The Queen I Did Cuck

It was the moonlight that gave Keira away. I remember looking up and seeing her furry booties at the foot of the door, the ones with the soles coming away from the seams, and feeling the worst kind of stomach churning horror.

I’d expected her to burst in, beat me to a pulp, and only then demand an explanation as I bled out on her living room rug. She was that kind of Lioness and I’d fucked with her pride.

Keira intimidated the fuck out of me. I adored that about her, not sure why – but even with the imminent threat of her fury, I didn’t stop grinding back and forth atop her husband as he groaned from between my legs. I knew I was goading her, for some fucked up reason it turned me on to think of her beating the crap out of me with just cause.

But rather than leaping out from where she stood lurking in the shadows, she just stared back at me, eyes affixed to mine, watching me raucously riding her betrothed of twenty years like a buckaroo cowgirl chasing a rodeo rosette.

Really? No ass kicking?

The realisation empowered me as much as it disappointed me. I smiled coyly at her, all doe eye’d virgin whore baby girl slut tease temptress. And to my delight she smiled back, like a proud mother looking on at youth finding its way. Had my actions actually pleased her? How fucking tingletastic!

Arlo loved me being on top. He said it gave him the best view of my udders swaying to and fro above him. He’d started referring to my boobs that way, on account of them being so big. It felt kinda demeaning the first time he said it – the sort of chauvinistic statement we’re told to rail against, but then I realised how much I liked it, so I let it go.

‘Don’t follow the herd’ He’d insisted, playing the learned, caring older man imparting wisdom to the young slut whose panties he wanted to tear into, ‘Make your own choices in life.’

Wallowing in the joys of being utterly degraded by a man twenty years my senior felt like the best decision ever. Seeking therapy as to the origins of why, not so much.

Considerations as to my fucked up psyche were invariably appeased whenever I took time to hang with my girlfriends. To a sister, they were all busily wasting themselves on age appropriate infantile steroid-jacked beefcakes. I pitied them their pillow talk – Dostoyevsky? What the fuck’s he got to do with John Cena?

Arlo had a way of reducing me to the sum of my parts and making me want to be nothing but. Everything was always about my tight fuck holes and my udders with him. Sometimes he’d take a selfie with his cock up my ass and his hands all over my boobs as we screwed. He’d post it to his WhatsApp group and share the litany of humiliating observations his mates had made.

…Bring her around to mine for a rape party!..

…I want that nasty slut to suck my cock!…

…Dirty little bitch riding Daddy’s dick like a pro!..

…Those fucking tits!..

It’s shameful, but I delighted in the notion that Arlo was prepared to cheat if it meant he was getting to play with me – it put the ‘special’ in being his ‘worthless slut’. It felt giddily empowering to know he was risking his marriage just so he could abuse my fuck-holes. That shit got me wetter than wet.

More fool me.

Turned out Keira was in on it all along. Couples who play together and all that.

I’d assumed that Arlo was oblivious to the prying pair of eyes that had now become my every focus. His apparent ignorance to his wife’s presence in the doorway allowed me to revel in my silent audience. I’d become Keira’s theatre, parading myself atop her husband’s cock as he slapped my tits and reminded me what a ‘worthless fucking whore’ I was.

Then there were the pics – rabid snapshots he frenetically captured of my boobs spilling out the sides of his man-sized grasp in fleshy waves of milk white, with a dash of bubblegum pink areola thrown in. He kept a ton of them on his phone, sandwiched between toddler Isaac haphazardly chasing a ball in the backyard, and Christie, their nine year old, chomping down on a burger during a family day out. Aww, sweet – I’m your husband’s private wank material! Ain’t it great!

I wanted to give Keira the best fucking show ever. There was artistry to how I arched my back, all whilst rhythmically grinding atop my paramour for her viewing pleasure.

‘Is that good for you?’ I groaned huskily, ‘Do you like that?’

Arlo grunted appreciably and tugged violently on my teats, but it was the nod from the woman in the doorway that had me howling with delight. I upped my impetus, shunting back and forth on her husband like a riotous pornstar as his fingers pincered my nipples and stretched me beyond the natural realms of my own elasticity. I took the pain with a joyful howl, all so my clandestine voyeur could indulge herself in the visual cinematic.

I nearly exploded when Keira started to rub the front of her cotton briefs. Her underwear was as worn out as her slippers, but even in lacklustre smalls she looked da bomb. That was Keira, a confident, self assured, intellectually superior woman who exuded sexy in ways transcending threadbare briefs and faded Randy Holden t-shirts.

I’d rocked up in seamed stockings and a floral swing dress – the latter justifying the former on the grounds that any hosiery ought to be in keeping with my retro look. Yet even in my Slutday finest I still felt second best to the effortlessly chic older woman. Personal inadequacy is so beautifully fucking compelling.

As I balled her husband I couldn’t help wondering what had lured Keira to the doorway. Then I noticed her clutching a glass of water in her free hand, which explained the premise for how she’d ‘discovered’ the clandestine fuck fest I’d thought she wasn’t privy to. I guessed she must have woken with a mouth like Gandhi’s flip flop, wandered downstairs to get a drink, and stumbled into Arlo and I going at it on the living room rug.

It was only a couple of hours earlier that the three of us had been knocking back beers and sharing anecdotes under the false pretence of innocence. Mine, as it turned out.

The joke was entirely on me. Keira had known all along. She’d played me so hard I even found myself wondering if the au pair job was legit. Had I literally fucked that opportunity up too?

It turned out that Keira being in the doorway wasn’t the end of times, but a catalyst for my journey down the rabbit hole. Her presence flipped the erotic into the kinkily surreal. It even kinda legitimised me being on top of her husband with his cock inside me – as if the three of us were temporarily existing in a hazy interstice between the previous night’s boozy get together and the hangover that would invariably arrive when the sun came up on a new day.

We had plunged into a time continuum where watching Keira rubbing the front of her panties, and thus soiling the cotton with a deliciously expanding wet patch, was to observe life’s erotic artistry in its purest form. Craving a stuffed mouthful of her bloomers felt almost de rigueur, darling.

‘Wait for me!’ I shrieked, ‘Wait for me and I’ll come!’

Arlo hollered his encouragement, thinking my excitable declarations were for him, but the woman watching in the doorway understood exactly what I meant. She nodded, desisted from her self pleasure and slunk away into the darkness.

I couldn’t get her husband to cum quick enough after that. All I wanted was to go to Keira, to learn what the fuck this triumvirate of ours actually was. I didn’t even hang around for post coital cuddles, which Arlo appeared entirely unperturbed by (shocker). He was snoring like a trooper on the couch before I’d even reached the stairs (who’d have thunk it?).

And with his cum dribbling out of my butt, I took upon myself a mission to seek out the truth, my truth, and nothing but that truth.

Keira had left her bedroom door ajar. There seemed a poignant irony to the role reversal as I found myself standing in her doorway, peering out through the shadows.

‘Hi.’ I whispered, waving lamely as my stomach churned with disquieted excitement, ‘Only me.’

I felt like a stupid child. And in essence I was. She had two decades on me, a lifetime of wisdom, and the kind of IQ they welcome at Mensa. That was the point. That’s what I adored about Arlo and Keira. Their intellect and maturity was the great aphrodisiac.

She smiled warmly back at me from an antique four poster that held court in a sumptuous, yet otherwise spartan boudoir.

‘Hey there. Sorry for walking in on you like that.’

‘No you’re not.’ I giggled.

Keira smirked and ran a hand elegantly through her disorganised mass of blonde locks.

‘I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the spectacle of you fucking my husband. But I did.’ She offered, ‘life’s complex like that.’

I nodded ruefully and peeked around the bedroom. Her threadbare knickers lay discarded on the floor beside the bedside cabinet, next to the fluffy booties. A gnarled paperback of Sexton’s ‘Live or Die’ sat idly atop an ornate bedside table, beside the glass of water that she’d sought from downstairs.

She looked beautiful, cross legged atop her bed in the pristine moonlight with a silk sheet caressing her svelte thighs. She had the heroin chic look down, all slender shoulders and tall, lithe figure, somehow dancing the treacherous line between emaciated and elegantly gaunt, basically the total opposite of my short, thicc in the ass, buxom self.

‘Come.’ She gestured, in little more than a whisper, her hand patting the bed expectantly.

Suddenly I was tip toeing across her bedroom and into the unknown. I was about halfway across the wood panelled floor when I realised I hadn’t the faintest idea what I hoped might occur. I’d been with women before, not a whole lot, but enough to know it was a part of me, yet this was something deeper.

I never made it to the bed. Keira swung her unending legs over the edge of the mattress and stopped me in my tracks.

‘Crawl.’ She insisted, wagging a finger at me as she sat atop the four poster’s regal confines.

I didn’t even query it.