J Long - Neighborhood wives

Shit!

What was the use!

Nothing was going right for Marcie. She felt as bland and as dead as the cum that stained her thigh.

Fuck it.

Fuck the man with the extra large cock who had fucked some girl on their bed.

Fuck the strange girl who had probably got her cunt fucked inside-out by the man wearing a Trojan Extra Large.

Fuck her marriage.

Fuck Herbie Marcuse for not eating her cunt and for thinking that she would fuck a stranger with a fourteen-inch cock that was cloaked by a Trojan Extra Large.

Marcie brooded, thinking about all those things she wanted to get fucked.

She tried smoking. Crushed out the Kool after four hot puffs.

She tried reading. The Joy of Sex was of no comfort.

She tried sleeping. But how could a woman possibly sleep when her husband was zzzzziiiinnngggg downstairs, her marriage was on the rocks, and she was lying next to a Trojan Extra Large rubber filled with some stranger's jizz.

Her problems were too soap-opera-ish to believe. No marriage counselor would believe her when she told him that their marriage had gone to shit the night that her husband found not another man in their bed, but the remains of a man.

Maybe Herbie would believe her if she went downstairs and told him that she had never seen that rubber before. But what the fuck for? He was the one playing asshole. He was the one who had accused her of fucking around with Mr. Trojan Extra Large. No, better to just cross him off and say fuck it.

"Fuck it."

There, that felt better. "Fuck it!"

Aba, much better.

"Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!"

Better. Better. Better.

Jesus, she sure hoped Suzy hadn't heard what she had just said. Oh, Christ! She probably woke up the whole fucking neighborhood when she had cursed.

Well, fuck them, too.

"Fuck all of you! Did'ya hear me! Fuck all of you!"

Alma Figger was a typical housewife – her home was spic and span, dinners were right on time, and she always wore sexy dresses whenever she made her husband's dinner.

Tonight it was spaghetti surprise, a meal that meant she had to wake up at three in the morning to prepare for that night's dinner. Which meant that she only got three hours of sleep since her husband had fucked her ass, her cunt and her mouth – in that order – the night before.

But Alma didn't mind because, as previously mentioned, she was a typical American housewife.

And as a typical American housewife, she was dressed super sexily while draining the four hundred macaroni noodles – it had taken her one hour to make sure that there had been four hundred noodles in the package. She was dressed in a lime-green chiffon dress that clung tight to her titties and tight to her ass. Earrings dangled musically, from her ears, mascara artfully done, perfume in all those pulsating places.

Alma was average height, average weight, average forty-inch titties, average hot cunt. It was easy to see her average assets because she had noticed her titties when she had held up her frying pan and caught her reflection in the bottom of the skillet – the chiffon dress was so skimpy and so see-through that her tits looked like two eggs, sunny side up, in the frying pan.

And to see her cunt was even easier. Just look at the sparkling floor wherever Alma stood. Sloppy, unaverage wives thought that Alma's kitchen floor was so clean you could have eaten off it – but whenever she was standing over, the linoleum, in her average pantyless, wide-legged stance, men would have gladly licked the reflection of her pussy.

But Alma never acted seductive toward other men. No, she was faithful to her husband, Emory, just like the majority of American wives. She wouldn't dare think about letting another man see her pussy, or feel her forty-inch titties. God! Infidelity was abominable – or as Emory put it, "Alma, don't you never fuck around with no other man or I'll cut your clit off."

But Emory didn't have to say that because Alma was a normal typical wife who never had thoughts about another man's cock. And even those men who would sidle up to her and tell, her that they thought about her all the time, Alma would just reply. "Oh, pooh! All you men think alike."

Yes, Alma was an average, typical, normal housewife who was busily preparing her husband's seven-course meal atop a red tablecloth that couldn't possibly slide because of the candelabras and champagne glasses that helped to hold it don.

Alma looked around. Everything looked normal, average, typical. Oh, she almost forgot the most important minute detail – her lipstick! She hurried to the bathroom.

The Lysol smell was strong enough to overpower a greasy hillbilly, but to Alma the fragrance was perfectly average for her bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror, putting on the last touches of her lipstick when she heard husband Emory coming in the front door.

"Alma! Where the fuck are ya? Didya get my bowling shirt pressed? Christ! I'm fuckin' late already."

Alma scurried to the closet and took out the silk shirt that had tile words HARD HAT STRIKERS emblazoned on the back.

She kissed her husband dutifully as he lobbed his construction hard hat onto the sofa.

"Jesus, what a day, Alma! Old man Conklin nearly got killed in the outhouse today."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, Jamieson, the new kid on the crew, tipped the fuckin' thing over with the fuckin' bulldozer. Christ! They're sure hiring some dumb fucks today. Can't trust none of these new long-haired kids they hire. But I'll still take some dumb fuck hippie kid over a Goddamn lazy nigger any day. What's for dinner?"

"Spaghetti surprise."

"Aw, fuck, Alma. You know how I hate that Goddamn Wop food. It just ain't got enough meat on it. Christ! You gotta go looking for the meat through all the sloppy red juice and all them hundreds of limp noodles. You know I hate Wop food."

Alma nodded her head, her hands in her lap.

"Aw, did I hurt your feelings, Alma?" Emory said, then planted a kiss on her forehead. "Don't worry, after I fuck the living daylights out of the best wife in the neighborhood, everything'll be all right."

Alma smiled cheerfully.

"In fact," Emory said heartily, "let's fuck first, then eat a quick meal. Would ya like that, Alma?"

Alma smiled her Avon lips at Emory, batted her Maybelline eyes at him.

Emory stripped off his dirty work shirt, skinned out of his soiled Levi's. "Christ! I can't wait to fuck you, Alma. Well, don't just stand there gawking at me. Start taking off that fucking dress." Alma unzipped the slinky, lime-green chiffon dress and it slithered to the floor. There wasn't anything else to take off.

"Boy," Emory said, licking his lips and removing his mangy shorts. "I can tell you're hot to fuck. Just look at your tits."

Alma looked at her tits. It was easy for her to see her tits because they stood out at least a foot from her chest. There was nothing unusual about her tits, at least from what she could see, but that was why she thought her husband was so smart and observant, because he could tell when her tits were lustful-looking before she could.

Emory's fuck boiiinngggeeed out in front of him. His greasy hand gave it a few jack-off strokes.

"Well, come on, Alma. You know what to do. Shit, we gotta do this fast or else I'll be late for bowling tonight."

Alma smiled pleasantly and got down on her knees. Emory held his cock until his wife nudged them away.

Her Avon lips moved in.

Her Maybelline eyes looked up at her dear husband.

Emory grabbed her dangling earrings and pulled her head forward. "Goddamn, Alma! Will you quit fucking around and hurry up!"

Alma quit fucking around and hurried up. Her lipsticked lips kissed the hot and taut glans of his prick. Then, in little romantic nibbles and love-bites, her mouth moved down the shaft of his cock. His cockhead bounced off the roof of her mouth before it angled down toward the basement of her throat.