turn them off. My cock squeaked through her flesh on the outside, before finding the soft, superheated, super-wet center.
I sucked in my breath as I was enveloped in her wet flesh.
I wanted to get her talking again, the way she had the day John had rented the apartment, but it seemed too out-of-place now. To say to her: tell me how you want John to fuck you, or, better yet, Tell me how John fucked you, would be absurd.
Instead, I thrust into her and, overcome by a sudden fit of lust and rage and elation and animal savagery, I grabbed her wet hair and pulled her by the hair as I pummeled into her. She gasped but let out a pleased moan, and pressed her hands against the wall with her fingers spread. She pushed back against me to take it deeper, and harder...
And that's what she wanted, wasn't it? A deeper, harder fuck than I could give her? A really enormous cock, all the way inside of her?
She began to make obscene noises, to clench around me, and I knew she was going to burst all over my cock soon enough, so I let my filthiest imagination loose:
A cock so big, so long, so filling, and a man to fuck her so hard in the ass that his cum spilled out of her mouth. And then I imagined it, John's cum just gushing from her mouth as he yelled behind her, his cock so deep inside of her she was screaming in pain, his face contorted as he spewed his cum into my wife's tight ass.
I yelled as I came, and thrust deep into her.
I leaned against the wall, my hands above hers.
She was panting. She said nothing, just lifted her knees to the bench. My cock slipped from inside of her. It was still aching, still hard. She folded herself up and turned around to face me.
“That was fun,” she said. She kissed me on the mouth, patted me to get me out of her way, and stepped into the shower. “I have to get to work,” she said simply, and took one, two, three spins in the shower before hopping out, without giving me another glance.
She moved to the sink, leaning over the counter to examine her flawless face for any signs of flaws, which she never had, Not even a dark circle, after a sleepless night. Nothing displeased her, so she formed a pout and gave herself a fashion-perfect shot, before looking under the counter for something. All the while I watched her, the water dripping down my face without me even having the thought to push it away.
“I have to work late tonight,” she said. She had a tube of red lipstick in her hand. She leaned forward again, and applied it, then grabbed a Kleenex almost as soon as it was applied and scrubbed it off.
Then she looked at me, blew a kiss, and walked out of the room.
When Anna lef t that morning, she ran into John coming out of his apartment.
Was it coincidence? I wondered. Or had they orchestrated it?
It bothered me the way they exchanged something between them, some kind of high-strung urban-professional knowing look.
I watched her wave at John through the window of the car, and then turn her head to back up. I watched John's face as he lowered himself into his own vehicle. Was he smiling? Smiling because he wanted my wife?
Or was he smiling because he had already had my wife?
And I was not smiling, but I was definitely savoring something about either one of those ideas.
My thoughts were beginning to turn to obsession. I could feel the change inside of me.
I needed to get some work done. I opened my laptop and made some coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself staring at the screen. I was replaying, and replaying, and replaying the scene from the night before. John's shirtless torso in the dark, the lines of his muscles highlighted by the silver moonlight. Anna in her skimpy shorts, her legs hanging out of them, teasing him. I embellished, making John taller, making Anna flip her hair more. I tangled the real memory up with my fantasy until I couldn't tell them apart anymore.
My Master's is in computer science, and I ended up, in a series of long stories,
I sucked in my breath as I was enveloped in her wet flesh.
I wanted to get her talking again, the way she had the day John had rented the apartment, but it seemed too out-of-place now. To say to her: tell me how you want John to fuck you, or, better yet, Tell me how John fucked you, would be absurd.
Instead, I thrust into her and, overcome by a sudden fit of lust and rage and elation and animal savagery, I grabbed her wet hair and pulled her by the hair as I pummeled into her. She gasped but let out a pleased moan, and pressed her hands against the wall with her fingers spread. She pushed back against me to take it deeper, and harder...
And that's what she wanted, wasn't it? A deeper, harder fuck than I could give her? A really enormous cock, all the way inside of her?
She began to make obscene noises, to clench around me, and I knew she was going to burst all over my cock soon enough, so I let my filthiest imagination loose:
A cock so big, so long, so filling, and a man to fuck her so hard in the ass that his cum spilled out of her mouth. And then I imagined it, John's cum just gushing from her mouth as he yelled behind her, his cock so deep inside of her she was screaming in pain, his face contorted as he spewed his cum into my wife's tight ass.
I yelled as I came, and thrust deep into her.
I leaned against the wall, my hands above hers.
She was panting. She said nothing, just lifted her knees to the bench. My cock slipped from inside of her. It was still aching, still hard. She folded herself up and turned around to face me.
“That was fun,” she said. She kissed me on the mouth, patted me to get me out of her way, and stepped into the shower. “I have to get to work,” she said simply, and took one, two, three spins in the shower before hopping out, without giving me another glance.
She moved to the sink, leaning over the counter to examine her flawless face for any signs of flaws, which she never had, Not even a dark circle, after a sleepless night. Nothing displeased her, so she formed a pout and gave herself a fashion-perfect shot, before looking under the counter for something. All the while I watched her, the water dripping down my face without me even having the thought to push it away.
“I have to work late tonight,” she said. She had a tube of red lipstick in her hand. She leaned forward again, and applied it, then grabbed a Kleenex almost as soon as it was applied and scrubbed it off.
Then she looked at me, blew a kiss, and walked out of the room.
When Anna lef t that morning, she ran into John coming out of his apartment.
Was it coincidence? I wondered. Or had they orchestrated it?
It bothered me the way they exchanged something between them, some kind of high-strung urban-professional knowing look.
I watched her wave at John through the window of the car, and then turn her head to back up. I watched John's face as he lowered himself into his own vehicle. Was he smiling? Smiling because he wanted my wife?
Or was he smiling because he had already had my wife?
And I was not smiling, but I was definitely savoring something about either one of those ideas.
My thoughts were beginning to turn to obsession. I could feel the change inside of me.
I needed to get some work done. I opened my laptop and made some coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself staring at the screen. I was replaying, and replaying, and replaying the scene from the night before. John's shirtless torso in the dark, the lines of his muscles highlighted by the silver moonlight. Anna in her skimpy shorts, her legs hanging out of them, teasing him. I embellished, making John taller, making Anna flip her hair more. I tangled the real memory up with my fantasy until I couldn't tell them apart anymore.
My Master's is in computer science, and I ended up, in a series of long stories,
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