“Maybe I just need to pleasure myself,” she suggested.
I held my cock in my hand and watched her as she moved her fingers down to her clit, and closed her eyes. She bit her lip, putting on a real show for me, as she moved her index finger in slow and then quicker circles over her little red button. As her excitement built up again, her muscles tensed, and the cum from her pussy and Sandro's cum in her ass gushed out in little spurts.
My cock was rock-hard again when she gasped a little and shuddered with a light climax. She said nothing, just opened her eyes like her lids were drowsy, too heavy to open quickly. She bored a hole through me as she stared into my eyes, letting me wonder what she had been thinking about.
Then she looked at my cock in my hand, and gave a kind of shrug. She lay back on the bed, and spread her legs for me.
Her pussy was as wet as it had ever been, and my cock slipped in with incredible ease. Did she feel stretched? Her flesh hugged me, but was it as tight?
The slippery cum from Sandro's huge cock, that had been deep inside my wife's most intimate hole, smeared across my thighs and heated up with the friction of our bodies. It was all I could smell: another man's cum, soaking into and dripping out of my wife, sticking to my own skin.
It took a while to come, because it was the second time and because her pussy was so wet there was almost nothing touching my cock but the most slippery and feathery of kisses from her body. But when I came, it shook me from my feet to my head, and I collapsed on top of her.
When we finally parted, she propped herself up to face me.
The meanness from before was gone, and she was smiling in complicity with me. 'So? Was it what you imagined?”
She was excited.
“How about you?” I managed to say, and I feigned the cheerfulness she was radiating.
“I liked it,” she said. “I liked being so...naughty.”
She threw herself backward and looked up the ceiling.
I sat in silence for a while, looking over her body, looking for changes. I was thinking dark thoughts. Thoughts about her and Sandro, thought about how perhaps I had created a monster. Thoughts about how she might get swept away by Sandro's charm. It was all my own fault, though, wasn't it, because I am the one who had convinced her to do this.
My mind began to sink into the endless conspiracy theories I had half-hatched on the subway: Sandro had wanted my wife all along, since we married. He had pulled strings to get the pasta expert removed from Summer's cooking class, and replaced him, for the purposes of seducing my wife…
I must have been frowning, because Summer sat up abruptly and patted my cheek, almost a slap.
“Hey,” she said. “You're not..I don't know...you don't regret that do you?”
In her eyes was genuine concern.
Did I?
I shook my head, and tried to put on my most loving face. Because I was the one who had wanted this, and because if it had been anyone but Sandro, I would have enjoyed it. Immensely.
I brushed her hair from her face. “No. No...it was amazing. I'm just...lost in thought.”
“You look upset.”
I shook my head. “Not at all.”
Things will be fine, I told myself. And I managed to squeeze a smile out of my face. It was hot as hell. And if there was one thing I had learned from being a historian, it was that you could tell any story the way that you wanted to, and if you did it enough, it became what you always said it was. I would write Sandro out of the picture, and that would be that.
I pulled Summer to my chest, and I stroked her hair until she fell asleep. I knew she wasn’t 100% convinced by my act, but she fell asleep without probing it further.
And I lay awake, trying to focus on the images and not the man who had fucked my wife.
But I could not get Sandro Cervi's smug face out of my mind.
CHAPTER 10: Truth
“You've got to be kidding me,” Summer shrieked.
I stood, motionless by the door, limp like my cock and my personality. I could not actually believe that I had said what I had just said to her, and I was wishing I could take it back. It was too late, though, the damage was done. Summer had the look of fury in her eyes, and she was moving around in unnecessary, jolted motions. She folded a sweater three times on the couch, waiting for me.
I felt like I had been submerged in a vat of honey, preserved as a corpse by an ancient ritual, and now could only stare at her, hollow-eyed and open-mouthed.
“That's it? You have nothing to say?”
She looked at me and crossed her arms.
When she still got no response, she threw them up in the air in exasperation.
“This was your idea!” she yelled. Her voice was shaking with anger.
Her face was flushed and her eyes were dark.
“Well,” she said, and her voice was overtaken by a terrifying calm. This was the most awful thing that could happen to Summer: the calm.
I watched helplessly as our whole summer, our whole beautiful, hot summer, disintegrated into anger. I felt like crying, but like any man, I just stood there getting hot on the face and cracking on the inside.
“I'm finishing that class.” She snatched her purse from the counter and began to storm away.
Ben. Ben do something.
My hand seemed to act on its own, and it reached out and grasped her.
There must have been something in my face, because when she looked at me her own face changed from furious to compassionate in an instant.
“Tell me what is going on,” she said, her voice low.
It was now or never.
“I have to tell you a story,” I began.
I came home early from a weekend tour of Pompeii, part of my history class. I left Pompeii with the feeling that something was brewing. Something in Sabrina's voice. Something about how vague she was.
I went to her apartment, and her roommate, a pale girl from France who spoke terrible English and worse Italian and made little effort to be understood, blew smoke at me with pity. “Going all weekend,” she said, enigmatically.
I knew what it meant as I hoofed it through the streets. I walked at a slow pace, not really wanting to find what I knew I would.
I expected just to find them on the couch, snuggled up. Perhaps Sabrina would be eating guiltily from his fork at one of the cafes in our neighborhood.
I climbed the steps to out third-floor apartment with dread. I felt like I could hear them before I reached the top, though I doubt that's possible or true.
A high-pitched hum began in my ears, drowning out all sound, as I walked in slow motion through the hallway, through the kitchen.
A slatted door, to small room with no particular purpose that we had piled with junk, divided Sandro's room from the main hallway. I fell onto a huge flight-sized duffel bag of winter clothes and books. Pain stabbed me through the knee.
Their voices had already made their way through the deafening hum in my head. It was taking a long time to process what they were saying. Give it to me. Oh, yes. That's it, just like that.
But when I finally found their bodies through the perfect slat in the door, the scene unfolded for me in crisp, painful clarity. Even then, I struggled to make sense of it.
Sabrina was on her back, in only her bra and panties.
I slid in defeat and the duffel bag made a groaning sound.
Did Sandro hear me? His ears perked for a moment, like a predator listening for prey. I think his lip turned up cruelly.
“Not yet,” Sandro growled, returning to Sabrina. “I want you to spread your legs for me.”
I stared through the slatted closet. Even though the movements of their bodies were acting out precisely what I had thought I'd heard, I still couldn't believe it. My mind tried to turn the words into something else. Anything else.
Sabrina's mouth was open in a wide, inviting smile. She opened her mouth opened wider and her pillowy lips formed a knowing grin.
Sabrina the feminist, Sa
brina who was often accused of being a dyke. Sabrina who hated me bossing her around. Hated playboys and arrogant men.
Sabrina, the girl I loved.
My mind was reeling. I felt jealousy, anger, rage, disbelief, all brimming over inside of me, and they worked like a toxin and paralyzed me. I think I stopped breathing, as the cool effect of my feelings spread out in my abdomen like liquid nitrogen.
Sabrina opened up her legs, spreading them wide, her hands between them as though she wanted to protect some sense of modesty still. Sandro pushed her hands away and climbed on top of her. He jerked her bra up, sliding it up her arms to her wrists, where he twisted it expertly and bound her hands.
“Leave your hands up there,” he said.
I watched Sabrina's face in horror as she smiled.
And then Sandro put his dirty hands on either side of Sabrina's ribcage, his thumbs turned inward to stroke her pink nipples into hard little balls. Her red mouth emitted a gasp of pleasure.
My eyes were stinging. My cock was hard. My heart was being shredded into a million pieces.
He didn't waste any time, he moved down her body with his mouth. He sat back on his heels and surveyed her spread legs and the black cotton panties between them.
He reached down and moved the panties aside with one finger, holding them open so that he (and I) could see the bright, wet pink of her pussy, already engorged and craving his touch. He started lightly, placing a fingertip on her clit and stroking it lightly like a feather.
Sabrina twisted in his hands, mewling like a cat. Sandro stared down at her, calming her into submission with only his gaze. “Stay still,” he growled.
And she did. My Sabrina. My defiant Sabrina. She lower her hips and spread her legs like she was under some kind of spell.
Sandro parted her petals one by one, feeling each layer of her like it was silk at a bazaar. He held her soft, wet skin between his fingers, smiling. I could see what he was thinking. It was written all over his face: how good it would feel when he slipped his cock between each of those swollen, soaked lips. How good it would feel to dominate the indomitable Sabrina.
How good it would feel to fuck me over, to fuck my girlfriend.
I tried to will myself to move, but I couldn't. I was glued to the floor, my breath lodged in my chest like a stone.
He toyed with her clit, making circles on it with his forefinger while she struggled to stay still enough for him to touch her. Her muscles contracted and twisted beneath her skin, and her breath came in ragged puffs from her mouth, every one of them hyper-sexualized and sweaty.
I watched, fascinated and aching with humiliation and pain, my cock so hard it felt like it might split, as Sandro dipped his finger into her pussy.
His finger glided into her. She was so wet I could see her juices glistening on her inner thighs, dripping down to the sheets of the bed we shared.
Sandro put another finger in, and another. Each finger he slipped into her pussy sent a finger through my heart, digging and probing and destroying me with pain.
He clawed upward with his hand inside of her, squeezing her from the inside like a lemon. She howled, and her legs started to tremble.
Sandro pulled his fingers from inside of her. He lifted them to his face. He smiled, enjoying Sabrina – but it almost seemed as if her were smelling my pain.
“This is so wrong,” Sabrina said, and her voice was dripping with sex. She started to sit up, and he pushed her back down.
She didn't really fight it, but I felt a pang of tenderness toward her for just a moment. Thanks for trying. At least she tried.
He stripped the panties away from her, ripping the seam in a single motion. I saw Sabrina's smile, leaking over her face. She was impressed; she was pleased. Because I would never rip her underwear apart.
Sandro reached toward her hands, pulled them free of the bondage of her simple black bra, and guided them down to her spread legs. He threaded her arms through her legs, so that she was holding her legs open for him. She was completely exposed now for his mouth to lap at her, or his cock to be thrust inside of her.
And Sabrina was complying with it all. She was even helping him. Helping him to twist her body like a pretzel into the position he wanted her in. My chest tightened even more as I watched him hover above her for a moment, looking over body, deciding what he would do next. He leaned in, letting his mouth hover over her mound. She writhed beneath him, eager to feel a tongue on her rawest part.
He extended his tongue and toyed with her, lapping with feathery touches at her swollen clit. The sounds Sabrina was making now were animal and torturous to hear, but I sank into them like they were a juicy, sweet fruit on a hot day. She squeaked, and then growled; panted and whimpered like an animal on a chain. The sounds were outside of her own control, it was easy to hear. There was no faking them, no placating her lover – she was wild.
Sandro's face went in for the kill. I couldn't see what he was doing any longer, but it must have been terrific if I went by the sounds Sabrina was making. She flopped around and screamed, digging her nails into her thighs.
I could see her climax rising like a tide. Her muscles were stiffening and her legs were trembling so wildly that her feet were flapping uncontrollably in the air, like a kite in a tornado.
He lifted his head.
The howl that came from Sabrina was an awful sound. She lifted her head and her chest was heaving in panicked gasps. Shiny drops of sweat were soaking out of her skin, her hair was damp and sticking to her forehead. “Don't stop,” she begged. “No, no, no, don't stop!”
“That's good. Good girl, beg me not to stop.”
She panted the word please as he brushed his fingers over her dripping cunt, flicking at her clit, teasing her.
“I want you to beg me a different way. And if you are very, very good, I will make you scream.”
For a moment I felt sure I would no see some kind of vindication. Sabrina was the kind of girl who heard about guys who said this kind of thing, and flew into a rage. She talked about porn stars like they were the scourge of the earth, “reinforcing ridiculous tropes that no woman would ever possibly participate in.”
And yet.
Instead of punching Sandro in the face, Sabrina threw her head back and moaned. She made all kinds of dirty, filthy promises. She begged like a whore.
“What will you do?” Sandro asked her.
“Anything,” she breathed.
He leaned close to her, and said something I could not hear from across the room. Sabrina's own ragged breath was making it hard to hear him.
When he stopped speaking to her, she flipped onto her stomach, in a sexy, feline stretch. As though she had done this a million times, she grasped her ankles from behind her. She was poised on the bed as though in a yoga pose. A slutty, pornographic yoga pose. Her hands clutched her ankles behind her and she lifted her mouth to the height of Sandro's cock.
No way she was going to -
She opened her mouth, and it was wet and hungry. She flicked her tongue out, without any bidding, to lick the precum from the tip of Sandro's huge cock.
I was strung up so tight I thought I would break like a piano wire. My heart was blistering, my cock was about to burst. My balls felt like someone had them in a vice, and they were closing slowly on them.
This is when it happened. The things I can never be sure if I imagined or not.
Sandro turned to the closet, and looked at it – or he looked at me. And he smiled.
He looked at me, grinning, as he moved forward just an inch. Now Sabrina's big, poofy lips closed around the tip of him and she sucked into her mouth like an oyster. He let her lick and suck away for several minutes.
“That's it,” he said, as though talking to a dog. “Good girl.”
But his head was still turned, to the slatted closet. His eyes seemed to have found mine, somehow. He was looking directly at me, his hand on the back of my girlfriend's head, pushing her throat over his cock.
Or was
he?
He turned back to Sabrina then, and watched her mouth moving over his shaft.
My cock was so hard it was sending pain through my entire lower body. This heat mixed with the pain, and the cold fear that had frozen me in place when Sandro's icy blue eyes stared at me. Or didn't.
He worked his fingers into her hair, and pulled it hard. As though she were a blow-up doll, she opened her mouth, with no command at all, and let him slide her face all the way down his shaft.
Sabrina had never, ever let me do anything like this. I watched as she took the whole thing in her mouth, apparently unaware that it was not me. Down her throat, all the way in.
She moaned and made deeply pleasured noises.
Sandro tightened his grip on her hair and held her still. From deep in her throat I could hear the sounds of absolute submission: choking, gurgling, swallowing, sucking. And her sultry, moaning approval.
When he pulled out, she had spit and mucous dribbling all over her face.
“Get on your hands and knees with your ass to me, now.”
I watched as Sabrina obeyed. So willingly. So happily.
He pushed her head down, so that she was on the sheets. And now her face was staring directly into the closet as well. I knew that she couldn't see me, but her eyes seemed to meet mine. Her fingers came to her mouth and she sucked on them. She was lost, abandoning herself to Sandro's pleasuring of her, in a way I couldn't even begin to compete with.
I licked my lips, because they were very dry. My cock felt so heavy it might tip me over. I took it in my hand. Even as I did this, I felt shame wash over me. I was too impotent to put a stop to this Italian stud filling my girlfriend up, but I was going to stand behind the closet door and stroke myself off while he did it.
Sabrina grasped the sheets. She pulled them up in fistfuls, screaming into them. Her cheeks were flushed. Her skin was sticky with her spit and the precum that was gushing from the tip of Sandro's cock. She was gorgeous and defiled.
Sandro dipped each of his fingers in her pussy. She whined and gasped, clenching the sheets.
The Hotwife Summer Page 8