"No boots. I just mopped," I called out from the kitchen sink, elbows deep in soapsuds.
Max's sigh was heavy and teasing as he began to kick off his forbidden footwear and inclined against the door that led into the kitchen from our garage.
"Your hands are filthy. Just look at that doorjamb," I scolded, hiding my grin. He'd been repairing my trundling old Mustang, and from the looks of things, he'd had a hard time of it. He wasn't a man given to getting covered in grime. He was the nit-picking neat freak and I the indifferent messy one. How he'd survived three years of my leaving the cap off the toothpaste during our marriage was a mystery.
I knew he wanted nothing more but to get rid of my cherry red `65 convertible and buy some ridiculously banal coupe that could be trusted to a regular mechanic. Especially when he was filthy from head to toe from fixing it for the third time in a month.
Pulling off the old Van Halen t-shirt he liked to work in, he wiped his hands in the faded cotton and then rubbed out the streaks he'd made on the doorframe. He looked a little irritated in nothing but his socks and 501s, but incredibly sexy as well. I rinsed the last of the plates and fished around the sink for stray silverware.
Moving stealthily, Max was soon behind me, his arms on either side of my hips. He smelled intoxicatingly of sweat and motor oil and hard work - masculine and virile. Leaning into me, I felt him breathing into my hair as he slid his hands into the water with mine.
"We're getting rid of that damn old clunker," he grumbled, nibbling on my ear.
I tilted back and gave him a soft elbow in the ribs. "You're not getting rid of Cherry. I've had her since high school. I love that car."
His mouth lowered to the curve of the back of my neck. His teeth and tongue worked in unison to tug and inflict little love-bites. In the soapy water of the sink, his fingers wove themselves with mine, his thumbs stroking the centers of my palms.
"And I've been fixing that damn car since we were in high school." He took a light nip at my shoulder and began to feel his way up my goose-pimpled arms. "Come to think of it, I've been working on Cherry since I took your cherry…"
Giggling, I gave him another elbow in the ribs, this one slightly harder. His wet, soapy hands reached down and pulled up on my t-shirt with commanding firmness. He continued talking, each word turning me on more than the last.
"I couldn't believe the first time you let me go all the way," his long fingers skillfully undid the button of my shorts, yanking down on the zipper. "You had teased me for months. My cock was so bewitched I thought I'd lost control of it for good."
Taking his cue, I reached back and felt the stiffness of his erection through his buttonflys; I just couldn't resist giving it a hard squeeze. He had such a delicious cock, and although it was the only one I had ever known, I considered it perfect. Pink and plump with a thick stalk and smooth knob of a head; not extraordinarily long, but of considerable girth when the blood was pumping through it.
"I can still remember the first moment I pushed in and felt that virgin pussy of yours." His voice was raspy now, husky and hot. Through my panties, his fingers taunted my aching clit. It was almost embarrassing how fast he could still get me wet. "You were tight wet velvet. Your cherry broke and you held onto me for dear life." More kisses down the side of my face. His tongue lapped at my temple. My palm pressed more firmly against his cock and gave a pleading little pull.
"I remember how frightened your eyes were. How young and sweet and vulnerable every inch of you was." He caressed my ears with his gentle words as his busy fingers began to set my slit to humming. His index finger pressed hard against the engorged button of my clit, and I yelped, gripping onto the sink. I couldn't say a word. The more he spoke, the hotter I was getting. "That first time being inside you. Taking you. Loving you. Fucking you. I knew I'd never get enough. Not for the rest of my life."
The pulse of my own heartbeat was thunderous in my ears as I moved my hips toward his lazy hand. My panties and shorts were soaking wet, my nipples were hard as diamonds set into the crimson rings of my areolas. I felt inexplicably safe, and unbearably aroused; as I always felt when he seduced me - as I had when we were kids back in high school together. There was no way to ever resist him.
We exchanged a flurry of rustling clothes and long, smoldering kisses. He continued to whisper into my ear, and my body couldn't help but to respond. Finally, we stood - my back to his front, his firm cock slapping between my thighs, one hand on my wet mound, the other tugging mercilessly at my nipples. The bulge of his cockhead massaged my wet slit, and I tried to reach down and take it inside me, only to have him thwart my efforts. Grasping my wrist, he took control of my hand, guiding it instead, to my trimmed pussy.
"Show me," he demanded in a throaty growl. "Touch yourself. I want to watch you."
Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back onto his shoulder and began to rub tentatively at my clit - feeling my body go pink and flushed from his voracious stare. He got such a thrill watching me pleasure myself - he always had. I both heard and felt his breathing become more labored behind me as he employed the mushroom bulb tip of his cock to stimulate my puss. But he wouldn't penetrate me, no matter how I pressed at him. It was maddening.
When I came, it was a violent burst of power, a scintillating scream that rocked spasms from my body. Intense and swollen and sopping wet.
"I want to try something," he whispered in my ear, kissing the tender skin just beneath my earlobe while I was still in the throes of climax. His cock jerked and thumbed against the outer lips of my slit. I had a good idea of what he wanted. He'd been building up to it for months now, inserting a finger into my bum and teasing that puckered tightness. Ignoring my giggling objections and kissing it when we were fooling around in the Jacuzzi. I still had trouble believing he had actually rimmed me two nights ago - the sensitivity of my own body a complete shock - after all, no one other than I had known intimate contact with my rear end since I was potty trained at the age of two.
A sudden thrill pulsed down my spine. Hunger and realization and anticipation and anxiety. He pushed my shorts and panties down my legs. I shook my head. I nodded. I shook my head.
It should have been amusing that a grown woman three years wed could feel like such a neophyte about a sex act with her husband. I knew Max's body as well as I knew my own. Knew the pleasure of him, the strength of him. Sex wasn't the roller coaster carnival ride we'd found it to be in those first years of exploring one another. But, it still made my belly tingle. Somehow I knew it always would.
When he twisted the cap off the Wesson oil I kept on the counter, I no longer had any doubts about the act we were going to attempt together. Still, I struggled to recall every article I'd read, and every urban myth I'd ever heard about an attack from the rear flank. My mind was a panicked jumble of Florence Henderson, Richard Gere, and hamsters.
"Now, you're all tense," he sighed, his hands covered in sloppy golden oil. With a grumble of mock irritation, he teased, "I'll just have to start heating you up all over again."
My nipples had never been extremely sensitive, but after a few moments of his deft fingers rubbing and tugging at my b-cups, my nipples went from pert to raging. A lather of oil made his hands as slick as greased lightening. The sensation was opulent and delightfully dirty. Like stomping into mud puddles as a child. A wicked giggle escaped nervously from my lips.
"That's my girl," he cooed almost aggressively. "Lean back and get messy with me. My sweet, nasty, hot cherry."
I tittered another nervous laugh, as I always did when he recited erotic words into my ears. I was slippery and shiny as a well-oiled piston by the time he was finished. There was a sinful streak in me that just loved feeling so sullied and lewd.
While dousing me down with kitchen counter lubricant and coaxing my body to ease, Max had also managed to get himself dripping with oil. The sneaky head of his cock pressed against my rear like a thief testing dials on a combination safe.
Both his hands flat on my belly, he leaned his weight forward. That cock which had so playfully teased my puss was now a rod of iron pressure. Stretching up to my tip-toes, I felt him rotate his hips - effectively rimming the outer muscle of my defenseless bottom. I turned my face to say something, but he swallowed my lips into a kiss. Passionate, warm, ravenous. The way he wanted me - the combination of tenderness and animal hunger was like a narcotic. I pushed back with my hips, shivering while he gyrated slowly, tickling my tightly puckered asshole.
Then his fingers dipped to my pussy again, sly and confident. His thumb and forefinger surrounded my clit, rolling it in his slippery grasp. I shook my head back and forth involuntarily, jolting from the concentrated attack on every nerve ending in my body. He pushed forward in a rush of movement, and I felt him conquer my external sphincter. I felt full and infiltrated and frightened.
Merely a half-inch or so inside me, I heard him roar - felt his entire being shudder. It was an act of strength to not just push and plunder. But somehow the tenderness won. He wrapped his arm around me in a bear hug and covered my face with kisses. Long, throaty groans escaping while his cock throbbed inside me - pulsating against the muscles of my anus.
"It's so tight," I whispered, unsure. It didn't hurt, though - the oily layer of Wesson oil creating a comfort blanket against the friction. I heard Florence Henderson in my head. "Wesson will do you proud every time."
I giggled again.
The trust I felt for him - this man - my husband - behind me, suddenly enfolded me. I could sense the tension in his muscles; I could almost smell the sweat of his restraint. Being inside me so tightly encased was a panorama of pleasure. But to avoid hurting me, he hesitated. Slowed. Held back. Caressed. Gave me time to giggle and relax. Leaning back into his embrace, I relinquished any traces of anxiety I'd clung to.
"Come on, baby," I challenged back at him mischievously. "If you're going to fuck me, then show me how bad you want me."
He rumbled; the sound began deep in his chest and hissed into my hair. With a jab, he pushed forward. A little deeper. A little harder. I braced both my palms on the counter while he grabbed my pussy in one hand and my hip in the other.
Inside me, he scouted unknown territory like a mountain man learning ancient Indian trade routes. The unbearable pressure of him slid up, then angled back, rotated, pushed, withdrew, pushed again. Until the act of moving back and forth was no longer tentative. Until he slid inside the clenched tightness of my ass with abandon.
"Oh God, you hot little bitch," he snarled into the back of my neck, and a wash of excitement flooded me. The softness began to ebb out of his muscles. My gentle, careful Dr. Jekyll of a husband was satisfied that I was ready to get the fucking my Mr Hyde lover wanted to deliver. I threw my hips back hard - nearly knocking my own breath from my lungs at how deeply he invaded me.
"It this how you fuck hot little bitches like me?" I taunted back. "Is this the best that cock of yours can do?"
His hips pounded forward. Nothing had ever hurt so sublimely. His manic fingers attacked my clit, and I began to yelp. His cock thrust in and out of my ass in rhythmic attack.
"I love to fuck little bitches like you hard and fast," he spoke, putting more strength into each stab inside me. He sped up his stroking fingers as well. Our slippery bodies hammered and smacked, creating a slapping harmony of tight flesh against tight flesh. "I'm going to own your tight little ass and you're going to beg for it. You're going to cum like a whore and scream my name before I'm done."
The nasty exchange made me even hotter, and I felt the second orgasm trembling inside me, desperate to be released. He leaned me forward, angling me so that he could really pump it to me, and I came right into his hand for the second time.
"Tell me you love it in the ass," he demanded. "Let me hear you beg for it." His fingers were still on my clit, and the over-sensitized nub screamed for me to yank away. I reached down, attempting to remove his fingers. For those few seconds after orgasm, where my clit insisted it was just too tender to be touched, he would not relent.
"No, I'm not stopping. You're soaking wet, slut. You're going to cum again before I'm done. God, you're so fucking tight. You feel so fucking good. Tell me how you love to be fucked. Let me hear you." His fingers never stopped and soon my brief struggling ended. He inserted a finger into my slit and continued caressing my clit. All of this in tandem, my ass full of cock, my pussy full of fingers, my clit rubbed and rubbed and rubbed…
I let go a stream of words I had never used before, except in moments like these where our lovemaking crossed the line between intimacy and fucking. Where there was only the hardness of him and the softness of me, and the wet, trembling need to pound and join and love and fuck.
I was his whore, his slut, his bitch, his wife. I craved and needed and begged for his cock. I felt full, but I wanted more. Wanted to be penetrated and pounded. Wanted the slam of his balls, the driving punch of his cock in my ass - like a fist sinking into kneaded dough. And those fingers. Those damn skilful fingers of his that hunted every last sensation out of my body and went for the kill.
One last slick shove, and he penetrated deeper into me than ever before. I screamed and felt him swell, then explode. Coming inside my ass in hot jets, our bodies frozen and arched.
"Oh, God, baby. You perfect little tramp. You hot sweet slut," he moaned and spasmed, his words lulling back and forth between endearments and dirty slurs. My last orgasm budded brilliantly, less intense than the two before, but a soothing gush of electric energy nonetheless. And I called out his name until he kissed me quiet. My hand covering his stilled fingers - still soaking wet from my own cum.
We stood at the sink kissing like school kids. Greasy, exhausted, sweaty, soaked, shivering, spent. He gently withdrew his softening cock from me, turning me around in his arms. My nipples grazed his lightly furred chest as he nursed on my tongue.
"I think we need a shower," he whispered gently, putting his arms around my waist and lifting me off my feet. I slid down his chest, the oil playfully making us slide against each other. I lifted my arms around his neck.
"Yes, you got me all messy," I agreed.
"That was amazing. I wonder what else you'd surrender to in order to keep that old beast of a car?" he taunted, walking slowly toward our bedroom. He carried me like a sack of grain, stretched in front of him.
"Oh, I'm very attached to Cherry," I purred with a coy smile. "I'll do anything to pay off this mechanic's bill and keep her."
"Well, let's get in the shower and I'll let you work off some more in trade," he teased. "After all, I suppose I should let you keep at least one cherry, seeing as how I've disposed of all the others."
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