Brie The Hot Wife
- 2 years ago
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Dennis And Brie Part 1 free porn video
Basically, Brie had told me that if I really was as much of a manwhore as she gathered I was in my last year of high school and during the Fall semester (yesiree), then I had to get tested before we had any more sex. She’d actually rebuffed me a day before, my right hand on her bra, my tongue having just been stuck in her mouth, and told me the terms and conditions. Before Brie, I would have just ditched whatever chick asked me this and found pussy elsewhere. I wasn’t sure what was different about Brie.
So here I sat, having just finished the questionnaire. Did I have any pre-existing conditions? Other than a probably genetic pre-disposition to alcoholism, mental illness and white-collar criminality, nope. I checked no. Was I taking any medications? No. Did I have any allergies? Yes, to multiple choice questionnaires. I wrote that in the margins. I wanted to toss the clipboard across the room at the older woman with hair dyed like a fourteen year old girl and tell her that she should roll some of her painkiller pot up in it and her and I could smoke up and be done with this already. That I didn’t do.
But I’d been waiting for a long time and the nurse still hadn’t called my name. So I peered at the next question.
How many sexual partners have you had in the past 60 days?
Hmm. Should I lie and say one? I didn’t have a problem referring to Brie, who I’d banged twice at that point. It looked like her and I might actually be together. We’d gone out on several excursions that one might even refer to as dates. So I could sound like a regular college Freshman—the kind you see smiling in over-lit pictures on pamphlets advertising safe sex—or I could tell the truth. Which was, I think, five, including Brie. Three of whom I was certain I’d had actual intercourse with. Then two others; one whom I’d eaten out and due to my own antics had never gotten to the dick in pussy stage; another one who I had a memory of watching her vagina slide backwards from my face while I lay on her bed in some semi-functioning state brought on by ten shots, but whose name I forgot, along with any additional physical activity we may have engaged in.
Then there was Sarissa, the loud girl who I’d raw-dogged on that couch, also fucked up. There was Mary, who I started off raw dogging before she stopped everything and told me that although it felt really good, I had to wear a condom; she wasn’t comfortable with this. I’d put one on and flipped her over on her chest, pounding her pretty hard, hoping the rubber would break.
Oh shit! And then there was Ashley, my ex from Junior and Senior year, who I’d, you know, “reconnected” with over Christmas break. Six, then.
I put down: ONE.
I turned to the overweight, fidgeting guy beside me and asked, “Nobody really gets STDs from eating pussy, right?”
While he was still reacting, the door opened and an elderly nurse called out my name. I stood up and walked slowly to the door she held open for me, catching a glance of the dyed-hair adult woman out of the corner of my eye. She was glancing at me in a similar fashion and suddenly I wanted to fuck her. The door shut.
We sat in her office and I was reminded of the types of pesticides my Mom had used on her plants before she stopped even functioning enough to go outside. This nurse’s room was white, white, white, with splotches of green plants. The plants smelled like pesticides.
Her fingers clicked on the keyboard. She was old. She had never wanted to be a nurse. I could tell just by watching her fingers click on the keys. She slowly spun around in her chair.
“And do you see yourself staying with her for some time now?” She asked.
“Sure.”
“That sounds like hesitation.”
“That’s ‘cause I hesitate about all people. But yeah, I dig her.”
“You always use protection with her?”
“Yup”
“Condoms or…”
“Saran wrap.”
She looked up from her computer. She was pissed.
I chuckled.
“Yeah, condoms,” I said.
“Dennis, please understand that these are serious questions. I know you might be nervous or uncomfortable with discussing this aspect of your private life, but it won’t be shared with anybody and I’m only trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“Okay.”
After that conversation, a whole lot of things happened. I went in to a claustrophobic bathroom and peed in to a cup. I sat on a stretcher and got my blood drawn. Other people are grossed out by the sight of their own blood flowing through a transparent syringe. I’m not. I watched the whole thing. Then a male Indian doctor came in and, seemingly apprised by his colleague that they had a patient with some ‘tude on their hands, asked me a few questions, basically repeats of the questions I’d already been asked, and proceeded to stick a needle up my junk. Ow. Jesus fucking Christ. I had not been expecting it. They let me go with some pamphlets, a band-aid on my arm at the point where the blood was drawn, and a sticker.
On the way out to the parking lot, I saw the dyed-hair woman throwing something in her trunk. She wasn’t as old as I’d first thought. Perhaps forty. A nice D-cup. Long brown hair. She opened the driver’s seat door to her gray minivan. The car was a metaphor for her life, I could tell. I thought about it for perhaps a quarter of a second and approached her.
“Hey,” I said.
She was surprised.
“Hi…” she responded.
“Dennis.” I extended my hand.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
That got her thinking about whether she should pursue the conversation or not. She didn’t move so I knew she would.
“Nadine.”
We shook hands.
“How’d it go in there?” I said.
“Um…fine I guess?”
I didn’t respond. I looked at her in a way that said I expected her to continue.
“I mean I’m not pregnant so…” she gestured at nothing and nobody.
“Congratulations,” I said. “On not having a child.” I laughed a little bit. She smiled.
“I actually have to…” She stuck her thumb out at her car as if it was a faraway object. I almost interrupted her. Women love it when you almost, but not quite, interrupt them. Wait for them to finish then jump in immediately after the final syllable has exited their lips. It means you have already taken charge of the situation.
I said, “612. 568. 2341.”
She looked at me. She was in a suspended state.
“Um, what are you trying to say?” she leaned against her door. She knew what I was trying to say.
I repeated it very slowly. She took out her phone halfway through and started entering the digits.
“2314?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
We looked each other over for the next several seconds.
“Go home, get some rest,” I said, turning away.
“Bye,” she said.
I glanced back at her and nodded. I went to my car.
I sat in the car, the engine going, Ice Cube playing on my iPod, and watched the gray minivan cruise away. I peeled my eyes away from it and sent Brie a text: Okay. Done. I’m a man of few words; a Hemingway character.
Right then, I remembered that she wasn’t going to read the text any time soon. She was either in her studio painting (an activity for which she left her phone turned off), or she was out with Rachel and Sam on their once a week Bloody Mary outing. Yeah, probably the later. She was probably shitfaced already. Then she would go home, sleep it off, wake up and paint.
The minivan disappeared down the road. I watched it go and thought, sure, I’d bang a forty year old. Or however old she was.
My dick burned when I peed for the next two days. It was troublesome. But they called me fairly promptly and told me negative on the big-deal diseases (you know what I’m talking about). I was all in the clear. Brie suddenly pitied me. It was as if she felt like it was her fault for my discomfort when urinating. I told her in an abstract sense it was, but who cared. In a literal sense, it just meant we couldn’t have sex. She told me that when she got tested she didn’t have to suffer the pee-burning that guys did. It was the one thing in life that apparently went easier for girls than guys.
But a burning dick, of course, only meant no intercourse. So after I was given the medical go-ahead, I ended my dry spell by careening my tongue around Brie’s clit while getting a view of her boobs heaving up and down with her increased breathing. Her hand grabbed the fabric of the armrest on her couch. Above her head was a Jackson Pollock painting. Something he’d done probably while completely trashed; he probably did not even remember doing it. He’d had no idea a nineteen-year old girl would lie naked on her couch, her mouth open to the canvas, moaning “Dennis…” in to the history of abstract expressionism. He had no idea that further down her body, Dennis himself would be performing cunnilingus on her. He would probably approve of the whole charade; what he might not approve of was a young woman who wanted to be a painter.
I took my middle finger out of Brie’s pussy. Her G-spot was still ridged; it hadn’t yet mushroomed in to the wet lobe it needed to be. I wiped my middle finger across Brie’s cheek and circled it around to her lips. I rested my middle and index finger across her open mouth, letting her breathe on them for a second while I adjusted my mouth further down her vagina, getting my nose wet, exhaling inside of her, not giving a fuck if she liked that or not. She started sucking on my fingers. That was what I wanted. That was what all women did in this situation. Literally, all. It didn’t matter how much of their own bodily fluids were on your fingers; they would suck them.
She was getting towards her high point when she moved her hand from the armrest to the pillow beside us. She’d made the decision, a good one, that the pillow was the best thing to clench her fist on. I watched her arm muscles flex and contract and it made every part of her body look sexier, even her half-shaven armpit. With her other hand she took my fingers out of her mouth so she could be louder and slid my hand over her right tit and down her stomach.
I got the memo, but I added my own twist. I stuck two of my fingers back in to her clit, moving my tongue back upward and pressed in and out very fast until I heard a smacking sound, like a malfunctioning suction cup. The suction cup sound coincided with her G-Spot’s final transformation. It blobbed against my fingers. Both my fingers. Together with her vocals it made music I will never tire of:
Muck muck
Aaaaahhhh
Muck squish squish
Aaaaaaah aaaaaahhhhhh!
Squish squish
“Fuck.”
Then the creamy smoothness of thighs bucking over my head, cutting off the sound from my ears like a dream and the sight of her jaw moving out and in as moaned things I could not hear at the ceiling. She rubbed my head with her hand and her arm flexed.
Rinsing the taste of vagina out of my mouth in her bathroom later, I really really hoped I could get my dick wet the next day and it wouldn’t burn to cum. -->
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