An Emerging

First, a warning - this story is based around a "Loving wives" theme. If that gives you issues, you are going to have to grind your way to the end, some 50,000 words away before you can grumble. Ask yourself, is it really worth the effort?

The second warning is, the first 2 1/2 sections are substantially the same as an earlier submission of mine "Emergence".

Thanks to "Blackstallion21" for editing support.

Chapter11

Once in the hallway, Patrick slapped her rear gently, and ordered her upstairs. Rachael obeyed, and he paused to watch as she ascended the steps. He slipped into the kitchen, grabbing the picnic blanket from cupboard, and the bottle of Cava that'd been left to welcome them.

When he arrived upstairs, she'd settled into one of the armchairs, by the fire. She was fingering her clitoris quite openly:

"What kept you?"

He added log onto the stove, and spread the lined blanket over the rug. He popped the cork of the wine before undressing.

"Come here"

He knelt on the blanket; she came to him, and he wrapped her arm around her waist. Holding her close to him, he took a draught of the wine. Kissing her, he transferred the wine to her mouth. A proportion spilled down their chins. Next, he raised the bottle to Rachael's mouth and let her drink. She reciprocated his action:

"Mr "Y", you don't have to get me drunk to have your way with me, you know..."

He grinned, and gave her a gentle push backwards. Taking the hint, Rachael moved to lay supine; her excitement was obvious, as she writhed, her hands fluttering. Patrick leant over her, and poured a slender stream into her navel. He licked it from the tiny bowl.

"Ooh...that's cold. But nice."

He repeated the action. Then, instead of pouring the sparkling stream onto her stomach, he splashed it onto her nipples, following it with his tongue. Rachael gasped. Her mouth was now slack, in a half-smile, and her eyes were gleaming. When Patrick shifted to kneel between her knees, she grasped his intent immediately, and tilted her hips upward to him. When the trickle of cold wine hit her clitoris, she made a wordless keening noise, her eyes screwed tight shut. As the fluid flowed down and between her labia, it rose to a squeal, and then a string of expletives, as he drank from her.

"Christ, Oh, Christ, Ohhhh"

He made (started) to pour again. She stopped him

"No, not that. It's a bit too much....don't make me come just yet."

"Well, we could try this."

She felt something cold and hard trace its way down her soaking slit. Her eyes snapped open, in time to see him caressing her with the neck of the bottle. He halted its travel at her open entrance, then she felt him start to push it into her, it's thick, curled lip parting and cooling her inflamed labia.

"No, don't. That's too much. Not even tonight...."

He ignored her, sliding the thick neck deeper. Looking down at her, he grinned.

"Now just wait a moment, hold it right there"

Her eyes showed her confusion

"I'll get the camera. I reckon Alistair would love a few shots of you like that"

Momentarily, she'd thought he was serious.

Shifting, she instructed him to lie back. His legs were akimbo, his torso raised on his elbows. His erection stood vertical. Rachael poured wine generously over his torso, and drank it from his skin. Now she took a mouthful, and, keeping her lips pursed so as not to lose any more of the fluid than absolutely necessary, slid her lips over the glans. The sensation of the cold liquid and the prickling sensation of the bubbles caused him to jerk forward, pushing the tip to the back of her throat. It caused an involuntary gag. She swallowed the wine.

"Sorry, I..."

"Don't worry."

The thought that'd arisen unbidden when she'd felt his thrust caused her to pause for a moment. "Why not? I've tried everything else tonight....well, almost everything".

"Stay still"

She took the shaft in her right hand, holding it gently with her fingertips. Reapplying her lips, she moved them down on it slowly, until the penis penetrated her mouth as deeply as it ever had before. She could feel the smooth head against the roof of her mouth, close to her epiglottis. They both waited expectantly. Her train of thought continued – "I've swallowed his come – I ought to be able to do this". Recalling what she'd read on the topic, she resumed the slide down. Forcing herself to control the natural spasm of her throat muscles, Rachael inhaled deeply through her nose, before making her self swallow, as she bobbed her head forward.

It worked, just as she'd read it would. She felt a bulk slide into her throat, and suddenly, she was able to move her head forward without restriction until her nose nestled amongst his pubic hair.

"Good God..."

Rachael moved her head backwards, feeling the friction as the shaft withdrew from her, then moved forward again. She was able to repeat the movement three or four times before she had to pull back to breathe, taking his cock from her mouth but retaining her grip.

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know" was all the response she offered, before reapplying herself. From Patrick's hiss, as he slid back into her oesophagus, she realised that the sensations must be very intense. Then, it became apparent just how intense; just as she was about to withdraw again for breathe, Patrick cursed, and his hands clamped on the sides of her head. He began to thrust against her, robotically. Rachael felt an edge of panic. She was desperate to breathe, but his grip was too strong. Then, with a roar, he drove forward, crushing her face into his abdomen, and held it there for what seemed an eternity. He released her, and desperately, she swayed backward, gulping for air. As she did so, his second spasm fired its string of semen, spattering across her face.

She managed to get the head back into her mouth in time for the third, savouring its tang. Lovingly, she used fingers and tongue to spooned the remnants into her mouth as he watched her, intently.

The semen was everywhere; in her hair, splashed around her right eye, plastered around her mouth and dripping from her chin

Rachael had been building to this point for most of the day. Abruptly, she was on fire with lust. She needed a penis inside her, fucking her hard, now.

It'd been the sight of her in the mirror, she realised. Looking like the cheapest slut imaginable, after she'd spent the day behaving like a tart. The knowledge that she'd taken a cock in the throat, had been close to performing anonymous sex in a nightclub, displayed herself like a whore, come on her lover's fingers while– and had adored every second of it.

Wiping Patrick's come from her eye but leaving the rest, she dropped to her knees. She began to work on his now flaccid member with mouth and hands, gently at first but then with increasing urgency as it failed to respond. She looked him in the eye, cursing:

"Come ON..."

"Sorry, I can't."

His head dropped back – the mixture of the drink, and the powerful climax he'd just squirted into her gullet had left him half-comatose. Growling with frustration, consumed with the desperate need to be filled, her eyes scanned the room for some source of satisfaction.

And fell on the bottle. Five minutes ago, it'd seemed too depraved even for her. She grabbed at it, hurriedly tearing away the last remnants of the foil top, before taking it to the bathroom, and giving the neck a wipe with the washcloth. Back in the living room, she poised herself on the edge of one of the armchairs where she could see herself in the mirror. She gave Patrick's recumbent form a sharp kick:

"Watch this, you useless bastard"

It was easier than she'd expected to push the neck deep into her soaking tunnel – and Rachael felt every millimetre of its passage. The sensation was excruciatingly intense. Moreover, as it continued to slide in, the shape, with the relatively slender neck flaring to the broad body caused her vulva to be spread wide. Patrick's eyes were almost as wide. She directed her gaze to the mirror, as she slid it out and in again. Her image was a vision of filth. She looked obscene, she thought. It wasn't just the lewdness of the large black shape nestling between her legs, its neck glistening with her lubrication; it was the way her mouth worked with soundless pleasure as the bottle was moved.

She glanced again at Patrick.

"If you can't do it for me, I'll make my own arrangements."

He didn't speak.

"Tell me how it looks. Do I look like a complete harlot? I want to – I've felt like one all day"

She was struck by a convulsion, causing her to lose her grip on the bottle. It dropped noisily to the floor, spilling froth. She hadn't realised it still contained wine.

With a deliberate gesture, she bent forward and picked it up, raised it to her lips and drank as Patrick watched. It tasted strongly of her, as well as the original contents. She placed the now empty bottle upright on the floor, and squatted over it. She began to lower herself down onto it

Rachael was now sliding up and down rapidly, forcing the bottleneck as deep into herself as it would physically go, Her hips were jerking back and forth, her breasts swinging wildly. Her skin shone with sweat, her thighs with her juices Her orgasm was close now, very close.

A massive wave of pleasure washed over her, then another, and yet another. Conscious thought was impossible, and when the waves finally receded, she felt blackness fall over her.

Chapter 12

Rachael couldn't be sure what it was that actually woke her; it was one of those unpleasant, instantaneous transitions from deep sleep to wakefulness that only happen as a result of some external stimulus. The initial disorientation had its virtues, however. It took her several seconds to become aware of the dull ache behind her eyes, the dryness of her mouth. And that she was alone.

The room was in semi darkness, illuminated only by the grey light seeping around the curtains. Even so, she found it more comfortable to keep her eyes closed.

As she huddled under the covers, recollection of the previous night came creeping into her consciousness. Her immediate reaction was to cringe inwardly at – well, she could think of no better word than shamelessness of her behaviour. Risking the opening of one eye, she peeked toward the now cold stove, expecting to see the evidence of her debauchery. There was none. Perhaps it was some sort of nightmare? No, nightmares don't normally include such extreme pleasure; searching for an explanation, a hazy memory surfaced, of Patrick lifting her onto the bed, of his wiping her body and face with a washcloth, taking off her shoes and jewellery, and spreading the blankets over her.

"Patrick?"

Rachael jack-knifed upright, into a sitting position. Where was he? Had she been so excessive that he'd walked out, disgusted with her? Before she would seek an answer, she was overcome by a stab of nausea, brought on by the sudden movement.

She made it into the bathroom just in time, vomiting thin, sour bile into the toilet bowl. Then, sitting on that same (the) bowl she relieved herself, suffering alternate flushes of hot and cold. It was dawning on her just how much she'd drunk, and over how long on the previous day. Was that some excuse for her behaviour? Probably not...

The worst of her immediate symptoms began to subside. She drew a glass of water, swilled (rinsed) her mouth, filled another, which she drank. Filling the glass for a third time, she filled it again. She needed to lie down, to orientate herself from the shelter of the bed. Returning to the bedroom, she was able to take in the things she'd missed in the urgency of her dash to the bathroom. The room had indeed been tidied, thoroughly. Nor did it seem that Patrick had left; his camera equipment and laptop were still there.

The dress she'd worn that previous night was draped over the back of a chair. She eyed it warily, then lifted it, inspecting it as though it was completely strange to her. It seemed incredible; mildly horrifying that she'd worn it at all, never mind in public. And - Oh, God – She recalled removing the clip that'd kept the cowl at least part closed, and her display leaving the dance floor. How many people had she displayed herself to? That recollection was tempered, however, by an insistent memory of her excitement at the time. She tried, but failed, to push that thought aside.

Dropping it back on the chair, she took the few steps back to the bed. On her bedside table she'd missed entirely the tray left for her; a bowl of cereal, milk, a large, cold glass of grapefruit juice. Beside them, a thermos jug. Investigating that latter, she found it filled with strong, black coffee. There was a note:

"Gone for a run, to clear my head. These should help. P."

Folded into the note were two aspirins.

Rachael settled back into the bed, draining the grapefruit in two deep draughts. She attacked the cereal, suddenly famished. Together, they acted to quell her stomach's churning. She arranged the pillows so she could sit upright, and poured a large mug of coffee. The first mouthful served well to wash down the aspirin. Within a few minutes, she could feel their effect.

She could now, she found, contemplate the previous day and night with a little more equanimity. She'd amazed herself by just how far over the top her behaviour had been – amazed, and more than a little frightened. It hadn't only been how she'd acted in the restaurant and especially in the nightclub. The seeds of that had, she surmised, been sown earlier in the day when being photographed had aroused her so. And there had been the drink. Not an excuse, but it'd certainly helped loosen already frayed inhibitions.

She lifted the covers, to survey the evidence of that fraying; her smooth pubis. Proof positive, she thought of her recklessness. She contemplated just how turned on it'd made her that previous afternoon.

She reached up to brush aside a stray lock of hair; her fingers met a stiffened knot. Patrick hadn't cleaned her up completely, she mused, recalling her image in the mirror that last evening.

Rachael herself could choose exactly when to let her real licentiousness have free rein; no-one else. Best, almost all of those around her would be completely unsuspecting. The concept of still being seen as the "Ice Queen" – despite the mild thaw of the last year – while knowing what sleaze she could enjoy amused her hugely.

Anyhow, she could have gone further, had she wanted to. She'd left the Watcher hanging, she thought. Reflecting on what she assumed would have been his extreme arousal; she relished a mildly sadistic kick at the idea that he'd been frustrated.

Putting her imaginings to one side, she slid from the bed. Back again in the bathroom, she adjusted the shower to a little less than body heat; after cleaning her teeth, she stepped in. she rinsed her hair several times, and lathered her body, noticing the various points of tenderness. All in all, considering her conduct, she felt surprisingly good. As the shower continued, in fact, she felt better and better. When she stepped from the shower she seemed to exude a healthy glow. Was there other maintenance needed? No, her mons still felt soft and smooth – no stubble yet. Gently, she anointed her labia with a soothing lotion, and applied a little to her interior.

Now there was the matter of clothing. The room was slightly chill, and as she checked the wardrobe, she was aware of goose pimples on her skin and her nipples tightening. She found a soft body, it's cups gently supporting of her aching breasts. Slipping into it, and donning jeans and a sweater over it, she walked down to the kitchen and busied herself tidying.

Rachael had been at the task for no more than ten minutes when the front door burst open. Patrick had returned, reddened and sweaty. Waving off her greetings, he departed upstairs, apparently more than ready for a shower himself.

Finishing her work, Rachael followed him upstairs. The bathroom door was closed, and she could hear the shower in full flow. When Patrick eventually emerged, his slender torso wrapped in a towel, he found her back in the kitchen.

"How are you feeling?"

"Bad – but not quite as bad as I should probably feel"

"It was quite a night, wasn't it?"

She was quiet. That wasn't the half of it.

"We'd better get dressed and head out, if we want any lunch. I don't think we've anything in, have we?

"Lunch?)

"Check the time – you slept until well after 12!"

Chapter 13

Good. That was pretty much everything now, apart from a sauce for the birds, and that was best made at the last minute. All the washing up was done, apart from plates and serving dishes. She surveyed the kitchen, satisfied it was in good order, she just had to finish the table now; she'd seen candlesticks and candles in one of the cupboards. Retrieving them, she laid two place settings, opened the wine and poured two glasses to breathe.

Time now to prepare herself; she had something in mind. They'd spent the afternoon and early evening quietly – and chastely. Maybe she'd satisfied the worst of her overheated urges, at least for the time being. They'd done nothing more erotic than a country walk. But now, it was time to change that.

Patrick was settled in front of the fire, a paperback in his hands; some trashy adventure story she noted. Well, she'd not chosen him for his taste in literature. He looked up at her as she passed.

"Nearly ready; I just want to change, and then give me five minutes to serve."

"Smells great," He returned to his book. Rachael picked the chosen items from the wardrobe, and went into the bathroom. She emerged transformed. Gone were the comfortable, practical clothes of the day, in their place a look that exuded sophistication. She wore a black silk top, with spaghetti straps. Obviously of insubstantial material, it did nothing to hide he movements of her breasts below it. Indeed, the bumps made by her nipples confirmed she wore nothing underneath. Her black skirt was tight-fitting, reaching to just below knee length,, made of a soft satin. He legs were sheathed in opaque stockings, marked with a faint pattern in silver. She wore those vertiginous heels that'd featured in the previous days photo shoots. Around her neck there was a short necklace of square black stones, and some black beads.

"Wow. You look wonderful."

"Thanks."

She was indeed pleased with the look. She'd hoped to avoid the obvious availability of the previous night, but to still be sexy.

"Ten minutes. I'll call"

When she did, and he descended to the kitchen, he was met with the partridges already served, sitting atop a pool of a rich, purple sauce. Next to them was a small portion of dauphiness's potato. In the middle, between the plates, was a small bowl of mixed green vegetables. Rachael waited by the table.

Taking he hint, he seated her in his most gentlemanly manner. Taking his own place, he spoke:

"Hmm. Not only smells great, but looks it too. What's the sauce?"

"Port. I bought a couple of miniatures yesterday."

"Wow. You do the whole Jerry Hall thing then?"

She raised an eyebrow

"You know – a cordon-bleu chef in the kitchen, a Madonna with the children, and, in the bedroom....."

"Why thank you, Mr "Y"".

The food was every bit as good as it promised. They ate in a comfortable silence, now relaxed in each others company. When they finished, he ordered her upstairs. He made coffee, and with dispatch, washed the dishes, returning them to their places in the various cupboards. They both needed to be away early the following day, he thought. No point leaving jobs until the morning. He should be very grateful they'd got the extra night.