Mike had to have noticed. Not that my friend said anything. But he had to have seen just how revealing Leah’s pure white swimsuit had become. Even describing it as revealing is understatement. His wife might as well have been stark naked.
Dry, the swimsuit covered the essentials. Unusually for a woman in her early thirties, it was not a bikini, but a one piece, although that one piece was designed to bare its wearer’s flesh. The front, that is. Around the crotch, that is. Instead of angling inwards from the hips, there was nothing covering her hips. The downward curving cut of the material began way up, level with her breasts, baring a good part of her ribcage, and her sides, and left her delightful hips totally, utterly bare. The downward stretch that passed her navel was no more than a hand’s width. It narrowed even more where it cupped her cunt, technically concealing it, but in reality drawing the any healthy male gaze right there, to the reason God made woman.
Of course the swimsuit concealed her breasts, as any one piece would. It was tied high at the neck, pulled taut on either side, the sweeping downward cut skimming the undercurves of what were generous globes of perfect flesh before turning downwards. It concealed them, but even before she used the pool her nipple stubs visibly pushed against the thin, man-made fabric, and her cleavage was exposed, a wide circular cut out, dead centre of those perfect breasts, baring the inner curves of soft, delicious, creamy whiteness.
Not a bikini then, but more revealing, especially since Leah’s one piece was a front piece only, nothing at the back. Behind, beautifully displayed as she walked to the pool from where we had been reclining on our loungers, it was just strings. No fabric covering her back or butt. Nothing. Elasticated strings alone, so fine their white against her white complexion made them all but non-existent, the only give away that said she was not naked, a single metal ring pressed against her spine, a little lower than her shoulder blades.
Three of the strings were fixed to the ring. Two angled out to the sides and slightly upwards, stretched taut to just below her underarms, holding the front in place. The third descended vertically, tracing her spine, only to disappear between firm buttocks. A fourth, separate string around her neck was visible because her hair was cut so short. Army short. Grunt, not officer. Back and sides shaved smooth. Just the top left growing, blonde, complementing eyes of azure blue, two inches long, no more, left trendily untidy, flaunting the rules, two fingers to conformity.
Had she been in the military, that hair might have been buzz-cut short, but Leah was no private in any army. In that swimsuit, nothing about Mike’s wife was private, and certainly not now that she was returning, dripping, from the pool. Wet, what had once been white nylon, or whatever form of polymer, had turned translucent. Only the thickness of the hem remained still visible, framing her breasts, contouring the circular cut out, and dropping to between her legs, either side of her protruding labia, no growth anywhere, those folds of flesh held flat by the now clear fabric stretched across them. Other than those rolled edges of the swimsuit, she might as well have walked back naked. Amazing areoles the size of expresso saucers showed right through. Nothing was left to my imagination. Breasts, cunt, laid bare. My cock twitched. She may have been married to my friend, but my cock is totally oblivious to wedding rings. It could not care. It only cared for female flesh like hers.
Mike would have known, of course. About the swimsuit. He would have known that it would get like that, so absolutely see through. Their move to this house, with its secluded garden at the rear, and seven metre pool, had been two years before my visit. They would have used the pool both summers. The one-piece swimming costume was hardly new. Mike would have seen her wear it in the past, would have known that wet, it bared everything beneath. Of course he would have known. Just like, Leah would have known it too.
Even more than Mike, Leah would have known. Women always know. Nothing about the way they look is left to chance. Maybe the first time, the translucence of the sheer fabric might have been unexpected, but she would have known, this time, exactly how she would look emerging from the pool. This was no oversight, no accident. Just the fact that she had left us, not for serious swimming, not ten or twenty lengths, and not because it was so hot she had to get cooled down, because in England even when the sun is strong, it never gets that hot. It was calculated, planned display. Two minutes max, just long enough to get wet to her neck, and out and back to us again. She was a willing barbie doll, exhibiting her body. With Mike’s approval. Which was why he did not comment, or suggest a wrap, or anything to be more modest. I was meant to see. I knew that straight away. Later, too late, I learned the reason why.
Give Mike his due, he had caught a beauty. Second wife syndrome. So common. For whatever reason, your first marriage comes to an end, and in your early fifties you find yourself single again, and dating, and maybe using online sites, maybe flicking left and right onscreen. In spite of whatever form of settlement, you still have good money in the bank, and are earning even more, so this time around you can impress with restaurants and hotels that you could not afford back when you were dating in your twenties.
Most of the women you are flicking left and right will have hard-wired in their brains the need for safety and security, the instinctive female mindset formed way back from when cavemen competed for their women with their strength and guile. Prove that you can keep her safe, that you can fight off adversaries and wild animals, and if you have a decent cave as well, then she will be yours, to fuck, and give you kids to carry on your genes. The need for comfort and security, deeply engrained, even today. So looks, and even age, are less important. Health and intelligence, augmented by a just as healthy income, a more than comfortable lifestyle, and a well located, luxury apartment, enable you to pick up women who are candy to the eye. You land a trophy wife. Maybe somewhere in the mix true love might take its rightful place, but a beast can land a beauty, if he can offer all the comforts that she needs.
Mike is no beast. He is not exactly a male model, but he looks okay, and he has always worked out just about as much as I have done, so he is still in good shape, but there are men on building sites who look as fit as he does, and they do not get to wed a sugar baby quite like Leah. Wealth works wonders. So Mike now had a wife to boast about, twenty years his junior, and I had no doubt that the choice of Leah’s swimsuit was intended to impress on his old friend from university days that he had landed a gem. It worked. I was impressed.
Leah joined her husband on the lounger on his right. Even if cooling off in the pool had been more an excuse for showing off a near perfect body than critical necessity, the sun was strong enough for us to be in shade beneath a pergola, not tanning in its rays, so my lounger and the vacant one beside me were facing theirs. Which was nice for me, because Leah’s swimwear took a while to dry, and the view while it was still damp was a welcome accompaniment to our catch-up conversation. She saw me looking, but she did not seem to mind.
It had been three years since I had last seen Mike. I had not been in the country for their wedding. I was in Bangkok. A city aptly named, given that low class British slang for my favourite leisure occupation is ‘banging’, and it involves the use of cock. The women I had fucked there were fifty-fifty Thai and non-Thai. What was nice about my minor diplomatic role was that the social world it brought me into, meant meeting both.
The Thai women were mostly government employees, or their wives, looking for casual satisfaction like myself. Some catering staff as well, of course, waitresses and management both. Naked, penetrated, a woman’s status is of trivial interest. My cock does not distinguish. The non-Thai were diplomatic staff of other nationalities, European, American, Asian, encountered in the diplomatic circles that my role required me to frequent. Not many were high ranking, but a woman’s rank is less important than her expertise in bed. I had been pleased to do more than done my share of promoting international relations on behalf of Brits in Thailand.
Thai or non-Thai, when it came to the more carnal pleasures, wedding rings were an irrelevance, other than to signify the need for slightly more discretion. My wife had taught me that the wearer of a wedding ring may still seek intercourse outside their marriage bed. She certainly did. Not with my approval. And not that I blame the men. She was at fault. They just took advantage of her willingness. So I divorced her. Since then, I can admit with neither pride nor shame, that I have fucked more than my share of women wearing rings. On principle. Not displaced revenge. A more straightforward principle, that if a woman that I fancy wears a wedding ring, but still will let someone, not her husband, fuck her, then it might as well be my cock enjoying their illicit cunt, and not some other guy’s.
With that philosophical approach in mind, and with no qualms whatsoever, I enjoyed the view of Leah’s perfect body as Mike and I caught up, and as I learned a little more about this wife of his. Daughter of a banker. Private school. Psychology at university. Now providing psychotherapy for female prisoners serving out their sentences, which went some way to explain her choice of non-conforming hairstyle. Her close shaved scalp around the back and sides, with untamed hair on top, would go down well with the offenders that she worked with. Form a connection and maybe they will open up more readily. Be more amenable to working out their issues. Serve out their sentence, and then not re-offend. It also gave Mike’s wife a distinctive touch of class when in a cocktail dress, as I had seen on several of his Facebook photos. It certainly looked good with wet and transparent swimwear. Lucky guy, my friend!
Skip the conversation at the pool, and more at dinner, and move to when we had all three of us gone to our bedrooms, lights were switched out, and I was beneath the single sheet that was all I needed in the summer heat, not yet asleep, when my door opened. She came in silently. Bare feet on the carpet. Bare everything. Stark naked.
Outside, there was a moon, and moonlight filtered through my curtains, giving the pale whiteness of her body a soft tinge of something greyish blue, almost a ghostly apparition. Slender, though with generous breasts, lithe in her frame and limbs. Delicate hands, one of which eased back the sheet, and then she was beside me, on her side, that same hand around my cock. No apparition. Warm flesh, soft breasts, firm thighs, pressing close against my body as she caressed and stroked me with that slender hand.
“Mike asked me to look after you,” Leah said.
For whatever reason, I did not feel the least bit surprised. Neither did my cock. It just did what comes to it so naturally when a naked woman lies beside me, fondling it. It grew. Leah stroked it more as it responded, stiffened, widened, lengthened, and swelled to its full, purposeful dimensions.
“Did he, now?” I said.
Maybe I was not surprised because of the swimsuit exhibitionism outside at the pool that afternoon. Maybe it was just some instinct, that had told me this might happen. Something subconscious. Nothing in the years that I had known Mike had suggested that he might enjoy wife sharing, but something about this catch up visit had been different. Something impenetrable, that I could not get a handle on. A feeling, that my friend’s wife might just be available. And here she was, beside me.
“That’s assuming you’d like to be looked after,” she said, still stroking where it mattered.
“I think that you can tell,” I answered.
She raised her upper body, leaning on one elbow, bent at the waist to bring her head over my stomach, and rested it there. I caressed her shoulder. Her mouth enveloped my cock head and she started to use her tongue, lapping at the sensitive head, slowly, but deliberately, side to side, round and round, one way, then the other, tip touching the rim, playing the frenum. She had done this before. More than once. Practice makes perfect, and it seemed like she had had practice in this special skill.
I shave. Women seem to like it. Less risk of curls between their teeth. It has become a part of my routine. It means that I am smooth there, and just that bit more sensitive to the softness of a woman’s hair. Except she had no hair, or not where the side of her head was resting on me. Smooth scalp on smooth lower stomach. A different feel. A new sensation. Complementing what she was doing with her mouth.
I put my hand to her head, behind her ear. More smooth scalp. It felt amazing. You could develop a fetish for smooth scalp. Had it not been for the growth of hair on top, she could have been one of those perfect female androids, yet to be invented, but that will almost certainly be mass produced next century to please their owners. Or a genuine submissive, who compliantly allows a domineering master to shave their heads and body smooth. Not my thing, but the feel of Leah’s so smooth scalp beneath my palm still intensified the way my cock felt in her mouth.
She moved her head again, closer to my groin, taking another inch of cock into her mouth. Then she slowly turned and raised herself, and brought one of her legs between mine, closely followed by the other, so that she was kneeling in a yoga child pose, facing me, bent forwards, holding my cock so that it was now angled vertically, but still inside her perfect mouth. Next, she lowering her upper body fully, breasts against her knees, taking within her mouth more and more of my rigid cock shaft’s length, until her nose came to press against my lower abdomen, her lips were touching groin around my shaft, and the head was nestled nicely in the moist warmth of her throat.
My cock head relished the soft flesh embracing it, rippling gently, as she controlled the reflex instinct to back away. One hand was at my side, her bent slender arm helping to support her upper body weight. The other stroked its way up my ribcage, over my chest, up my neck, fingers curving around my chin, touching my lips, finding their way inside, probing gently. There was a hardness on one finger, something fixed to it, unyielding. My tongue explored the diamond setting of her engagement ring, and the smooth, unyielding surface of her wedding band. My cock twitched in her throat, betraying its wayward preference for adultery.
She raised her head again, but with no sense of urgency as she inhaled, replenishing her breath before she took my cock head deep inside her throat again, this time raising and lowering her head, fucking me orally, deliciously. Raise your body, back away a little, breathe again, lower your head, relax your throat, accept the firm thickness of invading cock, hold still, let him enjoy, and then repeat. Pull back, breathe, lower again, relax, control that reflex, hold, repeat again. Back, breathe, lower, hold, repeat. She knew what she was doing. My cock loved every exquisite moment.
Introduce variety. Lick and suck his testicles. Tongue caress the full length of his shaft. Deep throat the guy again. Pleasure him. Again. And again. She knew exactly what to do, steadily bringing me closer and closer to the moment of eruption, when I would spurt directly in her throat, no bitter taste, just the swallowing of copious, warm semen, except I was enjoying it too much to want to let it end, and by power of will and contraction of my pelvic muscles, I held that moment off, fought to control the impulse, until I nearly shot my load, the stimulation so overpoweringly intense.
Nearly, but not at that moment, not in her throat. She sensed the moment, the twitch of muscles as my groin prepared itself to detonate and release its reservoir of semen. She drew her head away before it happened, hand to my cock, finger at my frenum, thumb opposite, tucked beneath the flange, and squeezed. It did as she intended, tamed the instinct to ejaculate. The need subsided. I relaxed. She looked me in the eye and softly said two words.
“Not yet.”
Even in dim moonlight, her eyes were still that azure blue. You can read expressions in moonlight. Hers was calm, controlled, almost amused. She knew what she was doing, not wanting me to come, not in her mouth, wanting more, not just my pleasure, but much, much more than that. I had not yet been inside her, and it was clear she wanted things to go much further. She wanted me to take her all the way. Or more accurately, that was where my best friend’s wife intended to take me.
Those blue eyes still looking into mine, she raised herself upright, crawled on her knees, over my legs and up my body, to almost level with my chest, and then reached between her legs to guide my cock as she lowered her body to a squat. Her cunt was slick as baby oil. No added lubrication needed. It oozed fluid, so that my cock head slid deep within with no resistance, until those labia that I had last seen pressed flat against her by her transparent swimsuit, were pressed just as flat against my groin.
Her torso upright, full breasts lit by moonlight, areoles perfect, stubs thickly proud, hands splayed on my abdomen to help with balance, she used her thighs to rise upwards until only the swollen head of my cock was still inside her cunt, her labia now wrapped around my shaft, pink folds of nether flesh in the dimness of refracted moonlight. Then she descended, and a million nerve endings shrilled to exquisite sensation as flesh slid through flesh, reopening, stretching, penetrating to the very depths.
She waited, her cunt muscles tightening and relaxing around my shaft, then raised her butt again in perfectly controlled slow motion, just to the flange. Hold a moment, back down just as slowly, delighting in each millimetre of re-entry. Wait again. Enjoy the depth of penetration. Then repeat. And again. And deliciously again and again and again.
Then she began to vary it. Sometimes slow, easing upwards, descending half an inch each breath she took. Sometimes, hard and fast, allowing gravity to slam her butt against my groin, to thrust my cock up into her cunt at gasp inducing speed. Her gasps. Not mine. I just lay back and enjoyed. And exercised more power of will and pelvic muscles so as to prolong the pleasure.
Mike’s wife could fuck. Lucky sod, to have his ring on her. To fuck this exquisite body any time he chose. Perfect body. Perfect, practiced technique. They say it takes ten thousand hours to master any instrument. Her instrument was her cunt, and she knew how to play a man’s strings, how to use rhythm, tempo, vibrato, staccato, fortissimo.
She knew how to let go, as well. How to release any remaining inhibition. How to disengage control and let her body do its thing, let the sensations that shuddered through her take her to a place where nothing mattered, other than that sheer heaven of grunting, gasping, breath taking delight. She had not yet ridden my cock to ejaculation, but she rode her cunt to her own climactic, orgasmic ecstasy. Her entire body convulsed, feverishly shivering and shaking, breasts wildly undulating, hands tearing at my chest so fiercely that I had to grip her wrists and lift them from me. Finally collapsing onto me, soft breasts on my chest, she drew herself back from her nirvana, slowly coming to, as if rousing from a dream, then whispered.
“You didn’t come?” she said. Moments later adding, “Did you?”
“No,” I said.
“Because?”
“Because I was enjoying it, and when I come it tends to mean it ends,” I said.
“He’ll ask me,” Leah was still whispering from where her head was resting on my shoulder.
“Why?” I asked.
“He likes to know,” she said.
Likes to, not wants to. I was not the first. Might not be the last. This was a side to Mike I had not known. He liked his wife to fuck with other men, to have them come inside her. He encouraged it, although little encouragement seemed to be required. If that was how it was, then who was I to hold back from a generous friend, or from his wife?
“Okay,” I said.
At breakfast the next morning, Leah did the honours. Coffee, full English, with sausage, bacon, mushrooms, beans and toast, even though the sun was good and the temperature, for England, was so high. Served on the patio, by the pool, bringing back visions of Leah in that see through swimsuit, only the white hem defining its outline on her body, emphasising her next to nakedness, not detracting from it.
The wrap that Leah wore while serving us was black. More Japanese kimono than English dressing gown. Fine, glistening in the sunlight like silk, it skimmed her butt. My guess was that underneath the wrap Mike’s wife was naked. The way her breasts moved unrestrained beneath it certainly suggested that. The way her cleavage showed supported my surmise. So did the occasional sighting of an under-buttock curve, although a thong can bare a butt while covering what is yet more private. So, no firm evidence. Just my belief.
The outdoor rattan table had been set for two. Leah brought out two coffee mugs, one cafetiere, two well laden plates, one rack of toast, butter, salt and pepper, mustard, strawberry jam, the last in case we wanted this on toast when the cooked food had been consumed. Several trips. Smiling each trip. No post coital embarrassment. No coyness about my having fucked her just eight hours before. At ease with us and with herself. But not eating with us, maybe because it turned out that Mike had things to say that were easier to say without her there.
We were mid-way through, having discussed with my onward journey, no need for a taxi to the station, Leah would take me, and my plans for the remaining time I had in England. Then it all came out.
“I wanted to say, ‘Thank you’”, Mike began.
I knew it had to be about what had happened in the night, but not why he would feel the need to thank me. It seemed more appropriate the other way around. A friend lends his wife to you, and you thank him. That would be good manners, just polite. A friend lends his wife to you and thanks you afterwards. That takes some explanation.
“Why?” I asked him.
“And to apologise,” Mike continued, as if he had not heard my question.
Which seemed just as out of place as thanking me had seemed. I had fucked his wife, so if an apology was due, it was from me. He was the innocent party in what had taken place, if anything the victim of what had been an illicit affair. I had enjoyed it. No need for an apology as far as I was concerned. No harm was done to me.
“Because?” I asked.
“Because I should have asked you first,” he said.
The same reversal applied. If anything, you might say that I should have asked Mike first. Except it had not been my intention to fuck his wife, just to get to meet her, get to know her a little, but never, in planning to call in on them, had I thought that I would bed her. She had come to my room, not the other way around. Definitely not the other way around. They slept together. I do not do threesomes. So although in one sense it might have been polite to ask my friend before I slid my cock inside his wife, it had been at her asking, not mine. She had come on to me.
Also, I had never asked before. Not once, in fucking numerus wives in Thailand, had I asked the husband if I could. Fuckable wives fall into two distinct and never to be confused categories. There are those who fuck behind their husband’s back, in which case asking his permission in advance would probably result in the negative, might lead to a violent response, and would in all probability be unhelpful to their relationship. The second category of wanton wives fuck other guys with the husband’s full knowledge and approval, because it turns their husband on, or because it gives them equal licence to fuck around, in which case no need to ask. Permission is granted by default. So I have never asked the husband first. Just fuck her and enjoy.
Besides, the moment that Leah walked through my bedroom door stark naked, and after the poolside display earlier, that afternoon, I knew that Mike would know exactly where she was and why. My best friend is no walk over. No wife would leave his bedroom for another man unless he had approved it. Any unhappiness on his part, and she would surely know. End of everything. Termination of all things marital. Mike had known, approved, wanted it, and now was thanking me, not just thanking, but apologising for not checking with me first, before the bedroom door was opened by his wife.
Just the same, I had never seen my friend as a guy to share his wife. Neither a swinger nor a willing cuckold. So for the moment, I said nothing. He had something more to say. I sensed that. Instead of saying anything, I sipped my coffee, looked him in the eye, and through that look I let him know that I was listening.
“Leah wants to have a child,” he said, “really wants one.”
He paused, then said, “I can’t. After my two were born, Maria and I decided two was enough, and I had the snip to make things simple. Big mistake! I never thought that things would fall apart or that I might find someone like Leah at this stage in my life.”
He paused again. Maria was Mike’s first wife. Nice person. Quite why they grew apart I did not know, although Mike had told me about difficulties in their relationship because she no longer wanted sex as much as she had before the boys. Whether that caused the break up, I did not know, but it was not entirely unexpected.
“It’s not fair to her,” Mike continued, meaning Leah, after a moment getting on top of the emotion behind what he was telling me. “We talked it over, before we married. I agreed that, one way or another, if she really wanted children, it was fine by me.”
Things fell into place. She had stopped me coming before she had my penis safely nudging at her womb. He will want to know if I had come inside her, she had said. No protection. No pulling out. I had thought that maybe she knew her menstrual cycle well enough to know that she was safe. Catholic contraception, rhythm. No risk of pregnancy. Or not much risk. Rhythm is risky in itself. But that was the case. More likely, Leah had known that she was hitting ovulation, that healthy sperm could fertilise an egg released inside her womb, and had wanted semen flooding her where it was most needed.
I did have some sympathy for my friend. If he was firing blanks, what better way to allow his wife to have the child she wanted than to have a friend provide the necessary living, swimming, healthy sperm to kick start the whole process. Better than some agency, using sperm donated by who knows who. Some loser needing a quick buck, jerking off for cash. Better ask a friend. Except he had not asked. He should have asked me first, like he had just said.
“We’ve tried with a couple of other friends,” Mike continued, “but no joy,… then knowing you were coming back from Bangkok for a while, I thought that,…”
“And knowing that I sleep around a bit,” I added, making joke of it to smooth the awkwardness of the conversation.
“That too,” he said, managing to smile.
At first, I did not know what to say. It was already pretty big that, for reasons unknown at the time, my friend’s wife had come to my room and initiated what had been some exquisite sex. Now that Mike had explained just what was going on, that made it even bigger. A total jaw dropper. Not just sex, but impregnation. The potential outcome a child. Technically, biologically, my child. Without my knowing that that was on the cards.
I used the remnants of my breakfast to delay saying anything more to Mike, while working out just what to say, how I felt about what he had just shared with me, and whether to tell him just why he should have asked me first. I sliced a half sausage that was getting lonely on my plate. Used it to wipe up some sauce left from the beans. I chewed slowly. Is mastication similar sounding to masturbation because the slower you do each of them, the more long lasting the enjoyment?
I also thought about what had happened the night before, after Leah had told me that Mike would want to know if I had come. I had turned things round a little. What had started with Leah taking the initiative, had ended with her allowing me to take control. Instead of lying on my back while she rode my cock all the way to orgasm, I had manoeuvred my way from being underneath, to having her kneeling on the sheeted mattress, while I entered her from behind and fucked her doggy, or maybe downward doggy, since mid-way through, her arms had given way, and her head and shoulders had buried themselves in the pillows, head facing sideways, back sloping, butt still high, still fuckable.
Mike had been right. Knowing that I sleep around a bit, he had known for sure that if Leah came to my bed, then I would fuck first, ask questions later. Even when she told me that Mike would want to know that I had come inside her, I had not asked myself why. Or asked her. She was eminently fuckable, and that was all that my delinquent cock needed to know.
Having got Leah into the all fours position, I had knelt behind her, held her by her pelvis and eased my cock slowly into her delicious cunt, taking it slow, not because she was too tight, or not yet wet enough, because her cunt was slick as hell, but because I wanted to savour the moment, to draw it out and make it last, to relish the sensations in my cock head as I slid deeper and yet deeper.
Once all the way inside her, I had held it there, sensing her body trembling, her vaginal muscles twitching, playing around my shaft, my cock head just that bit further inside her, pressing gently at her womb. Then I had begun to fuck.
Easing just as slowly out of her, until just my cock head was inside her, I held her steady for a moment then pushed back inside, fast, her entire body rocking forwards with the force of my torso hitting against her butt. Maybe it was the suddenness, or the intensity, but she gasped audibly at that first, exacting thrust. Easing out again, I thrust back inside her hard again. She gave a grunt this time. I eased out, thrust back, she gave a little cry. I set up a steady rhythm, established a pattern to my fucking, slow easing out of her slick cunt, flange of my cock head visible, wait a moment, hold her by her pelvis, thrust.
Each time, that first inch or so of pushing back inside her, the sensations in my cock head were deliciously magnified. It was not just sliding through a wet and ready vaginal tunnel, but for that initial re-entry, my cock was stretching her entrance wide enough again to accommodate the shaft, and that extra pressure on the nerve-packed head was beautifully exquisite. Ease out, hold, thrust. Out, hold, thrust. Again. And again. And again. And each and every time I slid my cock full depth inside her glorious cunt, she gave out a uncontrolled, involuntary grunt, a moan, a cry, a groan, a gasp.
Fucking her doggy, I was tempted by her perfect butt, twin globes of what would have been pure, white flesh were it not that in the dim moonlight there was that hint of blue. Tempted, not to fuck her other hole, because I am a cunt man, through and through, but tempted to use my palm, the flat of my hand, to punish those perfect buttocks, for making me want to fuck her cunt so much, for allowing it, for this wilful breach of wedding vows, with or without her husband’s knowledge, for playing the cock-loving whore to my cunt-loving darker side.
Except using my palm would have reddened her flesh. It would have meant sending her back to my long time friend, with clear evidence of punishment, of her submission, her acquiescence. She was not mine to forgive or to condemn, to praise or punish. That was for him. So I caressed her butt instead. Then I used my hand to trace her spine, from her lower back all the way to her slender neck, then further, where neck became skull, where it was shaved, where it was fetish smooth as if she did not just shave daily, but had used a razor just before she came to have me fuck her.
Then I reached beneath her, finding her swaying breasts, feeling the stiffness of thick nipple stubs against my palm, cupping them, then taking those stubs between finger and thumb, both stubs, both hands, my fucking of her cunt now momentarily slowed, and instead I punished her with just those two thimbles of vulnerable flesh, squeezing, twisting, and rolling them, both simultaneously, making her gasp and groan in the kind of pain that has no boundaries with pleasure, so that those nipple stubs would be reddened, evidence of the torture she had endured, and that was when her arms gave out, and she collapsed, still moaning, her entire body shuddering.
Her breasts now hard to reach, I held her hips instead and began to thrust again. Not now as hard, but neither were these thrusts slow. I deployed some strong, steady, carefully controlled fucking of her cunt, changing angles, screwing her, using my cock to probe and dip and delve into that cunt, withdrawing right to the last half inch of head before I thrust again, using the tightness of her entrance to stimulate the mushroom flange and frenum, no longer holding back, but bringing myself ever closer to that point of no return.
My flight from Bangkok had been overnight. My last fuck there had been two nights before. In total it had been more than three days since my last ejaculation. Fuck regularly, and the testes assume the you will need yet more semen straight away, in preparation for the next ejaculation. All they know is that they have to provide the life force that will provide for reproduction. They work overtime. Even if, because of long haul travel, fucking again might be delayed. Mine had been working overtime. Three days of sperm production, a full repository of hot, creamy semen awaiting discharge. I sank my cock deep one last time into that exquisite cunt, head deep inside her womb, and released a veritable flood. Given what he had just told me, Mike would have been delighted.
Except he should have asked me first. He should have told me that he wanted Leah inseminated, wanted her to have the child he craved, and was willing to have it fathered by another man. By me. Now that I knew, now that he had told me, I felt only sadness and regret.
“I think that I should take that as a compliment,” I said at last. “I mean, that you would want me,… would let me,… that I might be the father,… it feels like an honour.”
All of which was true, yet false. Falsehood does not always lie in what is said. As frequently it lies in what is left unsaid. I had decided not to tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. There was no need for truth. Time would reveal the truth to him. Time would let him down more gradually than I could do. I would say nothing more.
Later, Leah drove me to the station. Sitting beside her in her car, my cock reacted to the memory of her in her non-existent swimsuit, tempting me with her wide areoles and protruding labia, and the memory of the night before, her sliding naked onto my bed, her mouthing my cock, deep throating it, squatting on it, my fucking her from behind, my cock spewing semen into her. While my cock reacted, as of course it would, my head reflected on her desire to have a child that was so strong that she had come to me, a stranger, at least to her if not to Mike, and played the whore. You can pay a whore in cash. Her price had been my semen. More valuable than pound sterling. Not bankable, but more productive, in her mind. You could forgive a woman who desired a child so much that she would do even that.
But I did not tell her either. Sometime in the next few days or weeks, she would menstruate again, and she would know that she would need to try again. With someone else. Not me. Instead I thanked her, for driving me, for her hospitality, for everything, and we exchanged pure, wholesome kisses, on one another’s cheeks.
The fact is that I had had my own marriage, and from that marriage I already had a child. My train would take me further west, to where my now adult daughter and her husband would be meeting me. I would enjoy my last two weeks of leave with them before I returned to glorious, colourful Thailand, to bang more cunt as Her Majesty’s minor representative in beautiful Bangkok.
My wife had slept around. That hurt, and it ended things between us. Then, once our divorce was finalised, I started to make up for time lost while I had been naively faithful. A long and active sex life was my new life’s mission. With no commitment. With especially no risk of impregnating any woman that I slept with. The chance of inadvertent paternity did not excite me. Before my posting to Bangkok, I had visited a specialist in Harley Street and had had the snip.
So while it was good to have spent time catching up with Mike, and good to have met his wife, and an exquisite pleasure fucking her, and while it had been humbling to learn that Mike and she had felt me to be a fit and proper father, biologically, for their child, I was left saddened, that they would be disappointed. It would not happen. Mike should have asked me first.
*
Note: The author has published more than 30 stories here, all of ‘loving’ wives, although just what they love varies from story to story, and not everything is as it seems. You may wish to explore some of the others by clicking on his name. Enjoy, if it is your thing.