Dirty Treats

by West, Jade

  I really was going to be quite a glutton with this mountain of sweet treats looming. It seemed he was too as he placed the tubs on the counter between us with a big, generous spoon stuck in both, then handed me over my cupcake on a plate with a perfect grin on that perfect face of his.

  “Happy Christmas, Mrs H,” he said again, and again I gave him a smirk.

  “Happy Christmas right back at you, Mr H. This dessert looks like heaven.”

  “Now that is an exaggeration,” he said with a tut, but it wasn’t.

  Right there and then it really did look like heaven. I was absolutely starving for it. The icing on the cupcake slid over my tongue and set it alive, and the cream followed it up so smoothly.

  “You look so fucking hot when you eat that,” Marcus commented, and I realised my eyes were closed tight, savouring the taste.

  “Do I look as joyous as when I have your dick in my mouth?” I asked around the chomp of cake, and he tipped his head.

  “Close call,” he said. “You really do look like you enjoy my cock in every single hole of yours. I’m always grateful.”

  I watched closely as he lifted his cake to his lips, with considerably less cream drenching it than I’d put over mine. His mouth was a masterpiece. His tongue lapped up that icing in its usual firm sweeps. Even after all these years I still adored that man with the pang of my heart I’d been graced with in the early days.

  The microwave pinged in minutes, as soon as the cupcake plates were cleared, and out it came, steaming nicely as he dished out two hearty slices on two sparkling white plates. It was the ice cream that got dolloped on these beauties, melting just right and pooling down onto the platter.

  My belly was feeling full in no time, my mouth alive with the sugary onslaught, and Marcus was done with his apple pie fest too.

  Seemingly though, he wasn’t done with the rest of it.

  He had that dirty smirk of his on his face when he made his way around the counter in my direction and lifted the cream tub up from the island. I let out a gasp as he spilled some right down over my tits, and another as he let out a growl and dipped his head down to follow it.

  Oh yes. That tongue turned its attention to me with those same firm sweeps of his. It made its way across my skin and set me on fire, my head tipping back and my fingers taking his hair and holding tight like I never wanted it to end. He teased at my nipples like that cream was his greatest pleasure, sucking and slurping and rubbing his face in the creamy slickness of the lot of it.

  That’s when I pulled him up to kiss him, being every part the dirty bitch myself and licking the cream in firm sweeps of my own from all around his mouth.

  I’m sure we looked like we were performing in some adult movie, both of us grunting and lapping and slurping and tangling tongues like we were onscreen. Cream had never tasted so good as it did from my husband’s open mouth. Fuck cupcakes – there was no better dessert for cream to drench than his gorgeous swirling tongue.

  I was past thinking when I grabbed hold of the remnants of that tub and tossed it over his chest. It splatted him hard, dripping straight down his stomach and pooling around his solid hard dick before dolloping down onto the floor to follow.

  “Fuck,” he grunted. “You filthy little minx, Jen.”

  I felt like one, dropping down to lap my own path in reverse, from his straining hard on up across his belly to swirl around his nipples, one after the other. I loved how it coated my tongue and left a thick mess down my chin. I loved how his eyes stared down at me with so much heat as mine stared right back up at him.

  “Clean my cock, you dirty little slut,” he groaned, and I loved that too. I always loved it when his words matched the filth of the rest of him.

  I did clean his cock. I left it sparkling and wet with spit, sucking hard and deep until he was grunting over and over. I cleaned him with extra laps, letting out appreciative little whimpers as he gripped the back of my head and forced his cock in harder.

  “If only we didn’t have round fucking four waiting I’d shoot a whole fresh load of cream down that needy little throat of yours,” he hissed, and my tummy did another flutter.

  l wanted it. I wanted his cream far more than the Roystons’. I wanted it with everything, enough to pick up my rhythm enough to far surpass the Saviour’s Day beat from the radio.

  “Round four,” Marcus prompted again, but he was still rocking his hips, growling in frustration to himself as he finally took hold of my shoulders and eased me away from him.

  “Fuck round four,” I protested, but he was grinning, already reaching for that jar and shaking up the little notelets inside.

  “My turn, I think,” he said, but I was confused too, the night blurring into one long, incredible sea of filth I didn’t want to escape from.

  “Your turn,” I agreed. “Just pull a damn treat from the pile, Marcus. I want to get fucked again.”

  “I love how demanding you get when the horny mood grabs you,” he chuckled and grabbed a note from the stash.

  I was virtually whimpering as he unfolded the thing, craving his all by the time he cleared his throat and read it out. It was one of mine and I knew it as soon as the first few words sounded.

  “Worship my feet, you dirty beast. Suck my toes and show me that a pedicure means nothing.”

  I’m sure my cheeks blushed pretty bright at that statement. He raised an eyebrow and licked his lips, and I was suddenly grateful that I still kept my feet maintained down at the local beauty salon, even if I didn’t keep my nails painted.

  “Up on the counter,” he ordered me. “Get those feet up for me.”

  The granite top was cold against my ass as I hitched myself up via a stool and shimmied back onto it. The plates were clunking and the ice cream got shoved, but I was up and secure, reclining back enough to lift my foot out in his direction with the toes pointed like a ballet dancer’s. Like hell I was anything like as graceful as a ballet performer, but I was trying my best to mimic the display.

  “Get that fine mouth to work,” I giggled, and his hands were so nice and warm as he took to a massage, balling his thumbs into the arch of my foot like some kind of professional. Much more professional than the pedicure lady had ever appeared to be, and she charged a small fortune. “That’s bliss,” I told him.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed and dropped himself down to suck my big toe in.

  Holy crap, he kissed that toe like it was my tongue swirling with his and not my lower digit. His breaths were hot and ragged, and his grunts sounded like he was in love with my foot as much as with the rest of me.

  I was grunting myself a few minutes in, totally lost to the sensation of his tongue and massage combination. He sucked my toes one after the other, pulling up my other foot to take in numbers six to ten, no toe unturned.

  “You are the best husband in the universe,” I moaned. “Really, Marcus, it doesn’t get better than you.”

  “Luckily you have the best feet in the universe to get a tonguing,” he laughed up at me.

  I’m not sure how long he was there worshipping my feet, but the radio was looping back around to Fairytale of New York by the time he got back up again. I was a dazed wreck, and my clit had given way temporarily to the blissful floating relaxation, even if I was still hungry for my husband’s dick for a fresh round.

  “Gotta try this,” I heard my husband say before I was tugged forward to the edge of the counter and my feet were wrapped around his cock.

  “Oh God,” he said, visibly shuddering as I squeezed my feet together and worked his stiffness up and down.

  “Stop!” he said, pulling away. “I’ll fucking explode if you keep that up.”

  “Shame,” I said, “you can come all over my toes next time.”

  “Next time indeed,” he said with a grin and ushering me down.

  “Too right,” I replied and brushed my hands for the thousandth time up that muscular chest of his, his stiff cock trapped between us. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr H.”
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br />   “Round five,” he said nodding to the jar on the counter. “Let’s get the next dirty treat rolling.”

  Chapter 10

  Marcus

  Round five and my tongue was hungry for more, despite all the dessert goodies we’d been gorging on and my wife’s tasty body. I’d never get enough of her.

  She was giggling as she tossed those treats around in the jar, digging down deep for her choice.

  “Wow,” she said, as she scanned the note. “This is quite a number.”

  I could barely contain my excitement as she turned that slip of paper around for my viewing. It was one of the truly risqué little numbers that really did drive us wild back then.

  I read it aloud. “Tie up my sweet minx and show her the dirty pleasure in submission.”

  “It’s been one hell of a while since you tied me up, Mr Harrington,” she said, and I nodded.

  “Not for much longer, sweet minx. Not for much longer.”

  I hadn’t brought anything in preparation for this. I had some dildos stashed under the counter in an innocuous looking bag which hadn’t made it out from under there yet, but handcuffs and bondage supplies were long since dust in our world. Even dildos were a risky accessory with nosey little hands all around our place.

  Jen held out her arms, wrists clasped together with a grin on her face. “Show me who’s boss, then.”

  Oh, I’d be showing her who was boss alright. There would be no mistaking that little fact in the bedroom department when we were done with this naughty little treat.

  But first I needed to get my essentials together.

  I held up a finger and tapped it to her nose. “Engage yourself with another glass of wine, my beautiful temptress. I have some little jobs to attend to before we get started.”

  Her nod was angelic, that sweet face of hers turning straight around to pour herself another large one, and I was dashing out of there, scoping out some more of the Roystons’ pompous possessions to do my bidding along with my delicious wife.

  There was nothing that looked all that potent in their living room. Nothing but their huge cream sofa with its high arms and thick looking padding. Hmm, yes. Very nice.

  Nothing in their hallway bar some coats and a shoe rack and one of those fancy gold mirrors by the front door. Nothing in their downstairs bathroom.

  I headed back upstairs and stuck my head in the upstairs bathroom. Another no. Their guest room was a blank, and so I was back in their bedroom, once again taking advantage of their most personal space as I ransacked it for potentials.

  I was lucky that my tie was still pooled on the carpet by the wicker chair, so I took hold of that. With that in mind I checked out the Roystons’ wardrobe selection. Sweet mercy there was a whole stash of them. A whole range of Rob Royston’s best work ties hanging up in place. I chose a few in suave looking black silk, and cast my eyes around the place for more items of use. And there I saw it. Betty Royston’s classy silver hand mirror, positioned in prime location on her dressing table. I’m sure she was proud of it, and so she should be. That thing would pack the perfect swipe on Jen’s tender ass cheeks.

  Nice work on the house scoping, Harrington. Nice work indeed.

  I was quiet as I made my way back down there, dropping my new implements out of view at the side of the sofa before edging up to the kitchen doorway to catch my wife minding her own business. She was bopping along on her seat to Driving Home for Christmas and enjoying every beat of it, that bounce of her butt in her chair absolutely intoxicating to behold. She finished up her wine and poured another, singing along to the tune, and ever so softly I approached her, getting a shriek from her pretty mouth as I clamped a hand right over it from behind.

  “Round five,” I whispered. “You’d better be ready.”

  She nodded in silence, and I loved the way her breaths turned shallow. I could sense her thighs clenching, and it came flooding back just how badly she liked me to take her like this. How roughly she liked me to slam my dick into every hole of hers when she was bound and gagged and beholden to my will.

  Revisiting those days would be a truly wondrous experience.

  I tugged her down from her seat and kept her held tight to my chest as I dragged her through to the living room. She shrieked against my hand as I threw her down onto their cream sofa and reached down for the selection of ties to the side.

  “You’ll be a good girl for me,” I told her in a grunt and she nodded. “Say it then,” I pushed. “Tell me you’ll be a good girl for me.”

  Her eyes widened. It made my cock throb. “I’ll be a good girl for you,” she whispered.

  “Sir,” I pushed. “I’ll be a good fucking girl for you, sir.”

  She’d forgotten we’d gone so seriously with it previously, I saw it in her face. Still, she cleared her throat and took a breath.

  “I’ll be a good girl for you, sir,” she said, and her voice was a little bit unsteady.

  Oh yes. She’d be mine for the taking.

  “That’s one of the last things you’ll be saying this evening,” I growled. “Now give me your wrists, you naughty little slut.”

  She liked that. I saw her thighs clench hard.

  Her wrists came out to me, pinned tight together, and I wrapped them up with more memory than I gave myself credit for. Around and through, around and through, and those hands of hers were bound fucking tight by the time I was done. She tested them, tugging them just once in a bid to loosen them before realising those binds weren’t going anywhere.

  “Open that slutty little mouth for me,” I told her, and she did. She opened wide, her breaths shallow as her eyes ate mine up, nervous.

  Now, this was one instance I really did want her nervous for.

  I slipped one of Rob Royston’s ties between those sweet lips and tied it tight at the back of her head, loving the way it stretched her mouth wide. Fuck yes, she’d be dribbling. Not too long now, and she’d be dribbling.

  How I’d love to lick that spit of hers right up from her chin.

  “You look so fucking hot when you’re bound,” I told her, and she nodded.

  “Thannnn you, sirrr,” she managed around the gag.

  She gave me a muffled moan as I pulled her to her feet and flipped her over. Holy fuck, the way she looked as I draped her over the arm of the Roystons’ designer sofa with her tits lolling so fucking sweetly over the front of it was pure heaven. Pure fucking bliss that had my balls tensing like all fucking hell.

  This is what I’d been craving for years. Needing for years. Desperate for for years.

  There was no way I wasn’t taking full advantage of it right here and now.

  “Stay there nice and quiet,” I said with a smirk, loving my own warped humour as those wide eyes of hers stared up at me.

  I wondered if she thought I was going to leave her simmering and waiting for my return. Part of me was tempted to – leaving her over that sofa arm like the grand master in charge of her every move. One thing was for sure, now I had a taste of being that master all over again there was no way I was giving it back up. That sweet little minx would be all mine.

  Tonight wasn’t the night I was going to leave her simmering though. I was straight through to that kitchen, smirking at the sheer state of it with the dirty plates and the melting ice cream and cream splotches as I dipped down low to pull that bag of dildos from the back of the storage shelf.

  I was so fucking glad I’d brought the thick, juicy ones with me. The ones from the very bottom of her dirty stash under our bed.

  She knew exactly what was there as I brought that bag back through to the living room with me. She squirmed as I took position behind her, nervous of just what I was going to plunge into that pussy of hers first, but I kept my cool and took my time.

  “Fuck yes,” I hissed as I spread those ass cheeks of hers all over again. “I really do fucking adore that winking little hole of yours, Jen. It’s begging my tongue for a kiss.”

  I didn’t give her time to respond bef
ore I was between them, snaking my tongue back in deep. I loved that. I’d loved it from the very first day I’d tried it, so filthy and so forbidden and so fucking horny that my balls tightened a whole load harder.

  I really would be really to spill my cream again soon.

  She cried out around her tie gag, wriggling right back at me as I tasted that ass and slid two fingers nice and deep into her pussy. I could feel how puffy and tender she was down there after all the attention. She was still wanting, though. Still groaning and pushing back and muffled begging for more.

  That’s when I landed the first decent slap on her backside.

  I knew it took her aback, and so it should do. She lunged forward, ploughing her face into one of the thickest cream cushions before I landed another.

  “Good girls take their punishment,” I told her and got up a flow with the slaps.

  The Christmas tree was a festive looming backdrop, the elf ornaments grinning over at me as I taught my wife her lessons. Her ass pinked up, and I’m sure her face did too, taking it all like a nice little slut for me.

  She really wasn’t expecting it when I took Betty Royston’s hand mirror and lined it up for a fresh thwack. I knew it would pack quite a sting, but fuck, how gorgeous her butt cheeks would look all rosy and tender.

  “Get ready for your full punishment,” I hissed and she tensed. Those cheeks clenched nice and fucking tight as I got in position to deliver the blow, and fuck it let out one hell of a smack as mirror collided with skin.

  It was far better music for my soul than Last Christmas blaring through from the kitchen radio.

  The whimpers from my wife’s sweet mouth were divine.

  The squeal as I delivered another thwack was even more so.

  “Good girl,” I praised. “That’s my sweet minx taking what’s given.”

  She was shuddering but arching her back and spreading those legs just a little, and I knew exactly what she wanted, reading her moves far more easily that I read my own.

  My dirty wife wanted me to plough that pretty cunt of hers with one of our dildo selection.