Then he knelt forward, and licked her, starting at her clit – she squealed – and then up, up, in an agonizingly slow line. I knew where he was going. I wanted to look away but I could not. He trailed his tongue in circles around her dull pink anus.
Surely this would be too much for Sabrina.
But no.
She panted ooooohhhhh and yes, yes, egging him on, begging for more. She let him lick at her and tease her, and then he slowly worked his tongue into her, and a sound something between a growl and a screech escaped from deep inside of her.
He sat up and fanned his fingers again, dipping them in like he was going to finger paint, and then he slipped them in in the most elegant motion: one in her ass, one in her pussy, and one rubbing against her clit.
Oh God, she whimpered. Her ass bobbed up and down, and she opened her mouth to breathe and bite the sheets around her.
“Get my cock nice a wet for your ass.”
And then he turned to the closet. He smiled. A smile that said, I can get this Sabrina to let me fuck her in the ass, not like you. Just watch me.
“Oh, god” Sabrina howled, but she did nothing to stop him.
He slipped his cock into her engorged slit, and I saw a gush of her sweet juices spill over, down to his balls. He pressed down on the small of her back and pushed her lightly back and forth. He went slowly, even though she begged him and coaxed him.
“Fuck me,” she said, over and over. “Fuck me hard!”
“I'll fuck your ass hard,” he said.
His face was contorted and he was bursting at the tip of his cock. Of course he was, he was balls-deep in all of that very wet, very pink, very hot flesh, and she was pushing her ass back toward him for more.
Sandro let her beg and moan like this for several minutes. He pulled out and stroked her clit with his cock. Sabrina began to cry. She twisted in the sheets in frustration and disappointment. “Oh please,” she was saying. “Oh please, please, please.”
“Say what you want.”
As he said this, he guided his cock up to her ass. He pressed to the pink entranceway as though his penis was giving her little ring a firm kiss.
“No, I can't,” Sabrina moaned. “No...I've never done that before.”
But she wasn't moving away, and neither was Sandro. He was watching his cock with all the arrogance of a man who simply did things like this: told women he was going to fuck them in the ass, and then did it.
“You're going to come with my cock in your ass,” he said, and his voice was soothing and hypnotic again.
Sabrina moaned in response to the command, and said she couldn't do it. But her claims were made in a weak voice now, and she moved her hips backward, bumping up against his cock. She was submitting to him.
When he pushed forward and stretched open the first part of her, an agonized sound came from the pile of sodden sheets that Sabrina had buried her head in. She roared and clawed at the bedsheets. “Oh GOD,” she screamed.
“Stay right there.” Sandro said it like it was a fact, with the tone of voice one would tell a story in the past tense. Such was his confidence as his cock disappeared inch by inch into her ass.
Sabrina flung herself around on the bed but kept herself there for him, squeaking and crying. I could see her mouth, finally, and it was not as agonized as her crying.
I had a great view of his cock deep in her ass, moving in and out, stretching her tight little hole open. It disappeared into her unyielding skin as she screamed about how big it was and how much it hurt.
“Make yourself come,” he ordered calmly.
Sabrina's hand moved under her body, and it worked its way to her fleshy pussy. The sticky sounds of Sandro deep in her ass and her own juices being squeezed out by her fast-moving fingers filled the room.
Sabrina was covered in an a feral sheen on sweat; her mouth was contorted and her every breath escaped as a whine.
Then a moan, then a howl, then a scream.
When she came her entire body shook, and I watched as a creamy cum gushed from her. It slid down all over her hand, covering her in her own white, sticky cum. I knew her ass was seizing and clenching around Sandro's cock, and I could see how much he enjoyed it. I could see it on his smug little face. He gave me a final grin, his hips rocking back and forth in Sabrina's ass.
Then he took both hands and lifted her by her hips, plunging her up and down on his cock.
Sabrina was used up now and flopped like a rag doll: her ass was so wet with her own cum, and so stretched by Sandro's cock, that her body moved over him like a sex toy. He essentially jerked himself off, with her tight, pink ass as a glove. His face was smug as he grinned at the closet, and at me.
It was his dominating smile, his smile of victory, as he plunge din and out of my crumpled girlfriend, that made me finally tip over the edge. I shook with the most painful orgasm I had ever had, my eyes on Sandro's sticky-wet cock, the ring of tight ass around it. My cum splashed onto my hand, and I slapped the wall to keep from screaming.
I left before I saw him fill her up with his cum, but I heard it as he came, and I imagined it as I scurried like a rat, away form them, and climbed out the fire escape. As I hid myself from both Sabrina and Sandro, neither one of whom I had the balls to confront – that day, or ever – I could see only Sabrina's distended asshole, gushing with white cum, while Sandro's slapped his cock against her ass in victory. Over and over and over again, until I could see nothing else.
CHAPTER 11: A New Plan
When I finished my story (which of course was not as graphic as all that), Summer stood in silence next to me. I couldn't gauge her reaction, or anticipate what she would say next.
“Are you in on some plan with him?” I asked finally.
“I just met him!” she almost shouted. “I had no idea about any of this.”
“Look,” I said. “I really want you to finish your class.” When I started the sentence, I was going to add a pregnant “but,” and let her figure from there that she should not go back. I changed my mind, and decided to be a man about it. It was important to her. She had gotten caught up in the strangest of circumstances.
She bit her lip.
There was a long silence.
“What a bastard,” she practically spat.
Then, after a pause:
“I have a better idea,” she said. “I have...listen. Do you trust me?”
The question was terrifying. I did, didn't I? That's what this all came down to in the end: trust. There was no reason to trust my wife any less, just because she had stumbled onto Sandro Cervi instead of any other man. My wife, after all, was still my wife.
“Yes,” I said.
It was mostly true.
Summer was picking up steam, turning her ideas into projects, making her imagination a reality. When she did this, her eyes turned inward on themselves, where her mind was drafting diagrams, rehearsing dialogs, solving problems.
“I'm going to class today. I'm going to think of something...I just need...to think a little...I have an idea though.”
I nodded. My throat was too dry to say anything, even “okay.”
I spent most of the day in a haze of thoughts and images of Sandro and my wife, while staring at the pages of yellowed books in the library. The old archivist scowled at me. It seemed hotter than usual, and damp; but it was likely just me, sweating out my fears and excitement. I accomplished nothing, but stayed all day. I was reluctant to go home, as much as I wanted to hear Summer's plan. Part of me, I suppose, still worried about the trust I was handing over to her. Part of me worried that she was with Sandro right now, being seduced and charmed by him. He was, after all, the far better catch: handsome and rich, successful and commanding. He was the epitome of masculinity, and he had a huge cock that he knew how to use to give my wife what she obviously loved in bed.
There was no reason for Summer to choose me, just like there had been no reason for Sabrina to choose me.
Except that she loved me, right?
I wiped sweat from my forehead and tried to carry on. I guessed this would be the test of that.
When I returned from the library Summer was leaning over the banister and looking down at the winding stairs as I ascended. Her hair hung down around her shoulders, and her face was smiling and excited. She had a glass of wine in her hand.
“I have an idea,” Summer said, walking ahead of me into the apartment, shedding her shoes and her purse, as though she were the one who had just arrived instead of me. “It will make everyone happy.”
She poured me a glass of wine, and refilled her own glass. She leaned across the counter-top and with wide, excited eyes, told me her plan.
It was, indeed, a masterpiece – one in which I got my chance at revenge, and she got another chance to be naughty. It was a win for everyone.
While she told me what she wanted to do, my cock got so hard I felt like I would blow apart, and she smiled and got nearer to me with every sentence. She slipped her hand into my jeans, talking all the time, and took me in her hand. Her other hand slipped the sipper down and freed me from the boxers underneath. My cock sprang into the air, and she looked me in the eye while she continued to describe, in raunchy detail, as much of her plan as she cared to reveal.
She stroked me from the base of my shaft to the tip, up and down, moving with the rhythm of her words, until I came. She was nearing the end of her plan, and then she put her lips together. “That's all I can say about it,” she told me. “Because the rest is a surprise.” Her hand was stroking me quickly, and I tipped over the edge, folding over as I spilled my seed into her hand.
“What do you think?” She wiped her hand on her dress, and brought her wine glass to her lips, as though we had been discussing a vacuum cleaner.
I was panting.
“It's a good plan,” I breathed.
And it was.
THE NEXT DAY
I was starting to get uncomfortable, lying on a metal table in a kitchen area of endless stainless steel, adjacent to Summer's cooking class. She had smuggled me in around 3pm, and covered the table with a white tablecloth to cover me.
“Won't they notice the tablecloth?” I had asked, incredulously.
“They won't notice the tablecloth,” she said, and her voice was sexy as ever.
She was sexy as ever.
The plan she had come up with was incredibly dirty. So dirty, I wasn't sure she would be able to pull it off. She was convinced it would be no problem, though, and I was swept up by her new-found naughtiness. She was so in control, so filthy-minded, and so vindictive. Her mind had cooked up a punishment for Sandro, and a way for me to see her being nasty with not one, but two men.
She had also refused to reveal the final act to me, no matter how much I pleaded.
I had pleaded with her as we walked quickly through the streets at lunch hour, in search of a cheap electronics store. She wanted a video camera, she told me to explain to the clerk. A hand-held one. I fumbled with my Italian and watched Summer scan the merchandise. She was cool as a cucumber, and it was hot as hell.
“Tell him the camera doesn't need to be very good.”
The clerk, an old man with little patience, rolled his eyes and disappeared into the back of his store.
“Why?” I asked her.
“Because.”
The tension she was building, by revealing some but not all of her plan, was almost too much to bear. She was leaving to wonder if the end would turn on me, or turn on Sandro. I knew she wanted me to wonder, I knew she had a sense that I enjoyed the torture. But still, it was agonizing.
Before she dropped the tablecloth over me, she checked the camera we had ended up purchasing. “The cheapest I have,” the store owner had said languidly, before shooing us out of his store.
Her hands moved quickly over the buttons, as if she did this kind of thing all the time. Then she handed it back to me, with a reminder to keep it silent, and to turn it on before they actually came into the room.
I wasn't sure why Sandro was going to care that he had been filmed having sex, enough that he would do what my wife had planned for him, but Summer winked at me and assured me that he would.
Her confidence was contagious, and I couldn't argue with her.
“You're good to go with this, right?”
I took a moment to think about where I was. Cross-legged under a chef's table, with a video camera in my hand, on the ready to film my wife as she seduced two men.
I nodded. What else can you do?
Summer smiled. “Trust me,” she said. She blew me a kiss, and dropped the cloth.
The tile on the floor soon made its cold way through my light jeans, and my ass started to go numb, but I was breathless with anticipation. My stomach turned and twisted. Anything could go wrong, everything could go right. There were endless possibilities awaiting me. Summer could have a plan to humiliate me, instead. I savored the fantasy for a while, and then I spent some time thinking about the part she wouldn't give me any details about. What did she have planned?
“And then what?” I had asked her.
“And then, I make him pay.”
“I don't think we should try to blackmail anyone...” I began.
“Not with money. You'll see.”
So here I was, waiting to see what my new, twisted wife had thought of.
CHAPTER 12: His Just Desserts
I remembered Summer mentioning Marcel. She had mentioned that he was handsome, that he was French, that he thought “The Chef” was a jackass, that he was also very appealing.
She had not mentioned, however, that Marcel was black.
Inky, deep, night-time black.
So black that he could only be seen against he darkness in the kitchen because he was moving. When he stopped moving, his skin faded away and he seemed to be absorbed by the black-blue light.
Summer was saying something as she came through the door. Something about “it” being “just over here.” How had she lured them, I wondered. But then I saw her ass as she turned on her heel to look back at them, two perfect mounds that moved up and down in the most rounded, interesting way as she walked. The matter was easy to solve.
She wore white jeans, so they must have changed after their class already. I imagined her leaning against a locker, walking her fingers on the metal, fluttering her eyes. “Marcel, mon cherie, could you help me with something? You're so big and strong.”
I could see that the two of them – Sandro and the enormous, muscled Marcel – did not know exactly what was in store for hem. But they had hope. They had sniffed it first with her suggestive walk. They were, like any men, expecting her to ask for help with a heavy box, but secretly letting their imagination drift to a fantasy in which she bent over, and asked them to fill her up.
A fantasy in which she did precisely what she was doing now.
She leaned backward against the door. I heard it click as she turned and locked it.
I could only see the two men vaguely in the dark, but the outlines of their forms prickled like animals: ears perked; faces turned; spines stiffened. It was almost as if you could see them sniffing at the air for their prey.
I looked through the camera lens without hope. It was too dark.
Summer, however, was utterly prepared. She behaved as if this were a play she had rehearsed a thousand times, or perhaps it's better to say, she was like a puppeteer. “I like to see what I'm doing,” she purred. “I like to see what you're doing. Turn on the light, would you?”
No one would say no to a request like that, and a voice like that.
The room filled with fluorescent lights and the hum that came with them. The steel glowed.
I could see the face of Marcel now. His eyes shifted from Summer to Sandro, who I could not see but imagined smiling smugly. He was unsure of what he was being trapped into.
Summer ran her tongue along her teeth while she smiled. She was leaning against the door.
“You are one naughty girl, Summer Brooks
,” Sandro declared. I could hear it in his voice. How much he liked to say her last name, to enjoy the taste of her belonging to another man -to me - in his mouth.
Summer was a naughty girl, but when her eyes and her smile quickly flickered to me, under the table, I knew she was naughty for me and me alone. I knew in that moment that I could trust her plan. I began to relax, to enjoy the show. I still had no idea what she had planned, but I knew I would like it.
I held the camera steady. My cock was throbbing, but I wanted to wait until the end that she had promised me.
“Don't let yourself come until I say so,” she had told me. “You'll see why.”
I licked my lips.
“I have a little fantasy,” Summer said, moving her fingers along her neckline, “and I think you two might be the ones to help me out with it.”
Marcel's mouth was hanging open, and he looked almost ridiculous for a moment: a big, ebony god with eyes wide, scared of my wife.
But as his eyes moved over the scene, and especially over my wife's body, he quickly grasped what was about to happen. He recovered well.
His voice was deep and syrupy with a French accent. “What is it you need for this fantasy?”
Summer gave Sandro a look, and then she moved closer to Marcel.
“I have a thing for sausage,” she said. Her hand moved over his chest, and began to make its way down to his crotch, where I could see part of him already understood Summer's desires. “And I've never had any French sausage before...”
Her hand squeezed him through his lightweight jeans.
“I was thinking that maybe we could try out some kind of fusion.”
The two men were moving closer to her now. But she kept right going, so there was nothing unclear about what she wanted.
“An Italian, French, American fusion,” she murmured. “With sausage?”
It was almost funny, when I thought about it later: so cliched, so hilariously lifted from some B-grade porno script. The three of them, though, had become animal-serious, circling each other, getting ready to mate. No one laughed.
The Hotwife Summer Page 9