Let's Swing

by Piquette Fontaine

Chapter 2

  I drove home in utter silence, no radio, no CD's in, absolutely nothing but the still destitution of my own thoughts, driving me crazy, leaving my mind so frazzled that I'm frankly surprised I made it home without swerving all over the damn road and running into things.

  11”... 11”... 11”...

  I knew, even as the thought echoed repeatedly in my mind, that it would do me absolutely no good to keep ruminating on the incident, that such repetition was little more than sheer torture to myself, and that I would be best off just forgetting the entire incident, ceasing to remember as best I could the circumstances of my own discontent, and carrying on with my life as though nothing had happened, as though none of the things I was missing in life were truly bothering me as much as they genuinely were, and as though I could continue on with my existence in the precise same manner I had in the past, unbothered by the day's happenings, able to put them out of my mind just as easily as they'd entered into it.

  And yet, all the while, I knew it was a hopeless case...

  I pulled into the driveway, and sat there idling for a moment before turning off the engine, and stepping out of the car with my bags of groceries in hand.

  Entering into the front door, I sat the bags down on the counter and closed myself inside, the warmth of the house feeling tremendous as it radiated into me, and my body feeling as though it was thawing out to some extent following the unpleasant chill of the frigid outdoors.

  Greg was sprawled out lazily across the couch with the TV on, and he sat up tiredly in response to my arrival, rubbing the grogginess from his eyes and clearing his throat.

  “Hey babe... Need some help putting things away?”

  I didn't respond to him in the slightest of way.

  Instead, I slipped out of my shoes, and paced barefoot and silently over to him, leering at him with a catlike fierceness in my gaze, my nostrils flaring and the heat surrounding my body causing it to experience a sensation of expansion, one which I could not wholly explain.

  My husband was leaning forward slightly, as though showing his intent to get up and help me should I need it, and the first thing I did upon arriving at him on the sofa was slam my palm fiercely into his chest, roughly landing him back against the cushion of the couch, and knocking just the faintest gasp of breath out of him, his eyes looking astonished, and his mouth open in slight surprise. I wanted desperately to smile at this, but resisted through some herculean amount of effort, hoping to keep up the demeanor of a fierce predator, and adamant not to let the mask of my insecurities slide away.

  I spread my legs wide and sat down upon his lap, straddling him, and beginning to writhe almost instantly, giving him a lap dance or dry humping him, whichever you prefer, and feeling the results begin to flourish almost immediately, as his flaccid penis became engorged with blood, stiffening and hardening into a rocklike erection beneath my spread thighs, his cock pushing up lightly into me through the denim of his jeans and the insubstantial, ass-grabbing fabric of my leggings.

  “Good God... What a greeting,” he said playfully, and I quickly drowned out his stupidity with my lips, pressing my mouth onto his, kissing him so aggressively that it should reasonably have left no room for doubt as to how badly, how absolutely fucking desperately I wanted this...

  His lips seemed unable to keep pace with my own. I kissed him vehemently, raging against his flushed face with such relentless ferocity that I might have torn his pretty little skull to pieces. Greg was, on most occasions, quite the rough lover when he wanted to be, able to smother me to the point of suffocation with his lapping, licking, consuming efforts, yet in this case he was no match in the least for the sheer oral torture to which I subjected him, his lips mere play things for my own, distorting and reshaping and melting into my mouth like candy on my tongue, although I knew, quite simply, even as it occurred, that this would not prove wholly satisfying, and in realization of this fact I sought to escalate the action as promptly as possible, desperately craving more, more, more as we progressed. I could feel my body heating up on top of him, warmth radiating from my trembling flesh to the point of sheer detonation, my pussy getting so damned wet at this point that I could feel the moisture percolating into the lacy pink fabric of my panties, dripping down my grinding thighs and sending chills down my spine, as I continued to bump and hump and grind up against him, exerting my sexual fury onto him with so much intense enthusiasm that I thought I might just kill the poor bastard before too much longer.

  I began to moan, to grunt as the two of us kissed, and when I could no longer stand it I reached down beneath me, seizing his hard cock like a joystick, clenching it in my grasp and causing him to gasp with sheer, unholy stupefaction. There was just too much fucking fabric on him, I then promptly decided, and began to strip him violently of his t-shirt, removing it from his body so brusquely that I nearly pulled a muscle in doing so, yet the results were, to say the very, very least, worth it as I began to slide my palms around the tight, sweaty terrain of his musculature. I began to shiver as I ravished him, savoring the sliding of his flesh beneath my grip and wanting to sink my talons so deep into him that I tore the skin clean off of his body.

  Instead, I settled for allowing myself to be peeled out of my own shirt as well, savoring the much-needed touch of his hands as they peeled the tight fabric from my writhing abdomen, my flat, sweaty stomach heaving as my clothes melted away from me in a wisp, my shirt being peeled up off of my head and then fluttering to the floor like a leaf in the breeze. I nearly creamed right there as his hands slid along my taut, pulsing abdomen, his warmth barely penetrating me given how hot my own body was beneath his touch.

  For some time I continued to rock about upon him, as he reached up, placing his hands on my tits and squeezing them fiercely in his grip above the fabric of my bra, the straps of which I was clumsily undoing back behind me, reaching between my shoulder blades with quivering fingers and at last freeing myself, sliding the straps down my arms and then allowing him to the pull the cups off of me, his fingers running greedily across my flesh, squeezing and pinching and ravishing me to the extent he could in my overenthusiastic fury. This, of course, was not anywhere near enough for my unshakable desires, and I promptly asserted myself more thoroughly toward him, pressing my tits up against his face and, in effect, force-feeding him, needing to feel his lips on my nipples, and letting out a tremendous sigh, yet feeling a negligible degree of relief nonetheless, as they melted around me, teeth sinking lightly into flesh and nibbling cautiously, despite my clearly presented desire to be ravished by this man, to have my overwhelming cravings satisfied, to rid myself of this irksome sexual frustration for the time being and be relieved for at least a few meager hours of these unsuppressable thoughts.

  I pushed myself deeper, deeper, deeper into him as I continued to writhe, coming close, I could tell, to smothering him with my boobs, and feeling increasingly disappointed in him for failing to reach the same levels of enthusiasm with which I was currently assaulting him. Eventually, I had to pull my tits away from him outright, like taking something away from a child who has failed to grasp the object's proper function. I grabbed my tits and squeezed them vigorously, savoring the feeling as the flesh flowed warmly through my fingertips, sinking my claws so deep into my self that I could hardly stand it.

  After some time of this, this unfulfilling rocking and writhing and inability to satisfy myself, I climbed off of him, a necessity if things were to progress any further than the level at which they currently stood, and began to finish undressing myself. I turned with my back toward him, and doubled my body over at the waist, torturing him, I knew, as I jutted my plump ass out full in his direction, my tight cheeks popping as I slithered out of my leggings, dragging them down to my thighs and knees and ankles, and then stepping unstably out of them, and letting him stare for a moment at the wet cheeks of my buttocks blazing up at him, squeezed snugly by the tight lacy fabric of my panties, and the sight, I'm confident, one which nearly destroyed him as
I reached up, and began to slip out of this tantalizing negligee as well. And there they were, my pussy and anus, his favorite tight little openings of my anatomy, I'm quite confident, splayed and dripping for his approval, and ready to have themselves utterly destroyed.

  With some degree of decision, I backed myself up onto him on the sofa, a feat which took some measure of acrobatic wherewithal to achieve, as I backed my ass up directly into his face, and smothered him with the fat, juicy, succulent thing, giving him no choice but to service me in the service which I was so clearly demanding.

  He put his hands on my buttocks as though to establish a firm grip on me, and then pulled me back into him, and I shuddered with arousal as his tongue began to penetrate me, twisting through my pussy, licking, stealing through every dank cavern as though to get to the very bottom of me, a feat which, quite honestly, he was only partially succeeding in accomplishing. I began to smack my ass up against him, exerting myself so readily that there could be no doubt as to how very damn badly I wanted this, and though he certainly tried to please me, putting his fingers up in there, rubbing my clit and everything, there was just no accommodating the sheer beast of carnal rage getting ready to explode inside my body.

  Feeling myself tingling with a degree of pleasure yet feeling impatient and dissatisfied, I decided to hell with it, letting him breathe again by pulling my ass away from his face, and then climbing back onto him, mounting him in the manner in which I had done so previously, now unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, reaching my hand down in there, and grasping around for his erect, veiny penis.

  I whipped his cock out into the open air, giving it little more than a couple of slight churns in preparation, then I spread my naked thighs wide open, lifting my body up over him so that our genitalia aligned, and then slowly sinking my weight back onto him, whimpering with the heat of my gash being cleaved asunder, and trembling from tit to toe as I felt himself press down inside me, and I began to rock on top of him.

  I bounced up and down on my husband's cock like a fucking pogo stick, fucking him harder than I'd ever fucked him in the entire time we'd known each other, I quite honestly believe. This should reasonably have brought him some degree of pleasure, but to be honest I think I was overwhelming him just a bit, assaulting him so fiercely that it would have been impossible for him to really know how to treat me, my tits bouncing in his face and the pink hot sheath of my pussy pumping up and down on him so fast that I thought my entire lower body might erupt in flames from the friction....

  And at last, I managed to completely overwhelm him, jamming his stabbing cock up deep into my cunt, and savoring the throbbing as he ejaculated up into me, coating the inside walls of my vagina with his sperm and filling me up with an orgasm that was, decidedly, meager for all the intense effort that had gone into producing it.

  And at last I let out a tremendous sigh, swallowing hard and lowering my body onto his, lying against his beating chest as my mind continued to reel, my heartbeat settling down to a reasonable level once again and his penis slowly, very slowly, retreating back down into an insubstantial nub inside my still-throbbing pussy.

  And finally, after an extended period of the two of us collapsed in this manner, sweating and panting and heaving in the chilly, sticky afterglow, I leaned into his ear, and whispered my warm, seductive breath into him: “I want to get fucked by a big black cock... And I want you to watch...”

  Chapter 3

  It was, predictably enough, a bit of a difficult plan to sell, both to my husband and to the theoretical big black cock that would be involved in the undertaking.

  My husband, understandably enough, had an immense degree of difficulty seeing my request as anything but personal in nature, and seriously, how the hell could he not see it that way? To him, it was basically me saying that I found him inadequate as far as meeting my needs was concerned, that he couldn't fuck me properly because he had a dinky ass white man's dick, and my dissatisfaction at our sex life was, as a result, so severe that I had resorted to outright asking his permission to commit supervised adultery in his presence in order to go about restoring some minuscule degree of satisfaction to what he'd been obliviously unaware was an unhappy marriage.

  It took some tremendous degree of convincing, and in particular rephrasing certain concepts for him in a way that took some of the edge off, for me to even be able to begin to get through to him.

  I told him that I was happy with our marriage itself, I would not trade our relationship for any other, and that if, upon hearing me out completely I would completely drop the subject if it continued to make him as uncomfortable with the idea as it seemed to be doing at present.

  I then proceeded to lay out how things really were for me, what I felt I was missing in my life and how it was no fault in his part, it was just one of those damned wily shortcomings of the entire monogamist system that was the crux of all the problems. His cock, I made completely plain to him, was far, far, far from an inadequate one, and had pleased me far more readily than any cock I had ever had the pleasure of being penetrated by in my entire life. I then proceeded to regale him with that most beloved of metaphors amongst evangelizing polyamorists, saying that it was like ice cream, you didn't want to eat just one flavor for the entire remainder of your life- you wanted to explore different flavors and experience the different manners in which the variations brought pleasure to you, and though your favorite flavor might have indeed been vanilla, that didn't mean you couldn't have a craving for chocolate every once in a while. A thick, double, monstrously portioned serving of chocolate, dripping down your face as you slurped and licked and ran your tongue around that engorged waffle cone, devouring that motherfucking thing until you'd lapped up every last drop...

  And, mind you, his semi-flaccid cock was still lodged up inside me as I was describing all this to him, and I felt him start to harden again inside my body as the ice cream metaphor passed from my lips. That gratified me to no ends, of course, and made me feel just the least bit hopeful that I could end up pulling this off...

  I then proceeded to tell him about my secretly harbored wild side, my desire for so long to indulge in illicit, seedy behavior and explore my wildest fantasy, and how I had resisted ever indulging myself in this regard due to my general emotional preference for a more monogamist lifestyle. This got him even harder inside me, and I could almost feel his pleasure as he imagined me being torn apart by vicious groups of men, passed around the room and perhaps bukkaked on and drenched with cum. I've heard it said that jealousy, the thought of another man mating with a woman, can increase a man's sperm count or something like that, and so it made some lustful sense that my descriptions of my secret wild nature should get him so aroused while his cock was still inside me.

  Then, to seal the deal, I fucked him again with this renewed erection grinding up and down inside my pussy, his first round of splooge still warm and acting as a lubricant as I bounced about on top of him, and the rhythms of my body serving as what perhaps may have been the most convincing argument imaginable for why he should let another man wet the sheets of our marital bed.

  Finally, after an additional shared climax and another round of hot cum up inside me, he let out a sigh of resignation, and after a moment of silence he asked, “So if I'm okay with this, does that mean I get to have a little fun of my own, too? Say... Inviting another girl back to our place?”

  “Let's just see how it goes...” I said quickly and noncommittally, a flaming pile of hypocrite, to be sure, but that felt like a discussion to be had based around the success or failure of this first potential branching out in our marriage.

  “Alright...” he said finally, and I loved him so much in that moment that I could have started fucking him right there again in an instant, but of course after two ejaculations his penis was a bit worse for wear in terms of the size and stiffness department, and so I quite frankly didn't have all that much there to work with.

  With that first hurdle cleared, it was now time to move on
to recruiting the big black cock that would eventually penetrate its way into our marriage, and with some considerable measure of anxiety I pulled out Mr. Eggplant's phone number and cock size from my purse, and punched the former number into my cell phone while nervously fantasizing about the latter.

  Mr. Eggplant picked up after the first few rings, and I asked who I was speaking to so as to have some name by which to refer to him aside from the whimsical “Mr. Eggplant.” He said his name was Mike, and he was now “Mr. Mike Eggplant” in my mind instead of simply “Mr. Eggplant.”

  I promptly introduced myself to him, then, as the white woman whose number he had given at the grocery store a day or two ago, and I could almost hear him smiling over the phone, a little bit too pleased with himself at having successfully reeled in his catch, as he said that he figured that might be who was calling and he was glad to hear from me.

  I asked him, quite bluntly, whether he might just be interested in having a little fun at some point, and he said that if he hadn't been, he wouldn't have handed his number out in the first place. I then held my breath for a moment, trying to figure out how best to phrase this next part, until finally I simply blurted, and said flat-out that I should probably tell him I was married, to which he seemed to shrivel up just the tiniest bit and back away from his previous statement.

  He had no specific qualms about getting down and dirty and sweaty with a fine female specimen such as myself, he said, but in his past experience doing the deed with a married woman had nearly resulted in calamity. Two instances of him having boinked married women (one of them pregnant at the time, mind you,) had resulted in the husbands of the women in question coming after him, starting fights with him that he had no desire to engage in, and such experiences had by and large deterred him from engaging in any further of such forbidden unions up to this point in time.

  I very quickly told him that, no, no, he had it all wrong, my husband was completely on board with the situation, and in fact felt turned on by the idea of watching while the two of us did it on our marriage bed, and upon saying this, it was almost as though I could hear Mr. Eggplant's big black boner spring up several tremendous inches on the other end of the line.