Home Late [MF, cons, Mdom, span, oral]

HOME LATE

It was six past eleven when she got home.  Paul heard her car in the
driveway and the quiet way she tried to slam the door.  Her shoes clicked on
the walk.  That was stupid of her; she should have taken them off.  Even if
he hadn't heard the car, the shoes would have given her away.

Paul lay in the darkness of their bedroom and listened to her unlock the
front door oh-so-carefully.  Her shoes again in the foyer, making a metallic
click on the tile like taps.  He wondered if she would even think of taking
them off, but now it was too late.  She was on the carpeting now.

A pause to put away her coat.  It had turned cold that morning and she had
worn the long, black woolen overcoat Paul had bought for her in Scotland.
The coat gave her a regal bearing, Paul thought, and she liked to wear it to
work.  Combined with the dark business suit, the coat made her look
positively imperious.

Her footsteps went to soft thumps, down the hallway.  Paul heard the gentle
rattle of a doorknob.  Her shoes clicked again.  She was in the bathroom.  A
light appeared under the door that adjoined the bedroom and a faucet ran.

Paul left their bed.  He was naked, but the room was warm.  Moonlight lit
the French windows in blued white and cast Paul's shadow across the
disturbed sheets and the bed's broad mattress.  His feet made no sound on
the hard wood underfoot.  When he reached the door, he paused for a moment
and listened.

She was washing her face.

He opened the door.  She had her back to him, bent over the sink.  The dark,
almost black, rust colored material of her dress clung to her hips, which
rocked unconsciously.  Paul saw she had let her hair down, blonde hair with
a deep, honeyed sheen.

"It's late," Paul said.

She straightened immediately, and spun around.  Her hair was messy, and fell
in distressed waves around her face.  One strap of her dress had fallen and
her shoulder was bare.  She'd taken off her bra and hadn't put it back on.
How unsubtle could the woman be?  Paul thought.  He shook his head.

"Paul," she said.  Her voice was edged, and played out in her expression.
"Listen--"

"Be quiet," Paul said.

The sink still ran.  She made no move to turn it off.  Paul stood naked in
front of her.  He took the time to look her up and down.  Her dress was
wrinkled.  "Were you with him?" Paul asked.

She dropped her eyes.  "Of course," she said.  "You know that."

"You fucked him," Paul said.  It was not a question.

"Yes, I fucked him," she said.  She looked up and met Paul's gaze.  "I
fucked him.  He wanted to."

Of course, he'd wanted to, Paul thought.  She was beautiful.  Just past
forty, with the naturally full body of a woman at her age.  Heavy breasts
and hips that had widened into a round and desirable shape.  Even her face,
with its delicate lines around the eyes, was beautiful.  She was a woman,
with all the maturity and promise that implied.  Any man would want to fuck
her.

"Turn off the water," Paul said.

She did.  When she turned, Paul moved behind her.  He took hold of her arms,
pressed his body to hers, trapping her against the sink.  She gasped, but
she did not try to break free.  "Paul," she said.  "Please."

"Where did he fuck you?" Paul asked.  He spoke directly into her ear and
didn't shout.  "Where?"

"His house."

"And?"

"And what?"

Paul pulled her arms backward.  In the mirror, he saw her breasts thrust
forward as he back arched.  He saw himself, too, graying black hair and a
day's worth of beard growth.  His cock began to come alive where it was
pushed against her.  She must have felt it; she did not meet his eyes in the
reflection.  "Did you suck him?  Did he lick you?"

"Paul...."

"Did you suck him?" Paul demanded.  "Did you suck him off?"

Her face was pained.  "Yes.  I sucked him in the car and when we got to his
house.  I sucked him, Paul.  Are you happy?"

Paul released her arms and steered her around to face him.  She tried to
look down.  He caught her chin.  "You're a goddamned slut, Jean.  It's
almost midnight!  Midnight!"

"I know, Paul, but--"

He caught Jean by the hair and pulled her head back.  She moved with it, a
note of pain catching at the back of her throat.  "I don't want to hear it,"
Paul said.  "Come here."

They moved together into the bedroom.  Jean walked unsteadily, body twisted
to relieve the pressure of Paul's grip.  When they reached the bed, Paul
released her.  She pitched forward, face-down.

"Your dress is all wrinkled in the back," Paul said.  "Did he fuck you with
it on?"

Jean kept her face pressed to the sheets.  Paul thought she might be crying.
He grabbed the rust-colored hem and yanked it upward.  Stitches gave way and
something tore.  There were runs in her thigh-highs.

"You don't even have your panties on!"

His fingers probed between her legs, forcing them apart.  She was
unmistakably wet.  Even her thighs were damp, tacky to the touch.  Paul
traced moisture upward, and spread the cheeks of her ass.  She'd been fucked
there, too.  One finger slipped in easily and a second.  He penetrated her
with a third and she bucked.  Paul heard a whimper.

"He fucked you up the ass," Paul said.

"No, Paul," Jean said.  "I swear, he didn't."

Paul saw red.  "What, do you think I'm stupid?  Do you feel this?  Do you
FEEL it?"  His forced her with his fingers.  The muscle of her anus
stretched around him.  Jean raised her face again and Paul saw tears.  "He
fucked you in the ass and you let him."

"Paul, he didn't!"

"Oh, give me a break."  He ripped his fingers from her and she squealed.
"Don't move."

He left her for a moment.  His clothes for the next day were already laid
out on the low couch by the window.  A new belt lay coiled atop his slacks.
Paul snatched it up and returned to the bed.

Jean looked back over her shoulder.  The tears flowed freely now.  Her
breath came in small, shuddering gasps.  "Please, Paul, don't."

Paul looped the belt.  "You let another man fuck you in the ass and then you
tell me 'don't'?"

"Paul, it was a mistake.  I knew this would happen.  I never should have
let -- OH!"

The first strike caught Jean across the fleshiest part of her ass.  She
jumped and the leather left a bright red band on her skin.  Her feet kicked
up behind her reflexively and Paul realized she still had her shoes on.

She tried to rise from the bed.  "I said don't move!"

Paul brought the belt down again, crossed the first red line with another.
He aimed for the same spot with his third stroke and this time Jean
screamed.  Another stroke and another.  Jean clawed at the sheets with her
fingers.  Her feet braced against the floor, thighs shaking.  Her legs
dripped with perspiration.  She wailed.

"You're a slut!" Paul shouted over her.  "You're a cheating slut!  Say it!
SAY IT!"

"Oh, God!" Jean shrieked.  The cheeks of her ass were a fiery red.  "Oh,
God, please, stop it!"

"Say the words!"

"I cheated!  Oh, Jesus, I cheated on you, Paul!"

Paul dropped the belt.  He hauled Jean from the bed.  She went to her knees
in front of him.  Without a bra to hold them, her breasts moved freely,
distinctly visible from this angle.  Her dress bunched up around her waist.
Tears soaked her face.

"I've been waiting for you to come home for hours," Paul said.  His cock
jutted him between them.  "I was waiting here while another man fucked you
up the ass."

Jean sobbed.  "Paul...."

"Suck me," Paul demanded.  He seized the top of her head.  "Suck me."

She took his cock by the base, engulfed the tip with her mouth.  Paul almost
gasped at the surge of heat and moisture.  The blowjob was aggressive,
unlike her.  Jean sucked harder, drew him deeper.  Her tongue worked at him,
slithering along the length of him as her mouth pumped.

"Oh, goddamn you, Jean," Paul said.  His hand rested atop her head, fingers
twined in blonde locks, but he didn't need to steer her.  Jean moved on her
own, taking his cock to the back of her throat, far enough that he nose
brushed the hair of his crotch.  "You're a fucking whore."

His orgasm came suddenly.  Paul locked his grip on Jean, forced himself into
her.  Her body jerked and Paul felt the muscles of her throat rebel.  He
pumped his hips as he came, fucking into her mouth.  Blood rushed in his
ears and, for an instant, his vision flashed with colors.  He was barely
aware of Jean grabbing at his thighs, pushing at him.  He held fast.

"Just take it," he said.

She made a muffled sound.  Paul emptied himself into her.  His balls began
to ache.

Jean fell away from him when he released her.  She coughed violently, wiped
her mouth with the back of her hand.  The tears were drying, but she
breathed heavily.  "You son of a bitch," she said.  "You son of a bitch!"

"You deserved that," Paul said.  He sat on the low couch beside the window.
His cock, still glistening with saliva, lolled.  He felt a throbbing at the
base of it, almost painful.  "You're a slut."

She made it up onto the bed and lay there, gasping.  "You were the one who
told me to fuck him," she said.

Paul put his belt back where it belonged.  "I know."

"You told me to let him fuck my ass if he really wanted to.  I didn't ask
him to do it, Paul, but he wanted to.  You told you wouldn't be angry!"

"I know what I said.  I'm not angry."

Jean turned away from him on the bed.  He heard her crying.  "Then why,
Paul?" she asked, finally.

Paul came to the bed and lay behind her.  With one hand, he guided his cock
against the entrance to her ass.  She stiffened.

"It's all part of the game."

Jean covered her face.  Her body shuddered.

"Open up for me," Paul said.  "I'm not finished with you."