The British Are Cumming

The following three days were pure torture. Every afternoon when I returned from my classes, I found them in bed. They always had an errand for me. Usually it was buying them dinner so they could continue their marathon fucking. Mostly Polly sent me out. Peter seemed almost embarrassed for me, but he dared not say anything. She kissed me once each day, each time with a mouthful of his sperm, which I was forced to swallow. That was the only contact with her I was allowed. In addition, I was forbidden to toss off, or to seek any other form of relief, especially with another woman. To ensure my fidelity, I was only allowed out of the dorm for classes or to obtain something for them. I had to attempt to study with the sounds of their copulations in the background, not a simple task. The man had superhuman stamina. He would bang her for an hour before buttering her bun only to be ready to start over in fifteen minutes. My beloved Polly kept pace with him. Not once did she complain of being sore.

I never saw her on weekends, only during the week, because she had a job which required a lot of hours between Friday evenings and Sunday afternoons. I didn't see her again until library time the next Monday evening. We hugged and kissed on the steps before going inside to do our research. We worked until closing time.

Our paths were parallel for a short distance before I had to turn off toward the dormitory, and she continued to her flat just off the campus. We stood holding hands for several minutes in the spring air. "Nigel, do you still love me?" she asked at last breaking the silence.

"Yes," I said softly.

"You don't seem too certain about it. Do you really mean it, or are you just trying to avoid hurting my feelings?"

"Yes, I mean it."

"I put you through hell last week. If you want to call off our wedding, I'll understand."

"No, it was my idea. I didn't think it would be more than one quick fuck, but I have no one to blame but myself." I couldn't look at her.

"You probably thought I would do it because I'm known as an easy shag. "You were right about that."

"That's why I started seeing you."

"You only wanted someone to fuck?"

"In the beginning, yes. Then I discovered what a truly wonderful person you are. I discovered there was a heart beneath your breasts, and that it ruled your body."

"Nigel, you are a very, very loving man. I love you more than I can say. I'm still an easy shag. My heart belongs to you, but my body remains mine. Marriage will not change me."

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. My eyes met hers. "I don't want you to change. Watching you with Peter was the most exciting week of my life. As long as I may be with you, do as you please."

She smiled. "In that case, it would please me to take you home with me. Peter could use some privacy tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"He told me he's bringing a girl up to your room tonight. He said he felt like he was cheating on me."

"Really? Do we know her?"

"You do. It's the girl from the wine shop."

We went to her flat. It was a small place, only one bedroom, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a loo. She closed the door behind us and leaned against it. "Nigel, I have to ask you something," she said softly. "Have you spunked since my first night with Peter?"

"No," I answered. "Why?"

"You haven't wanked at all?"

"No. I don't understand what this is all about?"

"Remember I told you not to."

"I know."

"I'm please you refrained for me. You must be very horny."

"So horny it hurts. I need you."

She came to me slowly and placed her arms around my neck. "I need you, too," she whispered. Our lips met softly as her body molded itself to mine. She held my neck with one hand while her other hand lightly stroked my prick through my pants. Breathing required more effort. Keeping our lips locked together, I tore her dress open exposing her breasts and glistening pussy. I picked her up and carried her to the bed where I dropped her. I ripped my shirt and pants off. Her knickers were shredded as I gripped the crotch and yanked. The remains of my shorts flew somewhere.

My ragging hard-on's aim was true, and I penetrated her dripping cunt on the first stroke. We began thrusting against each other immediately. My abstinence had taken its toll. Neither of us was concerned about foreplay. Although she had been royally fucked for three straight days, she was as hot for me as I was for her. Our hips slammed together. Harder! Harder! Harder! Faster! Faster! My toes curled into fists. My loins ached, begging for relief. Desperately I tried to cum, but I remained on the edge unable to cross over. My groin burned with an urgency that refused to respond. Polly's cunt tightened around my prick increasing the friction on my glans, which only added to my frustration. The more I tried to finish, the more my balls hurt. All I could do was continue to bang away. Was I destined to a life of blue balls?

My mind reviewed my previous orgasms. The moment I thought of the most recent, when I spunked in my pants while watching Peter and Polly, my balls rose. We both screamed at the top of our lungs. My seed burst out of my shaft into her womb. Her cunt muscles clamped down on me. Her tunnel was so wet she could not get a grip on me. My cock was pushed out by her powerful contractions. Half my load landed on the bedding.

We lay panting and gasping for breath for several minutes. It had the most intense orgasm of my life, and it had been triggered by thinking of Polly being fucked by another man. Her infidelity was my turn-on. True, it wasn't officially infidelity because we weren't formally wed, but we were committed to each other, and that made her unfaithful. I was astonished to find that it excited me to know other men had used her pussy.

I began asking her to describe her dates with others before we met. Each of her stories sent me into a passionate frenzy of lust. My greatest joy came from knowing that she not only enjoyed her encounters with those guys, but that she had given me pleasure too. She, in turn, appeared to be just as aroused by relating her escapades. I graduated to removing my spunk from her cunt with my tongue and mouth. Her juices improved the taste a thousand per cent. Rather than a bland sticky fluid, it was a sweet nectar.

We spent the rest of the night gently making love. Everything we did was in slow motion; well, almost everything. We laid motionless for several minutes at a time just looking into each other's eyes. Orally cleaning each other replaced using soap and water. At some point I drifted off to sleep.

We married in the chapel in her village after commencement. It was a very simple affair. My family came from Liverpool for the day. Our reception was held in the churchyard beneath an old oak tree. The guests, mostly Polly's relatives, all brought their favorite dishes. My parents hadn't been advised of this arrangement, so they dashed to the grocer for paper plates and plastic utensils.

Polly's parents were of very modest means. Neither had much education. Her mother worked for a shopkeeper. Her father was a seasonal laborer. I was astonished they could pay to send her to university. I later learned her sister was also attending university.

We both obtained positions in London. She became an assistant editor with a small book publisher. I was an engineer with a petrol company. We found a flat between our offices, so commuting wasn't much to speak of, but it was a start. We saved as much of our salaries as possible so we could buy good furniture when we could afford a better home. She kept her old weekend job (She wouldn't tell me what it was.) to bring in extra money while I worked in a pub. We knew eventually we would get promotions and better pay once we had a year or two of experience.

Polly got her promotion first to editor after only nine months with her firm. She took a Sunday off so we could go out to celebrate. That night she regaled me with more new stories of her times with other men. There was something different about those tales. They sounded like times more recent than our university days. She accurately mentioned the weather on certain days that were exactly like storms or temperatures in the past few months. Were those stories fictional, or...?

My promotion came six months later. It was more of a transfer than a promotion. I was taken out of engineering and placed in marketing, which had been my secondary subject.

My first client was a randy old goat who talked more about the girls he had shagged than he discussed business. It took the better part of a day to explain our products. By quitting time, I was so fed up with listening to his claims of sexual prowess that I was ready to quit and go back to engineering. I went directly to my supervisor and told him so.

"That old boy can be a pain," he said, "but quite frankly, you seem to have him eating out of your hand. Send a tart to his hotel room, and he'll be ready to sign in the morning."

"You mean you want me to buy him a whore?" I said incredulously.

"What else would I mean? Charge it to your entertainment account."

"That's hardly ethical. Our products should sell themselves. What would a tart know about them?"

"She doesn't have to know anything about petroleum. She just has to fuck him. You probably guessed the old coot likes bums. It will cost a little extra, but it will be worth it. There's a nice, fat bonus riding on this for you. Don't blow it over some silly notion of ethics. This is business. More sales are made in the bedroom than in the boardroom. Go call a brothel and get it set up.

I resigned myself to the fact that everything wasn't as it was taught at university. "I don't know where they are."

He wrote a telephone number and an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "This is the place I use. Straight sex is a hundred fifty quid; bums are two-fifty. Take the money out of your petty cash box. Don't let me see you again without a signed contract in your hand." I got the cash and took the Underground home.

Polly noticed my sullen expression the moment I entered our flat and rushed to embrace me. I gave her a gentle hug, but, as much as I loved her, my heart wasn't in it. "What's wrong?" she asked. "You look like your mum died."

"It's not quite that bad," I said as I sat down on the sofa. She sat beside me and put her head on my shoulder.

"Tell me what happened." I related the details of my day to her stopping before the part about taking out the cash. "How much are you allowed to spend?" she asked nonchalantly when I finished.

"Two-fifty."

"For that much, he could have my arse."

"That's what he wants."

"When can you get the money?"

I pulled it out of my pocket. "I might as well do the job. I can use the money just as much as any other tart." She jerked it out of my hand. "Which hotel is he at?"

I started to answer, then my throat locked. "You...you can't...be serious." I choked out.

"Why not? Neither of us make that in a week. This will only take a few hours, three at most. Where is he?"

"I will not have a whore for a wife!" I shouted and jumped to my feet.

"Then pack your bags and get out of here!"

My mind was spinning. "What are you saying?"

Her voice was one of controlled rage. "Nigel, you listen very carefully because I hate repeating myself. Remember what I told you right after I did Peter, at your request I might remind you? Marriage won't change me. Do you remember me saying that?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"It hasn't. I still do the same things I did two years ago. You've seen my parents circumstances. From the time I understood what poverty was, I vowed I would escape from it. I sold my cheery when I was sixteen. Some boy kept teasing me about being a virgin. As a joke, I told him it would cost him five pounds to break my skin. He promptly put the money in my hand. If I had known then about men's fixation with virgins, I would have charged him a hundred. I was young and dumb, so I gave it away for a fiver. I've been on the game ever since. I paid for my education on my back with my legs spread wide open, and I'm not ashamed of it. I'm paying my sister's tuition the same way so she won't have to suffer either. Now, as your wife, I am going to help you with your career the same way I'm helping my sister. If you have a problem with that, you know where to find the door. Don't expect girls to come breaking down your door. Damn few want a man who only cums when she talks about sleeping with other men. We both know that's the only way you can get off."

I plopped back down on the sofa and stared at her openmouthed. "Are you telling me your weekend job has been whoring?"

She sat beside me with her legs tucked up under her bottom and put her arms around my neck. "That's what I'm saying," she said softly. "Nigel, I love sex. I love all the different men and their different organs and their different styles and techniques. I don't care if I get paid or not. I'm a slag, and I can't change what I am. You knew that the day we met. Don't turn into a proper Englishman on me. I have enough for my sister to finish university. Now I want to help you. If being willing to shag your client doesn't prove I love you, what do I have to do?"

I detested everything she had just said. Call me naïve, but all I had ever wanted was to be a proper Englishman with a beautiful, honest, and faithful wife. Polly certainly was beautiful and absolutely honest, so honest I would have preferred being kicked in the groin by a horse. Faithful could be open to negotiation. She may have been out whoring, but she came home to me every night. She wanted to be a whore to help me. How many wives would do that for their husbands? We could get better furniture sooner and move to a house in the country. However humiliating it might be, she was right about me. Only when I visualized her in my mind with another man inside her, or she told me about being with someone else, could I have an orgasm. I was in a trap, one of my own making, one I wanted to stay in. I loved her too much; I needed her too much. "Be sure you keep your stockings and suspenders on," I told her glumly. "He told me it's one of his biggest turn-ons."