Zaftig SocietyChapter 2
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Zaftig SocietyChapter 3 free porn video
She opened the door to her home, her tomb-like home, the evening in ashes. Once the door was shut she sobbed, loudly and drily, her wet tears exhausted on the drive home. She knew, she knew, it was awful, the most awful thing she could know, she knew it. It was the only explanation, because it explained everything.
Robotically she undressed for bed; the purple dress, once worn with such pride and anticipation, was tossed in a corner like trash. She put on the nondescript nightgown she often wore when she knew no one would see her in it, and crawled into bed, hoping for sleep to carry her off quickly. It did not.
Men at the party believed that she had been there before. They knew Paul, so if they said he had been there, he must have been. But Doreen had never been there. There was only one way to make sense of these facts.
Doreen had a sister, Lauren. There was a time when the two of them could almost have been mistaken for twins; but as Doreen, married, grew larger and aged into middle-age, mother and daughter came to be as likely a guess. Lauren was curvy, bountifully so, but never heavy, like Doreen was. Lauren seemed youthful and energetic when Doreen knew she did not.
Lauren had lived in Florida for many years but she had moved back to town half a dozen years ago. Doreen, happy to have her sister back in town, had made her a part of her and Paul's life, and Paul seemed contented, in an absent-minded way, with this.
Looking back, Doreen wondered where the deception started. She could vaguely remember Paul running Doreen to an exercise class she was taking, Paul giving Doreen a lift downtown to meet up with friends on an evening when he had work to do at the office. The schedule of the Zaftig Society was infrequent enough that a number of different excuses could have been used for Lauren and Paul to leave the house together, without Doreen becoming suspicious.
So they went, together, to the Zaftig Society. And they fucked, as they would never have dared to do at home. They fucked and sucked. Paul ate her pussy. He held her hips while watching another man's cock go in and out of her cunt, come inside her. They kissed as she was fucked, as he fucked another woman. Whatever was done at the Zaftig Society, they did it together. They shared something that Paul had never shared with his own wife— they enjoyed carnal satisfactions that Paul never suggested to his own wife. That he robbed her of all those years while they had the perfunctory, routine sex of a husband and wife for whom desire had ceased being of importance.
And then Paul had died suddenly. A heart attack while driving to a client's office and he was gone for good. Doreen's world had been shattered, but what she had seen, resented at the time, but never really understood was how hard it had hit Lauren as well. In some ways she had found Lauren's reaction immature— he was my husband, she had no right to be so upset by his death, she thought. Her job was to help Doreen, not demand attention and sympathy for herself. It was sibling rivalry, she felt deep down somewhere, and she was not sorry when Lauren moved away six months or so later.
But now she knew. He had not been her husband, at the heart of his sensuality. He had been Lauren's; the most intimate acts of his life had been with Lauren, not with Doreen.
Over the days to come, she would first rage at Paul for having deprived her of this pleasure, for having kept her from being a part of this other life in which he showed who he really was. Then the fire cooled in her and she looked back on their marriage, almost as if it were a case study and she did not know the people involved. If this was Paul's chosen life, what kind of wife had she been to him that he felt he could not share it with her? What did he think of her that he sought to do these things not with his own wife, but with a revised version of her, younger and more attractive to be sure, but also— Doreen knew— more freespirited, more sensual, simply more fun to be around?
Yet the bitterest irony was knowing that he had simply gauged her wrong. That it had only taken a single invitation and she was at once engaged in exactly what he had never even dared breathe a hint of to her. He had not only robbed her of that pleasure, of that deepest intimacy of marriage, he had robbed himself of it. He had been a fool, and died never knowing what sort of creature he had married and shared a bed with.
And over the next two weeks she went from the bleakest depths of depression and lethargy to a steely determination. Paul was dead, but she was not. He had deprived her of things; she would not deprive herself of anything, ever again.
The door opened. Doreen was standing there in another, newly-bought green dress which hugged her boxy form, made curves out of her heavy breasts and broad hips. Carl, the doctor who owned the house, welcomed her with warmth but a veneer of discretion; he might never have been closer to her than two people at the same table. No sign that he had once pounded his cock into her from behind as she watched others fuck.
She gave him a peck on the cheek and they went inside. Inside she took his hands and explained very simply what she wanted. He nodded with understanding and then he took her upstairs.
They passed the room where she had been fucked the week before and came to a door at the end of the hall. He opened and it was his master bedroom, clearly. At first glance it seemed perfectly respectable, masculine; only after you looked at it for a moment did the furnishings seem a bit too much, almost lubricious. He pointed to a large mahogany bureau and unlocked it with a key on his chain, explaining that if there were any special devices she might want for the evening, they would be found inside. She marveled at the idea; it had never occurred to her to ever use such a thing in the act of sex, let alone that someone might keep them at hand like that.
He pulled the door behind her and she looked at herself in the closet mirror. The sight that had once disappointed her, vaguely, that had made her ashamed, she now knew to be desirable. She pulled the skirt up and then the entire dress over her head, revealing the other thing she had bought recently: silk lingerie. She had liked this one in particular— well, for one, for not being white like a shroud; it was a kind of bronze color. But also for the way it pushed her large breasts up, making appealing and bounteous cleavage, while following her form loosely below. She shimmied in it and admired how her hips and ass jiggled. We'll see how much this old ass can jiggle tonight, she thought to herself.
There was a knock and she said come in. It was Carl again, bringing her the cocktail she had asked for. It would surely help her nerves, she thought. He complimented her on her lingerie and she smiled, genuinely. How long since she had heard such a thing?
She moved toward him, pressed her body against his. He was still fully dressed but that was not a problem. She felt at his fly and he seemed to respond, by what she felt. She unzipped it, felt around roughly and, she thought, clumsily, but soon enough had the warmth of a cock in her hands, for the first time in two years.
She knelt down, wet her lips, and took his cock in her mouth. She had done it with Paul, not unenthusiastically, she believed, but at this moment she felt hunger like she never had before. To have a hard pole in her mouth, throbbing with life— it was such a wonderful thing. Why did we not do this all the time?
She licked down the shaft and then to his wrinkly balls dangling below. She could not remember paying that much attention to Paul's balls but suddenly they were the most remarkable thing in the world, she licked the soft, rubbery skin to feel the balls inside, felt the cock flop against her cheek, smear her with her own saliva. Then she had to have it in her mouth again, and she sucked the head. Then she had to have it somewhere else, too.
She unbuttoned his shirt, tenderly, giving kisses to his nipples, which sagged a little with age but to her seemed the most beautiful things she had ever seen, so petite next to her own. Then she unbuckled his belt and his pants dropped. She backed away from him, a smile on her lips, and lay back on the bed.
There were no panties under the bronze negligee, and what was hinted at in her face seemed to explode in the color of dark fur, purple lips, shimmering wetness between her fat thighs. She reached down and pulled her pussy apart; it was wet enough, she did not have time for licking. He came forward and was on top of her and then inside her, almost in one move. As he fucked her she loved the feeling of his flesh against her thighs but only his weight riding against the silky negligee; it was as if she were in a condom, she thought, laughing to herself.
Fucking. This is good. This is the meaning of life. This is what I was made for. These were the thoughts in her mind as he plowed into her, with each thrust of his weight upon her, as she jiggled in all directions, her sagging breasts, her fat belly, her round ass. At a certain point his head arched up and she felt him coming inside her. He was finished; she knew she was nowhere near that.
After a few minutes of lying there next to her, he began to stir. She whispered what she wanted. He kissed her and told her to wait a moment. He dressed quickly and went out.
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