Ron Taylor: Teacher_s naughty wife

And with that she rocked back, bracing her ass and shoulders against the back wall of the tower. One of her legs slipped out to rest on the white fur rug outside the stall, and she lifted her other foot high, resting it beside the tray where the soap was kept. She was spread widely, and she wriggled around until she was comfortable, in the process opening her snatch a little more. She looked down into her wet, matted triangle of pussy hair, saw the red lips of her cunt showing among the curls of fur. Red lips, puckered and pouting, their tips coated with the moisture and glistening juice her fingers had coaxed from deep in her tubes. Holding the brush firmly, the handle aimed at her body, Joanne reached down and spread her labes a little wider, pushing them open the smooth, practiced way a "Hustler" model opens herself for the camera. And all she had was a plastic substitute for fat throbbing cock. Well, she thought, you played the hand you were dealt.

And the hand she was playing now was a desperate, starved one, something that made her blush with a kind of shame even as she brought the tip of the handle to her open snatch and started to wiggle it inside her. God, if someone saw me! she thought. I'd die. But I need something!

"Oh, Jesus!" she blurted as she worked the thing into her pussy. It was slick and stiff, entering her easily, and she stretched and strained, working herself around so she could best accommodate the unbending erection of the plastic tool. Was this what women did with those cock-shaped vibrators? she wondered. Maybe it would be better with a vibrator. You'd have that thing buzzing as it went inside, the tingle shooting through your pussy walls as you took it up you. They were a little thicker too, those vibrators, more like three stiff fingers worked into a tight wet hole – where did you find them, for God's sake? Did you go to the drugstore and tell the clerk, "I want a vibrator. About nine inches long. Black if you have it in that color. Or red?" How in the world did you go about getting one?

I am desperate, she told herself, stricken with a sudden feeling of revulsion. What am I doing to myself? I am – I am… "Oh, God, Jesus!" she yipped suddenly, and the thing was in her, maybe four inches of stiff plastic rammed up her twat, and she couldn't get arty more of it inside her because of the angle at which she sat, but maybe, oh, Christ, maybe she didn't need any more of it!

The thing felt incredibly big, stuffed into her pussy, and knew it was only her twat contracting to accommodate the size, to give her body the sweetest, tightest fit possible. It was the way a cunt reacted when you put something inside it. After living in her body for thirty-one years, Joanne Hickman knew that. And her cunt was like a well-tuned machine, something that always responded in the nicest way possible for the woman who owned it, who took care of it. She grasped the exposed end of the brush, squashing down the bristles, and site started to turn it inside herself.

"Whooo!" she swooned as it began to revolve. Her eyes were rolling in their sockets and she couldn't see much of anything. Her foot was jammed tight against the tower wall and she pushed hard, harder, hardest, lifting her ass slightly as she turned and writhed. Another half inch of handle stole into her twat, touching a deeper part of Joanne's cuntal well, and she gasped, wrenching hard on the bath brush, pushing it impatiently, swishing it in her box like a swizzle stick in a martini.

"Tom, Tom, Tom," she panted, fucking herself. She'd gotten the rhythm now, and the action, and she could feel the thing digging into her, the pointed tip a light irritant, not quite a pain, deep in her pussy, and she was moving it in and out of her, as best she could capture it, with same kind of rhythm she wanted, needed, demanded, when she was being fucked by a real cock. By Tom's cock. But it wasn't his cock in her, it was his bath brush, and even though she felt her passion bubbling in her veins, racing through her bloodstream to her brain, she knew it wasn't the same, that it could never be the same.

"But it's all I have," she gasped, fucking herself with a brutality born of Tom's inexplicable coldness. "It's – all – I – have!"

No! She had more! And she could feel it starting to happen, the come-fever boiling in her belly, bubbles getting bigger and bigger and bigger, swelling and rolling down the tube of her twat, breaking upon her fingers as they wiggled the bath brush deeper and deeper into her rippling pussy mouth. She pushed harder with her foot on the shower wall, her other foot curled the fur rug around itself. Her tits ached, her nipples big and hard, but she was using both hands to manipulate the brush in and out of her twat and she couldn't even spare a finger to toy with her stiffened tits, couldn't possibly take her hands away, couldn't possibly.

When she came it was an explosion, and it should have blown her body to pieces, but it didn't. Somehow she survived the initial impact of orgasm, and then she went rocking up, moaning, keening her blues to the echoing walls of the shower compartment and the bathroom outside, and she couldn't bear to work the thing inside her any longer. She jerked it out of her pussy, replaced it with a stiff, straining finger, and she humped the sweetest, hottest, wettest part of her come onto her finger as it plunged deep inside her, soothing away the sweet fuck-pain she'd brought herself to. At last she lay huddled in a ball on the shower stall floor, knees pulled up to her chin, finger wedged but no longer moving in her pussy, and she could only moan and sob as she came down from the humiliating but [missing text].

Afterwards, drained, she took another shower, this time only to bathe.

It wasn't the first morning Joanne had inaugurated by a vigorous bout of masturbation. It had begun as an occasional thing. God, what else could she do, when she spent the night tossing and turning next to a husband who thought bed was merely someplace to sleep? And the few times she'd been able to coax a fuck or a suck out of him, he'd gone about it as if he really were asleep. Pump – pump – pump – squirt his cum up her twat, roll off, and go back to sleep. For Christ's sake! She was a mature, passionate woman, maybe no more passionate than the average, but that was plenty enough. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, and she wasn't getting it from her husband.

SQ she had to get it from herself. But, oh, it left her feeling so nasty when it was over! Masturbation was perfectly okay, it wouldn't rot her teeth or make hair grow in her palms or do any of the other awful things her mother had suggested when Joanne had turned twelve, grown tits, and begun to bleed. But who could live on finger jobs alone? she wanted to know. Who would even want to?

God, something was gonna have to change around here! No matter how uptight Tom was about getting his tenure, no matter how much he worried about his job and its future, he was gonna have to remember that he had a wife and that this turn-off of his was absofuckinglutely killing his wife!

She spent the morning at her housework. It promised to be such a nice day! It was a warm April day, and she stood at the back door, just breathing in the scent of fresh grass and the flowers across the fence in the neighbors yard. The morning sky was pastel blue, a few white clouds drifting across it, and it was too sweet a day to waste alone at home, feeling sorry for herself.

Standing at the sink, the idea came to Joanne. She splashed her hands in the dishwater, coated her arms in bubbles, blew them away, smiling happily. "Yes," she said aloud. "I'll do it," she added. "I'll put on that sexy yellow dress, the one cut way down to here and slit up the sides, and maybe I'll wear those black mesh stockings and the garter belt, too, I'll bet he's forgotten all about the garter belt. Mmmmmmm! I'll just pirouette into his office – let's see, his last morning class is out at twelve, so I should get there a little after – and I'll demand that he escort me to lunch like any other husband with two hours to kill. We'll go to that Chinese place, eat a nice light lunch, maybe some dim sun and tea, nothing heavy. And while we're eating, I'll grab him under the table. He won't be able to get away. And if I can't get a rise out of his cock, I'll send it back to the factory for repair, by God! Oh, yes! Maybe he'll even miss his two o'clock class? That motel on the edge of town. Do they really have closed-circuit porno movies on the TV sets? One way to find out. Oh, God, it's after eleven! I won't have time to make up! I'll look like a dishrag!" She dried her soapy hands and ran to the bedroom. Time was wasting.