Little Fertile Sluts Stories

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I'd like to share here short little stories about how to breed those ovulating sluts.

At the end, they all want the same, don't they?

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The key turns in the lock, and I'm already grinning before the door swings open, because I can hear her from the hallway—that soft, wrecked little laugh she does when she's too spent to stand up straight.

My wife Sydney is on the sofa. She is not sitting so much as she is pooled on the sofa, with one leg folded under her and the other dangling, its toes barely touching the carpet. Her robe—the pale blue silk one—is tied wrong, one loop over two, the belt half undone, and the whole front hangs open in a loose V that shows me the swell of her breasts and the deep pink flush running from her throat to her sternum. The first thing I see is her ruined makeup. Her hair is a disaster. Dark strands stuck flat to her temples and her cheek, the rest a tangled mess she's clearly been pushing out of her face all afternoon. There's a shine on her skin, that thin sheen of sweat, of dried effort, and a love bite the size of a thumbprint sitting high on her collarbone like a stamp. Another hickey higher up, on her neck. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are glassy and slow, and when she lifts her head to look at me, she has to do it in two goes.

I laugh. I can't help it. She looks like she's been in a fight and lost on purpose.

"Let me guess," I say, dropping my keys in the dish. "Jason was here."

She smiles—that small, guilty, blissed-out smile—and her voice comes out in a whisper with no air behind it.

"Yes."

I smile.

"He fucked me the entire afternoon."

I set my briefcase down, cross the room, and bend over her. She tips her chin up for it like a good girl, and I kiss her. Her mouth is warm and slack and tastes of him—that flat, salty, faintly bitter tang under the mint of whatever she drank after. I hold the kiss a beat longer than I need to, just to taste it properly.

Then I straighten up, walk to the fridge, and take out a beer. The cap hisses off against the opener. She watches me the whole time, waiting.

"Tell me," I say, settling into the armchair across from her. "Tell me in detail. How did he fuck you?"

She shivers. A visible ripple runs all the way down her body, causing her thighs to press together involuntarily before she forces herself to open them again. She pulls the robe a little tighter just to have something to do with her hands, and then she starts.

"He rang the doorbell at noon. Not—not even a text first. I opened it, and he didn't say hello. He didn't say anything at all. He just walked me backwards into the living room with his hand flat on my sternum, and then he bent me over the armrest of this sofa. Right here. He yanked my robe up to my waist, and he just put it in me."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Is he still that big?"

She shivers again, harder, and her hand comes up to her throat.

"Oh. Oh, yes. Very."

"Tell me."

"He didn't touch me first. That's what got me. No fingers, nothing. I was wet because I'd been thinking about him all morning, but I wasn't ready, and he didn't care. He just put his cockhead against me and pushed. My cunt had to spread for him, darling; it had to open whether it wanted to or not, and it felt—it felt like being split. Slow. Inch by inch. The whole first bit he was just working it in, and I was up on my toes and my hands were scrabbling on the cushions, and I couldn't get a breath."

She pauses, remembering, and a fresh shine comes into her eyes.

"When his cockhead went past my opening, I grunted. Out loud, like an animal. It was so big, and it was so sudden, and my whole body just made the noise for me. And then he didn't wait. He started fucking me. Hard. Deep. Right away, no gentle anything, right from the first stroke, and he had his hand on the small of my back, holding me down over the armrest so I couldn't even rock away from it. I could hear how wet I was. It was loud.

She wets her lips.

"Then he reached under and grabbed my tits where they were hanging. Rough. Squeezing them, pulling them back, rolling my nipples between his fingers hard enough that it ached. And he was talking to me the whole time. Telling me what a wonderful little wife I was, how well I took it, and how he was going to be in me all afternoon, whether I liked it or not."

"He was so dominant. It was beautiful."

“I believe you.”

"Oh, he was so dominant, darling." Her voice has gone soft and dreamy. "He took me like a true whore. Like it was his job. He just used me. Over and over. I came five or six times—I don't remember. I stopped counting. I was crying a bit by the end of it."

"And then?"

"And then I begged him to stop. It was too much. My cunt was on fire; I was oversensitive; every stroke made me jolt like a shock. I said please, please, no more, and he laughed at me and made me come one more time anyway, holding me by the hips so I couldn't get away from it. Then he stopped. He pulled out, and he was still hard as a rock, just standing there breathing, and he pointed at the carpet."

She swallows.

"So of course I got down on all fours. Straight away. Happily. My legs were shaking. My cunt was red and throbbing from the bashing, and I didn't care, because I was really hoping—really, really hoping—that he'd finish properly, that he'd finally come inside me. And then he pushed his thick cockhead against my sphincter, and I screamed.

She shudders, and it's a good one.

"He didn't say anything. He just pushed. And the mushroom—the head of it—it went through the ring of muscle, and it burned. Darling, it burned like nothing else, and my cunt contracted; it clenched around nothing, hard, like it was trying to hold something that wasn't there. He sank in deeper, and it was so warm. That's the thing, that's the part I keep remembering—how warm it was, how full, like he was filling up a place that had never had anything in it before. And his shaft—so thick, so thick all the way, and I could feel every single bit of it going in. I was making this high noise. The neighbors must have heard. They must know your wife was being taken apart on the floor of her own living room."

"Keep going," I say.

"He started fucking my bowels. Slow at first, because he had to, and then faster. And he reached around and put his fingers on my clit and rubbed it in little circles, and that was it. That was the end of me. I came twice, twice, back-to-back, and they weren't small ones; they were the kind that start in your stomach and roll out through everything. The first one, my arms gave out and my cheek hit the carpet, and he just kept going, kept rubbing, and the second one came on top of the first one still going, my cunt contracting and squeezing and my toes curling up off the floor and my whole spine bowing. I couldn't hear. I couldn't breathe. I was just a mouth making a noise and a body shaking on his cock."

She finally sags back into the cushions, done, spent all over again from telling it, her chest rising and falling, the flush deepening across her throat.

I take a long pull of the beer and set it down on the arm of the chair.

I look at her there—wrecked, swollen, shining, marked, robe open, thighs still parted, telling me everything—and I reach down and start undoing my belt, two notches, to get comfortable.

"Good girl," I say. "Now tell it again. From the doorbell."

I take a swallow of beer and lean back.

"When did he come then? The first time."

She blinks slowly at the ceiling, like she's having to go back through the afternoon in her head and find it, and her brow furrows with the effort of remembering.

"Oh—well. The first time took hours. I don't remember—actually, I think it was on the lounger. The one on the porch. It was sunny. He'd made me go out there because he wanted to look at me in the light."

"Did he."

"He put me on the lounger face-down. Doggy. With my knees up on the bamboo seat and my tits squashed under me and the sun on my back, and my stockings—only my stockings, darling; he'd taken the robe and my bra off me by then, he wouldn't let me have anything else—the stockings and my heels and nothing else at all."

“Did you suspect he was coming to visit you, you wearing high heels and stockings?”

“I had this gut feeling, you know?”

“I believe you.”

“So, I dressed slutty. The black, open-cup bra, the garter, and the stockings, but without panties.”

“Why without?”

“It wouldn’t make much sense, you know? I want to be taken like a cheap whore, so I left my cunt available.”

“I hope you shaved.”

“Of course, darling. Pussy, legs, everything!”

“Didn’t he fuck you last week as well?”

“No, that was his friend, Jerome.”

“Isn’t Jerome that dark football player?”

“Well, dark is an understatement. He is black as the night.”

“Ah, now I remember.”

“But his seed is white.” My wife added, smiling.

“How do you know? Did Jerome cum on your tits?”

“No, in my mouth, but I didn’t manage to swallow all his cum right away. It leaked everywhere, on my chin, on my tits, and—hell, even some on my thighs, as I was kneeling in front of him. And when you scoop it up, you can see that lovely off-white color."

So, Jerome flooded you?”

“Oh, yes. But the blowjob was at the end. I wanted to thank him, you know, before that; he filled my cunt twice with his black seed.”

…

She lifts her knees a little where she sits, remembering the position, and her hand drifts to her own hip.

"But Jason had both hands full of my hips, and he was pulling me back onto it. Back and back and back, so hard my knees kept sliding up the bamboo slats, and he'd haul me down again. My tits were bouncing with it, swinging back and forth under me, and my nipples were so hard—so hard, darling—and every time he pulled me back, they scraped over the seat. That scratchy bamboo. They were raw by the end. I could feel them dragging. It made it worse, the scratching; it made everything sharper."

"Could anyone see?"

"Yes." She says it plainly, almost proud. "The Ferris's fence—they were out in the garden. And Mr. Alder across the road had his car on the drive with the bonnet up, and I know he wasn't looking at the engine. I could hear them. Little noises. I screamed for them. Properly screamed, over and over, every time he bottomed out. I wanted them to hear how it was being done to me."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He never says anything; that's what you don't understand about him. He just goes harder when he knows I'm loud. He was slamming me so hard the lounger was skipping across the decking, and I was coming—twice, one after the other, and the second one had me clawing at the bamboo with both hands and howling. My cunt was gripping and gripping at him, milking at him without me doing anything, just taking over, and then he made this noise behind me and shoved in as deep as he could go and held it and—"

She stops and puts her palm flat on her own stomach.

"And pumped me full," she says quietly. "Warm. So warm. He just kept going and going, filling me up with it, and it was so much, darling. So much. It was coming out of me around his cock while he was still coming. He drowned my little ready egg in it."

"Ready egg," I repeat.

"It was the right week. We both know it was the right week." Her thumb moves in a slow circle on her belly. "And he stayed in there while he finished. All the way in. Plugging it up in me so none of it could get out. And I lay there with my cheek on the bamboo and felt it sitting hot in the bottom of me, all that baby seed, and I knew. I just knew. He'd put a baby in me on the porch lounger in the sunshine with the neighbors watching, and there was nothing I could do about it and nothing I wanted to do about it."

"And you came again."

"I came again." She shivers, and this one goes on a while. "Just from feeling it. Just from knowing. My cunt contracted around his cock in little waves and pulled at him, and I made this long, broken noise, and he laughed against the back of my neck and said, "There she is."

"He's coming back tomorrow," she says. “You know, getting fucked properly only once a week makes my pussy go so tight again, so I thought it would be better to have more often a good, thick cock inside of me.”

"That's smart.”

“And I am fertile.”

“Yes.”

"He'll put me over the armrest again."

"I know."

"I know that too."

To be continued.