Mr. Thomas stared at me openly, his eyes following the movements of my fingers in my pussy. As I pushed them further inside my dripping hole, he gripped his cock harder, jerking himself faster and faster.
"Such a dirty little slut!" he panted, "You're such a fucking slut!"
***
I came awake shivering. The sheets of the sofa bed were tangled around my legs, and a huge knot had gathered between them in the night, a knot that was now painfully pressed tight to my aching cunt. I'd had dreams like this before, but this was by far the worst. I shut my eyes against the memory, but I was immediately assailed by images of my father-in-law's dripping cockhead. Though I'd never seen it in reality, I was desperately familiar with every vein, every swollen inch of Mr. Thomas' member. After all, it had been the subject of a series of deliciously vivid dreams, ever since we had come to his parents' to visit.
I rolled over, searching for my husband, only to remember that he was upstairs in his bedroom, too far away to comfort my pussy. Ridiculous as the rule was, whenever Jake and I stayed at his parent's place, we were never allowed to sleep together—even after two years of marriage! I had long known that the Thomases despised me, but separating a married couple was a bit much, even in a house where everyone gathered around the radio for Rush Limbaugh everyday.
I did not fit into the family, to be certain. At my miniscule 5'4, even Jake's mother towered over me, and my honey blonde hair stuck out like a sore thumb at raven-haired family gatherings. While all the women of the Thomas clan were built like pristine supermodels, I was practically born wearing a corset, with 36 D breasts and a large, shapely ass framing a petite waist. On top of that, I am covered in colorful tattoos and my large, pink nipples are pierced.
Though Jake fell head over heels for me while we were attending the same university, his family had always been cold and distant, with his father being by far the most reticent. Mr. Thomas was a bear of a man, with a full, dark beard straight out of a Just for Men ad. His eyes, which had none of the tenderness of his son's, were ice blue. Honestly, the man had "top" written all over him, from his sneering smile to the look of disapproval he always wore. I'd have immediately found him sexy if it weren't for the fact that I was married to his son.
I pulled on my robe and stumbled up the basement steps in search of coffee, trying to put the dream from my mind. On the way to the kitchen, I passed the hall bathroom and decided to make a stop there first. Pushing the door open, I unexpectedly came in contact with someone on the other side. To my great embarrassment, there stood none other than the subject of my naughty dreams.
I quickly mumbled my apologies and shut the door, but not before I caught sight of what Mr. Thomas was doing. With one hand leaning on the wall, he was furiously jerking off into the toilet, a dirty magazine spread before him on the back of the tank. So involved was he in the activity that he barely even acknowledged my interruption.
In the kitchen, I put the coffee on and the sat at the table ostensibly waiting for it to brew, but in reality, I was in a daze. I couldn't get the image of his big fingers manipulating his bigger cock out of my head. Those few seconds I had witnessed replayed in my head over and over, and I felt my pussy tensing, aching to be filled with him. I nearly screamed when he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later.
"G-good morning, Mr. Thomas," I stuttered, praying that I wasn't as blushed as I felt.
"Kitty," he intoned, seeming to savor the sexual innuendo in my name as much as I do. "Kitty, we should have a talk, you and I."
"Yes sir?" I replied, suddenly very aware of how naked I was beneath my robe. I wondered if he could smell my pussy from where he stood.
"What did you see, just now? When you so rudely came barging into an occupied restroom?" The tone of his voice was dangerously low, as if challenging me to tell the truth, that the door was ajar.
"Well, I came upon you, umm, relieving yourself, sir." I squirmed in my chair.
"Relieving myself? How so? Was I pissing, Kitty?" I was shocked at the crudity, something I'd never heard from him before.
"Well, I didn't see anything, really, sir. I mean, it all happened so quickly—"
He grabbed my hand then, so suddenly that I squealed, and he pulled me up from my seat and placed his other hand over my mouth.
"No! I'll have no screaming from you!" He smiled wolfishly. "Well, not right now at least." I felt my legs go weak as a thin rivulet of pussy juice streamed down my inner thigh.
"What do you mean, sir?" I asked, breathless. He ignored my question.
"Now, I asked you if you had witnessed me urinating when you interrupted me in the bathroom. Is that what you saw, Kitty?"
"No, sir," I tried to look away, but he clamped his fingers around my jaw, preventing it.
"What did you see?"
"I, umm, saw you, you know. I saw you, umm, masturbating." By the end of that sentence, I was whispering. The mere presence of this man had reduced me, a sexually mature 21-year-old woman that had fucked complete strangers without blushing, into a stammering, virginal 12-year-old.
"And did you like what you saw?" His words ripped through me, and I could feel how close we were, could feel his breath on my face, the length of his enrobed body pressed against mine, mere terrycloth standing between my drenched pussy and his magnificent cock. Instead of answering, I moaned like a whore.
The hand that been clamped on my wrist slid around to my back, and I felt a finger from his hand on my face slip between my lips. Involuntarily, I began to suck it eagerly.
"I think you did like it, you filthy little cunt," he whispered. "Now what am I supposed to do about that?"
