Dirty Treats Page 3

  “I can’t believe that stool killed my performance,” he said between laughs, but I was shaking my head, my pussy still fluttering along with my giggles.

  “Nothing could have killed that performance,” I said, and meant it. “You were a superstar.”

  I kissed him, and he tasted of me. I loved how much he tasted of me. He sighed against my mouth, then wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight.

  “You are better than any first or last supper could ever taste,” he whispered when I broke the kiss. “There is nothing in this world that could taste as good as your pussy, Mrs Harrington. I’ve known that since the very first time I tasted it.”

  “Such a charmer,” I laughed, and pecked a kiss to his nose. “There are some bits of you that taste pretty damn good too, Mr Harrington.”

  “Oh yeah?” His prompt was accompanied by him yanking me forward from the broken stool. My ass slid onto the cool tiles, and he pinned me, dropping me to the hard floor and pressing down right on top.

  The swell of his dick was undisputable in his pants, grinding against me just right.

  It was the perfect indication of just how much my pussy still had to give me in the pleasure stakes.

  I gripped his ass, whimpering that he should fuck me, please fuck me, but he was shaking his head.

  “No way, Mrs H,” he laughed again. “As much as I want to, there is no way I’m going to fuck that horny little cunt yet. The night has barely just begun.”

  God damn, my clit protested, my hips bouncing up at his in denial, but he was serious. He kissed me one last time then got up, pulling me with him and helping me to my feet. Shit, my legs felt wobbly. Luckily, he’d already grabbed an unbuckled chair from the Royston’s selection and kicked the battered pile of rubble from its predecessor away. I took my second seat like it was a throne, well and truly elated by my thrumming body as he took that jar back up from the counter.

  “My turn next,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  Marcus

  She took a sip of wine, her eyes on me as I shook that jar up for round two. My mouth was still hungry for more, set alive by the taste of my gorgeous Jen’s pussy. I’d have lapped at that divine slit all night long and been grateful for it, but those sweet little treats were still calling.

  Her nerves had taken a back seat, at least for the moment, and it was bliss to see. The colour in her cheeks was fresh and alive, her eyes twinkling with that mischievous sparkle I loved so much.

  “I can’t believe we just bust the Royston’s chair,” she said, and the giggle in her voice was still there.

  I couldn’t believe it myself, but it was a classic on the humour stakes. One we’d undoubtedly be reliving for many, many Christmas Eves to come.

  “Fuck the Royston’s chair,” I laughed. “We’ll apologise and blame it on the cat.”

  She shook her head, her laughter joining mine. “Holy crap, Marcus. This will be chatter at the school gates. Poor Betty Royston and her perfect chair.”

  On one crazy level I wanted it to be chatter at the school gates, I wanted us to be chatter at the school gates. The Harringtons and their mad passion for life and each other. Those dirty bastards smashing up furniture in their need for each other’s flesh.

  My fuel was fired as I plunged my hand into that jar for the second little slip of paper. Jen took a decent swig of wine as I unfolded my dirty treat, and it was a good one. Praise the fucking Lord, it was a good one.

  I turned the slip around for her viewing, and those sparking eyes of hers widened, nervous all over again as she read my scrawl aloud.

  “A striptease for my hungry eyes. No inch of your dirty perfection left in the shadows.”

  She put her hand to her chest, and I knew she was about to counter that scrawl with other intentions, but I shook my head.

  “That’s what I want,” I told her. “That scrawl is every dream of mine. Has been for years.”

  It knocked me in the stomach how surprised she looked at that revelation.

  “Really? For years?” she paused. “But it’s been such a long time since we did this… I’m not quite that woman anymore… I’ve had the kids and –”

  “You’re every bit that woman,” I interrupted. “Christ, Jen. You’re more beautiful to me than you’ve ever been. I spend my entire life craving that body of yours.”

  Another swig of wine as she digested my words, and they were hitting her. I could feel them swirling in her belly.

  “I’m serious,” I said, my eyes burning into hers. “You drive me crazy, always have.”

  She poured another wine, and I downed mine to get another glassful myself. And then she spoke. She spoke with an honesty I hadn’t heard from her in years.

  “Truthfully, Marcus, I didn’t know that. Not because of you. You never did anything to make me think that. Just from me. Just because I thought I was anything but more beautiful than I’ve been in years.”

  Her words hit me with a sting, and I ignored my glass to take her hands. I gripped them hard.

  “Jen, please don’t you ever feel like that again. You are the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  I hated her giggle. “Then you are delusional, Marcus. Ask anyone at the school gates. I’ve shown up there plenty of times with my hair a state and my skin blotchy and my eyes dark. I’ve had plenty of scowls when I’ve leant over for the kids and my clothes have been too tight and I’ve shown my belly podge and my expanding butt cheeks.”

  She was framing it in her jokey voice, but I was having none of it. The words may have been spoken light-heartedly, but her self-consciousness was right there underneath. She believed that crap.

  “Fuck those small minded bitches at the school gates. They know fuck all, Jen. It’s jealousy and pathetic, sad little bitching sessions. Their opinions aren’t worth shit. You are beautiful. You always have been.”

  I wasn’t lying. Not for a second.

  My wife was a genuine stunner and really always had been. I’d seen the way the neighbourhood husbands had been shooting her glances across the street when she was piling the kids into the car for the morning run.

  Not just that, either. She made my mouth water. I loved the changes in her, too. I loved the way her body was testament to our life together. Our world together.

  “Please, sweetheart,” I said. “Please heed the jar and do me the honour of this. I’ll be the most appreciative man in all existence.”

  Another sip of wine. I wondered if it was dampening her nerves any.

  “Alright,” she replied. “The jar is law, after all. Or what would be the point?”

  I didn’t take a second to risk her changing her mind. I grabbed her hands back and urged her along with me. In a mad moment I also reached up to tear a spring of mistletoe down from their overhead display. No doubt I’d have a whole fresh use for it.

  She was giggling again as I headed for the stairs.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “We can’t seriously use the Royston’s whole house!”

  Oh, but we were going to use the Royston’s whole house. I had plans to take advantage of the whole pompous lot of it.

  It took me two doors along the landing upstairs before I found their master bedroom. Betty Royston sure did fancy herself as an interior decor expert from the looks of it, but that was no shocker. I’d seen her gloating timeline on social media over Jen’s shoulder when she was drinking coffee in the mornings and scrolling.

  The bed was huge and decked out with pure white bedding. That and a mountain of teal and burgundy scatter cushions along the top. Her curtains were teal to match, and her framed print over the headboard was some tacky abstract smear of teal and burgundy to match the cushions.

  That was one thing that made me smirk. The white bedding.

  I’m sure their dirty games at night can’t have been all that forthcoming or liquid inducing for the courage of that choice of colour. Not unless Betty Royston had a liking for doing laundry through the school hours.<
br />
  “Wow,” Jen said, spinning around as she soaked in the view. “She really has put a lot of thought into this.”

  I turned on the bedside lamps along with the overhead light, craving as much illumination for my show as possible. Then I ditched a fluffy teal cushion, this time from their wicker chair in the corner, chucking it across the room before tugging the chair along the carpet for prime viewing position. The mistletoe was dropped firmly at my side, ready to do its bidding, and I was settled. Settled and ready for the grand performance.

  “Where do you want me?” she asked, and she was buzzing with nerves again.

  I gestured to the wardrobes, and in that beat she read my mind.

  Betty Royston deserved a thank you card for this element of her interior. The wardrobes were huge, taking up one whole wall and endowed with floor to ceiling mirrors along the whole length of them.

  Perfect.

  “You want me in front of the mirrors?” Jen prompted, like that question would need an answer in a million years.

  “Hell yes, I want you in front of the mirrors.”

  She stepped up to them, and her eyes met mine in the reflection. Oh yes, it was perfect.

  The bedroom was delightfully large. Large enough that there was a great space between the bottom of the bed and those awesome mirrors. Large enough that Jen took two steps to position herself between them.

  I tugged the wicker chair another few inches to the right, just to get the reflection at its best angle, and then I reclined myself. Far enough that she couldn’t fail to observe the swell in my pants that was already straining.

  She wasn’t looking in the least bit confident as she spread her legs and took the first sway.

  Fuck, she should have done.

  Her dress was fitted and sparkling at the bust. Her tights were still covering those delicious legs of hers, even though I’d trashed them at her pussy. Her hair was shimmering, and her beautifully rosy face was divine.

  I let out a low growl as she shifted herself a little more upright.

  Delicious.

  My mouth was watering.

  She was finding her feet and I knew it. I kept quiet as she cast another look around the place and built up her flow, steadily back and forth, her heels sinking deep into the Royston’s cream carpet as she found her groove.

  It was then that she stopped in a flash and asked for my phone once clearly ascertaining hers was downstairs. I handed it over happily, transfixed as she selected a song from my playlist.

  We smiled at each other as it sounded out from my crappy phone speakers. The sound quality didn’t matter. It was one of our favourites from times gone by. One with a decent beat and the sultry tone that matched the mood.

  “You look so fucking stunning, Jen,” I whispered, and grazed my palm over my crotch. “You’ve never looked more stunning than you do right now. Not to me.”

  There was a little shake of her hair, and her hands went up to it; fluffing it up like that made her more of a performer somehow.

  She cleared her throat and closed her eyes for a moment, finding that groove more rhythmically in her hips, side to side.

  And then she opened them, her legs first, shifting them apart, before opening her eyes straight after.

  She opened them right onto mine, and there she was again. That minx of mine.

  That beautiful, filthy little minx of mine my whole soul went crazy for.

  “We’d better do that jar justice then,” she said.

  I had no fucking doubt whatsoever she would do.

  Chapter 5

  Jen

  Shit, the nerves were rippling right through me. My belly was fluttering, my legs feeling bandy and pretty useless. Not that the brilliance of Marcus eating me out like a god had helped much with their stability.

  Still, that jar was another god in its own right this evening. I had to give it my best shot.

  I was still reeling from the power in my husband’s words. The way I’d seen so much truth and passion in him as he’d told me I was beautiful. More beautiful than ever.

  There was no way I could be more beautiful than ever. Not to the rest of the world.

  The kids had left my belly a saggy podge on their way out, no matter how many aerobics classes and sit ups I’d thrown myself into. My tits weren’t all that much better, relying on balcony bras just to look vaguely uplifted.

  I was sure the other women around here must have faced the same problems, but none of them admitted as much. Not in my circle. They all sang their hymns every day about the local gym, and dance videos on their huge TVs. Some of them even had plastic surgery to reverse the changes and then gloated about it and showed off their before and after pictures online.

  I’d never done that. I’d come close to it. Sure. But we always had something else to spend money on. Something more pressing than me feeling great about my body over again.

  It was through closing my eyes and focusing on times gone by that helped me find my other self. My dirtier self. Oh, and the wine was helping too. I squeezed my eyes shut and got myself into position and remembered all the times in those early days I’d taken great pleasure in making my husband sit in his office chair with his dick straining hard in his pants.

  I’d loved the way he looked at me. The way he wanted me.

  I’d loved how sure I felt about myself as I’d teased him. Stripping myself so slowly as he urged me for more.

  Yes. I needed to find that part of me all over again. Using our old songs just had to help.

  They did.

  It was when I opened my eyes onto his, my hair scrunched up nice and messily, that I found that same look of want waiting for me.

  He was hungry for it. For me. For my body.

  It hit the flutter in my belly all the more to see that. To feel that so deep, like a buzz that nothing else would ever replace.

  My husband was still desperate for me to strip for him. Wow, that felt so good.

  It made me desperate right back. Desperate to give him what he wanted.

  I found my rhythm, and that wasn’t so hard. I’d been used to dancing along to tunes in my kitchen while everyone was out in the day. I loved finding that rhythm, and our song helped no end. My hips swayed and my shoulders matched. My hands came to rest at my waist, my whole body rocking on my heels as I prepared to give him the show he was craving.

  I knew I was giving him that dirty look I always gave him when I wanted his dick. I did want his dick. I wanted his dick and his mouth and his tongue.

  I wanted his grunts and his deep breaths and his thrusts.

  I wanted his ass too. Shit, it had been a long time since I’d wanted his ass and wanted him to take mine. A long time since I’d really, truly wanted him to take my mouth for all I could give. My throat, my gurgles. His fingers twisting my hair and holding tight to get those extra deep shunts.

  How I’d rub my clit hard and fast as he used my mouth like I was his filthy little fuck doll.

  These thoughts came tumbling in as I found my groove, and I was right back there. My pussy was still strumming its own tune between my thighs. My clit was throbbing, wanting my fingers to be rubbing circles as I danced there in that spot.

  “You drive me fucking wild,” Marcus said, and I smiled this time. I smiled a true smile and reached my hands up behind me to slide my dress zip down. Slowly. Oh so slowly.

  He groaned as that dress fell forward at the bust, his hand sweeping over his dick again. I made sure it fell slowly, holding it tight to my chest and keeping that rhythm flowing just right. I tugged it down at the waist, and my bra was on display. A decent one in purple lace which did a pretty good job of keeping me shapely.

  I kept my eyes tight on his as I shimmied my dress down over my hips and let it fall to the floor, but his weren’t still on mine, they were sweeping down with the fabric and fixing on all of me. My torn tights and the way they were gripping my belly so tight. How much different my shape was than when I’d last performed like this for him.
/>
  But it didn’t matter. Clearly it didn’t matter.

  “Holy fuck,” Marcus said, and pulled his dick free, wetting his fingers before gliding them up his shaft. He was hard. Really hard.

  I stepped out of the pile of satin on the floor and spread my legs wider, sliding my hands up to my tits and teasing them through my bra.

  My nipples were hard. I could feel them through the lace. They sent sparks right through to my clit, my eyes fixed so hard on my husband’s cock as he worked it. Slowly. Gently. Just a tease but enough to have his breaths short and sharp.

  “Show me,” he growled. “Show me those perfect tits of yours.”

  I gave him a smile. A tease of one. I shook my head and stepped closer, and he growled again, his hand moving faster on his dick.

  I slipped the straps from my shoulders, no longer feeling the nerves. I let that lace fall down, and my tits spilled out of there, my nipples hard with the sheer horniness of it all.

  The song changed. The next was another relevant one from his playlist luckily.

  I changed my rhythm with the groove and Marcus strained forward in the chair. I could feel his need to get his mouth on my flesh, but I smiled again and kept my distance, unfastening the clasps at the back and letting the bra fall free.

  “Fuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, Jen, that’s good.”

  I held my tits up for him, pinching my nipples and pulling. For once in years I felt great about myself. My tits felt perfect. My nipples were swollen nice and hard, making my husband’s dick swell nice and hard to match.

  I was thrumming alive as I finally hooked my fingers in my tights and pulled them down. I didn’t care that I was out of rhythm as I yanked them off, hopping on one foot – I was too needy to show my husband what was under them. I spread my thighs nice and wide, knowing full well how wet my panties would be. I slipped my fingers inside and worked my clit, gasping myself at how loud my wetness sounded.