The fourth installment of Mrs Jizm. I think there will be just one more chapter after this one.
I deliberated about which category to submit this piece too - it could, perhaps, have found a home in Fetish. There's a latex outfit in it (Mrs Jizm's naturally), and a lot of references to semen ... come ... jizm ...
As before, I hope the reader enjoys it. If you have comments, constructive criticisms or any feedback, please use Public Comments here, email, or drop me a PM. I'm not 'fishing for compliments', I'm genuinely interested in how this is received.
As usual, forgive any errors; i quite often balls it up!
GA - in me kitchen in Peterborough, UK. 12 Jan 2012.
THE SENSE OF FOREBODING settled in my stomach like a brick dropped into a puddle of mud when Peter arrived. I knew that this wasn't going to be something I liked. The sense of something unanticipated coming at me flared when Peter turned his bloodhound face towards me and grinned. There was definitely something off here, something I sensed but couldn't quite grasp. He'd obviously been invited, but why?
Robyn's expression, which I caught from the corner of my eye, was odd as well.
The jealousy, hot, molten and corrosive boiled inside me when I recalled the time, a few months earlier, when Peter had surprised us with his horse's cock. After a photo session in a London hotel, which had led beyond anticipated boundaries, Peter had fucked Robyn Chisholm, apparently unconcerned that he was pushing my spunk around inside her. In fact, I think that Peter enjoyed the kinkiness of it.
"My turn now,"
he'd said, stroking his length slowly with his fist.
"Get on it,"
he'd then instructed Robyn after sitting on a chair.
"Stir that porridge with my big spoon."
And she had. Robyn had clambered onto Peter's cock with indecent haste, with eagerness that I found astounding. Then I'd watched as Robyn lived up to my nickname for her - Mrs Jizm.
I could see her skin stretched tight around the thick shaft. Her clitoris shone, greasy and swollen with arousal while obscene farts and squelches erupted from their coupling. A thick, opaque dribble of my semen squirted around Peter's shaft when Robyn rose to the domed tip, the viscous trickle skidded over his balls and along the cleft of his arse to stain the chair fabric. Robyn's cunt farted as she sank down onto that column again.
"Oh God," Robyn babbled. "I'm sorry, Simon," she groaned, knowing how I felt, but staring into my eyes while she fucked peter all the same. "I can't help it. It's just so ... Fuck ... It's just so ..."
Her head lolled as Peter's nicotine stained fingers appeared and he mauled her breasts, rolling Robyn's long nipples between his forefinger and thumb.
Then, with one arm encircling Robyn's waist to hold tight her against him, Peter stood, hefting the woman to the bed where he then began to fuck her very hard.
Robyn's nails clawed at the bedcovers. She groaned and wailed and exhorted the old man to do anything he wanted to her. All I could do was watch, moribund and mortified, as Robyn climaxed exuberantly.
"I'm going to do it too," Peter groaned while Robyn writhed and convulsed.
He hugged Robyn tight against his body, her buttocks squashed against his flabby stomach, and he pumped what was probably a gallon of goo into her.
Robyn had been filled to overflowing with semen that afternoon; both Peter and I had come inside her. There had been two other men there earlier as well, two men who had won the prize of a photo-shoot with their favourite model. Those two men, Mark and Alan hadn't been allowed to fuck Robyn, although that was a close-run thing; instead she'd merely posed for them, teased them too, before taking their combined loads on her breasts.
Mrs Jizm's penchant for semen had been born that day.
Now something strange was afoot in Robyn's living room. Her strange look and Peter's presence just about confirmed it. I sensed conspiracy. A thought occurred to me, an image that curdled my guts - Had they been fucking behind my back? Had Peter, with his nicotine fingers and teeth the colour of pound coins been stuffing Robyn with his unfeasibly large penis?
Granted, Robyn and I weren't lovers in the true sense of the word, our relationship had never been anything formal, more like the Americans would term friends with benefits or fuck-buddies, but all the same ...
Peter?
"Another beer?" Robyn asked, eyeing the bottle I'd already drained.
I had a hunch I might need it. "Yes," I replied curtly.
Robyn looked askance at my abrupt tone but said nothing, just nodded and turned her attention to the old man, who'd settled in a leather arm-chair opposite me. "What about you, Pete? Drink?"
"A beer'll be great, ta, Robyn," Peter said. I noticed his eyes swivelling along the contours of Robyn's body. Supressing the urge to break something, most likely being Peter's legs, I dug my fingertips into the soft arm of the seat and gritted my teeth. Peter's rheumy-eyed gaze turned towards me when Robyn left with his coat under her arm. "What's up, Simon?" he asked, curling his lip in what passed for a smile. "Not happy to see me?" He forwards conspiratorially in the chair. "I might have some good news for you," he winked.
"Here we go, gents," Robyn trilled brightly as she walked back into the room, a beer in each hand. "How are we getting on?"
I noticed the strange look cloud her face again as she looked at Peter. Robyn seemed nervous, edgy.
Conspiracy?
"Are you gonna tell him, or shall I?" Peter said as he accepted the proffered bottle.
Mrs Jizm
showed
me instead.
Animosity hung between us like a fart in Robyn's absence. I could feel the tension building in the room, tangible enough to almost taste it; I imagined it to have the flavour of sour milk. Floorboards creaked overhead as Robyn moved around her bedroom on her mysterious errand.
"Give me ten minutes," she'd said after exchanging yet another uneasy glance with Peter.
And here we were, each sitting with a beer in hand while the television flickered with the sound turned down.
"Not happy to see me?" Peter repeated. He shrugged and, without waiting for a reply, as though it were a rhetorical question he'd asked, carried on. "I get ya," he said. "I get it, that you're all caught up wiv Robyn." His face twisted into a leer and he winked at me again, as though we were mates. "She's a good-lookin' bint ... for her age. Great tits even if they are manufactured. Not that it's obvious," he added hurriedly, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "Best pair of knockers on any of the wimmin I'm managing ..." Peter tapped his nose with a forefinger and winked yet again. "And I've got a few girls on me books now, Simon, me-old-china," he said, slipping into his rhyming slang. "I'm lookin' after a good few models wiv their websites an' blogs an' all that malarkey ..." He paused and regarded me through those baleful eyes of his for a long moment. "Which is where I might be able to—"
Robyn's entrance, if that's how her strutting arrogance could be described, cut Peter off mid-sentence.
Thoughts of what he had been about to offer left my head as well.
The incongruity of what I saw amid the vanilla suburban surroundings unhinged my jaw.
She strode into the room on heels like ice-picks. It took several beats of my accelerating heart for my brain to register what my eyes saw. Even then I didn't believe it.
The uppers of those boots reached to the tops of her thighs, held in place by some kind of reinforced ring like an unrolled condom. They shone like dark pools. A corset, rubber or latex, black, like the boots, cinched Robyn's waist and emphasised the size of her breasts, which hung like a comber wave over the cups in the garment.. But what really caught me by surprise, what held the breath in my throat was the mask, a black, close-fitting facsimile of a skier's balaclava.
Robyn posed for a few seconds, a palm on one cocked hip, eyes boring into mine as she stared at me through the twin holes in the mask. The boots squeaked and her breasts, always those tits, swayed as she walked towards me.
Now it all made sense, or most of it anyway; the gym membership, the new tattoo. It had all been in preparation for this.
