Ron Taylor - Wife in the middle

It's doubtful she'd have heard the car even if she hadn't been slamming up and down on Lou's dong. Her head was full of ringing bells, and she probably wouldn't have heard the ringing at the door either. All she could do was romp up and down on the stabbing piece of love muscle, shivering as Lou mauled her hard, taut-nippled tits, as his hand dropped down and fingered her clit from time to time, sending fresh spurts of energy and lust through Caron's entire body. She could feel him, feel him with every inch and pound of her being. He was proving to be all man, all afternoon. He wasn't the old Lou at all. It was like meeting one of those strangers, one of the men she'd balled in dingy motels during her trampy days. She looked down at his flushed, sweating face, and she felt as if she'd never seen him before in her life. And how could she hate someone she didn't know? How could she fuck someone she hated? How could she – how could she – so many things she didn't, understand how she could possibly do, but she was doing them, doing them all. And through it, her mind raced ahead. If he didn't dog out on her, maybe she could persuade him to shove it up her ass again. God, the way she'd climaxed when he was reaming her! His hand on her clit, his dick shoved a mile up her asshole, both of them pumping like oil drills. Did that slutty little twat Melissa give it to him as well as she could? Had anyone been as good for him as she was, right now? She'd bet her life the answer was no, a big fat NO. Proof of his turn-on was, driven nine inches up her pussy and plunging deeper with each fresh stroke he gave her. I'm the best you ever had, you cocksucker, she thought in triumph. You know it and I know, it. And the knowledge was fulfilling. It gave her what she wanted, a fist on his balls, a tight, commanding fist.

She was thinking about that, fucking with a vengeance born of seven years kindling, when she heard someone call her name in a loud, startled voice. "Caron!"

"Oh, my God," she said, turning around, sliding to the left. Lou's stiff, juice-coated dong rocked out of her cunt and jiggled in lonely prominence. He sat up as she came down beside him. Paul Drake was standing in the bedroom doorway, his briefcase in his hand. His face was dead white under his tan and Caron had never seen a face so full of horror and shock in her life. He must have looked even worse than she did last night, when Lou appeared out of nowhere at the front door.

And worst of all, what had he walked into? How much had he seen? She didn't even have to guess. His face told the entire story. And then he began to speak, confirming what she already knew too well.

"What in the Goddamned hell is this?" he asked, pointing at them. His hand was in a fist and it shook tensely. For a moment Caron wondered if he might – just possibly – hit her, the way Lou had hit her. But Lou's would be a love-tap compared to the anger signified in Paul Drake's fist right now.

"It's – it's not what it looks like," she stammered. "It really isn't!"

"Do you know what it looks like?" Paul replied, closing the door behind him. "Do you want to know what it looks like?"

Lou laughed, a deep rumbly self-satisfied laugh, deep in his barrel chest. "Hell of a lot of nerve, buddy, walking into a bedroom when it's occupied by a husband and his sweet wife having a reunion."

Paul threw down the briefcase. "Get off that bed, you bastard," he growled. "I'm going to break you in half."

"Because she belongs to you?" Lou wondered. "Because I'm trespassing on some private pussy? Why don't we ask the lady herself? It seems to me that she has more say than anyone else about tins."

Caron couldn't look at either of them. She was off the bed, crouching on the floor staring into the corner. "Both of you go away," she said. "I am so embarrassed. I think I want to die."

Lou got off, went to her. He put his hand on ha shoulder and she looked up. "Listen, baby," he told her, "I've been around. I'm a civilized man. If you want a little on the side with Perry Mason here, it's okay. I won't object." He looked at Paul. "How does that grab you? The lady has enough to go around. I'm not possessive. You want to knock off a piece? Go ahead. Stand up, Caron. Good girl."

Paul ignored him. "Caron, I've brought the divorce papers. Do you have a gun in the house? I think we can even make his death look like suicide."

She shook her head. "I don't know, damn it! I just don't know anything anymore!"

Lou put his arm around her waist, squeezed her against him. His cock was sticking out, not at all inhibited by Paul's presence in the room. The smell of sex was strong, Caron realized. No one could have come into this room without knowing what had gone on this afternoon. Afternoon? She looked at her digital clock. It was a little past three. They'd been in here, she and Lou, since before eleven o'clock, fucking their brains out. The room smelled like the inside of a well-used rubber. And so, she realized too, did she. Her tits and thighs and crotch were sticky with spilled jism. Her lips were salty with the residue of Lou's sperm. She swallowed hard and she could taste the stuff, all the way down to her belly. What had she done? To herself? To Paul?

"Challenge, stud," Lou said, petting the side of Caron's tit. "Let the lady make her, own decision. Strip off that three-hundred-dollar suit and remind her how macho you are. And if you ring her chimes louder than I do, then it's settled. I'll pack up my bedroll and get the hell to wherever I'm going from here. What do you say, hot shot?"

"Lou!" Caron's voice, totally shocked.

"I'm not possessive, I told you," he said, fingering her nipple. "And the choice is up to you, baby. You've been balling me, and I know you've been balling him. You might as well run a test and see who gets the check mark."

Paul was livid. "That's disgusting," he said angrily. "That's…"

"All right," Caron said. "All right. Paul?"

"I thought I loved you," he said. "I thought you loved me. Is this all it means, Caron?"

"I don't know what anything means any more," she sobbed. "But this is the only answer that makes the least bit of sense. And if that doesn't show you what kind of trouble I'm in, Paul…"

She didn't finish. He had already thrown off his jacket and he was unknotting his tie. In a few moments he was naked, his lithe, tanned body in strong contrast to Lou's. Where Lou was hairy and big, Paul was smooth and slender. His cock hung limp between his legs, impressive even when soft. Caron looked at that dangling dick and she remembered how many times she had sucked it, fucked it, petted it to spurting orgasm. But never in front of a third party. Oh, God, what a mess! But she had no choice. Her mind was fucked up and she had to get straight. She slipped free of Lou, went to Paul. She offered him her mouth, and he kissed her gingerly. He could taste the semen on her lips, another man's semen. She couldn't blame him for being a little turned off by it. Caron lowered her eyes.

She took his cock in hand, squeezing it, toying with it with the practiced easy way that had never failed to bring him up, big and hard. He didn't respond. "It's not going to work," he said. "This is obscene."

"Yes," she said, "I guess it is. But there's no other way." She dropped to her knees, lifted his soft peter to her lips. She kissed its warm tip, started to lick him up and down. Her tongue was agile and frisky, and it had already had a workout today. If she couldn't mouth a man to erection now, she ought to turn in her lips at the door. She put him in her mouth and began to suck, easily at first, then very hard. Life flooded into his penis and it rose in her mouth. Caron drew back as he stiffened and she sucked furiously at the knobby bulging tip of him. It filled against her tongue and she leaned back. Paul was erect now, his cock red and ready, thrusting from his small patch of pubic hair. It was a beautiful cock, one she had loved to love. Until yesterday she had thought it the only cock in the world she'd ever want to love, but today her conceptions had been shattered and destroyed. She wasn't entirely sure who she was, not now, at three o'clock in the afternoon of this strange, mad day.