Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Pumping Iron, Pumping Cum

I’ll tell you the truth, but I never thought of myself as a slut wife until I started reading some of the adventures on the Erotic Stories website.  To be honest, it’s not even a word I like - well, not unless it’s my husband calling me that, which is something he really doesn’t do too often.  Except when I deserve it, of course.

Like last week.  I was sucking on his fat, delicious cock and he was taking way too long to cum.  So I stopped sucking and just started jerking him in one hand, while my mouth went down to his asshole, and started licking and sucking him there.  I could tell he was really into it, too, so my tongue started probing as deep as it could go, then I stopped and told him in my hungriest voice, “I don’t care if you shit, piss or cum.  But I want something out of you now.”  And he came so hard and fast I almost broke his dick off angling it to my mouth, and I almost choked on everything he was pumping out.

Yeah, he called me a slut after that, and I kissed him and told him that’s why he loved me.  But I’d never thought of myself as a slut.  Not till I started reading those stories, and recognizing myself in way more than I expected.

I like cock.  Actually, I love cock.  Always have, ever since I first heard about them back at school, and more every time I learned something new about them.  By the time I met my husband, I don’t know how many dicks I’d sucked, or how much cum I’d swallowed.  But hey, I was young and enjoying myself.  And who keeps score of that?

My husband does his best, and I love that man to bits.  But even he gets tired every so often, and one night while we were lying in bed, he... okay, he didn’t actually come out and say that if I wanted to have some fun elsewhere, it was fine.  But he didn’t not say it either.  Just so long as I was careful, just so long as I was subtle.  He didn’t want to hear about everything I did, he said, although occasionally in the months that followed, he’d ask me what I’d done that day, usually after coming home before I’d cleaned my teeth, and catching a whiff of cum breath when I turned to say hello.

So I’d tell him, usually while I enjoyed an encore performance with his dick between my lips, holding it like a microphone and rapping my adventures to a rapt and rapturous audience.  And before you say white chicks can’t rap, don’t be too sure of that.

Anyway, I was the gym last Thursday when Spike walked in.  It’s not his real name; I don’t know what that is, and I don’t know if he’s aware that that’s what people call him.  It’s his hair, you see.  Up in a punky mohican, sprayed livid purple to match the amethyst piercings in his ears.  He’s hot and he’s fit... nineteen or twenty years old, which drops him to almost exactly half of my thirty-nine, and when he strips down to his shorts and tee, he doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

He’s buff, he’s broad, he’s bronzed, he’s beautiful.  And I’ve caught him watching me when I’m on the machines, pausing in his own exertions to catch a glimpse of long-legged milf.  I started dressing for him too, switching out my usual work-out clothes for a tighter top with a lower cut, and bikini briefs that were even briefer than that.  Admiring myself in the mirror when I bought them, I spotted a suggestion of camel toe, but it’s only other women who ever make remarks about that.  Guys see your pussy lips sucking at the fabric and the only thing going through their mind is - lucky fabric.

I’d been working out for almost forty-five minutes when Spike walked in  today, which meant the sweat stains were soaking through all the right places, and my whole body was glistening with the sheen of honest exertion.  He nodded to me as he walked past my machine, and paused for a moment to watch.  Or maybe to show himself off.

He’d obviously been shopping for new work-out clothes, too.  A vest that almost made me look modest, and a pair of shorts that could have been a thong for all they covered up.  My eyes met his then traveled down his bod, knowing he was following them as they inched down towards his groin.

“Looking good,” I murmured, then looked back to his face.  It was a standard greeting at the gym, just something we all said to the people we knew when we clocked the work they’d put in on their bods.  But he knew what I meant regardless of that, and his hands moved down to the waistline of his briefs, hooking thumbs between elastic and the smooth flesh of his abdomen, and tugging them down just a fraction of an inch.

I must have licked my lips because he was smiling wide now, pulling the briefs away from his body and glancing down into the gap.  I couldn’t see a thing, of course, but I have a good imagination and I felt my pussy lurch a little as the imagery flooded into my mind.

I’m not one of those women who subscribes to the widespread belief that a guy is past his sexual prime once he leaves his early twenties.  I’ve known too many older men who  turn that into a joke... Sven, who came to fix a household appliance, and wound up fucking me over the dryer.  MIke, up from Louisiana and up my ass faster than I could correctly spell “Mississippi.”  A trucker whose name I don’t think I ever caught, but who will always be the Road King when I think of long distance blowjobs.  Greg... Lee... Willy... and D, who introduced himself as Mr Deviant one day, and never deviated from that description all evening.

None of whom I’d describe as being the young studs of some women’s dreams.  But what they lacked in youth, they made up for with meat.  So Spike was... not unknown territory to me.  But I’d never really worried about catching them young.  Right now, I was beginning to reconsider.

He’d released his briefs and his arms were by his sides.  But he’d shunted them down a little more when he let go, and I could see his cock stirring through the deep red of the cloth.  

“Looking good yourself,” he said, and an accent I’d never noticed, southern with just a hint of prep school WASPyness made my heart pound harder.  He peeled off his vest and I saw his tattoo... I know he had one because I’d caught a glimpse one day while he was lifting weights, and his shirt rose up an inch or two.  Now the whole thing was bared to me, a pretty brunette standing from his waistline to his breast bone, her body bound in police incident tape, her head tilted back, her lips sightly parted, and her eyes closed what looked to me like the first stirrings of an orgasm.

“Nice tat.”

“Thanks.”  He stepped away, over to the bench where the weights were already waiting in place.  Maybe ten feet away, and raised just enough that as he lay back I could see his chest muscles ripple.

I could also see his cock, rising thick beneath the briefs, fat against the flat of the rest of his lower body.

He started work, raising the weights, first with one arm, then the other, and then with both together.  I kept my own pace up as well, and though I knew from his angle that he couldn’t see me, I made sure he could hear me, exhaling loudly as I pounded my machine, allowing my voice to catch in each exhalation, a gasp, an “aaah,” a moan, a cry.  Normally I hate it when you hear a woman working out, like if it’s that painful, sister, you’re doing it wrong.  But the gym was empty apart from us two, and I knew it was likely to stay that way.  A skeleton staff would be at the front desk, and no-one else came at this time of day.  No-one, that is, apart from Spike.

His cock was hardening.  I could see it moving behind the cloth, shifting, raising, as he worked out.  Growing.  My cunt was so wet it was almost screaming out to him, and I glanced at the stop clock on the dashboard of the machine.  Another three minutes and I’d move to the next one.  Another two minutes thirty.  Another two.  Ninety seconds.  Sixty.  Thirty.

I stepped off and looked around.  Nobody here and the blinds to the street were still drawn against the morning sun.  I walked over to where Spike was holding a pose, two weights poised above his head, his muscles taut, his sweat a hot aroma that clung to my nostrils.  I crouched beside him and his head turned towards me, his eyes deep and serious but his lips creased in a smile.



“Are you done for the day?”

I didn’t reply for a moment or two.  “It depends.”

“On what?”

I ran a fingertip down the length of his tattoo.  “A friend of yours?”

“Could be.”

“She looks hot.”

“She is.”

I’d thrown a double-meaning at him, and he threw it right back at me.  A smart guy.  She did look hot, drenched in sweat, while the muscles that she was inked upon lay taut and tight beneath her.  His body felt like an oven and, shifting my weight as I crouched there, I blew gently onto his stomach.

“Maybe we should cool her down a little,” I said.

“Maybe we should,” he shot back and I saw his briefs start to tent as his cock reached full strength.

I touched the tattooed area again, then traced my fingertip downwards, poising just above where his briefs were stretching so beautifully airborne.  He was still pumping iron but his eyes did not leave mine.  Daring me to hit back with a comment of my own?  Daring my finger to descend a little further?  Daring me to do anything that would break the silent frieze in which I’d suddenly taken a role.

I took the dare.

I took the waistband of his briefs, and began to tug down.

His cock rose to meet me.  Longer than I’d expected, thicker than my husband’s.  Full blooded and straight, with a vein that throbbed visibly as I gazed down upon it.

I didn’t touch, and he didn’t speak.  So I leaned forward and let my tongue trace his tummy, tasting the sweet stickiness of his sweat.  I heard him exhale and maybe he wavered, lowering the weights just a little as my tongue began to circle, short dashes at first, but widening their arc, till my face brushed so close to the raised tip of his prick that I could feel its burning heat on my cheek.

I’ll say this for Spike.  He was good.  He was patient.

And he was mine.

One hand freed his cock and balls from his briefs, the other one held his prick firm and upright.  And then my mouth closed over his helmet.

For a moment, I froze.  I’ve only ever met a couple of guys whose cocks were too big to fit in my mouth, and though I brought them both off with lips, teeth and tongue, I remembered the frustration at not being able to take them deep in my throat.  Was Spike going to be another one of those?

Yes... yes... no.  My jaw relaxed around his thickness, and I realized I’d been holding my entire body taut since the moment I crouched down beside him.  As I let out the tension, so the tension let me go, and the thick meaty head was tart in my mouth, tangy with perspiration and wet with pre-cum too.  I closed my teeth just below the head and sucked, feeling my cheeks fold in to my mouth, and feeling Spike’s body grow tighter beneath me.

I wondered if he was still holding the weights up, then a hand in my hair let me know that he wasn’t.  Not with both arms, anyway.  

I bobbed, taking as much of his length as I could.  The throb of his cock was loud in my head... or was that the sound of my own blood as well, pumping ecstatically as I tasted the boy, my whole body folding up on itself as though every nerve end wanted to meet in my mouth, to share in the glory of that beautiful cock.  

He lay still and I started to face fuck him, my mouth like a pussy as it slipped and slid the length of his prick, and his hand in my hair twisting knots of sweet pain.  I caressed his balls and felt them tighten in my grip, then staggered back a little because now he was starting to move, starting to rise, shifting determinedly onto his knees and my mouth grip was broken as he took his cock away from me, then told me to lie on the floor.

I obeyed and, still kneeling, he crouched over my chest, holding his hard cock just inches from my face.  He was jerking himself now, but dipping his shaft so my greedy lips and tongue could reach out to catch his flavor, suckle his flesh.  And then he was cumming, arcing hot spunk, splashing my face and drenching my breasts, harder and heavier than I’d seen a guy cum since... okay, maybe there is something to be said for younger men.  They know how to put on a show with their flow.

I was drenched.  My top was soaked, my face was dripping.  I licked what I could off my lips, then ran a hand through the pools that hit my cheeks and chin, and cleaned them off with my tongue as well.

He jerked until his cock had stopped spurting and I pulled him back into my mouth to suck, loving the feeling of the softness returning, relishing the very last drops of cum he fed me.  Then as I released him and he moved away, he spoke for the first time since I started to suck.

“You’re married, aren’t you.”  It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded.

“Does your husband know what a slut you are?”

I nodded again.  Spike’s cum was drying on my t-shirt.  I’d need to get it in to soak soon, if I didn’t want it to stain.  And it was as if he read my mind.

“Wear that shirt when he comes home tonight.  Wear it while you’re sucking his cock.  And when he comes, make sure he comes all over it as well.  Will you do that for me?”

I didn’t even need to think.  “Yes,” I said softly.  Then louder, “fuck, yes.”

“Do it and I’ll let you suck me off again sometime,” he told me.  “And if you’re a really good slut, I might even let you meet with some of the guys I work out with in the evenings.”

I swear, I could feel my eyes shining as my face broke out in the wildest smile.

“Oh, I’m already a really good slut.  But I’m always glad to find out how to be even better.”

No comments:

Post a Comment