Lizzie and I often spend a few weeks somewhere warmer than the UK during winter (which is just about anywhere) and we’re just back in London – I have plenty of new adventures to share, but as we were exploring our fantasies over the last few days, which is a topic I love and encourage Lizzie to speak about it whenever I can, I wanted to recount how some of Lizzie’s have been brought to life over the years.
In the early years of our relationship, which were wilder and less constrained than they are now, Lizzie had two fantasies she would come back to again and again, particularly loving to speak aloud what was in her mind while I went down on her. This is still true today, but the fantasies have changed a little.
In those days Lizzie ached to be in a “proper” porn movie and, darker, to live the life of a ********** for a night.
The scenarios Lizzie and I created around both of these fantasies were detailed and built up over many nights in bed together.
As our real sex-lives were already pretty crazy and unorthodox, it might even seem a little tame for these two fantasies to mean so much to us, but for Lizzie it was about the feeling of being controlled and used, with little or no say about what was done to her – that was the turn-on at the heart of it all for her.
One of the things we tried at the time, and got some real pleasure from together, was a phone-sex line. For those of you too young to remember, phone-sex lines were premium rate numbers which, when dialed, would eventually put you through to a bored sounding woman telling you to stroke your cock while making awful fake sex noises. The money these women earned could be OK – the calls cost the poor man on the other end an absolute fortune and the girls earned commission from keeping them talking.
It was, of course, not about the money for us. I had the idea of Lizzie spending a few hours a week working for one of these services and she jumped at it. The phone numbers were advertised via postcards tacked to the inside of phone boxes (again, something only some of you will remember!), with glossy semi-pornographic pictures and women with made up names begging you to call them for “instant relief”. Needless to say, the women on the cards bore no resemblance to the women actually answering the phone.
Except in Lizzie’s case. As part of the thrill, we decided to take a small risk of discovery. The picture on our cards, stuck in phone boxes all over London, was genuinely Lizzie – topless, on all fours, looking back at the camera over her shoulder with her bright red lips, wearing nothing but matching red lace French knickers, legs apart, the soles of her high heels ******* and the bulge of her cunt clearly visible through the material – which is not surprising because when I took that picture she was very wet and very aroused as I talked to her about all those men looking at her and finding the coins to call her, pushing their stiff cocks aside as they searched their pockets.
The sex-line company who run the numbers divert callers to your home line, so we had a second one installed solely for the purpose. The first night we were “live”, Lizzie took 10 calls. She could have taken many more, but she insisted on making sure the man she was talking to came, for real, and sometimes more than once. In every case Lizzie would make herself come too, telling the caller every tiny detail.
The phone was on loudspeaker the whole time, so I just sat in an armchair, naked, repeatedly making myself come as I watched my wife writhe on the floor, dressed how the caller wanted her and doing to herself whatever she was told, with a large collection of vibrators and dildos. Lizzie must have been the only woman answering a sex-line who was genuinely doing what she said she was doing, and truly enjoying it immensely. She sometimes came really, really hard, to the point where the caller heard or sensed it and their encouragement became even louder and more frenzied, “That's it! Fuck yourself hard in the arse with that thing, come for me you *****, you’re going to make me come – fuck, come for me..” again and again I heard this type of thing and it never failed to get Lizzie off. It took a long time to wean ourselves off the phone lines, and it only really ended when we, like the rest of the world, started camming.
As I said – Lizzie loved doing, sexually, what she was told, even by some guy with his cock in his hand in some scruffy bedsit running up a bill from calls he’d later claim he didn’t make. When this happened, which it did, often (normally when a wife checked the phone bill), Lizzie would sometimes get asked by the company to confirm the call took place – which she always did with much more detail than they were probably expecting.
I decided to try and go a step further in making my wife’s dreams come true – which they say you should never do – but our whole swinging lifestyle started as a fantasy and we haven’t looked back since making it real.
Whenever we were out at public events we would delight in playing little games with each other – flirting with other people, making up lies about each other (“he’s actually a massive sexual deviant”, was one of Lizzie’s defaults), usually whispered to a random woman at some party, or at my work Christmas event to my boss on one memorable occasion..
We were at a wedding – friend of a friend and, I think, making up numbers when the drop-outs got a little high. We’d been drinking champagne steadily all day by the time we sat down for the wedding breakfast in the afternoon, and Lizzie had been on especially good form with her attempts to shock other guests – I rarely knew what she was whispering but I could see her grinning at me and pointing me out to someone I didn’t know from across the room on several occasions. It’s just what we do, and I resolved to get my act together and start getting some rumours about her circulating, already chuckling to myself at the prospect.
Our table was for ten – five couples – and they were all a bit dull. I imagine they thought we were a bit dull too – that’s the nature of these things, but my ears pricked up when I heard a sub-conversation going on to my left, appearing to be about ************. There was an edge to the voices and, as they got a little louder, the rest of the table got a little quieter until we were all listening in. Essentially, a young woman was arguing with a young man about prostitutes. Her view was that it was exploitative, degrading, immoral, destructive and just plain wrong and that the man (the customer) was in the wrong for using prostitutes 100% of the time. The man was trying to argue that not all working women are ****** into it, some do it through choice, for the money, independence etc. Frankly he was on dodgy ground to begin with, didn’t have any facts, and was attempting to argue the case with a woman, so he was getting badly mauled and probably rightly so.
Having an idea which sent an immediate, electrifying thrill through my body, I waited for a bad-tempered lull and said, to the table, “Well, of course, we should just ask Lizzie about this – she’s the only one here with first-hand experience of working as a **********, I imagine..”
I felt my wife stiffen beside me, her hand tightening on my thigh like a claw. I was, for a few seconds, terrified I’d gone too far and that she was going to a) get up and walk out and b) take the car and change the locks. Gradually, as all eyes turned to her in absolute amazement, I felt her relax and her hand move a little higher on my thigh. This was going to be fun.
To break the silence, I said, “Sorry darling – me and my big mouth.”
“No”, said Lizzie, “No – it’s fine. I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t think it’s an ideal topic for a wedding breakfast though (she giggled at this), but if any of you really do want to know what I think, by all means come and find me later.”
The stares seemed to continue for minutes, but I’m sure it was really only seconds, and each of them was returned by a smiling Lizzie.
The afternoon passed and, despite the occasional whispered aside which was clearly about my wife – the furtive glances gave them away – things were pretty much back to normal with conversation in full flow by the time the first dance was called and, soon thereafter, the traditional disco started up and everyone moved to the floor.
Lizzie was having a great time doing her “bump and grind” routine with some random guy while I stood at the bar waiting for our drinks. I became aware that one of the women from our table, pretty, short and slim with shoulder-length blonde hair which may or may not have been her own – was standing close beside me.
“Hi!”, she said, smiling brightly as she tried to attract the bartender’s eye. Being about a foot taller I waved some money in his direction and he raised his chin enquiringly. I pointed at the woman and she ordered her drinks, which I paid for and wandered away, surprised to find her coming to sit next to me at the table as I waited for Lizzie to take a break.
Sitting close, her hands in her lap, her party dress draped demurely over her (shapely, I noted) knees, she hesitated, looking at me for a long few seconds, then said, “Does your wife.. I mean, does she still.. work?”
“Of course”, I said, obtusely, “she’s a lawyer.”
Reddening, the young woman floundered around, “No, I mean, well, I meant, not that type of work, I mean..”
I laughed, and was about to explain it was all a joke when I changed my mind, feeling the faint stirrings of an erotic opportunity..
“It depends..it depends on the job and the price..”, I said.
She relaxed a little, “Oh! Oh, well, that’s good. Good. I was wondering, well. My husband” – here she waved vaguely in the direction of the dance floor – “Is really, I mean really besotted with her and, well. I have told him a few times in the past that we could live his fantasy of going with, you know – what your wife is, was – one day…”
She ran out of steam and sat looking, bewildered, at me. I decided to help her out.
“OK, OK”, I said, smiling warmly at her, “I’ll talk to Lizzie. I imagine it won’t be a problem. I’m not her pimp though – you guys need to set a price with her, if she agrees to it.”
After another few seconds silence she asked, “You don’t mind? Your wife, I mean?”
“Why would I? Don’t you mind? Your husband wanting to fuck another woman so much he sends you to negotiate it?”
“I’m not sure. Yet. I don’t know what to think about it – I’ll let you know later..”
With that, she stood and walked purposefully to the dance floor, her heels clicking. I noted that she had a very creditable arse.
I was waiting for Lizzie to come and get her drink for what seemed like an eternity. I was surprised to see her, after at least half an hour, emerge from the gloom with the little blonde.
Lizzie held her hands out to me and asked, “You want to watch too?”, glancing at the other woman, who turned her eyes to the floor, I realised what Lizzie meant.
Immediately growing hard, I took my wife’s hands and stood, allowing her to lead me outside into the dark lawn, beyond the glow of the lights from the wedding party and into what must have been a bandstand in the grounds – a circular brick building with a pointed roof and benches along each wall, broken only by the arch which formed the entrance.
Already inside, stepping from the gloom, was a big young man – straight from central casting – a rugby playing public school type, muscular and thick of trunk and leg, broken nose, dinner suit and carnation. He’d be a fat balding broker in 20 years, but right now my wife was looking at him with obvious anticipation.
“This is Rufus”, said the blonde.
Of course it is, I thought.
Rufus was staring mindlessly at Lizzie, reaching out to touch her tit.
Lizzie slapped his hand away. “Money”, she said, holding her hand out, palm up, the other on her cocked hip.
“Of course, apologies”, said Rufus – accent from central casting too I thought – like he was talking to his boss.
Producing a wallet from his inside pocket, Rufus counted out two hundred pounds, which Lizzie counted again and tucked into her purse.
“Ok, big man – let’s see what you have”, said Lizzie as she slid to her knees in front of him.
Rufus had his hands flat against the brick wall, my wife kneeling on the concrete floor between his bulk and the wooden bench at her back. Something about seeing her practically trapped like this was a major turn on.
I heard a zip open, then a belt hit the floor, dragged through the trouser hoops violently by my wife. There was a struggle to drag his trousers down, “His thighs are huge – trousers never fit him..”, whispered the blonde at my elbow.
I’d forgotten she was there for a moment. I took her elbow and we moved off a little way, sitting next to each other on the bench a little way around the wall – with a perfect view of Lizzie and Rufus.
Lizzie had her face tilted up, looking at Rufus with a smile on her lips as she reached into his boxers. I noticed a flicker of surprise on her face, her eyes snapping back down to look at the cock she held.
“Oh.. wow..”, breathed Lizzie, in a tone that I knew meant she wasn’t pretending for her “client”.
As Lizzie pulled his boxers down to his thighs (again, they wouldn’t go past them), I gasped as his cock came fully into view. We were looking at it side on from where we sat, and Lizzie could only just close her hands around it with her thumbs linked together. He was enormous.
I glanced at his wife, an eyebrow raised.
“It was months before I could take it all. It’s over 12 inches – it’s not even fully up yet..”
Lizzie was licking hungrily at the head of his cock. I could see threads of fluid hanging from it and then falling onto my wife’s legs. Lizzie had hiked her dress up to her waist to allow her to rest on her haunches, ******** her black stockings and lingerie. His pre-cum was like some people’s ejaculation.
Lizzie couldn’t even fit the whole head into her mouth, so contented herself with using the tip of her tongue on his slit, then running it over him, pulling back his foreskin, drinking his pre-cum, her eyes and face tipped up to him the whole time.
Rufus’ hips were moving slowly, pushing in time with my wife’s motion. I could hear him breathing heavily through that crooked nose.
Standing, my wife turned her back to him, placing her own palms flat against the wall between his massive arms, her skirt already bunched at the waist.
Rufus placed a massive thigh between Lizzie’s legs, making her moan, and reached down, tearing her (expensive) knickers off and tossing them casually in our direction. They landed near my companion’s feet and she stooped to pick them up, bunching them tightly in her fist.
I realised for the first time that I could hear her breathing too – she was clearly excited. She had her hands in her lap, the left clutching tightly onto Lizzie’s knickers.
“Are they wet?”, I asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you wet?”
“Yes.”
I reached over and picked her hands up, one at a time, and gently placed them on the bench next to her. Pushing her gently forward, I sought, and found, a long zip in the back of her dress, which I quietly pulled all the way down. She didn’t move, nor did she resist. She stared ahead at her husband, now maneuvering his giant cock between my wife’s legs, as I slipped the straps off her shoulders and allowed her dress to fall. I now had plenty of room to slip my hand inside the loose material at the waist. We didn’t look at each other as my fingers moved lower.
I murmured, “I didn’t want to touch you through your clothes, I want to feel how wet your cunt is..”
At the word “cunt”, I pushed two fingers into her – she was absolutely drenched – and she moaned aloud.
Her thighs were slick with warm juices from her cunt, it was all over her, under her, running slowly down her legs and dripping gently to the floor. She was getting off on this – hard. I started to wonder how much of this was Rufus’ fantasy..
She began to wiggle against my fingers, her left hand pushing against the back of mine through her dress as I moved in and out.
I unzipped my trousers and pulled my cock into the night air. I’m not small but God – Rufus made me look tiny. Ignoring that thought, I took her right hand and wrapped her fingers around my cock, which she instantly started stroking.
Lizzie was on tiptoe – her arms locked as she braced herself against the wall.
“Do it..”, breathed Lizzie.
“Fuck – you’re sure?”
“It’s what you paid for, and I don’t do refunds – now do it.”
Lizzie, in a pose I’ve seen many times, took her hands from the wall, her thighs and calves statuesque in the half-light as she now braced herself with her own strength only, and, reaching behind her, used her hands to pull her arse cheeks as wide apart as she could.
With a gasp I realised what was happening – he was going to put that thing in her arse.
My cock jumped, the blonde noticed and moaned a little, my fingers still working slowly inside her, my thumb on her engorged clit.
Rufus reached between Lizzie’s legs and pushed his fingers inside her cunt – making her gasp and coating his hand in her come, which he rubbed liberally on his cock head, mixing it with his oozing precum.
Holding his cock at the entrance to my wife’s anus, Rufus began to push, his chin on his chest as he looked at what he was doing. I knew that this was the painful part for Lizzie – I could see the veins on her neck bulging, her eyes tight closed and her forehead resting on the brick wall in front of her, wordless sounds escaping her.
I saw the moment she dilated and Rufus slipped his cock into her – the change of expression on her face was instant as a few inches disappeared inside her. She came immediately – there’s no way that I could mistake that, and dropped one hand to her cunt, holding it briefly as if to lessen the sensitivity of her orgasm, her legs shaking a little. Then her hands were back on the wall and she actually began to push back against him.
This one action made his wife come on my hand – she contracted wonderfully – her cunt gripping me as I tried to keep finger fucking her. She made a whimpering, repeated, “Oh. Oh.”, sound as she wet her thighs even more. She’d stopped stroking my cock as she came, but as she subsided she started to move her hand again, now with increased purpose.
I briefly took my fingers out of her and wiped her come onto my cock shaft, making her hand wet and slick. This seemed to excite her, perhaps not something she was used to, so I took my fingers, still dripping with her come, and pushed them gently to her lips. After a second’s hesitation she opened her mouth and cleaned my fingers completely, licking hungrily at her own come before I put them back inside her.
Our eyes were now locked on the couple in front of us. Rufus was fucking Lizzie like a ram takes a ewe – he was literally covering her, his weight bearing down on her and, amazingly, his entire cock inside her arse. I could hear his heavy balls swinging against her arse with a slap every time he thrust into her. Lizzie was grunting and struggling to get enough air into her lungs.
Rufus had his hands on Lizzie’s hips, each time he pushed into her he also pulled her towards him – she reminded me of a Fleshlight – this was the very embodiment of being used. He was using her to come, nothing more.
My own balls contracted and my hot come started to run down my shaft, over the tight fist of the blonde next to me, causing her to come again, just gripping me as I continued to ejaculate, Rufus started to fuck my wife even harder, faster, almost frantic. Lizzie was coming, shaking, coming again. She was trembling all over and kept putting her hands to her cunt as if to try to make it stop. I could see her thighs and legs were wet and there was a pool of darkness between her legs on the concrete below her.
“He’s going to come…”, said my companion, softly.
We were both pretty spent, so we watched, my hand resting inside her cunt, her hand on my wet, softening cock, as her husband shouted, his head thrown back, eyes closed and face bright red, and, finally, stopped thrusting, his cock buried fully inside my wife. He pulled her so hard toward him that he was holding her feet off the ground as he emptied his come into her arse.
When he finally stopped and pulled out, a torrent of come fell from Lizzie’s anus to the floor. Her legs were shaking too much to stand and as I rose and sat next to her I could feel her trembling. Putting an arm around her, she rested her head on my shoulder. We didn’t even notice the others leave.
“So”, I began, “enjoy being a ********** for the night?”
Lizzie laughed – her only regret, she said, was that, had she known, she’d have charged a lot more.
We realised we’d have to spend a bit longer at the reception, at least to see the happy couple off, and it wasn’t uneventful – for one thing, we saw Rufus and his wife discretely pass Lizzie’s knickers between each other, him putting them in his jacket pocket. Word had obviously spread, because if Lizzie had wanted to, she could have made a small fortune from all the approaches she had.
Later, when we relived the evening, which we would go on to do many times, Lizzie said that the most thrilling part of the whole adventure was when Rufus had first asked, “How much?”.
In the early years of our relationship, which were wilder and less constrained than they are now, Lizzie had two fantasies she would come back to again and again, particularly loving to speak aloud what was in her mind while I went down on her. This is still true today, but the fantasies have changed a little.
In those days Lizzie ached to be in a “proper” porn movie and, darker, to live the life of a ********** for a night.
The scenarios Lizzie and I created around both of these fantasies were detailed and built up over many nights in bed together.
As our real sex-lives were already pretty crazy and unorthodox, it might even seem a little tame for these two fantasies to mean so much to us, but for Lizzie it was about the feeling of being controlled and used, with little or no say about what was done to her – that was the turn-on at the heart of it all for her.
One of the things we tried at the time, and got some real pleasure from together, was a phone-sex line. For those of you too young to remember, phone-sex lines were premium rate numbers which, when dialed, would eventually put you through to a bored sounding woman telling you to stroke your cock while making awful fake sex noises. The money these women earned could be OK – the calls cost the poor man on the other end an absolute fortune and the girls earned commission from keeping them talking.
It was, of course, not about the money for us. I had the idea of Lizzie spending a few hours a week working for one of these services and she jumped at it. The phone numbers were advertised via postcards tacked to the inside of phone boxes (again, something only some of you will remember!), with glossy semi-pornographic pictures and women with made up names begging you to call them for “instant relief”. Needless to say, the women on the cards bore no resemblance to the women actually answering the phone.
Except in Lizzie’s case. As part of the thrill, we decided to take a small risk of discovery. The picture on our cards, stuck in phone boxes all over London, was genuinely Lizzie – topless, on all fours, looking back at the camera over her shoulder with her bright red lips, wearing nothing but matching red lace French knickers, legs apart, the soles of her high heels ******* and the bulge of her cunt clearly visible through the material – which is not surprising because when I took that picture she was very wet and very aroused as I talked to her about all those men looking at her and finding the coins to call her, pushing their stiff cocks aside as they searched their pockets.
The sex-line company who run the numbers divert callers to your home line, so we had a second one installed solely for the purpose. The first night we were “live”, Lizzie took 10 calls. She could have taken many more, but she insisted on making sure the man she was talking to came, for real, and sometimes more than once. In every case Lizzie would make herself come too, telling the caller every tiny detail.
The phone was on loudspeaker the whole time, so I just sat in an armchair, naked, repeatedly making myself come as I watched my wife writhe on the floor, dressed how the caller wanted her and doing to herself whatever she was told, with a large collection of vibrators and dildos. Lizzie must have been the only woman answering a sex-line who was genuinely doing what she said she was doing, and truly enjoying it immensely. She sometimes came really, really hard, to the point where the caller heard or sensed it and their encouragement became even louder and more frenzied, “That's it! Fuck yourself hard in the arse with that thing, come for me you *****, you’re going to make me come – fuck, come for me..” again and again I heard this type of thing and it never failed to get Lizzie off. It took a long time to wean ourselves off the phone lines, and it only really ended when we, like the rest of the world, started camming.
As I said – Lizzie loved doing, sexually, what she was told, even by some guy with his cock in his hand in some scruffy bedsit running up a bill from calls he’d later claim he didn’t make. When this happened, which it did, often (normally when a wife checked the phone bill), Lizzie would sometimes get asked by the company to confirm the call took place – which she always did with much more detail than they were probably expecting.
I decided to try and go a step further in making my wife’s dreams come true – which they say you should never do – but our whole swinging lifestyle started as a fantasy and we haven’t looked back since making it real.
Whenever we were out at public events we would delight in playing little games with each other – flirting with other people, making up lies about each other (“he’s actually a massive sexual deviant”, was one of Lizzie’s defaults), usually whispered to a random woman at some party, or at my work Christmas event to my boss on one memorable occasion..
We were at a wedding – friend of a friend and, I think, making up numbers when the drop-outs got a little high. We’d been drinking champagne steadily all day by the time we sat down for the wedding breakfast in the afternoon, and Lizzie had been on especially good form with her attempts to shock other guests – I rarely knew what she was whispering but I could see her grinning at me and pointing me out to someone I didn’t know from across the room on several occasions. It’s just what we do, and I resolved to get my act together and start getting some rumours about her circulating, already chuckling to myself at the prospect.
Our table was for ten – five couples – and they were all a bit dull. I imagine they thought we were a bit dull too – that’s the nature of these things, but my ears pricked up when I heard a sub-conversation going on to my left, appearing to be about ************. There was an edge to the voices and, as they got a little louder, the rest of the table got a little quieter until we were all listening in. Essentially, a young woman was arguing with a young man about prostitutes. Her view was that it was exploitative, degrading, immoral, destructive and just plain wrong and that the man (the customer) was in the wrong for using prostitutes 100% of the time. The man was trying to argue that not all working women are ****** into it, some do it through choice, for the money, independence etc. Frankly he was on dodgy ground to begin with, didn’t have any facts, and was attempting to argue the case with a woman, so he was getting badly mauled and probably rightly so.
Having an idea which sent an immediate, electrifying thrill through my body, I waited for a bad-tempered lull and said, to the table, “Well, of course, we should just ask Lizzie about this – she’s the only one here with first-hand experience of working as a **********, I imagine..”
I felt my wife stiffen beside me, her hand tightening on my thigh like a claw. I was, for a few seconds, terrified I’d gone too far and that she was going to a) get up and walk out and b) take the car and change the locks. Gradually, as all eyes turned to her in absolute amazement, I felt her relax and her hand move a little higher on my thigh. This was going to be fun.
To break the silence, I said, “Sorry darling – me and my big mouth.”
“No”, said Lizzie, “No – it’s fine. I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t think it’s an ideal topic for a wedding breakfast though (she giggled at this), but if any of you really do want to know what I think, by all means come and find me later.”
The stares seemed to continue for minutes, but I’m sure it was really only seconds, and each of them was returned by a smiling Lizzie.
The afternoon passed and, despite the occasional whispered aside which was clearly about my wife – the furtive glances gave them away – things were pretty much back to normal with conversation in full flow by the time the first dance was called and, soon thereafter, the traditional disco started up and everyone moved to the floor.
Lizzie was having a great time doing her “bump and grind” routine with some random guy while I stood at the bar waiting for our drinks. I became aware that one of the women from our table, pretty, short and slim with shoulder-length blonde hair which may or may not have been her own – was standing close beside me.
“Hi!”, she said, smiling brightly as she tried to attract the bartender’s eye. Being about a foot taller I waved some money in his direction and he raised his chin enquiringly. I pointed at the woman and she ordered her drinks, which I paid for and wandered away, surprised to find her coming to sit next to me at the table as I waited for Lizzie to take a break.
Sitting close, her hands in her lap, her party dress draped demurely over her (shapely, I noted) knees, she hesitated, looking at me for a long few seconds, then said, “Does your wife.. I mean, does she still.. work?”
“Of course”, I said, obtusely, “she’s a lawyer.”
Reddening, the young woman floundered around, “No, I mean, well, I meant, not that type of work, I mean..”
I laughed, and was about to explain it was all a joke when I changed my mind, feeling the faint stirrings of an erotic opportunity..
“It depends..it depends on the job and the price..”, I said.
She relaxed a little, “Oh! Oh, well, that’s good. Good. I was wondering, well. My husband” – here she waved vaguely in the direction of the dance floor – “Is really, I mean really besotted with her and, well. I have told him a few times in the past that we could live his fantasy of going with, you know – what your wife is, was – one day…”
She ran out of steam and sat looking, bewildered, at me. I decided to help her out.
“OK, OK”, I said, smiling warmly at her, “I’ll talk to Lizzie. I imagine it won’t be a problem. I’m not her pimp though – you guys need to set a price with her, if she agrees to it.”
After another few seconds silence she asked, “You don’t mind? Your wife, I mean?”
“Why would I? Don’t you mind? Your husband wanting to fuck another woman so much he sends you to negotiate it?”
“I’m not sure. Yet. I don’t know what to think about it – I’ll let you know later..”
With that, she stood and walked purposefully to the dance floor, her heels clicking. I noted that she had a very creditable arse.
I was waiting for Lizzie to come and get her drink for what seemed like an eternity. I was surprised to see her, after at least half an hour, emerge from the gloom with the little blonde.
Lizzie held her hands out to me and asked, “You want to watch too?”, glancing at the other woman, who turned her eyes to the floor, I realised what Lizzie meant.
Immediately growing hard, I took my wife’s hands and stood, allowing her to lead me outside into the dark lawn, beyond the glow of the lights from the wedding party and into what must have been a bandstand in the grounds – a circular brick building with a pointed roof and benches along each wall, broken only by the arch which formed the entrance.
Already inside, stepping from the gloom, was a big young man – straight from central casting – a rugby playing public school type, muscular and thick of trunk and leg, broken nose, dinner suit and carnation. He’d be a fat balding broker in 20 years, but right now my wife was looking at him with obvious anticipation.
“This is Rufus”, said the blonde.
Of course it is, I thought.
Rufus was staring mindlessly at Lizzie, reaching out to touch her tit.
Lizzie slapped his hand away. “Money”, she said, holding her hand out, palm up, the other on her cocked hip.
“Of course, apologies”, said Rufus – accent from central casting too I thought – like he was talking to his boss.
Producing a wallet from his inside pocket, Rufus counted out two hundred pounds, which Lizzie counted again and tucked into her purse.
“Ok, big man – let’s see what you have”, said Lizzie as she slid to her knees in front of him.
Rufus had his hands flat against the brick wall, my wife kneeling on the concrete floor between his bulk and the wooden bench at her back. Something about seeing her practically trapped like this was a major turn on.
I heard a zip open, then a belt hit the floor, dragged through the trouser hoops violently by my wife. There was a struggle to drag his trousers down, “His thighs are huge – trousers never fit him..”, whispered the blonde at my elbow.
I’d forgotten she was there for a moment. I took her elbow and we moved off a little way, sitting next to each other on the bench a little way around the wall – with a perfect view of Lizzie and Rufus.
Lizzie had her face tilted up, looking at Rufus with a smile on her lips as she reached into his boxers. I noticed a flicker of surprise on her face, her eyes snapping back down to look at the cock she held.
“Oh.. wow..”, breathed Lizzie, in a tone that I knew meant she wasn’t pretending for her “client”.
As Lizzie pulled his boxers down to his thighs (again, they wouldn’t go past them), I gasped as his cock came fully into view. We were looking at it side on from where we sat, and Lizzie could only just close her hands around it with her thumbs linked together. He was enormous.
I glanced at his wife, an eyebrow raised.
“It was months before I could take it all. It’s over 12 inches – it’s not even fully up yet..”
Lizzie was licking hungrily at the head of his cock. I could see threads of fluid hanging from it and then falling onto my wife’s legs. Lizzie had hiked her dress up to her waist to allow her to rest on her haunches, ******** her black stockings and lingerie. His pre-cum was like some people’s ejaculation.
Lizzie couldn’t even fit the whole head into her mouth, so contented herself with using the tip of her tongue on his slit, then running it over him, pulling back his foreskin, drinking his pre-cum, her eyes and face tipped up to him the whole time.
Rufus’ hips were moving slowly, pushing in time with my wife’s motion. I could hear him breathing heavily through that crooked nose.
Standing, my wife turned her back to him, placing her own palms flat against the wall between his massive arms, her skirt already bunched at the waist.
Rufus placed a massive thigh between Lizzie’s legs, making her moan, and reached down, tearing her (expensive) knickers off and tossing them casually in our direction. They landed near my companion’s feet and she stooped to pick them up, bunching them tightly in her fist.
I realised for the first time that I could hear her breathing too – she was clearly excited. She had her hands in her lap, the left clutching tightly onto Lizzie’s knickers.
“Are they wet?”, I asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you wet?”
“Yes.”
I reached over and picked her hands up, one at a time, and gently placed them on the bench next to her. Pushing her gently forward, I sought, and found, a long zip in the back of her dress, which I quietly pulled all the way down. She didn’t move, nor did she resist. She stared ahead at her husband, now maneuvering his giant cock between my wife’s legs, as I slipped the straps off her shoulders and allowed her dress to fall. I now had plenty of room to slip my hand inside the loose material at the waist. We didn’t look at each other as my fingers moved lower.
I murmured, “I didn’t want to touch you through your clothes, I want to feel how wet your cunt is..”
At the word “cunt”, I pushed two fingers into her – she was absolutely drenched – and she moaned aloud.
Her thighs were slick with warm juices from her cunt, it was all over her, under her, running slowly down her legs and dripping gently to the floor. She was getting off on this – hard. I started to wonder how much of this was Rufus’ fantasy..
She began to wiggle against my fingers, her left hand pushing against the back of mine through her dress as I moved in and out.
I unzipped my trousers and pulled my cock into the night air. I’m not small but God – Rufus made me look tiny. Ignoring that thought, I took her right hand and wrapped her fingers around my cock, which she instantly started stroking.
Lizzie was on tiptoe – her arms locked as she braced herself against the wall.
“Do it..”, breathed Lizzie.
“Fuck – you’re sure?”
“It’s what you paid for, and I don’t do refunds – now do it.”
Lizzie, in a pose I’ve seen many times, took her hands from the wall, her thighs and calves statuesque in the half-light as she now braced herself with her own strength only, and, reaching behind her, used her hands to pull her arse cheeks as wide apart as she could.
With a gasp I realised what was happening – he was going to put that thing in her arse.
My cock jumped, the blonde noticed and moaned a little, my fingers still working slowly inside her, my thumb on her engorged clit.
Rufus reached between Lizzie’s legs and pushed his fingers inside her cunt – making her gasp and coating his hand in her come, which he rubbed liberally on his cock head, mixing it with his oozing precum.
Holding his cock at the entrance to my wife’s anus, Rufus began to push, his chin on his chest as he looked at what he was doing. I knew that this was the painful part for Lizzie – I could see the veins on her neck bulging, her eyes tight closed and her forehead resting on the brick wall in front of her, wordless sounds escaping her.
I saw the moment she dilated and Rufus slipped his cock into her – the change of expression on her face was instant as a few inches disappeared inside her. She came immediately – there’s no way that I could mistake that, and dropped one hand to her cunt, holding it briefly as if to lessen the sensitivity of her orgasm, her legs shaking a little. Then her hands were back on the wall and she actually began to push back against him.
This one action made his wife come on my hand – she contracted wonderfully – her cunt gripping me as I tried to keep finger fucking her. She made a whimpering, repeated, “Oh. Oh.”, sound as she wet her thighs even more. She’d stopped stroking my cock as she came, but as she subsided she started to move her hand again, now with increased purpose.
I briefly took my fingers out of her and wiped her come onto my cock shaft, making her hand wet and slick. This seemed to excite her, perhaps not something she was used to, so I took my fingers, still dripping with her come, and pushed them gently to her lips. After a second’s hesitation she opened her mouth and cleaned my fingers completely, licking hungrily at her own come before I put them back inside her.
Our eyes were now locked on the couple in front of us. Rufus was fucking Lizzie like a ram takes a ewe – he was literally covering her, his weight bearing down on her and, amazingly, his entire cock inside her arse. I could hear his heavy balls swinging against her arse with a slap every time he thrust into her. Lizzie was grunting and struggling to get enough air into her lungs.
Rufus had his hands on Lizzie’s hips, each time he pushed into her he also pulled her towards him – she reminded me of a Fleshlight – this was the very embodiment of being used. He was using her to come, nothing more.
My own balls contracted and my hot come started to run down my shaft, over the tight fist of the blonde next to me, causing her to come again, just gripping me as I continued to ejaculate, Rufus started to fuck my wife even harder, faster, almost frantic. Lizzie was coming, shaking, coming again. She was trembling all over and kept putting her hands to her cunt as if to try to make it stop. I could see her thighs and legs were wet and there was a pool of darkness between her legs on the concrete below her.
“He’s going to come…”, said my companion, softly.
We were both pretty spent, so we watched, my hand resting inside her cunt, her hand on my wet, softening cock, as her husband shouted, his head thrown back, eyes closed and face bright red, and, finally, stopped thrusting, his cock buried fully inside my wife. He pulled her so hard toward him that he was holding her feet off the ground as he emptied his come into her arse.
When he finally stopped and pulled out, a torrent of come fell from Lizzie’s anus to the floor. Her legs were shaking too much to stand and as I rose and sat next to her I could feel her trembling. Putting an arm around her, she rested her head on my shoulder. We didn’t even notice the others leave.
“So”, I began, “enjoy being a ********** for the night?”
Lizzie laughed – her only regret, she said, was that, had she known, she’d have charged a lot more.
We realised we’d have to spend a bit longer at the reception, at least to see the happy couple off, and it wasn’t uneventful – for one thing, we saw Rufus and his wife discretely pass Lizzie’s knickers between each other, him putting them in his jacket pocket. Word had obviously spread, because if Lizzie had wanted to, she could have made a small fortune from all the approaches she had.
Later, when we relived the evening, which we would go on to do many times, Lizzie said that the most thrilling part of the whole adventure was when Rufus had first asked, “How much?”.
