Robert Taylor: Bored wife

The girl was helpless then. She let Betsy unzip her dress and push it tumbling to the floor. That milky body, the salmon-colored nips, the red pubic bush! Betsy could just kiss her all over, but instead moved her to the counter stool.

Trembling, wide-eyed, the girl let herself be seated on it, legs spread wide.

Betsy gasped George's cock and brought him to his wife, nipped the head into her split. George shoved and the bulky cock, oiled by Betsy's juices, slid right up his wife's hole.

The girl whimpered, as though about to cry again. But she must have felt the cock inside her stir, for she scrunched to her husband, clung, squirmed, and gazed over his shoulder at Betsy.

George's asscheeks narrowed and hardened as he rooted in, stirring about in her cunt as he had in Betsy's, and Vera moaned, her eyes narrowing to murky, sex-hot slits.

Betsy thought: They need time to adjust. She found cigarettes on the counter, lit one, then took a fresh drink and turned from them.

"Betsy," Vera said huskily, almost moaning. "Do you really think – you and George…"

"I'll leave you for a while to talk it out." She smiled. "Or fuck it out."

Betsy went to the door. There she glanced back and saw Vera's legs lift from the stool, encircle her husband's waist, and clamp in firmly.

Her eyes closed as he began arching into her, fucking long and slow.

Alone in the dining room, Betsy took stock.

She could hear the counter stool squeaking on the floor as George and Vera went at it. In the living room, soft dance music. On the root drumming spats of rain. She gazed out the window at her own house, a single light in the living room. Through silvery rain it looked miles distant, but that was still too close. And Jim? I'm a disloyal, cheating cunt, she thought. But maybe he was fucking June, his secretary. Hope so. Anything to keep him from coming here and disrupting my – what shall I call it – my voyage, my expedition of discovery, my search for the real Betsy who once was pleased to be called Mrs. Jim Walters. Now – Betsy Cunt? Yes. I'm Betsy Cunt.

A breeze from the open window chilled the wetness on her inner thighs. Must clean up a bit. She cast about, saw a box of tissues. She scrubbed some on her thighs and pussy lips, caught sight of a mirror and went to it. Color high, eyelids heavy, lips swollen from kissing; a rather voluptuous pair of tits. Christ, the erection of the nipples appeared permanent, and as she raised her anus to push tousled hair into some sort of order her breasts jostled heavily, and looked swollen straight out from her chest. My boobies, she thought, I could knock a lamp over if I turned fast!

She could not see in the mirror if her clit protruded into view but a fingertip discovered it well out of the notch. So I guess I look well fucked, she thought, though I only came once on George's cock, but I will again tonight, darling George, yes, next time I'll take your load spraying up my hole.

She stood there a moment longer, sipping her drink and smoking the cigarette. Then she threw the butt out the window and sauntered toward the living room feeling simply marvelous, her walk fluid, bare ass swaying, titties wobbling heavily, her gaze as sultry as that of an alley cat on the prowl.

The four were dancing, Laura belly-rubbing Colby, Doris looking tiny in the arms of the tall Tom.

Tom saw her. He stopped, gaping. Doris followed his glance. She gave a little shriek. Laura's face jerked to Betsy, raven bangs swinging, dark eyes wide until she broke up, pealing laughter, Colby joining in.

Having made her entry, pausing for dramatic effect and giggling at them, Betsy said, "My clothes went away. Anybody seen them?"

Laura dropped to the couch, screeching with laughter. Yes, this was a private joke; only this morning Laura had begun removing layers of prudishness from her next-door neighbor. Now Laura was outdone. And, being herself, while laughing she curled an arm behind her back and unzipped her dress, staggered to her feet, peeling it off over her head, came rushing to Betsy naked and throwing the dress away.

She flung into Betsy's arms, again those two pairs of big tits squishing together, and each belly was tickled by the other's pubic hair.

Little Doris' face was mottled, somehow gone pale and blushing wildly at the same time. Her husband, Colby, was laughing nervously.

Only Tom acted. He turned to the record player, pushed buttons, and slapped on a new disc.

The speakers roared, blasting rock music.

The pound of it Betsy felt like the drive of George's cock reaming her hole. Just the thing! She threw her arms up and began cranking them to the beat. Laura whooped and spun around, tits flying, and the two hurtled into the rhythm of dozens of amplified guitars, kicked with the drum crashes and yelled more shrilly than a shrieking clarinet.

Tom rushed to them tearing off his red knit shirt, took a hand of each and whirled them, spun between, lost their hands and collided with a couch. Back again, the dance a whirling triangle. Laura snatched at his pants, got his zipper down. Blue and yellow shorts stabbed out the opening, stretched by his erection.

Tom whooped, kicking his shoes off, cranking one arm while fumbling at his pants waist clasp with the other. He backpedaled to let Colby come pounding in, Colby stripping off his shirt.

"Doris!" Laura cried.

Doris was scrunched up in a corner of the couch, saucer eyes fixed on the dancing quartet, naked and half naked. She saw Tom's cock burst out of his shorts fly as stiff and long as a ball bat, and she shut her eyes.

"Doris too!" Betsy called, took Tom and Colby's hands and danced the whirling, kicking foursome to the space between the couches, descending upon the frightened girl.

They seized her up, the four of them, yanking her into the whirl of flapping tits and Tom's wagging cock, Colby's too now that he tore his pants open. A beauty, Betsy thought, fiery red and so hard it hooked upward bearing a cunt-buster knob, but oh Tom darling, that prong of yours must be a foot long with that big, flaring head – Tom and Colby each held one of Doris' arms and they whirled so rapidly, the tempo of the music now an insane rattling crescendo, that the girl was spun right out of herself. And she began to laugh hysterically, was suddenly cranking her arms and kicking with the rest of them.

As Laura kicked, high, Betsy glimpsed the wet red split between thickly haired cunt lips that she had lapped so eagerly this morning. And me, I'm showing off my gash, kick higher, higher, titties hopping and lurching, even Doris laughing at our craziness. Colby's pants are at his knees, hobbling him, and what a long scrotum he has, the way his nuts swat about his thighs! He trips on his pants, spills to the floor, his laughing a moment and then Laura stoops and grabs his pants cuffs and yanks them oft stripping away his shoes too. Colby is up wearing only yellow socks; his cock wagging as stiffly as though rooted into his spine but his nuts flying everywhere!

Tom holds his pants up with one hand, afraid of tripping like Colby and reluctant to break the nutty kicking, arm-flinging, hip-jerking – yes, the rhythm is strictly fuck-dance beat. He loses his grip on Doris, throwing her off balance, stumbling to Betsy and here she comes, that little girl wearing a dress and doubtless bra and panties.

She slams into Betsy's anus.

At that moment the record ends, the music stopping as abruptly as though the record player had fallen through the floor to the cellar.

Betsy held in her arms a Doris who was screaming with laughter.

And hugging her, squeezing tight to her tits and belly.

Then she buried her face in Betsy's throat.

The girl was squirming, rubbing their bodies together.