DAMAGED - A Bad Boy Romance (4 page)

I looked down through the flapping rim of her sundress at the two milky mounds of her arse, and my dick disappearing between them. No sooner had her body adjusted to mine, did she start pumping her hips back in a quick, panicky rhythm. I clutched gently round her slight waist, to keep her from falling; she twisted around briefly to grin at me, then down at the growing ring of wetness at the base of my cock. She pumped down over me, enveloping my shaft in the most perfect, hot little envelope; then, pulling back again she exposed that wet length to the chill air, sending prickles out over my skin that travelled the full length of my spine. I let my head fall back a little, waves of pleasure fanning out through me. My beautiful wife. My little fuck machine. She thrust into my lap again and again, each pump bouncing a fat ripple through the flesh of her backside.

“Love… we’ll get caught,” I said, although nothing in the world could have torn me out of her hot pussy at that moment.

With each thrust she built up a delicious heat, so thrilling against the cold air, and with this heat we seemed to meld and fuse together. Like dogs rutting in the fucking streets, I thought, with a new mix of panic and glee.

With a supple, cat-like bend of her long torso, she reached back and nuzzled her cheek against mine.

“Good,” she said.

I smiled. Naughty little bitch. Grabbing fistfuls of skin at her waist, I pulled her down savagely onto my dick, ploughing right into the middle of her lithe little belly, and held her down as she squealed and shook. I saw her desperately trying to lift higher up onto her toes, but gravity was on my side and she had nowhere to go but down, taking every last inch of me.

I was shocked at her. Did she
want
to be caught? My face flushed with the thought that my wife was a closet slut, a woman with nothing but a thin bit of sundress between her and a quick public fuck, like nothing was so normal in the world. Horny? Just pull over and shag, wherever you find yourself, like a little slut. She couldn’t wait. She wanted my dick so bad she couldn’t wait a few minutes for it, and now that we were in danger of being caught by strangers, she was dripping wet and grinding into me like an animal.

“You’re being very naughty, dear,” I said into her wind-whipped hair, and delivered my disapproval in the form of a string of quick, brutal thrusts. She had no air in her body to protest, and only fell forward limply, mouth half open, her little ballerina-like breasts hanging down in front of her loosely, inside her sundress.

So, let them catch us then. Let everyone see what a raging, dirty slut she was; let them look her right in the eye, and see her flushed face.

I thrust harder.

It would be
my
dick jammed so far up her she wouldn’t be able to move now even if she wanted. This was
my
whore of a wife, let everyone look, and let them see how much she was loving it…

These thoughts were rushing over me, completely new and surprising. I was angry that she was being so careless – this wasn’t like her at all – and angry that she was flaunting her body, her body that only I was supposed to see. With a confusing, faint sense of humiliation I pounded her even harder still, harder than I ever had, so that her little toes nearly came clean off the floor.

The ropes of her long hair were shaking with each blow of my hips into hers. I almost felt sorry for her – she had bitten off more than she could chew, poor little thing, and she was getting fucked to pieces now whether she wanted it or not. This woman in front of me somehow wasn’t my wife anymore; and somehow I was entitled to pour abuse into her slender body, here, on the side of the road with nothing but a flimsy cotton dress covering her hungry little body.

“Love …love …a car’s coming…” she squeaked. On the periphery of my awareness I heard a car approaching. Fuck.
Fuck
. 

I picked up the pace to fever pitch and felt her fearful frame tighten and explode all around me into a hot, hurried orgasm. Her worn little pussy twitched violently against me and before I knew it I was tumbling after her, pawing at her belly and breasts.

“Oh god…” I said, exploding squirts of cum deep into her.

The car whizzed by. We were in public.
In public
.

Slack jawed, she twisted round to face the road, and I saw the slow movement of the car reflected in the wet curve of her eye. That moment lasted forever – the slow crawl of the car on the horizon, her body frozen like a startled deer, nothing but the sound of her hard breathing and harder heart beat. She was looking at them and I was looking at her. The bulk of her body was concealed by our pulled over car, but it was painfully obvious what we were doing, and even if she was covered up, her bare face told more than the full story to anyone caring to look.

“Oh god. They’re staring right at me…” she said, spellbound and unable to pull away her gaze. Then, something magical happened. As the car’s reflection disappeared out the one corner of her eye, her slack expression suddenly curled up, melting with a new wave of pleasure. She was coming. Again. All the tension in her body dissolved and her body crumpled down onto mine; long, vicious shudders worked their way through her exhausted frame. I stared down, thrilled to see dribbles of white streaming out of her.

She snapped her gaze from the road back onto my face, both of us stunned.

With a few hasty movements, she untangled herself from me and came off my dick, adjusted her clothing round her and smoothing down the skirt of her dress nervously.

I quickly zipped up.

Her hair was a mess.

We both stared down at the drops of cum in the sand, then back at each other.

In the 9 years we had been married, I had never seen such a wild look on her face.

We drove home in silence.

My wife’s sexuality, it turned out, was something like those joke jack-in-the-boxes: tightly wound, and hard as hell to compress and fit back into the box once it popped.

There was this new room in our sex lives all of a sudden, and she was happily exploring every last inch of it. Pandora’s box had been flung open. My wife’s dirty mind was like a clown car – I was amazed by just how much came out of it - and kept coming and coming.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

That evening after our trip to the fertility doctor was the starting point. She seemed wired, a little drunk, a little scattered. She smiled broadly every time our eyes met; all her movements seemed a little more urgent. She absentmindedly started to chop an onion and then tossed the knife aside, declaring we should just order in and that she felt like cider. She hugged me in the kitchen. “They were staring
right at me,
” she whispered in my ear, for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening.

And why wouldn’t they stare? She was a beautiful woman, in the throes of delicious, private pleasure. I loved how thrilled the idea made her, loved how buzzed she was. This was
my
wife, and with a softer, subtler realization I thought how proud I was of her. That they had looked her in the eye, and whatever bliss they saw on her beautiful face was because of
me
. I held her close. This was something new, something scary – something we hadn’t done in years.

She spoke about it more later that evening, as we drank our cider, and as I watched those flickers of new arousal appearing in her eyes, I knew that I wanted to fulfill every last little dirty desire she could come up with; I wanted to be there, to be the one to fuck her in public like the little show-off she was.

“It is technically illegal, you know,” I said, taking a sip.

She smiled.

“What if, like, they arrested us and threw us in prison and we just carried on fucking right there, in the prison cell?”

I laughed at the thought. There was something so cheeky about it.

“Then we just keep doing it, then we have to go to court, and we keep shagging in court as well, and nobody knows what to do with us,” I said. Her eyes twinkled.

I relished the thought of her bare little rump, her illegally exposed pussy lips, and everyone horrified with us… it was strange. It was also very, very hot.

I took another sip. I loved it when we talked like this. This kind of pointless, loose banter that could go anywhere. We had done so much of this kind of thing when we were both in university. Why had we stopped?

“It
really
turned you on though,” I said, with a new tone of voice. I reached over and stroked a lock of her hair.

“Yeah…” she said dreamily.

“But it wasn’t just the thrill of being caught. We actually
did
get caught!”

She nodded, blushing.

She sat up in the chair and looked at me with a new intensity.

“It’s hard to explain. There was just something so sexy about being there, with your dick actually in me, right there in the middle of sex, you know, and looking these complete strangers right in the eye…” she said, trailing off.

“You liked that they saw you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Saw you getting fucked.”

She shot a quizzical look at me. We hardly ever swore around each other. At least, not like this.

She took a long, slow sip of her cider and stared a little. I could feel her thinking.

“I want to do it again.” she said finally, and downed the rest of her drink.

I loved it. I loved this new reckless, naughty side of her. Sitting on the couch that evening, she was different somehow. Her hair was a little wilder, and her voice was a little higher pitched.

I reached out, wanting to hold her, to contain this new burst of energy somehow, and to hold it.

She turned up hungry lips to mine and kissed me. All at once, her body was pressing against mine again, and she was hurriedly tearing off her dress, that same naughty dress, the flimsy accomplice to all our crimes earlier that day. It was though all the new buttons we had pressed a few hours ago were still hot, still zinging with this surprising new energy we had stumbled on. Pushing them again felt easy, and all at once it was though she was turned on again, ready for more.

That evening, I learned something new about my wife, my beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous slut of a wife. I found myself irresistibly turned on by her; there was something so desperate, so urgent in this new side of her.

Animalistic.

She turned her back to me again, and my cock easily found the same passage I had opened earlier that day, and fucked her there again, hard.

She came easily, and I fancied I saw the slow roll of a tiny car over a horizon reflected in her eyes again. I could tell the memory of that day was fresh and aching in her memory still, still filled with juice, still an itch that she was nowhere done scratching. I clutched her beautiful hips in my hands and unleashed all my energy into her, driving everything I had into her flaming hot, tender core. She screamed, body bucking and throbbing, then, tossing the hair out of her eyes, she pulled her legs open even wider and begged for more.

I lost count of how many times she came that evening. After a while, the orgasms blurred into one, she stopped being coherent, her exhausted body eventually conceding defeat as she flopped down on the bed, one sweaty leg dangling off the edge. That morning, we both overslept by 30 minutes.

“Love! You’ll be late for work, come on now, get up,” I said in the rude morning light.

She nuzzled a dozy face into the pillows.

“Nah …I’ll call in sick. I’m staying home today. You know what, love? I think I do want to go on a holiday with you.” She smiled.

I smiled back at this lovable sleepy lump, wrapped in our duvet. I was pleased. There’s something primal and highly satisfying about fucking your wife so thoroughly that she has to call in sick from work the next day. Better still, she was finally coming round to the idea of a bloody holiday already.

“Toothbrush and toothpaste and things?”

“Check.”

“Camera?”

“Check.”

“Booking reference for that place?”

“Check.”

“Viable egg, ready to be fertilized?”

“Don’t even joke!”

She was looking as though she had already been on a luxurious Netherlands holiday. Her long hair was done up in some fancy braids she had been trying to replicate from Pinterest for years, it seemed, and a flowy embroidered shirt, little Denim shorts and a face that looked very much younger than its years.

We packed ourselves up, drew the blinds and locked up, temporarily leaving behind our little home and everything in there. It was fabulous, and both of us were light hearted, chattering all the way in the taxi to the airport. In the week it had taken us to organize this little trip, she had evolved fully into a proper little deviant, and I had already admitted to myself that the seeds of this particular fetish had always been there, right under the surface.

Almost overnight, she had become looser somehow, more expansive. In the evenings, we spoke dirty to each other – our new hobby – about what a little slut she was, and I fucked her raw, her new appetite for rough sex seeming never to be satisfied. In the day time, she seemed free and happy, wearing more revealing clothing than she used to, flitting around with just a little more fluidity than before, a little more sparkle to her voice somehow. I loved it, and was proud of her.

We had a full trip planned – walking tours, a special old church, a trip to the red light district (naughty!) and a restaurant she had been going on and on about. It was going to be perfect. Did I have The Baby in the back of my mind the whole time? Sure, I guess I did. But in a way, we were taking a holiday from that, too. Mercifully, she hadn’t mentioned it in ages. I could write novels about that woman’s pussy, but dear god was I sick of hearing about its multitude of discharges.

The first night we were too tired to do anything but fall asleep in each other’s arms, in the hotel room. We had ordered room service after a long day of walking and seeing the sights. We were in a beautiful part of the country, in the best season, it seemed, and for once we were both, well, relaxing. I knew a holiday would be just the right thing.

The next morning, we woke, and I lazily imagined how sweet it would be for her to suck me as I woke up, then we could have breakfast, and go and see that church or whatever. She had other ideas. She was already up and dressed, looking a little stressed, but fine, we had an itinerary to follow. Day two turned out to have a few more challenges to it than our first. We got lost, twice (I told you she had terrible visuo-spatial skills) and were late to our restaurant reservation, so they gave our table away. We ate some overpriced pancake things that weren’t very good, no matter how hard we both tried to pretend they were, and we were pooped by the time 4 o’clock rolled by and we landed in our hotel room again.

She laughed a little at some Dutch game show and then we settled on the bed for a moment. Now was the time, obviously. I rolled over to her side of the bed and started to kiss her knee, moving just a little further up.

“Well, this is a very flimsy little thing you’re wearing right here, isn’t it…?” I said, starting off again, trying out this new sex vocabulary that seemed to centre around how utterly inappropriate all her clothing was.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” she said.

I sat back again. Women, right?

I watched the show with her and then after a while extended a hand over to her again, stroking her forearm a little without making any eye contact. It was as though I could feel the atoms in her arm recoiling from me.

There it was, all at once, back on us again: the heavy expectation. We were a pair of pandas in captivity, and we were back on a schedule, having to
do it
, and do it now, right now, or else. I felt the weight of this crushing in all around us; I felt it pulling her away from me. Nothing changed really, in the moments that followed, but everything was different somehow. We were rushing back, at a hundred miles an hour, to our same old lives again, our same old stale house and the same old stale life had followed us after all.

I pulled back my hand.

We didn’t have sex that day, or the day after it for that matter. With each day that went by, the mood grew more sour, although we both ostensibly acted very interested in all the touristy things happening all around us. The truth was, we had come there to fuck, but we were doing everything
but
.

She closed up again, and I was just about ready to admit that we had only discovered a small pocket, a little anomalous bubble of fun in the long expanse of boring, married life. And now that it was over, there was nothing to do but spend more money in this dump and then go home and catch up on the washing before work started again on Monday. It was hard, and she was miserable about it, too.

And even when we did manage to get it on, whatever magic needed to happen just wasn’t happening for us. My little swimmers were wiggling up to her egg and saying how do you do and she wasn’t having any of it. My sperm were dying, bored with life, wondering what the point of any of it was, especially something as outrageous as a baby. Or, her egg was too old, too tired, too rushed at work to bother with little swimmers anyway. I don’t know.

Everything was wrong. The planets never quite aligned. We never found that sweet spot. Our holiday was more depressing than we had anticipated, but I tell you, nothing makes you quite so depressed as knowing that you and your chosen mate are failing hard at your single biological imperative. On our last day, she wore some ratty jeans and told me we might as well cancel all our plans that day and just chill at the hotel pool. I couldn’t be arsed to argue with her, so we did.

We sat in the room, the Dutch game shows not seeming quite so hilarious anymore, and waited for the last bits of the holiday to get finished already. As a last ditch attempt, I sidled up to her as she was making tea and tried to rub her bum, hoping the suggestion would be enough, but she shrugged me off and pretended it hadn’t happened. Ouch. I gave up. I suppose I was doomed to get to work on buying a Chinese baby for her on the black market when we got home.

I mumbled something to her and declared I would have a nap.