Victoria Berry had wonderful curves. She was blessed with large round natural breasts, each graced with a wide, perfectly pink areola and a puffy dome-shaped nipple. Her bottom was also gloriously curved: her full buttocks swayed gently as she walked, inviting the attraction of all who spied her. Her face too was round -- not pudgy, but naturally broad, with cheeks whose roundness echoed that of her breasts and buttocks. Her eyes were wide and moon-shaped, giving her a permanently curious and enthusiastic air, as if she were fascinated and delighted by anything and everything she came into contact with.
At the moment, said wide eyes were gazing up into Giles Byard-Jones' face -- and he was grinning back -- principally because he had already fucked her tits, and her cunt, and her arse, and was now blissfully hoping to finish off in her throat. And what a throat! The first time he had fucked it, some eight months ago, he had been amazed to discover that it was even possible for his cock -- and it was a big cock, he congratulated himself -- to bottom out in a woman's gullet. His ex had hated sucking his dick, and so he had gone looking elsewhere for that particular pleasure. And here she was: Vicky Berry, the ex's best friend -- ex-best friend, that is -- church youth worker, pillar of the community, admired and adored by all, gazing into his face with wide delighted eyes, as he pounded his fat cock deep into her round, open mouth.
Vicky had a way of producing the most delightfully obscene noises when he fucked her face -- a sort of cross between a duck quacking and a toilet backing up. To the world it announced filth, and to Giles degradation -- submission, to be precise. Giles liked that: the ex had enjoyed sex, but had not pandered to his more demanding preferences. Vicky, on the other hand, seemed to want to earn his approbation. And so she quacked and gagged just the way he liked it best, allowing her saliva to dribble and drip down her chin onto her full round tits, and letting great ropes of spit swing and dangle off his big shaft, as she gazed wide-eyed, and apparently delighted, into his face.
"Oh yeah, baby, you're such a dirty whore," muttered Giles.
"That's why you like me," grinned Vicky, removing her lover's stiff cock from her mouth to beat her face with it, letting all those gloopy spit-strings spatter all over her cheeks and forehead, "'cause I'm a filthy throat-fucking slut -- and you like that, don't you, babe? You like nasty, evil, adulterous church-going whores, don't you, Mister B-J? You know how to treat me, don't you, you dirty bastard?!"
"Oh yeah, filthy Catholic bitches who preach goodness and purity one moment and suck my big cock the next -- that's what I like!" replied Giles, warming up to Vicky's conversational filth.
"Go on then, Mister B-J, fucking ram it in again, all the way down, make your church-whore fucking puke on that big dick! Make me -- mmmggg..."
Vicky's instructions were cut short, as Giles did precisely as she asked. Actually, not entirely precisely: he never made her puke, for her technique was too good for that -- but he loved it when she said that sort of thing: it made him feel powerful, and he liked being powerful. He lifted his hand and slapped Vicky sharply on her right cheek, feeling the impulse travel through to his cock. She glubbed, pulling back off him just enough to say, "Oh yeah, slap me baby, go on, hurt this fucking slut!" before plunging her throat back onto his shaft. Giles roared his approval with a stream of obscenities, speeding up his face-fucking whilst alternately slapping her face and tits, each strike eliciting a squeal of mock-pleasure from the buxom blonde. "Yeah, harder, go on, fucking punish me, I'm such a dirty fucking whore!" screeched Vicky.
Giles sensed the cum rising from his balls, felt his throbbing shaft growing stiffer. "Oh yeah, bitch, what'll it be today?" he grunted. "Face or throat?"
"All over my fucking slut-face, big boy!" squealed Vicky, her mouth and round eyes wide with delight. "Go on, make me even prettier!"
But it was then that the doorbell rang. "FUCK!" swore Giles, as he hastily grabbed his clothes from a pile on the floor and pulled on jeans and T-shirt. "Fucking Amazon deliveries, at this time of the morning! Stay here, babe, I'll be back in a minute."
As Giles' footsteps pounded down the staircase, Vicky lay back and giggled. She tidied her hair, wiped some of the spit off her face, then lay back on the king-sized bed, massaging her large breasts as she waited.
And waited.
She heard the murmur of voices from downstairs. But she knew not to make an appearance -- she was, after all, a well brought-up church-going twenty-something, and it would be best not to draw attention to the fact that she was fucking the husband of her ex-best friend. Instead, she reached over, extracted a cigarette from her pack on the night-stand and, striking a match, lit it.
Vicky relished the feeling of her lungs soaking up the nicotine, the calming tingling sensation slowly suffusing her body. She took a deep drag, lay back, and directed a perfectly-formed cone of smoke towards the ceiling, watching it bounce off, part and diffuse around the room.
And so she waited, smoking with one hand while the other cupped and squeezed her breasts, thumb and forefinger gently tweaking her full nipples, fingers lazily tracing the outline of her pussy-lips, wiping off little smears of cunt-juice which she proceeded to sniff, savour, and slurp off in-between drags of her cigarette. She smacked her lips in self-appreciation.
And waited. The voices continued to murmur downstairs, but she could not hear what they were saying. Clearly not just a delivery, though.
Ah well, what the fuck
, she thought, as she finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on her bedside table.
It was at least twenty minutes (and one more cigarette) later before she heard Giles' footsteps trudging up the stairs. Definitely trudging, not leaping or bounding as she would have expected him to. What, wasn't he looking forward to finishing off his throatfuck? She knew what to do to get him going again, though: she flipped herself onto her hands and knees, and stuck her bottom in the air so that Giles' first sight when he re-entered the room would be her arsehole winking at him, and her loose wet cunt-lips dangling invitingly below. She grinned, as she began to rub her clit in anticipation.
"Come and get me baby!" she trilled, as Giles entered. But he just stood there, staring at her backside, apparently impassive and unmoved.
"Get 'em off, Gilesey-baby! Which hole do you wanna fuck first?" she continued, spreading her pussy-lips wide with two fingers. But Giles did not "get them off"; he just stood there.
"She's dead," he said, in a hollow voice.
~~~~~
"What the fuck do you mean, you don't know how she died?" shouted Detective Inspector Jane McCann into her mobile phone. She was standing at the altar in the Catholic Church of the Immaculate Conception, pondering, and cursing her lot in trying to make head or tail of this very strange case. "You're telling me no signs of strangulation?... No bruising?... No poison?... But it was his cum, right? So you're saying he fucked her, and then she just died -- just like that?! How the fuck does that happen?"
"What?! '
Avada ke
--' yeah, very funny, Harry, ha fucking ha... OK... OK, so now we have a dead body, and a missing lecherous priest -- but no evidence of any foul play at all?" D. I. McCann was having a bad day. She knew who the victim was; she knew who the prime suspect was: after all, his semen -- DNA tests had confirmed it -- had been seeping out of the victim's pussy when the body was discovered. But without any indication of cause of death, she couldn't declare this a murder investigation. This was not what she was expecting at all. "OK, OK, Harry. Look, ring me if anything else comes up. We've put out a search on the priest: he can't have got far -- but it's not as if we can charge him, if there's been no crime committed!"
The Detective Inspector hung up, muttering "fuck" under her breath again. She was a tall, strongly built woman in her thirties, her dark hair tied neatly back in a bun, wearing a grey business-style pant suit, the jacket of which sat tight around her large breasts. All around her bustled the apparatus and detritus of a would-be murder investigation: officers standing guard, detectives dusting surfaces for fingerprints, the "crime" scene -- the high altar -- taped off; other officers, she knew, were in the sacristy and presbytery searching for clues, and taking statements from various parish luminaries, including the young Spanish nun who had discovered the corpse.
