I still have the magazines, some of them over 20 years old. They may be slightly faded, in spite of my best attempts to keep them in good nick, but I still derive a great deal of pleasure from seeing my wife in them.
She was a real looker back then, and I felt like the luckiest man on earth when we married. Twenty-five or so years on, she still turns heads, and I’m still the luckiest man I know. All the more so since we proved so eminently compatible in almost all things.
The pictures in the magazines are mine, which is to say I took them. It started not long after we were married. I knew that my wife had an exhibitionistic streak, and she needed no persuading to pose for the camera, and only a smidgen for photos to be sent off to various magazines – so long as a dark wig and a mask preserved her anonymity. The pictures were almost always accepted, no doubt more on account of my wife’s ample curves than my photographic prowess. My wife appeared in the Readers’ Wives section of the magazines as “Holly from Eastbourne”, and while both name and place were complete fictions, I shall continue to call her Holly here.
It came as a complete surprise when the fan mail arrived. Oh, the readers couldn’t possibly know how to get in touch, but the magazines appeared happy enough to forward such letters as were sent c/o them. Holly took to sending thank you cards whenever a return address was provided, even when the fan mail simply said, “Wow! You look fantastic bent over in those crotchless panties. Would love to shove my cock in you!”
Seriously, this was the level of some of the letters, although others were more courteous. A fair few wondered if we were swingers, or chanced their arm, asking if Holly would consider meeting them on her own. One or two men even offered large sums of money to sleep with my wife. All such offers were always politely declined. There was never any question of Holly alone or the two of us together meeting any of the correspondents. Nevertheless, Holly loved seeing herself in the magazines alongside the glamour models, and she loved the fan mail, as lewd as it could be. I loved seeing her in the magazines too, and derived a certain amount of satisfaction from knowing that I was the only man who got to have sex with a woman a large number of men fantasized about. Because they did, of course they did, and didn’t hesitate to say so. “Dear Holly, I just want you to know I beat my meat every night looking at your whopping great tits…”
Anyway, life intervened; most importantly children. Still, there were the odd opportunities over the years to indulge in a spot of photography, and “Holly from Eastbourne” continued to make sporadic appearances in magazines – a pregnant shoot memorably caused quite a sensation. With the arrival of the internet, things changed. Holly and I were late adopters, but eventually became enthusiastic contributors to an amateur site. The main difference was that no pictures were politely declined by an editor, and the response to them was instantaneous and more voluminous. In other respects things remained the same. My wife posed in wig and mask, and I snapped pictures of her in provocative poses, which when posted elicited comments ranging from the sweet to, “Would love to shower your tits with my spunk and watch you rub it in!”
The attention spurred us on. In the past it had always been just Holly in the pictures, but now I took some POV shots of her grinning happily at the camera as one hand cradled my balls and the other held my shaft. Soon we’d posted pictures of her lips surrounding my erection. Then we graduated yet further, eventually to the point where we bought a camcorder. The first video shoot was full of nervous giggles, but soon Holly became – I hesitate to say this of my wife – almost a consummate professional, wielding her selection of sex toys in ways which brought new, enthusiastic fans and the same mixture of the sophisticated and the crude: “Wow! I so wish that was my huge cock in your cunt.”
There was still never any question of meeting any of Holly’s fans, even if offers weren’t exactly in short supply. Still, the internet made it possible to correspond with the more sensible ones. We came into contact with other couples, who were heavily into outdoor exhibitionism, the swinging lifestyle and the like. Initially we felt that was too advanced for us, but we talked about it. We talked about it a lot. Gradually the idea of taking our adventures further came to excite us both equally. But how? Where? Anonymity had always been important to us, and we didn’t want to risk anything by playing around close to home.
A lot of people, mostly men, wanted to know where we lived. As in the old days, the stock reply was still the bare faced lie of Eastbourne. By now Holly had a contingent of fans who lived close enough to Eastbourne to suggest meeting, and as in the past there was the odd offer of money. “I’ll pay you £200 if you’ll strip for me and play with yourself a bit.” We didn’t need the money, and neither of us was comfortable with the implication of prostitution. Nevertheless, there was something about the suggestion that titillated us; the idea of Holly showing off in the flesh, not just online.
We talked and talked, and that’s how things finally came to pass. By now one youngster had flown the nest, and the other two were old enough to look after themselves. Holly and I told the kids we felt it was time we took a few days off, just the two of us. They didn’t complain, and so my wife and I booked ourselves in for a few days at a nice little B&B in Eastbourne.
We’d put out a few surreptitious feelers in advance of our trip. Since we didn’t actually know Eastbourne or its environs, we didn’t want to waste too much time looking for a suitable location for what we had in mind. We spent the first day checking out spots that afforded the necessary degree of seclusion, and settled on one that one of Holly’s fans had suggested. There were abandoned warehouses set back from one of the main roads out of town, the site earmarked for redevelopment. Round the back of them, the old staff car park was equally abandoned and, more importantly, hidden from almost every view.
“Are you sure you still want to go through with this?” I asked Holly.
She nodded, staring straight ahead. “You know I do,” she said. “And I know you do too.”
Back at the B&B we sent a message to twelve of Holly’s admirers – those we deemed might be able to make it, not really expecting all of them to, perhaps about half. “Exclusive one-off show! Holly will be performing live, in-car, this Sunday at ten o’clock A.M.” Directions were added.
We spent the Saturday exploring Eastbourne, both of us too consumed with nervous anticipation to pay much attention to the sights. Though Holly had shown herself off many times, it had always been in magazines and on the internet. Having no more than the shell of the car between herself and her admirers was a completely new kettle of fish. These were, after all, men who wrote in sometimes graphic detail about how turned on they were by my wife, and what they’d like to do to her. As turned on as I was by the idea, part of me was having second thoughts, but why? For twenty-five years I’d been turned on, knowing other men fantasized about my wife, that they ejaculated thinking of her. Was this so very different? The car would be locked from the inside, Holly would be in her wig and sunglasses (rather than the mask). It would be the same as always, just with the added bonus of Holly’s admirers being present in real time and real life.
As nervous as she was, Holly was determined to make the best of things. She bought some new things to wear especially for the big day. When she dressed the next morning, she looked as sexy as hell. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with ankle straps along with sheer black nylon on her legs, the kind of thing I love to see her in. But it was the new dress that was the thing. The deep red fabric hugged my wife’s body like she’d been wrapped in clingfilm. Every exquisite curve of her body was accentuated, especially her bosom. Not that the dress concealed much of that. It could hardly have covered less of her breasts without risking arrest, exposing deep cleavage, a diagonal cut just about hiding her nipples, leaving the bulk of her bulging bosom exposed. As we breakfasted, I could see a couple of husbands ogling Holly when they thought their wives weren’t watching.
“Judging by the reaction here,” I murmured, “you’ll be a big hit.”
Holly smiled demurely. “Maybe I’d be an even bigger hit here if they knew I wasn’t wearing any underwear,” she said.
The fact that my wife wasn’t wearing a bra would have been clear enough to anyone; that she wasn’t wearing any knickers was not entirely unexpected, but it caused a ripple of pleasure to run through me all the same. Any doubts I’d experienced yesterday were strangely absent this morning. Perhaps it was because there could be no turning back. The wheels had been set in motion, and now it was just a matter of following through. I was even quite looking forward to seeing how other men looked when they got to see Holly in the flesh.
We packed a bag, taking some of Holly’s toys along, as well as the camcorder. Arriving at the appointed place half an hour early, we found a spot in the shade. It was a sunny day, and though it was still morning, the heat would have been unbearable with the windows up. Then both of us got so nervous we had to drive round a corner and empty our bladders before returning to the chosen spot.
Cars started arriving. We’d thought maybe half or not quite half of those we’d invited might show up. As the time slowly approached ten o’clock, I counted nine cars, but upwards of fifteen men. Some of our correspondents had invited others along.
We hadn’t bargained for that, but nothing had really changed. Holly was in her wig and sunglasses and the doors were locked. I was in shades too. The men loitered close to our car, keeping an eye on it, exchanging a few words with each other.
“Oh gosh,” Holly whispered, as the digital clock on the dashboard indicated that the appointed hour of 10:00 had arrived. “Suddenly I don’t know what to do!”
“Just do what you do when we’re at home,” I advised. By now I’d got the camera ready and zoomed in on her cleavage, before zooming out to angle the camera and get the men outside in the frame. Attracted by the movement, the men came closer, crowding round, jostling for position on the passenger side. Holly gave a little wave, and some of the men waved back. We could hear the murmur of voices and a laugh or two.
Holly’s hand found its way to my thigh. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
Stage fright? Really? That never happened at home, but then this was something else entirely; a live show, in person, in public.
“Play with your tits,” I said. “You know how much guys love it when you play with your tits.”
Holly nodded, seeming relieved that the solution was that simple. She raised her hands and traced a path along the hem of the fabric that ran diagonally across her boobs. There was more murmuring outside the car. I aimed the camcorder at my wife, simultaneously keeping an eye on the crowd of men outside looking in, becoming all too aware of the lechery in their eyes.
“They’re liking what they’re seeing,” I mumbled.
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Holly whispered with a quaver in her voice.
It was, but this was completely different to all those anonymous vulgarities. Men had left comments saying how much they wanted to suck on my wife’s tits, grope them, squeeze them, even spray them with cum. Now those men, or men like them, were here in person, gaping at my wife as she cradled her breasts and squeezed them through the fabric of her figure-hugging dress.
I tried to ignore their presence as I focused on capturing Holly on camera, but then my attention was grabbed by the fact that one of the men had pulled his sweatpants down beneath his balls and was waving his cock at my wife with a dirty grin on his face.
Was this what I’d wanted? Was it what Holly had wanted? These were foolish questions, since it should have been obvious to us that it would happen.
She was a real looker back then, and I felt like the luckiest man on earth when we married. Twenty-five or so years on, she still turns heads, and I’m still the luckiest man I know. All the more so since we proved so eminently compatible in almost all things.
The pictures in the magazines are mine, which is to say I took them. It started not long after we were married. I knew that my wife had an exhibitionistic streak, and she needed no persuading to pose for the camera, and only a smidgen for photos to be sent off to various magazines – so long as a dark wig and a mask preserved her anonymity. The pictures were almost always accepted, no doubt more on account of my wife’s ample curves than my photographic prowess. My wife appeared in the Readers’ Wives section of the magazines as “Holly from Eastbourne”, and while both name and place were complete fictions, I shall continue to call her Holly here.
It came as a complete surprise when the fan mail arrived. Oh, the readers couldn’t possibly know how to get in touch, but the magazines appeared happy enough to forward such letters as were sent c/o them. Holly took to sending thank you cards whenever a return address was provided, even when the fan mail simply said, “Wow! You look fantastic bent over in those crotchless panties. Would love to shove my cock in you!”
Seriously, this was the level of some of the letters, although others were more courteous. A fair few wondered if we were swingers, or chanced their arm, asking if Holly would consider meeting them on her own. One or two men even offered large sums of money to sleep with my wife. All such offers were always politely declined. There was never any question of Holly alone or the two of us together meeting any of the correspondents. Nevertheless, Holly loved seeing herself in the magazines alongside the glamour models, and she loved the fan mail, as lewd as it could be. I loved seeing her in the magazines too, and derived a certain amount of satisfaction from knowing that I was the only man who got to have sex with a woman a large number of men fantasized about. Because they did, of course they did, and didn’t hesitate to say so. “Dear Holly, I just want you to know I beat my meat every night looking at your whopping great tits…”
Anyway, life intervened; most importantly children. Still, there were the odd opportunities over the years to indulge in a spot of photography, and “Holly from Eastbourne” continued to make sporadic appearances in magazines – a pregnant shoot memorably caused quite a sensation. With the arrival of the internet, things changed. Holly and I were late adopters, but eventually became enthusiastic contributors to an amateur site. The main difference was that no pictures were politely declined by an editor, and the response to them was instantaneous and more voluminous. In other respects things remained the same. My wife posed in wig and mask, and I snapped pictures of her in provocative poses, which when posted elicited comments ranging from the sweet to, “Would love to shower your tits with my spunk and watch you rub it in!”
The attention spurred us on. In the past it had always been just Holly in the pictures, but now I took some POV shots of her grinning happily at the camera as one hand cradled my balls and the other held my shaft. Soon we’d posted pictures of her lips surrounding my erection. Then we graduated yet further, eventually to the point where we bought a camcorder. The first video shoot was full of nervous giggles, but soon Holly became – I hesitate to say this of my wife – almost a consummate professional, wielding her selection of sex toys in ways which brought new, enthusiastic fans and the same mixture of the sophisticated and the crude: “Wow! I so wish that was my huge cock in your cunt.”
There was still never any question of meeting any of Holly’s fans, even if offers weren’t exactly in short supply. Still, the internet made it possible to correspond with the more sensible ones. We came into contact with other couples, who were heavily into outdoor exhibitionism, the swinging lifestyle and the like. Initially we felt that was too advanced for us, but we talked about it. We talked about it a lot. Gradually the idea of taking our adventures further came to excite us both equally. But how? Where? Anonymity had always been important to us, and we didn’t want to risk anything by playing around close to home.
A lot of people, mostly men, wanted to know where we lived. As in the old days, the stock reply was still the bare faced lie of Eastbourne. By now Holly had a contingent of fans who lived close enough to Eastbourne to suggest meeting, and as in the past there was the odd offer of money. “I’ll pay you £200 if you’ll strip for me and play with yourself a bit.” We didn’t need the money, and neither of us was comfortable with the implication of prostitution. Nevertheless, there was something about the suggestion that titillated us; the idea of Holly showing off in the flesh, not just online.
We talked and talked, and that’s how things finally came to pass. By now one youngster had flown the nest, and the other two were old enough to look after themselves. Holly and I told the kids we felt it was time we took a few days off, just the two of us. They didn’t complain, and so my wife and I booked ourselves in for a few days at a nice little B&B in Eastbourne.
We’d put out a few surreptitious feelers in advance of our trip. Since we didn’t actually know Eastbourne or its environs, we didn’t want to waste too much time looking for a suitable location for what we had in mind. We spent the first day checking out spots that afforded the necessary degree of seclusion, and settled on one that one of Holly’s fans had suggested. There were abandoned warehouses set back from one of the main roads out of town, the site earmarked for redevelopment. Round the back of them, the old staff car park was equally abandoned and, more importantly, hidden from almost every view.
“Are you sure you still want to go through with this?” I asked Holly.
She nodded, staring straight ahead. “You know I do,” she said. “And I know you do too.”
Back at the B&B we sent a message to twelve of Holly’s admirers – those we deemed might be able to make it, not really expecting all of them to, perhaps about half. “Exclusive one-off show! Holly will be performing live, in-car, this Sunday at ten o’clock A.M.” Directions were added.
We spent the Saturday exploring Eastbourne, both of us too consumed with nervous anticipation to pay much attention to the sights. Though Holly had shown herself off many times, it had always been in magazines and on the internet. Having no more than the shell of the car between herself and her admirers was a completely new kettle of fish. These were, after all, men who wrote in sometimes graphic detail about how turned on they were by my wife, and what they’d like to do to her. As turned on as I was by the idea, part of me was having second thoughts, but why? For twenty-five years I’d been turned on, knowing other men fantasized about my wife, that they ejaculated thinking of her. Was this so very different? The car would be locked from the inside, Holly would be in her wig and sunglasses (rather than the mask). It would be the same as always, just with the added bonus of Holly’s admirers being present in real time and real life.
As nervous as she was, Holly was determined to make the best of things. She bought some new things to wear especially for the big day. When she dressed the next morning, she looked as sexy as hell. She was wearing high-heeled shoes with ankle straps along with sheer black nylon on her legs, the kind of thing I love to see her in. But it was the new dress that was the thing. The deep red fabric hugged my wife’s body like she’d been wrapped in clingfilm. Every exquisite curve of her body was accentuated, especially her bosom. Not that the dress concealed much of that. It could hardly have covered less of her breasts without risking arrest, exposing deep cleavage, a diagonal cut just about hiding her nipples, leaving the bulk of her bulging bosom exposed. As we breakfasted, I could see a couple of husbands ogling Holly when they thought their wives weren’t watching.
“Judging by the reaction here,” I murmured, “you’ll be a big hit.”
Holly smiled demurely. “Maybe I’d be an even bigger hit here if they knew I wasn’t wearing any underwear,” she said.
The fact that my wife wasn’t wearing a bra would have been clear enough to anyone; that she wasn’t wearing any knickers was not entirely unexpected, but it caused a ripple of pleasure to run through me all the same. Any doubts I’d experienced yesterday were strangely absent this morning. Perhaps it was because there could be no turning back. The wheels had been set in motion, and now it was just a matter of following through. I was even quite looking forward to seeing how other men looked when they got to see Holly in the flesh.
We packed a bag, taking some of Holly’s toys along, as well as the camcorder. Arriving at the appointed place half an hour early, we found a spot in the shade. It was a sunny day, and though it was still morning, the heat would have been unbearable with the windows up. Then both of us got so nervous we had to drive round a corner and empty our bladders before returning to the chosen spot.
Cars started arriving. We’d thought maybe half or not quite half of those we’d invited might show up. As the time slowly approached ten o’clock, I counted nine cars, but upwards of fifteen men. Some of our correspondents had invited others along.
We hadn’t bargained for that, but nothing had really changed. Holly was in her wig and sunglasses and the doors were locked. I was in shades too. The men loitered close to our car, keeping an eye on it, exchanging a few words with each other.
“Oh gosh,” Holly whispered, as the digital clock on the dashboard indicated that the appointed hour of 10:00 had arrived. “Suddenly I don’t know what to do!”
“Just do what you do when we’re at home,” I advised. By now I’d got the camera ready and zoomed in on her cleavage, before zooming out to angle the camera and get the men outside in the frame. Attracted by the movement, the men came closer, crowding round, jostling for position on the passenger side. Holly gave a little wave, and some of the men waved back. We could hear the murmur of voices and a laugh or two.
Holly’s hand found its way to my thigh. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
Stage fright? Really? That never happened at home, but then this was something else entirely; a live show, in person, in public.
“Play with your tits,” I said. “You know how much guys love it when you play with your tits.”
Holly nodded, seeming relieved that the solution was that simple. She raised her hands and traced a path along the hem of the fabric that ran diagonally across her boobs. There was more murmuring outside the car. I aimed the camcorder at my wife, simultaneously keeping an eye on the crowd of men outside looking in, becoming all too aware of the lechery in their eyes.
“They’re liking what they’re seeing,” I mumbled.
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Holly whispered with a quaver in her voice.
It was, but this was completely different to all those anonymous vulgarities. Men had left comments saying how much they wanted to suck on my wife’s tits, grope them, squeeze them, even spray them with cum. Now those men, or men like them, were here in person, gaping at my wife as she cradled her breasts and squeezed them through the fabric of her figure-hugging dress.
I tried to ignore their presence as I focused on capturing Holly on camera, but then my attention was grabbed by the fact that one of the men had pulled his sweatpants down beneath his balls and was waving his cock at my wife with a dirty grin on his face.
Was this what I’d wanted? Was it what Holly had wanted? These were foolish questions, since it should have been obvious to us that it would happen.
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What I suddenly discovered was that I liked it, the way I’d discovered I liked reading the fan mail way back when we’d embarked on this path. I liked sitting next to my wife and knowing that these men all had the hots for her, but that she was my wife. I reached out, slipping a hand inside my wife’s dress to pull a boob out.
“What’s this?” Holly said.
“It’s what they want to see,” I said.
Judging by the increased murmurs outside, it was indeed. My wife followed suit, perhaps encouraged by the appreciative sounds, liberating her other breast. She knew what to do now, fondling her big mammaries, rolling swelling nipples between fingers and thumbs, even pushing her breasts up and tilting her head down so that tip of tongue met nipple.
This was definitely what the men wanted to see. Two more cocks were out in the open, men exposing themselves shamelessly as my wife toyed with her breasts. I reached out again, this time to ease Holly’s dress up her thigh, just enough to show a glimpse of stocking top – which was pretty much what the snug fit allowed. There was a loud wolf whistle from outside.
A hint of a blush coloured Holly’s cheeks. Outside one of the men, young looking, cocked his head to one side and made a gesture with one hand, easily interpreted as a request to touch her breasts. When we’d discussed this at home, we’d been agreed that we’d keep the car locked and the windows up, but now, sitting here like this, the situation seemed to take on a life of its own.
“Gosh!” Holly said. “This is…” She was looking directly at the young man, who continued to make the gesture. She smiled at him.
“Do you want him to touch you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Holly whispered. “Would you be all right with that?”
I didn’t want to say yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to say no either. My wife’s words spoke volumes about her feelings. It wasn’t what we’d agreed, but I couldn’t help myself. I leaned across, catching the man’s eye and nodding. My finger was on the control, activating the window on the passenger side so that it slid down.
An odd silence descended, save for the odd appreciative murmur. The young man took a step forward, reaching into the car, his fingers closing on Holly’s ripely rounded breast. All those years of comments about my wife’s breasts, and now another man was actually touching them. I felt ashamed of myself for letting it happen, and my wife looked slightly ashamed too, but it was happening, and though I could have put a stop to it by the simple expedient of winding the window back up, somehow I knew that there was no stopping it.
There was no stopping it, and it wasn’t just the one man now, but several hands, all reaching in like octopus tentacles, all eager to feel Holly’s ripe boobs, to fondle and grope and squeeze and pinch her swollen nipples. Not being able to see my wife’s eyes behind the dark glasses, I couldn’t see how she was feeling, but I guessed she was as conflicted as I was. Did I really want this? My head was all of a blur, but there was no denying the hard throbbing in my trousers.
I concentrated on capturing the event on video. That was my role in all of this, after all. Outside the awed silence cracked, voices making the odd comment. “Fucking ace tits. You gotta feel ‘em!” “I’ve wanted to feel your boobs for so long, Holly!”
I still didn’t quite understand the ease with which this had happened. A part of me felt sick, another part of me felt terribly aroused. Glancing up I got a new shock. One of the men had come right up close to the window with his erect cock, and as myriad hands groped my wife's tits, her fingers with their sparkling red nails, were holding the stranger’s erection in a firm grip.
This wasn’t what we’d agreed at all, but everything we’d agreed seemed to have gone out of the window the moment it slid down. I watched in horrified fascination as my wife’s hand moved, stroking the hard cock, hands simultaneously grabbing at her boobs. Other cocks were out in the open too, men stimulating themselves, saying things. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, Holly, if only the missus was half as keen as you are.” “Any chance of cumming on those tits of yours?”
Then there was a huge grunt. Hands were withdrawn, there was a bellowing, the cock my wife’s hand was working twitching and spurting. Sperm was flying into the car. I caught a couple of drops on my shirt, but most of it went all over my wife, splattering her huge assets, splashing her face. There was a trickle running down her shades as her tongue came out and she licked her lips, where one or two drops had fallen.
There was applause from outside. The men were enjoying this. So was I, though I could hardly bring myself to admit it to myself. Beforehand we’d been so focused on it just being a show that we hadn’t actively discussed any other possibility. If we had, perhaps we would have been better prepared to resist the things that were now happening.
For the moment I was stunned, unable to speak or move. A man was leaning into the car, his hand reaching down and pulling on my wife’s dress. She raised her body, aiding and abetting him, her legs parting, and as the man’s hand touched her labia she let out a wanton moan.
“What’s going on?” somebody outside asked.
“I’m fingering her pussy,” the man replied. He was too, his fingers having worked their way inside with no permission asked – though Holly was acting as if she would have granted it in any case. For something to do, I aimed the camera, capturing the moment a complete stranger dug his fingers into my wife.
Holly moaned out loud again. She twisted her torso. Another man was right up close to the window, his stiff cock aiming at my wife, who reached out to grab hold of it without a moment’s hesitation. Stomach churning, heart beating, cock throbbing, I could see her tongue extend.
My wife’s legs parted some more, allowing the fingers even greater access to her pussy. Then, as her tongue came into contact with the erection in front of her face, I was unable to control myself. My cock was twitching, sticky seed billowing out into my underpants. I did my best not to give any indication of what was happening, watching intently as Holly licked the shaft, then slid her lips down the hard pole.
Amazingly, I found myself coming nowhere close to softening. In spite of just having ejaculated, my cock was like granite as I watched Holly suck greedily on the cock, humming loudly as the sound of moisture rose from her harshly fingered vagina.
“Do you wanna suck my cock too, Holly?” There was laughter, then colliding voices all echoing the sentiment. The car door opened and swung open.
But it was locked! Surely it had been locked? My wife swung her legs round. Now I could only see her from behind, but I could ascertain only too well what was happening.
Her legs were parted. She was showing off her shaven mound to her audience, taking over the fingering herself as men thrust their eager organs at her. I could see her hand grab hold of one and work it. The bobbing of her head told me she was sucking another.
“Go Holly!” someone cried. “Suck that cock!”
This produced a chant. “Suck that cock! Suck that cock!”
Should I get out and move round the car to capture this on film properly? I still didn’t know. As far as the men were concerned I may as well not have been there. In any case I still felt paralysed, afraid that my knees would buckle if I tried to walk, and still mortally ashamed at the way my cock remained stiff and hard from my excitement at the way my wife’s arms and head were moving as the men kept up the chanting. “Suck that cock! Suck that cock!”
In the event it wasn’t the man she was sucking who climaxed, but the one she was wanking. Huge jets of sperm struck my wife on the shoulder and on the side of her neck. The men cheered.
Then another voice cut through the hubbub. “Get her out of the car! Let’s fuck her proper!”
Things were getting properly out of hand, but Holly gave not the slightest indication of reluctance as hands grabbed her, pulling her out of her seat. She stumbled slightly as the men bundled her round to the front of the car, in just hold-ups and shoes, and the red dress now a thin roll round her waist.
As she steadied herself with her hands on the bonnet, her shades continued to conceal her eyes, but I could tell only too well by the rest of her face how far gone Holly was. I trained the camera on her through the windscreen, capturing the shifts of her facial muscles as she was penetrated from behind.
Were her eyes open or closed? It didn’t matter. I could imagine her eyes only too well, gleaming as the men took turns fucking her. How could this have happened? How could I not have understood it would happen? And how could I remain so intensely aroused by the sight of my wife’s face as she had her pussy fucked and fucked by all of these men?
But then, was not this the logical conclusion of all those years of fan mail, of Holly from Eastbourne showing herself off, of lewd letters from men saying that they wanted to do exactly what these men were now doing?
My wife came. She came several times. I knew that look only too well, even with her eyes concealed by the sunglasses. She came staring at me through the windscreen (I was sure she was), as complete strangers rammed their cocks into her. I loved the look on her face, and I hated myself for loving it.
Then the men were pulling her round. She sank down with her back to the car, and finally I found the wherewithal to open the car door and get out. At first there were too many bodies in the way for me to see Holly, or to get a good shot of her, but after a couple of cheers, a gap opened up.
I moved in, seeing splashes of cum on my wife’s nylons, and thick ropes of sperm criss-crossing her breasts. She leaned back against the car, her hands coming up to fondle her ample bosom, massaging the cream into them as one of the men twisted her head into position to suck on his hard cock.
Another man stepped forward, wanking his cock against Holly’s cheek. She began turning her head from side to side, sucking on them alternately. There were loud cheers when the men came, spraying a cheek each. Another man overheated, springing forward to hose his stuff all over Holly’s breasts.
It was a complete free-for-all, and when the men were all spent, Holly’s body was dripping with cum. I had my cock out by now, aiming the camera at my wife’s slimy face as I wanked my sticky organ. Holly smiled happily, sticking her tongue out and allowing me to shoot my load straight into her wide open mouth as things concluded with a spontaneous loud round of applause.
Once the men had departed, Holly and I just looked at each other. After twenty-five years of marriage, we had no trouble telling that we were both as ashamed and embarrassed as each other that things had turned out the way they had. For the moment, though, there were more practical concerns. Though we’d packed toys that hadn’t been used, neither of us had thought to bring a towel. My wife wiped her face on her dress, but this did nothing to help her appearance once she’d pulled the garment back on. All it meant was that the sperm from her face joined the sperm on her body in seeping into the fabric.
We drove back to the B&B, and while Holly kept her head down, I went inside, returning with a bag containing big towels, several bottles of water, and a change of clothes. Then we found a place where my wife could clean off to the best of her ability; enough at any rate to be able to enter the B&B without looking like a bukkake queen.
“Well,” I said, once my wife had showered and we were sitting side by side on the bed. “That was a new experience.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Holly breathed. “I just… It just…”
“It got the better of me too,” I said. I didn’t, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say out loud how much I’d hated myself for enjoying watching. Not in so many words. So I tried to make light of the situation instead. “Perhaps Holly from Eastbourne should go on a UK tour.” I winked at my wife, but I knew that there was a fine line between the pretence of a joke and actually meaning it.
My wife flashed me a look of utter incredulity. But behind that, there was another look. Her lips seemed to move in slow motion. “Eastbourne, Exeter, Ely, Edinburgh…” she murmured.
Yes, she was definitely keen. I didn’t want her to feel that way, but I couldn’t deny that I was keen too. Anyway, considering what had happened earlier, it seemed ridiculous to stand on virtue.
"Wherever you want to go," I said. "Wherever you want to go."
“What’s this?” Holly said.
“It’s what they want to see,” I said.
Judging by the increased murmurs outside, it was indeed. My wife followed suit, perhaps encouraged by the appreciative sounds, liberating her other breast. She knew what to do now, fondling her big mammaries, rolling swelling nipples between fingers and thumbs, even pushing her breasts up and tilting her head down so that tip of tongue met nipple.
This was definitely what the men wanted to see. Two more cocks were out in the open, men exposing themselves shamelessly as my wife toyed with her breasts. I reached out again, this time to ease Holly’s dress up her thigh, just enough to show a glimpse of stocking top – which was pretty much what the snug fit allowed. There was a loud wolf whistle from outside.
A hint of a blush coloured Holly’s cheeks. Outside one of the men, young looking, cocked his head to one side and made a gesture with one hand, easily interpreted as a request to touch her breasts. When we’d discussed this at home, we’d been agreed that we’d keep the car locked and the windows up, but now, sitting here like this, the situation seemed to take on a life of its own.
“Gosh!” Holly said. “This is…” She was looking directly at the young man, who continued to make the gesture. She smiled at him.
“Do you want him to touch you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Holly whispered. “Would you be all right with that?”
I didn’t want to say yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to say no either. My wife’s words spoke volumes about her feelings. It wasn’t what we’d agreed, but I couldn’t help myself. I leaned across, catching the man’s eye and nodding. My finger was on the control, activating the window on the passenger side so that it slid down.
An odd silence descended, save for the odd appreciative murmur. The young man took a step forward, reaching into the car, his fingers closing on Holly’s ripely rounded breast. All those years of comments about my wife’s breasts, and now another man was actually touching them. I felt ashamed of myself for letting it happen, and my wife looked slightly ashamed too, but it was happening, and though I could have put a stop to it by the simple expedient of winding the window back up, somehow I knew that there was no stopping it.
There was no stopping it, and it wasn’t just the one man now, but several hands, all reaching in like octopus tentacles, all eager to feel Holly’s ripe boobs, to fondle and grope and squeeze and pinch her swollen nipples. Not being able to see my wife’s eyes behind the dark glasses, I couldn’t see how she was feeling, but I guessed she was as conflicted as I was. Did I really want this? My head was all of a blur, but there was no denying the hard throbbing in my trousers.
I concentrated on capturing the event on video. That was my role in all of this, after all. Outside the awed silence cracked, voices making the odd comment. “Fucking ace tits. You gotta feel ‘em!” “I’ve wanted to feel your boobs for so long, Holly!”
I still didn’t quite understand the ease with which this had happened. A part of me felt sick, another part of me felt terribly aroused. Glancing up I got a new shock. One of the men had come right up close to the window with his erect cock, and as myriad hands groped my wife's tits, her fingers with their sparkling red nails, were holding the stranger’s erection in a firm grip.
This wasn’t what we’d agreed at all, but everything we’d agreed seemed to have gone out of the window the moment it slid down. I watched in horrified fascination as my wife’s hand moved, stroking the hard cock, hands simultaneously grabbing at her boobs. Other cocks were out in the open too, men stimulating themselves, saying things. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, Holly, if only the missus was half as keen as you are.” “Any chance of cumming on those tits of yours?”
Then there was a huge grunt. Hands were withdrawn, there was a bellowing, the cock my wife’s hand was working twitching and spurting. Sperm was flying into the car. I caught a couple of drops on my shirt, but most of it went all over my wife, splattering her huge assets, splashing her face. There was a trickle running down her shades as her tongue came out and she licked her lips, where one or two drops had fallen.
There was applause from outside. The men were enjoying this. So was I, though I could hardly bring myself to admit it to myself. Beforehand we’d been so focused on it just being a show that we hadn’t actively discussed any other possibility. If we had, perhaps we would have been better prepared to resist the things that were now happening.
For the moment I was stunned, unable to speak or move. A man was leaning into the car, his hand reaching down and pulling on my wife’s dress. She raised her body, aiding and abetting him, her legs parting, and as the man’s hand touched her labia she let out a wanton moan.
“What’s going on?” somebody outside asked.
“I’m fingering her pussy,” the man replied. He was too, his fingers having worked their way inside with no permission asked – though Holly was acting as if she would have granted it in any case. For something to do, I aimed the camera, capturing the moment a complete stranger dug his fingers into my wife.
Holly moaned out loud again. She twisted her torso. Another man was right up close to the window, his stiff cock aiming at my wife, who reached out to grab hold of it without a moment’s hesitation. Stomach churning, heart beating, cock throbbing, I could see her tongue extend.
My wife’s legs parted some more, allowing the fingers even greater access to her pussy. Then, as her tongue came into contact with the erection in front of her face, I was unable to control myself. My cock was twitching, sticky seed billowing out into my underpants. I did my best not to give any indication of what was happening, watching intently as Holly licked the shaft, then slid her lips down the hard pole.
Amazingly, I found myself coming nowhere close to softening. In spite of just having ejaculated, my cock was like granite as I watched Holly suck greedily on the cock, humming loudly as the sound of moisture rose from her harshly fingered vagina.
“Do you wanna suck my cock too, Holly?” There was laughter, then colliding voices all echoing the sentiment. The car door opened and swung open.
But it was locked! Surely it had been locked? My wife swung her legs round. Now I could only see her from behind, but I could ascertain only too well what was happening.
Her legs were parted. She was showing off her shaven mound to her audience, taking over the fingering herself as men thrust their eager organs at her. I could see her hand grab hold of one and work it. The bobbing of her head told me she was sucking another.
“Go Holly!” someone cried. “Suck that cock!”
This produced a chant. “Suck that cock! Suck that cock!”
Should I get out and move round the car to capture this on film properly? I still didn’t know. As far as the men were concerned I may as well not have been there. In any case I still felt paralysed, afraid that my knees would buckle if I tried to walk, and still mortally ashamed at the way my cock remained stiff and hard from my excitement at the way my wife’s arms and head were moving as the men kept up the chanting. “Suck that cock! Suck that cock!”
In the event it wasn’t the man she was sucking who climaxed, but the one she was wanking. Huge jets of sperm struck my wife on the shoulder and on the side of her neck. The men cheered.
Then another voice cut through the hubbub. “Get her out of the car! Let’s fuck her proper!”
Things were getting properly out of hand, but Holly gave not the slightest indication of reluctance as hands grabbed her, pulling her out of her seat. She stumbled slightly as the men bundled her round to the front of the car, in just hold-ups and shoes, and the red dress now a thin roll round her waist.
As she steadied herself with her hands on the bonnet, her shades continued to conceal her eyes, but I could tell only too well by the rest of her face how far gone Holly was. I trained the camera on her through the windscreen, capturing the shifts of her facial muscles as she was penetrated from behind.
Were her eyes open or closed? It didn’t matter. I could imagine her eyes only too well, gleaming as the men took turns fucking her. How could this have happened? How could I not have understood it would happen? And how could I remain so intensely aroused by the sight of my wife’s face as she had her pussy fucked and fucked by all of these men?
But then, was not this the logical conclusion of all those years of fan mail, of Holly from Eastbourne showing herself off, of lewd letters from men saying that they wanted to do exactly what these men were now doing?
My wife came. She came several times. I knew that look only too well, even with her eyes concealed by the sunglasses. She came staring at me through the windscreen (I was sure she was), as complete strangers rammed their cocks into her. I loved the look on her face, and I hated myself for loving it.
Then the men were pulling her round. She sank down with her back to the car, and finally I found the wherewithal to open the car door and get out. At first there were too many bodies in the way for me to see Holly, or to get a good shot of her, but after a couple of cheers, a gap opened up.
I moved in, seeing splashes of cum on my wife’s nylons, and thick ropes of sperm criss-crossing her breasts. She leaned back against the car, her hands coming up to fondle her ample bosom, massaging the cream into them as one of the men twisted her head into position to suck on his hard cock.
Another man stepped forward, wanking his cock against Holly’s cheek. She began turning her head from side to side, sucking on them alternately. There were loud cheers when the men came, spraying a cheek each. Another man overheated, springing forward to hose his stuff all over Holly’s breasts.
It was a complete free-for-all, and when the men were all spent, Holly’s body was dripping with cum. I had my cock out by now, aiming the camera at my wife’s slimy face as I wanked my sticky organ. Holly smiled happily, sticking her tongue out and allowing me to shoot my load straight into her wide open mouth as things concluded with a spontaneous loud round of applause.
Once the men had departed, Holly and I just looked at each other. After twenty-five years of marriage, we had no trouble telling that we were both as ashamed and embarrassed as each other that things had turned out the way they had. For the moment, though, there were more practical concerns. Though we’d packed toys that hadn’t been used, neither of us had thought to bring a towel. My wife wiped her face on her dress, but this did nothing to help her appearance once she’d pulled the garment back on. All it meant was that the sperm from her face joined the sperm on her body in seeping into the fabric.
We drove back to the B&B, and while Holly kept her head down, I went inside, returning with a bag containing big towels, several bottles of water, and a change of clothes. Then we found a place where my wife could clean off to the best of her ability; enough at any rate to be able to enter the B&B without looking like a bukkake queen.
“Well,” I said, once my wife had showered and we were sitting side by side on the bed. “That was a new experience.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Holly breathed. “I just… It just…”
“It got the better of me too,” I said. I didn’t, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say out loud how much I’d hated myself for enjoying watching. Not in so many words. So I tried to make light of the situation instead. “Perhaps Holly from Eastbourne should go on a UK tour.” I winked at my wife, but I knew that there was a fine line between the pretence of a joke and actually meaning it.
My wife flashed me a look of utter incredulity. But behind that, there was another look. Her lips seemed to move in slow motion. “Eastbourne, Exeter, Ely, Edinburgh…” she murmured.
Yes, she was definitely keen. I didn’t want her to feel that way, but I couldn’t deny that I was keen too. Anyway, considering what had happened earlier, it seemed ridiculous to stand on virtue.
"Wherever you want to go," I said. "Wherever you want to go."
