"I think this skirt is too short. No-one would wear this as their uniform." My husband steps up behind me, his strong hands on my hips. He looks into the mirror over my shoulder and I feel the gaze of his strong dark eyes on my body, drinking in every inch of me. My cheeks redden and I feel a tingle between my legs. His voice is like the tolling of an ancient brass bell: "It's perfect." It was his idea, at least initially, but I got to pick the apartment: a penthouse in a fin-de-seicle building right in the heart of the old town. It's dusk and the sky blazes red and pink pastel shades over the night-lit cityscape out the windows. The buzzer goes and he goes to get it. I look at myself in the mirror and try to get into character-- can of furniture polish in one hand, cloth in the other. I hear them coming: A pair of women's heels tak-tak-tak on the hard wooden floors. I bend my head and busy myself polishing the coffee table. As I bend I can't help but feel the skirt ride up my hips. The cool air of the apartment caresses my bare lips. They're in the room -- I can smell her perfume. I sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye and I feel a twinge between my legs as I take her in-- her petite body poised with a dancer's grace on eye-wateringly tall stilettos. Only the static cling of the sheer black fabric of her dress protects her modesty against the plunging neckline. She's even sexier than her Tinder picture. He let me help pick her. We cuddled in bed as we swiped left and right through hundreds of girls, with him giving the rejects a catty critique before a flamboyant leftward swipe. Then the matches started coming back. I could feel myself growing more and more aroused as I watched his fingers dart over the small phone keyboard, deftly navigating the flirty banter towards a date... I stand and meet her eyes. My husband has one hand laid possessively on her hip, the other gestures towards me casually, as if I were in truth nothing more to him than his hired help. His back is ramrod straight and she's leaning in, one long-fingered hand over full lips as he says something quietly in her ear. Her dark and heavy-lidded eyes smoulder with a sultry sensuality and she flashes me a smirk. Suddenly, I see myself in her mind's eye as she imagines me naked and humiliated, bent over the coffee table as she paddles my bare ass. I feel myself becoming aroused. My nipples harden under the tight cotton of my blouse. I look down at the floor. I start to clean the windows, watching them in the reflection in the glass. She's sitting now, and he's got the bottle of wine which he opened earlier, pouring it elegantly into a crystal glass. The Margaux. I can almost taste it from here. He puts on some music, slow and bassy. He's sitting next to her and they're talking quietly to each other, noses almost touching. His hand is on her thigh and as I watch, it slowly slides up under her dress. She feels his caress and bites her lip. I can see her own hand, her long fingers and beautifully painted nails caressing his arousal through the thin fabric of his trousers. I desperately want to keep watching but my character -- the cleaner -- would be growing uncomfortable and would probably leave. I take my cloth and spray and, with eyes chastely downcast, start towards the hallway and the cleaning cupboard. As I pass them on the sofa I hear her let out a little gasp as my husband slips his long fingers inside her no-doubt dripping cleft. I am almost to the door when he calls out to me. Not my name, just 'hey', like he owns me. Like I want him to own me. I turn. She's leaning into him. His hand
ankara travesti is on her, his fingers inside her. The skirts of her dress have ridden up and I can see her lacy black thong. My husband has slipped it to one side to expose her clit and bare lips. His thumb caressing her slowly, in little circles, as he talks to me. "Before you go, please pour us some more wine." I look him in the eye and he grins wickedly at me, relishing my discomfort at the difficult situation he's put my character in. I fix my face with what I hope is an appropriate mixture of discomfort and professionalism that my character would feel at such a request. I walk over to them, keeping eye contact with him the whole time. As I draw closer I hear her breath coming out in ragged gasps as the man I married hammers her with his fingers. I think about her juice coating the ring that I slipped over his finger at the front of that church in front of all those people. I want to lick it clean. As I lean over and pour the wine, I feel her gaze on me and her sexual desire for me is almost a physical thing: I feel it caressing my body, stroking my nipples and circling my swelling clit. I am instantly more aroused than I have ever been in my entire life. My nipples are like two marbles under the tight black fabric of my uniform. I ache for a cock or a tongue or a finger to fill me. I turn and leave, turning out of the living room into the corridor. He made me practice this bit, him waiting in the living room on the couch until I was perfect: I open and close the door to the small utility cupboard, then I open and close the front door before, quiet as a mouse, slipping silently into the utility cupboard and closing the door behind me. I wanted to set up cameras. I wanted to be able to watch. Why couldn't he go to that guy in his IT team, who built our nannycam as a weekend project, and ask if he could sort something out, as a favour to his boss's boss? He smiled and told me no, that a cuckquean should know her place; that it pleased him to have me wait, and wait in a manner of his choosing while he fucks a worthier cunt. The manner of his choosing is laid out in front of me now, lit with dim red lights on the top of the washing machine. I unzip my uniform and squirm out of it, struggling in the tiny space. For a moment I stand there naked, enjoying the feeling of the warm air caressing my body. Then I dress. First is the collar: thin and lightweight, "Not a restraint, but a reminder," he said. Then a small metal buttplug. It's cold and I warm it in my hands, before lubing it with my own juice and squirming it into my asshole. As it settles into me I breathe deep and enjoy the feeling of being filled. I think about what they might be doing in the next room. I think about her licking her arousal off his fingers, paying special attention to lick around his wedding band. The floor is hard wood. They'd go to the bedroom before doing much else. As I take up the next item of clothing I hear them, walking along the corridor. Suddenly from behind me: Bang! I spin towards the door, gripping the thin leather straps in my hands to my chest in a reflexive protection of my modesty. Then I hear her moaning -- he has her pinned against the door. I press my ear to the thin wood to hear better. I can hear the rustle as the fabric of her dress caresses her perfect skin. I hear them kissing, making out like two horny teenagers. Then a strange sound, then a thump against the door. Heavier. My husband. I hear his zipper and then a quiet growl in the back of his throat that can only mean she's taken
travesti ankara him into her mouth. I imagine her full lips wrapped around my husbands thick shaft. I wonder how much of him she can take. I smirk. Not much with a tiny mouth like that. I imagine her trying her best, both hands wrapped around his shaft. His long fingers lacing through her hair. Enjoying and controlling her. I hear my husband moaning louder through the door. Small mouth or no, she's good. He only ever moans that loud for me when I'm lying on my back and he's deep in my throat. The shame and humiliation drives my hand between my legs and the leather harness falls to the floor, forgotten for the moment. I run one finger across my lips. They're full and moist and slightly parted like a prom-date waiting to be kissed. My clit is full and swollen and aches for my caress. I slip my fingers inside and rub my arousal all over my pussy before starting to rub my clit. On the other side of the door. My husband is panting and growling. I've never made him do that. What the fuck is that tramp doing to his cock? "Oh no." I recognise the tone. He's about to cum, and hard, "Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh fuck you're good." He grunts as he cums, low and gutteral, like a man pulling out an arrow from his thigh. I imagine his hot cum gushing from his thick shaft like water from a firehose. She'll swallow it. She'll guzzle it down, eagerly taking all he has to give her. I cum too, leaning back against the door, the other side to my husband. The buttplug filling my ass as his cum fills another -- worthier -- woman's mouth. I frantically grind my clit into the heel of my palm as I cum hard, muffling a scream. As they continue towards the bedroom -- clearly not yet finished -- I slow my breathing and reach down and pick up the outfit my husband picked for me to wear while I wait for him to finish fucking another woman. It's a leather harness, designed to lift my tits and show off my cleft without doing anything for my modesty. I slip into it and fasten the buckles, gasping as the soft leather rubs against my tender clit. * * * My husband and the girl we met on Tinder are in the bedroom now, the other side of this thin wall, and I hear the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the headboard against the wall. I imagine her naked, her petite and lithe body leaning on the headboard as he grips her narrow hips and pounds her tight pussy with his thick member as I kneel meekly in this cupboard, harnessed and butt-plugged like the obedient sex-slave I am. I think about how much he's stretching her. He's well-endowed for a white guy, and a tiny girl like that can't be that big. I imagine her gasping as he enters her and she starts to realise how big she is. Moaning as she feels him stretch her, forcing her wider and wider to accommodate him, and then-- I hear her cry out in ecstasy from next door. Rhythmically, with every thrust, she cries out as his thick cock slams deep into her willing cleft. I hear a slap. His hand on her tiny ass. She growls. She likes that. Another slap, louder this time. She cries out in pleasure. I imagine the red welt rising on her ass from my husband's hand. I lean against the wall and listen. The harness strap between my legs is rubbing against my clit, sending shuddering waves through my body. No more thudding, but the mattress springs creak as they change positions. I think he'd want her on her back. He'd put her legs over his shoulders, grip her ass, and pound her into the bed. I hear a slap again, and a gasp. Shock, surprise, and a low base tone of deep arousal. Her face. I imagine
ankara travestiler her looking up at him, her fingers caressing her stinging cheek. I writhe in the harness, grinding my clit harder against the soft leather straps. "I think you liked that," I hear him say. I don't hear her response, but I know she nodded because I hear another slap. Louder this time. She's moaning, crying out with each one of his thrusts into her. "Fuck," I hear her say in accented English, "you fucking do that one more time and I'll cum all over your cock." "You cum all over my cock and I'll cum up in your cunt." "I already drank all your cum. You filled my belly as I swallowed every last drop. You've got none left inside you." "Want to bet?" "Ok. Fill me to the brim with cum and I will be your slave for 24 hours. Fail..." She pauses and I imagine her smirking wickedly. "And you will be my slave. Deal?" In answer I hear only a ringing slap then the twin cries of my husband and the worthier cunt writhing in orgasm. "My god, how are you still cumming? No, it's too much, it's spilling out all over the bed, you have to pull out!" I imagine his hot load spilling out of her bare pussy, covering the bed and I cum, pulling the strap hard against my clit and grinding through the orgasm as I shudder against the wall. "My eye! My eye! From there!? Are you a fucking mutant?" I hear bare feet on carpet running to the bathroom then the sound of running water. She's back after a few moments and I hear the springs creak as she crawls back into bed with him. I imagine them caressing each others bodies, kissing and touching, spent for now but still aroused. "Your cleaner," she starts, "she's not just your cleaner is she?" My husband laughs, "You've rumbled me." Her voice is low, curious, "You've fucked her haven't you?" "What was your first clue?" "When you made her pour us wine with your fingers knuckle-deep inside me. You were teasing her with me. Trying to provoke her. Or arouse her." "Do you think it worked?" She laughs, "I think so. I saw it in her eyes. The last time I was that horny I ended up in the front seat of my car, in broad daylight, fucking myself with a cucumber." "Seems a waste. Did you eat it afterwards?" She laughs again, "Yes. I cut it up and fed it to my boyfriend in a salad. He asked me what I used for the delicious dressing. He'd never eat my pussy, but he gobbled that cucumber like a champ." "There's a lesson there for all of us." "What is that?" "Some men like pussy, and others like cucumber..." She laughs, "I think your cleaner likes both." "It's important to have a balanced diet." She giggles, and then I hear the bed creak as she pushes herself up on one arm to look at him. "So what do you want to do now," she pauses, "master?" She says it like a challenge. Like he has to win her obedience. "I think we should get some food, and then maybe I'll give my cleaner a text, see if she wants to pop back in a private capacity, say in an hour or so." She giggles and kisses him. I hear the bed creak as he pulls her to her feet and then the sound of feet padding softly on carpet as he leads her to the shower. We hadn't talked about this. We hadn't planned this. She was just supposed to come over, fuck him, and leave. But now, what's happening now? What has my husband got planned, and why does speculating turn me on so much? I am thinking about her now, in the shower, the soap suds slowly slipping down her chest. I imagine those long delicate hands caressing my body. Those full soft lips on mine. I imagine kneeling in front of her, taking her swollen clit between my lips... I am startled out of my reverie by the front door closing. My phone buzzes on the table. It's my husband. "Do your hair and makeup. Put on the strappy shoes and that dress that I like. Go to the coffee shop around the corner and I'll text you when we're home." An hour.
Hybrid Mode
