David Crane: The wife_s young lover

That memory was so pleasant that the oversexed woman decided to complete her self-satisfaction there instead of the bedroom, in which only her husband had ever looked at her cunt. She loved her husband and regretted the dark passions that had led her to cuckold him – but Charles was an adult, a handsome man with a hairy chest and a mature bearing. Love had nothing to do with it. It was pure lust and it revolved around smooth-skinned young virgin boys with bursting dicks desperate with puberty.

Marlene stood beside the couch, and drew her dress off so that she was naked. Then she sat on the couch – in the exact same position she had assumed when Mike Parker had been watching hex from the telephone stand.

She pretended that he was there now.

Her mind, weaved a fantasy: she imagined that Mike had come in to use the phone and that, for some reason, she had not known that he was in the room – or more precisely, he had not known that she was aware of his presence.

After all, no one could blame her for exciting the boy if it were strictly accidental, could they? A woman was entitled to play with here pussy in private. If a horny lad happened to see what she was doing, it was simply a mistake.

With the background thus fixed in her mind, Marlene began to masturbate with utter happiness.

She stroked her cuntlips until those enflamed flaps had unfurled like the petals of a fleshy pink blossom, opening to the morning sun, streaked with creamy dew.

She rubbed her stiff tingling clit and shuddered as the spasms of sensation ran like electricity through her belly and down her widely spread thighs.

She pushed her middle finger up her cunt to the knuckle and stirred it about, and her cunt sucked on the slender digit and her thumb caressed her clit. She was pretending that her finger was Mike Parker's cock. But one finger was not enough for that pretense. She had noticed how large the lump in his pants was when he'd seen her cunt, and she felt happily convinced that the boy had a sizable prick.

And she knew perfectly well that Billy Wilson had a huge pecker, so she began to think about him, as well, so that both boys became united in her mind – became the prototype youth for which she lusted – slim, hairless, innocent and equipped with a gigantic cock. It didn't matter that the two boys did not look alike. They blended admirably into a single entity in her thoughts.

She added a second finger, then a third and, finally, began to push all four fingers in and out of her juicy cunt, holding them bunched together so that they were just about the right breadth to simulate a cock.

After a few moments, she drew them out and brought them to her mouth. Her fingers were streaked with cunt-cream. Marlene began fucking her mouth with her hand, imagining that her fingers were a cock and that the slippery cuntjuice that soaked them was hot jism.

While she fed herself on this cock substitute, she rubbed her cunt with her other hand. When that was frothy with cunt-oil, she switched hands. The taste of Billy's cum was, still lingering in her mouth, and it seemed to heat up again and blend very nicely with the slightly different flavor of her steaming pussy nectar.

By this time her crotch was glowing.

Her mind seemed to be melting just like her cunt. The fabric of her thoughts and imagination broke down and the images she was using to arouse herself flowed out of shape like hot wax. The oversexed woman could no longer concentrate on fantasy. She had become a creature of blind thoughtless need now, confined to the physical.

She began to masturbate with both hands, abandoning her mouth and using both hands on her cunt. She spread her cunt lips open with one hand, thumbing her clitoris as well while she steadily finger-fucked her wanton pussy with the other hand, still using all four fingers.

Thick ribbons of cuntjuice poured from her slot and ran down her crotch and seeped into the tight crack of her ass. The cushions were soaked under her as she thrashed about, grinding her hips and humping her belly up and down and extending her legs out as she arched her back.

Her orgasm swept her up like the hand of a giant, tossing her into a whirlpool of sensation. She whimpered and moaned and gasped. She felt as if her skeleton were coming disjointed, her blood boiling, her whole being melting into the hot flow of her flooding cunt.

She cried out aloud as the come lashed her. She hovered at the height of sensation, her cunt going off like a machine gun in a series of orgasms that came so fast, one upon the other, that they seemed to be one prolonged wave of ecstasy that coursed through her forever.

At last, it ended.

She continued to caress her cunt, working out the terminal spasms of her passion, but her hands slowed gradually and then stopped moving. She held her drained cunt cupped in both hands, as if jealously possessing it.

A contented smile turned her mouth up at the corners and her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Never had she enjoyed herself more, she realized. Thee was a lot to be said for sucking off a precious young pecker and letting her own pussy stew in its own juices for a little while. It made the eventual climax dynamic.

After a while she got up, weak-kneed. She stood there naked for a moment, as if uncertain whether her loins were truly satiated or might require another hand-job before she got dressed. But she was drained – for the moment.

That was just as well, she knew. It would hardly be seemly if she had reached a stage when she had to finger-fuck herself for hours on end. She put her dress on and went out to make some coffee. She didn't put any underwear on. Her husband would be home soon and she felt that she ought to give him a nice fuck – as if to make up for having cuckolded him by being attentive.

She wondered if she would be compelled to ever do a wicked thing like that again.

When the coffee started to percolate, the amber fluid spurting out of the basket reminded her very much of a cock ejaculating. She smiled wanly at her capacity for sexual imagery. She hoped that she wouldn't have to cheat on Charles again.

But she wouldn't have bet on it.

The Golden Garter was not the only bar on Broad Street. There were quite a few of them, each one more grimy and sordid than the last. Directly across the street from the Garter was the Regency, a gloomy place with sawdust on the floor and twenty-cent draft beer.

Billy Wilson's father was standing at the bar in the Regency, looking out the grimy window.

Clyde Wilson did not look at all like his son. He was a burly, brawny, hairy fellow with a shock of unruly black hair on his head and a few wisps of the same dark stuff curling out at the open neck of his ragged flannel shirt.

His eyebrows met above his nose in a solid black, bar. Thick hair sprouted from his nostrils and from his ears, one of which was folded over in a classic cauliflower configuration, which had happened when he had fallen down, drunk, and banged it on the edge of a bar, but which he attributed to a mythical Golden Gloves experience.

He had been observing Billy at work, trying to calculate how much money his son was earning shining shoes and trying to figure out how he could get it away from the industrious youth.

It annoyed Clyde that Billy was a hardworking lad.

Clyde had never worked a day in his life, and he wondered where the boy had got such an unlikely trait. Billy's mother was a slattern who stacked the dishes up in the filthy sink for weeks at a time, so the kid obviously had not inherited his industry from her. That mysterious trait, along with the fact that Billy did not resemble Clyde, often gave Clyde pause to pander about parenthood and to wonder if his slut of a wife had got knocked up by some other guy – some hairless, hardworking fellow.