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"Go over to the bar and I'll get that cork out. Then you can go use the washroom. I'll get you dressed and then I'll show you. Come on, sleepyhead. Out of bed before I decide to fuck you again."
He must have seen something flare in my eyes because instead of pulling me from the bed, he groaned and just pulled my hips up, leaving me with my head low, my face turned to watch him. "Forget it. I can't wait." Jake opened the front of his pants and fucked me. Only later, after he gave me pleasure again did I make it to the bar.
After cleaning up in the washroom to remove the copious amounts of seed that ran down my legs, Jake showed me a plug. It was completely different than a cork, which resembled a wooden spool for thread. The plug he slowly worked into me was similar in width to the corks I'd worn previously, but it was long, oh so long, perhaps the length of my hand. He'd told me it was to train my ass for his cock, which was thicker and longer than the plug that now sank deep, very deep within me.
Not only would it fill me all day long, but the training began with his pulling it almost all the way out, then pushing it fully in again. Over and over, just like his cock had fucked my pussy. I was, for the first time, glad for all the greasy, messy ointment that was in the pill. Having Jake work me like he had would have been excruciating otherwise. As I held on to the bar, with a hard wooden plug fucking my ass and surprisingly heating my blood once again, I realized how generous and thoughtful my husband was.
An hour later, I sat on the very edge of my chair, leaning forward so the large plug didn't push into me any further than it already was. Sitting at the dining room table, this dainty position forced my corseted and exposed breasts forward outlandishly, a deep line of cleavage visible along with my protruding nipples. They were tight and almost itchy, as if they needed to be rubbed. I longed to touch them, to tug on them to soothe this prickly feeling. I refused to give in to the notion in front of Jake and at the dining table. It was completely inappropriate.
“More coffee?” Jake asked, holding up the pot. Why did he seem completely at ease with a scantily clad woman seated across from him? Was this normal? It seemed so to him.
I leaned forward, holding my mug out to him to fill; as I did, my breast dipped into the syrup on my plate. It coated the underside of my right breast where I couldn't see, but I could feel the sticky substance.
“Oh!” I was so embarrassed. My bare breast had been in my plate of food. The way they stuck out, the way my bottom was filled, how could I prevent it? Why was everything so hard? Would I always make such errors?
“Mm, that looks delicious,” Jake said, eyes flaring hotly at the sight. “We can clean that off several ways, sweetheart. I can lick it off you, I can use a cloth to wipe it away or you can wipe it off yourself.”
I closed my eyes at the mental picture of him licking the syrup from my breast. Would his tongue be rough? Would he suck on my nipple as if a babe? All the images had heat pulsing through my veins. I wanted Jake to touch me. There. My mental transformation from yesterday to today had been overwhelming and difficult to understand.
“There's something wrong with me,” I whispered, trying not to cry.
“What, sweetheart?” Jake asked, all calm and easy going.
I shook my head. “Nothing.” I was craving him again. And it had only been such a short time since he'd taken me. And before that, I'd rubbed myself to achieve pleasure, all alone. He'd been right. I craved his touch, craved my own hands upon my body. Needed it. No, this couldn't be happening! I knew it was though, and I had to fight it. “I'll...I'll wipe it myself,” I finally answered.
Jake dipped his cloth napkin in his water glass and handed it to me. Carefully, I rubbed the wet cloth over the sticky spot, the fabric of the napkin all but abrading my sensitive flesh. I moaned.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” Jake moved over to me, ran his hand over my hair. I still hadn't put it up; it hung loosely down my back.
“This napkin is rough,” I said, confused. How could the napkin be rough? I was losing my mind.
“It's not rough, baby. Your breasts are sensitive now. This is why they need to be uncovered. It would be too uncomfortable for you to have them be in a city corset or beneath a blouse.”
“They weren't yesterday,” I countered.
“I hadn't fucked you yesterday. At least not until late,” Jake said, smiling at me.
I looked down at my breasts, amazed. “They're like this because you fucked me? What's happening to me?” I wondered aloud.
“You're becoming mine. You're such a good girl. See how your body does just what it's supposed to do? I'm so proud of you,” Jake said. “Should I clean that syrup for you?”
I took a deep breath, realized it plumped up my breasts even more, exhaled. “Yes, but not the cloth. Please don't touch me with it.”
"All right," Jake said, his voice soothing.
Looking to him, he smiled. I didn't have to say a thing before he knelt by my side and slowly licked the syrup off. Only his tongue touched me. I cried out in frustration at the hot, wet touch. He didn't near my nipple, wouldn't take my breast in his hand as I craved for him to do.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice all concern. He looked up at me, his blue eyes searching mine, watching me as his tongue continued its ministrations.
“No,” I whispered as I shook my head. The place between my legs pulsed now, that greedy little spot there throbbing. When I clenched my legs together it helped the ache briefly, but only until I relaxed my legs. I felt wetness between my thighs. I cried out, a needy, desperate plea.
“It's like you're in heat, sweetheart. Your body's dying to be fucked. Go on. Touch your pussy. Rub it. Learn what makes it feel good. Go on.” He pushed up my skirts in the front so I could do so.
I did as he said, unable to help myself. It was all so mortifying, doing this with Jake watching, kneeling so closely. I knew he stared at the motions of my fingers, looked upon what, up until the other day, was a private place on my body. Sounds of my wet fingers working this needy flesh filled the air. It was so humiliating, so demoralizing positioned this way, but I couldn't stop.
I didn't seem to care anymore. Regardless of the shame behind each stroke of my fingers, my body forced me to comply to its needs. I had to touch myself. My fingers worked through the slick folds, finding one spot in particular that had me gasping. If I pushed hard, the feeling was more intense, just like in bed earlier. My clit. I retreated, worked my way back and felt the plug in my ass, felt how my flesh was stretched
wide around it. Working my fingers forward again, I spread those thick, protruding lips and rubbed.
