My First Creampie (fm:one-on-one, 6497 words)

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After that day, we fell into a comfortable pattern, a secret rhythm woven into the fabric of my week. On Sundays, when his wife visited friends, I'd tell my parents I was going for fitness tips after church, my conservative attire a perfect disguise. I'd then spend the day in bed with him in the guest room. Somehow, it felt extra scandalous, almost blasphemous, wearing my church clothes to his bed, shedding them on his carpet, only to put them back on before I left.

Then, on Tuesdays, he'd work from home, and I'd skip my college classes, easily fabricating excuses without anyone suspecting a thing. Again, we'd spend the day in his guest room making love. And that's what it really felt like now - not just sex, or just fucking, but truly making love. Sometimes, we'd perform oral on one another, a delicious exploration of each other's bodies. I'd ridden him a couple of times, feeling his powerful thrusts from above, but mostly, it was passionate, vigorous, tender sex in the missionary position, our bodies intertwined, our gazes locked.

The guilt that had initially plagued me began to fade away entirely, like a distant whisper, replaced by the overwhelming reality of our shared moments. Being with him felt like a powerful drug, an intoxicating escape from the mundane, and I craved it intensely on the days I couldn't have it. I knew I was developing feelings, deep and dangerous ones, and I shouldn't, not for a married man, my father's friend. But I couldn't help myself. And he didn't discourage me, his tenderness and praise only deepening my attachment. This went on for six exhilarating weeks without any issues, a seamless, secret world we had built for ourselves. Until one Sunday. I showed up at his door after church, dressed in my usual conservative attire, my heart already fluttering with anticipation. To my surprise, his wife, Amy, answered the door.

A jolt of pure panic shot through me, my stomach dropping as if I'd been caught, my secret exposed. My mind raced, searching for an immediate escape, a plausible lie. But Amy, her smile warm and unsuspecting, only invited me in. "Oh, Beatrice! Come in, dear. Are you here for more fitness advice from Hudson?" she asked, her voice light, completely devoid of suspicion.

I relaxed, a shaky breath escaping me as I sat on the sofa, realizing she didn't suspect a thing, not even a flicker of doubt in her eyes. And part of me was immensely relieved, the immediate threat of exposure receding. But also, a little dejected. Her complete lack of suspicion, the casual way she viewed my presence, made me suddenly feel like the pudgy, pious wallflower that nobody noticed, the invisible girl I used to be. It was so obvious that Amy wasn't even slightly suspicious or threatened by the idea of her husband mentoring a college-aged woman. At least not if that college-aged woman was me.

"Oh, Hudson's just out back by the pool," Amy said, waving a hand vaguely towards the sliding glass doors that led to their meticulously kept backyard. "He's just making sure the chemicals are balanced. He'll be in soon." She settled into the armchair opposite me, mirroring my posture, and offered a polite, almost practiced smile. "So, how are your classes going, Beatrice? Still enjoying the university?"

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "Oh, they're... they're going well, Amy. Yes, I am. Very much." We made small talk, the kind of surface-level conversation I was used to having with my parents' friends, all pleasantries and no depth. But even as I offered polite responses about my studies and campus life, my eyes were drawn to her. Amy was considerably younger than Hudson, probably in her early thirties, and her figure, though dressed conservatively in a stylish, expensive silk blouse and a tailored skirt, was strikingly similar to my own. She had that same busty, hourglass shape, but her physique was undeniably more toned, sculpted with an effortless grace that spoke of consistent, dedicated effort. Unlike me, she was a brunette, with smooth, olive skin that glowed with a healthy radiance, and her dark eyes held a calm, self-assured confidence that I could only ever dream of possessing. She seemed completely comfortable in her own skin, in her own home, in her own life.

A strange, unsettling thought began to prickle at my mind. I wondered if Amy had once been like me. A young, perhaps insecure woman, drawn to Hudson's charm, his quiet authority. Had he, years ago, used his "fitness mentorship" to coax her into his bed, to help build her confidence through illicit intimacy, just as he was doing with me? The question, unspoken and horrifying, twisted in my gut. Was I simply another woman in a long list of conquests for him? I remembered, with a sickening lurch, the secret stash of condoms, tucked away and ready in a discreet drawer in the guest room's nightstand. My stomach clenched, the thought fueling a sudden surge of paranoia. But then, just as quickly, I tried to dismiss it, to rationalize. Maybe I was being paranoid and insecure. Maybe he'd just purchased the condoms recently, and stashed them that day because he knew I was coming over. Yes, that had to be it. It made more sense. I was just overthinking things.

Just then, the sliding glass door opened, and Hudson strode in from the backyard, a faint scent of chlorine clinging to him. He was wearing a casual linen button-down and shorts, looking perfectly relaxed. "There he is!" Amy chirped, her smile widening as he came into the living room.

Hudson offered me a warm, familiar smile, a flicker of something in his eyes that only I would recognize, before turning to his wife. He placed a hand gently on Amy's shoulder as he stood beside her armchair. "Beatrice was just telling me about her classes," Amy said, her voice light.

Hudson nodded, his gaze returning to me, and he assumed the role of the older, more mature neighbor with effortless grace. "It's wonderful that you've been so dedicated to this fitness journey, Beatrice," he said, his voice calm and steady, but with a subtle undertone of pride that only I would truly hear. "Amy and I have both been so impressed. You know, Amy often talks about how hard you've worked." He turned to his wife, a practiced, almost imperceptible gesture, and Amy chimed in.

"Oh, absolutely!" Amy affirmed, her voice bright. "I'm really so proud of you, Beatrice. Hudson's right, I can truly see the changes to your physique, and honestly, to your confidence. It's truly remarkable." Her smile, though warm, held a hint of condescension, a patronizing air that rubbed me the wrong way. "You know," she continued, her gaze lingering on my figure, then sweeping back to my face, "your mother says you haven't really dated much, dear, but if you keep up this kind of progress, I'm sure you'll certainly find some nice boy at school who finally takes an interest." The words were polite, but also undeniably dismissive, as if my progress was merely a means to an end - finding "some boy." It was, once again, obvious that Amy wasn't even slightly suspicious or threatened by the idea of her husband spending time with me.

"It can be hard for some women when they're young, you know," Amy continued, oblivious to the subtle sting of her words, her voice still radiating that placid, almost pitying understanding. "Especially women like you, Beatrice, who haven't quite come out of their shell yet, or discovered fashion. But you'll meet the right person when it's time, dear. Just focus on your self-improvement journey, and things will happen in time. They always do."

Hudson nodded along, a picture of domestic contentment. There was no flicker of irony in his eyes, no hint that he was sitting there with his wife and the very woman he was fucking behind her back. My own smile felt plastered on, stretched thin and brittle. Every polite nod, every forced agreement to Amy's well-meaning and unintentionally condescending comments, grated on my nerves. I bristled inwardly, my teeth clenching behind my forced smile.

"Perhaps you're right, Amy," I said, my voice sweet, almost too sweet. I even managed a demure nod. "But I have to say, I'm already starting to get attention. Sometimes even from unexpected sources." My gaze flickered, quick as a hummingbird's wing, to Hudson, catching his eye for a fraction of a second. His own eyes widened, a fleeting tension seizing his features, a ripple of alarm that only I could detect. But he recovered instantly, his casual, unconcerned demeanor snapping back into place before Amy could possibly notice.

"Well, that's wonderful, dear!" Amy chirped, completely oblivious, her attention already shifting. "Well, I really must run. I have plans with the girls today, and I'm already running a bit late." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Hudson, dear, I'll let you two get on with your fitness discussion." Her smile was still saccharine, unmarred by suspicion. It was painfully clear she thought I was nothing more than a harmless, perhaps slightly awkward, neighbor's daughter seeking exercise advice.

Hudson, ever the attentive husband, walked her to the garage door. I watched, my heart sinking, as he leaned in and kissed her, a deep, lingering kiss, his hand settling intimately on the small of her back. It was the same way he kissed me goodbye each time I left his house, the same possessive, tender gesture. A wave of raw, unadulterated jealousy slammed into me, making my blood hum with fury. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.

I was going to speak up the moment the door closed, but just as the words formed on my tongue, Hudson caught my eye, holding up a single, silencing finger. His gaze was stern, a silent command to hold my tongue. I seethed, but obeyed. We sat in tense silence, the muffled sound of Amy's car backing out of the driveway, then turning onto the street, deafening in its mundane normalcy. Only when the faint hum of her engine faded completely did Hudson turn back to me, his face suddenly contorted with anger.

"What the fuck was that, Beatrice?!" he hissed, his voice low but sharp with fury. "You need to play it cool around Amy! That little comment about getting attention was completely uncalled for and could make her suspicious! Are you trying to blow this?!"

My own anger, long suppressed, erupted. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and stinging, fueled by a potent mix of hurt and righteous indignation. "You kissed her!" I spat, the words tearing from my throat, raw and choked with emotion. "You kissed her the exact same way you kiss me! And she was being a condescending bitch!" The word, so crude, so unlike anything I would ever normally say, tasted like acid on my tongue, a testament to the depth of my rage. My conservative upbringing screamed in protest, but I didn't care.

His face hardened, his jaw clenching. "Of course I kissed her that way, Beatrice! That's my fucking wife!" he snarled, his voice rising, sharp and dangerous. He took a step closer, his eyes blazing with a cold fury that shocked me. "If you can't play it cool, if you're going to act like this, you're gonna blow it! And if Amy finds out, she'll tell your pious parents everything that's going on! She'll shatter your whole world, Beatrice! She'll ruin everyone's life!"

My vision blurred through my tears, but I still fumed, my body rigid with defiant anger. I wanted to argue, to scream that he was the one who had drawn me into this, who had made me feel special, desired. "What do you want, Beatrice?!" he demanded again, his voice echoing, filled with a brutal clarity. "What do you think is going on here? Do you really think you're going to replace my wife? Is that what you're after?!"

I opened my mouth, a full, bratty protest forming on my lips, but no coherent words came out. My tears, which had momentarily paused, now streamed down my cheeks, hot and stinging, a testament to the conflicting emotions swirling inside me. I ignored his question, or perhaps I simply couldn't answer it. Instead, my voice, thick with sobs, came out as a desperate, wounded cry. "I thought I was special! I thought this was more than just sex! I thought I meant something to you! But now I realize I'm just being used!"

He didn't address my words, his face still a mask of cold fury. He leaned in, his voice dropping, but still laced with derision. "Do you want to be my fucking wife, Beatrice? Is that it? You want to replace her?" He took a step closer, his hand seizing my wrist with a firm, almost painful grip. My body stiffened, but I didn't resist as he turned, pulling me, not towards the guest room where we usually met, but down the hallway towards the back of the house.

For the first time, I was being led into the master bedroom. My eyes widened, taking in the room as he pulled me through the doorway. It was a large, opulent space, clearly decorated with Amy's discerning taste. Rich fabrics, elegant furniture, and intricate patterns adorned every surface. Everywhere I looked, there were pictures of them - smiling, happy, a beautiful, loving couple. On the nightstand, a framed wedding photo showed Amy in a flowing white gown, beaming up at Hudson, who looked completely devoted. On the dresser, other photos depicted them on vacations, laughing, their arms around each other. The sheer domesticity of it, the undeniable evidence of their shared life, twisted like a knife in my gut, intensifying the ache in my chest.

He pulled me close, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of chlorine mingling with his angry male musk. His lips crashed down on mine, a rough, bruising kiss that stole my breath. This wasn't the tender, almost intimate kisses I'd grown accustomed to. This was raw, punishing, possessive. His hands roamed over my body, grasping my waist, then squeezing my ass roughly, as if I were nothing more than a piece of meat to be handled. He pushed my cardigan roughly off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. I gasped into the kiss, shocked by his sudden brutality, but a furious heat, primal and insistent, surged through me, overpowering any instinct to resist. I didn't push him away.

He broke the kiss, his eyes still blazing, his breath ragged against my face. "You want to be my fucking wife, don't you?" he growled, his voice a low, hungry rasp, his lips finding mine again, hungrily, as if to devour my unspoken defiance. His hand reached down, capturing my own trembling hand, and he pressed it against the prominent bulge in his thin shorts. Through the fabric, I could feel the undeniable hardness of him, rock solid and pulsing with furious arousal.

"Do you want me to fuck you like my wife, Beatrice?" he demanded, his voice thick with a raw, shocking challenge, his eyes boring into mine. "Right here. In our bed. Do you want that?"

I had no idea how to respond. The stinging tears were still leaking from my eyes, blurring my vision, but beneath the hurt, a powerful, consuming wave of lust was rising, hot and undeniable. The way he was treating me now, so brusque, so commanding, so full of barely restrained hostility, reminded me unsettlingly of how he had been during our very first encounter. And a twisted part of me, the part that had been so starved for male attention, for the raw edge of desire, liked the firmness, the angry passion, the sheer intensity of how turned on he seemed to be. My fingers, almost independently, squeezed his rigid cock through the thin fabric of his shorts, a silent, desperate plea.

"Do you want me to fuck you right now, Beatrice?!" he demanded again, his voice harsher, more insistent, watching my face intently.

I couldn't form words. My throat was tight, choked with emotion and burgeoning lust. I just nodded, a small, desperate movement of my head.

He let go of my wrist, his hands moving quickly to the buttons of my pretty blouse, one of my favorites, a pretty pale pink that matched the floral pattern of my skirt. He fumbled with them in his anger, his patience clearly snapping. With a furious grunt, he simply yanked, pulling the fabric open roughly. A cascade of tiny buttons popped off, scattering across the polished hardwood floor, some bouncing off the framed pictures of Amy and him on the nightstand, revealing my simple, pale pink bra beneath, stretched taut over my heavy breasts.

He stepped back, his eyes still burning, taking in my disheveled state. "Take off that skirt!" he snarled, a harsh command.

My fingers, still trembling, went to the waistband of my demure skirt. I kicked off my shoes, then slowly peeled the skirt down my hips, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. Unlike usual, he didn't ogle me, didn't admire my body as I undressed. He was too consumed by his own furious urgency, frantically unbuttoning his own linen shirt then fumbling with the zipper of his shorts. They fell to the floor, revealing that he wasn't even wearing underwear. His dick, fully engorged, pulsed aggressively between his thighs, a thick column of flesh.

I stood before him, clad only in my pale pink panties and bra, exposed in the opulent master bedroom, surrounded by the smiling faces of Hudson and Amy in their wedding photo and vacation pictures.

"Take off that bra too!" he snarled, his voice rough, pointing at my chest. "You know I like to see those big titties!"

Hot tears still leaked from my eyes, tracing paths down my flushed cheeks, mingling with the sting of his harsh words. I felt objectified, demeaned, stripped bare not just of my clothes, but of any pretense of affection or tenderness. But then, to my utter confusion, a profound warmth, a furious heat, spread through my core. I realized, with a sickening jolt, how much this raw, dominant dynamic had me turned on. My nipples, already hard and aching, tightened even further. I knew, without even needing to look down, that my pale pink panties were completely soaked, clinging to my aching mound as I stood there, exposed, in the master bedroom in front of all the pictures of him and his wife.

He gave a low, rough chuckle, his gaze sweeping over my trembling body, lingering on my full, exposed breasts. "Good girl," he rumbled, his voice thick and guttural. "Always a good girl, aren't you, Bea? Now, lose the panties, too. Let's see all of your sexy, young body."

My face burned with renewed embarrassment, a deep, painful flush. Even after all these weeks, all the times I'd been naked for him, there was still a fresh sting in stripping off this final layer, especially in this room, under his angry, demanding gaze. My fingers, clumsy with nerves, went to the waistband of my soaked pink panties. With a shaky breath, I pulled them down, over my hips, revealing my freshly shaved muff. I had started doing it a few weeks ago, at his casual request, a silent offering of compliance. Now, it lay exposed, vulnerable, glistening slightly with my own desperate wetness. The soft, smooth skin, once hidden by a natural bush, was completely bare, accentuating the sensitive folds of my pussy.

"Get on the bed," he commanded, his voice sharp, brooking no argument.

I meekly obeyed, my legs feeling like lead, climbing onto the vast, plush mattress. I instinctively laid on my back, my gaze darting around the ornately decorated room, wondering if this was the side where his wife slept, if her scent still lingered on the pillows.

He snickered, a derisive, almost cruel sound that cut through my nascent hopes. "No, not like that, Bea," he scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "On your hands and knees. Face down. Ass up."

A fresh wave of shame, hot and stinging, washed over me, mingling instantly with a furious, bewildering surge of arousal. I had never presented myself to him like that before, so vulnerable, so overtly submissive. My body felt like it was betraying me, responding to his harsh command with a perverse thrill. Still, I complied. With trembling hands, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees on the edge of the mattress, then leaned forward, resting my weight on my elbows. My breasts hung down, swaying with the movement, facing away from him, toward the wedding picture on the nightstand and his beautiful, smiling wife in her wedding gown. My ass, round and exposed, was now thrust up towards him, my freshly shaved muff gaping slightly.

He stood at the foot of the bed, a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands, large and possessive, reached out, grabbing my inner thighs roughly. He spread them wide, completely exposing my pussy to his demanding gaze. I felt raw, every nerve ending screaming with a strange mix of humiliation and eager anticipation. He moved closer, and then I felt the blunt, thick tip of his cock rub along my very wet slit, a tantalizing, infuriating tease.

"Is this what you want, Beatrice?" he grated, his voice a low, mocking growl that vibrated through my core. His tone was laced with open derision, but his eyes, when I dared to glance at him, held nothing but blazing lust. "To be fucked in my marital bed? To take the place of my wife, Amy? Is that what you're after, you little homewrecker?"

I could only whimper, a choked, embarrassed sound that was lost in the sudden surge of blood in my ears. The shame was suffocating, overwhelming, but it was inextricably tangled with an uncontrollable, furious arousal for reasons I didn't understand. My pussy throbbed, aching for him. Before I could even fully process his cruel taunts, he thrust.

His entire cock, thick and unyielding, buried itself in me in one firm, brutal thrust. A searing pain shot through me, an instant of pure agony, and for a second, I felt like I was being split open, violently torn. A sharp cry tore from my throat, raw and involuntary. But then, as quickly as it came, the pain subsided, replaced by an overwhelming, almost suffocating fullness, a deep, intense stretch that made me gasp.

He twirled a hand in my honey blonde hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, and gave it a firm, painful tug. My head snapped back, pulling my arching back, and a yelp escaped my lips, a sound of surprise and raw sensation. The unexpected movement, causing me to take him even deeper inside me, stretching me even further.

Then, standing up, he began to fuck me. Roughly. Instead of his usual kind, attentive check-ins, the tender questions about how it felt, he was almost cruel in his movements. Each thrust was hard, deep, relentless, driving into me with a furious, punishing rhythm. "Is this what you wanted?!" he demanded, his voice a ragged growl against my back, his words echoing his earlier taunts. "To take the place of my wife?! Does this make you happy, Beatrice? Does this feel good, being fucked in Amy's bed, in front of all her pictures?!"

I had no idea how to answer. My mind was a dizzying whirl of pain and pleasure, shame and defiance. I kept whimpering, "That's not what I wanted... I don't know what I wanted..." even as raw moans tore from my throat, desperate, hungry sounds that betrayed the truth of my body. My hand instinctively dropped between my legs, my fingers finding my wet, throbbing clit, rubbing it frantically as he pounded me from behind. I was dying to cum for him, the pressure building, exquisite and unbearable. I felt objectified, desired, dirty, and profoundly proud, all at the same time. It was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, and my body responded to every single one.

At some point, as I got impossibly close to cumming, a chilling realization dawned on me. He hadn't put on a rubber. We'd always used protection. Always. A flicker of cold panic shot through me, chilling the furious heat. I considered telling him to stop, to pull out, not to cum in me, but the words wouldn't form. My throat was too tight, too choked with desperate sensation. I didn't speak up. And a twisted, shameful part of me felt even dirtier, even more aroused by the danger, by the sheer recklessness of it. It was a new level of intimacy between us, a complete surrender I hadn't known I craved.

As my orgasm approached, a relentless, all-consuming tide, he fucked me harder, faster, deeper. My big boobs jiggled so violently with each brutal thrust it was almost painful, the force of his movements making them bounce and sway, the delicate skin stretching. Each of his thrusts seemed to go deeper than ever before, slamming into my cervix, sending shockwaves through my entire body. "Cum for me, you little slut!" he snarled, his voice a primal growl, "in my wife's bed and in front of her pictures!"

Even as I felt the fresh sting of shame, the hot tears leaking from my eyes, I came hard for him. Harder than ever before. A raw, guttural cry tore from my throat as my body convulsed, a shattering, endless orgasm that left me gasping, trembling. He kept fucking me, groaning loudly, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, and I could tell he was close to exploding too. I recognized the signs. I'd seen him on the brink countless times before. I assumed he'd pull out and cum on my ass or my back. But instead, he kept going, driving into me with brutal, final thrusts.

"I'm gonna cum in you, Bea," he growled, his voice raw, triumphant, "just like I told you I would one day, way back after our first encounter. Remember?" And then, with a few final, brutal thrusts and rugged grunts, he did it. He released his hand from my hair, grabbing my hips with both hands, pinning me against the mattress, then pumping me full of his cum, not stopping until he put every single drop in me, filling me to the brim. And despite everything, despite how twisted and humiliating it was, I rubbed my clit frantically as he did it, moaning and groaning, and managed to reach a second, shuddering orgasm.

He finally pulled out with a wet, sucking sound and stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. I felt some of his hot cum trickle out of my engorged pussy, running down my firm thigh.

He paced around the opulent master bedroom, naked, his breathing still heavy and ragged as he caught his breath. The scent of our combined exertion, mingled with the faint chlorine from the pool, hung thick in the air. I held my position on hands and knees for a few more seconds, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of my double orgasm. Then, with a heavy sigh, I rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, my bare bottom sinking into the soft mattress. My mind reeled, trying to process what had just happened, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

Shame washed over me, a familiar companion, for allowing him to treat me that way, for letting it escalate to this brutal, possessive act in his marital bed. But beneath the shame, a powerful, almost alarming sensation stirred - a deep-seated enjoyment that both thrilled and disgusted me. And then, a defiant spark of pride ignited. I had driven him to this point, had pushed him to lose control, to fuck me with such raw intensity, right here, in the very heart of his domestic life.

Am I really a slut? A homewrecker? The cruel words he'd used echoed in my mind, and I wondered if all traces of the pious, innocent girl I used to be were gone, irrevocably stripped away.

Finally, he spoke, his anger seemingly dissipated, replaced by a weary exhaustion. "That was intense," he said with a laugh. "And unexpected." His words offered no apology, no acknowledgment of how things had spun so violently out of control. He didn't seem to have any deep thoughts, or at least, he wasn't sharing them with me. He simply turned down the covers on the bed, a casual, almost domestic gesture, and patted the mattress beside him. "Come lay with me, Bea," he invited, his voice soft now.

I hesitated for a moment, then slid beneath the sheets, my naked body feeling strangely vulnerable yet comfortable, next to him. I nestled into his side, my head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around me, gently caressing my back with his left hand - the one adorned with his titanium wedding band. The cold metal pressed against my skin, a stark reminder of the woman whose place I was occupying, even for this fleeting afternoon. He seemed content, his breathing evening out, almost on the brink of sleep. A part of me longed to drift off in his arms, to take a short afternoon nap, the way we'd napped together several times after our previous, gentler trysts.

But sleep wouldn't come. My mind began to race, picking at the edges of my fragile peace. Had the kindness, the tenderness he'd shown me in the past, been nothing more than a facade? A means of seducing me, of keeping me coming back by playing a character, a gentle mentor? Again, the insidious thought whispered: Am I just being used? But then, I tried to rationalize it, to make sense of the dizzying contradictions. No, it was more complex than that. His personality, his feelings, were probably multifaceted and complex, just like my own. He did care about me in some way, I was sure of it. Something had just snapped in him today, a raw, primal surge that had caught us both off guard.

Just as I was about to drift off, his hand, the one without the ring, found mine and gently guided it to his cock. It was still sticky from being inside me, and semi-erect, a soft, warm weight in my palm. I was still unsure how I felt about what had just happened, about the words he'd used, the way he'd taken me. I believed we should have a conversation about it, a real one, but I didn't know how to bring it up, not with him lying there, seemingly on the edge of sleep. And as I felt his cock swell from my touch, hardening once more, I felt strangely empowered. The control I lacked in words, I found in my touch. So, I just stroked him in silence.

He shifted slightly, his body humming with a renewed desire. "Come on, Bea," he murmured, his voice a sleepy coax, "suck it for me, sweetheart. You always make me feel so good." Without needing to be told again, I complied, my body already knowing the routine. I moved over him, lowering my head, taking his cock into my mouth there in his marital bed. I tasted my own essence, mingled with his cum, still clinging to his dick. He laid back, relaxing into the sensation, a low groan rumbling in his chest as I sucked him off, drawing him deeper, taking him completely until he was soft and spent.

When I finished, he offered sleepy praise. "Good girl, Bea. You did a good job. You've become such a good cocksucker." His words, meant as a compliment, landed with a conflicting weight, making me feel proud yet degraded all at once. He laid there on his back, completely relaxed, and drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even. I cuddled up next to him, my body still thrumming with the aftermath of our encounter, but my mind was wide awake, racing. I stared at the ceiling, wondering what just happened, and with a growing sense of apprehension, what would happen next.

Later, as I dressed to leave, the small, intimate space of the master bedroom felt less opulent, more clinical. My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my blouse, or rather, where the buttons used to be. The front of the shirt now gaped open, a physical representation of how out of control things had become. I had to button my cardigan up over it, a stark reminder of his anger, his roughness, and the raw, unbridled passion that had erupted between us.

Walking home, the familiar path seemed to stretch on forever, each step a testament to the chasm that had just opened in my life. The afternoon sun, once so comforting, now seemed to expose my every secret. I worried. What if Amy came home and, with a wife's intuition, just knew? What if something was out of place in their bedroom, a subtle disarray that would scream of my presence? Or, worse, what if the scent of sex, of our sex, still lingered in the air, a phantom accusation that she would inhale? My stomach clenched with anxiety.

I cursed myself, the self-reproach a bitter taste in my mouth. I was too young, too naive, too insecure to initiate the serious conversation that needed to happen. I should have spoken up, should have confronted him about his words, about his sudden, almost violent change in demeanor, about the unprotected sex. But I hadn't. My voice had failed me, choked by tears and confusing lust. I vowed, as I neared my own front door, that I would bring it up. The next time we met, I would make him talk about it, make him explain. I had to. I needed to understand.

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Turkey Butt writes Mon 30 Jun 2025 21:42:

Another great story, Bea... my wife's taking a nap right now, but she's gonna get the bone as soon as she wakes up, thanks to this fire-starter of a story...

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