I’ve no idea if I’m relieved or happy or disappointed as I slide my hand further into her pyjama bottoms and push them down her thighs. Because although Blythe straddles me eagerly when I press my hand on her arse to show where she should go, and it feels so good to have her wet heat settling on the tip of my cock, it’s not half as intimate as lying in the heather yesterday, not touching.
9
BLYTHE
I’m at the sink, washing champagne flutes that I found in the cupboard—dusty—when Mr Blackstone walks in, pushes up my skirt, and grabs my bottom.
He brings his face down to mine and grazes his lips over my cheek as he kneads the soft flesh and breathes me in. “Lean over.”
That command isn’t even necessary. Only two weeks married, and I respond to him on total instinct. I’m a Pavlov dog, but his gravelly voice is my bell, his slow thrust into me is my meal, and it’s my pussy that salivates. I’m already flooded, and I’ve pushed back into his hand. I’m eager to obey, bending at the waist.
This is my normal now, and it’s delicious. Mr Blackstone doesn’t return home to rail me at lunchtime every workday, but I’m so happy when he does.
My new life is everything I dreamed of.
True, I haven’t heard much from Ainsley. She texts and says she’s fine, but nearly always puts me off to tomorrow if I suggest a chat. She’s mentioned friends, and I don’t think she knows about my marrying her father, so I suppose she’s just busy. I certainly see plenty of photos on social media, and she sends me gorgeous extra images of the sights she’s seeing and the food she’s eating.
I’m not even slightly jealous, because I have her dad’s attention, and he’s everything I want. Nothing makes me feel more desired than the way he doesn’t wait.
I go to put the glass I’m cleaning aside, because I want to focus on the delicious sensations between my legs. Plus, usually as I come I shake. I lose control of myself.
“Don’t let me inconvenience you,” Mr Blackstone says, voice husky. “Keep on washing the glasses.” His belt buckle clinks. “But don’t drop them.”
Ohhhh. I bring the glass under the spray from the tap once more.
This is a new thrill: the challenge of doing something else while being utterly distracted by being railed mercilessly by my husband.
He’susingme as his toy. He’s using me ashis toy.
He strokes his hand over my naked bottom, and there’s the rhythmic sound as he jerks himself a few times, looking at my bare pussy.
I know my husband now. I’ve seen him take that magnificent cock in hand often enough that I recognise the sound.
“My good little free use housewife. Always so wet,” he mutters, as though it’s a puzzle.
I bite my lip instead of pointing out I’m soaked for him because he is hotter than a grill turned up to maximum in the Sahara Desert.
He thrusts into me impatiently, and the sudden intrusion of his very substantial length and girth hurts. Then it’s just delicious stretch and my clit humming.
I keep washing the glasses, warm water flowing over my hands and the sunlight from the window making rainbows over my arms. The focus required to continue with the task wars with the instinct to give in to pure enjoyment of how he’s ramming into my pussy.
He’s fucking me fast and hard, and I’m moaning as he hits some magical place, when a sound like a fire alarm emits from his phone.
He swears colourfully, and still inside me, still thrusting, pulls the phone from his pocket and answers.
“Yes.”
I squeal and lose control of the glass I’m holding, and it shatters against the one ceramic side of the sink. My pulse leaps with fear—Mr Blackstone said not to break the glass and probably they’re really expensive. What if he stops and tells me off? The idea of his disapproval is jagged in my blood.
“Yes,” he repeats into the phone.
He reaches around me and removes the remnant of the broken glass from my hand, before he thrusts again.
I’m paralysed, but he keeps fucking me.
“What?”
Thrust.
