I still remember the day she walked into our lives. I could never have suspected that she would grow to have the power over my husband, and now my own life, that she currently does. Out of all the applicants we interviewed to replace our retiring housemaid, she seemed like the perfect candidate. She had been personally recommended by our outgoing maid, who had served us for nearly 20 years until her back problems were too bad for her to continue. Our aging ex-maid told us that Marta was the niece of a close friend, and she could vouch for the young lady’s character.
The girl seemed perfect for the role when I interviewed her. Demure and precise, with downcast eyes and perfect deference to me in all questions, I felt that I could adequately rely on this young woman to carry out the duties I required without me having to overexplain myself and without asserting her own opinions. I cannot stand it when the help offer their own feelings about how my household should be run. I grew up learning to demand a certain standard of quality in all of those who work for me and house staff are no exception.
My first impression of her when she walked into our living room to submit to my questioning was that she was dowdy and I wouldn’t have to worry about my husband’s wandering eyes. She couldn’t have stood at more than 5’1”, and at 5’11” myself, I towered over her as I led her to sit on my cream-colored sofa. She was wearing a modest, loose-fitting dress of cheap yet sensible fabric that fell below her knees and buttoned up to her throat. Certainly her most attractive feature, if she could be said to have one, were her cartoonishly large brown bambi eyes with their freakishly long lashes. Her lips were quite full as well. I thought if the poor girl would just take some extra time at the gym and control what she ate a bit more, she could have been passably pretty. I have spent a great deal of time and effort to maintain my still-toned and athletic 47-year-old body, and I have little sympathy for young ladies who let themselves go. However, as I was simply interviewing her for a position in my household, and not as a server at one of my charity events, I didn’t mind that she wasn’t pretty enough to please the eyes of men, and in many ways being easily overlooked was an advantage in serving staff. Better to be not seen as well as not heard. My only concern at the time was her youth, but I felt that she made up for it in maturity.
I explained in no uncertain terms that I expected a high quality of excellence in her and she would be let go immediately if my expectations were left unmet. Between my regular in-home charity fundraisers, tidying up after Mr. Thurman’s slovenly adult children who regularly stay with us, and walking and cleaning up the messes of my 6 Pekingese, it was a full-time position. (Not having children of my own, my darling little furry babies are my pride and joy, but they do tend to cause such a headache for me, and I cannot stand to find a stray dog hair on my shag carpet or on my sofa.)
As she calmly sat on my lounge with her legs primly crossed at the ankles, the light spilling in from our floor-length windows overlooking Central Park West, I did notice how clear and pale and rosy her perfect 24-year-old skin looked in the late morning sunlight. It was interesting to me how, depending upon her facial expression, she could quickly shift from looking like an insecure teenager to a mature woman older than her years.
I was quite direct with her. From her resume I could see that she had had excellent grades and been enrolled briefly at a decent college upstate but dropped out. When I asked why, there was a flash of sadness in her eyes before she smiled and told me it had been to care for her elderly, sick father. He was in a nursing home now, and she needed a steady job to pay for his care. I nodded. Sensible girl. I admire a young person who will pull herself up by the bootstraps and do what needs to be done. I was also certain that she would know her place in my household. As you will see, I was dead wrong, but we will get that later.
On the first day of the job I was surprised when she showed up looking noticeably more comely than she had in our initial interaction. Donning the standard grey dress that I require of all my female staff, I made a mental note that she would probably require the next size up and I would need to speak with her about it. Somehow the drab garment looked inappropriately shapely on her, the A-line skirt flouncing outward at the curve of her cushiony hips and showing off her dimpled knees and just a hint of her thick thighs. The top of the dress was particularly problematic, as the top button was ever so slightly strained against what I realized were uncommonly large, round breasts. The contrast between her narrowing waist and plush ass and hips was almost unbelievable. There was also an inappropriate hint of cleavage peeking out from the top of the dress. Her hair, which I had thought mousy and unremarkable at the interview seemed somehow sleeker and glossier in its upswept ponytail, and I couldn’t help but note how perfectly her wispy bangs suited her round face. Was she wearing lip gloss on those pouty lips? Somehow, with the pink gloss to them they looked overly suggestive. I might also have to have a word with her about what I deemed suitable makeup for my staff.
I was glad that Thurston wasn’t attracted to larger girls. If he had had different appetites I might have been concerned. Nonetheless, even he couldn’t help but notice how inappropriate her dress was, as he came down the steps in his silk bathrobe and slippers for a late breakfast. I really wish he wouldn’t lounge around the house in nothing but his robe, his grey chest hair exposed like that. I just don’t think it sets a good example for our house staff, but it is one of the many ways in which we disagree, and I wouldn’t have been able to maintain our 20 year marriage if I complained about every little thing. I noticed his eye lingering on her a little too long as she was dusting one of our bookcases, glancing up from browsing stocks on his iPad, his left eyebrow slightly cocked as he sipped his espresso. I suppose it was hard not to notice how preposterous the girl looked in that dress, and that was all. I couldn’t imagine that her thick thighs and unathletic figure would interest him, but he was a human man after all, and even he couldn’t be immune to the mesmerising enticement of her outlandishly sizeable bust. I attempted to mentally calculate her bra size. It was certainly larger than a D-cup, there could be no doubt. And I assumed they were natural. It seemed doubtful that a young woman with her means would have had a breast enhancement. I had had the surgery myself, of course, when I was 26, as an engagement present from Thurman. He had admired my tight young body at the time but had seen to it that my A-cup became a C-cup before we were bound in matrimony. His first wife may have lost her looks by then after bearing their two children, but she had always had an admirable pair of tits, which was the only thing about her that I envied. Thurman had always been a tits man.
At the end of the day, after she had polished the inside of the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusted, and walked my dogs, I did have a debrief with her. I didn’t want to be overly complimentary: if there’s anything I despise it is an underling who begins to think she is irreplaceable. However, she was extremely efficient at her duties and I told her I was pleased. I then mentioned the wardrobe issue and told her that I would be arranging for a more suitable uniform as soon as possible. She nodded in a manner that made me sure she had understood me, but her gaze did not leave mine when I explained the problem and there was a hint of something in her face – a hint of dimple perhaps – that suggested that she was not adequately put in her place by my pointing out the issue. Of course, her words and actions were entirely professional but there was something I couldn’t quite place in her that gave me my first hint of unease.
In the days and weeks that followed, I did continue to be impressed with Marta’s work performance and was satisfied to that she was not only a good replacement for our aging maid, but in many ways an improvement on her predecessor. Mrs. Gleason had had difficulty dusting the top shelves of our bookcases in recent years, for example, with her various physical ailments affecting her duties. Marta, despite her chubbiness, was possessed of a surprising amount of strength and energy, and was happy to climb the ladder daily to perform the task, the skirt of her uniform swinging slightly as she ascended the rungs with a hint that her generous butt cheeks might be exposed to the room at any moment, without ever quite coming into view. I noted with a sudden shock of disapproval that she was not wearing the standard beige pantihose that I require my staff to wear. I was also beginning to suspect that she was *not* wearing the new, more generously sized uniform that I had ordered made for her, as the one she was wearing seemed to still tightly hug her figure and I could still see the crack between her round, full bosoms when she bent over. I would have to have a discussion about her uniform *again.* Of course, it was quickly becoming apparent that she was far too excellent a worker for me to let her go for such a minor transgression, but it was beginning to bother me more and more, especially as I was beginning to suspect that my husband *did* find her attractive after all.
After 20 years of rigorously conforming to a diet and exercise regimen to keep my husband’s attention and making sure that I catered regularly to his sexual needs, it was dismaying to see Thurston looking admirably at such an undeserving little piece like Marta. I could have sworn that he had never looked at a chubby girl in his life. His first wife had been an actress on a daytime soap before she had married him, and when I snapped him up, he had still been married to her but was quickly losing interest as her body had become increasingly matronly after birthing his children. As an up-and-coming junior executive in my father’s company, I was highly career-driven and had not thought that I would be getting married before 30, but when Thurston began showing serious interest in me, I couldn’t help myself. A business associate of my father’s, I’d seen him at barbecues and cocktail parties since I was a teenager and had always had a crush on him. I had been in awe of his commanding nature, his piercing blue eyes and athletic figure. As much as my father raised me to make a name for myself in this world and work hard for it, my parents had had a very traditional marriage and I found myself wanting a man who could provide for me, even if it meant giving up some of my own goals.
The one downside to my being with the man of my dreams was it meant that as long as I was married to him, I would never have children of my own. Quitting my career to be a good wife and hostess hadn’t been as tough a sacrifice as that one. He had made it clear to me that he didn’t want more kids, and I can’t really blame him as the two that he does have are as entitled as you can imagine coming from an indulgent, over-coddling mother who could never say no to them. I had wanted children, but life is full of compromises and I had swallowed my disappointment about that issue just as readily as I would swallow my husband’s cum.
After 20 years of marriage, we had had our ups and downs and I had witnessed several flirtations between him and various of his skinny, busty female underlings, but he had never given me any serious cause for concern. As long as he was discreet about his little inter-office flings, I really could get over the indignity of it all. He made it clear to me that he had never had a replacement in mind for me, and he did still fuck me regularly once or twice per week even now, with me at the age of 47 and him at 65.
As much as I was determined that my husband should be fulfilled enough in our marriage that his attention wouldn’t stray, I must admit that I have never been as sexually satisfied by our couplings as perhaps would be ideal. I have always faked it well. I know how to make the necessary moans and movements to indicate I’ve been sufficiently pleasured but achieving climax with him has rarely been something I’ve experienced. When I was younger, I suppose that I thought that was simply my duty and that women rarely experienced the same level of pleasure that men have from sex. Except for certain experiences in college which I will not go into quite yet, I have rarely been able to easily let go with others and reach orgasm. As the years went by, I found myself unfortunately more and more distracted by my inability to experience sexual pleasure from my husband and have resorted to secretly pleasuring myself in private. That part of my life is separate, though. It’s almost as if when I do these things, I am a different person and I set that person aside the rest of my time and push down those thoughts that want to bubble up and consume me. There is certain pornographic imagery that I seem always drawn to, that I would never want to admit to if anyone asked me, and there are certain memories from college that I always resort to in the end to push me over that edge. I don’t want to think about those things that I did back them, as I feel they are out of character and shameful, but the truth is I did them, so there must be some part of me that wanted that, wasn’t there?
We hired Marta mid last year, and by early spring of this year, she was an indispensable fixture in our home. I would bite my tongue from time to time as I caught furtive glances from my husband, but I had no reason to suspect that I should be seriously concerned. It wasn’t until the world went crazy in March and April that I began to have my doubts.
When the pandemic hit, it became increasingly obvious to us that it was unfeasible for our housekeeper to be traveling to and from work every day, exposed to numerous possible disease vectors on her journey on the subway from Queens. We agreed together that we would stay in the city, and that Marta would move into our guest bedroom for the safety of everyone involved. Thankfully, Thurston’s children were with their mother in the Hamptons, so I didn’t have to be stuck with them all that time. It was just the nine of us – my husband and I, our maid, and my six darling dogs.
It was a difficult time for us, as you can imagine, being trapped inside our own home like that. Of course, Thurston worked out of his home office most of that time, and I spent much of my time in my personal gym, adhering to my cardio and pilates routine. I was also spending a great deal of my time tending to the charity organization I run, doing my best to run things online. I must admit it began to occur to me that the glue that had held our relationship together for years had been my regular cocktail parties and fundraisers. Being seen together as the happy couple had helped solidify our myth, but without an audience our performance became increasingly stale. Despite our increased time together, our lovemaking fell from twice a week to perhaps once a month. I began to wonder who this man was, who I had spent the last 20 years living with.
Marta, on the other hand, seemed to blossom under quarantine. She seemed to somehow have increased energy and optimism under the uncertain circumstances that we were all living, and quickly made our home into her own, sometimes to a degree that I found increasingly tactless.
One morning I came into the kitchen and I had to stop myself from gasping. She was not in her uniform yet. She was instead lounging on one of our high stools, sipping an espresso, wearing a cream-coloured silk negligee set that showed off more of her body than I had yet seen. The silk robe barely covered the tops of her milky, voluptuous ass and thighs, at which I couldn’t help staring, her voluminous flesh pressed into and overflowing her perch. The lacy plunging neckline of the negligee showed off her magnificent décolletage, unbridled by the confines of a bra. Her colossal breasts were only slightly drooping from the lack of support, and I suddenly felt my face burning as I realized that I could see her nipples were erect and poking through the fabric. Her usually tidy honey-coloured locks were in disarray around her supple young face. She looked up from her coffee, her hazel eyes brimming with early morning cheer. “Good morning, Karen!” She sang. She had stopped calling me Mrs. Thurman since she moved in, and I had let it slide.
I cannot adequately describe to you the intensity of the rage that bubbled up inside of me at that moment. I know it was perhaps a slight over-reaction, but if there’s anything I hate it’s when someone doesn’t understand their place and tries to take advantage. I knew that if I didn’t nip this behavior in the bud, it would get increasingly worse.
I took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Marta,” I spoke through gritted teeth, “*After you are dressed*, I will need a word with you.” Her face did not betray any concern, and if anything, I could have sworn she wore a slight half-smile when she said she’d be happy to chat.
At that moment my husband came bounding down the steps in his robe, the silk tie undone so that his still-sculpted abs were exposed with their matt of grey hair, his matching boxer shorts the only thing preventing him from full-frontal nudity. “Good morning, Marta!” He called out in his deep voice. “Looking mighty sprightly for this hour of morn!” I couldn’t believe he was encouraging her and shot him a withering look, which he ignored. I couldn’t believe the next thing out of her mouth. “Good morning, Jimmy.” She declared.
The only people I’d ever heard call my husband by that moniker were his college friends, and occasionally in private, me. How does one get “Jimmy” out of “Thurston”, one might ask? His frat brothers had claimed he looked like Jimmy Dean, and the girls all concurred. The only way our young maid could possibly know this is if he had been bragging to her about his glory days. It also meant that they’d been chatting when I wasn’t around. I checked my husband’s face and he had a smug smile, but no hint that he was embarrassed by the crack she had made.
When I got her alone in the living room, I made it clear in no uncertain terms that she was not to attend the kitchen, or any part of the apartment, in her night clothes. She said flatly that it would not happen again, but the look on her face when she said it – there was that half smile again – I couldn’t help but feel was mocking me.
The next morning, my husband had arisen before me, and as I walked down the steps, I saw them. They were sitting side by side at the kitchen counter, sipping their coffee and laughing together over something on my husband’s iPad. She was most certainly not dressed in her uniform – she was wearing the same outfit she had yesterday morning – and their heads were bowed together as if in secret communion. I didn’t know what to say. She had so openly defied me. She was flirting with my husband and asserting herself in the *most* unprofessional way. It had honestly not occurred to before, but I realized that I had to fire her. This behavior would only escalate, I was sure of it, and she had exposed her true character. I would have a hard time convincing Thurston, of course, as he had grown fond of her, but it would have to be done. I had little compunction in throwing the girl out onto the streets amid a pandemic. This is what she had wrought upon herself.
That night, I didn’t take my customary sleeping pill so that I would be lucid to have the conversation I needed to with my husband. I put on his favorite of my nightgowns: a red silk slip that barely covered the tops of my firm, curated cleavage. Slipping into the bed next to him as he skimmed the latest WW2 popular history, I snuggled up to him and ran my hand down his arm. His eyebrows raised slightly over his pince-nez, but he kept reading. “Darling.” I breathed, and took the book away from him, setting it gently on the bedside table as I straddled him. I took off his glasses and kissed him gently on the lips, grinding myself against his lap. This was the longstanding ritual we had for me buttering him up to ask him for something. There would have been a time when me straddling him like this would have led to an instant erection, but I noted with some disappointment that there was yet to be a stirring in his loins. He looked into my eyes with an amused look. “Yes, my dear?”
I launched straight into it. “We need to talk about Marta.”
I had misjudged the correct tactic. His face immediately changed. He didn’t look amused anymore, but stony, as if he were suddenly in a business meeting.
“Do we?” He asked, his voice flat.
I decided to stand my ground. “I know you’re fond of her, but the thing is, she’s just very unprofessional. It’s becoming a problem.”
I could see the muscle in his jaw tighten, indicating danger ahead.
He pushed back, of course. “I think she’s doing a tremendous job, and you are very difficult to please, my love.” The way he said the word “love”, did not sound loving in the slightest.
I decided to pull out the pin. I swung my legs to the side and hopped back onto the bed, turning to look at him. “You’re attracted to her, aren’t you?”
I could see that my words hit home. He flinched, but quickly regained his composure.
“She’s a beautiful young woman.” He said. “I am not dead from the waist down yet, my dear.”
His words stung. It would be ridiculous to expect my husband to never admire the charms of another woman, but the words, “beautiful” and “young” echoed in my mind. There had been no denials, no attempt to coddle my insecurities. And it was somehow shocking to hear it put like this. That fat little tramp? Beautiful? But it was true. She *was* beautiful. I had somehow been denying that I, myself, found her uncommonly beautiful, despite what I had counted as her flaws. And, had I been wrong about my husband all these years? All my obsessive dieting, exercising hours every day to maintain the body I thought he wanted, and it never really mattered. Maybe, though, the thing that does matter, I thought, is that I am old and used up and she is young and inviting.
I have never had my husband’s gift for maintaining composure whilst under fire, and I was losing my cool.
“I’m not going to keep employing her simply because you want to *fuck* her.” I spat.
If possible, his face closed down even more when I said that. “This conversation is over.” He announced and got out of bed. I knew I’d overplayed my hand, and I could expect him to spend the night in his study now.
Enraged and hurt, I got out of bed and threw on my workout gear, deciding the only thing that could wear off my bad mood right now was a punishing cardio session. I made it down to my home gym and started sweating it out on the treadmill, blasting Billy Joel on my wireless headphones. Twenty minutes into my workout, my headphones went suddenly dead, and I realized with annoyance I’d forgotten to charge them. Deep into my run, I let the headphones settle on my neck and focused instead on the sound of the pounding of my feet and the whirring of the mill. There was a certain passive aggressive satisfaction I took in this, knowing that my husband was in his study next door listening to the angry stomping of my feet.
Slowly through the noise of my workout session, however, another sound became to trickle through the wall, soft at first, but then with increasing intensity. It was the sound of moaning. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing at first, but it was becoming undeniable. A woman’s voice was crying out in sexual ecstasy. I turned off the treadmill to get a better listen. “Oh my fucking god.” I heard her say. “Oh fuck yes. *Fuck.*”
I tried to calm my breathing. It was porn, right? My husband and I had fought, and he was watching porn in his study. That’s all it was.
Before I had to time to consider what I was doing, I was at the door to his study, gingerly turning the knob so as not to announce myself. I pushed open the door, and that’s when I saw it. The image will be burned into my mind for life.
There she was. There *they* were. She was completely naked, her glorious, massive globes shaking with pleasure, their pink-crested areoles at attention in the well-lit room. She was draped over his leather couch on her back, her ass hanging off the center cushion with her sturdy thighs wrapped around his head. His face was buried in her pink, hairless cunt. Her hands were between her legs, spreading apart her pussy lips so he could bury his tongue deeper inside her. There was a mixture of saliva and juices around the edges of her gorgeous vagina, glistening in the lamplight. They hadn’t heard me enter.
“Mmmm. Oh fuck, Jimmy. I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum. I love you.” And with that, I leapt forward and grabbed my husband by the hair, yanking his head back, screaming, “You fucking *asshole!*” I was possessed, angrier than I’d ever been in my life. He made a sudden cry of pain and I could see Marta’s eyes snap open.
“Let him go, you fucking *bitch!*” She screamed back at me. Shocked, I let go of his hair. At that instant, Marta leaned forward and slapped me. I lunged at her, grabbing her by the throat, and I think if given the chance, I would have been happy to strangle her to death. I had barely touched her, however, before I felt my husband pounce on me, grabbing my arms and pulling them back.
Marta’s hands instinctively went to her throat, massaging her neck and gasping for breath.
I struggled, but it was apparent that my husband had the upper hand, his strong hands painfully digging into the flesh of my pulled-back arms. I was screaming and howling at them incoherently now, still in shock. The girl stood up in front of me now, her pre-orgasmic juices running down her thighs, and she sprang into action. I wasn’t sure what she was doing at first, but I became aware soon enough. She had opened one of my husband’s desk drawers to pull something out.
“I usually use these on him.” She stated. “But they’ll work just as well on you.” Before I knew what was happening, she was behind me and my right wrist was tightly locked in a cold metal handcuff. She then dragged me across the room, where she and Thurston forced my other hand into the next cuff, binding me to the metal leg of the radiator. Screaming and cursing them out still, I told her that I was going to make her life a living hell. I said that I would fucking ruin her, that she was fucking dead now, and then, before I knew it, my nose was being pinched closed and a rubber ball gag was forced into my mouth, and quickly tightened around my head. Still thrashing for a few moments, I quickly realized that there was nothing I could do about the situation and resigned myself to whatever came next.
What came next were tears. Marta’s tears, that manipulative little minx. I watched as my husband threw his arms around her and kissed her head, shushing her and telling her he would never let anything bad happen to her. He told her that he loved her, and everything was going to be all right. I wanted to vomit. It was so much worse than I had realized. She had him completely wrapped around her chubby little finger.
They began kissing, passionately, and then to my disgust, I saw that my husband’s cock was stiffening at their embrace. I squeezed my eyes shut. Suddenly, I felt a sting on my face as another slap rang out. Marta was above me again. “Don’t you dare shut your eyes, bitch. You are going to have to watch this now. Watch as your husband makes love to the mother of his child.” I nearly choked on the gag. Was this a joke? My eyes flew wide and I looked at Thurston, who was looking away, in shame.
Marta turned to him. “Tell her! Tell her it’s true. We’re going to have a baby.” Thurston looked at me, and whispered, “It’s true.” Then, a bit louder, “I’m sorry Karen. I love her.”
Marta whipped her head around at the word, “sorry”. “Don’t you dare apologize to that bitch. After what she’s put you through for years? She’s never been happy with anything or anyone, in her life, ever. She’s made you miserable. Baby, we are going to be so happy together when she’s out of our lives.”
I fought back tears of rage and despair. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. Was he so deluded that he actually *agreed* with this psychotic little slut, that *he* was the wronged party here? After years of him telling me that he didn’t want any more children, and now he was going to start a family with this *piece of trash?* I had given up the chance of ever being a mother for him, and she had stolen this from me.
But they were making out again, and then she looked over his shoulder at me, straight in the eyes and said, “I want you to fuck me, daddy. Fuck me and make her watch.” At those words, I swear I saw my husband’s cock jump. His mistress degrading me like this was turning him on! She lay back on the Persian rug now, spreading her legs wide to my view, and my husband lined up the head of his cock with her wet vulva, rubbing back and forth with a few strokes, moving the saliva and juices up and down the length of her gash, pink and engorged with her arousal. She moaned as he teased her. He would do the same to me when we made love, and despite myself I began to realise that there was an increased blood flow to my crotch. Being forced to watch my husband fuck my maid was giving me an intense unwanted rush of desire mingled with my devastation, rage and humiliation.
He slowly pushed his straining rod into her, then, and she let out a sigh of pleasure, and wrapped her legs around him. I should have turned away, should have tried to shut this all out, but for some reason I was transfixed. I realized that the breathing through my nose was becoming more labored. A fire was growing in my sex as I watching the perfect pink cunt lips of this incredible, nasty bitch stretched and by my husband’s penis.
The truth was tumbling out in my mind as I watched. The thing that I had never admitted to myself in words.
The truth that I had tried to bury for years was that all my best sexual experiences had been with women. I had told myself that it was just experimenting, that that was what girls all did in college, but for years, when I had rubbed my pussy to the point of orgasm, alone, in secret, I was thinking of the women I’d been with, sometimes in threesomes, sometimes in drunken hook-ups. As much as I hated this girl, I was admitting to myself that I had been sexually obsessed with her for months. I had not admitted it to myself before, the thoughts of her that had been flashing through my mind regularly as I played with my Hitachi wand. When I imagined her naked, it was just out of jealousy, right? The amount of times I’d stared at her fine ass while she was up my bookshelf, telling myself that I was silently fuming and judging her, I had been watching with *pleasure*, hadn’t I? My mouth watered around the gag. I had never hated anyone so much in my life but wanted them so badly at the same time.
She told my husband to turn over, and she slid down on his cock in reverse cowgirl, facing me, so that I could see her unbelievable natural tits jiggle and bounce as she rode him. She panted and cried out, enjoying my husband’s dick in a way that I never had. His firm hands gripped her hips and he moaned. I was sure he’d also never felt this sort of pleasure with his perfunctory fucking of me, nor had I had the pleasure that she was experiencing. I began to feel like my skin was on fire, watching her. She made eye contact with me and I didn’t look away. With my look, I shot pure, poisonous hatred at her, but I also began to feel that I was the one naked and exposed. She was peering right into my soul and she could sense what watching her fuck my husband was doing to my body. Then came the half-smile. That bewitching smile. I wanted to slap her, but I wanted to bury my tongue in her mouth. I hated her, and I wanted to fuck her.
It was then that she spoke.
“You like watching me fuck your husband, don’t you?”
My face went red.
She laughed.
“Look at you. You can’t help yourself, can you? You’re probably so fucking wet right now, watching this.” Abruptly, she crawled off him.
“Take off her yoga pants.” She commanded him. “Let’s feel how wet this bitch is.”
Like a well-trained dog, my husband did what she asked. He crawled over to me and roughly pulled off my running shoes as I kicked and struggled in protest. Then, he hooked his fingers in the tops of my tight lycra pants and yanked them down, pulling off my underwear as well, in one smooth motion.
“Spread her legs.” She ordered, and he roughly pushed back my thighs, exposing my wet cunt to the air of the room. It was obvious that Marta had been right. I was soaking wet, my juices running down my hairless lips down into my ass crack.
Her look of triumph said it all. “I told you.” She declared. “She fucking loves it.” And then, she leaned down and stuck her tongue inside me.
I hadn’t had a girl go down on me since college, and the rush of excitement I felt when her wet, hot mouth made contact with my pussy was overwhelming. Despite my rage, or maybe because of it, I was close to cumming almost immediately. Her tongue and mouth were deft. She had obviously done this before. Sucking my inner vulva, she moved her soft lips up and down my slit, driving me wild. Then she stuck two fingers inside me and gently probed my depths until she found the fleshy bundle of nerves at my g-spot. My legs began to shake as she found my clit with her tongue and slowly, steadily licked at the perfect tempo to make me buckle and shake with a rising plateau of sexual ecstasy.
My husband had been watching with fascination, and she spun around and instructed him, “Fuck me while I’m eating out your wife.” He didn’t have to be told twice. She stuck her ass in the air as he got up on his knees and plunged inside her, immediately beginning to fuck her with abandon while she tongued my clit and spread and massaged my insides with her fingers. The vision of her getting pounded from behind was driving me wild, and when she began to moan into my pubic mound as her own orgasm rose, it sent me over the edge. I felt an incredible wave of heat and pleasure rip through me and I screamed into the gag as the first waves of orgasmic contractions hit me. Her beautiful mouth stayed on me as my body shuddered, and before I knew it, I began to squirt. She moved her face back as a fountain of liquid was released from inside me, soaking her radiant, flushed cheeks. It was her time to cum, then, moaning as she ground back on my husband’s dick, and I could see that her orgasm was bringing on his own. He let out a guttural moan as he shot his seed into her hot young cunt, and then after a few final pumps, laid back on the carpet, exhausted. We all collapsed for a few moments, silently panting and processing what had just happened.
After we had caught our collective breath, Marta brought the keys over to me and unlocked me from the radiator. It was brave of her, but she could see that my rage was spent.
I didn’t resist her anymore, and when she pulled me by the hair down into her incredible pussy and told me to eat my husband’s cum out of her cunt, I complied. The taste of his seed mixed with her juices was salty and bitter and hot in my mouth, and I lapped it up without question until the last drop was gone. She surprised me, then, by moving down and wrapping her arms around me. Before I knew what was happening, her mouth was on mine, and she was kissing me, tasting her lover’s seed on my tongue. The same seed that meant there was a child growing inside of her. My husband came around and held her gently from the other side as she kissed me, and she then turned her head towards him and kissed him as well. We lay together on the carpet in a daze, shocked and spent for the next half hour.
~
It was three weeks ago that I walked in on them, and I can say our lives have changed significantly since then. I write this from my laptop from underneath my husband’s desk. Marta has allowed me to use my laptop for a few hours to write this all out, but she gets final approval. She is punishing me for not scrubbing the kitchen floor thoroughly enough, so I must stay here until she allows me out.
The uniform that Marta has had made for me is shorter than I would have chosen for myself, and I can’t do up the top button. She lets Thurston laugh at me when I have to lean over to scrub the floor, but if he laughs too much, she will shake her head and he will stop. She takes care of me.
She lets me sleep at the end of the bed when I’m good, and sometimes she lets me watch as he shoots his load into her pussy. Sometimes she lets me join in, allowing me to delight in her delicious cunt mixed with his bitter salty seed, as my hands stray up to caress her swelling belly. I can’t wait to take her baby on walks to the park in the expensive stroller she’s bought with her new salary.
My favorite nights are when she sends him away and lets me please her on my own. If I do well enough, she’ll play with me until I’ve soaked the bed with my juices and I black out from pleasure.
Marta is in control now, and I have come to accept it. I wouldn’t really have it any other way.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/if4dhe/she_made_me_eat_his_cum_out_of_her_pussy_fmf
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