J Long - Neighborhood wives

Emory loved it. Christ! What average husband wouldn't like having his average beautiful wife blowing his cock every night before they sat down and gobbled down their spaghetti surprise.

"Oooooooh, Alma! Jesus! You can still cocksuck with the best of them! Oooooooh, Alma!"

Alma was pleased. Her titties did feel a little lustier now, just like her husband had told her they would.

Alma ate his cock with a ravenous hunger. Her head bobbed up and down, her lips were making lewd sucking noises, and his cock was shaking and quivering and growing harder and harder.

She looked up at her husband as his cock filled her aching jaws. Oh, what a beautiful man she had married. So wise, so wonderful.

Faster and faster her face moved, and if her face moved that fast, naturally her lips were moving just as fast as they sucked and nibbled and bit and blew and suckled and did everything that an average beautiful American housewife's mouth was supposed to do on her husband's prick.

Emory was getting more active. Christ, he had to hurry or he would have to miss dinner to keep that appointment with all those ten pins down at the bowling alley. And he knew that if he didn't eat before he bowled, he'd lose his hook, his high average and his prestige with the other guys on the HARD HAT STRIKERS team.

Holding her dangling earrings, Emory shoved all of his cock deep into Alma's mouth and watched her Maybelline eyes pop open with her gag reflex. Ooooooh, how beautiful she looked when she sucked his cock!

He moved back, his prick withdrawing from the tight suction of her vacuuming lips. Another pull on the earrings, and another cock-shove, brought another beautiful, angelic look to her face – her eyes were popping out, the gagging sound was very audible, her earlobes were stretched like some Ubangi's – African tribe that stretches their noses and ears with sticks and stones – yet, she looked so absolutely sensuous. Gash, he was glad he had married a hot-blooded girl.

Alma was going to vomit if Emory didn't pull his cock out of her mouth and release her earlobes. Aaaaaaaahhhhh, thank God. His cock pulled away and slushy noises accompanied the slow withdrawal.

Alma knew that Emory really loved her because of the intense and passionate way he always made love to her. Although, Emory always put it a different way: "Goddamn, Alma, if you don't give me the fucking hot balls everytime I lay eyes on you."

Alma knew she'd have to hurry. Emory had to eat, keep up his strength so that he could make that bawling date.

She did what Emory had taught her to do on their first date, which was before they were married. She fondled his balls as he shoved his cock down her throat again.

He had big balls, huge and hairy nuts that felt so deliciously good when she rolled them around like he had taught her to do at the drive-in on their first date.

Then, as Emory withdrew his cock from Alma's cocksucking lips, she inserted her right index finger – the only finger that she did not keep sharpened daily nor did it have fingernail polish like her other nine talons – into his asshole and finger-fucked his prostate while her left hand fucked around with his balls.

"Oooooooh, Alma! God, you gotta be the best learner that I ever taught!"

Alma tried to smile, but as most cocksucking girls know, it's very hard to smile when a fat cock is making an oval out of her mouth.

Alma sucked harder, finger-fucked his faster, fondled his balls furiously. Her tits were jumping around like crazy, and Emory was doing his own wild gyrations to the tune of a different mad drummer.

There she blows!

Sperm! Delicious oil of man! Cream a la carte! Ambrosia of the Gods! That's what Alma fantasized everytime Emory shot wads and wads of jizz into her gulping throat. It was so romantic, so thrilling, so deliciously sensuous and lovely.

Sperm! Cum! Jizz! Cockjuice!

That was what Emory called it as the delicious feeling of coming over powered his cock and overflowed her mouth.

"Aaaarrrcgghhh! I'm cooommiiinnnggg! Cum! Drink that jizz! You wonderful whore of a wife! Suck that sperm! Eat it, Alma! Eat every drop of my cockjuice. aarrggghh!"

Alma couldn't smile like she wanted to do but her eyes expressed a lot – she was batting them like crazy, trying to get Emory's attention.

But Emory's head was tilted far back as he tried to get that last hunch-shove of his cock into her throat. Then he went limp, his body, his mind, and his cock – and it was the latter that gave Alma room to breathe, to suck in air and cum juice at the same time.

Emory fell backwards, his cock plopping out of Alma's cum-drenched mouth. Her finger was almost broken in half, and Emory had to turn on his side on the couch in order for Alma to get her finger out of his writhing asshole.

"Aaaaaaah, Alma! What a wife! What a beautiful wife!" Emory would have kissed her then, except he didn't like to taste his own cum. He tasted hot sweat as he pecked her forehead.

Alma smiled, and this time the effort was not hindered.

Emory patted her on the head.

"Well, hurry up and get dinner on the table. I'll go wash up, then we'll eat, then I gotta get my ass down to the bowling alley. Christ, we got off against the Mannington Truckers tonight!"

Living between the Figgers and the Marcuses was an unmarried, but very happy single woman. Her name was Rachel Lindsay.

Rachel Lindsay was a rare woman.

If you were an optimist, you'd guess Rachel's height to be six feet. If you were a pessimist, you'd guess Rachel's height to be five and a half feet at the most.

In reality, Rachel was five feet even. But Rachel was one of those women who fucked around with reality and deceived all the men who eyeballed her voluptuous figure. She fucked around with her real height by wearing clogs, wedges, platforms, high heels, all kinds of pedestrian footwear that added inches and sometimes a foot to her real height.

On Mondays, Rachel wore her twelve-inch-high dogs because Mondays always felt so low to her that she thought that her tallest shoes would offset the lowly feeling by giving me height to her life.

On Tuesdays, she wore wedgies – shoes that made her feel as if she were sliding downhill as she walked – because they were so comfortable after those painful Mondays when she suffered from blistered corns.

On Wednesdays, platform shoes were her choice because the middle of the week was always the most stable to her. Thus, she wanted just a little height, yet she wanted her feet on a firmer ground.

Fridays (Thursdays were her days off), Rachel always chose patent leather high heels with such vicious-looking spikes on them that you could tell by the pock-marked sidewalks where she had been.

Being that today was Friday, Rachel was slipping into her six-inch spike-heel shoes. She was dressed to kill – slinky cocktail dress that showed so much of her tits it should have passed for a cheap J.C. Penney negligee rather than a hundred-dollar dress. Beneath the cocktail dress were black lacy bra, black lacy panties, black hose and garter belt. Beneath the black lacy things were a fully packed set of thirty-eight-inch titties, well-rounded hips, well-rounded asscheeks.

Jesus, she was dynamite in ebony, juicy in jet-black, a veritable madam, of the midnight.

Any girl would have been proud to have Rachel's explosive figure, but only a blind girl would have been happy with the kind of face Rachel had been ill-blessed with.

When men looked at Rachel Lindsay, they always started from the neck down. The reason they started from the neck down was not because she had the type of titties made for mashing and squeezing and sucking, and not because she had the type of ass for kneading like dough. It was because she had the type of face that would not only stop a clock but would turn the hands counter-clockwise.