Descent into Depravity – Chapter 5.2

Latest erotic coupling stories: Descent into Depravity – Chapter 5.2

“No, no. It’s not like that. Hervé doesn’t want to fuck you.” She paused for a moment. “Well he does want to fuck you. He has for years, but I have been telling him to stay away from my friends.”

“I’m not sure I see a difference.” I wasn’t really opposed to fucking Hervé, but I was still feeling taken for granted.

“Actually, what he wants to do is to seduce you.”

“Seduce me?” Well this sounded a little better. Someone was at least acknowledging that my input mattered.

“So how is this seduction going to occur?” I asked.

“Oh, he’ll do it the way he always does—with food.”

“Food?”

“He will cook for you. For both of us actually. By the time dinner is over we will both be climbing his frame. It always works.”

“So there have been other women you two have shared? I thought it was only Gina?”

Joan grinned a caught-in-a-fib grin. “Well, there might have been a couple of others.”

“Now?”

“No there hasn’t been anyone else for months. Just you. I swear.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but then again, I wasn’t sure I cared as long as I wasn’t currently sharing her with anyone. Anyone but Hervé that is.

While she was talking she had moved her leg around until she had her foot almost into my lap. Actually it was between my legs, and she was massaging my pussy with her big toe. I suddenly didn’t care about Hervé and his dinner of seduction or Joan’s other girls. I just wanted more sex with her.

And that’s what we did. We spent the next hour in bed kissing and molesting each others sex until we each brought the other to another long, slow, delicious orgasm. It wasn’t one of those sudden blow-you-away violent orgasms. It was softer and slower. It just went on and on for what seemed like forever. Maybe it was a series of orgasms. I don’t know. But it was nice. Then Joan had to leave to take Hervé off to the airport for another business trip.

Hervé was in and out of town (but more out than in) for the rest of the summer, which delayed his promised dinner of seduction, but that didn’t matter to Joan and me. We continued our affair throughout the summer—not every day, but two or three times a week. It was the best summer I could remember.

Dinner with Hervé

It was early September. School had started again, and I was back to teaching seventh graders. They seemed brilliant compared to the 18-year-olds I had spent the summer trying to flog with remedial English. I was working full time now, and Hervé was spending more time in town, so I hadn’t seen Joan for almost two weeks, and I missed her. . . and I missed the sex. This time I called her.

“Alice?” she answered.

“Hi Joan . . . It’s been awhile.”

“It has,” she said. “I’m glad you called. Hervé wants to have dinner.”

“You mean?”

“Yes, all he can talk about in bed is how he is going to seduce you.”

“What have you told him . . . I mean about me?”

“I told him you were willing to let him try.” That was fair I thought. Actually as hard up as I was after two weeks with no sex, I would probably rip his clothes off if he walked in my front door right now.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow night. Okay?”

“That soon?” I was suddenly feeling nervous about this idea.

“Yes. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, no. I’m still okay.”

“Good. Then we will see you here about seven. I can’t tell you how excited he is about this. He’s out buying food right now. Even if he doesn’t seduce you, we are all going to have a fabulous meal. Hervé’s a great cook.”

“Does he have any other skills I should know about?”

Joan laughed. If a laugh could sound lascivious that laugh did. “Oh yeah,” she said, dragging out the last word. “He has a lot of skills, but you will have to say yes to find out about them.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Come on Joan. Give me a hint.”

“Okay, just one. He can talk dirty better than any man I’ve ever had sex with. It’s sort of a mélange of English, French, and Basque, with a little Spanish on the side. Even if you don’t know what the word means, it always sounds just filthy the way he says it.” She made a noise like a shudder. “My panties are getting wet just thinking about it. Gotta go,” she said. “Wear something sexy. Bye.”

I stood in my living room holding my now silent phone. What had I just agreed to? There was no question about it. Hervé was handsome. Fuck he was “hot” to use the language of the horny teenagers I had been teaching all summer. He was moderately tall, about six feet, with dark curly hair, an olive complexion, and dark brown eyes, the kind of eyes you can just lose yourself in if you aren’t careful. I had seen him out by their pool in a bathing suit once. He was broad-shouldered, lean, and well muscled. Not like a Muscle Beach body builder mind you, but still he looked strong, with well-defined muscle groups in all the places I like to see them on a man. He was wearing baggy swim trunks, so I didn’t have a good look at his “package” as the kids say. But according to Joan he was not deficient in that regard. And Joan had never complained about him being abusive or violent. So what did I have to lose from saying yes? Not much as far as I could see. And it had been way, way too long since I had had sex with a man.

I agonized a little about Joan’s instruction to dress sexy, but ultimately I had settled on a short dark blue skirt that fit tightly around my ass and showed off my legs. Beneath it I wore a black thong. I had to go out and buy a sexy pair of black heels and then spend several hours practicing walking in them. I had on a matching blue jacket that buttoned very low so it didn’t cover much of my chest—just the essential part, but only if I kept it buttoned. Beneath that I wore a sheer white blouse and a white bra that really did little other than hold my tits up and push them out for everyone to see if I took the jacket off. As long as I kept the jacket buttoned and stood or sat upright my breasts were covered, but if I released the single low button on the jacket, or leaned forward, much of my poorly covered breasts became obvious to anyone around me. I also went a bit heavier on my makeup than I usually did. Not slutty like the high school kids, but enough to highlight the best features of my face. Finally just a touch of perfume, at my neckline, between my breasts, and inside my thighs. I was careful not to overdo it. When I checked out the overall effect in a floor to ceiling mirror, I decided I had achieved just the “slut-lite” look I had sought.

I arrived at Joan’s house just a bit after seven. My mother had always told me it was good to be fashionably late, although she never told me whether that applied to an assignation with your lover and her husband.

Joan answered the door. She was wearing an ankle length cream-colored knit dress that looked like it was molded to her body. The most striking aspect of her outfit was that she clearly wasn’t wearing anything beneath the dress. It molded perfectly around her big tits, the knit fabric thin enough so that her dark areolas were obvious as were her nipples. When it was backlit you could see the contours of her body. The dress closed with buttons that ran the full length of the front of the dress. Joan had chosen to leave several open at the top of the dress, exposing a good deal of cleavage, and all below mid-thigh to expose her legs. It was a dress suitable for a seduction, but not many other occasions. I wanted to attack her right then and there, but I had other plans for the evening. Hervé was going to be my focus, no matter how seductive Joan looked.

She stepped back and looked me up and down slowly saying nothing.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned for her feeling a little like an animal being evaluated for Best of Show.

When I turned to face her, she smiled and said, “Oh yes. Yes. Very nice. Very nice indeed. To hell with Hervé. I want you for myself.”

“Not tonight girl,” I said. I had made some decisions about how I wanted the evening to go as I drove over to Joan’s. I wanted to decide who was going to be screwing whom. “Tonight is for Hervé. I want to see if he is all just talk or if his cock and tongue can live up to his promises. And yours.”

Joan stepped back and looked at me for a long moment. Then she broke out laughing. “Oh this is going to be great. You go girl.” Then she stepped quickly forward and swallowed me in a tight hug, smashing her big boobs against my lower rib cage. She stood on her toes and whispered in my ear. “Fuck him until he begs for mercy tonight.”

I was following Joan up a couple of steps into the living room just as Hervé came out of the kitchen. He was dressed casually, a tight pair of jeans and a silk Hawaiian shirt that seemed to be missing a button or two at the top. He was devastatingly handsome. In one hand he had a white apron, the strings nearly dragging on the ground, and in the other a gleaming chef’s knife that he waved in the air as he spoke in his heavy French accent.

“Joan, Joan, where is the Herbes de Provence bottle? I can’t make this dish without . . . ” then he paused, as I stepped out from behind Joan.

“Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu! She’s here. Joan you did not tell me. Mon Dieu! Alice, you’re here.

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