The Young Wife by Stephanie Calvin Read Free Book Online

pressure of a thumb behind his rosy knob. She squealed in alarm, trying to draw away from it, but he just gripped her more firmly and thrust with his hairy buttocks. His cock was so long that I could see the head disappearing into the crinkled ring, and heard her grunt of surprise when the first few inches slipped in.
    â€˜God, how he fucked her. He was pitiless, and I delighted in what he was doing to her. Her arse was stretched wide by the reddened shaft, and she could do nothing but hold her hips rigid, while he slid it in and out of her arse. I watched her grimaces turn to slack-lipped ecstasy as the movement in her arse must have given her more intense pleasure. She came hard after only minutes of this rough bottom-fucking, and he slid straight out of her when his own turn came. I was close to the edge all through her buggering, but the sight of her open arsehole, and the jets of creamy sperm he spurted into the dark opening, sent me spinning.’
    Anne and I were straining at our cunts while she spoke in ever more urgency and, even as this image was unfolding in my mind, the pent-up frustration boiled out in an orgasm of such unexpectedness and sheer beautiful pleasure that I actually howled with release. I rubbed furiously at my clit, and could say nothing but pant my approval as Anne struggled to a finish clearly as intense as mine. Her eyes were slitted shut, and she gasped out more short obscenities as vile as they were wonderful. It was the most extraordinary thing I had ever seen. Less than a foot away from me, a grown woman was masturbating to a climax in her kitchen, while I watched her do it. It was amazing.
    Her shoulders shook, and her neat head nodded slowly forward in sharp jerks, until, with a groan from her pursed mouth, her forehead met the granite worktop in a gently pressured halt. I let her get her breath, and she eventually straightened up, only to bend again, convulsed with the same laughter that shook me. In between sobs of hysterical mirth, I asked her if it was true, which seemed to strike her as even funnier, and it was some time before she sobered enough to answer me.
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ she replied, ‘it’s true, though I may have exaggerated the bit about the rounders bat. He didn’t actually put it in. He just rolled it around her lips for a bit. Everything else was exactly how it happened, even the bit about what I did.’
    â€˜And did they see you?’ I asked, and she swiftly replied.
    â€˜No, I buggered off while they were still recovering. Then I ran to the woods near the school and cried for hours.’
    I felt sorry for her, though she didn’t look that upset at that moment. I suppose I was sympathising with the girl she had been. A girl who had deceived herself as much as I had. I felt compelled to ask, ‘Did anything ever come of it, then?’
    She mused for a bit before replying, and I became aware that we were still holding hands at the same moment she did. We just looked at each other with a question in both of our gazes. She squeezed my hand a little, then said, ‘Not with her, sadly, but I still have dreams about that evening. Much the same as you, really. I hated the thought of that man doing things like that to her, and I hated even more the thought that she wanted to do them. The worst part of it is that, in my dreams, I am her.’
    I was bemused.
    â€˜But I thought you weren’t interested in men?’ I asked her, and she smiled knowingly, then explained to me the strangeness of her mind.
    â€˜I’m not,’ she told me, ‘interested in men in my conscious life, but there is a part of me that loves the idea of being forced to do what most women love to do. It makes it seem all right. Do you see?’
    The truth was that I did see. If you are forced to do it, or if you can’t help yourself, it makes it seem OK. When you are full of lust, you don’t care what you do: just like when you are really hungry