admin

This afternoon as I lay on the bed with her in the apartment on Ludlow Street I reflected on the perversity of my own desires. I don't know that you could say we were making love. Ms Puissage was lying, head on my belly, gently sucking my penis and I was absent-mindedly stroking her angular back, my thoughts drifting to my wife. I imagined Rachel kneeling by our bed praying, her nightgown stretched over her full bottom, that rump radically different from that of bony Lisette's under my hand. Myself, indifferent to the woman who was sucking me, thinking instead of Rachel, who was so indifferent to me, and my desire rose again.

I wanted to pull that nightgown up over Rachel's head like a cowl and kneel behind her -- not interrupting her prayers, but inspiring them. I imagined my wife bowing her head and fervently giving thanks as I pressed myself down and into her, she already wet, her soft flesh yielding. I would slide into her with measured deliberateness and hold myself there feeling the pulse of our blood synchronize. In the hot room we'd slowly melt together, sweat forming a slippery membrane between us as I pumped against her plump ass. Rachel's prayers would become incoherent, her gasps punctuating. Her religious passion would become our physical passion. Finally, arched over her, my arms wrapped around her and clasping her weighty, milk-filled breasts, we'd climax together, she calling out to her God and I, too, calling out to a god, some unnamed divinity, and also filled with gratitude.

Inspired by this vision I came in Lisette's mouth then, spurting the product of the imaginary screwing of my wife, abandoning myself to the release, somehow fucking both of them together. I felt Rachel's cunt tighten in Lisette's mouth, heard her little mewling cries fill the rooms of my imagination. As long as I kept my eyes closed my world was whole.

I always kept my eyes shut. And Lisette never looked me in the eye during our assignations. She rarely looked me in the eye anyway. She'd been my secretary for five years by the time we began our weekly tryst upstairs in the apartment. It was easy to lock the office door on the second floor and walk up the one flight and spend an hour every Wednesday after lunch in sin in the old apartment of my parents who had long since fled to Florida.

It was a strange affair, I suppose; extremely regular, as I like my life to be, and businesslike, but lacking the sordidness or passion that one is supposed to experience. I would have thought one of us would feel something. It disturbed my need for the world to keep itself arranged in neat categories, like a ledger book. Something didn't add up. I felt a physical desire in the act of lovemaking and relief afterward but nothing else much. And Lisette? What did she feel?

As far as I could tell she had no feeling about it whatsoever and that just didn't balance the books. From the first encounter when she took me by the hand and led me up the stairs on the pretext of identifying a sound she said she heard through the ceiling, she seemed to have merely a desire to extinguish, conveniently, her own small fire of physical lust. I should say this was not entirely out of character for her, but as what became a regular weekly firedrill it seemed wrong even for a girl as common-sensical as Lisette. And this didn't quite suit as a hypothesis of her reasons because our encounters always and without exception consisted of her performing fellatio on me. Unless her g-spot was in her mouth I doubt she got that much pleasure out of it although her moans and sighs of bliss, which I imagine must be faked, were indeed real.

When I hired her as my assistant at the accounting business I respected her focus on the task at hand and her un-girlish eschewing of small talk. I'd never even heard her gabbing on the phone with a friend. This was so unlike Rachel who will spend hours gossiping with the play-date moms. Yes, Lisette was a perfect assistant -- quiet, efficient, and punctual. You can imagine what a remarkable surprise to have her seduce me that afternoon last Spring.

I had been finishing the IRS forms for an old client during tax season and had been working long hours for several months. She'd been doing her usual very tidy job of filing the documents, organizing the electronic files and collating the forms for mailing. My out box was empty. I couldn't say as much for the in-box, of course. I looked up to see her standing in the doorway to my office, looking pensive. It was not like her. She normally strode energetically through with papers or my cup of coffee.

She stood there, model-thin and looking at me from the corner of her eye. I must say she always dressed well; she spent her halkalı escort small paycheck on good quality clothes that fit her remarkably. If I'd liked skinny women I would have been excited by the drape of the soft fabric of her sweater over her bony shoulders. I could have been intrigued by the little points of her nipples tenting at her chest and the thrust of her hipbones under the herringbone of her knee-length skirt. She had a finely turned calf, though a bit stringy for me and no butt to speak of, at least not to my way of thinking. I hadn't considered her bedable, shall we say. As if I were a Lothario.

But that afternoon she surprised me by, first, interrupting my work (which is against my rules -- I require solid blocks of uninterrupted labor from 8 to 12, then 1 to 5, followed, in the tax season, by my evening hours of 6 to 9), then insisting I come upstairs to locate the source of the "knocking" from the apartment. I demurred, but she insisted. I'd never seen her the least bit upset or anxious and so she was able to convince me of the urgency of the matter. She even took my hand as she pulled me up the stairs. Her hands were slim and cool, the nails painted a sensible pink. She smelled of lavender and reminded me of my mother, actually, in that regard.

I could not place Lisette in the ranks of her generation. Outside in Union Square gaggles of NYU students milled about looking punkish or slovenly or "alternative" in one bizarre way or another, yet Ms Puissage, who'd gotten her degree in Film Studies there seemed to be stuck in 1942. Perhaps she was a devotee of films like Casablanca or The Maltese Falcon; she appeared to style herself after Ingrid Bergman. Her outward behavior, however, was not the least romantic or emotional; she was cool and professional at all times. I never knew what was going on in her head or her personal life and I really didn't want to know. I preferred to keep things to business in the office and she readily met that requirement. And happily, as far as I could tell.

Until she led me by the hand up to the apartment and, finding no source for the supposed noise, suddenly turned to me, stated (quite forcefully) that I'd been working too hard, and began unknotting my tie. I was aghast. Until she grasped my hand to lead me upstairs we'd never even touched and now she was pressing herself against my leg, pulling off my Brooks Brothers jacket, running her hands across the good linen of my dress shirt. I stepped back but caught against the dining room table. I protested (I admit, rather weakly, but I was very much nonplussed and didn't want to create a scene) but she kept on with her advance, telling me that I deserved to give myself a break, to not overwork myself, to avoid a heart attack, even.

I was fifteen years her senior, a little portly and I could not imagine what would possess the cool, detached Ms Puissage to throw herself at me like this. Was it my slight resemblance to Sydney Greenstreet? I hadn't invited it. I made no suggestive comments, didn't stare at her stick figure body, couldn't have made a pass if I'd wanted to. And she gave no prior hints of her interest in me. Where had this passionate urgency come from? She disarmed me quite effectively in minutes and had my acquiescence in this affair without a serious fight. I have to admire her for her tactical prowess in bedding me that day.

She seemed to appreciate that watching her strip would not be so much a stimulant for me. She removed my clothes and neatly hung them over a chair, then planted a kiss on my cheek and a hand on my member. I'm proud to say, as a man, that I rose to the occasion although as a husband and father I was filled with apprehension that first time. She turned briskly and began both unbuttoning her blouse and leading me by my eager penis into the bedroom. I hardly had time to object before she'd gotten down to her underthings. Her taste in these was equally good, of course. I'd never seen scalloped and lace-edged panties before or a garter belt and hose for that matter, except in the movies and Victoria's Secret windows. Rachel is a good Catholic who sticks with simple, and cheap, white cotton.

Lisette's bra was apparently worn only as a lacy decoration. It was translucent, salmon colored and darkened only by the little smudges of her areola. The bra wasn't required to hold up her breasts, as these were so slight as to barely even crease on the underside. They appeared to be almost entirely nipple; tight, hard, rubbery nipples as firm as Lisette's intent. That feature of hers alone excited me. And she had excellent skin, I should add. She kept her simple single string taksim escort of pearls at her throat.

After neatly folding her clothes and piling them on the dressing table she lay me down on the bed on my back she took my cock in her mouth. She lay there at a right angle to me and suckled, gently, while stroking and petting my testicles, her back to me, her head resting lightly on my belly. This would become our standard position.

I ventured a protest. "Miss Puissage, please. You needn't do this. There's time-critical work to do. What has come over you?"

But she said nothing and kept on with ministering to my swelling organ. My initial surprise gave way quickly to acceptance. Or perhaps flustered resignation is a more appropriate term. Rachel didn't give oral sex. This would be my second ever blowjob and I couldn't resist the pleasure Lisette was giving me with her warm, wet mouth. I would tolerate this unbusinesslike behavior once and deal with correcting it in the future, I thought at the time. She was putting me in her debt and that imbalance was one I could not tolerate, let alone the breach of office protocol.

I reached tentatively to stroke along the ridgeline that ran from her shoulder to her knee, tracing the sharp angles of her skeleton. I could run my fingers along the bumpy track of her spine and slip my fingertips under her wing-like shoulder blades. The girl really should have eaten more. Even that first time I could do nothing but compare her to my buxom Rachel whom I desired so much more even after 20 years of marriage. Rachel, whom I desired, but who no longer desired me. While Lisette worked to draw the seed from my tingling balls I tried to ameliorate my guilt by thinking of Rachel.

How had I lost her affection? I would wake with a morning erection and turn to wrap Rachel in my arms, cupping a heavy breast in my hand, spooning as we used to do before the boy was born but Rachel would not react. She wouldn't wiggle, or sigh or even pull away. Nothing. I was puzzled and dismayed by this. I couldn't find the words to ask for a clearer answer than her body was giving me. She didn't desire me anymore or welcome my desire for her, apparently. I'd been going without the pleasures of my marriage bed for the two years since Herbert, III was born and it didn't appear the situation would change.

In all other respects our marriage was good or at least what I thought of as 'normal'. I made an abundant living as a CPA in the firm my father, Herbert Lipkis Sr., started and brought home an ample income from which I gave Rachel a generous allowance. In fact we lived, a little extravagantly, on the upper West Side in a co-op that my father warned me would only pay me back on its investment if I held it a long time and Real Estate appreciated in a hitherto unexpected way. Of course he sold his investment properties on the lower East Side at the height of the bubble and moved to Florida, so he had the luxury of being proved wrong.

But I digress. Lisette was gripping my now hard dick in one small bony hand while licking around and around the crown. I was intrigued by the sensation. I couldn't see what she was doing so my imagination, as I mused about Rachel, filled in a scenario in my mind's eye. What possible reason had I given Rachel to shun my physical attentions? I desired her, longed for her, gave her everything she asked for -- a son, a fine apartment, a car, even things as frivolous as French lessons. It was unfair!

Unbidden, an image of Rachel shot into my mind. She lay on her back across our brass bed, tied hand and foot to the four corners, her head hanging over the edge, her eyes wide as I approached. My throbbing cock pulsed gently up and down with my heartbeat and pointed dangerously at her face. It seemed to glow red from the heat of my anger.

I'd torn up Rachel's nightgown to use as bindings. My wife struggled in her bonds of cotton. She rolled and her breast flesh sloshed across her chest, nipples suddenly engorged. The fat raspberry pips wrinkled tight, the little gooseflesh-like bumps that ringed her wide, red aureole prominent. Her hair hung down unbound to the floor. Her mouth worked to form words that might dissuade me from what I was obviously about to do. I would not let her ignore me any longer.

Lisette was feeling my cock swell in her mouth as this imagined scene grew in my mind. She took me deeper and began stroking with her hand. I reached over her slatted ribs and pinched one of her fat, hard nipples.

In my mind I stood over Rachel's prone and writhing body, smiling, commanding, surveying all I possessed. I owned the bitch. She would fulfill her marital obligations. şişli escort I placed a hand on each round breast and squeezed. She struggled under me, whispering, "No, Herb, NO!" This excited me, I was surprised to learn. I felt my dick twitch.

So aroused was I that I dripped. A string of cum stretched from my penis to Rachel's cheek. She twisted her face to avoid it but one silver trail led down to her ear. She started crying. Her body as she pulled against the restraints looked much like it did when in the throes of passion. Or so I could imagine. She bucked her hips like I was riding her and I supposed she would like me to stimulate her down there. I imagined that her desire for me rose despite herself.

I reached further and ran my fingers into the coarse, black thatch of her unshaved bush. My cock swung against her face. She squealed! Her wet pussy lips yielded to my hand and I stroked the length of them roughly, her hairs springing between my fingers. She was sopping. My middle finger, the fuck finger, lay between her puffy, wet pussy lips like a hotdog in a bun. I waggled my fingers and she thrashed. I brought my hand, wet with her drippings, to her breasts again and smeared the cleft between them.

Then I pressed my hips forward and lay my red cock in the bed I'd made between her tits. Grabbing each warm pillow with my hands and pressing them together I tit-fucked her. I spit to make it wetter. Let her look at my hairy ass while I took my pleasure. I would take what she withheld, like it or not. It was my due.

"Herb, you animal! Get the fuck off me!" I'd never heard her say 'fuck' before and it only inflamed my passion. I was getting close, leaving a trail of my own fluid between her breasts. My dick felt like it was two feet long. And she wouldn't stop yelling.

I'd stop the ungrateful bitch's noise. In my enraged imagination I pulled back and gazed for a moment at her spread-eagled body again as it heaved on the bed, savoring my power. She looked pleadingly at me, her face streaked with tears and cried, "What the hell is wrong with you, Herb? I don't deser.."

I plugged her complaining mouth with my cock, grabbing her head in both hands and bending her neck back so I could drive it straight and deep. She made gargling sounds and her arms pulled tight against the bonds. Her legs kicked out spasmodically. I'd show her what she deserved.

I bent my knees and thrust into her throat, held my dick there and felt her swallowing as she thrashed in my grip. She made a high keening sound that stopped when I shoved in all the way. Then I came like a fire hose.

My hips thrust uncontrollably and I doubled over until my head rested on her breasts. My hands at her throat I humped her face without regard for anything but my own pleasure. It was fantastic! I felt each thick bolus of cum race down my cock and explode in her throat. Over and over I pumped my manhood and my juicy seed into my wife, my now subjugated, humiliated, put-in-her place, ungrateful bitch of a wife. The high was like none I had felt before.

I passed out.

That first time with Lisette in the Spring, when my too-long-denied desire and untapped anger erupted into her little mouth, I awoke to find my secretary washing my penis with a warm cloth. She was dressed again and her makeup was back in place. Lisette left the warm cloth draped over my privates as she buttoned up her blouse, prepared again for work.

This, too, was our pattern and so I awoke again this afternoon.

"I'll be finishing the Randall file by five, Mr. Lipkis," she stated and quietly left the apartment and returned to the office. I lay there in a post-coital daze for a few more minutes then began to dress myself.

I was especially kind to Rachel after these demonic fantasies surfaced in my trysts with Lisette. Every Wednesday blowjob seemed to elicit another ghastly perversion as I fucked my wife vicariously. In the months since the illicit sex began I had beat her, raped her, forced anal sex on her, cum in gallons over her body and otherwise expressed my semen and my anger in ways that shocked me.

My guilt over the affair, and the imagined depravities I'd visited on Rachel propelled me to treat her as if I had amends to make. Well, I did have amends to make, though she had no idea what for. I was especially kind to Rachel and our home life had become much more pleasant. I could say we were as happy as we'd ever been. Still, I truly felt remorse at my inability to quit my trysts with Lisette.

This strange imbalance in my life tormented me. And although I benefited and I tried to make it up to the unknowing Rachel I was still unable to fathom what benefit Lisette derived from our Wednesday afternoons. This bothered me as much as any other aspect of it.

Then today, as I bent to tie my shoe, I noticed a paper that had been dropped under the dressing table chair. I picked it up. It was a check, written in my wife's hand, to Lisette Puissage. And on the memo line was written; French Lessons.