Page 22 of Eager Housewife

When she’s collapsed back, her neck exposed, I graze my teeth along her jugular, and I don’t stop.

During the next orgasm, she sobs.

The shaking fills me with savage glee, but I really love the uncontrolled cries as she comes for the third time. I just ease off the pressure on her clit and start again, building her up patiently but insistently, kissing her neck and pinching her nipples until she babbles incoherently.

The fourth orgasm tears her apart. Melts her into a puddle on my lap.

My wife is a mess when the end credits of the movie scroll up the screen. She’s limp and utterly satisfied, and I finally let myself go. I punch up into her, relishing the cream from her multiple orgasms that has dripped all the way down to my balls.

Slamming her down hard onto my cock, once, twice, three times and allow myself to groan as I fill her up and breed her.

Then I carry my liquid wife upstairs and make her pee before she collapses. I hold her as I wash her in the shower, carefully rinsing her now puffy tender pink folds.

I clean her tenderly, and when I’ve dried her with a soft fluffy towel, and laid her on the bed and turned off the light, I intend to let her sleep. But something about the darkness is seductive. When I run my hand down her side, her breath hitches, and she shifts closer. We’re both totally naked, since we learned early on that clothes in bed would end up scrunched somewhere and not on our bodies. Except at weekends, when they serve as a useful reminder to me. So I allow myself the indulgence of rolling her under me and making love to her all over again. Face-to-face in the dark.

I mouth the words I want to tell her and don’t bother to keep my expression guarded as I do in the light. I try not to take her from the front too much now, because every day I’m closer to giving myself away. Or worse still, seeing something that reveals how she hates what I’m doing.

When we’ve both climaxed again, and I’ve cleaned her with a warm cloth this time, I hold her as she falls asleep.

I tell myself that if my daughter issued an ultimatum that it’s her or my wife, that I’d let Blythe go graciously. After all, it’s only supposed to be a convenient marriage for both of us.

But it’s a lie.

I fucking love Blythe so much. I love Ainsley too, but she has her own life to lead. But me? I couldn’t live without Blythe. I definitely couldn’t rest.

I gather her closer to me, my sleepy warm soft girl. Could I cope if she hated me for ruining her friendship?

She’d be so busy having my babies and taking my cock surely, she wouldn’t have any time for loathing. If she was coming constantly, how could she be angry?

That’s absolutely false, and I know it. But I draw comfort from the idea anyway. And I resolve to keep her even hornier and make her come more often.

My little free use housewife.

I want her love.

11

BLYTHE

Our first argument as a married couple is caused by clothes. Not even knickers, or not directly. That was cold, at first, not wearing knickers, but my bottom is used to being cold now.

Nope, it was because Duncan wanted me to buy more dresses to wear to the events and evening dinners, he seems to enjoy taking me to. We pretend to be a real couple, of course, me clinging lovingly to his arm and him smiling down at me. Then when we get home afterwards, he’s always ravenous. We rarely make it upstairs for round one, and then he licks me out in bed until I scream. Sometimes he wakes me in the middle of the night to breed me again.

Those are the best evenings.

But a little panicky crisis often precedes them on my part. Because he’ll arrive home to pick me up, and I’ll be ready, and we’ll be fine to be on time… And then Duncan will want to fuck me before we go out. Vigorously.

And several times, that enthusiastic coupling has been too much for my dress. It’s been ripped, and then we’re even more late because I can’t figure out what to wear to replace what I carefully chose for the event.

I have pointed out that the most efficient way to solve this is that he gets home before I’ve got dressed, or that he holds his lust in check until after the evening’s entertainment.

Suffice to say, Duncan wasn’t impressed by either of those ideas. His solution was just more dresses.

He ordered me to go shopping with an exclusive London personal stylist. Multiples of the same dress if that’s what’s needed to facilitate what he wants: namely, me.

Which is totally excessive and wasteful, and I told him so.

And he said that if I hadn’t spent a hundred thousand on clothes by that time tomorrow and put it on his credit card, there would beconsequences.