Sitting alone on the couch he felt the thrill of anticipation, he took another slug of whiskey from his glass. "Steady on" he said to himself, "I mustn't drink to much." He knew only too well how alcohol reduced his ability without reducing his desire. He looked at the clock on the shelf 11:15 p.m., he knew what would be happening now, he had been there many times himself, the music, the rhythm, the atmosphere, the shoals of female prey and male predators, although sometimes, such as tonight, these roles were not so clear cut.
He thought of all those times when he was inside her, sliding his cock in and out of her wet cunt, her knees drawn up to allow him greater access, his balls pressing against her on every inward thrust, the feel of her wet lips on the tip of his prick as he withdrew. "Talk to me, talk to me" he would say "tell me a story."
"What about?" she would ask, knowing what he wanted, as he had asked her many times before. "Tell me about a time you were being screwed, tell me about a fuck you had" Then she would tell him in detail, a vivid description of a previous sexual encounter, every moment re-enacted in his mind, his wife being fucked by an unknown man. She knew the more graphic the story the harder and bigger his prick would be inside her and the sooner he would cum, bursting inside her, flooding her insides with spunk. "You like that don't you?" she would ask after his orgasm "me with another man."
"Yes" he would reply "it turns me on." Sometimes he would talk to her, telling her how they were on holiday and would meet a guy who would want her. How they would be in their hotel room, how he would let this strange guy fuck her. He would have his fingers on her cunt lips while he was describing the scene. He would feel the juices flowing out of her, her clitoris standing proud and uncovered in the folds of her lips. Slipping his index finger inside her while keeping the pressure on her clit with his thumb. Her moans, her writhing. He too would time it, drawing the story out to meet with her climax. How her cunt muscles would grip his finger, the cum running off of his wrist, her wet matted pubic hair, her loud moans that he was sure could be heard next door.
That's how it began. The fantasy of her being fucked by someone else. Evolving with time into their town, their house, their bedroom.
He was hard now, thinking of what his wife was doing at this very moment. He was tempted to have a wank there and then. But no, save it he thought, tonight would be the peak of his sex life. He remembered how gradually they had decided on this plan. A plan that had been in his mind for ages, a plan that he had not dared suggest to her. It was she who had finally suggested it, just before one of her orgasms. "Ill do it, Ill do it for you" she said "I get chatted up all the time when I'm out with Barbara. Ill pick a guy up and let him bring me home and you can hide and watch me being fucked by him." As he said yes to her suggestion she had flooded his hand with cum, he now knew that she too wanted to live the fantasy. He looked at the clock 11:30.
They had arranged for her to return at 12 o'clock. He felt light headed, the excitement was overpowering. He cleared the room of any sign of his presence, the whiskey glass, the photograph of them both, his snooker trophy. He wanted this experience but he didn't want the guy to feel that he was taking anything belonging to him. The guy must think that she was single, alone, not his wife, his woman. He climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. Sitting on the bed he pulled open his bedside drawer. Here was their first excursion into fantasy.
He removed the photographs from the drawer. Many times before in her amateur modeling career she had photographs taken by a professional in Manchester for her portfolio, clothes, swimsuits and lingerie. Eventually they had decided on some more daring shots. He remembered how he had waited for her return that day, how she would not discuss it and told him to wait until the photographs came. The day he came home from work to find there propped up on the kitchen table a large brown envelope. She wouldn't let him examine the contents, not until later when they were in bed. He remembered her lying next to him, her fingers gripped around his hard cock slowly wanking him as he pulled the photographs one at a time from the envelope.
As he stared at each shot she would describe the events that preceded and succeeded it. The first shot, the skin tight black dress, her breasts and nipples pressing against the material. How the young assistant was just the other side of the curtain as she got ready. The swimsuit high cut, her 'twinkle', as she called it, discernible at her crutch.. The lingerie, coyly lying on her back, open shirt covering her shoulders and falling open at her bra.
Her left knee drawn up and across her right thigh. She described how she had told the photographer that she would try topless for the first time. She remembers the look on the assistants face and the bulge in his trousers as she walked back from the changing room, clutching the shirt around herself wearing nothing else but a 'G' string. He examined the next shot, the same pose as before but this time her exposed right breast visible inside the fold of her shirt. He couldn't resist it he did what he has always done when viewing these pictures. He placed them on the bed beside him, stood up and removed his trousers and shorts.
His cock was hard, the end was red and hot. He sat back down and picked up the next picture in his left hand. He gripped his cock with his right hand, slowly drawing the skin back and forth. There she was sat upright on the couch shirt removed, arms straight, hands either side and slightly behind her on the seat. Her breasts on full display, she had told him how the assistant's eyes never left her nipples.
"How about nude?" the photographer asked.
"Well, OK" she had cautiously replied slipping off her 'G' string without parting her legs. She swears that the young assistant came then because he picked up her discarded shirt and held it in front of his groin probably to hide the spreading damp patch in his light coloured jeans. He held the next photo, the pose was the same as the previous two. Only this time, she told him, her left leg was hiding the tell tale signs of juice that were appearing at the entrance of her cunt. He knew what came next but he always prolonged it, relishing the description she had given him.
