A Wanton Woman

John was behind her, naked too, and fucking her. His hands gripped her hips as he took her forcefully, the sound of his hips slapping against her upturned bottom filled the air.

“Is that hard enough?” he growled, the muscles in his neck corded and tense.

She tossed her head and her grip turned white on the bed rails. Her breasts, which were very large, swung with each thrust. It was carnal and dark and decadent and I’d never seen John like this. He was lost to desire, lost to the power he had over the woman. Never so… overcome by his baser needs. Whenever he took me, he was quiet and passive, his hips shifting enough for his cock to move in and out for him to release his seed.

He smacked her bottom, the crack of it making her cry out. She groaned, but it was not in pain. “You’re such a slut, letting me take you like this. You need it, don’t you? Your husband thinks it’s hysteria that makes you a frustrated wife, but you’re just a whore that needs a big cock.”

“Yes!” she cried again. This was what I was supposed to look like while being fucked? Wild and wanton and in the throes of pleasure so intense I loved having my bottom smacked?

I’d never heard him speak in such a way before, his words so blunt and cruel. His voice was rough-edged, not the flat, even tone to which I was accustomed. He’d never spoken to me in such a fashion, never gripped me with such intent, never fucked me that way either. I hadn’t even known you could.

But I was not like this woman. Her figure was unlike mine. She was tall and lean, with a very ample bosom and a small behind. I was petite and curvy, round hips and bottom and yet my breasts were much smaller. Had he chosen her to fuck because she was the antithesis of me? Did her appearance bring about this change in him? Was I that lacking? I had to assume the answer was yes.

John only took me at night when it was dark, the soft light of the lantern beside the bed casting a soft glow to the room. There was no talking. He just pressed me onto my back, worked my nightgown up as he spread my legs and pushed inside me without any preamble. He did breathe hard, but only when he spent his seed, the exertion from it mild in comparison to the vigor he applied now. He never perspired, never groaned. When done, he’d tug my nightgown back down, pull the covers over me and roll over onto his side to sleep. I would be sore and unfulfilled, seed sticky on my thighs and the bed beneath me.

This woman, she was not unfulfilled. The way she shifted and circled her hips, the way her skin glowed with a sheen of perspiration, the way she was panting and chanting yes, yes, yes over and over again, it was quite obvious that she was enjoying herself. I’d never enjoyed myself with John, never felt the same abandon, the obvious desire this woman did at my husband’s hands, or cock. The way she moaned her release, her body tensing even as John continued to pound into her, I knew now I’d never come before.

I was more upset at being cheated of this kind of deep and dark—and pleasurable—connection between two people than the fact that my husband was sharing it with someone else. I’d known of his philandering for some time, but not who he did it with, or where. I’d certainly not expected this.

I wanted this. I wanted someone to tangle their fingers in my hair and yank my head back. I wanted someone to take me hard from behind. I wanted a man’s handprint to be a bright pink on my bottom. I wanted passion.

The front door slammed, which made me jump.

“Marie!” A man’s voice bellowed from below.

John’s motions stilled, his cock deep inside the woman as she whipped her head toward the door. Her eyes widened in surprise and panic.

“It’s my husband!” she hissed, but couldn’t move, tied as she was to the bed and John behind her.

The man came up the steps, his heavy tread sounding as if he took them two at a time. The bedroom door swung so hard it slammed into the wall. I jumped and gasped, then bit my lip. A big man stood in the doorway. Dressed in a suit and tie, his hair was slicked back with sweat, beads of it dripping down his temples. He was breathing hard, as if he’d run all the way across town. He wasn’t a farmer or a laborer, but a well-to-do man. The cut of his clothes was telling, and John wouldn’t have taken a low-class mistress. But a married one? This man was scorned. The gun in his hands proved that and I bit my lip again to stifle the panic that wanted to slip out. Proved that he was a little insane, too. Mad with jealousy? I felt ridiculed and ashamed at being tossed aside. I could only imagine this man’s rage at being discovered a cuckold.

John pulled out of the woman—Marie—and turned on his knees toward the other man. His cock was red and swollen and shiny with the woman’s arousal. Marie was trapped by her wrists being tied, but she tipped onto her side and pulled her knees up to try to hide. She was like a child who covered their eyes and thought they could not be seen. Her motions did nothing to hide her nakedness or the view of her used pussy. Her crime, and John’s, was indisputable.