"Fetish Fun with Dick and Jane, Chapter 2"
by J.D. Savanyu
I log out of my job with Morgan Stanley and stare at Jane Ryder through my living room window. Jazzercising like hell in her own living room in a skimpy pink bikini. COVID-1984 is pretty much over, but my Biden-loving boss is still making us telework every weekday. Thanks to him, I started a nice little affair my neighbor's housewife. That girl is a real fetish freak; the kind you don't take home to mother.
Time to stop managing hedge funds, and start getting hummed. She won't let me fuck her until she "gets to know me better," and the anticipation is killing me. I open a text message from Jane on my phone, and her personality shines right through:
"hey dick, cum here and lets get super freaky. i got a hot new game and sweet reward if u play nice"
My response is equally authentic:
"fuck yeah bitch. get naked right now, dumbshow stripper style"
I watch Jane reading that message in 128 Sound Beach Avenue, from 127. She shoots me a devilish grin, then she puts down her phone and starts wiggling around like an exotic dancer. (Does anyone still use that euphemism?) She takes off her bikini top slowly and tantalizingly, and takes off the bottom the same way. Looking like Jenna Jameson and slithering like a golden serpent, drenched in sweat. She finishes with a flourish, and I give her performance two thumbs up. She waves me toward her house, and I'm out in a flash.
The heat wave is still going strong in Old Greenwich, CT (the Stepford Wives capital of the world.) Jane opens her front door while standing behind it to conceal her nudity from the ritzy neighborhood. I take a few steps into a big room full of her creepy psychedelic paintings. She slams the door behind her, drops right to her knees, and unzips my khaki shorts without uttering a single word.
"Getting right down to business as usual, eh Miss Ryder?"
"I'm a true professional, Mister Davis," she replies sweetly. She yanks out my flaccid prick and stuffs in her mouth, getting it up to nine inches in no time flat. She twists her head slowly back and forth, sucking hard and squeezing harder.
"A professional cheating cocksucker."
She giggles with a mouthful, and keeps performing fellatio like a felon. The best blowjob in Fairfield County. My gaze is drawn to a painted portrait of her husband, Jack Ryder, hanging over a fireplace. A fellow hedge fund jockey who's currently working in his office in Lower Manhattan. Lucky for me, Goldman Sachs has a conservative CEO who hates the idea of teleworking. Everyone
should
hate it, because it's killing the economy of the Big Apple.
"Deep-throat me, Miss Ryder."
"Yes sir, Mister Davis. But you better not cum, because I want to have
lots
of fun today."
"Me too, Miss Ryder."
She goes down as far as she can without gagging, and bobs her head back and forth a couple inches at that point. Picking up the pace while moaning on my manhood. The pressure builds up slowly but steadily in my glands, just like a tea kettle. I make her stop a minute later, wanting to make this last just as much.
"Tell me about this new game you're planning."
She tilts her head upward with a girlish grin. "I won't tell you, because that'll spoil the surprise," she beams girlishly. She stands up on the paint-speckled living room carpet and gazes deep in my brown eyes with her sky-blues.
"Get down on your knees, Mister Davis."
"Yes, Miss Ryder."
I drop down and move my face toward her crotch, assuming that cunnilingus is the name of her game. But she puts a hand down there to block the access.
"Ah-ah, don't kiss my pussy. Kiss my feet."
I wrinkle my face in disgust. "Seriously?"
"You better do what momma says, or she won't give you any dessert."
"You drive a hard bargain, just like a hedge fund jockey."
I bend over and kiss her slender ankles, fighting off a wave of revulsion. I poured milk and chocolate syrup all over her naked body yesterday, so I might as well up the ante.
"I said kiss my feet, not my ankles."
I kiss the top of her pale sweaty size 5 feet, and she moans approvingly.
"That's so fucking hot," she groans while I smooch her blue-painted toenails. "My husband used to love kissing my feet after we went jogging."
I kiss my way back up to her ankles, and look up at her face with a bemused expression. "Can I have some ice cream now, momma?"
"Hell no. We're just getting started, Dicky-boy. Go upstairs and get in the bathtub, and I'll be there in a minute."
She goes into the kitchen, and I climb a spiral staircase, wondering how many more "surprises" I can handle from this desperate housewife. Hopefully Jack won't surprise us by coming home early. He has that "crazy-ass Kennedy" look in his eyes, and he might bring down the fucking gauntlet on me. But the danger makes our fling twice as fun.
