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Filthy, Too

“Once,” said Cecilia, wide-eyed over the top of her glass, bare legs tucked under on a still folded towel, her hair piled recklessly on the top of her head, “once, he thumb-fucked me in the elevator, the elevator to the ninth floor. It was full at the time.”

She’d come home a little late and I’d been luxuriating in the bath, contemplating both the lazarette cemetery on Little Misery and her text message that afternoon.
It had been a long salty day on the island, full of boring but satisfying detail. the siting of compounds, pollution safety, and some sweaty rambling through the knots of black cherry and locust and contemplating the clearance required.
Then about one o’clock, standing tin cup of coffee in hand in the bay that was the sand-choked harbour of the lazarette, that message:

“Meeting Jack for ‘coffee’ Thursday. 😉😘”

The flood of blood to groin was instantaneous. I slid the phone back into my shorts pocket and tuned out for a moment. Bummed a cigarette and distractedly joined in the lunchtime banter. Two hours til the tide took us off again and another two back to the cedar house in the woods by the lake and the willing wet wildness of my wayward wife. The following hours on the island were full of sudden secretive smiles and swells of arousal, humming to the music in my shorts.
Naturally, Cecilia hadn’t been home when I got there. An after-school deal I’d forgotten. In the cool silence of the house it was all I could do not to go up to our room in the white painted roof and strip and lie on the big bed while the light of the lake rushed in from the gable window and let the blood flow and fill, fill up my cock. But I didn’t do that, I didn’t want to waste my come, the reservoir of it that tightened my balls. I wanted to wait, to watch her glee as I grew in her fist, to hear her gasps of encouragement, to lay the fat head of it on her spread eager lips. To feel the rip as I filled her and the buck of her hips. So instead I did the washing up and stuck a lasagne in the oven and poured myself a drink and ran a big, fluffy bath, and settled in drowsily, waiting.

About forty-five minutes in there was a small, noisy cataclysm somewhere below in which doors I didn’t even know we had all slammed in syncopated rythmn and somebody apparently hurled all of our saucepans down the basement stairs. About ten minutes later, my wife appeared with a bottle of white burgundy and two glasses. Burgundy was code. About the fifth time she’d stayed over, all those years ago, I’d gotten some and, it being winter, the fire had been on, and we drank the bottle together in front of the fire. It was the first time she really, truly, came with me. Sat splay-legged in an old leather armchair with me gently licking her around my bunched fingers and spilling icy morsels of Montrachet over her bright pink lips. The chair and I still bear the marks.

“It’s a Burgundy kind of evening, Huh?”

I sat up slowly, hiding the bobbing head of my abruptly keen cock.

“Well, yes.” She leaned a shoulder against the wall and swinging the glasses head down in one hand, gave me a grave look.

“What about..?” A head shake downstairs. She shook her head

“They’re fine. Lasagne and bloody computer games. I need to discuss something with you.”

“Uh-huh?”

“After a drink.” And she put down the bottle and glasses on the cistern and retrieved the corkscrew that was tucked betwen her boobs. A short interlude followed of careful cutting of lead and slow pulling of cork. The glasses filled and distributed, she popped a folded towel on the bathroom chair and curled her legs up on it. Looking at me steadily as she drank her first sips. I let her find the right moment and soon, after some chat about school and recycling and me being away at the Miseries, it came.

“So, I’m seeing Jack on Thursday – if that’s Ok?”

“Always. You know that.”

“I need your – your advice, I think. Do you mind?”

I was a little perplexed and she must have seen the frown because she started to stutter.

“I-I, look I worry, I don’t want to hurt you, do you want me to stop?”

I reached out a soggy wet arm, took her hand.

“Darling. I love it. Okay? Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I want to.” Big, nasal sigh. “I want to try something new. We’ve been…”

“Doing it for a while? A bit samey?”

“Oh! Do you think so?”

Honestly, I could listen to her stories of being bent over desks, or the arms of sofas or being fingered while splayed on his desk, I could listen to those over and over and never be bored. So no.

“Honey. It’s not about me. What do you want to do? What do you want to try?”

This conversation was having its powerful effects, and I could feel my cock pressing hard against the edge of the bath, and looking down saw its head squeezing up through the foam. I rearranged myself, a little, while Cecilia nibbled a thumbnail and shifted on her perch.

“Why don’t you tell me everything you’ve done, doesn’t have to be detailed, if you don’t want it to be.”

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…just a little. To get him going..

And that’s how we got to his thumb in her cunt in a crowded lift. His face in her lap while she lay on a conference table, a frantic fingerbang in her office at lunch, her live-streaming a wank to him from the stacks in the library one Wednesday afternoon. The stories had one thing in common, I thought.

“Has he ever come?”

She had, I knew. Had come on his desk, fingering herself to his rapt attention. Had come on the back stairs while he tongue-fucked her through the bannister from below. And once on his cock on a bench in the park. She looked at me suddenly, head on one side, a little flushed. Lips parted.

“Um. I guess…maybe twice, three times? Usually after. He texts me, you know?”

And she nibbled a thumb thoughtfully.

“I haven’t kept track, really. It’s all in the condom, not like -” and she waved a hand between us.

No, that was fair. We were fairly free with the stuff since I’d had the snip. I guess you might not notice whether or not in a latex sheath, especially in the hurried nature of their games.

“So – Do you want to see it? His come?”

“I have. In some pictures..”

There was something else in all of her tales. Or rather something that wasn’t quite there. Present for sure, but not, not front and centre.

“What about his cock?”

“Um…what? It’s circumcised, longer – we’ve -” She looked distressed.

“No, darling.” I waved her off.

“I don’t mean like that. Have you ever sucked it?”

She adopted a small voice and looked away, blushed into her shoulder.

“A bit…just a little. To get him going.. I figured my mouth was for you, like my ass.”

I laughed, and shook my head.

“Listen, baby, I’m very proud that your arse is mine alone, and a very fine arse it is too. In all senses.” I took a long swallow of burgundy.

“But honey, you’re such a good cocksucker, and you love it so well, it would be a crime to stop you. Suck him off, please, if that’s what you want.”

She slowly uncurled herself from the chair and set down her glass and stood.

“Well in that case..”

And she pulled her shirt over her head and shucked off skirt and knickers in one and unclasped her bra as she stepped into the bath.


Being the second part of a tale inspired by a Storyin12 prompt – Filthy. the first part is here: Part One

Submitted for Wicked Wednesday – check them all out!

 

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