The Hotwife Summer (11 page)

Sandro.

I had forgotten Sandro. The image of the black flesh filling my wife and making her howl had erased him from my mind.

But there he was. He had knelt behind her, between Marcel's legs.

Summer tossed her hair again, and turned her gaze on Sandro, watching his face as her fingers fanned across Marcel's pumping cock, and drew her own moisture up to her ass. He watched as she slid her own fingers inside of her.

I watched as Sandro rose to a half-standing kneel, and positioned himself just over her asshole. He pursed his lips, and a glob of clear spit dropped from his mouth. It missed, and slid down her bobbing ass. He tried again, and it nearly hit its target. As I hoped, he gave it one more try.

My cock, now, seemed to have fallen away from my body. It ached worse than it ever had, and though it seemed like my torture couldn't get any worse, even more superheated pain filled my dick as I watched Sandro spit on my wife's anus.

She rubbed her own ass, still looking back at him.

The tip of his cock was nearing her now, close to her pink eyelet.

“It's
so
big,” Summer gasped again. “It's
too
big. I can't take it all!”

What a show. She was gasping and panting, moving her hips up and down, and that
voice.
Her voice said that not only could she take it all, she
wanted
it all.

Sandro wound her her hair in his hand, and palmed her asscheek with the other. He moved her ass toward his cock. Summer let her own hand drop to Marcel's chest.

“
OH GOD!”
she screamed, in a low growl, as he began to enter her.

He was taking his time, and only a few inches of his thick slab were between her legs already. “Oh!” she squealed. “Oh, it hurts! It's too big for me!”

But her voice, of course, indicated that it was just the right size for her, and her mouth was open in gasp of pleasure.

He released her hair and she fell forward. I watched as she fell onto Marcel's chest, as though she were a lover resting on him, instead of a hotwife taking his cock hard. Marcel gathered her hair now, conveniently pulling it away from her face so I could see her contorted gasps for air.

Sandro's cock moved in and out of my wife, shaking her gently against Marcel's body.  Her open mouth, her closed eyes, her fair skin pushed with each thrust against his ebony muscles. I watched his cock, glistening with her wetness, dipping further into her. Stretching her open in the ass, while Marcel's thick meat pushed the lips of her pussy open. I could almost feel, in my own cock, the sensation he must have, of sinking into her tight softness, the length of his cock against the veined hardness on the other side of the flesh between her two tunnels, spread thin as a membrane. His balls slapped against the big, hairy balls of the giant black man, who had his mouth open and my wife's head clutched in his hand as Sandro fucked everyone to a screeching, twisting climax.

Summer moaned.
Oh yes,
her mouth
formed, but the sound that she made was like a sputtering animal at the verge of drowning. Sandro picked up speed, and his thighs slapped against her upturned ass as she clawed at Marcel's skin. Back and forth, back and forth, her face sliding on her own sweat and the sparkling black surface of Marcel's chest. She cried and mewled, biting her lip and saying over and over how big and thick their cocks were, how she just couldn't take any more.

I
couldn't take any more. The ache in my own cock was so consuming I felt only the throb and the quiver of it. I had let the camera fall, and I was sick and sweating. I tried to lift it but I was so consumed by the ecstasy of watching the two men violate my wife so thoroughly that my hand refused to obey me.

She opened her eyes as she came, looking straight to me. Her eyes were black with excitement, her pupils having spread like her holes. As her body spasmed with her own delight, she opened her mouth as though to scream, but her voice was caught in her chest. For a moment the scream ricocheted through her without escape. When she finally yelled, the sound vibrated with the rhythm of Sandro's hard, deep thrusts. 

My stomach filled with what felt like a cold liquid, but my cock was so hot and so heavy with desire I felt it would break apart like a water balloon if I moved at all. I realized I was holding my breath, and I gasped.

Summer was the only one who heard me, because Marcel was groaning – a thundering, deep groan that came from deep inside of him, and Sandro was hammering hard with his own need.

He arched his back, and Summer kept her eyes locked on mine as her two holes filled to the brim with cum, as they slammed it deep, deep inside of her. I could hear how their cocks sloshed now in the cocktail of cum that was splattering from her two, wet, filled holes.

“Fill me up! Fill me up with your hot cum!” She screamed, as they thrust the final spurts of their seed into her. All for effect, all for me, as though she knew my mind and wanted to burst my cock with her words.

They panted in a heap for a moment, catching their breath.

Sandro did the thing he loved so much, of pulling his cock slowly from the women he fucked, and admiring the rising well of cum that oozed from their tightening holes. He watched as it welled up and spilled over, down to the cushion of brown balls beneath her pussy. Running like a river, mingling with everyone's sticky white froth.

Then he released her, pushing himself up on the small of her back, crushing her into Marcel.

Summer lay inert on Marcel's chest.

It was me now, alone beneath the table, unable to calm my heavy breathing, dizzy with ecstasy and pain, who needed release.

Summer gave Marcel a smile, and rolled off of him. She pushed her sweaty hair from her face and adjusted her bra, which still held her tits neatly encased in silk and lace; the only part of her nearly unravished. She sat so that I could see between her legs, where her thighs were wet and slippery with cum. Her pussy was distended, her ass gaped.

She looked around, very suddenly composed, as though she was looking for her keys.

Sandro leaned against a table, panting.

“Mrs. Brooks,” he said, when she stood up. “You are a very naughty girl.”

She tossed her hair. Her face was different now. There was an element of meanness in it. She bestowed a waspish grin on Sandro, and winked. “I am.”

I could barely breathe now. My stomach was gathering flesh from every corner of my torso and wringing it tightly. My cock, near busting, could take no more.

But Summer was not done yet.

“I just want to show you something,” she said. Her voice was still thick and syrupy, still coming out of her mouth like honey. Her mouth that had just swallowed his cock, was still full of the taste of his precum.

But her voice had an acidic quality to it, and Sandro heard it.

I had a good view of Sandro as his face changed, and his body turned flaccid. I could see that the same cold, indescribable fear was building inside of him, filling up his arteries, moving from his heart out to the rest of his body. His eyes watched the camera in her hand.

Marcel was intrigued, but he no fear gripped him. If anything, he seemed amused. He said something in French, but when it left his mouth it sounded like a laugh.

Summer twisted the camera in her hand. She was haughty now, in control of everything.

Even I didn't know where this would go, or where she was leading us.

She didn't make anyone wait for long.

“Now,” she said, and her voice had a dominant ring to it. “I think a lot of people would be
very
interested to see something like this on the internet.” She was strutting now, to Marcel's amusement. “A successful chef, soon to get his own TV show...so unprofessional, so...” her eyes drifted to Marcel, who was rising up to his full height like a mountain forming in a tectonic plate shift. She left the statement in the air, telling its own story.
So nearly gay, in a country of macho men. 

Sandro looked like a tiger, ready to pounce.

“I wouldn't,” Summer warned. Her voice was sharp and she let this warning tell its own story as well: she was covered in his cum, filled with his cum. Everyone had seen enough Hollywood movies, enough TV dramas to see where she might be headed. She was a respectable and beautiful wife and mother of two, and Sandro was a testosterone-hyped playboy chef who wouldn't take no for an answer. “Anyway the disc has been tucked away somewhere safe.” It wasn't, but it seemed like a prudent thing to add as she unpacked her blackmail surprise.

What was she doing, I wondered. Now the game seemed dangerous, but I was too excited to feel any real fear. Summer, too, seemed to hold the whole elaborate plan in her hands, like an expert knife juggler. She had her dead-calm voice on now.

She didn't give Sandro too much time to think. She let her words wash over him quickly, once, backing him into a corner. He was getting flushed with anger now.

My cock could barely take the pressure that was building up. I didn't dare move; it was part of her plan.
Stay where you are until I tell you to come out.

“Now, Sandro,” she purred. “I wouldn't want to ruin your life. That's so...tasteless. A sex scandal,” she tisked. “I know you're Italian, but I don't think what just happened here is anything you'd want to get out. So let me see...” she ran her hand along the shiny table. “I need to go back to my husband. You remember Ben, don't you? I love Ben. I wouldn't want Ben to know how naughty I've been, you see.” She looked over at Marcel. “Darling, if you want to leave...it doesn't concern you.”

Marcel shook his head. He was thoroughly amused. He chuckled a low laugh, and then he crossed his arms, leaned against a table, and crossed one ankle over the other. He had found his pants and put them on in some act of graceful magic. He was staying for the finale.

She set the camera down, as though it were useless, as though to back up her claim that the disc was somewhere else entirely. She moved closer to Sandro.

“So I think,” she said, catching a lone chair with her foot and pulling it close to her, “that we can work something out.” She sat down, and spread her legs open. “
I
think, that if someone could clean me all up, then Ben wouldn't notice anything, and I could probably just...” she glanced at the camera, and shrugged, as though it had fallen out of her hand.

I watched with the most perverse kind of pleasure as Sandro's face turned red and then pink and then white and then red again. I could almost feel the confusion and the sickness that twisted inside of him.

“How do I know you'll give it to me?” he spat.

Marcel tried to cover a laugh with a cough. Sandro shot him a look and something poisonous in French. Marcel shrugged in reply. His big white teeth were showing through his dark lips, in a mean smile.

“Come on, Sandro darling. It's what I
want.
Just clean me up nicely, and we can forget about the whole thing.”

I sucked in my breath.

For a moment Sandro was still. Then his head hung a little, like the dog that he was. A beaten dog.

I almost felt sorry for him.

He slumped to his knees. Marcel tipped his head back in vicious glee, but made no sound.

Summer reached out, and placed her hands on Sandro's head. She scooted her soaked pussy to the edge of the chair. “There we go,” she cooed. “Do a good job cleaning.”

I was disappointed, though I knew it must have been tricky to orchestrate any of this at all, that I had no view of Sandro's face as he lowered himself to where my wife's sodden pussy was. I could not see his tongue finding its way to her cream-filled hole, and I couldn't see him lap up Marcel's cum from inside of her.

But I could hear it. Like a dog drinking water from a bowl of flesh.
Lap, lap, lap lap.

“That's it,” Summer said. She held her hand out, with a single finger held up. For me. Telling me to wait just a little longer.

“Oh, good. Now keep going. Right there. Suck it out. Drink up.”

She really made him work for it, holding his head against her wet flesh. The sounds of his sucking and licking echoed around the room.

Finally she released him, and he fell back to his heels. He glared at her, and wiped his mouth.

“Now the tape,” he sneered.

Summer didn't answer. She stood up and turned, and propped herself up on the chair with her ass back toward him. She winked at me under the tablecloth, and displayed her ass for Sandro. Her hair made a shimmering arc of golden-brown as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I really need everything cleaned up,” she insisted.

My need for release had been tapping against my insides up until now, but it slammed against me as though another person were growing inside of me and had kicked my groin. My eyes were so wide they were beginning to sting.

I looked at Summer, and she was unrecognizable. She was a whoreish, mean, temptress. She was using her sexual powers to get everything she wanted, to humiliate another man.

It was intoxicating.

Sandro looked at Marcel, as though for help. Marcel extended his arm in the universal arc of hospitality.