(anal) – Taking It In The Ass And Moaning For The Cuckold
The young brunette backpacker, tumbles into the tiny rustic motel room, her sandals kicking up dust with each hurried step. She slams the door shut and turns the lock, breathless and flushed, her heart pounding a wild staccato underneath the thin, damp fabric of her sundress. Stealing a glance out the grimy window, she ensures no one saw her hotfooting it from the bus station; this rundown watering hole at the highway’s edge is far enough off the beaten path that prying eyes ought to be minimal. Unless, of course, one counts those of her husband, the cuckolded mess of a man waiting eagerly for updates back home.
Anticipation coils in her belly, nerves and excitement spooled together like the ticking of a clock counting down to the explosive denouement. She pulls her phone from her clutch, fingers trembling as she dials her husband’s number, putting the call on speaker as she shimmies out of her sweat-dampened dress. The garment pools at her feet, forgotten, as she takes in her reflection in the warped bathroom mirror: the way taut, tanned flesh trembles with each exhalation, pink nipples pebbling in the chill of the air conditioner.
She’s just lifting her phone to her ear when she hears the revving of a motorcycle. Her heart leaps into her throat and she crosses quickly to the window, spying the gleaming black beast of a bike come to a halt at the far end of the parking lot. A moment later, a tall, leather-clad figure swings a long leg over the seat, pulling himself tall to his full, impressive height. He removes his helmet, revealing short-cropped dark hair that gleams in the sun, an angular jawline that could cut glass.
A throaty moan slips out at the sight of him, cunt clenching involuntarily, and she nearly drops the phone in surprise. Cool it, she tells herself, shaking off the sudden wave of raw, electric need – she’ll need to pace herself for the diminishing returns on scaling orgasmic peaks. This, after all, is not her first rodeo with big-dicked, thickly muscled biker studs.
“Hello? Are you there?” her husband’s tremulous voice breaks through her reverie as he picks up on the third ring. His uncertainty makes her pussy throb; she can practically taste his desperation, can feel his fingers biting into his jeans-clad thighs as he waits, pulse fluttering in his throat like a live thing. For a moment, she’s tempted to tease – to make him wait a beat, wring out a bit of desperate frustration before she unleashes the first word like a deliciously gentle blow to the balls.
No, she thinks, she’ll ease into the torment: the denouement’s sweet, small mercies. “I’m here, doll,” she croons, watching as the biker makes his way into the motel office, a snake coil of gorgeous muscle sliding beneath skin and leather. Her mouth goes dry; she swallows heavily, shifting from foot to foot as slick gathers at the apex of her thighs. “The cavalry has arrived right on time…”
