J Watson: The unfaithful wife

His balls shot the liquid fire up his prick and into her hot pussy. He squirted again and again and she kept humping until he had been drained. He fell backwards, completely exhausted.

"Are you tired?" she asked, turning around.

"I'm drained," he groaned.

"Good," she said. "I like to please a man."

He looked into her beautiful young face and thought that no man had ever been more pleased!

While Alan was fucking Stella in the mountain barn his wife, Cynthia was on her way out of the house. Cynthia was a tall, willowy blonde. She was not beautiful but she had the kind of good looks that made a man want to wipe the smile off her face, with a good fuck. Cynthia was always cold to men who came on to her. She was the perfect, loving wife. She would never dream of messing around.

Cynthia knew how to appeal to men. Today she was wearing her little girl look. She had on tight stretch pants and a fluffy sweater. She had her blonde hair done in two pony tails down her back. Or puppy dog tails, as Cynthia like to call them.

Cynthia was shopping for a birthday present for her husband. She knew that Alan would be home soon and she wanted to get him something nice, something that might help him kick the mood of boredom he'd been in lately.

But that afternoon she just couldn't find anything that suited him.

Cynthia was parking her car in the driveway when she noticed Greg Patterson coming over. Cynthia disliked him. He had a wife who looked absolutely vulgar and Greg was always looking at her with a lusting smile.

The first thing Cynthia noticed was that his big breasted wife had gone off somewhere. The blue car was gone from the drive way.

"Hello honey," Greg said.

"Hello yourself," Cynthia said. "Haven't I told you my name's not honey?"

"Sure," he said, shrugging, "but sometimes I forget. I see your husband has gone off again."

"A business trip," Cynthia said.

"He goes on a lot of business trips," Greg said. "Don't you, ever get lonely?"

"Never," Cynthia replied coldly.

Cynthia was tiring of the conversation. She started walking to the house and he followed her. She wished that he would go away. There was always something about his dark looks and suggestive smiles that made her feel ill-at-ease. He was so different from Alan.

"Well?" she asked, turning at her door. "Was there anything else?"

"I thought you might offer me a beer," he said.

"I don't have any beer in the house," she said. "Now if you will excuse me."

He caught her arm and she found herself looking into his cold, stern eyes.

"You're a mighty pretty woman," he said. "It's a damn shame you're so stuck on yourself."

"You let me go," she said.

"You don't have any beer," he said. "Then offer a man a glass of water. It's awfully hot."

"You can go to your house and get water or beer or anything else," she said. "Just go away and leave me alone."

"Open the door," he said. "I'm going to have that glass of water."

He hadn't let her go and suddenly she was frightened. She didn't know what kind of a man he was, but she knew he had a temper. She'd seen his wife with the marks to prove it. A few times she had mentioned to Alan that perhaps they should call the police. Alan had always disliked the idea.

"All right," she said. "You can have the water and then you've got to go."

He only smiled. She opened the door and walked hurriedly into the kitchen. She opened the fridge quickly but not quick enough for him to miss seeing the cans of beer.

"So you didn't have any beer," he said. "Now that's no way to be."

He took the can out and popped the cap.

Cynthia couldn't believe this was happening. He had no business coming into her home and taking her husband's beer. No right at all.

"Take your beer and leave," she said.

"You know," he said, leaning against the counter. "You're not a nice person. You're not friendly enough."

"If you don't get out of here," she told him, "I'm going to call the police."

"What for?" he asked. "I will," she promised.

"You got no reason to call them," he said. She knew he was right. She would be silly calling them now. But there was something about this man that made her feel afraid.

"I have a lot of work to do," she said. "Please finish that and leave."

"You're a snotty bitch," he said. "I bet you're not so snotty when you've got six inches up your twat."

"Oh my God," Cynthia said.

She couldn't think of what else to say or do. Her legs felt frozen. He was sipping his beer as if he said thins like that to women every day. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was some kind of sex pervert.

"I'm not going to be talked to this way," she said.

"No," he said. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to call the police," she said. She'd made up her mind. She went to the kitchen phone and picked it up. She was sure he would leave as soon as she started to dial the number. She was wrong. She'd no sooner got the phone in her hand when he suddenly gave a cry of rage and came across the room. He jerked the phone from her fingers and slapped her across the face.

He didn't hit her hard, but it was enough to spin her around. She had to clutch the table for support to keep from tumbling into the floor. She was shocked. She had never been hit before in her life. It was not something men did to a woman like her.

"Put the phone back," Greg said.

His voice was soft again, but she couldn't deny it. She picked up the phone and replaced it.

"That's better," he said, softly stroking her arm with his fingertips.

"Please," she said. "Won't you go now?"

"I just got here," he answered. "Why don't you have a beer with me?"

"I don't drink," she said.

"That's too bad," he said, laughing in an ugly sort of way. "Because I have a feeling that you're going to need a beer."

There was something terrible about the way he spoke. Something that made her blood feel cold. He kept stroking her arm until she pulled away.

"Please don't do that," she said.

"You don't like to be touched," he said.

"Not by you," she said.

"You shouldn't mind," he said. "You should relax a little. I know something that will ease the tension."

He finished his beer and crumpled it up. He pitched it into the trash can. Greg studied her cool features. He had been thinking about this woman for a long time. She was driving him crazy. His wife understood. Greg was attracted to the tall, sophisticated type. It was the type of woman he had never been able to get for himself.

He had been thinking about her so damned long. He knew he could wipe the cold look off her face. He had the thing in his trousers to do it. He could make her beg and cry for more, just the way he made his wife cry.

"I been watching you," he said.

He was grinning and Cynthia suddenly realized what was going to happen. He intended to rape her. Cynthia remembered the many courses she had taken on rape. She remembered the pictures of those girls who had fought the attacker. Some of the girls would never look the same again. Some of them were so beaten and bruised that their own husbands wouldn't have known them. Cynthia felt a little sick.

"I've been watching you," he said again.

"Why?" she asked.

"I like to look at a beautiful woman. I don't think you're happy."

"I am," she insisted.

"No," he said. "I don't think you are."

"You don't know anything about me," Cynthia insisted. Cynthia was searching her mind for a way out, but she couldn't think of any. He was a strong looking man. He could outrun and outfight her.

She couldn't scream loud enough for anyone to hear. There was only one way. Let him do what he wanted and hope he kept her alive.

"You're not happy," he said. "You don't have the look of a satisfied woman."