David Ingram - The naughty bride

But he did stop. John had drained his balls and all he felt now was disgust, good old Midwestern Puritan disgust. It felt so good while he was doing it. Why did it feel so bad after he was done?

"Sock it to me, baby," Eva said. "My ass wants some more."

John thought he would get sick. He pulled out. He got to his feet and went out on the balcony. "Don't leave me, darling. Fuck me some more," he heard Eva say.

He sat in a big chair. She wasn't a virgin when they got married. She was one well-fucked broad. Only nineteen and probably fucked more times than he had. He still wore his shirt and fished for a cigarette, the vision of his virginal bride fading into nothingness. He lit the cigarette and imagined a man, any man, lying on top of Eva, his stiff cock thrust up inside her. She moaned and wriggled with pleasure, trying to get the man's prick deeper, and then all of a sudden he had pulled out and she was sucking it, sucking another man's cock. The man grunted and hunched against her beautiful face and came, pouring his filthy slime into her mouth. Eva moaned with desire and swallowed it.

John drug deeply on his cigarette and looked down at his crotch. He was surprised to see that he was erected. His hand wrapped around his turgid meat. God, he thought, I haven't jerked off since I was sixteen. His hand, slid slowly, lovingly up and down on his prick. He imagined Eva when she was nine years old – she was beautiful even then – she was at a dance class in tight, red leotards, her tits straining in the thin fabric. Girls of nine don't have tits, he thought. She was standing in a corner with a little boy; she had his cock out in her tiny hand and she was masturbating him. The little boy squirted his white stuff onto her red leotards at the same instant that John squirted his cum onto his hand.

He heard a noise and turned. Eva was at the bar. She's a drunk as well as a whore, he thought. He saw her drinking straight from the bottle and then she fell down. She didn't get up. He sat for a long time before he got up and went in to where she lay.

John pushed his wife over with his foot. She was so lovely, so desirable, even passed out cold, maybe even dead – he didn't really care which.

She lay motionless, totally inert, while he fucked her there on the floor. It was impossible, once a night had been his best, yet he was hard and throbbing inside her juiced-up pussy. He imagined he was someone else, maybe a stupid, worthless bellboy, and ejaculated inside her. He was in a state of shock and fucked her until he came again. This time he was a pony; no, a stallion with a huge red and purple cock that split her wide open.

Afterwards, he got to his knees and hit her in the face with his fist. When he laid her gently on the bed her nose was bleeding. He hit her again.

He went back to the balcony and sat down. The tears wouldn't stop; he cried like a baby. He decided that he was a monster. He had used his fists on a woman, his own wife, beaten her up because she liked his prick. It was natural for a woman to like a man's prick; that's what it was all about. He had taken his little virgin bride and broken her cherry and when she liked it, he hated her for it. She was much too good for him, he decided, and fell asleep.

When Eva awakened the next morning, John was already up and gone. She tried to roll over and cried out. The slightest movement hurt, and her mouth was dry and her head was splitting and she needed to piss. It took several minutes to get enough courage to raise herself to a standing position. She wasn't sure what all had happened to her, but her cunt felt like hamburger and walking was a royal pain – a royal pain in the ass.

After relieving herself, she went to the mirror and cried out again at what she saw. Her upper lip was crusted with dry blood and she had a black eye to end all black eyes. She washed away the blood, careful not to touch her shiner because it was badly swollen and hurt even without touching it.

Bewildered and disillusioned, she filled the huge sunken tub with hot water and let her aching body down into the soothing warmth. She was immersed, her eyes closed, when John returned to the suite.

He was standing beside the tub when she heard him. Her eyes flew open. "John! What happened to me? Look at my eye. It hurts! I'm hurt!" she cried. "You, uh… you got terribly drunk last night, darling. You fell and hit your face against the arm of a chair."

She felt confused. Why hadn't he cleaned her up and taken care of her. Why was he gone when she woke up? "And my head is splitting," she said.

"I said you got drunk. Are you too stupid to figure out that you have a hangover?" he said curtly.

That's it. He's angry with me for getting drunk on our wedding night. He hates me. "I'm so ashamed of myself," she said.

John turned so he wouldn't have to look at her. He was ashamed, too, but he had started the charade of what happened and he would have to carry it through.

"Would you get me an aspirin or something?" she asked timidly.

"Of course, darling," he said, and then looked at her coldly.

"You're sorry, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, darling."

"Never again," she said softly, looking down at the water to avoid his glaring eyes.

When she emerged from the tub, John was still standing in the doorway. "We're going horseback riding as soon as you're dressed," he said.

"I can't go horseback riding. I feel terrible, and besides, I don't know how to ride a horse."

"You can learn," he said.

He sat and smoked while she got dressed to go riding.

On the way to the elevator, Eva stopped. "I forgot something in the room. I'll be right back," she said.

"Well, hurry it up. We're late now."

She went back to the suite and went straight to the bar. "The hair of the dog," she said, and gulped down two shots.

By the time they got to the lobby, she felt better, but John wouldn't let her eat any breakfast. Said there wasn't time; if she expected breakfast she shouldn't lay in bed all day. It was eight-thirty-two.

John was an expert horseman and they rode until noon. They had a light lunch when they got back to the hotel, and even though Eva was starved, she didn't mind because it hurt so bad to sit down that she couldn't eat, anyway.

"We'll rest for forty-five minutes and then play some tennis." John said as he finished his tea.

"I don't know how to play tennis." Eva said.

"I'll teach you." John said.

Exactly forty-eight minutes later, they were on the tennis court. He tutored her for an hour. Eva learned quickly and was doing quite well, but John was an outstanding tennis player and was soon bored. He told her to sit down and rest while he played a set with a more experienced player. The more experienced player turned out to be an attractive, very rich widow of forty-one. The set lasted until six that evening. Eva lay on her stomach in the grass and watched, seething with jealousy.

John invited the woman to dine with them and afterwards they played bridge. Eva didn't know how to play bridge, either, and sat watching until nine, when John got up from the table and announced it was bed time; they had to get an early start in the morning. He didn't fuck her that night.

The next day started at six a.m. and was a repeat of the day before, except they played golf instead of tennis. The widow was an excellent golfer, as was John. Eva played along behind. The bridge game lasted until ten, and again John didn't fuck her. He turned his back at the far side of the bed and went immediately to sleep.

By the end of the third day, horseback riding no longer chafed the insides of her thighs raw; she was an expert at watching a tennis game and tagging behind on a golf course, and she could eat all she wanted at dinner because John didn't notice – his attention was focused on the widow's pearly smile and the cleavage the big-titted woman flaunted. Eva wouldn't have been surprised if he had spent the night in her bed, but he didn't. He went dutifully to bed with his bride, though he didn't touch her.