Susan
and Robert Hunter lived in England, in a small town outside London.
We had met them on a tour in Russia
and discovered that we all got on well with
each other. We shopped and went
to dinner together with them when we had free
time from the tour and really enjoyed
each other's company. After the tour we
corresponded with them. When we
wrote that we were coming to England for a few
weeks' vacation, they were delighted
and insisted that we spend at couple of days
with them at their house.
So one
morning, after we had been in London for a week, Susan and Robert
picked my wife and me up at our hotel.
Susan, her dark hair up in a bun and her
face hidden in sun glasses on one of
the few English days for which it was
appropriate, was wearing jeans and a
loose denim shirt. Robert had on a red, plaid
flannel shirt and dark gray pants.
He had light brown hair that must have once been
blond, and it looked like he had driven
with his window down, for his hair was
blown every which way. They suggested
we do some sightseeing on the outskirts of
London, have lunch at a pub they liked,
and then continue sightseeing on our way to
their home, which we'd reach in time
for tea. Then, they had tickets for the local
theater production, after which we could
have a late dinner. It all sounded great,
especially as it was one of those warm,
sunny days that make you want to reread all
that poetry about the English country
side. We were looking forward to a wonderful
day with old friends.
The sightseeing
was fun and the lunch was hearty, fortified by a bit too
much real ale, so we were in great shape.
Throughout the day, Susan continued her
sketching. As in Russia, she always
had a little sketch pad with her - it was her way
of taking pictures. They lived
in a lovely little cottage in an area that was as close
to country as you can get that close
to London. The cottage was made of yellow
Cotswald stone. In front of the
house was a small garden, a bit of lawn surrounded
by roses in full bloom. My wife,
the gardener in our family, remarked to Susan on
how beautiful it looked.
"Oh, Robert's
the gardener," Susan said. "You should see what he's done
out back. He's got veggies and
everything. He'll give you the tour later."
The house
was decorated with Susan's oils and sketches, which we both
commented on and admired. I told
Susan that my wife used to draw and paint. She
had also taken courses in college in
both drawing and painting. When we were first
married, she made ink drawings for our
Christmas cards and invitations. But as the
quotidian demands of life increased,
she had less and less time for her art and had
not picked up a sketchbook in years.
When Susan heard this, she got out another
sketch pad and insisted that my wife
try sketching again while we were having tea.
We had
tea in their sitting room, which doubled as a dining room. It was
a
small cozy room with windows looking
out on the roses in the front garden. There
was a small table and four chairs in
the center on a gray Axminster rug, with roses
around its border. There was a
couch upholstered in rose and gray facing the
window, a sideboard along one wall,
and on the opposite wall, what they called an
electric fire - a fake fireplace with
an electric heater built into it. Dominating the
room, over the sideboard, was a portrait
of Robert that Sue had painted.
So over
tea, while Susan did a sketch of me, my wife tried her hand at
Robert. My wife was rather
discouraged with her effort, but Susan was very
encouraging. "For someone who
hasn't sketched in years, that's very good. There's
a lot of talent showing. You just
have to regain confidence in your line and get your
eye a bit more back in practice."
Following a few of Susan's pointers, my wife
managed to get quite a respectable picture
of Robert. Then we looked at Susan's
picture of me. It was wonderful.
With a minimum of lines she had somehow
captured me.
We asked
to see the other sketches in Susan's book, so she turned back to
the beginning and showed them to us.
They were almost all of Robert. The first
several pages were of his head and upper
body, dressed in a loose shirt, opened at
the collar. Then there were pages
showing all of him in various everyday clothing,
rapidly drawn, as if she had captured
him in snapshots as he went around the house.
Then began a series of nudes of him
- standing, sitting, lying in various positions.
These sketches were extremely well done,
with a lyric eroticism pervading them.
He was tall, on the thin side, but well-muscled,
and she had captured the three
dimensionality of his musculature with
deft shading. She also had studies of parts
of him - his hand, his elbow, but mostly
his prick. Her sketches showed the loving
effort she had devoted to his prick.
One sketch, in particular, showed his prick and
balls in full detail. Susan's
three-dimensional shading that even indicated the veins
running along his prick. Minute
detail showed the crinkles in his ball sack, the seam
that nature had closed it with, and
even a dark birthmark on it. Around all this was
carefully detailed pubic hair, which
then faded off with the rest of him barely
sketched in with a minimum of lines,
as if his body was an ethereal frame, there
only to support his more corporeal genitals.
"I just
love Robert's cock," Susan said, turning to my wife. "Isn't it a
lovely
cock? Not too big and not too
small. Cleanly circumcised, so the ridge is pretty.
All in all, just right."
My wife
reddened a bit and finally agreed, "It's a lovely cock." She wasn't
used to talking about her friends this
way.
Susan
continued turning the pages. Now the sketches of Robert showed him
with an erection. Again, they
were surrounded by studies of his prick in full
tumescence - studies drawn from all
angles, with a variety of techniques, but all
showing the adoration Susan had for
Robert's prick.
"Robert
is such a joy to sketch. He's a perfect model. He can hold
a pose
forever. Why don't you try sketching
him?" Susan said to my wife. "Robert, take
off your clothes and pose for the lady.
Come," she said, turning to me, "you can
give me a hand moving this the table
out of the way and onto the porch. It looks
like it will be a perfect evening for
eating on the porch when we get back from the
theater." And somehow, before
either my wife or I could say anything, Robert was
stripping and Susan was fussing about
the lighting. With Robert standing naked in
front of her, there was little my wife
could do to cover her embarrassment other than
sit on the couch and start sketching
as Susan and I moved the table.
So I helped Susan move the table to the porch, and then moved the chairs
out, and then I helped her get some
food ready in the kitchen for our late dinner. By
the time we got back, my wife was working
on her third or forth sketch, and Robert
was standing there with a full-blown
erection. His prick, stiff and sticking straight
out from his groin with just a hint
of an upward curve to it, had a purple bulbous
end. A large vein meandered along
its upper length, while a fine mesh of blue
capilaries gave the shaft an overall
bluish tint. The birthmark on his balls was
clearly visible.
"Oh, that's
lovely," cried Susan, whether in reference to my wife's sketch or
Robert's prick was not clear.
Susan turned her attention to the sketch and then
looked at the other sketches my wife
had done. "I can already see improvement.
You're getting your confidence back.
You should do some more later today and by
tomorrow you'll be up to your old form.
Why don't you let Robert show you his
veggie garden now while your husband
models for me? Robert, go put a bathrobe
on and give her the grand tour."
Then, turning to me, she added, "Get out of your
clothes and stand over there where the
light is good."
Susan's
take-charge way overwhelmed us. Before I really thought about it,
I
was taking off my clothes and Robert
had slipped on a bathrobe and slippers and
disappeared out the door with my wife.
Suddenly, I was alone and naked with
Susan. For a while, Susan said
nothing, except to change my position, or to remind
me not to move when holding a pose.
Then, without looking at me, she asked,
"Why do you suppose Robert had the hardon?
Hmmm?" She paused. "Do you
think maybe someone gave him a little
help?"
I didn't
know what to say. Susan had a way of catching me off-guard,
asking a question or making a statement
that I was utterly unprepared for. Unfazed,
she went on. "She was awfully
close to him. Do you think maybe she reached out
her hand and ran a finger along his
cock? Maybe she cradled it in her hand and
helped it get stiff." She looked
up at me and smiled. "Maybe she even ran her
tongue along its length, or gave it
a kiss on its tip. What do you think?" And she
winked.
The image
of my wife handling or licking Robert's prick got to me. My own
prick responded by swelling up, so it
was as stiff as Robert's had been. Unlike
Robert's, mine stuck out and up from
the groin at a steep angle, and the head of my
prick was more conical in shape, less
bulbous than his. Susan sketched rapidly. I
took a deep breadth and hoped that my
prick would soon subside, but Susan kept it
up. "He doesn't usually get a
hardon when he poses for me. I have to get him
started. Sometimes just a caress
is enough, but sometimes I've got to take it in my
mouth to get him rigid enough for the
picture I want."
Consequently,
when my wife returned from her tour with Robert, I was
sticking up like a flagpole and thoroughly
embarrassed. My wife looked a little
embarrassed, too, even before she saw
me, and Robert looked a little different than
he had when he left. As if his
robe had been opened and hastily retied differently.
"We better
wash up and get dressed if we're going to get to the theater on
time," Robert said as he came in the
door. "It's very informal, we can wear what we
were wearing during the day."
Susan put down her sketch pad and my wife and I
were bundled off to our room to get
ready, but not before looking at the sketch
Susan had just done of me. It
was amazing. Somehow, in a picture that looked very
much like me, without concealing my
bodily flaws, she had instilled an energy and
vitality that I didn't feel I'd had
in years. The man who's image stared out at me
from the page of Susan's sketch book
was alive and sexy, an adjective that I would
never have thought to apply to myself.
"My, that
must have been exciting," my wife said in the privacy of our
room. "What was going on?"
I told
her of Susan's comments that had elicited my erection. "What went
on
with you and Robert?"
She said
she was just sketching him and not really talking, when she noticed
his prick beginning to move and expand.
She didn't say anything and didn't know
how to behave, so she just kept sketching
and he kept growing. "Maybe he was
remembering some experience with Susan
when he posed for her," she suggested.
"Or thinking about having the same experience
with you," I thought but didn't say.
In the garden, he had showed my wife
the various plantings. It was a lovely large
garden, part formal with lawn and bushes
and the ever-present roses and, behind, a
large vegetable patch. They had
discussed gardening with her until they came to a
little gazebo. He told her that
Susan had found a dictionary definition of a gazebo -
"An erection in a garden" - and that
got him on to the subject of his prick. "Susan's
got a fixation about my cock," he'd
said. "She loves to draw it in all its
configurations. If it's not hard
enough for her, she drops her sketch pad and makes
sure it reaches the rigidity she wants."
He'd gone on like this, to some
embarassment to my wife, when she noticed
that he was getting erect again. First
she could see the bulge under is robe,
and then his prick had stuck out through the
robe's openning as if he was unsuccessfully
trying to conceal one of his large, long
zucchinis under his robe. Robert
had gone on discussing Susan's cock fixation for a
few minutes more and then suddenly realized
he was sticking out. "Oh, excuse me,
I'm sorry," he had muttered while he
retied his robe to cover his prick. Then he had
quickly changed the subject, "We'd better
be dressing for the theater. It's getting
late." My wife said she would
have been even more embarrassed had he not
previously been standing naked in front
of her only a little time before.
All in
all, this was a side of the Hunters we hadn't seen in Russia, and we
were pretty confused as to what to do.
They were catching us off guard at every
turn. Well, at least at the theater
things should be normal, unless it was one of those
60s audience participation in the nude
sort of thing, we joked. It turned out that the
play was a perfectly normal play, but
they still managed to catch us, me in
particular, off guard.
It was
a small, local theater. Robert said that they wanted us to see how
good community theater could be in England.
The building was small, evidently a
converted barn in which they had installed
a stage at one end and a number of
straight rows with an aisle on either
side. Our seats were in the first row on the
extreme right. Susan insisted
that my wife enter the row first, so that she would
have the best seat, closest to the center.
Then Robert went in, followed by Susan,
with me on the aisle. So, Susan
was on my left, there was nothing in front of me but
the stage, and on my right was nothing
by the aisle and a wall. This geometry is
important for what followed.
No sooner
had the lights gone out and the play started, than I felt Susan's
hand on my crotch. At first I
thought it had happened by accident, but when I tried
to move away, she got a grip on my prick
and wouldn't let me move. I looked at her
and saw that she had placed her large
purse in her lap in such a way that no one on
her left could see what she was doing.
She was looking straight forward at the play,
as if she had no idea what her right
hand was up to.
I tried
to move her hand, but she wouldn't let me. Any stronger attempt on
my part would create a fuss and call
attention to what she was doing. That was the
last thing I wanted to do in the theater.
I couldn't say anything while the play was in
progress. All I could do is resign
myself to her groping. But it was soon more than
groping. With amazing dexterity,
she had unzipped my pants and her hand dove
into my fly. A moment later she
had my prick out and was rubbing it up and down.
Whatever I thought, my prick is always
beguiled by a woman's hand, and was
promptly sticking straight up.
Well, I thought, at least no one can see.
However,
I was mistaken there. Although the lighting keeps the actors from
seeing much of the audience, we were
in the first row and enough light from the
stage leaked out that we were visible
from that corner of the stage. As one actor
came over, he must have noticed us,
for he suddenly forgot his line. He stuttered
through it finally, all the while staring
at Susan's hand massaging my prick. Then he
tried to position himself so the actress
he was playing against would have to move in
our direction. Evidently that
wasn't what the script called for, so she resisted.
Eventually, however, he managed to maneuver
her close to us. The effect was
startling. Her mouth dropped,
she stared at us, and she completely ignored the
speaking cue he had given her.
Susan's hand went rapidly up and down, her face
looking at the actors with apparent
rapt attention, while he repeated the cue.
Finally, the actress responded on the
third cue and then stumbled through the rest of
the first act. Fortunately, the
end of the act came before I did.
As soon
as the curtain started down, Susan removed her hand and I
immediately zipped up my fly.
When the lights came on, Robert rapidly ushered us
to a table they had reserved for tea.
Susan's only comment was "My, wasn't that an
exciting first act." I, of course,
had no idea what the play was about.
They served
us tea and cookies on dainty English china, and the Hunters
managed to keep the discussion on the
food and the English tea habit and how it was
giving way to coffee. When we
returned to our seats, I instantly crossed my legs,
covered my crotch with the program,
and folded my hands over that. Susan wasn't
getting in there during the rest of
the play if I could do anything about it. In fact,
she didn't even try. All her attention
seemed riveted on the play, which I now tried
to figure out. So the only thing
unusual about the rest of the play was that the actors
kept passing though our corner of the
stage and looking in our direction, no matter
what the script called for.
Driving
home, Richard driving in the front with my wife, and Susan in the
back with me, we discussed the play.
We agreed that the level of acting in England,
even in this small, local theater, was
much better than what we usually saw in the
U.S. My wife said the acting really
amazed her, but wanted to know what was
going on during the first act when the
actors seem to forget their lines. I was
thinking of what to respond when Susan
candidly answered, "Oh, I was playing with
your husband's prick and they noticed."
My wife turned around sharply, and Susan
went on with a smile, "It's incredible
how they can keep the play running no matter
what you do. It's sort of like
the royal guards at the palace of St. James, who stand
stiff and unsmiling no matter what kind
of faces you make at them."
Robert
took Susan's admission as if it were perfectly normal, while my wife
seemed to be struggling for words.
She looked questioningly at me and I all I could
do was shrug my shoulders as if to say,
"That's Susan." The discussion went no
further, for by then we had pulled into
the driveway of the Hunter's home. We all
washed up and Susan brought out a lovely
cold supper onto the porch. There was
smoked salmon, followed by a cold quiche
and a salad of fresh vegetable from
Robert's garden, with a chocolate mousse
for dessert. We ate listening to the quiet
noises of the English countryside, with
the smell of the roses seeping in. By the
time we had finished supper, along with
a bottle or two of white wine, and were
working on the brandy, we were all pretty
relaxed.
Susan
turned to me and said, "Why don't you and Robert clean up? I want
your wife to model for me." So
Robert and I cleared off the dishes and began
washing them, and Susan and my wife
disappeared into the dining room. During
one of my trips between the porch and
the kitchen, I looked in and saw Susan sitting
on the couch sketching my wife, who
stood totally nude in the middle of the room.
The electric fire had been turned on
against the cool of the evening, and the red light
that it cast on her seemed to emphasize
my wife's nakedness. Seeing her nude, with
all the rest of us dressed, gave me
a funny feeling in my stomach, so I quickly
returned to cleaning up.
After
we had washed the dishes, Robert sent me back to the porch to get the
chairs. On the way, I looked in again.
Now, no doubt at Susan's instigation, Susan
was posing nude and my wife, clad loosely
in a bathrobe, was sitting on the couch
sketching. I stared at Susan.
Although not exactly thin, she had a lovely form. Her
breasts were fuller than they had seemed
in the loose shirts she wore. They sloped
gently down from her shoulders, like
giant tears running down her chest. They had
large pink areolas, each crowned with
a nipple of a slightly deeper red. Her waist
was perhaps thicker than ideal, but
her hips were beautifully rounded. Her thighs
were smooth and solid, and at their
juncture lay a bush of dark, thick, curly hair. All
her pubic hair seemed to curl in one
direction, giving her a slightly asymmetric look
- the hair all ran horizontally toward
the right, and then curved and flowed down to
her cunt. It looked like an artist
might have done it as a way of drawing attention to
her cunt, and I wondered if Susan had
trained her hair to do that. She had unpinned
the bun on her head and let her hair
fall freely. It hung to just below her shoulders,
and she had tilted her head so it all
hung on one side, over her shoulder and curved
slightly so that it drew your eye to
her tit. It was a splendid sight.
"She is
quite lovely, isn't she?" Robert had silently come up behind me and
almost scared me out of my wits with
his question. "Quite," I gulped in response,
and we went out to get the chairs.
When we
finished straightening up, we rejoined the women. My wife had
just finished her sketch, and you could
see the strength and confidence of her line
improving with each sketch she made.
It was an altogether satisfactory sketch of
Susan. But Susan's sketch of my
wife was something else again. It was incredible.
She had drawn a picture of my wife that
was both accurate and blatantly erotic. She
hadn't made her a Playboy centerfold,
but the slight spread of her legs and the look
in her eye that stared up at me from
the page gave an overall impression of
sensuousness, and made me look at my
wife with new eyes. It gave me a feeling
about her that I hadn't felt since the
time when we were first discovering each other's
body. It was breathtaking.
When I
told Susan how erotic I found the picture, her response was, "You
like erotic? I'll show you erotic.
Here," she pulled the robe off my wife and had her
pose again. "Robert, get off your clothes
and pose with her. He wants me to do an
erotic picture." As always, when
Susan wanted something done, it got done
quickly. Almost immediately Robert
and my wife were standing naked in the
middle of the room. Susan put
them in a loose embrace and then kept changing
their positions. The effect was
that Robert's prick kept rubbing against my wife's
leg and every time it did so it got
a little harder. At the same time, my wife's tits
would brush against his arm or chest,
and her nipples were getting firmer and firmer.
By the
time Susan had settled on a position, Robert was fully erect. Robert's
left arm was around my wife's shoulders
and his right hand rested on her hip. Their
bellies lightly touched each other,
with his stiff prick sandwiched in between. My
wife's right tit was pressed against
Robert's chest, while her left nipple barely kissed
it. I could see how enlarged that
nipple was and how puckered the areola around it
had become. Her hands were gently
touching the sides of his chest, the right hand
higher than the left. Looking
at my wife in this pose gave my stomach the feeling it
gets when the elevator drops.
My breathing threatened to stop.
"I found
all this nudity terribly exciting," my wife told me later, "so when
Robert was rubbing his prick up against
me, and I could feel it growing, I began to
get very stimulated and damp between
my legs. I was thinking that you and I were
going to do some serious fucking when
the sketching was over. Then, when we
were pressing his rigid prick between
us and I could feel it throb and feel the slick
wetness seeping from its tip, the fucking
dominated my mind, but who it was to be
with got less and less clear."
Looking
over Susan's shoulder, I could see the sketch rapidly forming as she
sketched with quick, sure motions.
The sketch wasn't erotic, it was downright
pornographic. It didn't take her
long to get just enough lines in just the right places
to convey exactly what was going on.
Then she put her pad down and turned to me.
"Alright," she said, "you can't be the
only one dressed. Get out of your clothes.
You and I are going to pose for your
wife. Here," she said, turning to my wife and
handing her the sketch pad with her
finished sketch, "you try your hand at some
pornography."
As usual,
Susan's wish was our command. My wife settled down with the
sketch pad at one end of the couch without
even bothering about the robe. Robert,
his prick still sticking out, stood
beside her so he could look over her shoulder at her
sketch. Susan had me lie on my
back on the Axminster rug and, on all fours, she
straddled my legs, her head just above
my prick. She looked around at the lighting
and then made me turn a little so the
electric fire would illuminate her face. I was to
look at her face while she looked down
at my prick.
I was
in a state of only partial erection, but Susan quickly cured that.
She
dipped her head down just a little so
that her dark hair fell on my prick. Then,
turning her head slowly from side to
side, she dragged her hair back and forth across
my prick. This "hair job" felt
as if she were caressing my prick with a feather. It
didn't take long for my prick to be
sticking up rigidly, precum oozing from its tip.
My breathing started to catch again.
Susan then flipped her head back so the hair no
longer blocked the view, and began staring
at my prick as the pose demanded. The
admiration in her eyes, however, seemed
more than was required. Holding the pose,
I guiltily looked over at my wife.
If any of this bothered her, she didn't show it, for
she was busy sketching with a rapid,
confident motion of her pencil.
But of
course Susan, being Susan, wasn't satisfied. She rapidly lowered
her
head and took a quick lick with her
tongue across the head of my prick. In an
instant her head was back up in the
pose, but now her eyes seemed to be laughing. I
cast a glance at my wife. She
still held the pencil to the sketch pad, but it wasn't
moving. She stared at us.
Again, Susan's tongue flicked across my prick head. She
did this three or four times.
By this time, my wife had lowered both the pencil and
pad and was just staring at us.
Robert's hands had begun a slow massage of her
shoulders. Then Susan ran her
tongue the length of my prick, from my balls up to
the tip. My wife continued to
stare.
What was
happening to us? I began to think, but immediately stopped
thinking as Susan's mouth engulfed the
head of my prick, her tongue swirling
around it, licking off the precum that
it continued to emit. Then, she took a little
more in, so her tongue could circle
around it on the ridge of my prick. I felt the
urging in my balls, impelling me to
thrust my prick all the way into her mouth, but I
resisted. I looked toward my wife,
giving up all pretence of maintaining a pose.
She had dropped the pad and pencil and
continued to stare. By now Robert had
leaned forward and his hands were on
her breasts. His left hand was gently
clutching and squeezing her left tit,
the tit just filling his hand. With his right thumb
and index finger, he was rolling her
right nipple back and forth. It stuck out hard
and red. But my wife seemed to
be concentrating on Susan's head, which had now
captured half my prick and was sliding
up and down on it, her lips pressing tightly.
My hips
were now responding to Susan's cocksucking. My ass tightened
and I began to thrust my pelvis forward
to get my prick further into her mouth. But
Susan placed her hands on my hips and
held them. As always, she was going to
control the action. Maintaining
her own pace, she raised and lowered her head,
gradually taking in more and more of
my cock. She almost had it all in now. My
hands were now on her tits, kneading
them and pulling on the hard nipples.
Again,
I looked toward my wife. Robert had moved around in front of her
and was kneeling between her legs, his
head at her snatch. I could see his head go
up as his tongue ran along her thighs,
and then down as he licked around her labia.
The red light from the electric fire
illuminated her cunt and made the swollen labia
seem ever redder than they were.
The juices on her cunt glistened in the light. His
tongue caressed her labia. Then
he pushed his head further forward, and although I
couldn't see, I had no doubt that his
tongue was delving deeply into my wife's cunt.
Still, she stared at us.
Susan's
head was now moving rapidly up and down my entire shaft. Her
tongue swirled along the length of it
and then, when her head was up, flapped back
and forth across its tip. I was
pulling and rolling her nipples, and thrusting my prick
up as high as I could, trying to keep
it deep in her mouth. I could feel the pulse in
my balls and felt ready to cum.
Sensing this, Susan slowed her pace.
Robert
wasn't slowing his pace. He had moved my wife so she lay along the
couch and was kneeling on the couch
between her legs. His left thumb was rapidly
rubbing small circles around her clit,
while he slid two fingers of his right hand in
and out of her cunt. She was no
longer staring at us or, indeed, at anything. Her
eye's were closed, her right arm thrown
across them. Her left arm trailed off the
side of the couch. Her head whipped
from side to side while he pumped his fingers
in and out of her cunt, and her breasts
flowed from side to side across her chest in
rhythm with the motion of her head.
She was thrashing up and down, pushing her
pelvis up as if trying to force her
cunt further onto Robert's fingers.
Seeing
my wife so completely given over to another man's actions gave me
a strange feeling in the pit of my chest,
almost akin to terror. The adrenalin coursed
through my body. Wait, I thought,
she's mine. But it was precisely because she was
mine that her reactions were so exciting.
I could share in her pleasure, I could
watch her body taken over with sexual
passion in a way I never had before. This
feeling of shared pleasure, this passion,
this terror, all combined with the excitement
that Susan was eliciting with her lips
and tongue on my prick to drive me to a level I
had never felt before and that I almost
feared.
Somehow
aware of this, and not fully ready herself, Susan released my prick
from her mouth and, together, we watched
how Robert was driving my wife wild.
Robert now moved up between my wife's
legs and inserted the purple, swollen tip of
his prick between her labia. My
wife's pelvis thrust upward, trying to grab at that
prick, trying to clutch it. It
seemed somehow bigger, fatter, and more alive as he
slowly began to sink it into her.
As if
to avert any qualms I might have about watching another man's prick
being driven into my wife's cunt, Susan
suddenly prevented me from watching by
covering my eyes with her tits, which
now hung pendulously above my face. She
had mounted on top of me, her wet, warm
cunt was fully ready and slipped down
easily, drawing in the head of my prick.
This was no longer the time for slow
teasing and tantalizing foreplay.
I quickly grabbed one nipple and started sucking it,
while I thrust my prick further into
her cunt. I could feel the muscles in her cunt
clutching and grasping my prick as she
lowered her pelvis and completely engulfed
my prick.
Now the
room was filled with the sounds of sex. I could hear Robert
grunting and my wife moaning as his
prick slammed into her over and over. I could
hear the slaps of Susan's thighs as
her downward motion slapped them against mine.
I could hear my own breath coming more
and more rapidly as I sucked Susan's tit
into my mouth and ran my tongue around
the nipple. And I could hear my heart
beating more and more forcefully as
I listened to my wife's passion. Over and over I
heard her moaning louder and louder.
Then she suddenly let out a yell, an
inarticulate cry that she screamed again
and again as her body spasmed. This was
soon joined by Robert's yell of "Yes,
Yes, Yes, Yes, YESSSS."
Susan
was next. With a series of loud "ungh"s, her head whipping from side
to side, her dark hair flying across
her back, she repeatedly raised her ass and thrust
down. Then she began to cry "Oh,
oh, oh," and her eyes closed, her mouth
grimaced, and seismic tremors raced
through her body. I responded by thrusting my
whole body upward, from my toes, trying
to force my prick deeper into her body.
My arms wrapped around her back and
I could feel the explosion starting to rumble
in my balls. Two more thrusts
and it ran through my prick and erupted into her.
Wave after wave roared from my balls
up my prick as I pumped load after load into
her cunt, which now ran with our juices.
I have no idea what sound came out of my
lips, but I heard a cry of "Aaaaggh!"
echoing and reverberating around the room.
Then all
was silent.
All four
of us lay there still. The only motion in the room was the silent
flowing of the sweat, cunt juices, and
cum across our bodies, glowing in the red
light of the electric fire.
When we
left two days later, Susan presented us with two of her sketches.
They are now framed and mounted on our
bedroom wall. They are the two erotic
nudes that Susan had drawn and we had
admired so much, one of me and one of my
wife. They look at each other
and at us down on the bed, and they serve to remind
us how to look at each other.