Pussycat Pussycat

I heard the solitary staccato of her stilettos coming up the street towards our little terrace house and peered at my watch. It was 5.30am. I let her fumble in her bag for her door key, and heard the lock turn gingerly as if she was trying to crack a safe with trembling hands. I was sure that under her breath she was praying that I was fast asleep in bed.

I

had

been to bed, but had wakened around 3.30am, thirsty and more than a little curious as to why my wife wasn’t home from her night out with a friend. I realised that they had probably went on to a club, which was not unusual as my wife loves to dance, and it had been a few months since she had been out on a girly night. However, as the minutes had ticked tauntingly by the 4am mark my mind had began to collate more than her strutting her stuff on the dance floor.

I was now sitting in the dark on the chair beside the door, the pale moonlight casting an eerie distorted shadow of my posture against the wall and ceiling. I knew she may not immediately notice me here, and I was right. She didn’t bother to turn the light on as she came in, and as she made her way past the high backed leather armchair, I reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her backwards in one swoop on to my lap. “Fuck”! She said alarmed and startled, her red suede skirt riding high above her thighs as her black stocking clad legs splayed unladylike over the arm of the chair. As she gasped, my nostrils caught a familiar whiff of dark rum on her breath, mixed with the provocative fragrance of the Chanel No5 I had bought her on her last birthday. Dark rum was our taboo drink. Normally she only drank that with me. It always seemed to have a very seductive and aphrodisiacal effect. It was a very mischievous drink for us. We would always end up telling each other of our fantasies and sexual secrets, or reminisce over historical and exciting fucks we had had over the years. My cock hardened, reacting whore-masterly to the intoxicated vulnerability of the sexy woman on my lap, totally unconcerned of any issues I might have of her little gallivant.

Her breasts heaved tauntingly out of the low cut top she was wearing, and on placing a hand on to the swell of the left mammary, I felt her heart racing at an alarming rate. Surely, my little ambush hadn’t startled her

that

much.

I put a hand immediately on her inner thigh squeezing the warm womanly flesh above her stocking top. Was it my imagination that she was trembling? No it wasn’t, for as I slid my fingers towards her knicker-line I heard a definite quickening of her breath and sensed an unusual nervousness in response to my actions. She started to say something, but before any proper words were formed, my discovery of a wet stickiness on my fingertips seemed to suddenly stop her in her tracks. There was a mocking silence as I investigated the gumminess of the alien secretion on my wife's thigh with inquisitive circlets of my index and forefinger. I pasted the illicit goo in widening circles until my palm was sliding easily on her permeated flesh. I then began to knead it with more pressure, my own pulse racing with a million thoughts.

She said nothing. Perhaps hoping that maybe my mind wasn’t wandering towards the obvious. But, surely knowing that it was inevitable that I would soon slide my hand in to her flimsy black chiffon knickers. They where my favourites and I had teased her about wearing them before she had went out for the evening. Now they were cruelly teasing me, daring me to marry my suspicious thoughts with the tell tale secrets oozing from beneath the scant material. I felt a perverted mixture of excitement and betrayal course through my body, but its intensity felt good. I wondered where my wife had been. More to the point where had her pussy been? Of course, I could just ask her. She wouldn’t lie. It was not in her nature. Nevertheless, maybe the truth would break a despicable lust that was making me feel so alive. I was enjoying my tortured thoughts.

I lifted my hand from her thigh, placed the tip of my index finger lightly on the crotch of her panties, and began to slowly stroke the sheer fabric up and down with feather light application, as if trying to coax a purr from a sulky kitten. Even the restraint of my touch could feel that her panties were wet through. I looked at her face. Her head was rested angularly across the upright shoulder of the chair, her dark lashes pressed together in a limbo of anguish and eroticism, while her front teeth made an impression on her bottom lip like a naughty schoolgirl awaiting punishment outside the head teachers office. I continued with my disciplined brush strokes between her legs. Grazing the dark pubic hair at the bushy mound and descending to the wet twitch of her swollen cunt lips. She had the temerity to let a soft moan escape from between her lips, and I realised that whatever fear she might have of me discovering her whereabouts, or my eventual reaction to her forthcoming explanation, were not dampening her deep set sexual instincts. Hearing my wife moan has always turned me on, and feeling the rise of my sap, I instinctively slid my full hand in to the side of her knickers.

Her cunt was a soppy mess. She leaked on to my fingers, and even her pussy pelt was a soaking mass of drenched dark forestry. She was a wet bitch at the best of times, but I was now in no doubt that, someone had shot a considerable load between my wife's cunt lips. For a woman in her early 40’s she has an incredibly tight pussy, but she was lay open like a whore after a gangbang. I easily slipped two fingers inside her, and let my thumb forage through her slick bush and slide over the soft hooded flaps at the top of her cunt, that parted easily to present a leering swollen clitoris. Her cunt squelched chaotically like a super-grass forced to spill the beans, as my insufficient fingers slithered purposely inside her. I added another finger, which made her widen her thighs further, eventually studding the carpet with a pointed stiletto heel.

Her pussy lips seemed to be sucking on my fingers, and she was now moaning with heightening ardour, as I plundered intently in the illicit liquid. Her hot ass squirmed like a Vegas stripper performing a slow bump and grind against my confined taut and angry cock. “Fuck”! She felt and looked so good. It was if she had been born to be a dirty bitch. Every inch of her flesh seemed to heave with dark secrets and passion. She seemed to be revelling in her indiscretion by laying herself bare and challenging my own deepest desires. She succumbed brazenly to my probing fingers and my nostrils vacuumed the mixture of another mans spunk and my wife's own pheromones as if the sexual reek emanating from between her thighs was the most intoxicating aroma I would ever smell in my life. Any outrage or jealousy I felt or should have displayed was taking a back seat to this unexpected assault on my ideals of fidelity. All I could think was that I had never seen and felt my wife so sexily charged and sluttish. Some bastard had cocked my wife and presumably found her a willing spunk bucket, and here I was enjoying the leftovers. I finger fucked her

with a new dexterity, my mind frazzled with knife-like flashes of debauchery that could have graced a scene in Caligula. Her moans were now dirty and throaty, perfectly complementing the soundtrack of her slurping voracious cunt. I pulled my fingers from the wanton cesspool and presented them to her painted lips. She did not open her eyes but obediently sucked and tongued the eclectic veneer with patient and consummate attention. I wondered had she sucked his cock with such fortitude before he invaded her pussy, and at this very moment was she running the pornographic vista through her mind.

A wave of jealousy coursed through me, simultaneously pumping a powerful rush of blood to my veins. I dragged my fingers from her mouth and lifted her legs, pulling her round to sit upright while I sidled myself off the chair to kneel on the floor. I hooked my fingers into the top of her soiled knickers and pulled them over thighs and then down to her ankles before seducing her legs to widen with a lizard flick of my tongue between the gap of her momentarily locked knees. I gripped the front of her thighs as if trying to sink my fingers into the very blackness of her silk stockings and for a brief moment flirted with the image of the Boston Strangler squeezing the breath from a slender and warm neck. I looked at my wife’s face, which was a mixture of perverse excitement tinged with an unsure look in her eyes that I had not seen before.

I liked that. I became aware of the sound of sheets of Sunday morning rain against the window, and thought to myself that perhaps it was trying to cleanse the sordid heat of its predecessor. The room seemed darker than it had been even earlier but my eyes had long adjusted to the things I wanted to see. Outside I was sure that Saturday night was long gone, but in my living room its lascivious beat still pulsated, and nowhere more so than on my throbbing cock which I released from my jeans. I chained my wife’s ankles with my hands and levered them over my shoulders bowing my head under the thin wet line of her stretched knickers, and plunged my tongue straight in to her snatch.

“Ooh honey” she purred with surprise as much as pleasure as I tongued her unholy cunt. Sucking and lapping at the juices without restraint, chewing with tight lips on her fat clitoris until she was moaning that she was about to come. I pulled my head back and pushed her calves up, bench-pressing her legs over my head before pinning her knees behind her ears. Her neck disappeared against the back of the chair as I pinned her like a wrestler looking for a submission, and stuck my long thick impatient cock mercilessly in to her open vagina.

My balls banged against her wet ass as I plundered her without restraint, my full weight pile driving my length to the hilt with each frenzied thrust. I doubted whether I had ever fucked my wife so ruthlessly and without consideration, but I certainly did not feel any guilt, and doubted if my wife's cunt could convey remorse. My unforgiving cock and her gratuitous wet pit were perfect antagonists. Our minds and love would perhaps find a place one day to discuss this rationally but for now as my balls slapped her voluptuous arse I knew I was committed to this frenetic lust laden fuck. I began to ride her like a jockey trying to get his horse’s nose in front with the finishing line in sight.

The quickening rhythm and I suspect the depth of my thrusts started to bring her off. She gripped the arms of the chair digging her long lacquered nails into the leather as if being tortured. Her thighs and ass pushed against me in a futile attempt to take up a less submissive position for the orgasm that had already started its high fiddle over her clitoris. Her loud cries of abandon reverberated in my sac and I felt my spunk pellet deep inside her as my own howl of release joined hers.

My knob bobbed high up in a very dirty place, spitting its white heat against the inner sanctum that had probably had an open day. I collapsed bathed in sweat inside her my face crushed in the leather back of the chair as my wife whimpered underneath me, her vaginal lips still contracting against the pulsating veins of my cock. A muffled sound came from her mouth against my chest… “I love you” I think she said.