Wriggling her buttocks, legs curled beneath, she pulled the headset over her eyes feeling its firm embrace about her head. Fingers flickering over the familiar set-up options, she quickly arrived at her avatar's appearance. She adjusted her age, not quite her actual years because experience had taught her that age was more than just a number in The Hub. But then, what is a decade here or there between playmates? She slimmed down her physique; buttocks boyish, breasts mere hillocks compared to the over-sized melons she had been proudly displaying; changed her height to her actual five foot nothing, and replaced the dark glossy hair that had swished with her every movement with short reddish tight curls that did little to hide the angular, elfin shape of her face. Finally, she searched the wardrobe choices and settled on a near knee-length, charcoal, straight skirt, plain burgundy blouse, a pair of round-toed, two and a half inch, black, heels and some simple gold stud earrings to match the wedding band glinting on her finger. 

Selecting 'Storyboard,' she inputted her choices and then settled back to await any responses. Almost instantly she received several requests to be 'him'. Quickly scanning the profiles, she made her selection, sent out the appropriate notifications, and then waited for a 'her' to respond to the other character role. Of course, it wouldn't necessarily be an actual real 'her' and it wouldn't be unusual for one or more of the rejected 'hims' to return as 'her' once they'd loaded their alternate profiles. Not that she cared. Fantasy is the only currency of The Hub and only a fool would dare peek behind the curtain to inspect the machinations of others. 

She didn't have to wait long. Two candidate requests arrived almost simultaneously. Both early twenties; perfect, idealised, curved in all the expected places, full-lipped and pouting, fleshy in sheath dresses, twirling atop 'fuck me' heels. Clicking on their experience and user satisfaction ratings, she settled on the relative newbie; long term players she'd discovered were more likely to try and morph your scenario to their own kinks and desires and she'd had too many playtimes dognapped by catfish. 

The doorbell rang. Unwinding herself from her chair, she stepped into the hallway and pulled the front door open. The thick aroma of alcohol, cheap cigars and even cheaper perfume assaulted her nostrils. He was unsteady on his feet, his arm wrapped tight about her waist, half possessive trophy capture, half to keep him upright, his wedding band sparkling against the sheath fabric clinging to her torso as they both giggled at some long finished joke. 

"Hi hun, this here is Sophie; she's been helping out in the office this week. Remember me telling you." 

"Hi, Mrs Stephens. Tommy has told me so much about you. Never stops talking about you. Do you Tommy?"

And then they started giggling again at some unspoken joke that only the semi-inebriated could comprehend. Suppressing a sigh, she stepped to one side as he started to push himself over the threshold dragging her tottering and wiggling in his wake. 

"Come on hun, aren't you going to offer our guest a drink. You'd like a drink, wouldn't you Sophe? Whadda ya fancy? Another G&T? Fix us both a G&T hun; there's a good hostess trolley. Next to me, Sophe. On the sofa. Wiggle your pretty little tushy down here. Oops, soz about that. Couldn't help myself. Fucking arse made for fondling. Don't ya think, hun? Hasn't Sophie got a great fucking arse? Plenty to hold onto as you fuck her drippy cunt. I bet you've had a few, Sophe. A few cocks pound away at that sexy pussy, slapping into your arse cheeks whilst hanging onto your hips as you buck and moan. You still standing there, hun? C'mon, them drinks ain't gonna fix themselves, are they."

Cheeks flushed, she stepped silently across the thick piled carpet, eyes peeking at their corners as she tried and keep them both in sight as they pressed against each other on her primped upholstery. The sounds of their 'becoming acquainted' pursued her into the kitchen. Giggles becoming gasps becoming lip feasting becoming moans becoming pants of expectancy as she selected two glasses, retrieved ice from the refrigerator to clunk into their base, sloshed a finger of gin across their iceberg forms before finally coating everything in tonic. Sophie's husky exclamation of delight at her husband's cock caused her breath to catch and her fingers to tremble as she lined up chopping board, knife and lemon. For a moment, she stood still and silent with her eyes closed trying to regain her composure. The sounds of a mouth hungrily feasting on spousal man-meat accompanied by his appreciative grunts and encouraging words echoing in her ears. Carefully she cut two slices of lemon, added them to the drinks, picked up the glasses and retraced her steps back to the front room. 

Despite her downcast eyes, she couldn't avoid noticing her husband's fingers entwined amongst the blonde tresses as they bobbed vigorously in his lap. The air, thick with the scent of their aroused sexes, cloyed in her throat, her blouse sticking to her pathetic breasts as they heaved in a vain attempt to fill her lungs with their sexual smog. Her entirety felt flushed, burning with fever as she stepped across the room, placed the two drinks on an occasional table and returned to her seat.

Curling her feet under her, she fussed with the hemline of her skirt, trying to drag it down far enough to cover the exposed knobble of her knees. Eyes trying to avoid the energetic young flesh now knelt between his manspread thighs, dress ridden upwards to display pantiless buttocks and a smooth juicy dribbling peach. A peach that demanded to be split and sundered, pumped and pistoned by the thick cock sliding effortlessly between the fleshy globules of her freed tits. 

Her flustered fingers fumbled with a blouse button needing to subdue the tight constriction binding her chest as before her Sophie wriggles her way free of the final remnants of her dress to display her succulent femininity in all its glory. Cock-smeared lipstick decorating her lips, hair tousled, skin glowing as she straddles the matrimonial phallus, thighs wide, his helmet nestling between her petal lips as she grinds back and forth atop.

She can see herself reflected in Sophie's black, staring pupils; insignificant and foetal-curled a hand hidden beneath her blouse as her fingers close about the small, hard erectness of her nipple. Twisting and tugging as before her attentive eyes, the betrothed cock slides into the welcoming embrace of the deserving slut-cunt before her.

His hands on her full hips, ring displayed to blind her with its sparkles, as he pushes her onto him, as he thrusts upwards to drive deep into her dripping core. Cunt farts mingle with grunts and moans. Each thrust a squelch of liquid pleasure escaping her wanton sex as they assault each other in animalistic abandonment.

Sophie throws her head back; mouth a painted grin of smirking, sneering, sobbing delight. Her breasts heaving and jiggling, their full flesh juddering at every pubic collision. Her arse slaps down again, and again, and again. Frenzied now in its demands. Desperate to consume every last micrometre of the shaft that pulses between her muscular embrace. Sobbing and screaming as his meat is buried deep within her. Whimpering in delight as she pulls free, only to violently skewer herself once more. Him near invisible, hidden behind her fleshy pleasure, reduced to ring and cock and grunted desire.

Her fingers get lost amongst her skirting. Pulling up the tight hemline; near apologetic at her own behaviour, her own desire, her own need. The slithers of pain across her chest insufficient. Humdrum skirting bunching about her waist, its dreary charcoal fabric infused with the scent of her embarrassment as her fingers spread her sopping labia and tease their way along the chaste channel of her discarded slit. Her clit stands proud and attentive, eager for her touch, her caress, her self-abuse. Her eyes closing as her fingers flutter their way through her wetness. 

"Eyes open, hun. Look at her. Look at what a proper woman looks like. Proper tits. Proper cunt. Moaning in fucking pleasure, not lying there like some frigid ice queen fixated on dust mots and polish. Curves. Flesh. Wetness. Stinking of lust and desire, not floor cleaner and passivity. Go on, hun, finger your little button. Finger your tight unresponsive crack. That's all you're good for. Pointless, sexless bitch. Don't know why I ever married you."

Her eyes fly open. Fingers thrusting hard into her clinging sex. They're standing now; her bent at the waist, his cock slamming endlessly into her soaked and receptive cunt. Both sweat-covered and gleaming, sex-drugged eyes half-glazed but starring at her. Pinning her. Accusing her. Their gasps, their moans, their endless sobbing ecstasy now a cacophony about her ears, throbbing and pulsing through her sinewy trembling form as she feels her pleasure screaming to erupt beneath her rampant fingers.

"Go on, hun. Finish yourself off. Cum. Cum like the needy, worthless, undeserving little slut you are."

Curled in her chair, body trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure, flushed with humiliation and bitterness, she pulls the headset from her eyes.