GettingHerselfOff
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Getting Caught free porn video
[Note: The following was originally written in response to a post by filipina34d-25-38 in which she asked for responses to: "Have you ever got caught masturbating or having sex and by who? [sic]" I replied with three tales of times I got caught or suspect I did. Here, I've collected all three parts.
1. Most Certainly Caught.
First year college, Thanksgiving break. My girlfriend (of about a month) was from upstate New York, about 500 miles from school and typically snowed in by late November; I lived a couple of hours to the south, so she came home with me. There was a regular Wednesday night prayer service at my folks' church, so after supper they headed out for a few hours while Elisabeth and I settled in. I made three seriously bad mistakes: First, misjudging how long the service would last; second, suggesting we shower together rather than separately; and, third, deciding it would be hot to shower in the dark. The last was a bad idea because, once my folks arrived 45 minutes ahead of schedule, when Mom heard the shower going but failed to see any light beneath the door, she assumed someone had mistakenly left the water running -- so she flipped on the light (the switch is outside the bathroom door) and walked in. Elisabeth spent most of the next four days in bed, feigning sleep.
2. Most Likely Caught.
One night ten years later, my first wife and I decided to indulge in what was for us [oh, the innocence!] a rather risky -- and risque -- form of play we occasionally permitted ourselves. Taking scissors and needle and thread to a plain black T-shirt, size S, I quickly fashioned for her a tight micro-mini and an excessively cropped crop-top. The skirt ended an inch below her pussy lips; the top a half-inch below her nipples. With black thigh-highs and heels rounding out the ensemble, she made a dash for the car, diving into the backseat before any neighbor saw her. I climbed behind the wheel, cranked the engine, reached back to hand her a vibrator, and backed out of the drive. Our destination: Route 1 south, heading away from DC.
Once we were on the highway itself, my wife hiked her skirt and began to masturbate. I adjusted the rear view mirror so I could watch -- well, watch as much as possible while doing 80 in moderately heavy traffic. I usually stayed in the second lane from the right, since for the first 10 or 15 minutes of our drive, until about a mile outside the Beltway, trucks and buses were restricted to the rightmost lane. I would pull alongside a bus or semi cab and match pace; as long as I wasn't too obvious about it, she would pretend not to notice anyone watching from above.
Usually, by the time we were about five miles south of the Beltway, she would be near enough to orgasm for her to be able to come on command, varying her pressure and stroke in order to keep herself on the edge. Typically, I would take the exit at the 5.1 mile mark, cross over the highway, and head back home. I'd let her know when we were a few minutes from the exit for home, and she would begin to come, usually riding out the final aftershocks as I headed up the offramp.
This time, though, as I left the highway to circle back for home, my wife asked, "Is there anywhere you can pull over? I need you to fuck me!" I told her it wasn't safe to stop in the open, as state troopers often used the cutover to make U-turns the same as we had; however, at the time I managed an independent record label, and the company that made our cassettes had their duplicating plant in a nearby industrial park, barely a half-mile away. When I'd dropped off master tapes there at night in the past, the engineer and I appeared to be the only living beings in the park, so I figured it was unlikely there'd be anyone there to see us -- and if there was, we'd almost certainly be able to see them first.
Pulling into the industrial park, I followed a twisting path that took us past the cassette duplicators and led to a small parking lot that was rarely used even in the daytime, as it wasn't particularly convenient to anything. As I killed the lights and engine, my wife crawled over the seat back into the passenger seat and turned towards me, her poor excuse for a skirt riding up to her waist as she spread her legs. Reaching out to take my hand in hers, she guided my fingers into her sopping wet pussy. Holding my hand inside her, she began rocking her hips back and forth, fucking herself on my hand. Almost immediately, though, she let go of my hand. "I want your dick inside me!" she moaned. Getting onto her knees, she turned to face the rear of the car, bracing herself on the seatback. "Do you have room to get behind me?" she asked. "I want you to fuck me from behind."
I reached down and pulled the seat release, sending it as far back in the car as possible. Pulling my pants down to my knees, I squeezed in behind her and slid my dick inside her. With a shudder, she pressed back against me---
---but try as I might, I couldn't find enough support to be able to fuck. My head was pressed against the roof, my feet jammed beneath the glove compartment, my knees kept slipping off the front of the seat... and my cock kept popping out of her hole. "Let's get in the back so you fuck me," my wife said, and she started to climb over the seat. "Wait," I said, "before we do, I want you to do something for me, just for a minute." "OK," she said. "What?"
A low retaining wall, no more than a couple of feet high, ran along one side of the parking lot. Nodding towards it, I said, "I want you to sit on that wall, lift your skirt, and play with yourself while I watch from inside the car. After a minute or so, you can come get in the backseat, and I'll join you. I just want to see you outside, in the open, with your pussy showing."
She looked at me for a moment and then said, "OK." She got out of the car, adjusted her clothing, and walked over to the wall with an inch of bare skin showing between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her skirt. Turning to face me, she sat back against the wall. At first she kept her legs together; then, looking to make sure I was watching, she slowly pulled her skirt up until a tuft of hair was showing. Leaning back, she slowly parted her thighs, her skirt riding up even further, until I could see the moisture between her pussy lips glinting in the streetlights overhead. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and began playing with her clit.
I stroked my cock as I watched from the car -- but before even a minute had passed, I knew I'd never be able to *just* watch. Opening the passenger door, I quietly slipped out of the car to join her. Immediately dropping to my knees, and taking a thigh in each hand, I buried my face between her legs, stabbing my tongue deeply inside her. She jumped at my touch, startled, but quickly recovered and forced herself on my tongue, rocking against my mouth. Opening her thighs even wider, I licked and sucked at her pussy until, grabbing my head with both hands and pulling me against her, she came.
As soon as her tremors had died down, I stood up, pulled my pants to my knees, and drove my cock into her pussy. By now her skirt was above her waist and her top twisted around her neck -- for all intents and purposes, then, totally nude, her breasts and pussy exposed. And, looking down to see her on display like that, my cock pounding in and out of her, was more than I could take. With one final thrust, I drove as deeply into her as I could before filling her cunt with my come.
I collapsed onto her, then, and we lay there for a minute or so before the sound of a vehicle, somewhere, brought us back into focus. We quickly covered up and hurried back to the car. On our way out of the park, we passed what appeared to be a security guard heading the other way, making his rounds. Back on the highway, I had my wife lift her skirt again and turn in her seat towards me so her pussy remained on view. Once inside the house, we went straight to the bedroom. Still in her slutwear, she opened her legs to my rigid once more cock, and we fucked for an hour, telling each other the story of what we'd just done, over and over again, marveling at our audacity.
A few months later, I was hosting a 'stuffing party' for the label's latest release: Basically, it consisted of myself, the label's other owners, and the band whose record was bring released getting together to put together hundreds of demo packages -- press information, appropriately stickered copy of the LP, business reply card, and the like, all tucked inside a record mailer, with the mailer folded, tucked, taped, addressed, and stamped with the appropriate postage. It's irritatingly complex but ultimately brain-dead work, and while we stuffed we chatted.
At one point the topic of cassette duplication came up, and I mentioned who manufactured our tapes. "Oh, I know them," the band's founder and frontman said. "They're in the same industrial park as my office." "Oh, really?" I asked. "What exactly *is* is that you do, again?"
"Um, I'm an electronics engineer for the CIA. I build various gadgets I can't tell you about."
"The CIA?" I said. "Isn't it a little risky for such sensitive work to be performed in so insecure a location?"
"Oh, it's not insecure at all," he assured me. "It just looks that way. Trust me: The whole industrial park is completely wired, top to bottom; there are cameras *everywhere.* Nothing could ever happen there without being filmed, photographed, and monitored in real-time. In fact, someone probably knows how many times you've been to see the tape guys and how long you stayed each time."
"um... Fascinating!"
I don't think I ever told my wife. And I never heard anything from the Agency, none too surprisingly -- but I kind of wished I had: I would *kill* for a copy of that tape.
(And I did it to her again a few years later. I'd been away on business for an extended stretch, and when I called my wife to arrange to have her meet me at the airport, on a whim I specified what she should wear. Basically, it was heels, stockings, and a garter belt -- plus whatever she needed to avoid being arrested. When I stepped out of baggage claim, she pulled up to the curb, put the car in park, got out, and walked around the car to sit in the passenger seat. She had added one of my dress shirts, with reasonably long tails.
(As soon as we paid for parking, the shirt came off, my fly went down, and my cock ended up in her mouth. It was 32 miles from the airport to home; by Mile 3, I knew there was no way I could wait that long. As the building where I worked was between Miles 5 and 6, I took the next exit and circled around to the parking lot furthest from the entrance. There were only a handful of people who worked the night shift, so I didn't expect there to be anyone else around -- which is why I made my wife get out of the car, nude from the thighs up, and bend over the hood while I fucked her from behind.
(A couple of days later, I was talking with one of the security guards at work when he said, "Hey, you gotta take a look at this!" He led me into the security office and proudly gestured at a bank of video screens above one of the desks. "They installed all this since you were here last. It's full surveillance coverage of the entire corporate park: The perimeter of all the buildings, *and* the entire parking lot. And look at this," he said, reaching for a joystick. "You can pan back and forth, up and down, and zoom in -- like all the way in -- and you can see almost any location from at least two angles."
("Wow," I said. "That's pretty neat. So this just went live on Monday?"
("Oh,. no -- we've been using it for more than a week."
(Bastard didn't offer to make me a copy of *that* tape, either.)
3. Blatantly Caught
Not long after my second wife moved out to 'work through some things' -- which in this case meant quitting her job as an exotic dancer and instead turning tricks in-call -- I stopped by the Market Street Cinema, at the time San Francisco's most dubious stripclub. (I'd gone there because at the time I hadn't yet learned my wife was a whore; as it was a Friday, her usual night to work, I thought it best *not* to go by the club where she [presumably] worked.) Fortunately, there is always a lot of lateral movement among clubs, and several dancers who'd previously worked with my wife were now on the Market Street night shift...
...including a cute and curvy 20-year-old of mixed Jewish/Creole parentage. As a teenager, she'd been a professional dancer, touring with various interchangeable boy bands, performing for arenas full of pre's, 'tweens, and young teens. Around the time she began to outgrow the music, her body outgrew *her*, and she segued easily into life as a nude lap dancer. I'd gotten to know her pretty well during her stint at my wife's club, and I always looked forward to taking her into one of the 'stand-up lap dance' rooms -- primarily because, once she discovered I could get her off, she was determinedly and tirelessly devoted to getting her nut, no matter who was watching, no matter what rules she needed to bend -- no matter how astoundingly pussy-driven a slut she became.
The sound of my wife slamming the door behind her as she left hadn't finished echoing up and down the street before this little vixen invited herself to come home with me. It was more endearing than anything else: First, she was way young, with little experience of good sex. And, second, as a hottie of long standing -- even worse, as a hottie *and professional entertainer* -- she tended to think her contribution to the sex act was merely showing up. I finally hit upon a one-two combination where I'd eat her out until she came and then, while she was refracting gratefully, pull her on top of me and make her ride. (It worked almost too well: Once she discovered how quickly and intensely I could make her come, I didn't think I'd *ever* get her off my face....)
Anyway, that night I'd lapped with a few other dancers while waiting for Sara to appear. Turns out some guy had hired her to put on a long, drawn out pissing-and-masturbation show in the theater's 'shower stage.' Since the customer was determined to choreograph her entire performance down to which fingers to stick up her ass while rubbing her clit at a specified tempo, she hadn't been able to get within arm's length of an orgasm. Accordingly, when I ran into her fresh from the shower show, she was squeaky clean and horny as hell.
"Dude, you GOTTA eat my pussy -- like NOW!" she said, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me off to the most dimly lit of private rooms. "Are you sure?" I asked, knowing full well that at that point in the Cinema's existence, any instance of what was euphemistically known as 'specials' was grounds for immediate dismissal. As much as I wanted to munch the little whore's linoleum (like her rug, but cleanly shaved), I didn't want to be the catalyst for her getting fired from yet another strip club. "Yeah," she said, "I know something about this room you don't."
With that, she pulled back a section of the black satin[-ish] d****s lining the room to reveal an unused and largely forgotten doorway to something: Storage? Fire exit? One of the sets where they used to film Rosebud brand loops and features? Even better, tucked away inside this hidden alcove was a surprisingly large and comfortable arm chair. "See?" she said. "It'll be our little secret. I'm so fucking horny I can't stand it -- eat me out now before the club closes, then we'll go back to your place and I'll fuck your brains out." With that, she pulled off her tap pants and sat in the chair, one leg dangling over each arm.
What can I say? It was an offer I couldn't refuse.
---which doesn't mean I wasn't still a little worried about getting caught. At various times in its life, the Cinema was essentially a brothel: If you tipped the dancer on stage a sawbuck, she'd sit on the edge of the stage, lie back,. and spread her legs so you could go down on her. Meanwhile, other dancers waiting their turn circulated through the audience, selling lap dances: for $20 more, she'd pull the crotch of her panties to one side and upgrade the dance to a fuck. But when Diane Feinstein was elected mayor, things changed. The cops started busting strip clubs (the Mitchell brothers were arrested more than 100 times, even though the DA refused to press charges); first nude and then topless lap dances were banned; and the craziness went away -- and stayed away through the next several mayors.
Even though it was only moments before the dawn of a new era of lewdness and debauchery (the newly elected mayor, Willie Brown, Jr., was a lawyer who had previously represented Sam Conti, the king of San Francisco stripclubs), we had no idea what was coming -- and, at the time, it was still a reasonably serious offense against club protocol for a customer to be caught face-deep in an entertainer. So you can understand my nervousness when, just as Sara started moaning in earnest, grinding her trimmed snatch against my mouth, a pair of dancers led their clients into the room for a last couple of lap dances before the lights came up. Could they really *not* hear Sara as she came and came on my face? Would we be caught?
Actually, no: We *didn't* get caught. We *did* have to wait until after the club closed so no one would see us appear from behind the d****s -- which meant the surly Middle-Eastern guy who manned the front counter yelled at me when I tried to slip past him -- and I had to meet Sara a couple of blocks away so the club wouldn't see her leave with a customer, but if anyone heard anything suspicious or smelled Sara on my face, she kept it to herself.
And Sara kept her promise: Five minutes after we walked through the front door, I was naked, she was naked, I was sitting in one of my dining room chairs, and she was riding my cock for all she was worth. Afterwards, once we'd had a chance to catch our breath, we did it again -- but this time on video. (In those days I kept a high-end camcorder on a tripod and a few video lights in my living room. Originally, I had set them up before I left on a business trip so my wife could record herself working on new routines. However, once we saw how their presence magically transformed virtually every visit or dinner party into a porn shoot, we left them up permanently. Sara, I'm happy to say, responded to them in the best possible way....)
However, mid-way through our tape, the phone rang. Obviously, I let the machine take the call -- hey, *I'm* no dummy -- but once I heard the caller's voice, I quickly (and apologetically) shooed Sara off my cock and ran for the phone, just barely managing to grab the receiver before she hung up.
On the other end of the line was Beth, yet another stripper who danced with my wife. The quintessential beautiful disaster, Beth was a gorgeous natural blonde cheerleader type, with a body that wouldn't quit -- and, if one was lucky, a libido to match. None too surprisingly, she also possessed a dizzying array of d**g dependencies she had carefully cultivated since junior high. For the past six months, she had been living with -- wait for it -- *another* dancer from the club and her girlfriend (who was a cop, or a sheriff's deputy, or something). Fortunately *and* unfortunately for Beth, the couple were also both recovering somethingaholics: Fortunately, because only in a d**g- and alcohol-free living situation could Beth have even a ghost of a chance of staying sober; unfortunately, because whenever she relapsed, they made her life an absolute hell. As a result, a couple of times in the past my wife had let a drunk, high, or spun Beth hole up in our guest room until she was straight enough to face her housemates.
Tonight, she'd once again given into temptation; accepting a bindle of speed as a tip, she'd slipped into the club's ladies room and done a fat rail off the back of the toilet. Now she was uncomfortably spun and looking for a place to hide; even though she knew my Ms Maz had moved out a couple of weeks before, she wanted to know if ChezMaz was still sanctuary. I told her of course it was: she was always invited. I had her pass the phone to the cab driver, gave him the address -- and then said, as if as an afterthought, for him to tell her just to come inside when she got there: I'd leave the door unlocked, as the doorbell was on the fritz, and I might not hear her knocking, as Sara and I had loud music playing.
So *that's* how Sara and I ended up getting caught: Only as the result of much effort. My best guess as to how long it would take her cab to arrive was nearly dead-on: Beth came up the stairs to find Sara, in thigh-highs and heels, astride me in full gallop; in response, she immediately stripped out of her clothes and plopped down onto the sofa, facing us, to watch and masturbate. (Sara, on her part, responded to the sudden appearance [I told her Beth was coming over... but not that I had arranged for her to find us mid-stroke] of a totally nude Beth busy jilling her clean-shaven cunt to the site of us fucking by coming like crazy -- which Beth almost immediately managed to upstage by squirting all over my carpet.) We spent the next four days in an extended video shoot starring ... Us! in assorted groupings.
All thanks to Sara and me accidentally having been caught....
1. Most Certainly Caught.
First year college, Thanksgiving break. My girlfriend (of about a month) was from upstate New York, about 500 miles from school and typically snowed in by late November; I lived a couple of hours to the south, so she came home with me. There was a regular Wednesday night prayer service at my folks' church, so after supper they headed out for a few hours while Elisabeth and I settled in. I made three seriously bad mistakes: First, misjudging how long the service would last; second, suggesting we shower together rather than separately; and, third, deciding it would be hot to shower in the dark. The last was a bad idea because, once my folks arrived 45 minutes ahead of schedule, when Mom heard the shower going but failed to see any light beneath the door, she assumed someone had mistakenly left the water running -- so she flipped on the light (the switch is outside the bathroom door) and walked in. Elisabeth spent most of the next four days in bed, feigning sleep.
2. Most Likely Caught.
One night ten years later, my first wife and I decided to indulge in what was for us [oh, the innocence!] a rather risky -- and risque -- form of play we occasionally permitted ourselves. Taking scissors and needle and thread to a plain black T-shirt, size S, I quickly fashioned for her a tight micro-mini and an excessively cropped crop-top. The skirt ended an inch below her pussy lips; the top a half-inch below her nipples. With black thigh-highs and heels rounding out the ensemble, she made a dash for the car, diving into the backseat before any neighbor saw her. I climbed behind the wheel, cranked the engine, reached back to hand her a vibrator, and backed out of the drive. Our destination: Route 1 south, heading away from DC.
Once we were on the highway itself, my wife hiked her skirt and began to masturbate. I adjusted the rear view mirror so I could watch -- well, watch as much as possible while doing 80 in moderately heavy traffic. I usually stayed in the second lane from the right, since for the first 10 or 15 minutes of our drive, until about a mile outside the Beltway, trucks and buses were restricted to the rightmost lane. I would pull alongside a bus or semi cab and match pace; as long as I wasn't too obvious about it, she would pretend not to notice anyone watching from above.
Usually, by the time we were about five miles south of the Beltway, she would be near enough to orgasm for her to be able to come on command, varying her pressure and stroke in order to keep herself on the edge. Typically, I would take the exit at the 5.1 mile mark, cross over the highway, and head back home. I'd let her know when we were a few minutes from the exit for home, and she would begin to come, usually riding out the final aftershocks as I headed up the offramp.
This time, though, as I left the highway to circle back for home, my wife asked, "Is there anywhere you can pull over? I need you to fuck me!" I told her it wasn't safe to stop in the open, as state troopers often used the cutover to make U-turns the same as we had; however, at the time I managed an independent record label, and the company that made our cassettes had their duplicating plant in a nearby industrial park, barely a half-mile away. When I'd dropped off master tapes there at night in the past, the engineer and I appeared to be the only living beings in the park, so I figured it was unlikely there'd be anyone there to see us -- and if there was, we'd almost certainly be able to see them first.
Pulling into the industrial park, I followed a twisting path that took us past the cassette duplicators and led to a small parking lot that was rarely used even in the daytime, as it wasn't particularly convenient to anything. As I killed the lights and engine, my wife crawled over the seat back into the passenger seat and turned towards me, her poor excuse for a skirt riding up to her waist as she spread her legs. Reaching out to take my hand in hers, she guided my fingers into her sopping wet pussy. Holding my hand inside her, she began rocking her hips back and forth, fucking herself on my hand. Almost immediately, though, she let go of my hand. "I want your dick inside me!" she moaned. Getting onto her knees, she turned to face the rear of the car, bracing herself on the seatback. "Do you have room to get behind me?" she asked. "I want you to fuck me from behind."
I reached down and pulled the seat release, sending it as far back in the car as possible. Pulling my pants down to my knees, I squeezed in behind her and slid my dick inside her. With a shudder, she pressed back against me---
---but try as I might, I couldn't find enough support to be able to fuck. My head was pressed against the roof, my feet jammed beneath the glove compartment, my knees kept slipping off the front of the seat... and my cock kept popping out of her hole. "Let's get in the back so you fuck me," my wife said, and she started to climb over the seat. "Wait," I said, "before we do, I want you to do something for me, just for a minute." "OK," she said. "What?"
A low retaining wall, no more than a couple of feet high, ran along one side of the parking lot. Nodding towards it, I said, "I want you to sit on that wall, lift your skirt, and play with yourself while I watch from inside the car. After a minute or so, you can come get in the backseat, and I'll join you. I just want to see you outside, in the open, with your pussy showing."
She looked at me for a moment and then said, "OK." She got out of the car, adjusted her clothing, and walked over to the wall with an inch of bare skin showing between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her skirt. Turning to face me, she sat back against the wall. At first she kept her legs together; then, looking to make sure I was watching, she slowly pulled her skirt up until a tuft of hair was showing. Leaning back, she slowly parted her thighs, her skirt riding up even further, until I could see the moisture between her pussy lips glinting in the streetlights overhead. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and began playing with her clit.
I stroked my cock as I watched from the car -- but before even a minute had passed, I knew I'd never be able to *just* watch. Opening the passenger door, I quietly slipped out of the car to join her. Immediately dropping to my knees, and taking a thigh in each hand, I buried my face between her legs, stabbing my tongue deeply inside her. She jumped at my touch, startled, but quickly recovered and forced herself on my tongue, rocking against my mouth. Opening her thighs even wider, I licked and sucked at her pussy until, grabbing my head with both hands and pulling me against her, she came.
As soon as her tremors had died down, I stood up, pulled my pants to my knees, and drove my cock into her pussy. By now her skirt was above her waist and her top twisted around her neck -- for all intents and purposes, then, totally nude, her breasts and pussy exposed. And, looking down to see her on display like that, my cock pounding in and out of her, was more than I could take. With one final thrust, I drove as deeply into her as I could before filling her cunt with my come.
I collapsed onto her, then, and we lay there for a minute or so before the sound of a vehicle, somewhere, brought us back into focus. We quickly covered up and hurried back to the car. On our way out of the park, we passed what appeared to be a security guard heading the other way, making his rounds. Back on the highway, I had my wife lift her skirt again and turn in her seat towards me so her pussy remained on view. Once inside the house, we went straight to the bedroom. Still in her slutwear, she opened her legs to my rigid once more cock, and we fucked for an hour, telling each other the story of what we'd just done, over and over again, marveling at our audacity.
A few months later, I was hosting a 'stuffing party' for the label's latest release: Basically, it consisted of myself, the label's other owners, and the band whose record was bring released getting together to put together hundreds of demo packages -- press information, appropriately stickered copy of the LP, business reply card, and the like, all tucked inside a record mailer, with the mailer folded, tucked, taped, addressed, and stamped with the appropriate postage. It's irritatingly complex but ultimately brain-dead work, and while we stuffed we chatted.
At one point the topic of cassette duplication came up, and I mentioned who manufactured our tapes. "Oh, I know them," the band's founder and frontman said. "They're in the same industrial park as my office." "Oh, really?" I asked. "What exactly *is* is that you do, again?"
"Um, I'm an electronics engineer for the CIA. I build various gadgets I can't tell you about."
"The CIA?" I said. "Isn't it a little risky for such sensitive work to be performed in so insecure a location?"
"Oh, it's not insecure at all," he assured me. "It just looks that way. Trust me: The whole industrial park is completely wired, top to bottom; there are cameras *everywhere.* Nothing could ever happen there without being filmed, photographed, and monitored in real-time. In fact, someone probably knows how many times you've been to see the tape guys and how long you stayed each time."
"um... Fascinating!"
I don't think I ever told my wife. And I never heard anything from the Agency, none too surprisingly -- but I kind of wished I had: I would *kill* for a copy of that tape.
(And I did it to her again a few years later. I'd been away on business for an extended stretch, and when I called my wife to arrange to have her meet me at the airport, on a whim I specified what she should wear. Basically, it was heels, stockings, and a garter belt -- plus whatever she needed to avoid being arrested. When I stepped out of baggage claim, she pulled up to the curb, put the car in park, got out, and walked around the car to sit in the passenger seat. She had added one of my dress shirts, with reasonably long tails.
(As soon as we paid for parking, the shirt came off, my fly went down, and my cock ended up in her mouth. It was 32 miles from the airport to home; by Mile 3, I knew there was no way I could wait that long. As the building where I worked was between Miles 5 and 6, I took the next exit and circled around to the parking lot furthest from the entrance. There were only a handful of people who worked the night shift, so I didn't expect there to be anyone else around -- which is why I made my wife get out of the car, nude from the thighs up, and bend over the hood while I fucked her from behind.
(A couple of days later, I was talking with one of the security guards at work when he said, "Hey, you gotta take a look at this!" He led me into the security office and proudly gestured at a bank of video screens above one of the desks. "They installed all this since you were here last. It's full surveillance coverage of the entire corporate park: The perimeter of all the buildings, *and* the entire parking lot. And look at this," he said, reaching for a joystick. "You can pan back and forth, up and down, and zoom in -- like all the way in -- and you can see almost any location from at least two angles."
("Wow," I said. "That's pretty neat. So this just went live on Monday?"
("Oh,. no -- we've been using it for more than a week."
(Bastard didn't offer to make me a copy of *that* tape, either.)
3. Blatantly Caught
Not long after my second wife moved out to 'work through some things' -- which in this case meant quitting her job as an exotic dancer and instead turning tricks in-call -- I stopped by the Market Street Cinema, at the time San Francisco's most dubious stripclub. (I'd gone there because at the time I hadn't yet learned my wife was a whore; as it was a Friday, her usual night to work, I thought it best *not* to go by the club where she [presumably] worked.) Fortunately, there is always a lot of lateral movement among clubs, and several dancers who'd previously worked with my wife were now on the Market Street night shift...
...including a cute and curvy 20-year-old of mixed Jewish/Creole parentage. As a teenager, she'd been a professional dancer, touring with various interchangeable boy bands, performing for arenas full of pre's, 'tweens, and young teens. Around the time she began to outgrow the music, her body outgrew *her*, and she segued easily into life as a nude lap dancer. I'd gotten to know her pretty well during her stint at my wife's club, and I always looked forward to taking her into one of the 'stand-up lap dance' rooms -- primarily because, once she discovered I could get her off, she was determinedly and tirelessly devoted to getting her nut, no matter who was watching, no matter what rules she needed to bend -- no matter how astoundingly pussy-driven a slut she became.
The sound of my wife slamming the door behind her as she left hadn't finished echoing up and down the street before this little vixen invited herself to come home with me. It was more endearing than anything else: First, she was way young, with little experience of good sex. And, second, as a hottie of long standing -- even worse, as a hottie *and professional entertainer* -- she tended to think her contribution to the sex act was merely showing up. I finally hit upon a one-two combination where I'd eat her out until she came and then, while she was refracting gratefully, pull her on top of me and make her ride. (It worked almost too well: Once she discovered how quickly and intensely I could make her come, I didn't think I'd *ever* get her off my face....)
Anyway, that night I'd lapped with a few other dancers while waiting for Sara to appear. Turns out some guy had hired her to put on a long, drawn out pissing-and-masturbation show in the theater's 'shower stage.' Since the customer was determined to choreograph her entire performance down to which fingers to stick up her ass while rubbing her clit at a specified tempo, she hadn't been able to get within arm's length of an orgasm. Accordingly, when I ran into her fresh from the shower show, she was squeaky clean and horny as hell.
"Dude, you GOTTA eat my pussy -- like NOW!" she said, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me off to the most dimly lit of private rooms. "Are you sure?" I asked, knowing full well that at that point in the Cinema's existence, any instance of what was euphemistically known as 'specials' was grounds for immediate dismissal. As much as I wanted to munch the little whore's linoleum (like her rug, but cleanly shaved), I didn't want to be the catalyst for her getting fired from yet another strip club. "Yeah," she said, "I know something about this room you don't."
With that, she pulled back a section of the black satin[-ish] d****s lining the room to reveal an unused and largely forgotten doorway to something: Storage? Fire exit? One of the sets where they used to film Rosebud brand loops and features? Even better, tucked away inside this hidden alcove was a surprisingly large and comfortable arm chair. "See?" she said. "It'll be our little secret. I'm so fucking horny I can't stand it -- eat me out now before the club closes, then we'll go back to your place and I'll fuck your brains out." With that, she pulled off her tap pants and sat in the chair, one leg dangling over each arm.
What can I say? It was an offer I couldn't refuse.
---which doesn't mean I wasn't still a little worried about getting caught. At various times in its life, the Cinema was essentially a brothel: If you tipped the dancer on stage a sawbuck, she'd sit on the edge of the stage, lie back,. and spread her legs so you could go down on her. Meanwhile, other dancers waiting their turn circulated through the audience, selling lap dances: for $20 more, she'd pull the crotch of her panties to one side and upgrade the dance to a fuck. But when Diane Feinstein was elected mayor, things changed. The cops started busting strip clubs (the Mitchell brothers were arrested more than 100 times, even though the DA refused to press charges); first nude and then topless lap dances were banned; and the craziness went away -- and stayed away through the next several mayors.
Even though it was only moments before the dawn of a new era of lewdness and debauchery (the newly elected mayor, Willie Brown, Jr., was a lawyer who had previously represented Sam Conti, the king of San Francisco stripclubs), we had no idea what was coming -- and, at the time, it was still a reasonably serious offense against club protocol for a customer to be caught face-deep in an entertainer. So you can understand my nervousness when, just as Sara started moaning in earnest, grinding her trimmed snatch against my mouth, a pair of dancers led their clients into the room for a last couple of lap dances before the lights came up. Could they really *not* hear Sara as she came and came on my face? Would we be caught?
Actually, no: We *didn't* get caught. We *did* have to wait until after the club closed so no one would see us appear from behind the d****s -- which meant the surly Middle-Eastern guy who manned the front counter yelled at me when I tried to slip past him -- and I had to meet Sara a couple of blocks away so the club wouldn't see her leave with a customer, but if anyone heard anything suspicious or smelled Sara on my face, she kept it to herself.
And Sara kept her promise: Five minutes after we walked through the front door, I was naked, she was naked, I was sitting in one of my dining room chairs, and she was riding my cock for all she was worth. Afterwards, once we'd had a chance to catch our breath, we did it again -- but this time on video. (In those days I kept a high-end camcorder on a tripod and a few video lights in my living room. Originally, I had set them up before I left on a business trip so my wife could record herself working on new routines. However, once we saw how their presence magically transformed virtually every visit or dinner party into a porn shoot, we left them up permanently. Sara, I'm happy to say, responded to them in the best possible way....)
However, mid-way through our tape, the phone rang. Obviously, I let the machine take the call -- hey, *I'm* no dummy -- but once I heard the caller's voice, I quickly (and apologetically) shooed Sara off my cock and ran for the phone, just barely managing to grab the receiver before she hung up.
On the other end of the line was Beth, yet another stripper who danced with my wife. The quintessential beautiful disaster, Beth was a gorgeous natural blonde cheerleader type, with a body that wouldn't quit -- and, if one was lucky, a libido to match. None too surprisingly, she also possessed a dizzying array of d**g dependencies she had carefully cultivated since junior high. For the past six months, she had been living with -- wait for it -- *another* dancer from the club and her girlfriend (who was a cop, or a sheriff's deputy, or something). Fortunately *and* unfortunately for Beth, the couple were also both recovering somethingaholics: Fortunately, because only in a d**g- and alcohol-free living situation could Beth have even a ghost of a chance of staying sober; unfortunately, because whenever she relapsed, they made her life an absolute hell. As a result, a couple of times in the past my wife had let a drunk, high, or spun Beth hole up in our guest room until she was straight enough to face her housemates.
Tonight, she'd once again given into temptation; accepting a bindle of speed as a tip, she'd slipped into the club's ladies room and done a fat rail off the back of the toilet. Now she was uncomfortably spun and looking for a place to hide; even though she knew my Ms Maz had moved out a couple of weeks before, she wanted to know if ChezMaz was still sanctuary. I told her of course it was: she was always invited. I had her pass the phone to the cab driver, gave him the address -- and then said, as if as an afterthought, for him to tell her just to come inside when she got there: I'd leave the door unlocked, as the doorbell was on the fritz, and I might not hear her knocking, as Sara and I had loud music playing.
So *that's* how Sara and I ended up getting caught: Only as the result of much effort. My best guess as to how long it would take her cab to arrive was nearly dead-on: Beth came up the stairs to find Sara, in thigh-highs and heels, astride me in full gallop; in response, she immediately stripped out of her clothes and plopped down onto the sofa, facing us, to watch and masturbate. (Sara, on her part, responded to the sudden appearance [I told her Beth was coming over... but not that I had arranged for her to find us mid-stroke] of a totally nude Beth busy jilling her clean-shaven cunt to the site of us fucking by coming like crazy -- which Beth almost immediately managed to upstage by squirting all over my carpet.) We spent the next four days in an extended video shoot starring ... Us! in assorted groupings.
All thanks to Sara and me accidentally having been caught....
Josephina
- 06.09.2021
- 11
- 0
