French Whore Ch 04

"I don't know that she would have done it, had she not been so frustrated with me. It was late and I kept begging her to go on because I was close, so close, but I just couldn't reach that place... and she'd had enough." He realizes, belatedly, that she has the upper hand now. By settling her own slim fingers to their work, she's baited him into acknowledging his own raging arousal, and now he is at her mercy.

"She ducked under the blankets without a word, and before I knew what she was doing she had her mouth between my legs and she licked and swirled with her tongue just so..."

He knew, of course, what the maid was doing today, and that summer eight years ago when his wife served the sentence of childbirth in that stuffy, cloistered room. He'd learned, as a teenager, to use his mouth like that on a lass long before he figured out what he was expected to do with his pecker. And though he'd enjoyed many sets of female thighs wrapped round his head so in the years since, he'd never dreamed of treating his wife that way. She was better than sluttish barmaids, above grasping greedy mistresses. Though he'd known his wife for a whore when he'd first seen her quick smile and tinkling laugh for a man of means, he'd never imagined her on her back, knees splayed, begging to be tongued and rutted like a common, hot blooded prostitute. The fact that it was a woman she begged only twisted his gut more.

Then, like a dam breaking, she ceases the sweet sick torture. Her hand descends on his fly and she fumbles the laces loose. She's pressing herself upon him now, and he can feel the hand between her legs rubbing more urgently. He stands quickly to shed his pants then. He doesn't think he has ever been so excited by the prospect of bedding his wife before. He drags the robe off her and doesn't give a damn when he hears the delicate fabric tear. Sometimes whores get roughed up.

The thought brings him round to a memory of a red haired dancer who begged him to land slap after cracking slap to her ass. Lord. She'd moaned and writhed on his lap for better than a dozen blows, until her bottom radiated heat and he didn't have the stomach for it any more. Later, when he was crouched over her thrusting home, she'd taken his hand and put it on her neck, as though he was choking her. He'd never dreamed of touching a woman like this before, and the feeling of his hand wrapped around the firm vital flesh of her throat made his head spin. He could only bring himself to squeeze lightly, but the sick bitch seemed to go for that too. At the time he'd been slightly horrified, but now as he stands looking past his cock at the uppity whore that is his wife he can appreciate a woman who can find pleasure in letting a man loose that dark secret side of his soul.

His erection is so tight that there's a dull ache thudding in his testicles. With a deep breath he wraps his hand firmly around his cock and pumps it rhythmically. She just lays there, looking up at him. With the silken barrier gone, her fingertips stroke lightly up and down her slit, and her eyes glaze slightly when she looks at his pounding flesh, as though she'd eat him alive. He should be so lucky.

He finds his naked wife a treat to look at, philandering whore or no. As a boy he lusted hotly over full figured women with heavy, full breasts, but as a man he appreciates her fashionably small frame. Her figure was not ruined by breeding his heirs, but somehow matured by it. He's turned on by the slight broadening of her hips, the softening of her belly, the faint silvery stripes over the skin of both. Her breasts too are fuller than when she was a girl, with soft full nipples she nursed his sons from. He's proud to have been the man who bore her to womanhood with his seed.

He's grown more excited by the moment, standing over her and jacking himself off. She, too, seems to be rubbing herself with a deeper, more intense stroke. "Turn over." She seems startled by the request, but she rolls to offer him her back and nicely rounded ass. Within moments his palm is stinging from the slap. She screams, and he pushes her face gently into the down pillow to muffle it. He twines his fingers in her hair and then he can lift her head to let her breathe between blows. The mercy of giving her breath is equal to the thrill of denying it to him, and he enjoys the control as much as he does paddling her ass. Before long she's wriggling like a snake, and sobbing with pain and lust. It is then that he turns her over so he can kneel and press a kiss against the knot of her arousal. She bucks and presses back firmly.

It is obvious, within moments, that his wife has just as much experience receiving cunnilingus as he does at administering it. She cues him expertly to her desires with moans, grinds back against his tongue boldly and guides his head with sexy, delicate fingers tangled in his hair. He massages her opening bluntly with his knuckles before sliding two fingers inside of her, and that is what she has been waiting for. She works his fingers deeper by rocking her hips, and in approximately three minutes the woman he thought of as a sheltered prude acting the part of a whore has engineered her own climax against his mouth.

Quickly he shifts upward and guides the head of his cock to her opening. He's been with childless girls who need long moments of adjustment to accept him without pain, but his wife's slick cunt takes him to the hilt in the first thrust. The feeling of her wet heat wrapped around the sensitive rod of his flesh, the softness of her breasts under his chest, the smell of her perfume and the feeling of her mouth against his neck push him over the edge. He rabbit fucks her for moments that feel like hours and thrusts so deep it makes her cry out when he comes, spilling his seed at the head of her fertile, unprotected womb.

Initially it feels like a claim to his property, but as he lays beside her, wilting in the cooled evening air, he realizes that it is an offering upon the altar.