Duncan Fox - Deep throat wife

She came, suddenly and violently, almost unexpectedly. The organ raged through her like a brash fire. Her legs shivered and shuddered and it took a powerful effort of will to keep still enough to avoid being perforated by the pen. She could actually feel it scratching far up inside her dirt road, scratching her muscular, tender walls. Her cunt flooded with sex juices, drowning her hand. She felt something dripping down over her asshole, her violated, penetrated, exploited asshole she wailed as her hand slipped and she dropped to her back on the desk. She felt papers, cold and crackly, under her bare back. She felt her garder belt stretching and straining as her legs spread wider and wider.

And still that damn pen was stirring her shit. Suddenly the producer was towering over her. He was still holding the pen in her brown bung. She felt him wrench her hand away from her cunt, felt his stubby dick jam at her pussy hole, and then burrow into her slime-soaked depths.

Throwing her arms wide, she sent a calendar flying in one direction, a stack of papers in the other. She abandoned herself to being spiked by a blunt cock and a sharp pen. Her clit was mangled between their pubic bones. Her cunt was stretched wide by his thick, determined prick.

He began to fuck her. He slammed his cock into her as she lay there on his desk. Her ass squirmed with each impact. The maddening pen kept scraping and scratching her bung as his cock ravaged her cunt. His hairy belly rubbed her belly raw as he slammed his dick into her snatch. She writhed and squirmed under the assault.

He started to come. It was another slow, powerful eruption, just like the one she had taken in her mouth. She felt the heavy pulses of jizz burn her cunt walls, pool in her gut as his balls wrung dry. He stayed on top of her until his prick was down to nothing. Then he eased back off her.

She didn't dare move as he sat back in his chair. She heard a humidor open, and close, then the flick of a lighter. A stinking blue cloud of cigar smoke drifted over her. She lay on her back. Her head was hanging off the edge of his desk, her legs still thrown wide.

Because the pen was still in her asshole, she held herself rigidly still. She was terrified to do anything that might force the sharp tip through her thin rectal wall.

Then her crapping reflex took over, and she shat out the slender probe. With a whimper of relief, she sat up. The producer was sitting smugly in his chair, a cigar in one hand, the pen in the other. Delicately, he sniffed first the cigar, then the end of the pen that had been rammed up her butt.

Karen's gut heaved. She barely made it to the john in time. When she was done retching, she looked at herself bleakly in the mirror. Her lush body heavy warm tits thick brown snatch looked unchanged. But inside, she felt changed. She wondered what she would try next. If the man had asked her to lick the pen off, she knew she would have done it. She had sunk that low.

She returned to the office and sat down in the chair he indicated, without even thinking of dressing. He was still naked, too. He flipped a stack of papers across the desk to her. "These are the questions you'll get tomorrow."

Karen gaped at him, and made no move to pick them up. "But, that's cheating!!"

"Look, you got to answer the questions to get anything. And your opponent isn't an idiot. Take 'em."

"What did he have to do to get on the show?" she asked bitterly.

"Shit, you enjoyed it, and you know it," the man snorted. "Got any problems with any of the questions?"

Karen ran her eye down the list. The questions were simple. She wondered if what she had just been through was worth it. Then she admitted sourly that she had enjoyed it, and was enjoying herself now, sitting here naked while Bernstein stared at her lush tits and moist brown snatch.

"Why are you doing this? Isn't it illegal?"

"Yeah, but they all do it," he answered.

"Why?"

"Because, the audience likes winners, and losers, if the right people are the winners and the losers. You're a nice, wholesome housewife, young and pretty, but not too pretty. The audience'll automatically be on your side, and when you win, that'll make 'em feel good."

"And my opponent?" she asked.

"He's a nice young guy who we want to do well. But we don't want him to win," the producer answered. "He's not quite as simpatico as you are. So, he gives you a good run for your money, and goes home with a little less than you do."

"But, what if I screw up?"

"That's your problem. We'll give you all the help we can, but there are limits. And be sure to wear a bra. We can't have you flapping all over the stage." He relighted his cigar. "You can get dressed now."

Wearily, Karen dressed. She left the questions sitting on the desk.

"Hey, don't you want these?" he asked as he knotted his tie.

"No," she answered. "No, I don't want them. I'll do it on my own, or not at all."

Karen started to lean back in the barber chair. The make-up man stopped her. "Wait a minute, honey. Better take off your blouse. Don't want to get powder or something on it."

Karen started to protest. Then she reconsidered. From the way the man talked, walked, and dressed, she had nothing to worry about. She reminded herself bitterly of all she had already done. Why be shy about taking her shirt off?

He deftly unbuttoned the blouse and helped her out of it. When she leaned back, the leather of the chair was cold on her bare skin. She felt goose bumps rising on her arms as the man tipped the chair back and adjusted it.

"You look a little chilly," the man observed. "I'll turn the heat up a little. Damn energy crisis has us all shivering around here."

Karen tried to relax, tried not to think about the fact that the show was about to be taped. The make-up artist bustled around the room, then seated himself on a stool beside her. There was a round table of cosmetics by his elbow.

"Hmmm, let's see now," he mused. "Light brown hair. Very pretty, I might add. Uhmn, blue eyes, and a lovely, lovely complexion. Unfortunately, the lights would make you wash out so you'd look like a faded sheet. So, we do a little lightening here, a little heightening there, a touch of lip rouge. Want your friends to re-organize you."

The chair and the room were both warming up, but Karen still felt goose-pimply. The effeminate manner of the man disturbed her. His complete lack of reaction to the generous mounds of her jugs irritated her. Even though he was clearly more interested in his own sex than in hers, she couldn't understand how he could not even look at her boobs. Here she was, lying back, half-naked, and he was treating her like a museum specimen. She shifted in the chair.

"I don't see why I need all of this," she observed, making conversation in an effort to make him treat her as a person. "I put on make-up this morning."

"And a very good job you did, too," he said. "Though I might criticize your choice of lipstick. But, honey, this is TV. Matter of fact, this is color TV. What we have to do is accent the colors so you look like you." He smiled mechanically.

"What color lipstick would you recommend?" she asked as he sponged off all the make-up she had put on so painstakingly.

"Well, first let's talk about your eyes," he answered. "You have lovely, lovely eyes." His fingers softly brushed her eyebrows, smoothing them. "An eyeshadow that accents the beautiful blue is what I would recommend. Like this one." He held up a container.

"I see," she murmured, pleased at having gotten his attention, and the compliments. She felt her tits hardening in her bra, and shivered delicately with lust. She licked her lips nervously.

"For a rouge, this," he went on, holding up another tube. Karen ignored it, and focused her eyes on his. He had lovely, deep brown, soft eyes. Mis face was baby smooth. Rather gaunt with high cheekbones. His rich brown hair was modishly long, yet neat. In the open vee of his shirt Karen could see curly brown hair. She had the urge to run her fingers through it.