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heat up. She drew herself into his lap even more. He was now no longer certain that he could keep his foot on the brake as he waited for the traffic jam to ease.
She held his dick with her fingers and kissed its mushroom head. She licked the tip. He slid his hand down her back, between her skin and her thong, down the crack, to her hole, while rubbing his dick with his left hand. Realizing that her jeans were too tight for him to work his hand into her ass anymore, he said, “You’ve got to help me.”
She let go of him, unbuttoned, and wiggled out of her jeans.
He continued to slide his hand down her naked back, moved aside her thong, and tickled her around her hole. He took his hand away from her ass and licked his fingers to ease their entry into her ass. He considerately and slowly placed finger number one, finger number two, and finger number three into her hole, fucking her ass with his fingers. New at this, his fingers felt like a dick in her ass, fucking her with the same force and sensitivity.
She reached down between her legs, balling up her hands she pressed on her cunt, coaxing herself to cum, marching her fingers into her clit, up her hole, manipulating her hand against, around, and in her cunt like a directionless dick stumbling to find its way.
Now craving his dick even more, she capped the tip of his dick with her mouth and began taking his shaft in slowly, a half-inch at a time, feeling him with her tongue, sliding it around his creases, lubing him up with her saliva, and feeling her own lips becoming even slicker with her fluids. She started rocking toward him and away, taking his dick in more and more and then less and less as she rocked. She continued rubbing her clit with her fingers. He was pushing his fingers into her ass even more.
She felt her cunt spasm uncontrollably, felt herself orgasm, as she was taking his penis more and more into her mouth each time, as his fingers were pulsating in her ass, in the same rhythm as she was sucking him off. It felt like his fingers were about to shoot and then his dick did, in her mouth. All down her throat.
There is always hope for the ride home.
The Merry Widow
Rosalyn Davis
To say that I was shocked when I found out my husband was dead is an understatement. We had only been married for five years and were both still relatively young—Robert was only thirty-one and I was twenty-seven. We both worked out religiously and he was a vegetarian, so I knew it wasn’t his health that got the best of him. I had to make the state trooper repeat himself when he said that Robert had died in a car accident on the interstate. Apparently he had been trying to ease off the highway to change a flat tire and was broadsided by an eighteen-wheeler. I was immensely depressed over the next few days and had to leave all the arrangements to his family. My mother was flying in the day before the funeral so I still had three days to myself to deal with things. I planned on immersing myself in the tragedy and never having an intimate relationship again. I knew that I was probably being dramatic but at the time it seemed fitting. I could at least carry on that way for a few years; then I would get on with my life. And that was my plan until the funeral. At the funeral, everything changed forever.
There I was on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, flanked by my mother and Robert’s family. The pastor who had married us was saying how the Lord only calls us home when he needs us for other work. I was not in the mood to hear this and began to glance around at the other people there. I saw a lot of Robert’s friends from work and a number of his fraternity brothers but other than them, there were no men in the church full of people.
There had to be nearly a hundred people in that church and only fifteen of them, tops, were men. I started to wonder who all these women were and why they were at this funeral. I figured that maybe a couple handfuls could be from the office, but that only eliminated ten of them. And as I was starting to turn back around to face the pastor, partially to hide the growing jealousy in my face and partially so I wouldn’t have to see all these women, I caught sight of five of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. They were the kind of girls that made you nauseous in high school because their breasts were always perky, their waists were tiny, and their hair was always flowing past their shoulders. I knew I had seen one of them before. She was the immediate ex before me, but the rest just made me want to jump up screaming, which is what I did.
“Okay, you all know me. I’m the widow, but I know I don’t know most of you from anywhere. Why are you here and how do you know my husband?”
The church grew eerily quiet and everyone stared at me.
“Well I’m not sitting down until someone tells me something, so let’s hear it.”
That’s when the row of beautiful women all stood up. Tanya, the ex, spoke up first. “Well, you know who I am. I’m here because I was in love with your husband; even though he never deluded me into thinking he was in love with me. I was sleeping with him, though, and I’m sorry for that. But you know how loving and caring he was and I couldn’t bear to turn him away when he came by.”
“Neither could I,” was almost shouted from over half the women in the room, including the row of women with Tanya. I couldn’t believe that I was standing at my husband’s funeral finding out that he was not only cheating on me but doing it with nearly everyone he met.
“Well, I asked a stupid question now, didn’t I? I should have realized that when I looked at all of you the first time, but a wife doesn’t want to see these things. And lest we all forget, I was his wife. But now that I have an answer, I’ll excuse myself. Robert can rot in hell without me.”
I heard my mother calling my name as I walked out of the church. I was sure that she was following me, but at the time, it didn’t matter. I made it to the car before she could get out of the door and then I raced home and locked myself in. I didn’t answer the door or the phone for almost a week and the first time I picked up, I wished I hadn’t.
“Hello?”
“Yes, is this Chelsea Duncan?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“It’s Tanya.”
“What can I help you with, Tanya, or do you prefer your given name, slut?”
“Okay, I deserved that, but I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. What we all have to say.”
“We all who?”
“Me and the women that were sitting with me at the funeral. You left before I had a chance to tell you—”
“I think you told me quite enough already. What else could you possibly have to say?”
“Chelsea, please. We won’t take up more than an hour of your time and I’m sure that what we have to say will make you feel better about your husband.”
