What if... That's where fiction begins. What if a woman risks her marriage because she wants eight or ten orgasms a night? What if her husband discovers her in a whore house and ends up screwing the woman who owns the house? Fiction is often the willing suspension of disbelief. These people never existed, these events never occurred. But what if...?
Charlie had just discovered his wife at Chez Femme, screwing for money.
Somehow Charlie was able to make the drive home, his thoughts whirling. He should divorce her. But he loved her. Could he live with her having sex with other men? There were men who did, some who even encouraged it, some who watched.
But not him.
He was a big guy, over six feet. He was still in good shape even though high school football was years ago. They had sex almost every night and she had multiple orgasms every time. Why would she want anyone else?
He stumbled into the house, poured himself a hefty glass of scotch and sat in front of the TV, still dazed from the encounter.
When Joanne returned, she was again in her sweatshirt, jeans and tennis shoes, not the sexy white jersey dress she had been in at Chez Femme. She looked fresh and neat, her auburn hair in a ponytail, her lipstick faint, and as graceful as a queen.
There was a game on the TV.
"What's the score?"
"I don't know." He realized he hadn't been watching.
"Who's playing?"
"I don't know."
She placed her hands on the arm of his chair, leaned over and kissed him. "Let's go to bed."
"No, let's talk."
"We'll talk tomorrow. Let's go to bed."
Still dazed, he followed her to the bedroom and undressed down to his shorts, his usual sleep wear. She emerged from the bath completely naked, not in her usual nightgown.
She handed him a tube of lotion and lay face down on the bed.
"Rub some of that on my bottom, please."
He looked at her cheeks. They were bright red. "What happened?" He was truly upset. "I thought you said punishment was not allowed. Who did this to you?" He was ready to hurt someone.
She turned her head toward him and smiled, "You did. Don't you remember?"
He was having trouble remembering, assimilating all that he had happened. "Yes. I forgot."
He put lotion on his hands, rubbed them together to warm it, and began applying it to her cheeks.
She oohed and aahed, appreciating the cooling effect of the lotion, the warmth of his hands.
He added more lotion and she hummed, "Work down into the crack."
He did and when he stroked across her anus, she moaned, "Yes, right there."
He slipped a finger in and was surprised and disappointed at how easily he entered. Someone had fucked her ass. Angrily, he pushed in two, then three fingers.
"Oh, yes. I love you, Charlie. Harder. Faster."
He felt her tense, an orgasm sweeping through her.
"Fuck me, Charlie. Fuck my ass."
He removed his fingers, kicked off his shorts, knelt behind her and pulled her up on to her knees. He looked at her distended asshole and thought of some one else having fucked it. He placed the tip of his cock against it and pushed in. Hard.
She screamed, "Charlie, Charlie."
He pounded into her. He had never fucked her ass, he had never asked. She had never asked. And she let someone else take the virginity of her tight little hole.
He banged into her, wanting to hurt her, wanting her to know he didn't like what she was doing.
He felt her begin shaking, but he held on to her even as the shaking seemed to take over her whole body. Suddenly she pushed back against him hard, froze and screamed, "Fuck. Me. Charlie."
He tried to pull back, to continue fucking, she wouldn't let him. She pushed against him.
She relaxed and fell forward on to the bed. "I love you, Charlie."
He lay down beside her, kissed her, and realized she was already asleep.
He fell asleep beside her.
He was awakened by a warm, wet cloth bathing his cock. He felt it growing hard again and the cloth was replaced by a warm, wet mouth. He reached out in the darkness and found her thigh beside him and traced up to her cleft. He stroked it and she became very wet. She moved so that he could kiss her vagina, and he hesitated, fearing the fragrance. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that she had freshened herself. He kissed and she rolled over on top of him, her pussy in his face.
She was going very slowly with his cock and he went slowly with her pussy, licking and kissing. When she would escalate, he would follow. She grasped his rod, and he inserted a finger. She began stroking, and he inserted three fingers and began stroking in and out in the rhythm she set. She massaged his balls and he tapped her clit. They prompted one another until he felt his orgasm building.
He was sucking her clit, had fingers in her pussy and his other hand found her other hole. When he felt himself ready to explode, he shoved a finger in her ass. He pumped his cock into her mouth and his finger into her ass again and again. He exploded.
He pulled his fingers out and fell back on the pillow, not caring whether she had an orgasm. Being married to a whore might not be too bad. He easily fell back to sleep.
When he awoke, she had left for work.
There was a note on her pillow. "Thank you. I love you."
'Thank you?' For what? For being here when she came home? For fucking her in the ass? For letting her be a whore?
Typically she left for work before he did. She had to be in by nine, he was a salesman and usually worked late. But he was disappointed that they hadn't talked.
He spent most of the day trying to decide what to do. He wanted her to quit but he didn't want her disappointed. He was giving more credence to the proposition suggested by Angie, 'If you learn to give her more orgasms, she will leave Chez Femme of her own accord.'
