Marrying the Slut
She scrabbled through her handbag for a condom.
Normally, she’d risked bareback. Where was the thrill without the risk?
Yes, last year, a session at a seedy restroom glory hole had left her with an STD sore throat, but mostly it was all good.
Even that time on her knees sucking dirty cocks of local hobos and truckers hadn’t been a bad experience. If it was edgy, pushed a barrier, has something few would do, it would turn her on.
If her husband were there, it would be even better. He was in his sixties. A rich, successful man. He had always gotten what he wanted in life. He was dominant over his family, his workers, his church, and his charities. He was the man, the alpha, in every area of his life. The upstanding citizen whom everyone knew not to mess with.
Except no one can keep that up all the time. Sometimes, in some parts of your life, you have to let go. Relax, out of control. Or maybe it is to feel the tension of not being in control. It is the old adage, the well-told story, the prime minister, the president, the CEO under the sharp heel of a dominatrix.
That was where his wife came in. His second wife.
His first wife was twenty-five years younger than him. Under his money, she had developed large fake boobs, fake lips, fake ass. He loved fucking her. He loved holding those slim hips and hammering away like his heart was going to give out.
He’d work up such a sweat, as if he were on the squash court with one of his young prodigies from work. He’d slam into her, pull at her shoulders, maybe her hair, and cum so gloriously. With a spit, or two, no need for actual lube, he’d happily swap to her ass, working it all the way up her and then pushing down on her whole body, his dick buried right up her bum.
Then, with a show of a more meaningful grind, holding her shoulders from under her armpits. He would work away the tension of a stressful life. He would hold his cheek to hers, making sure to feel as glued as he could be to her. He never rushed it. He could stay hard and sodomising her like this for an hour.
But she never showed any emotion of enjoyment or hatred. Complete impassiveness, even during missionary, or when he sucked on her huge, firm, upright breasts. Nothing. Hardly a sigh.
Yes, she would suck him off in the car before important meetings at church or the local council.
She would work on the head or gag herself with a deep throat. But she didn’t touch herself. She didn’t talk dirty. She didn’t speak at all.
When she told him she was leaving him for another man, they were watching a film together. It was a film with Scarlett Johansson in, and as she often did when she or some other Hollywood hottie was on screen, she would tug at his cock for two hours. He would get hard when Scarlett was in a tight sweater or when her skirt was short, then soften in the more serious moments or when she wasn’t on screen, but his first wife would never let go.
In many ways, for most men, she was the ideal wife. Obedient, sexually giving with no need to reciprocate, and looked like a sex doll. But when she told him she was leaving, he just shrugged and let her carry on jerking him off. He came in her hand, looking at AI porn of Ms Johansson fucking doggy style while sucking off another man. Both big black cocks. The computerised woman had more life to her than the wife whose hand and arm he was covering in cum.
And then he had met her. She volunteered at a shelter that he had donated to. He was being given a tour around and helping dole out food for five minutes. Then finally shown the large stock in the backroom that he had been paying for.
She had been his host. She looked very young, too young, but it turned out she was twenty-nine. But still, at that moment, she was half his age.
She had the dark eyeliner, purple lipstick, and numerous piercings, which made her look Goth, or maybe it was Emo? She had none of the sullenness that he presumed of Goth kids had, but then she was a decade on from being a moody teenager, and there was no way she could hide that lively, wild look behind her eyes.
She was naughty too. She had no problem berating him on skimping too much when spooning out the portions, even though he was the one paying for it all.
“You need two big scoop fits. Tight bastard, this one. You’d think he paid for it or something!” she said to the homeless guy he was serving dinner.
In the stockroom, she turned and said to him. “I really want to thank you for what you do here; it helps so many people. Look me in the eyes. Don’t turn away. Don’t even blink.”
And she stood a foot apart from him, and he did as he was told. He would always do what he was told when it came to her.
And then she put her hand on his crotch. No fuss. Just a hint of a smile on her unconventional, pretty face. He didn’t move. She increased the tightness of his grip as he grew. And it kept growing in his pants. Her eyes widened as it filled her palms, and she was able to grip more and more of it with her long fingers. She grinned at him then, finding out how big he was, was a pleasure she didn’t hide.
He could not control his face. Later, he worried that he had looked like an idiot, mouth open, tongue out. But at the time, he didn’t care; he just wanted this woman.
She didn’t get it out. She didn’t stroke him; she didn’t have to. She just tightened her fist around it, using both of her hands, and he moved slightly into them. But it was her eyes, full of passion, full of excitement, dark depths he wanted to plunge, that made him finally cum.
He toppled backwards, knocked over boxes, then fell towards her, leaning on her as she steadied herself from his slow impact. The only thing that seemed to hold him up, in his mind, was how strongly she held his clothed and covered cock. It strained to be released; there wasn’t room for it there behind his fly, held so firmly in the wild woman’s fist.
He sighed out a harsh noise that was even alien to himself as he pumped cum into his own boxers, wetting his trousers. Soaked quite through.
“Shh, shh, babes,” she said, putting a finger on her lips as if he was far too loud. “I know you needed this. I could see it in your whole being. Now relax, let it go, let it all out, feel the need seep away. Yes? Happy?”
Yes, very happy. Happier than he’d ever been. This was like nothing else.
And then? Then he had slipped out the tradesman’s entrance, the wet patch and smell of newly excreted cum was too much to walk back through the front with.
He sat in his car, panting, gripping the steering wheel, already desperate to have her again.
He got his cock out, closed his eyes, and thought of her dancing eyes, her long, slender arms, covered in tattoos, her slim body, her flat chest with pointy, braless breasts, were all he could think about.
He came back to volunteer the next week. She dry humped to completion like teenagers. She came too. And with that, he was in love.
The week after that, he volunteered and asked her to marry him.
She agreed, but on one condition; she could fuck whoever she liked whenever she liked, but she had full permission rights over his sexuality.
He didn’t miss a beat in saying yes. And that is how he ended up where he is, where she is, scrabbling around in a bag for a condom so she could fuck a random man they had just met in a museum.
