Horny Delhi Wife Isha And Her Hunk Father In Law
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How I Came To Watch My Young Wife Being Used By A Hunk, Part 2: The Stark Reality free porn video
Part 2.
I open the door to the stark reality of him as a flesh and blood male, no longer the fantasy figure he’d been when Abbi and I spoke about him in Greece. He is brutishly present, a monolith of muscle and bone. I stand on our front step with my feet six inches above his. Our eyes are dead level: he is six-three tall.
He seems taken aback to see me -- probably because it’s usually Abbi who answers the door. I ask him inside and take him through to the back lounge. He looks around wondering where she is. He won’t ask after her, has to pretend he’s my mate and is here to see us both, though I know it is her he really comes to see. Of course he has no clue what is now expected of him. To put it another way, what a treat we have in store up for him.
I tell him nothing.
He sits down and I get the chess board set out, but he says he doesn’t want to play. I’m annoyed. I want it to be like my dream.
“Got any beers?” he asks.
“In the fridge,” I tell him, though I know he knows.
He’s up and through to the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and then the tab-pull hiss. He returns sipping beer direct from the can while holding out another can for me to take. He does not bother to walk the six feet to where I sit. I have to stand and fetch it from him. He goes to the back window and looks out while lifting the can to his lips and drinking. Perhaps he thinks Abbi is in the garden. While he is turned away, I eye his body and try to imagine how Abbi will cope with his mass of flesh between her legs, his torso-slab on hers. He’s a muscular sixteen stone of brawn and bone.
He’s restless, wanders around the room picking things up and putting them down again. Then he comes and sits opposite me in the place he occupied in my dream when we played chess. We sit in silence facing each other, both if drinking from our cans.
I hear the bump of her footfall on the top of stairs. A moment later the door opens and Abbi appears. She is wearing her towelling robe and looking sheepish.
He looks up and says, “Hi gorgeous.” When he realises what she is wearing he says, “What’s with the dressing gown-- you not well?” He sees she is wearing makeup and he asks, “Are getting ready to go out? You never said.”
I am hard pushed to read his expression when she shakes her head coquettishly and smiles a smile that hints a precious secret soon to be shared. She makes one last check our scheme is still on by turning to me with a concerned questioning, do you still want me to go through with this look.
I nod.
“Well . . . Nathan,” she begins, trying to sound sexy, “Can you remember what you and Belinda gave me for my eighteenth?”
She is a bad actress and I almost cringe.
He shrugs his shoulder and takes another swig of beer.
She walks closer. “Think hard,” she says, beginning to loosen the belt of her robe. “It was something for me to wear.”
He has not yet sussed out what is happening but is starting to realise things are not as they usually are. I think of him as a carnivore at rest unexpectedly catching the scent of prey.
Suddenly his face explodes in a broad smile. “The negligee?”
She continues, “Well . . . seeing it was probably you who paid for it, we thought it only right you should see me wearing it.” She waits for his response. But when he just stares like the dumb-assed-fucker he is, she says, “Martin thinks you should see me in it too -- don’t you, Martin.”
My throat is dry, voice cracking. “It’s only right he does.” I say. “He probably chose it -- as well as paid for it.”
He glowers at me, not sure if I’m taking the piss.
Now things move fast. When he turns back to face her he sees her robe has fallen open, its chord trailing. She eases it from her shoulders and stands inches from him. quiet and motionless. In the dwindling light of the evening the silence is profound. She is illuminated by lamplight and looks like a heavenly visitation, the full length of her body and legs shrouded in the mist of her diaphanous negligee; the garment is ethereal, a mere film of fabric. Beneath are dark shadows of her already stiff nipples. Although just a haze, the triangle of her pubes is unmistakable.
Nathan is agitated, looks from me to her. “What-the-fuck is happening here?”
She is as close as she can be without touching him. “Well, Nathan, do you think your gift fits me?”
“Jesus Christ!” he says, almost a groan.
Her legs are slightly apart, her arms dangle limply by her side. She is offering herself. A belated thank you for his historic gift.
She moves one step closer and his hands are reaching out for her. Her negligee slips across her flesh under the pressure of his palms, moving over her breasts, belly and thighs while he sits on the edge of the sofa. His hands are all over her, refusing to settle in one place, as if he must touch as much of as he can before she is withheld from him. Soon his fingers are between her quickly parting legs, rubbing the filmy fabric against most intimate flesh. I imagine her moistness adhering to the fairy-fine fabric
He pulls her onto his lap where she wraps her arms around his shoulders and they start to kiss. I am shocked by the passion they have for each other. Unmistakably, a thing long denied is now released and free to run wild.
I am so aroused -- but I’m also pulling at the tether that restrains my jealousy. It is bitter-sweet to see a thing like this in reality, harsher than when you picture it in your mind. Everything becomes stark and blatant, hard edged, angled. I manage to push down the jealousy -- just -- and stoke up the fantasy. I tell myself this is what I’ve wanted so bad for the last few weeks, tell myself it is my very own wish finally come true. I’m no longer wooden, at last I have become a real live boy.
He is a man long starved and presented with a banquet. His lust for her is palpable, fills the room. He is too eager, though, and roughly tumbles her out of his lap and onto the sofa and on to her back. He is on her in an instant, kissing her neck, gobbling at her tits through the fine fibres of her negligee, causing the fabric to darken where his mouth has tasted. Her legs are wide apart now, his palms working the gossamer-gauze into the gash of her sex. Again, I imagine the sensation he feels as it grates against a downy swell smeared by her sodden sex.
I think they look very sordid together there on the sofa. I’d imagined something more tender, him treasuring her like the princess he often called her. I need to slow things down. I say, “Darling, why don’t you take Nathan up to our bed”.
Nathan does not appear to hear -- if anything my voice has intensified his ravishing of her. She tries to push him away but he is intransigent. Loudly she tells him, “No!” This stalls him and so she whispers something in his ear which bringings him back from frenzy.
She stands up and offers him her hand. He stands too but does not allow himself to be led. Instead he pulls her to him and in one swift manoeuvre he has her over his shoulder like a rescuing fireman in some old movie. She squeals, then giggles as they disappear through the door. But I do not follow, I go to the fridge and get two beers. Only then do I make my way upstairs.
When I get to the bedroom he is standing at the foot of our bed with his pants around his ankles with my naked Abbi kneeling at his feet licking his cock as if it were a popsicle. From base to tip her doggy tongue laps in long skilful passes. I am relieved to see his cock is not as enormous as the dream cock my subconscious created for him, but even so it is far more of a presence than my own; a tad longer, bulkier. The circumcised tulip head looks gross. My stomach churns each time her tongue passes over the tip. Then the entire length vanishes fully into her mouth. She has taken it deep -- it would need to be right at the back of her throat for it disappear so completely. I wonder how she manages not to gag. Soon it re-emerges, only to vanish again.
When I’d entered the room he’d looked over at me with contempt. A man who would let his wife do this has forfeited his respect, become nothing.
Abbi is aware of me now. While holding my gaze she takes the whole stem of him deep into her mouth again, but now her wide, dark eyes follow me as I move to the seat at the corner of the room. I read their meaning: Is this what wanted too see, Martin? Thank you, darling.
His expression broadcasts her skill. She goes all out to please him -- but I can also see just how much pleasure she has in tasting him, how having such bulk between her lips and under her tongue is pleasure enough in itself. Again his entire cock fills her mouth and I imagine her wondering how it will feel when it is deep in her cunt.
His fingers intertwine among the strands of her long silken, hair. Then he eases her to her feet while reclaiming his cock from her lips. If she continues at this pace he will cum -- who wouldn’t. But no man wants to be undone so quickly, especially with an audience.
Both standing now, he holds her to him tightly. Because he is so much taller than she, his cock is sandwiched between his own abdomen and her solar plexus. They look into each other’s eyes, she up at him, he down at her. I am shocked by what appears to pass between them. The frenzied lust I had witnessed in the lounge is replaced by looks of tenderness, by an understanding of what they share in the moment; a mutual savouring of the actuality of the other. There is such reciprocated affection in that look that for a moment I want to throw myself between them, shield her from him and tell him to fuck-off, then slap her hard for giving herself to him so easily, so completely.
But that feeling soon passes when I see his hunger for her reappear. I watch it rise like a once banished devil returned from the depths of hell. His mouth is flesh-greedy, kissing and nibbling down to her breasts, then manically turning from one tit to the other in a frenzied sucking. While he gorges on her tits, she takes his cock in her left hand, and with her right she rubs his balls.
They fall onto the bed in a playful tumble, her palm and fingers gripping his cock, but hardly able to circumscribe it. He has her quickly on her back and she spreads her legs wide and guides him into her. He lunges against her with his entire body weight to lend his thrust irresistible momentum. A dense, winded, grunt escapes her lips when her cunt is breached. Her sex-sounds become obscene, almost the calls and bleats of my dream. A distressed cry of satisfaction betrays the sensations of barely endured pleasure his distended cock brings her as he barges deeper still. I imagine her inner tissues parting to accommodate him and then softly enfolding him. She raises her legs high and draws back her knees. She has both palms pressing flat against his back, pulling herself hard against him. She urges him deeper inside her with ankles-as-spurs in the small of his back.
He fucks her relentlessly and I cannot help but admire him -- the way his tight buttocks rise and fall like a over-wound clockwork manikin. And I am amazed how she endures his implacable rutting, the pounding rhythm of his hips are those of an adversary not of a lover.
Her legs and arms wrap about him until she appears to fully adhere to him like a limpet against a rock. I watch astounded as the proverbial beast with two backs forms before my eyes as he raises himself on arms straight and sturdy, bringing her entire weigh up with him, left to dangle beneath his arched bulk.
His continual thrust seem attempts to loosen her from him, as if he is a hefty savannah beast about to be brought low by a lioness’s jaws locked on throat -- for indeed, that is how it looks, because in her passion her lips are on his neck. Or is it that she cling to him as if she were suspended from a great height, her life dependant on his support.
Her delicate frame fusing into his beef and brawn, her legs and arms climbing ivy about an old oak, she appears to cling as if for dear life. He continues to thrust into at her while his arms become pillars of flesh that support him and her both, though her slight frame is never likely to bring him down. When he cums, his orgasm is a detonation inside her. Their fused bodies quake in unison, rocked by the inner concussive repeat shocks that are their synchronised orgasms. Finally sapped of his lust he allows her to descend. He rolls from her and they come to rest facing each other on their sides, arms entangled their lips joined in a protracted kiss of completion.
This moment they share is bitter sweet. I am impelled to leave the room, unable to view such tender intimacy. Once in the kitchen I think about what I have just witnessed, how she had so gladly given herself to him. I feel numb inside, have pushed down the thoughts that threaten to unhinge me. I drink beer and cut myself a slice pork pie and dab it with English mustard. I sit and eat it in silence, my mind racing with all kinds of imaginings about my future with Abbi.
When I get back to the bedroom he is flat on his back, Abbi coaxing life back into his spent cock with lips and tongue. He gestures for me to pass him one of the beers I have brought up for them. I pull the tab and hand it to him. He lies back and drinks while Abbi continues to plead her case with his limp manhood.
But Oh! The skill of my Abbi. Little by little she coaxes funds back into the negative equity of his cock. Soon he is solvent again, ready to re-invest. She breaks from pleasing him to survey her handiwork. His cock is now fully primed, looking like the arm of a crane extending from his groin and balanced horizontal over his rippled abdomen, its one slit-eye staring at his distant chin. Unlike me, he is circumcised. I cannot imagine my cock always being so exposed, so raw. But Abbi cannot get enough of it. She strokes him from ball to tip, letting her nails scratch and grate. Her obscene Gene Simmons tongue wraps and curls -- for my benefit as much as his.
“Oh, you fucking slut,” he says. It is as if he hates the fact she has aroused him so soon. I see he resents the power that she, as a beautiful woman, can command over him, and which she wields so expertly. He calls over to me. “Your wife is a fucking slut, mate. An absolute, fucking slut!”
But I don’t have to be told: I can clearly see what she is.
She looks down as if to admire what she has achieved from such an unpromising beginning. And even as she stares, her fingers continue the good work her mouth began. Then her head goes down again to join her hands at play. I watch her tongue once again travel his length in repeated ostentatious passes, while her hands move on to pastures new, his bollocks now receiving their attention. She breaks of her task to look over at me: this is what I do best, her expression seems to say.
Then she straddles him reverse cow-girl while taking his cock and holding it centre-poled at ninety degrees to his ironing board lower abs. With care she position herself just-so and allows her full weight to sink onto him. He fills her instantaneously, piston-greased and fully lubricated by the explosion of cum he gifted her only fifteen minutes before
Her buttocks pitch and roll over his lower abs, her stomach muscles tense and un-tense beneath the merest veneer of her fatty belly-tissue, muscles that control and lend power to the steady undulation of her hips now shown a new purpose. She pinches both her own nipples hard as she rides him. Her expression tells me she is fully committed on a journey to orgasm. Her usually flawless brow is lined by concentration, her eyes tight shut. She flings back her head, her hair trailing over her shoulders and down her back. Soon her own two fingers find her clit and she rubs hard and fast while her cunt skates his flesh, greased by its own secretions.
On the verge of frenzy she orgasms hard, grinding him beneath her sumptuous buttocks. A sheen of perspiration covers her skin and glistens in the lamplight. Her breath is like that of a sprinter who has clocked a record. She sits with legs still wide, her body upright, her cunt impaled. But her head has fallen forward and her long hair curtains her face.
She is utterly exhausted but chooses to remain upright and skewered. Is she savouring the fullness of him deep at her core? A stillness fills the room. From another world I hear the distant hum of traffic through the small open window. She is taking a moment to regain her breath. But Nathan is still hard and in the full bloom of his lust. He lifts her bodily from him, withdrawing his cock in the process, and turns her onto her belly. She is dead weight and he handles her like cargo. He has her face down, legs spread wide. I see the glisten of her cum sodden cunt, pink and raw. He kneels on the bed, his cock looming before him as he approaches the crevice of her arse.
It takes me a moment to understand.
He wipes his cock gently up and down the length of her butt-crack and with each pass it sinks a little further into the soft concave of flesh. It does not take a genius to see that there is no way she will a accommodate his size in that tight pucker of hers. She had only ever let me fuck her in the arse once. Afterwards she had complained for the entire week.
Before commencing, he dips his cock back into her cunt to lubricate himself with their mingled unction, then positions it at the seal of her arse. I hold my breath and await his thrust. I anticipate her shock of pain.
But he has second thoughts, positions himself so his cock is sandwiched between her bum-cheeks. And so imbedded, he commences gentle thrusts, sending his cock piston smooth careering the length of her butt-crack, pleasuring himself between those clashing mounds of softness. She moans for him in appreciation, and I wonder if it is genuine pleasure she feels of if it’s gratitude for not sodomising her. His cock slips from between her cheeks from time to time and he has to re-position himself to keep it embedded. I see the glisten of sweat and other body secretions, his and hers.
Sandwiched there, his cock is like sausage roll filling, the tip of pink meat peeking and disappearing. Then it is pumping jizz into the small of her back, spurting up her spine. He groans and exhales as if his last breath on earth is leaving his body. He appears to deflate somehow, collapses onto her with his full dead weight.
I become concerned for her pinned beneath his bulk. She kicks her feet uselessly and calls his name in muffled distress, “Nathan, Nathan -- for fuck’s sake, you‘re crushing me!” Before he even has time to comply with her request to move off her, I jump to my feet and go to him and grab his shoulder and with all the strength I can summons I pull him from her.
Immediately he is on his feet, turning and grabbing me by the throat. His mass looms over me. A stench of sex and sweat rises from his skin. His cock is softening but still engorged enough to distract. His face is contorted by anger and he growls through gritted teeth, “Never, ever, fucking touch me! You fucking little queer!”
The blatant power of his body, the brutal closeness of him overwhelms me. In an instant I see how vulnerable a women can be when dealing with the lust of powerfully built men such as Nathan. My concern for Abbi is instantly replaced by fear for my own welfare. I all but cower before his raised fist.
But the blow never comes.
But still, such anger: “Do you think I’d ever hurt her!” Then he begins to calm, and says, “You fucking moron. I love Abbi. I would never hurt her.”
Rationality returns. Now he smiles and slaps me playfully on the cheek three times, and through gritted teeth says, “Now be a good little cuck and go get me another beer.”
Everything is ruined. Abbi is on her feet now and using tissue from the bedside table to clean cum from her back and buttocks.
“I think she’s had enough,” I say in the calmest of tones.
He turns and looks at her and says, “Awe. You haven’t have you, princess?”
“I think Martin has -- haven’t you, darling?”
I am unable to say a word. I look at her and am shocked by what he has reduced her to: she looks exhausted, thoroughly used. Her hair is rat-tailed by sweat, her bare shoulders glistens from it; the tart gloss of her lips has smeared; her immaculate eyes are well on the road to panda. But even so, she comes to him and puts her arms around him and they kiss one final kiss. Then looking directly into his eyes, she says with as much sincerity as I have ever heard her express, “Thank you, Nathan. Thank you so very much.”
Was it a thank you for the pleasure he has given her? Or was it a thank you for not forcing himself on her, for not sodomising her? Or was it a thank you for not beating me to a bloody pulp? Probably all three.
He turns to me and says, “You going to get me that beer before I go, or what?”
I go downstairs and leave him with her as he dresses. I wonder why she has not showered. If I was in her place I would have showered.
Downstairs I get us all a beer and place them on the coffee table. It is a good ten minutes before they both finally join me. I wonder what they have been saying to each other while they were alone. She is still naked but on entering the room puts on the towelling robed she discarded earlier. We sit and drink together, me and Abbi on the sofa, Nathan in the armchair. We chat like nothing has happened, just like we do when we usually spend an evening together. He talks about the coming soccer fixture. City are playing Spurs. Abbi turns on the telly and we watch the ten-thirty news on BBC2.
Finally he says, “Have to go now. Belinda will wonder where I am. We good for same time next week?”
Neither of us answer. I stand and lead him to the door. Before he goes he turns to me and says, "You are complete Arse, Martin. If Abbi were my wife, there is no way I would let a bloke like me anywhere near her.”
I shrug my shoulders. He continues. “Understand this: I’m going to take her from you. Wait and see! That is a promise. She deserves a better man than you.”
He never did, though.
When I return to Abbi she has poured herself a giant vodka and coke. Before I have chance to say a word, she says. “We can never see him again.”
“What about Belinda. What will you say to her?”
“Some lie -- I don’t know yet -- don’t care”
“I thought you would have showered after . . .”
“I didn’t because of you.”
“How’s that?”
“I want you to make love to me. And I want you to lick every inch of my body clean, every part of me Nathan has touched, I want you to taste. I won’t wash until you have.”
To make love with her, despoiled and used, was perhaps the sweetest part of all. Caked cum crystallised her back, an offering left by a devotee. He had made her a goddess and I became a supplicant performing a sacred ablution, the taste of him my prasad.
The next evening in the back yard we lit barbecue coals and cremated the negligee she had worn for Nathan.
Our lives resumed. Once or twice in the following weeks I attempted to broach the matter but she would have none of it, quickly changed the subject. Once, she even walked out of the room when I pressed her to tell me how it had all made her feel. After that I did not push the matter.
By the following year we were divorced. Nathan was right. I was not man enough to keep her. She went away to eventually live a better life than I could ever have given her, but also a better one than Nathan could ever dreamed of.
And what of Nathan? Occasionally I see him about town with Belinda and the youngest of their brood. He’s put on a lot of weight, losing his hair. Even in his forties he dresses like a chav. A girl like Abbi wouldn’t give him the time of day now. I often wonder if she ever thinks of that night with him. I hope so, I hope she still remembers where she came from.
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