David St Martin
Loaned wife

CHAPTER ONE

As soon as she entered the room, the eyes or three of the four men moved immediately from their cards to follow her. There was a hunger in those eyes, a ravenous want held in bay only by the fact that she was the wife of the fourth man.

The only man whose eyes had stayed on his cards.

She was a beautiful woman, looking far younger than her years. Rich chestnut brown hair flowed down around a warm complected face to cascade over bare, tempting shoulders above a sleeveless, strapless rib-knit top. The top was pale yellow, contrasting to her flesh and highlighting the warmth and satiny sleekness, and her broad, pinkish nipples were clearly visible through the taut fabric.

It had always been her breasts that first caught a man's eyes. Whether the watcher was ass man, tit man or leg man, his gaze zeroed in first on her breasts, for her breasts were gorgeous.

They were firm, swelling, almost perfectly globular masses of soft, resilient flesh, jutting out in front of her, thrusting out strongly into the air. Her tilt disdained bras.

Their eyes flickered from her breasts to her waist, to that sudden, severe narrowing beneath her ribs and above the flaring womanliness of her taut hips. Her waist was slender, streamlined, begging them to test its girth with two hands that might easily close about it.

Their eyes flickered back to her breasts, then on down past the teasing swell of her prominent pubis beneath the too-tight short-shorts to the long, sleek, shapeliness of her legs. It almost seemed that her legs were too long for her – but when she walked, when she moved them, it was obvious that no one else deserved them.

Their eyes flickered back to her breasts, then upward, over the smooth flowing line of her graceful throat to her face. Her features were youthful, almost girlish, but her dark eyes and full, luscious lips gave her just an air of accommodating worldliness to make her knowing, fractionally overlong lingering of eyes cause to wonder if perhaps, she might…

"Any of you, boys like another bottle of beer, or a sandwich?"

"No. Not here. No, thanks," they all murmured in response, eyes still following hers. Did her lips part a shade more? Did the texture of that smile change from politeness to one of invitation?

She walked around the table, hips swaying just enough to be provocative, not enough to be immodest. "And what about you, master of the house?" she cooed softly. She stood beside her husband, slipping one arm about his neck and pressing the underside of one large, marvelous breast against his forehead.

"Huh?" Tom Jamison glanced up from his hand, as if just aware at that moment of his wife's presence in the room. He looked up and found himself staring at the flawless underside of one richly curved breast. "Oh, no thanks honey."

"Well, then, since none of you men are hungry or thirsty, I think I'll excuse myself and turn in. It's nearly one in the morning."

Tom put his cards face down on the table and slipped one arm around that impossibly slim waist, tugging lightly, playfully at his wife so that her tit flesh pressed and bounced off his temple. "Ready to call it a night, eh, mistress?"

It was their private little joke – he was master, she was mistress. When they'd first married, a chronological mismatch that should have teen doomed from the start fourteen years ago, they'd taken delight in shocking people with the literally accurate terms.

"You said it," she answered quietly. "Think you'll be coming to join me soon?" And to emphasize which of the interpretations she meant, she pressed the side of her torso, from gloriously swelling breast to strong, smooth thigh, against him.

"Sure, sure," he said distantly, eyes already straying back to the cards on the table in front of him and the pile of chips in the center of the green felt. "You run on in there and I'll be with you soon."

She knew that tone. Janet Jamison bent down, the upper hem of her top sagging to reveal her gorgeous tits almost to the nipples, and pressed a light kiss on her husband's cheek.

Again, the men's eyes followed her as she strode from the room, this time lighting on her well-filled ass cheeks, tight and full, as they twitched within the unconcealing short-shorts.

Any one of them would have given a year of his life to have had her as his own wife. Every one of them wondered if Tom Jamison had lost his mind – he seemed far more interested in the cards than the beautiful, sexy woman who'd just done everything short of unzipping his fly to coax him into bed.

The three men exchanged glances, understanding glances, knowing glances. Then they each settled back into place for the game.

Tom continued examining his cards. There was sixty bucks in the pot. The betting was at five bucks – to him. He held three eights and jack high.

He was already down seventy for the night. If he could take this pot, he'd be within striking distance of breaking even, maybe even coming out a little ahead for the first time in weeks. He'd been a streak of bad luck like nothing he'd ever seen in his life – almost four grand in losses in over the past six weeks.

He had a feeling deep in his gut that this was the hand, this was the night, this was the week his luck would change. He knew that if he took this hand, he could start winning his debts and paper back, maybe even get ahead. And then he'd quit.

Of course he would. Just like all the times before.

He pushed all the other considerations from his head and played the hunch. "I'll call," he announced cooly, and tossed the chip in.

The three men turned to Sid Koenig, the heavy-set, balding man with the face of a bulldog and the temperament of a kitten with his friends. He'd started and boosted this round of betting.

"Ace high flush in hearts," he smirked, laying the cards out for all to see as if they were the crown jewels of England.

All around the table, the others folded their cards with expressions of friendly envy. Including Tom. It could never be said that Tom wasn't a sport. Even though he was now down ninety dollars for the night.

He could sense that someone was about to suggest calling it a night, and before the words could be spoken, he grabbed the deck and began shuffling. "Seven card stud, deuces wild," he announced.

The other three exchanged knowing glances again, but this time the shared understanding was a different one. For each and every one of them knew Tom and his quirks well.

And each and every one of them knew he was a compulsive gambler.

Janet Jamison stripped her clothing off quickly in the bathroom, eager to rid herself of even those few garments. With practiced expertise, she gave the faucets a few quick turns and the water blitzed out of the shower head at precisely the steamy temperature she preferred.

Quickly, she adjusted the angle of the spray, then tucked the aromatic mass of her luxuriant hair up in a tight bun so it wouldn't be splashed.

She stepped into the enclosure, sliding the heavy tempered glass doors into place and reached for the bar of fragrant, sweet-smelling soap. Its scent was one of pine and herbs, and it reminded her so vividly of her childhood home in the forests of Washington. It was there that Tom had first met her. He'd been just a field man, then, servicing the little gas stations carrying the brand of tires he sold. She was just sixteen, ten years younger than him.

But the first time, they's sew each other had been the start of a frantic intrigue culminating with the two of them sharing a creaky motel bed. She'd lain beneath him, wide open and receptive to every powerful thrust of his virile loins, crying out from time to time in her ecstasy as she'd felt his prick driving deep into her.

She opened her eyes and shivered with the remembered sensations. Where had they gone wrong? It had been a month since the last time he'd fucked her – and even then, he'd toiled mechanically over her.

Didn't she excite him any more?

She frowned, then looked down at herself as the powerful, stinging spray bounced over her smooth flesh. Her nipples were stiffly erected, the tips like twin towers of blood-engorged flesh, and they ached to be sucked and kissed and licked and fondled and even bitten.

She took the soap and began lathering herself, stepping back out of the spray momentarily and quickly working the thick, fragrant lather up. Her long slim fingers moved deftly over her skin, and she felt the excitement growing within her, the familiar wants welling up between her hips. Janet Jamison was a true sybarite, so much so that even her own touch could arouse her to a fever pitch.

Over her shoulders, down the length of her arms, back up over her tanned chest, the lather spread under her hands. She'd gotten a better tan this year than ever before since that sixteenth summer when Tom had carried her off; rushing in the old Buick to put miles between them and a posse of male relatives and rejected suitors determined not to see her run off with some stranger unfamiliar to their small town beyond the monthly calls for tire orders.

She smiled softly to herself as she recalled the way she'd quickly lifted herself over his lap in the service station, dropping her dripping wet cunt down onto the mighty, upthrust spike of his cock as it jutted up out of his pants through the fly she had opened herself just moments before.

She could remember so well how it felt when that rigid cock slipped home between her cunt walls.

Janet let go a long, low groan of pleasure as she thought of it, and her hands slipped up to cup the great, softly swollen globes of her breasts. She tested their weight, hefting them almost reverently. Here she was, thirty years old the week before, and still not a hint of sag to the great masses of sensitive flesh.

She rotated her breasts slowly, tenderly, savoring their feel as the pull of them tugged at the muscles of her chest and shoulders. She loved it when men played with her breasts, was driven to heights of pleasure by it – even when they were just a little rough with her.

She spread her thumbs away from the other fingers, letting the pads rub their way up to her stiff nipples and then push slowly, heavily over the enlarged buds.

Oh Tom, Tom, I wish you were doing this to me! she thought.

Her hands moved lower, sliding down over her ribs, palms pressing hard so that she could feel the bulge of each bone. Still lower, her hands moved inward, following the taut line of her body over the flat, gentle muscles of her stomach.

Her breath was coming more quickly. Janet bent forward, unthinking, mindless of the shower spray now soaking her hair. Her hands moved over her smooth abdomen, so compact, so flawless. It was hard to believe that from that same abdomen had come the lovely, rapidly maturing young woman that was her daughter, Penny. Harder still to believe that Penny was thirteen.

Her fingers splayed wide as she reached lower, then followed the indentation of her thigh creases down onto her strong upper legs.

She couldn't handle it any more. Janet turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, flinging a towel across her shoulder. She didn't care about the thick, copious drops of water that splashed down onto the hall carpet behind her as she trotted towards the room she and her husband slept in. Her large breasts bobbled deliciously, making them ache all the more.

Inside the bedroom, she slammed the door shut, not even bothering to throw the little privacy latch into place. Janet tossed the big bath towel over the bed, grabbed one of the king-size pillows and dropped it expertly in place.

She didn't care if Tom walked in on her while she was in the middle of it. Maybe it would turn him on. And if Penny should waken and walk in on her. Forget it. Penny was growing even more precociously than Janet had, already drawing stares and wolf whistles from men her father's age. Penny probably whacked off more than her mother.

She flicked on the little night light, then went and knelt on the bottom of the mattress. Putting her arms out in front of her, Janet let herself ease forward, hips already shuddering slightly in anticipation of what was to come, until she settled into the center of the pillow.

She felt the resilient pressure of the foam matching the downward pressure of her pelvis, forcing the soft material up in a caress of her swollen pussy lips.

Her hands slid down beneath her stomach as she adjusted her legs to trap a fold of the pillow against her cunt, fingers worming under her pubis till the tips were against her cunt.

"Aaahhhh!" she sighed as her hands began to move beneath her. Fingertips caressed and traced the outer edges of cunt lips, feeling the wetness there as her darling slot secreted its prick hungry lubrication. She pressed and squeezed the lips, moving her hands so that her fingers would reach up to the hard, protruding button of her, clitoris.

Janet's clitoris had always been oversized, as if indicating her appetite for male members. Almost a flail inch long when fully erected.

Her fingers glided over the end of her clit, and each touch sent a shuddering spasm of pleasure through her, while at the same time heightening her need to come.

Spreading the thumb and forefinger of each hand wide apart, she ran her hands down and round the juncture of her thighs and inner crotch flesh, kneading the soft folds of pussy skin inward so that the lips of her vaginal opening rubbed against each other and the sensitive shaft of her clitoris.

Janet's hips jerked in little spasms of pleasure as her fingers worked the boiling pleasures in her cunt ever higher. Her legs clenched tightly together, the muscles in her calves and thighs knotting with tension, she started rocking up and down, the length of her body moving like a see-saw over the pillow, each shift in weight pressing her hands more forcefully against her yearning cunt.

At last the pressure became too great, the nerve endings too sensitive. She withdrew her hands and slid them again beneath herself, but this time between the pillow and the bed.

The folds of the pillow were caught between her cunt lips, the dryness of the fabric chafing the sensitive inner flesh of her labia. Her hands and fingers moved under the pillow, causing it to bunch and move like a live thing between the juncture of her wanton thighs.

Janet's ass cheeks tightened, pressed together in rapid convulsive jerks. If only Tom could walk in on her now, he'd certainly be turned on, he'd certainly tear off his clothes, revealing the length of that beautifully swollen cock of his. He'd certainly lower himself over her, putting his strong hands on her thighs and pulling them apart with the rough caress that he knew she loved. He'd certainly drag her up to her hands and knees and shove his dick inside her with all the power and force she loved.

She thought about her husband's prick, thought about his huge, hairy balls dangling below that rigid meat, so rich and full of the hot, creamy cum she loved to feel shooting home inside her twat. She imagined that he was with her, forcing his dick deep inside her, stretching the walls of her constricted vagina with the knob, so broad and purple with hot blood.

She began to come, the sensation started low in her womb and spreading outward through her. She tensed as if in a seizure, her entire body shivering, her hands clutching madly at the pillow. The small of her back flexed slightly, arching her hips back and upwards to receive the final thrusts, the ejaculatory stabs of the lover she craved so much, to open herself to the gushes of warm spunk she yearned to have splattering inside of her.

But, of courser there was no lover with her, except in the lust-hazed swirlings of her mind, and when her orgasm began to drain away, she lay there still throbbing and wet, still denied that final peak she sought and could never find with her fingers alone.

She groaned in frustration, tossing on the bed. She had to make it, had to reach the release she was seeking, had to have, something long and thick and hard and warm and wet driven to the hilt in her cunt.

She whirled over on the bed, her ass still half on the pillow, tilting her body so that all the warm, curving excitement of her was emphasized delightfully by the tilt of her voluptuous form. Her breasts, turgid-tipped with her throbbing nipples, thrust upwards. Her hips, hungry for the weight of a male pelvis on them seemed to thrust outward. Her legs were spread and the hiking of her ass by the pillow beneath only highlighted the inviting dark mass of pubic thatch between her wide-spread thighs, and the glistening pink slit peaking out from between.

Her eyes swept the room as over and over again the words went through her mind – long and thick and hard and warm…

And then her gaze swept over the dresser. There stood the scented candle Penny had given them a few weeks before for her and Tom's anniversary. Tom had said then that he would light it when they made love, and indeed, that very night he had, the romantic glow flickering through the room as the soft scent of pine needles filled the air.

It had hardly lost any of its ten-inch length since it was given them; Tom had not been attending to her as he should.

Her eyes caressed the smoky, deep green length of it and again the words went through her mind – long and thick and hard and warm…

It wasn't warm, but three out of four would do, especially in Janet Jamison's state.

She crawled off the bed with the lithe ease of a big, tawny skinned cat, just reaching the candle from the end of the bed, then lay back with the phallic length of soft wax in her hand.

She couldn't close her fingers about it, falling short by perhaps an inch. It was thicker than her husband – at least as thick any man she'd ever known. As she lay back on the pillow legs spread, lowering the base of the candle, smooth and rounded with the contours of the holder in which it had lain on the dresser, she was momentarily uncertain about what she was doing.

She put one hand down to her cunt, slipping one finger inside. She was fearfully tight there and found herself unsure of whether or not she could take it without pain or injury.

But then she felt the tension, the need to come beginning to knot inside her all the more, and she threw caution to the winds.

The base of the candle touched between the folds of her cunt flesh, pushed up against it. It wouldn't go in at first and she wondered if it was too much for her.

But then she remembered the wonderful elasticity of her cunt, stretching to accommodate men, no matter how large, contracting to grip their penises, no matter how diminutive, and she felt the lubricating secretions dripping from her quim and she knew that not only could she take it – she had to have it!

Janet put her other hand down between spreading the lips of her pussy. The first time, it had pushed them inward, instead of slipping between. This time, though, she held them splayed widely apart as she fitted the blunt, gently rounded end of the candle between, then let them snap back tightly into place around the shaft.

She rotated the dildo between her thighs, grinding the end into her cunt.

"Uummmmm!" The sound slipped from behind her lips as she felt the sides of the cool length of false prick moving in the place where she wanted a hard cock.

She gripped the end of the candle in one hand, holding it in place with the other. Janet tilted her hips upward, her legs held far apart, and pushed.

She felt the muscles at the entrance of her cunt grudgingly giving way, spreading, being driven apart by the invader. Slowly, bit by bit, the dildo pressed into her, separating the walls of her cuntal tunnel despite their vain struggles to stay pressed closely together inside her.

Inch by inch, the candle was dipping into her.

She could feel the slick sides of the cylinder slipping between her fingers as it probed deeper and deeper into her. She wanted it to reach the itch, the place that needed the touch of hard dick, the pressure of stiff cock, deep inside her.

It was halfway in. She paused, gasping fer breath. Each intake of air made her hands move the end of the candle an inch or two upwards, away from the bed, causing the entire slick length to shift within the clutches of her wonderfully stretched cunt. It was so thick that as it drove between her pussy lips, it pulled the soft skin downward, caving it inward, so that her clitoris was pressing tautly against the top of the candle.

Each shift of it within her only increased the pressure on her clit, and that, in turn, only made her breath the more rapidly, deeply. And then she moved it even more.

The sensations were all churning together inside her, and they were intensified both by the decadence of what she was doing and the chance that her husband might walk in at any moment and see her laying there on the bed with the thick candle jammed halfway into the very slot he'd been neglecting.

She began pushing the candle inward again, and with each fraction of an inch that slipped into her, she felt new pleasure zones being touched, being ignited. Little explosions of ecstasy were taking place between her hips, within the length of her vaginal sheath, and each only made her want more. Inch by inch, the dildo bored into her throbbing cunt. Janet could feel the very end of it beneath her fingers even as she felt the rounded base driving up towards her cervix and womb. She wanted it deeper.

With a last groan of lust, she pushed it deep into her cunt. Within seconds, she was overwhelmed by her orgasm, her cunt coating the wax dildo with rich juices. Then she pulled the candle from her pussy.

And she knew herself well enough to realize, even as she roused herself sufficiently to replace the candle on the dresser top, that if she didn't get some more attention from her husband down in that inferno between her legs soon, she might still want his cock.

But no more than she wanted any cock.

Janet pulled the sheets back up over her, tossing the pillow over onto her husband's side of the bed, taking his for herself. Let him smell my pussy juice on it, she thought drowsily. Maybe it give him an idea.

Tom Jamison sat on the big couch in the living room, staring at the blank space in the center of the floor where the poker table had stood. As always, the guys had stayed after to help him straighten up some. They always had. And they seemed eager to do a little more than usual on this night.

For on this night, for the fifth straight week, he'd lost more than a hundred dollars to them.

He held the beer can in his hand, sipping from it vacantly from time to time. None of the boys ever discussed losses, with each other or outside of their circle. Janet would never need to know how muck he'd been losing.

But he knew damn good and well that if he didn't do something, and quickly, he was going to have them on the rocks financially.

He finished the beer and got another from the refrigerator, then resumed his post in the chair beside the sofa. This was his chair, and he alone ever sat in it. That was another of the little traditions he and Janet had. It was the master's throne. He remembered, the Christmas she'd given it to him. She'd somehow managed to scrimp the money together for it out of her clothing money.

"Shit," he murmured in disgust. He was upset with himself. As good as Janet and Penny were to him, then he went and squandered the money gambling.

He'd keep playing just long enough to win it back, and maybe a little more. Then he'd quit it for good and be the husband and father they deserved.

Of course he would. Just like the other times.

He drained the beer and went up to bed, pausing in the bathroom just long enough to empty his bladder. He didn't even notice the once-exciting scent of his wife's pussy on his pillow, or its dampness.

His mind was preoccupied with his wagers.

He even dreamed about them, when sleep finally came.