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. The Accessibility of Cara

Discussion in 'Cuckold Stories' started by Lutheran Maid, Dec 27, 2017.

. The Accessibility of Cara 1 5 1votes
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  1. Lutheran Maid

    Lutheran Maid Well-Known Member Author!

    In the restaurant, in the snug alcove seat, beneath the candle topped dining table, Dylan has pushed his hand up beneath the neatly pleated mini skirt of my wife Cara and he started to finger her. It's not that obvious. People are chatting, talking about the sales in the shops. Someone at the bar is complaining that Trump will ruin the world economy. So even when Cara gasps quietly, when she gulps down a breath and parts her legs a little more so that he can finger her comfortably, nobody really notices. This is the thing with Dylan. He expects instant and complete access to my wife's sex. Her cunny must be available to him, whether that be his prying fingers or his trembling great cock. The point is that she must feel that she is his to fuck, to play with whenever he wants. The fact that she smells on heat, the fact that she moves her body on his prying hand like she has an eternal itch that just has to be rubbed, doesn't seem to feature as a consideration. Dylan doesn't care if anyone knows that he is fucking her. He doesn't care if our friends know, if that humiliates me beyond anything you can imagine. It's just required that he can feel her, smell her, taste her (if he kisses his fingers anon), use her, wet and eager for him because she has learned exactly what it is like to have your sex crave a man so bloody much that you will do anything to have your body's needs met, again, and again, and again, eternally.

    I smell Cara on his fingers. I can smell her sex, the longing that leaks out in a tangible form down there. The fact that she is so wet for him, so constantly, eagerly wet for the guy, well, it appals me. I never, ever elicited this response in her. Not even when we first courted aged just twenty. I never made her smell like this, as if she is constantly on heat for him. I never made her look in that longing way, as though as soon as cock was out of her she was missing it like crazy. I never found a way to make her obsessed with sex. I never discovered the means to kick her out of her superior brainy cerebral way of living and into the gut aching, the wrenching reality of her body. Dylan did though. He did that pretty easily, fucking her a few times on dates, so that she dressed in ways that put cunny on a plate for him. He found some sort of voodoo magic that addicted her cunt to his cock, and made her think and act like a horny little bitch that was ruled top and bottom by what he did between her pretty twenty seven year old legs.

    Cara is trying to concentrate on the vodka that she has before her, but when Dylan starts to work her cunt, she needs to kiss him too. She needs to feel his full black lips against her soft pastel pink ones. She needs to feel his tongue slip inside her mouth for a moment or two, exploring her, using her, whilst his eyes lock hers in an open, needful embrace. I watch her dreamy eyed expression as he works his fingers up her, the ball of his thumb glancing teasingly back and forth across her swollen clitty like it is some kind of switch. Her mouth parts. It parts in that subtle way that begs 'please' and he kisses her casually, with a soft smile, an indulgent look that whispers, 'OK, bitch, I'll kiss you.' In this restaurant I thank god that no one knows us. They don't necessarily know that I'm the gooseberry husband. They don't know that I am the beaten cuck. I'm just the tag along male. I'm just the side show for the couple. After all, didn't she hold his hand when we came into the restaurant and take up our booked table? Didn't she defer to all his suggestions as regards the meal ahead? It was like I was along as their dresser, their secretary or something. It was like I was an unfortunate after thought.

    'Drop your napkin man' Dylan orders.

    I blush. Oh fucking no, please! Please not that!

    Dylan gestures with his eyes. He really doesn't want to have to get cross with me.

    My neck colours puce. I can feel blood rising through my cheeks. Still, I drop the napkin as bade. I drop it, make some brief apology and slip beneath the crisp white linen table cloth. This can only be brief. IT CAN ONLY BE BRIEF. Beneath the linen, there in the half light, I can see Cara's sex. I can see her stocking tops, the suspender straps of her belt and there, the neatly trimmed hair of her cunny. Her lips are big and blood engorged. They always look this way. They look greedy, ready, hungry. Dylan checks below, that I am pushing my head between her legs. She whispers, 'you bastard, you can make me do anything'. The thrill of submission, it's there, there in her voice. She loves him dominating her, loves him using me to fix her needs down here, on her cunt. 'Lick her up, to just off climax' Dylan breathes down to me. I watch his fingers prize open her cunt lips. There is the large black hole he has bored out over countless nights. There is the soft wet, velvety sheen of her inner cunt skin. The mucus of her womanhood, the wetness exuding from within. Already her clitty is swollen, pushing its bulbous face out beyond the demure hood that used to cover it pretty much when we were sex partners. Cara is so pulled open, turn up, that between Dylan's black fingers I can push my tongue right up inside her. He has fucked her open, like a slut must be, down there. So I push my tongue in as far as it will go, press my top lip against her bullet hard clitty and start licking the juices out of her. In, reach, curl your tongue, tremble it so that she feels it against the roof of her cunt. Yes, it clenches. She can feel it, rasping back across the top surface. Then an upward flick as you pull out so that the tip of your tongue zings up over her button. Catch her little gasp, the sigh that she hopes no waiter notices. Now repeat the process, three, four five more times, for I cannot remain down here forever, not without drawing attention. I ladle the fucking juices out of her her draining cunt and swallow them down, rubbing my nose through her cunt brush so that she feels that I am eating her out. I spot her look down, briefly, to watch me do this. She is open mouthed, watching me make a meal of it all. Once, some weeks back I asked whether this shamed her. The way she pulled my mouth to her cunt so much these days. She just shook her head. You shouldn't be ashamed of what your body needs. You shouldn't be ashamed of behaving like the woman that your lover had taught you to be.

    A few practised, wriggle tongued laps and I really do feel Cara's thighs trembling. She needs a blood hard seeing to. She needs his cock up her, ramming like an animal. She needs that and she tries to control her breathing, to pretend that the licking isn't getting her fucking hot for a good fuck. This, this is the only way that I can pleasure her now. It is the only way I can register on her. Some months ago I forced myself on her. I insisted on fucking. She felt nothing, just letting me blast my load like I was a total mishap. She whispered, 'have you finished?' and I confessed yes. She said that she was going to tell Dylan and ask him to give me a hiding for doing that. I begged her not to. She said don't be silly, I knew the rules, I had it coming to me. Only Dylan fucked her. I licked, he fucked. The hiding came the next night. She wore the tightest pair of leather jeans and the sharpest stiletto heeled boots. We went out to a bar with Dylan. After a drink he ordered me outside to an alley, whilst she came out to watch him knuckle me. I got a split lip, a tooth knocked out, and then when I bent double, at Dylan's instruction, she kneed me in the nose. I got sent flying backwards and dropped to my knees. Cara stood before me, legs akimbo. Dylan pointed to her crotch. I was to sniff it, to lick it, never to take my fucking pathetic weeny cock near it. Did I understand? I did. Was I going to apologise to Cara. I was...and did.

    Now, through the gap in my teeth I rasped my tongue around and around her bulging clit. Cara was writhing against my face. She grabbed my hair and pulled my mouth hard against her sex. Dylan laughed. That was enough. He kicked me back, snarled that I was clean my fucking face and get back up. I did as I was told. I tried to look nonchalant whilst Cara looked as aroused as hell. Dylan had timed the knock back perfectly. I was shoved away but Cara was on the edge of orgasm. She surfed there, wriggling her bottom on the seat. Hell, she needed a fuck. She needed a fuck like crazy.

    So the meal was short. It was very short. First she wanted a kiss from him and then she wanted his fingers back between her legs. I was meant to eat my pasta looking as though nothing untoward was happening. But it was impossible wasn't it. It was damned impossible! She had such big fucking cow eyes for him. People glanced at me, the shy male, the lemon beside them. One woman smiled. She must have guessed. May be she had read stuff. Maybe she had read about the black guy's propensity to take wives off husbands.

    'Go pay the bill' said Dylan and I sloped off, relieved to have a break from the humiliation. I paid, got their coats and helped first Cara into hers and then Dylan into his. The woman who had been watching us. She smiled and gestured, her thumb pressing down on the table. I was under their heels right? I was their slave? Her face gestured the questions, but I refused to answer. Fuck you bitch, I thought and followed Cara and Dylan out.

    It was a pleasant evening, stars peppered the night sky like seed scattered across a ploughed plot of land. They covered the sky in all directions. Dylan said that we would walk back to the car via the park. There were a few people about, couples who stopped to kiss, a couple of old women who shuffled through the crinkled autumn leaves. We took the path down along the canal. Through the water mallard scurried, racing for any bread that had been left floating on the water. Dylan paused and without comment kissed my wife. He kissed her slowly, almost serenely beneath a lamp. It was intimate, slow, considered, Cara's arms snaking up around his neck, grateful for his embrace, his attention. That was the truth of it. She wanted everything that Dylan would give her. Anything that Dylan would do to her. He turned her about, pushed her arms gently down onto the back of the bench seat and ordered me to ruck the hem of her skirt up. It appalled me. I shook. For fuck's sake, no. He gestured again, and pointed to his teeth. I remembered didn't I?

    So I rucked up my wife's tiny skirt and I glanced down the canal side path. No one. Thank god, no one.

    Dylan pointed to the crotch of his trousers so I took his prick out for him. It was thick and it was stiff and there was no foreskin, only the pink bulbous head. It felt fucking terrible in my hand. At instruction, I held Cara's skirt hem up and watched Dylan push her prick straight up her. The was a wet sound as his cock took her. I squelch sound and then he pushed inside her. Cara gasped. Another squelch sound and he pushed up her fun length. His fucking great balls started to bang in unison against the back of her thighs as he posted her. Bang, bang, bang, bang and Cara whimpering now. Drilled out she might be but the no nonsense fucking always took her, it always caught her and made her moan.

    I looked about again. I looked about my brow wet with sweat. Fuck. Fuck him!

    'Thank you sir' I said as I have been taught.

    I was always to thank him for fucking Cara. It didn't matter that it was in public, I still had to say thank you. I still had to acknowledge that Dylan was handling her in a way that she really did need.

    Then footsteps on gravel. Some way down the path two middle aged women had risen from a bench hidden the other side of an oak tree and they came our way.

    Dylan didn't care. He didn't fucking well care. Cara was his. She had to accessible whenever he wanted. She had to be ready whenever he wanted. That was why Dylan had had me lick her up. I had to lick her to the edge.

    The women came on, ever closer. They must have seen him fucking my wife whilst I looked on. They must have. A lot of sex went on in this park. Casual sex. Dirty sex. A lot of white girls were taking black dick down here. There had been letters in the local paper.

    The women came on and Dylan ignored them. His big black hands took hold of Cara's hips and he jolted her back and forth on his slimy length, till he made her groan. I glanced at him, 'please'. Another glance, but still he fucked her and her tits were swinging in that loose blouse of hers. There, at last, the characteristic buck as he shot his load into her. He grunted his satisfaction. A triumphant 'so there' grunt as he ejaculated into her. I watched him drag his cock out of her and suddenly the women were almost beside us. They had been deep in conversation but now they saw, his thick, wet slimy dick, fresh from conquest.

    'Bitch needed it ladies' he said nonchalantly starting to pack his tackle away.

    Cara rose from her bent forward station and she recognised the women. SHE RECOGNISED THE WOMEN. They stared at her and stared again, a double take. They turned and stared at me. Yes, yes, Cara's husband, that's who I was. I was her husband, they had met me once hadn't they? Dylan drew her to him. The women walked on, glancing back. They glanced back, that which was necessary to confirm things, to fuel the gossip.

    'Lick her out now' said Dylan, unmoved by the encounter. 'I said, fucking well lick her out. '
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