Make me wet in a public place like this, and then ignore me; I could learn to despise you. I am easily aroused, and the nonchalant passerby would think butter does not melt in my mouth. It is on ice in the picnic hamper for later and not just for the bread and cheese.

My beloved convertible rumbles with subdued malevolence. The top is down, and the cognoscenti will know I cuckold my husband. Attired in a simple navy dress, it has the purest white collar and cuffs. If they leer at the flash of stocking tops, ironic in virginal white, they might get lucky. For those not so-minded, the wholesome juxtaposition of my Alice band and neat hair conveys an air of bourgeois innocence. They cannot see my tingling smooth cunt or read the sewer of my mind.

The village clock runs fast, so he is on time as promised. Leaning against a sandstone wall, raffish and handsome, he grins in gentlemanly linen, crumpled yet expensive. Glowing in biscuit hues beneath the azure sky, he leans in, gripping the door. His urbane smile makes a promise, and the subtle vacuum of his kiss stirs my compulsion.

“Antoine.” I refuse to be breathless, yet my need surges.

“Marianne.”

I try not to pout for another, and I fail. Oh God, do not kiss me like that. I am already burning. Sitting in the front seat, his muted grin reveals what he wants and what I am ablaze for.

“So you managed to get away from Noémie?”

“For the afternoon, she is with Cleo, a long lunch. You know how it is.”

I tut, “More wine than lunch, I suppose.”

Antoine spies the hamper on the backseat and grins, “And Yves?”

I sigh, “Oh, lost in his thoughts at home, as self-absorbed as usual. You know our arrangement.”

Church bells reward the faithful for their penance in this sleepy village. They play Boules and Piquet here… we seek a more exotic pastime. My hands feed the big wheel, guiding my car through the cobbled streets. It pitches and sways as I do riding Antoine, and the trunks of the tree-lined boulevard soon blur.

Out of the village, I drive as I want to be fucked, and it does not unsettle him. Aloof in sunglasses, his tousled hair flickers like flames while eight cylinders growl. As a metaphor, writhing against his clamouring body. He will succumb to my temptress hips and tight clasp of his shaft. Building up speed, the motive force keeps me glued in place just as I want him to hold me tight. Antoine will not be heard over the wind noise, and my cries of passion will drown out his groans. He flattered his way into my panties the first time. Now, I want his thick cock, not trite platitudes.

All I want is, “Cum for me, whore.”

I must fidget, and my compulsion gnaws at my patience. I must have him inside me. Antoine looks across, playing his puppy dog gambit which adds butterflies to the pit of my stomach. I focus back on the road, and he is a haze in my peripheral vision. One more dalliance to add to the many, we swoop and sweep along this arcing bend. Picking up speed, I know where we are going. Remote, a bucolic dream of verdant meadows, wisen trees and their boughs for shade to fuck beneath.

When we are done, his fertile seed will leak from me into the soil.

-=-

We are secluded, and hedge hoppers dart in eager song. Standing on the checkered blanket in my stocking feet, I stand ceremoniously, preserving some modesty, and my lascivious expression says otherwise. The ivory belt falls, and the shapeless fabric hides my curves. Suddenly, I am chaste, and yet, I am not. The large buttons fall through their eyelets, releasing my creamy breasts into a festival of cleavage. Antoine is flustered, gazing into my lustful eyes and pursed, shiny red lips.

My dress is thrown down as a challenge to his desires. Next year, I will be twenty-eight, still lissom with delicate curves, but a tigress now, not a novice. I play to Antoine’s fantasy, a demure woman to fuck, unlike his stern wife. My white underwear is sheer, impractical and redundant, showing my pink erect nipples through the fabric, bunching my plump cunt and revealing its cleft. Dropping my bra to the ground, if Antoine abstained for three days just for me, I will quickly drain him.

Reclined with my legs open, his trembling hands remove my panties and rouse my amusement. A penetrating gaze unsettles him, and it should. His fantasy is a feint, a ploy for what I seek. Clasping the back of his head, there is only one place I want him, cupped to my sex and devouring it. The tip of his tongue is a demon, and I guide it to fulfil my urgent need. He has to see me like this with feigned helplessness, and the feminine contortions of my features beguiled into climax.

Wide-eyed and pouting, there is no subtlety, and I reward his ego as he ties my lithe body in knots. Gripping his hair, my hips are awakened as his wiry hand clasps the springy mound of my breast. Panting as the percussion to orchestral birdsong, my tumult is urgent, and my cries sound hollow under the vast blue sky.

Flushed, if he hoped for some respite, he has awoken the whore in me. Pulling on his shirt, hauling him up my naked body, the buttons and his belt yield. Shoes and socks are cast with abandon as I wrestle with his baggy linen trousers. He wriggles like a lizard trapped in a tin, kicking to free himself as I grip and pull relentlessly. We snort for air as the soft texture of his lips opens my mouth for his tongue.

I can taste myself on him and stifle his growls. Hanging on its sinews, thick and hot in my delicate hand, there is my prize. Totally rigid, without needing my mouth to conjure a sturdy erection. It is so hot and hard as velvet-covered steel. I stroke it without compassion, tugging it towards my aching cunt.

I squeeze my legs around him. Pushing with my heels, I rub the tip up and down my soaked folds.

“Put it in and fuck me, Antoine.”

My frustration is boiling over as he fights back, trying to make me beg. Oh, he is a bastard, and I am a bitch for this, his bitch in heat. His hands try to peel mine away. He is too late, and as a spider might consume a fly, I lurch upwards, take him into my embrace, and we are coupled.

A series of sudden stabs follow, and Antoine groans as I do. Pulling hard, flexing through my body, he relents, sinking deeper and deeper into my honeyed warmth. If he has any qualms about fucking another man’s wife, his hearty shoves dispel them. Splayed out on the picnic blanket, the grip of my cunt casts its spell. I eat like a church mouse and am not prone to jealousy, nor do I covet. He thrusts harder, revealing his addiction to my nubile sex. Sucking on his neck, I am not lazy or materialistic, and there is no ego. But I am a whore, and I will fuck anyone that incites my curiosity.

Antoine bucks with conviction, his glutes squeezing urgently, pumping me for all he is worth. There is no finesse, and he hammers at my cunt with the zeal of a starving man at a feast. I am pawed; he grips my slender thigh, sucking my nipples as he cranes over me. Impaled by his entire length, I am nailed relentlessly, shaking my breasts as I thrash back.

“Yes! Fuck me harder, you bastard!”

Wet kisses cool on my febrile body as I quiver at his assault. My splayed legs flap as tree boughs in a storm. My arms pull him in as my limbs entangle around him.

“Yes, Antoine, make me your whore.”

Every man has their weakness, and words are his. He is all grunts and shoves, plying me with the hurried thrusts of his neglected shaft. Rising over my prone body, I wipe his brow, and high summer is not the time for such an energetic performance. He clatters into me and forces the air out in repetitious yelps. Fully engorged, there is no give. It touches everything, coercing my instinct to flex and follow his desperation. As he swells, the ratcheting pressure tightens. From those tingling sensations and the ache come the binding waves of heat again.

I throw my arms up, a ruse to provoke his greatest ire.

“Antoine… Antoine,” I gasp, “I am going to cum… cum with me.”

“I am close,” he groans. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside, put it inside me.”

One-dimensional to the last, it is easy to pander to his perversion and mine.

“Breed me, you bastard, knock me up.”

He is at the zenith of arousal, tying up with its portents. Collapsed into my embrace, the rasp of rushed air matches his mechanical thrusts, and my restless hips encourage him to relent. My syrupy cunt is filled, and there is no latitude; I am full of his livid shaft, lost in the rapturous friction.

I purr, “Yes… yes.. fill me up.”

I croak, repeating the last words as my mantra. It is everything and nothing, yelping as the convulsions rip through me. Awash with its pulsating glow, there is only instinct. Plosive groans follow, and I quiver with their force. Squeezing against his spasming cock, I cry out, milking his inundation into me.

Stroking his hair, I am floating, and my vision is filled with the flawless blue sky.

-=-

Antoine lounges in the front seat with a self-satisfied grin. We cruise back to the village and pass traffic going the other way. They are none the wiser, and I am chaste again, neat and tidy, perhaps a little flushed.

It is a hot day, after all.

I am all greasy inside because Antoine leaks from my holes. I posed for him, impervious like the Sphinx, letting him fuck my mouth. I demanded he took me like a dog mounts his bitch and fuck my ass. The butter was pressed inside with one finger and then two. Twisting them in my ass, baying for his cock, spitting words that incited him to his most animal. The searing burn of stretched muscle made me yelp, worthwhile for the ecstasy and insane pleasure that followed.

His tight balls slapped my soaked cunt. My agile fingers chased my clit to spice the inevitable. Antoine threw me into the abyss of delirium, rifling my taboo hole for all he was worth. Outdoors like this, naked and exposed, my cunt dripping out his cum while his rampant shaft ploughed my tightest hole. His sweat dripped onto me, forcing me prone, his arm around my neck. With my legs closed, revelling in slippery yet binding friction, this was the climax I needed. A convulsive bone-shaking experience, powerful enough to forget myself. The one that made Antoine roar, emptying his balls where I craved it most.

My buttered ass glows with the echoes of his hot meat. Glancing across, travelling home, the sight curls my lips. He is married, enduring that seven-year itch and Antoine will kiss his wife with those lips tonight. It is unlikely, but if she agrees to his pestering, he will fuck her and think of me. The way he gazed at my cunt dribbling his seed, or how I laid there, legs apart, panting after he put more of it up my ass.

Oh, I wish I could live in this state of contented bliss. I am minded to take Yves when I get home. Towering over his prone body, savouring his obedient gaze into my eyes. I will ride his face and feed him my cum-soaked snatch. My husband’s diligence is his most potent trait, and as a patient cunt eater, he could get me off that way with ease. Stroking his swollen cock, making him plead as I tremble in post-orgasmic bliss. If he is good, I shall sit on it and flex in tiny circles. Recalling everything I have done, smearing my cunt back and forth, I will force his helpless ejaculation and mix it with my lover’s seed.

Slowing the car, we enter the village square and return to that sandstone wall.

“See you soon, maybe?” he asks.

Those lost puppy dog eyes no longer work.

“Maybe.”

Ah, my cold lack of compassion. This is our journey’s end for today and the end of our carnal adventures.

“Ah,” he signs.

I caress his face, “The memories will live on, though.”

“True,” his head dips momentarily, forcing a watery smile, “Au revoir, Marianne.”

“Au revoir.”

-=-

The tyres crunch over the gravel as I approach the front of our house. Two hours, long enough for lunch, well, we barely touched the picnic. Yves will still be in our lounge, lost in thought, pondering something imponderable to bore me with over dinner tonight.

Spare me the intellectuals, Antoine was many things, yet he revelled in his urges without needing hours of tedious self-absorption. Perhaps I was too hard on him just now, but there is always the risk that emotions colour the physical act. Fucking him five times was four too many.

Still, Noémie does not need to know that.

Walking through the lounge, he is not there.

“Yves? I am home.”

There is the distant sound of a door closing, and my intuition is pricked. I follow the sound as my heels clip the bare mahogany of each step. Heading towards our boudoir, the bedsheets are scattered, and the musk of sex lingers in the muggy air. Glancing at the door to the guest bathroom, it is closed, and it is never shut unless occupied.

“Yves?”

Guilt, there it is, with furtive eyes and a flushed pallor. So, Yves was not contemplating the impossible and is a man of action… and of needs. Wearing his silk dressing gown, his posture is a mixture of pride and cowardice, slightly stooped between victory and defeat.

“You are back soon, Marianne.”

My grin is designed to throw him off balance, and he does not back away as I approach. He carries her scent on his skin. His wavy black hair is lank when I run my fingers through it. He is wide-eyed, and I imagine he is awash with adrenaline, so potent if handled correctly. The zest of hot passion nor my stone-cold fury can be seen on my features.

“Who is she?” My raised eyebrow is just enough.

Yves fumbles for words and gasps as the silk cord unravels with ease.

The robe falls to the sides, revealing him flaccid. My unwavering eyes do not blink as I take to my knees, and neither does Yves back away. I can smell her on him as I pick up his shaft, and my wicked smile makes his breath hitch. If another woman found a use for this, and Yves was so motivated, perhaps there is another purpose for him.

He is not as blessed as my usual quarry, yet, he knows how to use it. Its heft, when erect, can bend my mind and render me into a fitful state of bliss. It awakens to my touch and is sticky; perhaps he gifted her what Antoine gave me. It curves impressively; whoever he has been fucking, he is not exhausted. My eyes will not lie as my tongue licks his shaft. The bittersweet confection of her juices is delicious, and my unabashed display will give plenty for him to ponder later.

“Marianne,” he gasps.

This is not the time for words as I lick around the swollen head and plunge it into my mouth. My husband’s prodigal cock, and I worship it with a newfound appreciation. Swelling in my mouth, it is now a question of his stamina and endurance. I realise I have missed those, and he has plenty.

“Oh fuck!” he groans. I know what he likes, cupping his balls, rubbing along the damp taint.

“You want me, Yves?”

He nods eagerly, “Yes… and you… you are not angry?”

I shake my head, stroking his firm erection, “No, I am delighted. You should have told me.”

“I…”

Too late now, and I take it deep to halt any apology. It is a tawdry display, not from a husband and wife in a staid marriage, but the portrayal of a whore pleasuring her lover. My cuckolded husband has done the same to me. I am his cuckquean, and peals of electricity soar, pooling in my overexcited cunt. I am inspired to take all of it, pressing the tip of my nose to his abdomen, choking and retching a little. He hollers, perfect for rousing his lover from her hiding place. Coated in glossy saliva, I gasp and take him again. My sunken cheeks imploring it to fill with blood. I want him engorged and numb so I can ride it at my leisure.

A feminine gasp does not halt me in my tracks, and a side glance witnesses the appalled expression of Noémie Badeaux. She is hurriedly dressed and a little dishevelled. There can be no doubt about what I am as the fat head of his cock rubs against the inside of my mouth.

I release him with a pop and a contented purr.

“Noémie, a pleasant surprise. He is not finished. Would you join us?”

Disgust contorts her features, and she is speechless. Yves knows better than to interrupt me.

“No, Noémie? Well, I came back early. Antoine is such a treasure, but I doubt he will be pleased to know his wife is fucking my husband.”

“Antoine?” The middle of her eyebrows creases.

“Yes, say hello from me. I think you have a lot to talk about.”

Quick steps descend the staircase, not that I care. The bed breaks Yves’ fall, and hiking up my dress, I tower over him. Squat and held in place, gravity is my friend. Up into the slick buttery warmth, revelling in the surprise etched on his face.

I nod, beaming with a smile, “Yes… in my ass. Yves, let me finish you off.”

“Oh fuck… Marianne.”

Shuffling my hips, I delight in his bliss-etched expression, “Did you come inside her?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a good fuck?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm,” I purr, “You have the makings of the kind of lover I want."

I pause and lean down to kiss him, “The kind of husband that I want.”

Driving into my ass, Yves is pushing more of Antoine’s cum from my cunt.

“You are soaked. Did he?”

“Huh-uh… both holes,” I gasp, fully impaled. “Use it to cum inside me. This is your ass now. Own it.”

I push my screwed-up panties into his mouth, and the pendulum of our dynamic swings back. Enlivened, he thrusts with purpose, making me whimper with gratitude. As the world around us disappears, I press into his broad torso and fuck him back with an escalating passion. Prim, upright, with my Alice band in place, I want the juxtaposition to savage his mind. My husband will reclaim my ass and help me fulfil all our newly-discovered passions.

Maybe forever, maybe until the cold light of tomorrow morning. I know I will fuck Yves each time as if it was our last. I am sure I can persuade him to my way of thinking.