Robert Taylor: Bored wife

But Betsy, despite her cum, could feel her cunt still sucking in on its empty self.

It wanted cock.

They had washed their faces and tidied their hair, and left the bathroom with arms tightly about each other, Vera's bra and panties remaining behind.

At an open bedroom door Vera stopped, begged, "Please, sweetheart? To bed?"

"We can't, darling. We'd ruin the party. And we can't just sneak away to make love. We have to settle it with George. He has to accept you as a person with rights of your own."

"I can't face him."

"We'll face him together."

But they did not have to. In the living room people were dancing to the slow, quiet music Betsy had heard before. George with Laura, Tom and little Doris.

Colby, who was draining a glass, saw them, and after swallowing hard, called, "How long does it take to pee?"

It sounded like "bee". Amused, Betsy decided he was drunk. A silly ass, this Colby, grinning like a jack-o-lantern.

And Laura cried, "The john's free at last. Me having to piss a gallon!"

She broke from George and ran off to the bedroom hall.

The music had ended. Doris scuttled from Tom and scrunched into a corner of one of the couches, primly tugging her skirt down over her knees, reminding Betsy of a girl who had nerved herself up to a duty dance, and now breathed a sigh of relief that it was over.

Tom caught Betsy's eye, his look inquiring. Winking toward Vera, she nodded. He grinned, apparently pleased.

She saw the knob of his cock pushing out at his pants, forming a tent. From dancing with Doris! And once again she felt a stab of jealousy.

She slipped from Vera over to Tom and whispered hoarsely, "Tom, I've got to. I need it inside me."

He put an arm about her and turned her from the group, saying, low-voiced, "Look, we're breaking ice. Warming them up. Laura was riding George's leg and he loved it. The bastard's cock is sticking out like a hammer handle."

Betsy shot her hand over to Tom's prick and gripped the horny shank, whispering, "I've had all the lapping I can take. I need meat up my hole!"

"Honey, I'm the ringmaster of this circus. I can't leave them."

"You said George, is horny. I'll take him to the kitchen, I'll seduce him."

As she spoke her hand roved on that hard cock and fat head that she wanted so desperately.

"Do that."

Her gaze shot up at him, hurt. "But Tom, it's you I want!"

"The party won't be a success until everybody is horny for everybody. I haven't got the only cock in Horny Haven."

But the one she held, throbbing now under her caresses, obsessed her.

She straightened. "All right, Tom. It is your party." She turned from him and looked about for George.

George had clutched his wife's arm and was whispering in her ear while she, Vera, bit her lip and looked terribly unhappy.

Betsy moved toward them, moved all over, hips rolling and titties wobbling heavily before her, lashes low, gazing with feline lewdness at George, looking up his hard torso and at the erection still lifting his pants.

She slipped in between them, slithering, separating husband and wife, saying, "Vera, George is going to help me make drinks."

She used muscle in starting him toward the kitchen. She was of equal height with George, not as heavy, but as she measured their respective weights she had no feeling of being a frail reed.

She vined her hands about his arm – solid with muscle – and chinned his shoulder, saying, "You can teach me mathematics, George. I never got beyond six times seven because it kept coming out forty-one."

"I thought it was forty-three," he grinned. "But – um – Bets…"

"Betsy."

"Well Betsy, about Vera. Girls. I mean her and girls – you know what I mean? Sometimes I can't touch her for weeks and weeks."

"Maybe she needs those weeks to be herself," Betsy said.

"But a guy in bed with his wife every night…"

"That's the trouble. That's wrong."

He stopped her in the kitchen doorway. "You're saying marriage is wrong?"

"I'm beginning to think it's a lot of shit." She strode from him to the sink shelf where the drink makings were laid out. She did not neglect to roll her ass heavily as she walked, and at the sink stood with a hip cocked out.

"I'm very confused," George said.

Betsy spilled ice cubes into gasses. "I'm not. I'm fed up with my husband and I'm alone in a kitchen with a nice mathematician and poetry lover and I intend to make the most of it."

She turned on him, saw George blushing and looking away.

She said, "If you alternated weeks, sleeping with Vera one week, me the next, you'd have all the hot pussy you could handle."

He scowled. "Betsy, you're just trying to shock…"

"Shock you, yes, shock you out of stupid habits, out of a rut people have been in too long."

She switched back to the counter and poured whiskey on the ice cubes. Speaking sharply to George seemed to have cleared her mind. She meant to seduce him, but in her way. With pride!

He was behind her now. She turned, handing him a drink, took one herself and sipped it, gazing steadily at him over the din of her glass.

He smiled crookedly, said, "I like rational argument. Don't often get it from a woman. So tell me about marriage."

"No, I'll tell you about me. Something happened to me this morning and I woke up like shot out of a gun. I'm going to be me, Betsy, not Mrs. Pampered Housewife whose husband is so overbearing that I lose my nerve and can't even balance my checking account. So we'll start with what I am."

She set her drink on the counter and yanked her skirt up to her waist.

"See, George, I'm a cunt. Down under all that pubic hair there's just a split, and in it three important things. A clit like a miniature prick. A pee hole. And a fuckhole."

He flicked a glance down at her pubes, then away. Smiling wryly, he said, "This is a very strange rational argument."

Still holding her skirt up she said, "Whereas you, George, have a cock that can erect and point straight ahead like a gun. Maybe men like guns because they are superior cocks. Anyhow, men follow their pointing pricks. This is called masculine drive. Supposedly women lack drive because they lack cocks. But that's only an argument to keep men in power. Because brains run the world and my brains are not in my cunt. Go on, hunt brains in my cunt, George! Feel me up! Go ahead!"

George giggled. "I grant you the argument."

"I haven't proven it yet. I will. Go ahead, put your hand on my pussy."

Blushing, he reached between her legs and pressed his palm to Betsy's cunt.

And she grabbed his cock, feeling his hand curl closed on her pussy lips.

She said, low-voiced, "There, George. We're both people, one cocked and one cunted. Marvelously, we need each other, cock in cunt. Plug in hole. But I'm not waiting for you to ask or insist. I'm the aggressor."

"You're saying you want me to fuck you?"

"Na, I want us to share a fuck."

He smiled. "The word fuck comes from Anglo-Saxon. It meant, to plow. So it's male, a plowing of the female."

"And that I'm changing. Betsy doesn't get fucked, she fucks with men."

George laughed abruptly. "Betsy, I like you!"

And she, squeezing his stony prick, measuring it with fingertips running out its length, wondered why her bathroom lover had said her husband's cock was small.

She at last released it and pushed his hand from between her legs, saying, "Let's knock back our drink."

Together they leaned on the counter, his arm about her now, she cuddled to his side, and sipped their drinks.

He said thoughtfully, "You think I should let Vera have her girl friends?"

Betsy nodded. "Let her invite them home. You sleep in the spare room – on a couch – George, this marriage stuff smothers us." Then, warming as she rubbed against him, Betsy whispered, "George, you could put your hand under my skirt."