"Wife turned on" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Heather)

CHAPTER THREE

By the time we reached the station house, I had completely come out of it. Reverting to my normal character, I felt ashamed and humiliated in front of a group of strange men, knowing they were fully aware I had just had sex in all three holes.

As if my scummy appearance were not enough, the two cops who had picked me up had made sure they told theft fellow policemen all the details. That is, all the details that made me look bad, such as that I'd been found spread-eagled in a slum street, raped in every orifice. It was necessary, of course, for them to make a big deal of my degradation in front of the others to cover up their part in what had happened to me.

Needless to say, it made me feel like a piece of shit.

While they contacted my husband, they sat me down on a hard wooden bench in a drab room where more of the vomitous green paint was peeling from the walls than sticking to it. The heavily made-up, revealingly dressed woman sitting next to me immediately took an interest in me.

"Say, somebody really did it to you, didn't they," she said. "You don't look like you'll be able to work again for a couple of weeks."

"I beg your pardon."

"You know, turn any tricks," she said matter of factly.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hey, you don't have to worry about me. I ain't no undercover cop. Don't worry I'm a working girl just like you."

"But I don't have a job."

That really cracked her up. Then she settled down and asked me point-blank: "Say, how long have you been a whore anyway?"

She might as well have slugged me in the jaw. Reeling with embarrassment, I got up and went to the furthest point in the room away from her.

I was still cowering in the corner an hour later when Don finally showed up. I was such a mess that he didn't even recognize me until the desk sergeant led him to me.

"What happened to you?" he gasped in astonishment.

I ran to him and held on for dear life. When he repeated his question, I took a deep breath and told him I had been raped.

Immediately I could feel him flinch. Instead of the reassuring hug and kiss I expected, I was pushed away to arm's length.

"Didn't they tell you?" I sobbed.

"No, no," he muttered incredulously. "What were you doing – how could such a thing have happened?"

I tried to tell him about the car breaking down, but I just couldn't seem to make sense. Finally I sank to the floor, unable to support my own weight any longer in my anguish.

Don didn't know what to do. He stood looking down at me with disbelief etched in his face until we were interrupted by one of the cops who had picked me up.

"Hey, mister, you better get her out of here," he said. "There's nothing more we can do for her."

Then he went on to explain that there was no need to make any sort of official report. "The paper-work would just be a waste of time," he breezily maintained. "The guy got away, so what's the point. If me and my partner stay late to fill out all the forms if she makes an official complaint, we'll just have to take it off in overtime when we could be out on the streets looking for the guy who did it to her. Don't worry, if you don't interfere with police methods, we'll have a better chance of catching the bastard."

On the way home, I sensed that Don wanted a distance between us, so I kept as far away from him as possible. We didn't speak a word to one another throughout the ride.

In the days that followed, the distance continued. Only now it was a lot more significant than just the space of the front seat of a car. Even though the rape was never mentioned, it was like a ten foot wall between us.

Our sex life had been a steady twice a week thing. But now it dropped to zero. Even though we slept in the same bed, we never touched. Then one night I woke up about three in the morning and discovered that things had deteriorated even beyond that – I was alone in bed. When I went into the living room, I discovered Don sleeping on the couch.

"Which one would you recommend?" I asked after I'd inspected several examples.

She looked at me kind of funny. It was almost as though she were more interested in reading my mind than in selling me brushes.

Her blue eyes met mine and seemed to peer into my soul. Despite my sudden uneasiness, I couldn't look away.

She was the hone who finally broke the gaze. Reaching into the sample case, she picked up a brush and said without conviction, "This is a nice one."

Anxious for something to do that would relieve the tension I felt, I began brushing my hair. However, my hand was shaking so much that the brush fell to the floor.

"Here," she said, reaching down to pick it up, "let me do it for you."

As she leaned over, I found myself inadvertently looking down the front of the scooped neckline of her summer blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra, and for an instant I could actually see her nipples.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked when she caught my roving eye.

"No, nothing, nothing," I protested a little too much.

She smiled in reply and then got up, walked behind me, and began brushing my hair. As I felt the stiff bristles massaging my scalp, I wondered what she was thinking.

"You have beautiful hair, Mary," she said.

"Thank you," I answered. However, although it was the first compliment I'd received since the rape, my mind was elsewhere. It had returned to the image of Ann's firm breasts and nipples.

Then, as if on cue, she came around in front of me so I could see how her loose tits jiggled under her thin blouse. The nipples were pointing through the fabric. I couldn't take my eyes off them.

Her strokes with the brush became longer and longer. Since my hair was down to my shoulders, the bristles were touching my neck and arms on the down sweep. They tickled, and pretty soon it seemed like she was doing it on purpose.

"Feel good?" she asked.

"Yes," I admitted.

"Good," she whispered huskily. Then, continuing to stroke, she bent over so I had a perfect view down the scoop of her neckline. Suddenly I could see her nipples again, and this time it wasn't for just an instant.

Her breasts seemed perfect. So completely feminine. I started to wonder if she had a man in her life who ran his rough hands over them.

"Are you married, Ann?" I impulsively blurted.

"No," she answered tersely, continuing to brush my hair and show her tits.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"But you're such a beautiful girl," I tried to make some sense out of my rudeness. "Surely…"

Just like that she stopped brushing my hair and walked away, taking the sight of her gorgeous breasts away from me. I was certain I had offended her.

There was a long pause. If she was upset I didn't know how I would handle it.

"Mary," she finally said, comforting me somewhat by continuing to use my first name.

"Yes?" I responded anxiously. "Can I trust you?"

"Of course."

She looked at me long and hard as though she were making a final evaluation of my trustworthiness.

"I'm a lesbian," she said.

My gasp was audible. I'd heard and read about women like this, of course, but had never actually met one.

"Are you shocked?" she smiled. "No," I lied.

"Yes, you are," she said, but there was no bitterness in her accusation. "I knew you would be, but I decided to tell you anyway. You know why?"

I dumbly shook my head.

"Because I saw the way you were looking at my tits. I was hoping that if I told you the truth, maybe you'd want to touch them. Play with them."

"You mean, make love to you?"

"Yes."

Before I could think of what to do or say next, she took the initiative. Suddenly the blouse was off and her bare breasts were bobbing only a few feet in front of me.

She came even closer and took my hand. Suddenly my palm was rubbing one of her nipples and then the other. I found myself panting with excitement.

"Does feeling my tits make your pussy wet?" she asked.

Automatically I pressed my thighs together. They were wet and sticky.

"Yes," I admitted. "It's running down my legs."

"Me, too," she grinned. "I've been horny ever since I first noticed you looking down my blouse. I was hoping you'd feel the same way."

She eased down, sitting on my lap. While I continued fondling her tits, she began unbuttoning my blouse. When she reached around and unhooked my bra, I was naked from the waist up.

"Mmmmm," she cooed, "your nipples are like spikes. Can I suck them?"

As though she had me hypnotized, I said yes. Dropping her head to my chest, she closed her mouth over one of the turgid nipples and began touching it. Between my legs, I could feel my pussy beginning to gush instead of merely leak.

While she sucked my tits, Ann slid her hand under my skirt. The feel of her probing fingertips through the saturated crotch of my clinging panties was electric. Then and there I knew there was no turning back – we would make love.

We went to the bedroom to do it. By the time we got there, we were both naked. I was the one who got in bed first on my back and spread my legs as far apart as they would go.

"Love me," I moaned, pleading for the intimate kind of affection I had been robbed of since my rape. Make me come.

Ann dove for the mossy crux of my thighs and began eating me. Her teeth, lips and tongue were heaven against my cunt. And things got even better when she penetrated that drooling slit.

"Eat me… eat me… eat me," I chanted repeatedly. "Shove your hard tongue all the way up my pussy and fuck me with it."

I had started coming almost immediately. The more Ann tongued me, the harder I came. By the time she was orally probing me to the hilt, orgasm was shaking me like a leaf.

While she ate my cunt, her hands roamed over my tits. My nipples were erect at least an inch apiece, and crimson from the constant stimulation.

Before long I realized I could no longer wait to taste some pussy myself. Ann recognized my desire instinctively and asked if I wanted to sixty-nine. Of course my answer was yes.

Quickly repositioning ourselves so that our faces were buried in each other's hairy cunt, we began chewing each other out. I couldn't believe how exciting another woman's pussy tasted. If it was always this good, I could see why Ann had turned lesbian.

My tongue's first trip up a tight female fuck-hole is something I'll remember until the day I die. The combination of the jellied sweetness and squeezing muscles was something every woman should experience. Making love to someone of my own sex seemed like the most natural and beautiful thing in the world.

Instead of rising and then falling, my orgasmic response just kept building. I wanted more and more of my female lover, and she obviously felt the same way. We must have swallowed a pint of each other's pussy juice.

And it still wasn't over when we stopped sixty-nining. Ann asked me if I wanted her to fuck me.

"Of course," I eagerly answered. "But how?"

"With that long-handled brush you picked," she giggled. "It'll fit just fine inside your cunt, and I'm just the girl who knows how to make it move. When I'm through with you, you'll wonder why you ever bothered to fool with a real cock."

She left the room to get the brush. Believe it or not, I was so horny that while she was gone I finger-fucked myself. I didn't want to lose a precious bit of the tremendous climax raging within me.

When she returned, she was holding the bristle end of the brush against her crotch so the handle loomed from her loins like a hard-on. I could hardly wait for her to slip it inside my cunt and start pumping. I'd soul-kiss her and play with her perfect tits while she was doing it.

"Fuck me, Ann, fuck me!" I cried, pulling my hand from between my legs and opening my snatch to my cervix.

She came to the bed, climbed aboard, and kneeled before me. My pussy was steaming with anticipation.

Expertly guiding the brush handle, Ann lowered her tawny loins toward my open honey-pot. Operating in a no-nonsense fashion, she made her first thrust a deep and probing one. All of a sudden my twat was engorged with her hardness.

Just as I'd planned, I seized her breasts and covered her mouth with my lips when she started screwing me. Making total love with another woman made fucking my husband seem tame indeed.

The springs in the mattress squeaked like a rusty gate in the wind from our furious humping. The end of the brush felt like it was in my womb, and then it seemed to penetrate even beyond that.

This was fucking. Real fucking. Had I known about this kind of sex when I was growing up, I might never have married.

Wrapping my legs around Ann's slim waist, I drew her tighter and tighter into the grip of my thighs. We were both generously endowed with pubic hair, and now, with the welding of our groins, it had combined into one enormous tangle.

Then our pussy lips melted together. Even our cuts. Our cunts were one. One pulsing, dripping, spasming organism of sensual female lust.

It was only natural that eventually I would take the brush out of my twat, lick my own juice off the handle, and then begin fucking Ann back with it. It turned out to be as much fun doing the fucking as receiving it.

We must have switched places five or six times before we were finally exhausted. Then we got under the sheets and just curled up against each other's naked bodies, luxuriating in the afterglow of perfect love-making.

Eventually dozing off, my dreams were wet. When I awoke, I told Ann about it and she laughed and said the same thing had happened to her. After trading details we were so turned-on that we started sucking and fucking all over again.

The second time around we gave the long handled brush to each other in the ass as well as the cunt. Also, we licked and ate everywhere – tits, pussy, ass, belly-button, armpits. As far as I was concerned, every part of Ann was sweeter than the last part I'd tasted.

It finally had to and just before three o'clock because I realized the kids were coming home from school. We had been in bed with each other for almost five solid hours.

For the first time since I had been raped, I felt good about myself. And for the first time in my life, I felt like a total woman.

As I reluctantly said goodbye to Ann, I suspected that things would never be the same.