There were clothes on the floor leading to the bed. There was my husband's old college sweater, the blue-grey one that brought out his eyes the best, in which he proposed to me all those years ago when we were young and foolish and in love. There were his black pajama pants. Finally there was a white jockstrap, which I vaguely remember was worn by Jean-Luc last night when we had the hot tub drinking party.
My husband was crouching, as if being beaten by something. He was naked from head to crotch, with the band of his underwear pulled back behind his balls. His rampant cock - the part of which could be seen - was slathered in so much spit it seemed impossible to come from a single person. The part that could not be seen was embedded in Jean-Luc's mouth, and it seemed almost funny to see how grotesque the large organ manage to distort his beautiful anatomy, the way his mouth stretched around the intruding protuberance. The thudding came from where Connor pushed at Jean-Luc's head with his hips, so strongly and loudly as if unafraid of whomever that might hear them.
They were on the final stretches, so it made no sense to make a scene, to stop what was already done, to un-break what was already broken. I listened in as Jean-Luc asked Connor to anoint his face with his cum. At the moment of climax I turned and made my way slowly to my room, to my bed, me and Connor. I wondered briefly if they ever made love - no, fucked - on my bed.
That would kill me.
I lay down and pretended I had just woke up. Connor came in a few minutes later, face flushed from his recent climax. He did not even put back on his sweater, just his pants. At least he had the decency to cover his bulge, but even then that thick cock would not be denied by that flimsy fabric. "Babe, good morning. Went for a run. Gotta get in the shower, I know how you get around sweat."
Yeah right.
EPILOGUE: JEAN-LUC
We weren't very careful in covering our traces. The swimming pool pipes must had been chocked with how much semen we spilled in the pool and the hot tub, all with baby Colin watching bemusedly, perhaps with a slight confusion in his innocent eyes. We fucked everywhere: the living room couch (my favorite), the island where Richie prepared his sensible salads, the outhouse, the garage, even once in the nursery. Baby Colin was asleep and I was watching the little one when his father came up behind me, pulled down my pants, knelt down and began sucking my ass, whispering "Richie's off to the market," to my ass cheek while giving me the deepest tongue thrusts I've ever felt inside me. Colin woke up and was about to cry, so I gave him one of my fingers to suck and nibble on. The sensations of my finger being sucked by the son and my ass being tongue-fucked by the father almost defeated me as I spontaneously came on the lavender-scented sheets covering the cot. Since then I associated lavender, the scent and the color, with the act of sex, much like Pavlov's dog. The one place that remained sacred, so to say, of our sex, was the nuptial bed - not for lack of trying, mind you. Connor just didn't have the heart to commit that last transgression.
I was sure Richie knew - he seemed like an intelligent enough fellow, my cousin - perhaps he chose not to do anything. Maybe he was afraid to shake the house, so to say. Maybe he felt it was his fault, because he was the one who insisted on bringing me into his home. Maybe he didn't want to lose a good caretaker to Colin. Maybe he was afraid of what Connor would say, what I would say. I didn't know nor did I care.
Sometimes I spied his eyes watching us from the door late at night when Connor forgot to shut it. To be honest at first it felt strange feeling his accusing eyes on our intense coupling, but as the days (and nights) progressed it made my asshole flutter feeling his vision glide on my perfect skin, almost tasting the sweat drops as they glisten on my ass while Connor's huge cock speared my cunt. Sometimes just to be a bitch I hang up Connor's underwear on the knob of my door, daring Richie to notice, to say something, to say anything. One evening I found the garment heavy, laden with fresh watery semen. I showed the wet piece to Connor, whose eyes turned dark as I finger and lick the remnant of his husband's seed on the crusted garment.
It all came to a head one day late September as Connor and I was fucking in the mid-day, not expecting Richie till up late. We were racing towards our fourth consecutive orgasm when there was a feeble knock at the door. Connor looked up and I swore the glans of his cock got larger at the sight of his husband at the threshold, eyes bleary and slightly wet - perhaps from tears. "The car's acting up." His voice sounded like it came from far away, not from a distance where he could practically taste his husband's cock as it slid against the walls of my sweaty cunt. Connor looked at him intently, a long glance, prompting me to pulse my anus inquisitively around his thickness, which made him look back at me with strange eyes.
"I'll look it up later, love," Connor grunted, his lust-addled grey eyes booking no argument. Love, indeed. I moaned, bent down and kissed Connor's bicep, watching Richie all the while as his husband's cock scraped the lube inside my hole, like the worst, most depraved bitch-boy ever was. Connor groaned and began his thrusts anew. Richie slinked away defeated, the American cuck, leaving the door slightly open. Somewhere Colin was crying. I pulled Connor down for a kiss, tasting ass and dank semen and coconut oil on his tongue. Warm, like his name for me: French toast.
Vive le cul français!
