“Mmm.” She agrees with another sound from low in her belly as she bobs and takes me deeper.
“Want my come down your throat too, my good little whore of a wife?”
She gets into a rhythm, and pleasure pools at the bottom of my spine.
“That feels amazing, Blythe. You’re doing such a good job.”
She looks up at me and I’m crazed. I love her so much.
“I want to paint you with my seed once you’re pregnant, bonnie girl. When you’re swollen with my baby, I’ll claim you again by coming over your luscious tits, and your pretty pink folds.”
I don’t think I’m going to last long. My wife isn’t experienced or expert, but I can see down her dress and see her eyes, the whites showing large, and her pupils dilated as she takes me more and more into her throat. And it’s not the blow job, exactly. It’s the fact it’s Blythe doing this for me. Unprompted.
She’s working at her task of getting me off—into her mouth, nothing in it for her—with single-minded dedication.
“Go on. Do it.” I comb my fingers into the hair at the back of her head and slowly press into her scalp, showing her the speed and depth I need. “Make me come. Get it all for yourself to swallow down, greedy girl.”
She whimpers in agreement as I move her faster on my cock.
“I’m going to put that pretty dessert onto your belly and force you to keep it still as I eat out your delicious pussy on this table once you’re finished, Blythe. I’m going to fuck you with my tongue until you come all over my face.”
She’s shaking with exertion.
“Are you wet for me, little slut?” My voice is raw as my control slips. I thrust upwards into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat hard. Then I’m unravelled.
“Blythe.” Her name is all I can say as orgasm sweeps over my body. My hands are fists in her hair, and it must hurt, but she doesn’t object as I pour into her.
No, my free use off-duty housewife swallows down every drop. And when I’m done, a cracked, destroyed, mess of a man, she sits back on her heels and smiles up at me.
13
BLYTHE
We’re late to the London Mafia Syndicate meeting because we had sex. Duncan took one look at me in this evening gown, pushed me up against the wall, and had me right there in the hallway. Thankfully, he didn’t rip anything this time, and let me get away with only two orgasms.
And while now, I’m as flushed pink as the exceptionally-expensive bright-flamingo silk of my dress, I don’t complain as everyone turns when we walk into the private function room in an exclusive hotel in Westminster.
The truth is, when Duncan unbuckles his trousers as soon as he sees me, I’m delighted. When he comes inside me, I’m so content.
He appreciates me. I’m sure of that now.
Okay, he doesn’t love me, but…
Yes, that is an issue. Especially because after a month of breeding me, Duncan seems to have achieved exactly what he wanted: I’m pregnant.
My period was due yesterday, and it was a bit optimistic, I guess, but when I didn’t see anything, I went straight to the shop and bought a test.
Four. I bought four.
Multiple sticks were peed on, and all said the same thing. I don’t know if I’m elated, or terrified, but mostly I’m both.
“It’s okay,” Duncan says, rubbing my shoulder as I nudge closer to him. He heads towards a group of men standing around, some holding pints of beer or glasses of amber scotch, others just chatting and laughing, hands in pockets, or discussing something serious, pouring over a tablet.
“Ah! This is our new recruit!” A girl with long blonde hair that falls in loose curls halfway down her arms sashays up to us before we can reach the group of men.
I blink. They know about me?
“Welcome to the London Mafia Smut Club.” She takes my arm. “You don’t mind if we steal your wife, do you?” It’s a rhetorical question, clearly, because she’s towing me away from Duncan.
