How I Learned My Wife Cheats With BBC And That I G
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Motorcyclist's WifeChapter 4 free porn video
"It didn't happen... it didn't happen..." Sandi muttered.
There was a note of near-hysteria in the naked nineteen-year- old's voice as she stood soaping her body in the pink-tiled bathroom of her suburban Lakeview Estates suburban home. For almost an hour now she'd been standing here under the cleansing cascade of the shower, trying her best to scrub away the desperate guilt she felt about the shameful way she'd allowed the photographer, Tony Fletcher, to seduce her into horrifyingly indecent acts. Yet, in spite of the bar and a half of Ivory soap that she'd used up in her despairing effort to wash away her guilt, Sandi still felt as lewd and despicable as ever.
How could I have let myself commit adultery? HOW? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Father would say I'm possessed by devils... and maybe he's right.
The young blonde wife's guilty despair, which had been steadily mounting ever since she'd fled from the "Deja-Vu" studio, ran far too deep to be washed away. In spite of her determined efforts to make herself believe that none of the afternoon's events were real, the memory grew more and more vivid. It all seemed so immediately real, in fact, that Sandi scarcely dared to touch her still-swollen breasts or sensitive vaginal area with her washcloth. Even the sharp-needled spray of hot water upon her slender back and taut-muscled young belly sent erotic vibrations surging through her traitorous body.
Oh God! What's wrong with me? I don't want to think about what Tony did to me... but I can't think about anything else. What's happening to me?
The friction of her washcloth and the almost sensual feel of the hot water seemed to be doing more harm than good so Sandi switched off the faucet and toweled her tingling body dry. The red-gold glow of late afternoon sunlight in which she'd cautiously driven home from Brunrocke, all the while throwing nervous glances into her rear-view mirror in fear of being stopped for drunken driving, had finally shaded into the deep purple of an autumn evening, and the guilt-ridden young wife was grateful for the coming darkness. Maybe now she could sleep and escape from her tormenting thoughts...
But as the troubled blonde moved toward her bedroom, symbolically cleansed and doused with fresh-scented talcum powder and spray cologne, the shrill buzz of the telephone destroyed her hope of finding temporary peace. Every time the phone rang lately, she was sure that it must be the hospital telling her that Verne was worse, or dead, for - as the unfaithful young wife's guilt increased, so did her secret certainty that anything which might happen to her husband would be her own fault.
Clutching a large pink bath towel around her voluptuous figure, Sandi raced down the hall to the telephone.
"H-Hello?" she stammered, then recoiled and jerked the receiver away from her ear as she heard Larry Johnson's salesman- smooth voice.
The towel-draped blonde's first impulse was to slam down the phone, for the last person she wanted to deal with in her present emotional state was Verne's "friend" who had treated her with such shameful disrespect the night before. Yet, perhaps he had news about her husband... with the utmost reluctance she returned the receiver to her ear, nervously biting her full pink lips as she strained to hear Johnson's indistinct voice. He was apparently calling from a public place, for there was a babble of voices in the background interspersed with bursts of music, and he also seemed to be whispering.
"Sandi? Can ya hear me?"
"Yes - is something wrong? Is Verne all right?"
"I can't hear ya, honey." Sandi winced at the endearing word. Her husband's manager was quite drunk from the slurred sound of his speech, and she was afraid to hear what he had to say. "Where've ya been all day, huh? I tried to call all afternoon..."
"I've been getting a job," the blonde said stiffly.
"A job, huh?" Larry's intoxicated laugh echoed loud and clear over the wire. "What kind of job... ?"
Sandi wasn't sure whether she was imagining the insinuating tone in her husband's friend's voice - her mind was so disoriented this evening that it was hard to be sure of anything at all. And why shouldn't he imagine that she was the sort of girl who'd find a job which people would snicker about? That was exactly the way she'd acted with him; wasn't it?
"A modeling job," she replied, wishing she hadn't spoken the moment the words left her mouth. Now Larry would expect her to earn money, and of course, she could never, never return to the "Deja-Vu" studio.
"No kidding!" the drunken manager slurred. "That's great, 'cause Verne's being flown in to Gary tomorrow, and in a couple of days or so, he's got to have this operation. Otherwise, he's never gonna be able to ball again, and ya wouldn't like that; wouldja?"
The white-faced wife flinched, hot shame flooding through her body as she realized that Larry's estimation of her character was perfectly correct.
"Don't talk to me like that!" she protested, but even she could hear the false tone in her retort.
"Sorry, honey; don't mind me." Johnson had intended to apologize for his actions of the night before, but after several dry martinis too many, he found his tongue running away from him. "And don't be mad about last night, huh? I just couldn't help getting carried away by that sexy little bod of yours. Let's be friends, okay? Let me drive you into the hospital tomorrow, and we'll talk about it..."
How could her husband's friend be talking about his obscene assault on her unconscious body as casually as if they'd merely had a trivial disagreement? He was a disgusting amoral man who didn't seem to feel the least bit of guilt about trying to trick her into adultery even while his best friend lay in the hospital paralyzed from the waist down, and she didn't believe for one minute that he had any intention of treating her platonically. His "talking about it" doubtless meant he would he turning off onto some dark, deserted country road and trying to slip his hand up under her skirt or inside her blouse... or worse, much, much worse...
"I'll drive myself into Gary," she replied in an icy tone.
"Listen, you bitch," the egotistical motorcycle club manager snarled, but the phone suddenly clicked and went dead. His temper ignited when he saw that he wasn't going to have his own way after all. Even after fucking the hell out of his wife Clare last night, his loins still burned with desire for this unavailable blonde, and as he sat drinking, he'd convinced himself that tomorrow he'd be fucking her tight, blonde-fringed little cunt. Drunken, obscene invectives spewed from his mouth with such vehemence that several couples standing around near the phone began laughing and pointing at him.
"Hey, buddy! Give her hell!" one of them called out.
"You bet your life I'll give her hell," Johnson swore, slamming down the already-dead receiver. "Just wait till I get my hands on that little bitch! I'm gonna fuck her so hard she won't be able to walk for a week!" For several long minutes after she'd hung up the phone, Sandi Smith stood immobile in the dimly lit hallway with her heart pounding in her throat. A chill draft was blowing through the corridor, but as the troubled blonde hugged her slim arms against her chest, the friction of the rough terry cloth against her still tender nipples caused an unnatural heat to radiate throughout her naked loins.
If I had gone with Larry, what would I have done if he'd tried something? Sandi searched her soul for an honest answer, then shuddered as an obscene vision of Johnson forcing her down in the seat of his large Buick and shoving his huge swollen penis up into her defenseless pussy flashed before her eyes. Just the very thought made her vagina tingle with unwanted excitement, and the guilty nineteen year old was forced to recognize that she would probably have had a very hard time resisting her husband's friend.
This line of thought was too dreadful to tolerate for very long, and the mortified girl forced herself to think of other things. Anything, anything at all, was better than dwelling on the unnatural perversions that were springing up in her wicked body.
"I'll get dressed, and then maybe I'll stop feeling so odd," she muttered, falling into her old habit of talking to herself. "And then I'll... I'll make myself something to eat... and... and then I'll read or watch TV or something... and go to bed early so I can look for another job tomorrow..."
Determinedly forcing her thoughts away from the depraved sexual experiences she'd been through during the past twenty-four hours, Sandi donned a crimson-colored velour robe - one of the garments Verne had bought her - and a pair of fluffy slippers. Then, although she didn't feel the least bit hungry, she took a package of frozen hamburger from the freezer and left it to thaw on the kitchen counter while she wandered into the living room and switched on the television. For a few minutes, she played with the channel selector, but when she found nothing but a football game, a talk show and a rerun of a western, she turned it off and set an album on the stereo instead.
Well, baby used to stay out all night long,
She made me cry, she done me wrong.
She hurt me eyes open, that's no lie.
Table's turning now, her turn to cry.
Because I used to love her,
But it's all over now.
Because I used to love her,
But it's all over now.
Sandi's hand shook as she reached out and switched off the record player. The album, an old Rolling Stones collection, was one of her husband's favorites, but, though she'd often heard it before, she'd never really listened to the words. Feeling as though she'd been slapped in the face by the all-too-apt song lyric, the young wife collapsed on the white imitation leather sofa with her aching head cradled in her arms.
How am I going to face Verne tomorrow? she agonized. What if he can tell I've been unfaithful? Mother and Father always knew straight off when I wasn't telling the truth...
Then, as it occurred to her that Verne might not even be conscious, she felt ashamed of her selfish attitude. It only happened this once, and I'll never let it happen again! she vowed, temporarily ignoring her deep suspicions of her own sexual nature. And I'll never let him find out - he's already been hurt enough without that... especially if the operation doesn't work.
The thought of the expensive, delicate operation turned her thoughts back to this afternoon's fiasco of a job-hunt, and to her disgust, the lips of her still slightly tumescent vaginal lips began to quiver at the obscene memory of the magnificent but unspeakably sinful orgasm she'd achieved there on the floor of the photographer's third-floor studio.
"I mustn't think like this! It's driving me crazy," Sandi mumbled into her hands. "I've got to keep busy and make myself forget about it. Tomorrow, I'll go back to Brunrocke and try the other agency."
Unfortunately, however, there was still this long evening to be gotten through. With a deep sigh, the slender blonde shuffled back into the kitchen and stood staring at the plastic-wrapped hunk of chopped meat. Nausea rose in her nervously churning stomach at the thought of digesting a hamburger, and she hurriedly shoved the half-thawed meat back into the refrigerator and stood staring at the well-stocked shelves. Eggs... bacon... a wilting lettuce... a pastel-pink plastic container filled with leftover frozen peas... they were all equally unappealing, and instead Sandi extracted an almost-full bottle of white California wine. A drink would calm her nerves and maybe help her fall asleep, although it was still very early.
The chilled, fruity-tasting liquid felt good as it slipped down her throat, so the young wife carried the bottle back into the living room with her and sat down on the sofa again. Though she refused to admit to herself that she was trying to get drunk to block out her disturbing thoughts, she downed the first glass of wine within minutes and poured herself another as she felt the alcohol draining some of the unbearable tension from her aching body.
A copy of today's newspaper lay on the glass-topped coffee table, and the troubled blonde flicked through its pages in search of distraction. As usual, the news was boring and incomprehensible, and she turned almost at once to the women's pages, but somehow tonight she couldn't concentrate on newest fall fashions or Danish delight coffeecake to bake in ten minutes or what's wrong with new math. Even Ann Landers, her favorite feature, let her down.
There is a big difference between cold
and cool. Ann Landers shows you
how to play it cool without freezing
people out in her booklet, "Teen-Age
Sex - Ten Ways to Cool It." Send 50
cents and...
Was there no escape from sex? Sandi sighed. Perhaps if she'd had normal experiences with boys during her adolescence, this strange sexual compulsion wouldn't be happening to her now that she was a married woman, and she wondered briefly just what the columnist would have to say about this theory. Then, slinging the newspaper onto the carpeted floor, she gulped down her wine and poured herself a third glass as she reached for the novel she was reading.
Build me a Castle was the story of a beautiful young American girl who meets a handsome Scottish widower while on holiday in London and ends up working as a governess in his windswept castle. Until tonight, Sandi Smith had found it fascinating, for her favorite daydream was of traveling to Europe, but tonight she found the book unpleasantly disturbing. She'd just begun chapter 8 in which the hero finally asks his governess for her hand in marriage, and the guilt-ridden wife couldn't help remembering how she'd felt the same joy when Verne had proposed to her one moonlit night as they walked along a quiet country lane.
Everything was so wonderful then! she thought wistfully. Marrying Verne was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me. And look what I'm doing now - destroying everything. If Verne finds out about Larry or Tony, he'll divorce me in a minute. And then what'll I do... I WON'T go back to Florida... I'll have to find a job, and I don't know if I can do that... not unless it's something like that perverted modeling job...
Tears began to sting behind her eyelids as the miserable nineteen year old threw her paperback book across the room and reached for the wine bottle. Then, before she could pour her fourth glass of mind-deadening alcohol, the sound of the doorbell pierced through her dismal reverie.
"It's Larry!" she whispered to herself. "Oh God - he's drunk, and so am I. I don't dare open the door!"
The doorbell chimed again, so loudly that the frightened young wife knew someone was pushing against it with all their strength, and it crossed her mind that perhaps it was an urgent telegram. Tiptoeing across the living room to the curtained picture window, she pulled the drapes aside a few inches to peer out at the front steps. By now it was completely dark; since the porch light wasn't turned on, the only radiance came from the fog- misted glow of the street light, and Sandi's wine-glazed eyes could only make out that there were two figures out there. She couldn't be one-hundred percent sure, but she thought one of them wore a telegraph boy type uniform so she quickly padded over to the front door and pulled it wide open.
"Hi, Sandi," the smiling face of Tony Fletcher, the photographer, leered down at her.
"Wh-what are you doing here?" Sandi tried to slam the door in his face, but her reflexes were dulled by the wine and Tony's shoulder jammed into the open crack too quickly for her.
"Now that's not very friendly of you, Mrs. Smith," Tony said, affecting a hurt expression. "I just brought the producer around to discuss the movie contract I told you about this afternoon. We'd like to talk with you and your husband about it."
Sandi gaped uncomprehendingly at the tall, fair-haired young man beside Tony. He certainly wasn't her idea of a movie producer - in fact, he looked even more like a college student than Tony in his jeans and matching jeans jacket and long, though neatly combed, hair. On his head he wore a beret, which was why she'd taken him for a telegraph boy in the misty darkness.
"My... husband... isn't here. And you can't come in!" she choked out, trying very ineffectually to shove the door shut.
Fletcher flashed a conspiratorial grin at his friend. "That's okay. We were much more interested in seeing you than Mr. Smith, anyway."
"But I don't want to see you!" Sandi whispered. Her head was spinning dizzily, and to her consternation, the sight of the photographer had brought back that corrupt tingling sensation in the pit of her belly. Thank goodness she was wearing something that covered her entire body for a change!
"I think you'll want to talk to us once you hear what we've got to say," the dark-haired photographer gave the thin wooden door a sudden shove which sent it flying open, and he and his blond friend strode into the Smith's house, slamming the door behind him with a resounding bang. So frightened now that her knees felt weak as water, Sandi backed away from them and leaned unsteadily against the wall beside the white couch.
"Yeah, she looks pretty good," the light-haired, slim-hipped youth said to Tony just as if the trembling blonde had been a piece of merchandise in a market rather than another human being. "But I can't see much when she's all covered up in a goddamned robe like a nun!"
The young wife's mouth fell open in shock at the stranger's lewd comment, and she wished with all her heart that she'd not drunk that wine. If she'd just felt a little more together, she'd have tried to dash out of the room and escape from these two deceptively clean-cut males who were leering at her with menacing, undressing smiles on their faces. Tony flopped down on the couch as if he owned the place, but his friend came over to stand so close to Sandi that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the unmistakable thick bulge in his fashionably faded jeans.
"Hey, Ted; don't scare the chick," the cameraman called to the other young man. "Keep your cock in your pants while we have some of this wine and talk about things, okay?"
He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drained the last few gulps, then waved the empty container at Sandi, who was still cowering in the corner wishing that she could vanish through the floorboards. "God any more of this stuff, baby? And get us some glasses - let's put some class into this business discussion!"
Ted guffawed loudly, his eyes never leaving the firm-fleshed mounds of the blonde's buttocks which undulated provocatively, even beneath her heavy velveteen bathrobe as she scurried out to the kitchen. "She looks sweet and innocent enough," the red-faced wife heard him say, "but are you sure she's really a good fuck?"
"I oughta know! She's hot as a firecracker, and I got scratches on my back to show it. Just needs the right guy to set her off!" the photographer boasted.
In the darkened kitchen, the humiliated blonde leaned her spinning head against the cool refrigerator door and blinked away her tears. This new degradation, following so closely on the heels of her unspeakable wanton performance that afternoon and her husband's manager's upsetting phone call, was too much for the intoxicated nineteen year old to handle. There was only one clear thought in her mind - she had to get out of this situation, for another perverted violation of her body was inevitable unless she did so at once. In the past twenty-four hours she'd learned to recognize the signals of sexual danger radiating from aroused males and from her own traitorous body, and all her instincts told her to flee before it was too late.
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