The plump lips sip the wine. The body stretches at the waist and places the glass on the living room table. Hair falls down to the chest. The brown eyes fix on John. "I know exactly what you mean, John."
The voice is deep and husky, like it belongs to a completely different body, and John instantly twitches. He brushes his fingertips down the nape of the neck.
"You do?"
"Oh yes. I certainly do..."
"So what should we call you?" John asks.
"You can call me Samantha..."
John's hand rests on the shapely naked thigh, in precisely the same spot his wife rested her hand just moments before. His fingertips are teasing at first, like a feather, and then he massages more firmly. The legs widen. An invite. His hand rises, continues higher...
The door pushes open. His wife enters the room. John removes his hand, not quite sure why. He bites his lower lip; blood trickles on the tip of his tongue.
"Why, don't you look sexy?" their guest slurs, looking up at Valerie.
Valerie does a twirl, transformed into a giggly sixteen-year-old-girl trying on her frock for the Prom. Only, Valerie is not sixteen: she is forty-three. She is not trying on a frock: she is clad in a black leather bodice, and she holds a whip in her right hand. Her fleshy pink bosom spills and jiggles. She places one hand on her hip and gazes challengingly at their guest.
"As you can probably see, neither Valerie nor myself are prudes. I guess you might call us broad-minded. We are into some pretty interesting things..."
"No shit."
John watches from the pit of their sofa as their guest stands up and towers over his wife, now in four-inch heels. John arches his neck to look up the skirt. He has been a good boy for long enough. Now it is time to be a bad boy.
He pulls himself up. He can't control his hands any more. They disappear inside the skirt, frantically reaching for what has been playing on his mind all night. The legs part a few inches more. This time he won't be stopped. This is what he is really interested in. His hand continues rising, all the way to the top. There you go.
His hand cups the balls, squeezing them like a limpet, and then they grab hold of the dick. So much thicker than his own. So much longer.
"We sure have found ourselves a big boy here, Valerie," John says to his wife, his mouth wet with saliva.
John is aware of his own tiny erection, hidden away somewhere under the overflow of his belly. Glancing at his wife, he suddenly resents the look of wanton desire on her thin lips. She is comparing their young, athletic guest to him. He squeezes hard on the dick. He is in control. John straightens his back but still he looks up at the young man, pale pretty face partly hidden by a frizzy, brunette wig. John is aware that his wife is dressed up because she wants the young man inside her. She wants to be fucked by a real man for a change, not by him.
The guy puts his hand inside the skirt and snaps John's hand away. The hold on John's wrist is strong. John couldn't resist, even if he tried. His wife is right: ironically, there is only one man in the room now.
"Let me have some fun with that beautiful wife of yours before you get what you want, John," he says.
John is taken aback by the forcefulness of the command. How old is this lad? Old enough - for sure - but still, barely out of school. And yet, here he is, ordering him about in his house, demanding to do whatever he wants with his wife. Blood flows to his dick.
Fanning thin air and twirling her middle finger, Valerie says, "Come here, you naughty boy."
"Pass me that whip," the boy says.
"Ooh, I love it when a man takes control," Valerie coos, thrusting out her monumental bosom. It does look magnificent, John thinks. She passes him the whip. She does exactly as she is told.
"Bend over."
John watches as his wife obediently bends at the waist. Her breasts finally spill out of the bodice, two gigantic mounds of flesh dangling towards the floor. Her plump bottom points to the ceiling, the skin rippling. John slumps back onto the sofa, disappears into the background. Unzips his fly.
The young man, still dressed in a short skirt and thigh-length black leather boots and who, until a few hours ago, was a complete stranger to John and Valerie, pulls back his hand and smacks the naked buttocks. Valerie yelps with pleasure. John's trousers are down by his knees. The young man pulls back with the whip and slashes it down against the rippling flesh. John listens to his wife screaming.
"Turn around," the boy commands.
Valerie turns around. John notices that her eyes are watery and red. Tears trickle down her pink cheeks. She holds out her hands. What does she want? Help? It serves her right. John looks down pitifully at his own limp cock.
The whip slashes down against her naked breast, leaving a red mark, like a jolt of lightning.
"No!" she shouts. "Stop! You're hurting me!"
The boy slashes harder. John notices the sinewy muscle in his arms. The boy's face is distorted with glee. He turns to John challengingly. What are you going to do about it? John looks up at the boy. He takes his hand away from his crotch. "I think maybe you are being too rough with her?" John says.
The boy looks him up and down. He says nothing, but the look says it all.
