Dirty Treats

by West, Jade

  “Come for me nice and loud in the Roystons’ shower,” he whispered, and I couldn’t hold back my giggle.

  “I’ll come gladly for you in the Roystons’ shower,” I whispered back, then moaned as he upped his pace.

  My husband brought me to climax under that shower jet with the precision of a fighter pilot. His thumb was a master of circling, his fingers pushing inside me at just the right angle, and I was horny for it. Horny and desperate and wailing so loud that the spurting sound of the water faded into the distance and it was just me. Just me and my noises and squelching and rubbing right back against him.

  “Good girl,” he said as he pulled his fingers free in the aftermath. He sucked them clean as I watched him, grunting his approval before turning his attention back to the body wash. “Let’s get that sweet little ass of yours tidied up.”

  The hot burst of water that made a river between my butt cheeks was divine. I leaned against the glass panel and let him work me clean, moaning at the massage of his palms as they worked over and around my ass, and then further on down between my thighs.

  A genius of the female anatomy, and he was all mine. I truly was a lucky one in life, not just in dirty Christmas treats.

  “That’s amazing,” I told him, and he massaged me harder, sweeping his hands back up over my ass and turning his attention to my shoulders. Praise the singing angels up above, it was welcome.

  It was only when I leaned my head forward to give him better access that I noticed the red of my burgundy hair dye pooling in the water underneath us. It was everywhere, splashes of red on the glass panels, tainting the whole cubicle. Crap. Were we really this utterly terrible pair of vandals in our house sitting duties?

  Seemingly so.

  I checked it out as best I could, and bloody hell, that shower cubicle would need a decent scrub in the aftermath.

  “Shit, I only just dyed my hair,” I said to Marcus, but he grunted, not even vaguely bothered.

  “I’m sure it’ll wash down with a squirt of premier shower spray and some elbow grease,” he replied. “We’ll add it to the list of things to fix before the Roystons return from their Christmas adventures. They’ll be none the wiser of our presence. We’ll be getting that thank you for your Neighbourhood Watch duties card all the same.”

  I wondered just what on earth else would be on the list of things to fix list by the time we left that place, but yet again I was laughing, caught up in the Christmas cheer of the fun and games and loathe to give them up for the sake of avoiding Betty’s pouty face.

  We were nice and clean by the time Marcus turned off that shower and headed back out of there. I should have realised he would be straight to the rack, but I was still trying to get the red water away down the plug hole when I felt one of the ivory fluffy towel monsters wrap itself around my scalp.

  “No!” I protested, but again he wasn’t bothered a shit, just kept towelling me dry, regardless of the fact my hair was still leaving a red burgundy trail behind wherever water came into the picture.

  I sighed as he finished drying me, then smirked up at him as I took a fresh towel from the rack and returned his efforts. I fastened it around his hips, then brushed my fingers up his arms, still muscular and strong and perfect. His chest was still the defined pinnacle of excellence I’d known so long.

  My husband was every bit the defined pinnacle of excellence I’d known so long.

  “You really are magnificent,” I told him, and he ran his thumb down my cheek.

  “You really are everything I’ve ever dreamt of,” he replied. “I’m so grateful to the Roystons for getting us to house sit.”

  “Me too.” I leaned my forehead against his chest and savoured the moment. The quiet, with just the faint jingle of the Christmas tunes from the radio downstairs. The glorious space of this house, like some luxury rental place somewhere. I only wished we could head over here whenever we could get the senior Harringtons over to watch the little ones.

  “Don’t you be getting sleepy on me,” Marcus said, and squeezed me hard. “We’ve got a whole load more treats waiting for us before we’re back home dishing those presents out from under the tree tomorrow morning.”

  I shook my head against his chest. “I wouldn’t waste this for the world,” I told him. “And definitely not for a bit of shut eye.”

  “We can have a few minutes of relaxation though,” my husband said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “At least get to try out the Roystons’ huge, posh bed.”

  “Like Goldilocks and the three bears.” I was smirking back. “That’s what this feels like. We try everything of theirs and leave a trail of destruction in our wake.”

  He shrugged. “Every tornado gets cleared in the aftermath.”

  I poked him in the chest. “That can be your job tomorrow, Mr H, while I’m dishing up the Christmas roast.”

  “I think I can manage that,” he said, and finished towel drying himself. “Since I’m the one putting on the maid’s outfit you can ditch those towels right down on the floor.”

  That was something I didn’t argue with. I cast those towels aside and rushed back on through to that incredible bedroom, amazing myself with my own wild teenager ways by throwing myself backwards onto the thing and flailing my arms out wide. I was a starfish. A starfish on beautiful white Egyptian bedding.

  “Tut tut,” Marcus said, his arms folded in the doorway. “Who was the moaning one a few seconds ago? Now look at you getting your damp red hair dye splotches all over their posh bedspread.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows to stare back at him. He was laughing as I was.

  “I gave it some thought before I plunged myself on,” I announced. “I didn’t completely lose my mind.”

  He raised an eyebrow, and I laughed some more.

  “If we’re trying out their bed, then their bedding is going to need a whirl through their washing machine regardless. A few more watery little stains isn’t going to hurt any.”

  “Very good point,” he replied. “Excellent logic on your part as usual, my sweet little smarty pants.”

  He headed on over to clamber up on that mattress along with me, straddling me just right.

  “Nice mattress,” I said. “I’ll nod my head in agreement next time she starts singing its praises outside school.”

  “Since you’re going to be giving it a reference to onlookers, we should really make sure your testament is reliable,” my husband said, pressing down nice and hard. “After all, a few more watery little stains on top of yours certainly isn’t going to hurt any, is it?”

  Only one way to find out…

  Chapter 8

  Marcus

  I took my time, soaking in my wife’s beautiful body underneath me with that undeniably awesome bed supporting us. The pristine white sheets were a great backdrop to the splay of her damp burgundy hair, and her face was perfectly her, her features so naked, her true self shining bright with all her makeup gone.

  Her hands were up and gliding all over me, trying to coax me inside her all over again, but I wouldn’t do it. I was enjoying the tease of her pussy grinding against my dick too much to plunge in deep.

  “This really is a happy Christmas,” I said, and she nodded.

  “You should put your phone on for some more nice little festive tunes,” she said, and gestured to its abandoned position on the wicker chair.

  She might have been joking, but I did it anyway, jumping off that bed to pull up a Christmas playlist and make sure the volume was on maximum. I held the mistletoe back up over my head and pursed my lips, doing a ridiculous little festive wiggle with my cock jutting high as I made my way back across the room.

  “My God,” she laughed. “I love it when you’re being so silly.”

  This side of me had long given up to being so forthcoming. I managed it when entertaining my kids on the weekends, or being a fool at family parties, but so much of our life nowadays was routine and chores and rushing through the work week.

 
; So, I did it. I did it to make my wife hold her tummy as she giggled and stared on over. I sang along to Fairytale of New York and climbed back up alongside her, and she rolled to face me, her eyes full of so much love they made my stomach do a little flip.

  It was that feeling of excitement, of being so into someone that they can set your heart on fire with one nice little flutter of their eyes.

  She’d done that to me for years, and still did. Fuck, how she still did that to me.

  My sweet little sassy minx of a wife took me aback a whole load harder when she cleared her throat and started singing along with me. She reached out to take the mistletoe, and as the song ended it was her turn to purse her lips, urging me closer under the festive leaves to give her another round of Christmas kisses.

  I didn’t disappoint.

  It really was like being a teenage duo again as we lost ourselves in that dance of tongues. We didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Just us and a passion of skin on skin as we tasted each other’s mouths without mercy.

  I remembered flashes of it all stretching back behind us. Of our time as youngsters desperate for more of each other day after day. The image of her as a sweet little fairy of enchantment was right behind my eyes. Her dark hair cut so neatly to her shoulders. The way she wore more eyeliner than she’d ever wear in later life. The way she’d teeter on high heels, swaying her hips like a hot little diva as she hung out with her friends and smiled at me across the college diner.

  I remembered the first time she’d ever pulled my zipper down and snaked those shaking fingers of hers inside. The amazement on her face as she tugged me free and learnt how to grip just right – fuck, she’d never forgotten.

  I remembered the flash of brilliance behind my eyes as that hot, wet mouth of hers first took a taste, sucking me in like a superstar and slurping hard, hungry for all of it.

  I remembered the time I got the first taste of her pussy, relying on my brief encounters with a few horny little bitches from higher college years to give me my slurpy technique.

  Luckily I’d learnt a whole load better in no time. Tailored to Jen’s liking, just as it should be.

  My entire world had been tailored to Jen’s liking, just as it should be.

  I broke off the kiss for just a minute to look into my wife’s eyes and feel them shining bright. In that moment I remembered a whole load more than our first fumbling encounters.

  I remembered the excited squeals in our old, two-bedroomed house bathroom when those two lines showed up on the first pregnancy test. I remembered her checking out her expanding bump in the full-length mirror every day and smiling at me from her reflection.

  I remembered the brutality of her contractions when her labour came. Her wails as she strained and pushed and delivered and tried so fucking hard. I remembered my chants of encouragement and the crush of her fingers in mine, and that crazy bliss of utter euphoria you get when you first hear that baby crying.

  I was so fucking lucky to have been blessed with that twice.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, staring right up with that same sparkling gaze.

  “Us,” I told her. “I’m thinking about us. Our life.”

  “We’re lucky we have such a good one,” she said. “We have such an amazing world around us, Mr Harrington.”

  “I’m lucky to have you,” I whispered. “I’ve always been so lucky to have you. You’ve made everything magical.”

  “We both make everything magical,” she whispered back. “We’re both so lucky, Marcus.”

  It would have been so easy to snuggle up under those covers and hold her tight all night through. It would have been warm and welcome and loving, and worthy of every night from here until forever.

  But tonight was one fantastic shot at revisiting our kinky little tricks and pleasures, and that jar was still screaming up at us in silence from the breakfast bar downstairs.

  “It’s getting all happy and mushy and in love,” she said, acknowledging my own observation, and then she wriggled underneath me, coaxing me for more action.

  “So, let’s go back down for our next round on the tombola,” I prompted, but she giggled and shook her head, her lips swollen nice and puffy.

  “We can’t go down without properly trying this bed out,” she said, and she had a point.

  It would be a true travesty to get up without giving this bad boy a decent jam session.

  “Good shout,” I agreed and she let out a gasp as I reached straight up over her head and sent those dumb scatter cushions flying one by one. One of them bounced itself off the wardrobe mirrors, and another one bounced off the radiator. It was the third one that acted like a total idiot and slammed on over to clear one of the lamps from the bedside table.

  Bollocks.

  I guess it was me, not the cushion, that really acted like the total idiot.

  Yes, it really was. Fuck my life, the bulb fizzed out and the lampshade went clattering along with the teal shitter of a cushion.

  “Bloody hell, Marcus,” Jen groaned. “You can’t be serious. Jesus wept.”

  Unfortunately I was serious. My own stupid bluster and games seemingly taking my brain with them these past few hours.

  I edged to the side of the bed and stuck my head over, hoping the lamp would be less trashed than its landing clatter would have alluded to. It looked… fixable. That’s what I told myself, and told Jen along with it.

  No problem. All entirely fixable. Every little mess we’d made in this place.

  And it was fixable. Ok, well maybe not the stool, but I really would blame that on some run in with their princess of a pussy downstairs when the Roystons returned.

  Jen accepted my words without even looking over at that lamp, thank fuck. She used her attention on a far more fulfilling purpose at hand and squirmed her way under the covers, where she looked divinely comfortable. She buried herself down into their plush pillows and held her arms open wide for me to join her.

  Held her arms open wide with that dirty glint in her eyes that said she wanted me in inside her all over again.

  I couldn’t resist this time. I was right in there alongside her, my body positioning itself just so with hers. My cock slipped straight in rough and deep and I held myself high above, grooving my hips along to the next Christmas number blaring out on my phone speakers.

  Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree. How faithful are your branches…

  “We’re in the Roystons’ bed,” Jen whispered, clearly still overwhelmed by the surrealism of our terrible behaviour.

  I loved this spark in us. This filth and naughtiness in us.

  This life in us.

  “I love being in the Roystons’ bed,” I whispered back as I fucked her. “I love being in the Roystons’ house, using the Roystons’ things like such bad neighbours.”

  “We’re really bad neighbours,” she giggled. “This bed is worth it though.”

  Yes, it was.

  It was worth a hell of a lot of thrusting and lunging and grunting as it bounced back just enough under me and my horny little wife. I slammed her deep, that angle just as she wanted it, and she was unravelling again, my sweetheart’s hot pussy delivering time and time over and singing my praises.

  I absolutely fucking loved it.

  My balls held firm and didn’t sell me out to shoot another load. My cock was still throbbing hard when she was spent, panting hard from another zing of her wet little pussy.

  “This is so crazy,” she said, that zing sounding right through her voice. “Holy crap, Marcus, this is so, so crazy. I’m not going to be able to walk properly for days. I’ll never stop grinning again.”

  “Now, that would be quite a Christmas achievement on my part,” I said and eased her up along with me, before her heady new climax could send her fast sleep.

  “What now?” she asked as I tugged her to her feet. “Another wine, perhaps?”

  I nodded, and finally muted my phone’s playlist in favour of the radio downstairs.

 
; “Another wine sounds great,” I said, and stood aside for her to take the door ahead of me. “Wine, a scope of the Royston’s dessert stash, and then it’s onto round four.”

  Chapter 9

  Jen

  The pasta had been delicious, but there was no escaping it. My tummy was craving so much more as we headed our way back downstairs.

  Sugar, and cream, and other fine specimens of non-diet food choices. I was up for all of them.

  Marcus pulled some cute little cupcakes from a little box under the counter, and presented them with a flourish.

  “These are what I chose for our desserts,” he told me, and then there was a pause. “But… I think we’ll be needing a little more of an energy top up than these little beauties…”

  He wasn’t wrong. The cupcakes looked divine, but still. There is always room for more of a sugar hit than those tiny wonders after taking beautiful dick several times over.

  My mouth was watering at the sight of those little chocolate cakes as he headed over to the Roystons’ double-doored refrigerator, complete with its fancy ice dispenser on the front. I was swaying along to Walking in the Air and having a very soothing time of it when he held up a tub of the Roystons’ double cream overhead like a sports trophy.

  “Thank fuck for that,” I laughed. “I can’t honestly believe you brought us cupcakes for dessert without bringing cream for on top.”

  He shrugged. “Kitchen business isn’t really my skill set.”

  I blew him a kiss. “You have plenty of other talents, my darling.”

  He didn’t head straight back over to the counter, instead he was right into the freezer section, where he whistled and rummaged and pulled out a big tub of vanilla ice cream and a frozen batch of apple pie.

  “Surely we can’t–” I began, but he was already kicking the doors closed behind him and popping that pie into their microwave on the defrost setting.