gotten quite wealthy
I called him on his cell that morning—hoping that he hadn’t changed the number, now that he was rich—and waited as it rang. At last, he answered it, saying; “Brandon Willis, is it really you, man? Talk about long time no hear; this is unreal!”
“Ramon, how are you?” I said, relieved to find he had kept his old number.
“I’m good,” he said boisterously, “I’m so good it hurts, compadre! What about yourself?”
I took a deep breath and then said, “Well, overall I’m good. But I lately I’ve run into a problem that I’m hoping you can help out me with. Can we meet? I’d like to run it all past you and see if you have any suggestions as to what I should do.”
There was no answer for several seconds, and then Ramon said, “You sound very uptight, old friend.”
“I guess I am,” I admitted, letting out a deep, heart-felt sigh. “I’m really agonizing over this…problem of mine, and I have nowhere else to turn.”
Again, there was a long silence and I thought for a moment that he was going to blow me off. But then he spoke once more, sounding just as relaxed and good-natured, as he said, “Well, you’ve picked a great time for it. My wife is visiting her family down in Mexico; she always takes the kids and goes down there for a month, just before school starts.”
He paused a beat and then said, “Why don’t you come out to the house for lunch today, and tell me all about this whole situation? I’ll have the cook make something special—you do still enjoy Mexican food, don’t you?”
“More than ever,” I said enthusiastically.
“Great, I’ll see you around noon today, if that’s alright. Let me tell you how to get to the house…”
****
Ramon lived in a twenty room mansion in Rancho Palos Verdes, a very upscale seaside community south of Los Angeles. His house was magnificent, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, with an incredible swimming pool and spa area out back, surrounded by black wrought-iron fencing.
His housekeeper met me at the door and escorted me through the Spanish-style showplace, across the red tile floors, and out onto the sprawling patio. Ramon sat at a table, drinking coffee, he rose when he saw me, a huge smile on his handsome face, as if I was his favorite person on earth!
His arms swept around the fabulous home and he said, “This is a lot better than that dumpy one bedroom apartment Maria and I were living in when I first met you, no?”
I remembered that cramped little space, up a flight of stairs, in an old, run-down, shoebox-shaped apartment building just on the edge of east L.A. It had been worlds removed from this lush setting, overlooking the ocean; pristine and perfect.
“Yeah, it is,” I commented as the housekeeper poured me a cup of coffee from an insulated carafe sitting nearby on a silver tray.
“Now, what’s got you so uptight, my friend?”
I stared into Ramon’s dark, almost black eyes while the housekeeper went silently back inside. Easing a DVD case from my sport coat pocket, I said, “I need you to watch this, to get an idea of what I’m up against. Is there someplace we can view it in private?”
“Sure, I have a media room, like a home theater,” Ramon said affably, drinking more of his own coffee. “We can go in there after we finish this and watch it, if you’d like.”
I wasn’t sure “like” was the proper word to use in this instance. The last thing I wanted to do was show Ramon video of my wife getting fucked every way there was to get fucked by another man.
But there was no way around it that I could see. He had to know just how damning that video was: he had to know how serious a hold Ed Livingston had on Michelle and me before he could help us!
****
Our blackmailer had taken back the original DVD he’d showed us in our living room yesterday afternoon before he’d left early this morning. Instead, he had made a great show of presenting us one wherein his face had been “pixilated” beyond recognition in all of the scenes: it was one of the copies he intended to anonymously mail out to our client lists, if we didn’t continue to do just as he wanted.
Michelle’s gorgeous face was clear as a bell, however. You could see every expression register on her features as she eagerly sucked Ed’s huge dick and licked his balls; as he fucked her exquisitely in the ass, in the pussy.
“She’s incredible,” Ramon sighed, his eyes never leaving the huge screen, “flawless; and so incredibly…HOT! Who is she?”
“That’s the problem; she’s the woman I’ve been happily married to for ten years now, the mother of our two kids,” I murmured, staring at my wife’s onscreen antics numbly along with him, my face no doubt beet-red; my dick stiff as it could be underneath my slacks.
I turned to face Ramon and said, “You never met Michelle, my wife, back in the day. I’d just started dating her when I met you, so I never introduced you.”
“That is YOUR wife?” He said; his voice a blend of disbelief, admiration, and heart-felt commiseration for the way she was so blatantly cheating on me with another man.
I rapidly launched into an explanation of our little experiment with hotwifery and how wrong it had gone; explaining how Ed had totally fooled Michelle with his “I’m a nice guy!” act for so many years. He nodded, smiling wryly, without saying a word until I had finished up with a quick, shorthand description of what yesterday’s visit by Ed had been like!
Ramon nodded again, the smile leaving his face as he said, “Ed Livingston, huh? Tall, skinny, blond-haired dude; I think I met him a couple of years ago at some civic thing that Maria insisted I attend. It cost me five-hundred a plate, if I remember correctly, to hobnob with the mayor and a bunch of other suits.”
I laughed nervously at his comment. At well over six feet, with a tiger’s litheness and coiled-spring intensity lying just below the surface—as well as biceps, pecs, and abs that would make most bodybuilders jealous—Ramon thought everyone who wasn’t built like him to be either “skinny” or “out-of-shape”.
His smile deepened as he said softly, “So, what should we do about Ed Livingston? Should we kill him; should we make him disappear, permanently? Or should we just relieve him of all of the video footage he has of Michelle and let him go on his merry way?”
Most people would have thought he was joking. But most people didn’t know the wealthy gym-owner’s past the way I did.
He had just gotten out of the army when I’d met him ten years ago. He’d been in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and h
e’d been a Ranger at first, and later a Green Beret. He had both the Silver and Bronze stars for conspicuous bravery under fire.
My mind flashed back to those nights at his place; the little cracker box apartment. In between beers and ad campaign ideas, he’d regaled me with tales of all the violent things he’d done as a warrior for his country.
If Ramon wanted to make Ed Livingston disappear, Ed Livingston would simply vanish! And I knew it.
Ramon laughed, breaking the tension that had suddenly arisen between us. He said, “Relax, man. I’m not some kind of hitman. But I am confident I can help you out of this situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”
He looked back at the screen, at Michelle who was sucking Ed Livingston’s cock as if she couldn’t get enough of it. He came in her mouth just then, and she began avidly swallowing oceans of come.
“Two things, compadre,” Ramon sighed, his eyes never leaving Michelle’s working throat. “I want to meet her right away; she knows the layout of both the house up here and the one down in Puerto Vallarta, and that will be critical to our success.”
He tore his eyes away from the screen and looked at me, saying, “And there’s the question of my fee for all of this.”
I glanced around at the state-of-the-art media room, with its theater-like seats and all of the latest bells and whistles when it came to electronics. Smiling wryly, I said, “Well, Ramon, I could offer you money, but I suspect you have a lot more of that than I do.”
Ramon laughed and said, “I bet I do, too, my friend. No, I don’t want cash.”
He turned and looked at the screen once more, where in this scene Michelle was riding Ed Livingston’s pussy-stuffer of a cock cowgirl-style, her big breast bobbling this way and that, her head thrown back, eyes closed. She was clearly on the brink of ecstasy once more…
“I want to spend a few nights in bed with her,” Ramon said softly, “that what I want for helping you two. She’s magnifico, hombre!”
Michelle (A Hotwife Adventure) Page 14
