Game of Throbs Complete Series (Books 1-3)

by Piquette Fontaine

  Forty-five seconds passed in this manner, before I spit and rinsed my mouth out with water, yet even after having gone completely through the routine, my husband was still brushing, as though, for the life of him, he simply couldn't get the taste all the way out of his mouth.

  I watched him like this for a few minutes, and then crept up behind him in a very feminine manner, laying my head down on his shoulder, and wrapping my arms around his middle from behind, squeezing myself tightly up against him. If I had a cock, it would have pushed up erect between his butt cheeks in my present state of want for him, but given my female smoothness down there, no such occurrence took place, and instead I allowed my hot, decadent breathing against the back of his neck serve the purpose of hinting at my need for him- and indeed, I could spy the hairs back there beginning to stand on end as I continued to harass him.

  At last, my husband put his hand on mine atop his shoulder tenderly, lovingly. He turned his neck, and planted a pair of sweet, gentle kisses on my fingers, which made me smile, but did little to rid me of my curiosity as to what was going on in that beautiful head of his.

  “Is everything alright, baby?”

  “What?” he said suddenly, as though the question, the assertion that things might not be completely fine and okay were completely alien to him, and caught him utterly off guard. “Of course!” he insisted. “Everything's great... I had a really nice time with the Joneses... And, with you, of course...”

  I smiled at this, in a hormone induced morning stupor of some kind- had I exerted next to a scrap of effort, I might have detected a strain of denial in his voice, an indication that there was more to whatever it was that was happening in this moment than the words that passed out through his lips. But of course, I was in no mood to investigate further, and I was, as I'd been all morning, giddy with contentment, so it seemed impossible that my husband shouldn't feel the same way, particularly when he'd just said so plainly.

  I leaned in, and kissed him on the back of the neck, wet, slow, almost drunkenly, although we certainly hadn't touched a drop of alcohol this early on in the morning, despite some of the other more nighttime specific activities we'd engaged in with the Joneses.

  As I kissed him, I slowly let my hands fall from his middle to beneath the fabric of his boxer shorts, slowly working my grip around his penis, and stroking him with my fingers. I smiled lustfully as I felt him beginning to grow in response to my efforts, particularly gratifying seeing as how thoroughly he'd been drained just a short time earlier that morning, and I thought that, maybe, there might just be enough lead in his pencil to carry this lucky girl along once more into ecstasy.

  I began to feel the first sticky trails of jizz tangling up between my fingertips by the time I pulled away, content at this small victory as I was, and I moved back from him, slipping out of my clothes, and my skin frigid as it met the cool air of the room around me- I had, after all, been soaked with sweat, and it had since dried on me left me in quite a state of affairs.

  “Come on baby... Let's get in the tub and get cleaned up...”

  A moment later, streams of hot, scalding water were showering down upon both of our naked bodies, and Derrick was holding me snugly in his arms, kissing me passionately, as he lathered me up all over with soap, from my tits to my clean-shaven pubes, to my supple, glistening ass.

  I worked my body just right for him, so that as the white water cascaded down along my form in waterfalls, he was treated to the most pristine views imaginable of the stuff, seeping through my cleavage, dribbling down my butt crack, soaking my tender pink pussy...

  And he, accordingly, began to throb harder, higher than ever, his prick fully loaded once more and ready for action, feeling wonderful as it pressed up against my skin during our make out session, sliding across my slippery flesh and getting me so damn worked up for him that my head was fucking spinning.

  Whatever sort of distance may have been separating him from me just moments ago appeared all but vanished in the present, as he dedicated every ounce of his abilities to breeding with his lovely, lucky as hell wife, who, in turn, was every bit as dedicated to his pleasure as it was possible to be.

  I sank slowly, gradually down onto my knees, a position I was getting quite used to at this point in my career as this B and B's owner, and I parted my lips wide as sin, slowly bowing my head into his thick bush, and letting my jaws close in around the long, stiff rod of his cock.

  At last, at long, long last (my husband, I'll have you know, has a massive, indomitable shlong) I felt him press down against the back of my throat, and it was at this point that I closed myself in around him, grunting, snorting as my tongue twisted around him, tasting his oh so familiar and beautiful flavor. Slowly, slowly, very slowly, I began to dredge my skull back along him, pulling him to his immense, swollen purple tip, and building up an intense suction as I did so. I peered up at him with bedroom eyes and he shuddered as I snapped away my lips, blasting him with cool air, and then promptly closing my mouth in around him once again.

  Slowly I began to work my way into a steady, sucking rhythm, my compressed cheeks around his swollen cock causing me to look especially skull-like as I choked myself on his immensity, sliding him in, out, in, out, loving the extent to which I knew I must certainly be pleasing the hell out of him.

  “Ooooooohhhhhhhh yeah,” he groaned, closing his eyes, tilting his head back, and weaving his fingers into my soapy hair, directing my speed and motion as I continued to suck him off. It made it seem as though this had been precisely the one thing in the world he'd needed, and God did I feel splendid about it as the tears began to well up around my eyes, though of course they were washed away promptly by the streams of the shower.

  Before I knew it, my husband was beginning to take complete control over the situation, dominating me completely, and shifting this up from a simple deep throating to an absolute, brutal face fuck. Not that I minded this, of course I was, to be frank, as much of a horn dog as your average female could be, and there was little my husband could throw at my insatiable carnal self that I couldn't readily handle with aplomb.

  I gagged on him, doing my damnedest to suppress my gag reflex as he plunged himself repeatedly into my skull, his nuts smacking against my pretty cheeks, my nasal breathing labored as I inhaled the steamy air of the shower.

  Faster and faster and faster he fucked my straining noggin, until at last he slid me off of him carefully, and I smiled up at him, an accumulation of my own fluids welling up around my cheeks, being slowly washed away by the streams of the shower.

  He had yet to ejaculate inside me, however, and before I knew it, I was being man-handled into a wide, receptive position, my body heaved around to his bidding, which, in the context of our lovemaking, was something I very much enjoyed.

  I was on my hands and knees, ass and pussy wide open for his selection, when he mounted me hard like a fucking animal, choosing the latter orifice, and grinding his long, stiff cock up the tight, pink tunnel of my pussy so firmly that I could scarcely contain him.

  I could hardly believe that he'd regained this much sexual energy so quickly after the morning we'd already had with the Joneses, and when he began to fuck me, it was like heaven itself inside my pussy. “Oh... Oh... Oh... Oh...” I began to chant, as he commenced to pound my sopping wet cunt, his body crushing me quite pleasurably as he worked his way in and out, in and out, in and out of me, working up a tremendous momentum as he jackhammered me, his thrusts so brutal, so powerful, that the immense force of his smacking pelvis came damn near slamming me from his prick altogether.

  “Oh God... Oh God... Oh fuck, fuck, fuck...” I moaned, my yammerings becoming more and more explicit with the exponential rise in his efforts, and soon he was pushing, pulling, drilling, fucking me at such a rapid fire pace that the noise swelled into a long, agonized groan, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh...”

  And, WHAM!

  He hurled his full, bulky anatomy up deep, deep into me, smashing my pussy with his jackhammer of a c
ock, his leg hoisted up around me in desperation as he began to ejaculate, and his sperm pulsing into me in furious abundance, spurt after spurt after spurt of his sperm, coating my insides, drenching me, flowing back out of me in abundance as his thick form began to shake and rattle around on top of me.

  He plunged me clear through to the other side, and for the third time before noon that morning, I was left screaming, cringing, creaming my damn lights out with a vicious, pelvis-consuming orgasm, sensations sparkling drunkenly through my entire braced form, my shoulders quivering, stars flashing in front of my eyes, and my teeth nearly sinking through the flesh of my lower lip before I caught myself, and let out a huge, horrendous gasp of unrefined pleasure.

  Derrick, too, gasped, and shuddered, and pulled his body out from mine, extricating him in a smooth, quick stroke, and leaving me to collapse toward the drain of the tub, as he reclined back against the opposite wall, his wang still swaying and dripping with his off-white essence, the stuff that now filled me up inside and left me dizzy, panting, exhausted on the floor of the shower.

  After a few minutes of lying passively on the porcelain, scarcely able to think straight, the water began to chill just the slightest bit and I reached up exhaustedly, turning the hot tap up higher, before climbing back around onto my husband's heaving body, our forms squeaking and rubbing up against the porcelain as we reoriented ourselves.

  I draped myself on top of him like a blanket and proceeded to kiss him on the mouth, his own lips doing little to participate in my own showering of affection, until at last I had to stop, looking at him skeptically, as though I felt certain something must be wrong.

  “I love you,” I ventured, wondering what his response to this might be, but he simply smiled, and then, after a few more minutes, he replied, “I need to go get dressed,” as though he actually had somewhere to be today other than the B and B.

  I watched his perky, pretty ass as it slipped from beyond the realm of the shower curtain, dripping and the cheeks jiggling slightly with his steps and I sighed, turning to face the shower head and thinking about whether I'd done something wrong somehow.

  Ah well, I thought, after a while of being unable to decipher Derrick's unhelpful clues. I would figure it out sooner or later, certainly.

  At present, I washed the remainder of Derrick's essence out from between my thighs, finished cleaning up and went moist and naked down the stairs, old comforter in my arms and Mrs. Jones' panties in my fingers, to go and get dressed.

  Chapter 2

  Derrick and I had been running our Bed and Breakfast for... I don't know... Three years now? But we'd only been sleeping with our customers for the past few months or so. Despite how the notion of sleeping with one's customers may sound, it really wasn't anything quite like you might think it is. Don't fool yourself into drawing a connection between what we were doing and sex work, or prostitution, nothing like that. I don't make any moral judgments about anyone in that line of work, but it's never been something I would consider for myself personally.

  No, the reasons for wanting to sleep with guests was an entirely personal fulfillment, a kink if you will, that had been in my head to some extent or another from very early on in the game, but had taken some considerable degree of convincing for my husband to get on board with the idea.

  See, there are multiple facets of how exactly the idea for a B and B got started in my head.

  Innocently enough, there was, first and foremost, the memory of having served my mother breakfast in bed as a kid. I'd always loved feeling like I was useful around my own house, and it was charming to think I was doing something special for someone, spoiling them, with luxury, even if it was only just toast and orange juice, simple things like that that I'd served them.

  Yet, even back then, during the days when the dream had been a rather simple one, my services hadn't been without their share of awkward incidents. For instance, on at least a couple of occasions, when I thought I would surprise my mother by serving her in bed unannounced, it turned out that my stepdad had also taken it into his head that he would serve her in his own special way that morning, if you catch my drift, and the two of them would scramble at the sight of me, trying to preserve some shred of decency and keep me from knowing what was going on, but of course, it wasn't all that hard to figure out.

  And then, similarly, my experience during college tended to feed into my notion of eroticism as far as shared living spaces were concerned. I had this roommate who, I'll be honest, fell safely into the label of being highly promiscuous, and on more than one occasion I would find myself in the room with her while she and any number of her boyfriends were sweating the sheets together, essentially in full view of yours truly, a bobbing lump in the blankets indicating the man's form as he ground himself in and out of her tight little body, leaving her moaning at the top of her damn lungs, so that keeping up the pretense of wearing headphones while studying on my part was made more and more vain with each throbbing, wet stroke.

  Hell, sometimes, once they were finished, lying there naked and heaving beneath the covers, but their heads poking out, the man would look over to me, smirking, and say jokingly, “Hey sexy, how would you like to come over here and join the two of us for round two?”

  I would laugh, as though I considered the proposition preposterous, and generally I would flip the bird to whatever guy it would happen to be. He would laugh in return, and then he would resume smothering himself in my roommate's tits, all the while I secretly wished that I might have had the nerve to actually join in the fun, to give into that naughty, kinky side of myself, though it would take quite some time more before I would manage to surrender myself so thoroughly...

  There was even a time where I couldn't really stay at a hotel without thoughts of kinky, depraved sex slipping into my head. I was curious, incredibly so, as to who had been in this bed before I'd been, who'd had sex in the same bed in which I'd now lay, and how filthy was it to consider such depraved, glorious thoughts...

  And God, what the hell was wrong with me, I wondered?

  I guess, for a lack of a better way to put it, I had begun to become rather obsessed with the concept of shared, sexual, domestic spaces. I had a high sex drive, a vivid imagination, and I'd become rather enthusiastic about the notion of exploring that side of my personality more in-depth, even as I maintained a front of being completely “normal” sexually. I supposed I probably fell into the realm of being pansexual when I was really honest with myself, open to just about any arrangement I could envision when it came to the bedroom, and all I needed was the right opportunity to force myself into really giving into those deep, seedy cravings of mine.

  Derrick, as far as I was concerned, had seemed like something very close to the perfect man from the very first date I'd been on him, sexy and open-minded, understanding and supportive and after we were married, we began to allow ourselves to explore our inner kinksters to our heart's content.

  I don't know what you would call us, exactly... Swingers, maybe? Or, partners in an open marriage? This seems relatively accurate, but we did make sure to run by our sexual choices by one another before we gave into temptation, just as a way of avoiding any problems that might arise should a bad, or particularly stressful coupling arise on either of our behalves.

  No rifts had ever really formed between us throughout that period of experimentation, and it wasn't until these recent months, marking the beginning of our B and B rendezvous, that something seemed to trouble Derrick somehow, even though he wouldn't be completely open with me about what it was.

  At any rate, it was evening now. We had a very rare weekday guest, a very attractive businessman who'd shown up that afternoon and who was now lodging comfortably up above our heads after having had dinner with us about an hour before. We'd been getting a lot of these weekday guests as of late, quite the influx of them, in fact, which was quite a change from days past. So I wondered whether, quite possibly, Derrick and I's reputation for, ahem, mingling with our guests might
have begun to spread around.

  I feel like maybe I should point out here that the two of us didn't necessarily go to bed with our guests, not all the time. It wasn't something that was, like, an “official” service that we offered. Our willingness to swing completely depended upon the individual or individuals in question who happened to be staying and we only offered up the more lurid delicacies of our bodies in the event that there was an attraction on our end. We had two separate breakfast menus that we offered to customers depending upon their apparent fuckability, one with a listing at the bottom that said, “Ask about our Super Delight Special.” There was a photo next to it featuring a long, phallic sausage, surrounded on either side by two eggs, and its tip moving in tantalizingly close to the hole of donut in the center. It was, of course, plain as day what the intent was in placing it there, but there still remained a level of deniability should the guest(s) in question be offended by it. Sort of like in those animated movies when there's, like, dirty words written in the stars, and the filmmakers can just sort of shrug their shoulders and say it was a coincidence.

  Anyway, the man who'd been staying here tonight, at least in my humble opinion, seemed the epitome of delightful fuckability, and Derrick and I had given him the more suggestive menu in the event that he decided he might just feel up for screwing around a bit this evening.