Aly the Tease After the Debauchery
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A Tale Of ImmoralityChapter 3: A Whiff Of Debauchery free porn video
I am Anne.
I am the woman who went to Chicago to fuck a Russian concert pianist and his juicy Chinese page turner. Remember? I am also the woman who afterwards whispered "I love you" to her husband while rinsing her lover's fresh sperm from her cunt.
By now you must find me disgusting.
Please don't think I'd care less. I am not a masochist. I love to be liked. But yes, your disgust won't stop my desire to fuck outside my marriage. It is the spice of my life. Losing it would turn me into the most boring of persons. And who needs that?
My husband George doesn't deserve a depressed wife, does he? I promise to be careful. There is no need for him to know what puts the bubble in me. Wouldn't that spoil it all, for him and for me? I need my little holidays. I bring them home as a gift. Like a fresh tan from Aruba. Or a healthy blush from a spa.
Yes, I can see how you shake your head. So much bullshit just to get what I want. Selfishness wrapped in generosity. Treason in disguise.
Ah well. I guess I have to live with your disapproval. A small price to pay. At least I have one consolation: it has been a great life so far.
It took almost half a year before a new adventure presented itself.
Six months of getting wet from tasting oysters. Or just hearing a Beethoven sonata. Any piano piece, actually. It was also six months of bringing home a horny body because of it. And having sweet George gloriously fuck it.
More and more celebrities hope their fame will spill over into a well-sold perfume brand. I guess it all started with Coco Chanel. Nowadays there are many others. Some are successful; a lot, not really.
I still work at this growing chain of delicatessen and catering shops. I do PR and marketing there. Of course I have a boss. And as all bosses do, he sometimes has an idea.
Funny thing about the ideas of bosses is that they always get implemented. All other ideas tend to be squeezed through a bottleneck of research and yawning committees. But his idea of tying in with the perfume brand of a celebrity made it into execution in no time at all.
My boss had met a particular celebrity at a fund-raiser against land mines or something. She is a famous model, known for her face and her coke parties. (Ah, well, I shouldn't be this transparently jealous, should I?)
In my desperate quest for just the right PR strategy, I came up with a great idea — we would contract with famous restaurants throughout the state to prepare dishes that would go well with the perfume — combining the senses of smell and taste, so to speak.
It was all bullshit, of course. But it was the right bullshit. The restaurants were enthusiastic and so were their chefs, but paramount was the endorsement I got from the celebrity model herself, because it made my boss smile.
I met Alan as we prepared our campaign. He was the head of the laboratory that had designed the perfume.
I at once knew I had to have him.
He was tall, lean and Mediterranean. His nose made me chuckle. It was as impressive as one might expect from a man of his profession. I also mused about what they say about men with large noses.
Alan wasn't nice.
He was haughty and arrogant. Looking down his nose came natural, I'd say. It seemed he didn't even see me at all. I tried to catch his gaze during our meeting. But he never even looked my way.
The next meeting was hardly different. Funny thing was, the more he ignored me, the more I wanted him. I was like a ditzy teenager. After the first disaster I had decided to dress up. A lot more leg, a bit more tit. And shiny lipstick. But in the end I had to believe he was gay, if only to protect my self esteem.
As the meeting petered out, we ended up being the last ones around. I gathered my stuff and started to leave. Suddenly his hand was on my wrist. It felt warm and strong. And it stopped me. I turned to meet his eyes. He pulled me closer and kissed me.
I struggled for about two seconds.
Make that one.
He was staying at the local five star hotel.
That worried me — too many people knew me there. Even if George wouldn't accidentally see me, there were too many chances someone else might notice me and tell him. (I don't want to lose George, remember?)
So I drove my little sports car over to a motel twenty miles down the highway. It was quite a nice place, actually. Pool and garden and all. But that wasn't where our main interest lay.
The rumor about a link between noses and cocks may still be unfounded. With Alan it was deliciously true. Thank God he was very considerate with it.
He must have seen me flinch when I opened his fly. He was only half way up, but the pole that swayed in front of me was already both taller and fatter than any I had ever seen. Including my Russian maestro.
"Kiss it, please," he murmured. And I did.
When he had at last worked it into my cunt, I thought I had died. Yes, and gone to heaven, as they say. In my memories the afternoon was one solid orgasm.
I had to avoid poor George for two nights afterwards, until my pussy had shrunk to its innocent proportions again. It may have been hard for him (no pun intended) — but it was frustrating for me, too. The afternoon delight had left me horny like you wouldn't believe. All I wanted was to fuck George. As I said: he profited as much from my little adventures as I did.
He just had to wait a bit, sometimes.
I met with Alan quite a few times after that.
The meetings were purely professional, though. I had the Law of Anne to consider. It precluded any possibility of repeating our sexual fling. I could tell it wasn't easy for Alan. As arrogant as he had been before, that's how eager he was now for us to get together again.
I was really quite proud.
Although my dripping pussy protested, I kept the promise I had made to myself. Until our last meeting.
It wasn't at our offices. It was at their headquarters in San Francisco. I was requested to fly there to compose the final bouquets of scents and fragrances that would intersperse the different courses of the meals.
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