It had been the best sex of my life, which is saying quite a lot. Like always, he had me so fucking horny that my sexual nectar was dripping down my legs before he’d even touched me. My then-boyfriend didn’t maul me, pawing at me in some feeble attempt to make me horny. Instead, he seduced my mind, enraptured my imagination, and stoked the fires of my libido until I was humping everything in sight.
By the time his fingers touched my steamy, quivering flesh, I had been on the verge of a spontaneous orgasm. His hands, fingers, teeth, lips, tongue, and body played a symphony on my body—anything within reach becoming an impromptu sex toy—until I could only writhe in ecstasy, begging to be brutally fucked. What followed was a soul-rending, eye-opening experience. I gave myself to him, utterly and completely, my soul torn asunder by passion and reconstituted into a being of raw, primal passion, receiving pleasures I hadn’t even dared dream of. The sex was so mind-blowing that I woke up, three times, in the middle of the night and fingered myself, reliving what had just transpired.
I was more than off the rails for him. He possessed my mind, owned my very soul, and stoked the fires of passion within me into a raging volcano. Every moment with him was a whirlwind of horny romance, sultry seduction, and amazing adventure. Although I was quickly approaching forty years old, I felt truly alive for the first time in my life. Despite some Krystal-caused rocky moments, I’d maneuvered my way into his life, slutted my way into his bedroom, and finagled enough comfort to be invited to stay at his place, whenever I felt like it. I wanted to stay at his place more than I’d ever wanted anything, before.
He had to leave early for work, leaving me alone in his house. I didn’t mind, as my head was in the clouds, and my fingers were in my pussy. To me, it was a taste of the life I could have, provided I wasn’t my usual, stupid bitch self and fucked everything up. Few people, men or women, know exactly how to unleash a woman’s truly wild side. He did, and I loved every second of it. In my mind, as I pranced around his house, snooping out of curiosity, he was my one and only. He treated me like a goddess and an equal, appreciated me for who I am instead of just my award-winning ass, and he fucked me into oblivion. If only I could make it permanent.
That thought, making things permanent between us, both consumed and possessed me. Crawling down that hopeful, emotional rabbit hole regressed me from a strong, independent woman into a blabbering, silly, teenager. I’d lost all self-control and was tumbling through the ether without any bearing. I was in his house, eating the food he’d prepared for me off of his plates, with his belongings all around me. Given my emotional state—finally being happy—and my mindset, it seemed both proper and natural that I indulged my whimsies.
My first hour was spent masturbating in his bed, the same bed that I had recently been savagely taken and pummeled and pounded until I lost count of my orgasms, knowing only that he had the power to reduce me to a begging, pleading, needy slut. My fingers plunged inside my eager, soaked hole, more fingers flying over my clit, until I had a leg-shaking, earth-shattering cum, soaking the already-soiled sheets. Then, I took a long, hot shower, standing under the cascading water until it grew lukewarm. A handy brush, the handle cleaned in the shower, was perfect for fucking me to another orgasm while the pulsing jets of the hand-held shower head blasted my clit to passionate heights.
In my haste to lie with my beau, I’d forgotten to pack anything for my stay. Luckily, there was a new toothbrush in the bathroom for me, still in the packaging. However, that left me without any clothing to wear. I’d thought about grabbing some clothes for the following day, but, to be honest, my plans for that weekend required that I be nude. His shirt from last night was still draped over the chair in the bedroom, so I donned that, only that, and found ways to pass the time until the man that unleashed my sexual insatiability returned.
Having the entire day to myself, I did what any woman in a new, possibly and hopefully serious relationship would do. I searched his entire house, every nook and cranny, to learn more about this mysterious man who had captured my heart and sent my libido into orbit. The fact that he was so enigmatic just made snooping taste all the sweeter.
My searches netted me no answers, only more questions and an overpowering desire to get off. I sat at his desk, wearing his T-shirt that still smelled faintly of him and his dreamy cologne, and fingered myself into oblivion. Between orgasms, I scrawled his last name next to mine, just to try it on. I’d even wrapped some black tape around my left-hand ring finger as a surrogate wedding band. To further demonstrate my immature, silly insanity, I covered the fronts and backs of a ream of paper with iterations of my hopeful, new name: “Mrs. Krystal Blackfeather,” “Krystal Blackfeather,” “Krystal Blackfeather Greene,” and “K. Greene-Blackfeather.”
It felt so joyous to finger my wet, hot slit while wearing “his wedding ring.” I spent a good part of my day watching my fingers fly over my hot cunt, that black piece of tape an embodiment of my fantasy. “Fuck your wife with that big, hard cock,” was uttered more than once. My horny arousal was off the charts, and I sought out random objects in his house, fucking or humping them. My sexual nectar soaked and stained dozens of items.
Despite not being able to cook to save my life, I decided that surprising him with a home-cooked meal would somehow ingratiate me toward him. I got back into my soiled, wrinkled clothing from the previous night, drove to the nearest town, and purchased food that I felt would make me appear to be a good life-partner choice. At least I had the foresight to get two of everything, just in case I messed it up. I even bought a lace-trimmed, white apron to wear. I planned to meet him at the door when he got home, with dinner on a set table, mood music playing, and to be wearing only the apron.
I quickly discovered that my culinary skills were so lacking that I couldn’t even prepare instant mashed potatoes correctly. My first attempt looked like runny, chunky jizz, and my second attempt looked like puffy wall insulation. I destroyed the first pieces of meat, creating some charred and blackened, rock-hard pieces of leather-like material that filled the kitchen with smoke and an ungodly stench. The salad, however, was a smashing success; I managed to open the bag of prepared salad and pour it into the bowl with minimal disaster.
An hour’s worth of cooking became more than three hours of damage control. His immaculate, pristine, and orderly kitchen became a disaster zone. Globs of food in various stages of being cooked littered every horizontal surface; all the cupboards and drawers were standing open from my frenzied quest to find this or that utensil, and smoke and the stench of burning food filled the air. I was a mess; his T-shirt was stained, and I even managed to singe the front of it on the stove. None of that bothered me; my internal clock had lost track of time, and I still thought I had hours.
I was dancing around the disaster of his kitchen, the stereo playing, and singing, off-key, to the music. The song, Magic Man, by Heart, played, and it seemed apropos. I was screaming out the lyrics at the top of my lungs, twerking my ass, and jumping around like the fool I am. My back was turned away from the front door, and, with the music so loud, I neither saw nor heard my boyfriend enter.
As I pranced through the chaos I’d created in the kitchen, I was flailing about to the rhythm, singing into the large, wooden spoon I’d been using to stir the swampy mashed potatoes. My exposed, nude ass was gyrating along with my swaying hips, and I threw my head back, red hair swirling about, and jumped into the air, turning around as I sang, “He’s a magic man, momma.”
Then, I saw him standing there, smiling, appraising me with an appreciative, lusty stare. I was so startled that I gave an ear-shattering yelp, and I hurled the spoon toward him.
“What the fuck are you doing home so early?” I scolded.
His eyes ran over my body; it seemed as if he’d never laid eyes on me before. His gaze drank in my facial features, my body, my braless tits, still bouncing with the nipples erect, my legs, and my exposed cunt. His visual admiration sent shivers through my body and sent my already heightened state of arousal into overdrive. Although I’d probably spent three or more hours masturbating that day, his sensual aura put me into an erotic daze. All I could think of was fucking him, right then and there.
“Enjoying the view,” he quipped, his voice dripping with innuendo that made my heart beat double-time.
Panicking, my eyes sought the apron. It was flung over the back of the couch. His eyes left me momentarily and surveyed the carnage that used to be his pristine kitchen.
“Um,” I said. “I cooked you dinner. Sit down, and I’ll serve you.”
The fine art of serving somebody dinner while bottomless and being fondled to the brink of orgasm was not a skill that I instantly mastered. I managed to bumble through the task, spending far longer standing there getting fingered than was needed or necessary. I served him a plate of food or at least some sustenance that could resemble food if an unskilled maniac hadn’t done the preparation.
I readied myself for extreme criticism, but he gleefully sat and ate, clearing his plate. While I’d often eaten in the nude at my house, dining like that in front of somebody, even a person I had recently had the best sex in the universe with, was a surreal experience. His small talk was casual, penetrative, and lit my lusty fires.
“Why is there tape on your finger?” he asked me. “Did you cut yourself?”
My panicked state, which had already reached a frenzy when he found me be-bopping around the kitchen like an imbecile, was raised beyond any def-con stage—pure, frenetic terror was my level. What excuse could I possibly give? The electrical tape was in one of his work sheds, so it wasn’t like it just happened to be lying about.
“Ah, yeah. About that,” I began, tentatively. My already-Cuisinart-pureed brain scrambled for any tenuous excuse. “It’s a sex thing,” I said, triumphantly. “You know, role-playing? I’m the adoring housewife, and you’re my husband, desperately needing to seduce me.”
“If I’m the husband, then shouldn’t I bitch about your cooking, ignore you, and then go hang out with my friends all night?”
“No! No, no, no! You’re the good kind of husband, and your only goal is to give me pleasure.”
He laughed with all the mirth in the universe, then stared at me, scowling. “Nope. No good.”
“My cooking? I know. I’m so sorry I wrecked your kitchen and fucked everything up. I’ll get better, I promise.”
“Your cooking is fine, and it was delightful to come home to a ready dinner—almost as good as seeing your divine perfection. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“No place special. Trust me.”
Usually, those two words, trust me, are danger signs. If a man who’s trying to fuck you says, “Trust me,” that always indicates that he’s untrustworthy. Him, though, I trusted. We’d been together for over six months, and he’d never once fibbed to me, let alone break my trust.
“But I’m nude.”
“That doesn’t bother me. In fact, I think it’s a universal law that a body so perfect should never be covered. Let’s go.”
He was already striding toward the door, so I grabbed my coat, which was knee-length, threw it on, and followed him to his car. As soon as I was seated, I spread my legs wide, showing him my bare pussy. My liquid arousal made my pussy lips shiny, and some of it was seeping out of my pulsating hole.
“Do you like seeing your wife like this?” I threw myself into the role-playing scenario I’d conjured to cover my childish idiocy. I began fingering myself as he put the car into gear.
“Like it? No. I love it.”
“How many times do you think I can make myself cum before we’re there?”
“It’s only two miles down the road.”
I furiously fucked my needy cunt, using three fingers of my other hand to rub my clit. “Three it is.”
He drove slowly, his eyes more on my masturbating body than the road. IN just a few minutes, only long enough for me to reach one orgasm and feel a second one begin to build, he pulled into a gas station and convenience store.
“Follow me,” he said with joviality.
The way he spoke was neither commanding nor pleading; it was, however, compelling. It wasn’t that I was submissive, although I sometimes enjoyed that. It was more as if following his lead to maximum enjoyment. While I mentally scolded myself for being so pliable, I eagerly followed him—not just because he’s sexy as fuck and his butt is amazing.
Inside, there was a surprising number of customers. Two cashiers staffed the counter, and six or so other people milled about, shopping in the aisles. My boyfriend approached the counter, talked and laughed with the doe-eyed, young woman behind it, and charmed her into flirting with him. I grabbed a nice bottle of wine, hefting it like a club, impure, violent thoughts running through my head. I saw him hand her some cash, and then he turned and approached me.
His hand held a gaudy, plastic ring. It had gold-looking plating, and the plastic center stone was so big that it looked like a multifaceted light bulb. Right in the middle of the store, he got down on one knee in front of everybody and held out the ring as if proposing. The love-struck cashier "oohed" and "aahed" over his gesture, and I felt my heart shatter into a glittery powder of romantic bliss.
Smiling up at me, his lips doing that roguish, crooked smile that weakens my knees and makes my pussy flow like a faucet, he delicately took my hand, peeled off the electrical tape, and slid the gaudy piece of plastic bling onto my finger. My mind and body reacted by dialing my lust up to infinity, and my soul melted.
“Now you can pretend properly,” he stated. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
My vision blurred due to tears, but I became aware of light applause and a few cell phones pointed at us. My boyfriend jumped up, took me into his arms, and gave me a passionate, romantic kiss while the others watched. In the middle of our embrace, his hand dropped between our bodies, crept under my coat, and massaged my engorged clit. A passionate moan was my only response, followed by forcefully grabbing his arms and pulling him outside.
As soon as we got into the car, I opened my coat and pulled the T-shirt up over my tits, exposing myself to whoever wanted to look. People were looking, watching, and leering, but that only made it hotter. My left hand plunged between my steaming thighs as he pulled onto the highway, fingering my dripping cunt while I moaned.
“Do you like watching your wife fuck herself, wearing your ring? Oh, fuck, you make me so horny. I need cock. Pull it out and stroke to me while you drive.”
The entire day of me masturbating while I fantasized about him being the one for me, fucking myself with anything I could find, having more orgasms than I could count, and then being briefly fingered in public and, finally, watched masturbating as we drove off had me in a sexual stupor. With my feet propped up on the dashboard, my legs spread, I fingered myself with wild abandon, only stopping the relentless assault on my pussy long enough to wave at the wide-eyed gawkers who saw me fingering my juicy snatch as we drove.
I got off very quickly, my first orgasm ambushing me with leg-quaking intensity before we’d gone a mile. A second orgasm, equally intense, began when he pulled into the drive.
“Oh, fucking fuck me! I’m cumming. Watch your wife cum; please, watch me. Stroke it for me. Show me… oh, ah, Fuuuck! Show me how much I turn you on. Cummminnnggg!”
Despite the winter chill, I was feeling overheated, my arousal heightened to a horny frenzy by his hands grabbing me and pulling me out of the car. My boyfriend, all lusty smiles and hard cock, scooped my writhing, flailing body up in his arms, and he carried me to the front of the vehicle, gently lowering me onto the hood. My coat staved off the chill from the freezing-cold metal, and the heat of my lust-consumed body warmed the rest of my flesh.
Wordless, her gazed into my eyes, then his eyes traveled down my body, focusing on my fingers flying over my clit as the last spasms of my release waned. In an instant, his head nestled between my saturated thighs. I felt his strong, manly fingers grasping my thighs in torrid passion as his tongue snaked out and swirled over and around my clit, making me scream. Staring up into the dusky sky, I scream my head off, cursing, moaning, and sighing in sensual zeal.
I lost track of time, the universe, and reality in my horny explosion of bliss, and as I came down from the orgasmic high, I realized that his huge, hard cock was halfway inside my dripping, convulsing cunt.
“Fuck your slut,” I urged. “Fucking take me. Slam that hard cock into me. Punish me! Fucking take me. Oh, fuck, I love your cock. I love your cock. I love it. Harder!”
My legs wrapped around his ruggedly muscular waist, pulling my eager, greedy pussy further down his shaft. He was fucking me as if my sole purpose in life was to get savagely fucked.
“Harder! Deeper! Fuck me. Fuck your fucking wife. Does it make you horny knowing that your wife is a fucking whore? Oh, fuck. Cumming, again.”
My fingers were still pummeling my clit so hard that it would have hurt if I hadn’t been so aroused. His thick cock filled me, pile-driving into my leaking hole. As soon as my stomach began quivering and my legs started shaking, I felt one of his fingers penetrate my ass. My liquid heat was pouring out of me like a faucet, so no lube was needed. I felt the sensation of having my overheated cunt pounded, a finger fucking my tight ass, and my own fingers on my clit, all at once.
The chill, winter air began evaporating the sweat of sex off my flesh, causing more, delightful sensations. Little pinpricks of icy cold rolled over my flesh as one of the most intense, powerful, and soul-shattering cums I’ve ever had ripped through my core. My vision blackened, my body lost all motor control, and I was floating on a wispy cloud of pure, sexual pleasure.
His hands wrapped around my torso, and, still fucking me ruthlessly, his cock embedded deep inside me, he walked me to the door. Carried over the threshold while getting fucked was both romantic and hot, and my hips pumped up and down on his turgid member, another orgasm growing inside my burning innards.
“Give me your cum! Cum for your wife; cum on her. Shoot it on my slutty face; cover my fucking tits while I cum for my husband.”
On the floor, the front door still open and letting the cold, winter air inside, his relentless pounding shook my body, making me swear, scream, and moan with every thrust. His hands became an erotic blur, pawing at my flesh, cupping my breasts, squeezing my nipples until the delightful tingles shot down to my feet, and fingering my clit and ass. I begged, pleaded, and demanded his cum, but he kept on railing me into oblivion.
Changing positions, he shoved me over the dining room table, taking me from behind. One of his hands mauled my tits, and I begged for him to abuse my boobs, go harder. His other hand alternated between spanking my firm, round ass and fingering my clit. His rhythm, pace, and erotic skills sent me over the edge, and I plummeted into a chasm of sexy, horny euphoria time and time again.
My legs lost their strength, and I tumbled to the floor. He caught me, sweeping me into his arms once more, and he laid me on the couch. His hands, a blur over my cum-soaked thighs, massaged my flailing limbs and then attacked my wanton slit. Three fingers fucked my quivering sex hole while his mouth encased my swollen clit. I could only moan and curse, begging for more as my hands played with my tits, tugging my already-hard nipples into taut nubs.
Finally, after me pleading for him to stop for over an hour, claiming I couldn’t cum anymore, he told me that he was going to cum.
“Give it to me! Shoot your spunk all over me. Treat me like the whore I am. I’m your whore—your whore wife!”
Rolling off the couch, I knelt on the floor, one of my hands furiously flicking my clit and the other one stroking his long, thick shaft. My lips lunged over the head of his cock, sucking as much of it into my mouth.
“Cum all over your slutty wife’s face,” I begged, moaning in passion. “I’m going to cum! Unload on me, please.”
Another orgasm was threatening to consume my soul, but I tried to hold off until he blew his wad. My entire body was reddened from lust, and I was soon moaning and chanting dirty talk. My orgasm would not be denied, and it ripped through me like wildfire overtaking a fireworks factory. My entire body, mind, heart, and soul were incinerated by lust and passion.
When the first tsunami wave broke over my convulsing flesh, I screamed in blissful agony and felt the first blast of his hot, milky cum splash into my wailing mouth. Getting covered in cum while having an orgasm was so hot to me that my flesh erupted even more, sending an already mind-blowing orgasm into the far reaches of the cosmos.
Finally, it was all over. I lay there on the floor, sighing in satisfaction. Not only did my boyfriend say and do everything perfectly, but he set my heart and my loins on fire. My fingers scooped his cum off my face, neck, and tits, and I greedily sucked the jizz off my fingers, smiling at him while I enjoyed the safe and comforting feeling of being wrapped in his loving embrace.
“So,” he said to me, “karaoke tomorrow? Make sure you bring your spoon.”
