His wife Lana - part 2

The song comes out of her low and tuneless, half-hummed, half-mumbled, a pop thing she doesn't even like; it keeps skipping the same four bars because her head isn't in it. Her head is two weeks back and one floor down a hotel corridor.

She shakes the white lace out of its drawer and drapes it across the duvet. Bra first, straps arranged. Then the stockings, one over each corner of the bed, like she's laying out instruments before surgery. She holds the suspender belt up to the window light, hums louder, and lets it fall.

Her hips move a little while she works. Not a dance. It’s just the loose, easy sway of a woman who feels she is already being observed, in her own mind, by someone who has not yet arrived.

His cock.

She catches herself smiling at the ceiling. It's ridiculous. She's had a man for eleven years; she knows exactly what a cock weighs in her hand, what it does, and how it fits, and yet she's standing in her own bedroom at eleven in the morning humming like a teenager because a different one is so much bigger. Longer. Thicker. Hotter in the palm. That first slap of it against her chin, that ridiculous weight. She'd had to use both hands to be sure of it; even then, her fingers hadn't met.

The funniest part. The absolute funniest part.

He is his assistant.

She giggles out loud, one hand over her mouth, and drops onto the edge of the bed. His assistant. The man her husband sends to fetch the briefcase. The man her husband trusts with the car, the calendar, the receipts, and the family. The man her husband has no idea has had his cock down her throat in a meeting room with the blinds half open.

"Sorry," she says to nobody and wipes her eye. "Sorry, it's just too funny."

The memory won't let go of her now that it's started. She'd gone back out into that party with her chin still tasting of him; she hadn't even tried to hide it. That's what she remembers most clearly. Not the shame of it—the ease. She'd walked out of that corridor beside him, his hand hovering at her lower back, and she'd walked slow, on purpose, so everybody could see whose arm she was under.

Then her husband, from across the room, was bright and completely unbothered: "There you are, my love."

He kissed her. Right on the mouth.

She'd let him. She'd let him kiss her with Chris's cum still sitting on her tongue, salt on her lips; she'd kissed back sweetly, wifely, one hand flat on his chest, her eyes flicking past his shoulder to Chris's face, staying there while her husband's mouth moved on hers. Chris had looked at the floor. Chris had looked at his shoes like a schoolboy.

She looks down at the memory of her blouse and grins. Not a drop. Not one. She'd swallowed it all—gulped it down until her stomach was warm with it—and the white silk was spotless when she came back into the light. She'd checked. She'd actually checked.

Her husband had pulled back, licked his lips, and frowned, puzzled and pleased.

"Margarita?" he'd asked.

She'd tilted her head. "Only me."

Then, before he could think about it any further: "I have to fix my hair."

The ladies’ room was two doors down. She'd stood at the mirror with her hands braced on the counter, looking at herself—nothing. Hair a bit flattened at the back where Chris had held her head. Mascara is whole. Lipstick gone but not smeared, just gone, cleanly, like she'd eaten it. A touch-up, a comb—no one on earth could have told.

Too bad, she thought.

In films the woman always comes out with her lipstick halfway up her cheek. Always. A smudge, a smear, something for the husband to frown at. She'd dabbed color back onto her mouth, studied herself, and wondered, honestly, with a little stab of pride and a little stab of disappointment:

How good am I really?

Good enough that it doesn't show, apparently. She'd smiled at her reflection. Then she'd gone back out and stood so close to Chris that their sleeves touched.

Her husband had been in the middle of something. He's always in the middle of something. Some story about a client, or a golf handicap, or a merger, the details sliding off her like rain off glass. She'd nodded at the right pauses. She'd looked at his tie while he talked.

Her hand had gone behind her back.

She'd found Chris's arse through the wool—found it easily; it's not a small target—and pinched.

He'd jumped. A proper little hop, half a step, and he spilled a mouthful of his drink. Her husband hadn't even noticed. She'd giggled into her glass.

Then she'd stayed there. Palm flat on one cheek, slow, lazy circles up the slope of it, down again, feeling the muscle shift under her hand as he tried to stand normally. So solid. So warm. She'd marvelled at it the way she'd marvelled at the rest of him—a man built like that and polite with it—his, hers to touch, right there in front of everyone. A potent man. She'd run her thumb along the seam of his trousers and felt him tense.

Above her, Chris swallowed. A dry, audible click. Then again. His jaw working, his eyes fixed on her husband's mouth like the man's boring story was scripture.

You must be so hard by now, she thought, pressed two fingers up behind his balls, just to check.

He swallowed a third time. He didn't move his hand to cover himself. Couldn't, without giving the whole thing away.

She looked around the room, over the shoulders, the canapés, and the paper hats. How can we fuck here? Her husband's voice droned on beside her ear. How about his office? She'd been to that office. Twice. She remembered the corridor—second right past the printers, past the kitchenette with the water cooler, and the door with his name on the plaque. She remembered how to get rid of a husband too: hand him a problem, and he disappears into it like a fox down a hole.

Heaven obliged. Some shareholder she'd been introduced to an hour ago cut through the crowd, hand already out, apologetic face on.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt—may I steal him? Something's come up."

"Yes, sure," she said.

The second the two of them turned, their backs going away down the room, she had Chris by the hand.

She didn't lower her voice. That was the best bit, she thinks now, sitting on her own bed with the lingerie laid out beside her. She hadn't lowered her voice at all.

"I know a place where you can fuck me, honey."

Some woman near the bar heard it and turned her head so fast her earring swung. Chris's face went through about four expressions in a second and settled on yes.

She'd led him out. Past the coats, past the bar, into the long corridor with the good carpet and the prints of the harbor on the wall. A young woman—she remembers her, a pretty-faced woman, single, probably a trainee, maybe somebody's accountant—had watched them go by, looked at her hand in Chris's, looked at Chris's face, and understood the whole thing in one go. She'd smiled. She'd actually smiled, given it a beat, then started following, slowly, hanging back, hands in her pockets.

Let her, she thought. Let her watch if she wants.

The corridor bent left. Her heels clicked. Chris's hand was sweating in hers, and she liked that too—liked that a man that size could be nervous. She'd pulled him past the water cooler, past the printers humming, and stopped at the door with the plaque.

She'd turned, put her back to it, and looked up at him.

"Second time today," she'd said, reaching behind her for the handle. "Make me a true slut."

She'd half-expected her, but when she glanced back at the bend in the corridor, she was standing there, caught mid-step, hand on the wall, deciding whether to keep going. Young. Very young. Eighteen, no more. Some kind of badge on a lanyard that said TRAINEE in letters too small to read from that distance, hair scraped back, sensible shoes, and a blouse doing more work than it was designed for.

She'd stopped at the corner and stayed there, and when Lana looked at her, she hadn't run.

Lana turned back to the door and got her key out of her clutch. Her husband's office key is on her ring because wives have keys, because she has watered his plants and collected his dry cleaning, and she sat in this building waiting for him to finish up a hundred times.

The lock gave. Dark inside. She stepped in and hit the lights; the strip lights came on in two hard flickers. She crossed to the window and cranked the blind cord so it went up and up and up, the whole length of it, all the way to the top, the grey December daylight coming in flat across the desk.

She turned around.

Chris was in the doorway, half in, half out, looking over his shoulder at the corridor, then back at her. She could see him doing the arithmetic: open the door, look at the bright window, and see his boss's office and his boss's wife.

She stepped up to him, put her hand straight down the front of him, cupped, and weighed.

"Leave the door open, honey."

He nodded.

She rolled what she had in her hand. Felt it thicken against her palm, that slow, heavy swell.

"Do you still have some good baby juice for me?" she cooed. Her thumb pressed up underneath, deep, right at the root. "Hm? Or did you spend it all in that meeting room?"

He made a sound that wasn't quite a word.

"Are you going to make me a mommy, Chris?"

She felt it—felt it—jump, stiffen, and press back against her fingers; she smiled up at him slowly because that's the tell, isn't it? That's the one thing a man's body will say before his mouth does.

She lowered herself down in front of him. Her knees met the carpet of her husband's office.

How do I smear my lipstick? She thought; it was almost annoying. Clean mouth, clean blouse, no evidence. She wanted a smudge this time. Something for the mirror.

She got his shoes off first. Both of them, heel and toe, set aside neatly. Then she reached up and did his belt and the button and pulled the zip down over the strain of him and worked the wool off his hips and down his thighs; he stepped out of them, one foot, then the other.

His trunks were full of splitting. Her face was right up against the bulge, close enough to feel the heat coming off it through the cotton; her thumbs found the waistband and dragged it down.

His cock came out of it like it had been waiting. Bounced up, struck her chin, and stood.

The head was already wet.

She got her fist around the shaft and pulled him in towards her face; he came with a small stagger.

"I don't need lube down there, honey," she said. "Let Mommy suck a little."

She dabbed her tongue at the slit, took the wet off him, and he shivered all the way up, a whole-body shudder she felt travel through his thighs, and she laughed under her breath against the head.

There was movement at the edge of her vision.

She turned her head. The trainee was there in the gap of the open door, pressed to the frame, one hand curled over the edge of it, mouth a little open, not breathing properly. Twenty-two, maybe. Probably less. Great tits—genuinely great, with that full high weight in a cheap blouse, the badge swinging off the lanyard where her chest rose and fell.

Lana winked at her.

The girl's whole face changed. Something hot and startled went through it; she pressed back against the frame like she'd been told off and didn't leave.

Let me put on a little show, Lana thought. Make her wet.

She turned back to Chris, rubbing him across her cheek—one side, the other, the wet head drawing a line on her skin. Then she picked him up and slapped the weight of him against her own face. Twice. Three times. It landed with a soft meaty sound; her mouth dropped open each time. The third one caught her lip and dragged it, and she felt it happen—that smear, red, pulled wide across her chin.

There.

"Oh god," she breathed, "it is so big."

She looked at it, held it out in her fist, and stood up off his belly—it was so big—her cunt clenched at the sight like it was agreeing with her. She engulfed the mushroom head, sealed her lips below the ridge, and gave it two hard pulls—hollowed, wet, drawing it deep, letting it go with a smack.

Rock hard. Harder than he was. She could feel it.

"Are you going to make me a mommy?" she purred, standing up.

He didn't understand it. She could see that—the word landing nowhere, just a nice word, just the noise a woman makes. He didn't know. He didn't know she'd binned the protection half a year ago in one furious silent action, never told her husband; he didn't know her week was coming up on her fast now, close, days away. Sperm lives five days; she knows that, she's read it, five days inside her, waiting.

The thought went through her like a wire.

Five days. Right when I'm ready.

She shivered. How big would her tits get? Swollen, heavy, and the veins blue. She'd read about it; she'd seen it in other women. The idea of it—the idea of bending her own head down, being able to reach one of her own nipples with her tongue, lying back on a pillow, licking herself while it leaked—made her hands shake.

The skirt zip was at the back. She reached, pulled, stepped out of it, and kicked it behind her.

Her blouse went next, off the shoulders, off the arms, gone.

The black bra held her up like a shelf.

"Open your Christmas gift, honey," she whispered.

He got his hands around her back. Found the hooks—all three of them, first go, no fumbling, no picking at it, quick and sure; she giggled against his collarbone. He's good. He's done this a thousand times. Good for quick fucks.

She rolled her shoulders and let the straps fall; her breasts came out into the cold office air, the flat grey window light. She turned her head and smiled right at the girl in the doorway with her tits out.

"Suck my titties," she said. "Have a taste."

She pulled his head down onto one; his mouth was on it before she'd finished the sentence, eager and wet. She let her head fall back, sighed long from the bottom of her chest, hooked her leg around the back of his leg, and pulled him in so his hips came up against hers, the whole hard length of him pressing into her belly.

Then she turned her face to the door and held the girl's eyes and let him make her moan again and again, right into the quiet of the empty floor.

"Fuck me," she whispers, as she hops on the large desk.

Not quiet. Not even close to quiet—pitched to carry, pitched past Chris's shoulder, pitched straight at the door frame. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't know he has an audience. He doesn't have to. He's the cock; that's all he is right now, that's all he needs to be—the tool in the room—and she and the girl will decide the rest between them like two women at a market.

She reaches down and gets the shaft in her hand.

Oh, he's going to fuck my unprotected pussy.

She shivers, whole back, top to bottom. A nice test run. Something to hold up against the rest of her life.

She brings the head down between her legs. Not in—against. The purple helmet kisses her opening and stops there; she holds it there and breathes, then starts to move it. Up through her lips, slow, down again, sliding it through the wet, dragging it along the whole wet length of her, coating him in it. Up. Down. Up. Nothing in her but the promise of it; she's already shaking; the window is right there, the girl is right there, and the whole empty floor is right there listening.

Down again, and the tip catches her clit, and she bolts—a hard little spasm, up on her toes, knees buckling in.

"Oops," she gasps, laughing. "I'm very aroused."

Her clit is out. All the way out, swollen up, pushing out of her like something that wants to be touched. She can feel the air on it.

"Such a magnificent cock," she says, half to herself.

She brings him down again. Finds the right place this time—the notch, the dip, the little hollow that fits the head of him exactly; she holds it there with two fingers around his base and looks up.

"If you fuck me now," she whispers, "we can never go back."

She watches his throat work.

"So. "Her voice drops. "Are you going to be a good assistant? Or are you going to make me a very bad wife?"

He pushes.

Not far. Two inches, three; she feels the stretch begin at her opening, feels herself give around him in a slow-burning ring. Her mouth falls open and stays open; nothing comes out of it. Her fingers dig into his shoulders.

Behind him, the girl has stopped breathing altogether.

He's watching Lana's face. He hasn't looked down once and hasn't looked at where he's going in, and that's the thing she'd forgotten—that a man that big doesn't need to look, that he can feel his way; the thought of it makes her cunt squeeze, clench, and pull at him.

"More," she says. "Deeper. Come on."

He gives her more. Slow, steady, a full long slide of it; she feels herself open, keep opening, that good deep ache spreading up into her belly. She's got one heel hooked behind his calf, dragging him in, taking it.

"God—"

Her head goes back, her tits lift with it, the black bra hanging off one shoulder, the girl able to see everything—the stretch of her, the shine of her, the way her belly dips with every push.

The window is grey and wide and open to the whole city; she doesn't care, she wants it, and she wants somebody on a roof opposite with binoculars.

She gets her hips working. Rocks up into him, meets him, and the sound starts—wet, rhythmic, and obscene in a room that's only ever heard keyboards.

"That's it," she breathes. "That's it, honey, keep it there, right there—"

His hands find her hips and lift her; he's got her at the angle he wants now; she's up on her toes, half off the floor, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, the head of him knocking something deep that makes her vision narrow.

She looks over his shoulder at the trainee.

The girl has her hand between her own legs. Over the skirt. Pressing, not moving much, mouth open, eyes fixed.

Good girl.

Lana holds the eye contact and lets her face do what it wants. Mouth slack. Brow creasing. The little helpless high noise in her throat every time he bottoms out.

"Watch," she manages. "Watch what he does to me."

The girl nods. Actually nods, quick and jerky, like she's been asked a question in class. But her hand slides inside her skirt and finds her young pussy

He pushes.

Oh—oh, he is so thick.

It doesn't go like she thought. It goes in a slow-burning ring, an inch at a time, every inch of it making her think the same thing over and over—too thick, too thick, he's too thick—her body just keeps opening anyway, giving ground, splitting around him. Her mouth is wide open on a sound with no voice in it. Her nails have gone into his shoulders.

"A-ah," she groans, low, drawn out of her chest. "Ah—"

She feels the veins. That's what undoes her. Not the size, but the veins—the raised, hard, ropey ridges of them dragging along her front wall as he sinks, catching, releasing, and catching again. Her pussy works at him like it's trying to learn him, gripping, loosening, gripping, wet, sloppy, and completely out of her control.

"So big," she gasps. "God, so big—"

He's barely in. Four inches, five; she already feels filled, already feels rearranged; he keeps coming, slow, relentless, the stretch climbing higher into her belly.

"So thick," she moans. "So—ah—ah—Chris—"

Her heel has come unhooked from his calf. Her legs are shaking. The desk edge is under her arse; she's got both hands flat behind her on the wood, bracing, her tits pushed up and out, swaying with every push. The girl in the doorway can see every bit of it, can see her split around him, and can see the shine running down her thighs.

She can't think. Except she can, in tiny, clear bursts between the groans, little islands of thought. That's a real cock. That's an actual, real, grown man's cock in me, after a year of nothing. The thought makes her moan louder than the stretch does.

"Make me a slut," she hears herself say. "Make me a true slut, Chris—ah—make me—"

He grunts and drives, and it's deeper this time; it hurts. That good bright hurt at the very top of the stretch, and she loves it; she wants more of it, and she lifts her hips into it to get more.

Her pussy is doing the work now. Sucking, rippling, hauling him in, welcoming him the way a throat does; she feels the wet run out of her around the base of him, drip off her arse onto the desk.

Halfway. He's halfway, that's all; she is already at the edge—already there, hanging, with no warning, no slow climb.

"Chris—"

It takes her like a hand closing. Her whole cunt seizes, hard, hard, clenching down on the thick of him so tight she feels him stop, feels him caught in her. Her back arches off the desk, her head goes back, her mouth is open on nothing, silent, and her chest heaves. Then it comes out—a broken, rising wail, high, shameless, echoing off the glass.

"Ah—ah—oh god—"

Her thighs slam shut around his hips. Her feet come up off the floor. She's grinding herself on him through it, involuntary little rolls, and every roll sets off another pulse, and every pulse squirts more wet out of her, down her arse, over the wood, a spreading shine.

The clenching won't stop. Five, six, seven waves of it, each one pulling a fresh cracked noise out of her, each one shorter than the last, until she's twitching, jerking, giggling, and gasping all at once, one hand flapping at his chest to hold him still.

"Wait—wait—wait—"

He holds. Buried halfway. Both of them are shaking.

She looks past him, blurry, and finds the girl still there, hand jammed between her legs, mouth a perfect round. O; Lana laughs, wrecked, half a sob in it, lipstick smeared to her chin.

"Don't stop," she pants. "Don't you dare stop. Push it all the way in."

xxx

He sinks.

Slow. So slow. The last of it, inch by careful inch; she's writhing under him now, undulating, arse lifting off the desk, rolling, heels dragging up his back.

"Ah—ah—so big—ah, so good—"

Her nipples are so hard they ache. Standing up off her tits like two little stones, dark and tight; every shove of him makes them drag across his chest, and she could come just from that, she thinks, just from that.

Then the head of him finds the bottom.

It's a deep, dull, extraordinary knock—right up against the end of her, right where her womb is—her eyes fly open, her mouth makes a shape, and nothing comes out.

"Oh."

He knows. He knows now. He's got the map of her, he's found the exact spot, and he's holding it there, grinding it; she can feel him pressed up against the mouth of the thing itself, her womb, her soon-ready womb, and the thought is unbearable.

"Right there—" she chokes. "Right there, next week too, you'll find it next week too, every single—" a shove, "—ah!—oh yes, Chris—day—"

Her legs lock around him, hauling, pulling him deeper and deeper; she hears herself going on, doesn't stop, half of it not even words.

"What a cock. Oh, what a cock. Fuck this wife, Chris. Fuck me, yes, yes, ah—"

Her second one is already climbing. Right on the heels of the first, no mercy, coiling hot and tight, down low; her voice goes thin, high with it.

He pulls back.

All the way back, almost out, till there's nothing but the head of him still inside her, holding her open; she wails at the loss, then he impales her, one long ramming stroke to the bottom.

"Ah!"

"Again," she groans. "Yes—fuck me, honey, make me yours, again—"

He does it again. Then he finds it—the pace. Deep and slow and merciless, no hurry in it at all, shoving his cock to the bottom of her every time, holding it there a beat, then drawing back to the crown, letting her feel the whole length of him slide out of her before he puts it back.

He's taking his time. He's enjoying her.

His cock is shining. Coated, every inch, wet and slick and gleaming in the grey light; when he pulls back to the head, the shine runs in threads from her to him and breaks.

She looks down her own body at it. At the size of it coming out of her. At the way her crotch lips are dragged out with it, holding on, not wanting to let go.

"Oh my god," she whispers.

Then she turns her head and looks at the girl.

She's got her skirt up now. Bunched at her waist, one hand shoved down the front of her knickers; she's working herself hard, not shy about it anymore, wrist flexing. Her knickers are pale pink, and there's a dark wet patch spreading through them where her fingers are. Her badge has swung round to her back; nobody's fixed it.

Her face.

Her face is the best thing in the room. Flushed red right up to her hairline, hair stuck to her forehead, brows pulled together like she's in pain, mouth open and wet and moving a little—mouthing something, maybe a word, maybe just breathing—her eyes going back, forth, back, forth, from Lana's face to the place where the cock is going into her, unable to settle.

She bites her bottom lip. Hard. Then let it go; it's white, then pink again.

Lana holds her eyes and moans for her, long and filthy; the girl's hand speeds up, her knees bend, and she has to put her other hand out flat on the door frame to stay up.

"Look at you," Lana pants. "Look at you, sweetheart. You're going to come watching me, aren't you."

The girl nods, desperate, her mouth shaping a yes.

"Good. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Then Chris bottoms out again, knocking that place deep inside her. Lana's eyes roll back, and her second orgasm breaks—sudden, huge, tearing up through her—she screams into the empty office.

Xxx

Describe orgasm.

xxx

Chris turns his head.

It takes him a second to place it—the corridor, the open door, the shape standing in it—then he does, and he doesn't stop fucking her, doesn't even slow down, just looks over his shoulder at the girl with his cock still buried in his boss's wife, smiling.

A wide, easy, delighted grin. Caught-out, pleased about it.

"Hi Jade." He casually greets her.

The girl makes a small strangled sound; her fingers go still down her knickers for half a second, then start again, faster.

"Hi," he says, breathless, and it's such a stupid, ordinary thing to say with his balls swinging against a woman's arse that Lana laughs, cracked, high, still shaking from her second one.

Her legs have come down. She's lying flat on her husband's desk with her hair in her own mouth, her lipstick gone to hell, and her cunt full of his assistant; she lifts her head an inch off the wood and looks at the door.

"Join us," she says.

The girl's hand comes out of her knickers. She's wet to the wrist. She looks at the corridor behind her like she's checking for witnesses, then steps in; the door stays open behind her.

Her walk is terrible. Shy, stiff, all nerves; she's got her skirt still up, her thighs pressed together, and she nearly goes over on one of her sensible shoes.

"Here," Lana says. "Come here. Kiss him, honey. Give him a proper hello."

She does. She puts both hands on Chris's face and kisses him; she's clumsy with it, eager, and clumsy, and Chris kisses her back without ever breaking his rhythm.

That's it, Lana thinks, watching them over her own body, her cunt clamping down on the slow wet shove of him. Both of them. Look at the pair of them.

Then his hand closes around her waist, and he fucks her.

Hard now. Properly hard—he pulls her down the desk into it and holds her there; the thrusts start moving her, driving her up the polished wood an inch at a time, the desk squeaking under her, her tits jumping. Every time she's slid too far up, he hauls her back by the hips, hard, and drags her down the desk onto him, and she goes. She's got no say in it; she's a thing he's using.

His balls swing up against her with every push and wet slap; the desk behind her rattles when he gets her back against it.

"Ah—ah—ah—" it's forced out of her in time with him, one syllable per shove; she can't stop, can't close her mouth, can't do anything but take it, letting the table grate under her back.

Her lipstick is smeared all down her chin now. She can feel it stiffening on her skin. It's going to be everywhere by the time he's finished with her; she's glad, and she wants to be able to point at it later.

"Oh, Chris," she pants; it's the first time she's used his name in that room, and it comes out cracked. "Oh, you are so good at this."

The girl pulls back from kissing him, breathing hard, turns, and looks down at Lana.

Then she leans in and kisses her.

Lana's hands come up off the desk, into her hair.

Her mouth is soft. That's the first thing—so soft, so small, she tastes of nothing but warm breath; she's tentative for about two seconds before Lana gets her tongue in her, then she's not tentative anymore. She opens. She opens right up, her tongue coming out to meet Lana's, wet, quick, curious, dabbing, learning, sliding along the flat of Lana's tongue, then curling up under it; Lana moans into her mouth.

The girl moans back. A little startled vibration of it.

Her nose presses Lana's cheek. Lana's fingers tighten in her scraped-back hair, pulling her down; the kiss goes deep, stays deep, and both of them turn into it, mouths working, wet sounds of it, tongues tangling, retreating, and meeting again. Lana's body is sliding up the desk, back down, up, back, in time with Chris; the kiss rocks with her, breaks, reforms, and is sloppy at the corners.

The girl's hand comes down. She cups Lana's breasts—both hands, one each, scooping them up, weighing them; her thumbs find the nipples, and she plays.

She's playful with it. Not methodical, not like a man. She rolls them, pinches them lightly, lets go, pinches again, pulls them a little, watches them spring back, and drags the flat of her thumb over each one, around, around. Then she ducks her head, takes one in her mouth—brief, a hot, wet suck—lets it out again with a pop, and goes back to her mouth.

Oh, Lana thinks, dimly, from a long way under. Oh, she's good. She's making me ready.

Ready. That's exactly it. She's being got ready—got soft, wet, open, loose, all the edges rounded off; the whole time Chris is shoving up into her, deep, steady, hard; the two things together are doing something terrible to her.

She's going to come again. It's already there, gathering, hot, thick, low, right where his cockhead keeps knocking.

"Don't stop," she gasps into the girl's mouth; she isn't sure which of them she means.

Neither of them does.

She feels it before she understands it.

His balls are drawing up. Tight, tighter, pulled high, hard against her arse; they're not swinging anymore, just slapping short, quick; his rhythm has gone to hell—faster, choppier, no more of that patient deep shove, just short, desperate hammering.

Oh, she thinks. Oh, he's going to—

"Jade," she gasps, the name coming out without her deciding to use it. "Jade, hold my legs wide. Hold them wide—he's going to cum—help him, help him make me a true slut—"

Jade drops to her knees at the end of the desk, gets a hand under each of Lana's thighs, and pushes them out, back, spreading her open as far as she'll go, holding her there; it's such a good stretch Lana groans.

"Ah—yes—yes—harder—"

He goes harder. Something breaks loose in him; he's driving now, blind, grunting, his whole body over her; she can feel the exact moment it happens—the whole sac going up, contracting hard, drawing in tight against the base of his cock like a fist closing, once, twice, a third time.

Then the first pulse.

It goes through his cock like a swallowed heartbeat, a long, hard throb she feels all the way up the length of him; then the heat floods into her.

Warm. God, so warm. Pump after pump of it, thick, hot, right up against her womb, right into the place he'd been knocking; she feels it arrive—feels the pressure of it, the spread of it, the sheer amount of it filling her up.

"Oh—oh—"

He keeps coming. She can feel every separate pulse, each one a hard squeeze, each one pushing more of it into her; it doesn't stop; the warmth keeps building, spreading, sitting there against the mouth of her womb; her cunt is milking him, rippling, hauling, pulling the stuff out of him like it's been asked to.

"Yes," she's saying. "Yes—ah—like that—yes—"

It's the seed that does it. The heat of it, that deep, that much, pressed right where she needs it; something in her body just gives up and takes the whole thing.

Her third one comes up through her middle like a wave going the wrong way.

Her back leaves the desk. Her heels shoot out, Jade's grip the only thing holding her down; Lana comes with her mouth wide, a long, shattering cry that cracks in the middle and turns into something almost like a sob. Her cunt clamps down on him so hard it hurts, hard enough that Chris makes a strangled noise above her, his hips stuttering to a stop, buried to the root, still pulsing, still pumping.

Wave after wave. Her thighs are fighting Jade's hands, trying to snap shut; Jade won't let them, holding them out and down, keeping her spread while she shakes.

"Ah—ah—oh god—"

Her hands are scrabbling at the desk, at nothing; one of them finds Jade's forearm and grips it. Jade doesn't move, just stays, holding the wife in place while she comes apart on another man's cock.

It goes on. Her belly is fluttering. There's wet running out of her around the seal of him, down over her arse; the desk under her is a mess; still she can feel him twitching, the last few small dying throbs, giving up the last of it into her.

Then it's over. Her back comes down. Her legs go slack in Jade's hands.

She lies there with her mouth open, eyes shut, chest heaving; she can feel it—all of it—sitting deep inside her, hot, heavy; she can feel his cock still in there holding the door shut on it.

"Oh my god," she whispers.

Chris is braced over her on both arms, head down, breathing like he's run somewhere. Jade is still holding her thighs, wide, looking at the place where they're joined.

Nobody says anything for a while. The strip light buzzes.

Lana lifts her head off the wood, hair stuck to her cheek, lipstick smeared, and looks past him at the window—the blind still all the way up, the grey city going about its morning out there, a hundred windows, not one of them knowing.

She starts to laugh. It comes out weak, cracked, and completely happy.

Jade lets her legs go; they flop down. Then Jade is leaning over her, kissing her.

Not the same as before. Softer. Slower. Both of them are worn out and sloppy with it; the kiss goes deep, stays deep, and turns into a lazy, sliding duel—her tongue coming out to meet Lana's, pushing at it, Lana pushing back, curling around it, both of them too tired to hurry, neither of them wanting to stop.

Tongues in love. That's what it feels like. Playing, twining, and retreating just enough to come back. Jade's mouth is wet and warm and tastes faintly of Lana now; she keeps making these tiny pleased sounds in her throat; her hand is stroking Lana's flank, up, down, up, down.

Chris pulls out.

Lana feels it go. The long drag, the sudden emptiness; her body gives a great clench, pushes; the seed comes out of her in a thick gush over her arse, the desk, more of it than she expected, running down. She breaks the kiss to gasp.

"Oh—"

Her cunt is open, used, and dripping; she can feel it going, running down over her, and pooling on the wood.

Chris sags. He gets one knee up on the desk, then just lies down next to her, flat on his back, one arm over his eyes, chest heaving, trousers still round one ankle, and cock lying wet across his thigh.

"Jesus," he says to the ceiling.

Lana laughs, breathless. Her hand goes down between her legs, her fingers slide through it—her slit, her lips, the whole swollen mess—so wet, so much, sticky, warm, thick; she drags her fingers up, looking at them shining.

She shivers all over, a long one, right down to her feet.

"Look at this," she says, thick-voiced, holding her hand up to Jade. "Look what he did."

Jade takes her wrist, pulls it over, and sucks her fingers clean, one at a time; Lana's eyes nearly roll back.

She lets her arm drop. She turns her head on the desk and looks at both of them—Chris with his arm over his face, Jade kneeling there with her skirt still up, her mouth wet.

"You two," she says, "are coming with us tonight."

She has to stop and breathe.

"You'll stay at our place."

Chris lifts his arm and looks at her.

"Tonight," he says.

"Tonight. All of it. Every hour of it." She wipes her hand on her own hip and pushes herself up onto her elbows; she's grinning, her lipstick a ruin. "I've got nine hours before he wakes up again, then a whole night after that. So, you're both coming."

Jade looks at Chris. Chris looks at Jade. Neither of them says no.

…

Such a beautiful memory, Lana thinks. And now this cock is coming to visit me.

The morning light is coming through her curtains, the lingerie still lying there, patient, white; her phone says she has about twenty-five minutes.

She stands up. Hums. Goes to shave her mound.

To be continued.