R Finch: The hottest wife

The water splashing against her crotch made it tingle all over, the sensitive lips of her snatch open and throbbing with the tremors coursing through her naked loins. She reached up with both hands and started cupping and squeezing her firm tits, her taut nipples hardening even more than they already were.

She trembled more by the second and kept trying to spread her thighs still wider. Her slick juices flowed from her cunt, and the water kept washing them away and carrying them down the drain.

The fire building between her legs got more and more intense, and she was soon groaning and squirming her bare ass round in the tub. Lying back until her hair was dipping into the water almost all the way, she slid her hands down over her slim waist and hips and gave the firm cheeks of her ass a quick squeeze. Then she took her slippery cunt-lips in her fingertips and spread them apart, holding them open.

The stream of water gushed straight up her pink snatch, the main force of it still centered on her quivering elk and driving her wild with pleasure.

She worked first one finger, and then another, slowly up into her tight cunt. The slick muscles of her pulsating snatch gripped them warmly, tugging at them as she worked her fingers in and out.

Fingering herself until her breathing was ragged and her forehead was dotted with sweat, she pushed her fingers as far up her cunt as she could get them and wriggled them around. Her clit tingled and throbbed wildly, and the longer she sat under the water, the better it felt.

While she was fingerfucking her snatch, she started jabbing her thumb at her clit, touching it every few seconds and sending shuddering spasms through her entire body. Her mind was filled with every indecent thing she could think of, vivid pictures of her sucking a man's cock or having it mm up her asshole running through her thoughts.

The more obscene her fantasies became, the harder and deeper she shoved her fingers up her cunt, her thumb the whole while pressing and squeezing her clit until she was ready to cry out.

Still working on her hairy cunt with one hand, she moved her other, hand down and touched at her puckered asshole with a fingertip. It throbbed at her touch, contracting and then opening wetly, and she began pushing her finger up her ass.

Bonnie's thighs shook, and her tits jiggled up and down with her heavy breathing, her nipples so swollen and distended she thought they'd burst. She had two fingers deep in her snatch and another jammed up her asshole, the pleasure she was giving herself building to a fever pitch.

The water cascading down on her clit was making her moan with delight, the hair covering her crotch dripping wet and matted back out of the way.

She kept fingering her pussy and her asshole, her entire body quaking as she neared the orgasm she wanted so desperately. Her juicy cunt was slick with her seeping juices and getting slicker, her tight cunt-hole grabbing wetly at her fingers as she worked them in and out.

When the staggering climax she worked towards smacked into her, Bonnie groaned as if she'd been kicked in the side, her ass twisting and squirming and sending water flying everywhere.

Her fingers worked faster still, stabbing up into her spasming cunt and asshole with a fury while her thumb squeezed her pink clit flat. She kept groaning and splashing water, her cunt-spasms shaking her to pieces.

The pleasure rippling outward from her climaxing cunt took her breath away, her gasping cries of ecstasy so loud she was afraid Norman would hear them.

Her snatch and asshole clenched wetly around her fingers one last time, and then the shivering tremors of her orgasm slowly faded away. She relaxed with a home moan, her body settling back into the tub as she stretched the knots out of her legs.

Norman was suddenly pounding on the door.

"Bonnie, are you all right?" he yelled. "Goddamn it, Bonnie, are you all right in there? Bonnie!?"

"I'm fine," she called out finally, thinking bitterly to herself that it was no thanks to him that she was.

The next afternoon, Bonnie felt surprisingly good – better, in fact, than she had in weeks. She hummed to herself as she cleaned the house, her mind occupied with thoughts of the screwing Norman had finally given her the night before. True, she reflected, he hadn't really satisfied her – he hadn't even seemed concerned about it – but at least they'd had sex together. That was certainly an improvement, considering the last month.

She worked in frayed jeans and a halter top, her hair fastened into a long pony tail with a red rubber band. She vacuumed and dusted and waxed and mopped, all the energy she'd been channeling into worry over her sex life now directed toward her housework. It was a relief to her that she and Norman were slowly working things out between them, and – always the optimist – she was eagerly looking forward to tonight.

Bonnie finished, and then she sat down on the couch with a tired sigh. She was exhausted, but the house was now spotless for when Norman got home.

Someone knocked on the front door, and Bonnie got up to answer it. She thought it might be Val, the divorcee who lived down the street and sometimes stopped by to talk, or even possibly Gary, stopping by for a romantic of their last feverish encounter.

So, she was surprised when she opened the door, and found the milkman, Jerry Hershall, standing there with a sheepish look on his face.

"Hi, Jerry," she nodded with a smile, wondering what he wanted. That he was hand-delivering the milk to her seemed a bit odd. "Is there anything the matter? Is my bill behind again?"

"No, it's nothing like that," he said. He glanced up and down the block nervously, almost as if looking to see if anyone were watching. Finally, he said, "Mrs. Evans – uh – I – uh – that is…"

He stood there getting more and more flustered, his swarthy complexion turning red as he blushed for reasons Bonnie couldn't quite figure out. He was only as tall as she was, but he was built so solidly and rough-looking, that she couldn't imagine him being embarrassed about anything.

"What's the matter, Jerry?" she asked with a trace of alarm. "You don't look so well."

"I don't?" he asked quietly, more to himself than to Bonnie, then added quickly, "Listen, Mrs. Evans, I'm feeling really sick suddenly. Do you think I could come in and lay down for just a minute until it passes? I hate to be a bother, but I'm just so damn dizzy."

And he staggered a bit, clutching his middle with both hands, so that Bonnie had to step aside and let him inside.

He was sprawled out on his back on the couch before she even realized that he wasn't carrying any milk with him. She stared at him thoughtfully, curious as to what exactly he was up to.

"Thanks," he said gruffly, glancing over at her. He kicked his shoes off and just lay there his breathing heavy.

Bonnie shrugged and closed the door. She'd known Jerry Hershall the entire three years she'd lived in Carter – he being the neighborhood milkman when she and Norman had moved in – and it seemed unlikely to her that he meant any harm, whatever he was up to.

"How do you feel?" she asked, concerned and curious at the same time.

"I think I've got a fever," he croaked. "Could you feel my forehead?"

Bonnie's eyes narrowed at his request, but she walked over and rested her palm on his head. It felt neither hot nor cool. "It feels all right to me," she said.

"Tell me how this feels, then," he said, suddenly lunging at her and puffing her down on the couch with him. His hands were all over her, one squeezing her ass through her jeans and the other pulling at her halter top. Before Bonnie could even get a word out, he had her top up and his face pressed into her bare tits, his mouth sucking at one dark nipple furiously.