tagLoving WivesCatching Corrina

Catching Corrina

byeast76th©

Corrina's black spike heels beat a steady tattoo upon the gray asphalt as she strode down the street. She was thinking of the semen weeping from her pussy and what it felt like to be fucked hard from behind.

Walking east, she stepped off the curb at 72nd and 3rd and winced visibly. God, she was sore down there.

"You OK, mami, you turn an ankle or somepin?"

The voice of the man beside her was rich with invitation, and his dusky sepia skin and hipster looks promised an interesting time, but she just shook her head.

"I'm fine," she said briskly.

He continued to walk alongside her as she picked up her pace, staying close by nimbly dodging a pair of stout nannies pushing strollers and jabbering in lilting Jamaican.

He put his hand on her forearm, his soft, smooth palms tickling the downy hairs there.

"Yo, you sure there's nuttin' I can do fa you?"

Corrina stopped and stared without expression into his confident white grin. Her mouth opened into a smile just as blinding, causing his expression to turn to one of triumph. She leaned toward his ear conspiratorially.

"I don't know, papi," she asked sweetly, "Can you cure syphilis?"

He recoiled as if she were a snake, jumping back a step and looking at her fearfully as if she would pursue him. She turned away and continued on, leaving him staring resentfully.

She almost felt bad for treating him so rudely, but not quite. Like she'd told her friend Karen at lunch yesterday, she'd no reservations about having sex with the perfect stranger, but seeing as how she had no idea which stranger was perfect, she'd pass.

Thinking of Karen brought her thoughts back to getting fucked from behind. Sex had come up in their conversation, and Karen had admitted that while she did do doggy-style sometimes, it was more for her husband than it was for her.

"It hurts too much. There are organs there that that have no business being prodded by a penis," she complained.

Corrina didn't tell her friend that the pain was what made it so delicious, but it had been on her mind the rest of yesterday and all of this morning. She smiled inwardly. That was why the first thing she did when she got to Tom's apartment was walk straight to his giant picture window and bend over the sill, arching her back and thrusting her ass out in invitation.

Thank God Tom had taken the hint. Wordlessly, he lifted the hem of her skirt and tucked it carelessly into the waistband before lowering her panties and gauging her wetness with insouciant two-finger swipe. Less than a minute later, his big hands were gripping her hips like a vice as he plunged his cock brutally into her.

Her pussy twitched just thinking about it. She knew that along with her vibrator, she'd get a lot of mileage from the episode between now and next week's assignation. She smiled at how well she'd trained Tom in the three months since they'd begun their affair. He was finally becoming less polite in bed.

Corrina sighed.

Since college, she'd been cursed with a steady stream of lovers who, if anything, were overly solicitous of her in the sack.

They'd wait patiently for her to take her pleasure, looking at her with calm eyes beneath their sweaty brows, gauging her level of excitement before giving thought to their own. It's not that she wasn't appreciative, it was just that she found it hard to lose herself when she was being spied upon from three inches away by boys who would constantly ask if she was "ready."

At the top of this list was her Michael, her husband of seven years, a sweet, loving man without a clue in bed.

After she succumbed to Tom's good looks and persistence, she nearly walked out on him mid coitus when he'd apologized for the sweat dripping off of his chin onto her face. Instead, she shocked him by opening her mouth and catching the next shower of droplets with her quick pink tongue.

The blast of a van's horn as it maneuvered around a cab veering toward a fare returned Corrina to the present. New York City, she admonished herself, is not the place to daydream.

A half-minute later she entered the quiet, air-conditioned lobby of her apartment building. She and Michael lived in a roomy two-bedroom on the 9th floor. Michael often pointed out to friends that their Upper East Side neighborhood was more like a suburb of Manhattan because it lacked the hustle and bustle you'd find even two blocks east.

Corrina agreed, but she was not as sure as her husband that this was such a good thing.

"Mrs. Grasso!"

Her doorman intercepted her before she could get into the elevator. A nice enough man, Anthony sometimes kept her husband talking for an hour about baseball, which Corrina found infuriating when it made them late. But Michael was too polite to cut the conversation short.

"Hello, Anthony," she said with a smile. "I'll grab the mail later, I have just enough time to shower and get ready for dinner before Michael gets home."

Anthony stepped out from behind the front desk, looking like a third world general in his ridiculous uniform.

"Yeah, uh, no mail, just this package sitting here for you." He held up an 8 ½ by 11 envelope with her name printed in bold black marker. "Didn't come through the mail, someone just dropped it off."

"Well, mysterious, no?" she asked playfully, accepting the envelope and darting into the elevator to avoid further conversation. "Thank you, Anthony."

"You're welcome, Mrs. –" the closing elevator door cut him off.

Corrina tossed the envelope on the kitchen counter and shed articles of clothing en route to the shower. Her panties, a cum-soaked, sky-blue scrap of lace, she buried deep in the hamper in case Michael walked in unexpectedly.

She stared at herself judgmentally in the bathroom's full length mirror as the shower warmed. Born of an Argentinean mother and an Italian father, her skin had a rich olive hue and her hair was a startling jet black. Her legs were the length you'd expect of a 5-7 woman, and her 34C breasts were still something to be proud of at 34.

Yes, there were lines around her dark eyes that weren't there five, or even two years ago, and sure, her body had lost some of its youthful elasticity, but hell, she knew for a fact she still turned heads. And when you can turn heads in this city, you've got something.

She stepped into the shower's warm cocoon and slid the glass door closed behind her. The gentle spray kissed her like an old friend as she relaxed her muscles and let the water rejuvenate her.

She felt sexy standing under the spray, her legs spread wide as if against a storm, breasts bared to the water's onslaught. She always felt like this when cleaning up after Tuesday's with Tom.

The secret sex made her powerful, in control and hyper-aware of all things physical – the tendrils of her hair against her neck, the needle-point spray hitting her breasts and coaxing her nipples from their torpor.

She raised her soapy fingers to her chest and took a nipple between thumb and forefinger, gently massaging it with the pads of her fingers, little half circle movements that made it flush darker and protrude, questing for more contact.

Her low moan echoing through the closed stall took her by surprise. She lifted her left breast to her mouth, and, just as she'd done in front of Tom hours earlier, took the engorged nipple between her straight white teeth and bit down gently, lips bared as if he were still in front of her watching, gripping the bulbous head of his purpled cock.

Her knees start to shake with the memory of the show she'd put on for him, which ended with his cum arcing over her stomach and dotting her breasts like punctuation to her own orgasm.

The memory of it almost physically pushes her hand down between her legs, gliding between her shaved lips, swollen with use and renewed ardor.

Corrina floated outside her body as she feather-stroked her clit in slow, steady movements that built her excitement like a house going up brick by brick. She watched herself from a window in her mind; the woman alone, pleasuring herself unabashedly with fingers and sucking mouth, the closed lips and the rushing water muting her low, throaty moans and her eyes half closed, the lids fluttering in greedy pleasure.

Her voyeuristic mind offered direction and she followed without hesitation, turning away from the water and pressing her breasts hard against the cold tile as she reached down for her wood-handled scrub brush.

She slid its soft bristles between her legs and stroked her lips, slowly moving her ass back and forth with each push, offering the cleft peach to unseen hands. When her clit became too sensitive she reversed the brush and slid the tip of the thick, wooden handle inside her body.

She arched her ass and rubbed herself against the tile like a frustrated cat, feeding herself more of the brush handle until her moans became full on shrieks. The eruption began in her cunt, a sweet, tiny tremor that became multiple shock waves riding up and down her body, her head lolling back and her legs shaking uncontrollably as she rode it out, barely keeping her balance.

Thirty minutes later, Corrina critically applied a last round of lipstick and grabbed her purse off the counter. She was on her way to meet Michael, who had called and asked her where she wanted to have dinner. As she was unlocking the door, her eyes fell on the envelope lying on the table.

Curious, she walked back in and slit it open with her nail, peering inside. Many times in the future her mind would bring her back to this exact moment, as if rewinding itself to the nanosecond before her world came crashing down. Each time she returned, it was with a feeling of hopefulness, as if the contents would turn out to be some innocent epistle from a friend. It was always with disappointed surprise that the reality of her situation jarred her into the bleak present.

The first picture made her gasp and the second one rendered her mute as it fell from her nerveless fingers and spiraled to the floor, landing and staring back at her like an accusation. She involuntarily fell to her knees and then recoiled at her closeness to herself in stark black and white, mouth open in adulterous desire as she bent over to receive Tom's illicit cock.

Unable to touch the picture but needing to look at it, she bent forward and planted her shaking arms on either side of the photo and stared. The detail, she admitted, was startling. Taken earlier today while she was being, well, taken herself while hanging onto the window sill for dear life, you could see the silky wet strands of her hair covering one eye and even make out the darker shadow on her flushed chest. The cameraman had captured her, somehow, in mid orgasm, making her look like nothing more than a whore, a sexual gourmand intent only on her own libertine joy.

Behind her, you could clearly see the etched muscles of Tom's taut arms and the tightness of his hold on the flesh of her hips made her wince even now. His chest hair glistened with sweat.

Shaking, she wrenched herself away from the pornographic likeness and reached for the envelope. It looked empty. She turned it over and a sheet of paper fluttered out. The paper appeared to be carelessly torn from a spiral pad. It looked dirty and cheap, and she knew instantly that the choice was deliberate. She lifted it with shaking hand. It was written in an elegant hand that belied its canvas.

Corrina , I have been watching you for a long time, long enough to know that this interlude was a rule, not an exception. There are those who would call you a slut. Others would certainly call you an ungrateful adulterer – including your conniving, hypocritical "friends," all of whom would scratch each others' eyes out to be the first to dive crotch-first into your cuckolded husband's bed. Your former bed, that is, in your former apartment, and of course, with your former husband. But I call you none of those things, Corrina. I will call you, simply, mine.

At this, Corrina gasped and reddened with anger. She was nobody's but her own, a fact she'd been fiercely proud of since age 11. If some stranger, some man, she thought ferociously, thinks he's going to undermine her independence, he was sadly mistaken.

She read on, the rose draining from her blanching face, until she was done and the missive hung loosely from her fingers. I cannot do this.

Her cell phone rang, jolting her. For a moment she was sure it was her unknown watcher, then she saw her husband's number and realized that she was late. She grabbed the envelope and stuffed its damning contents inside, then buried it at the bottom of her messiest night table drawer before rushing through the door and into the elevator. She did not bother to answer the phone; she'd see him in two minutes.

Dinner that night was at Haru, where she picked at her overpriced sushi and stared and snuck glances at her husband when he wasn't looking. Could he be behind this? Did he possess reserves of imagination and cruelty that he'd manage to hide from her for years? His innocent blue eyes met hers, and she dismissed the thought. It isn't him, she decided in mingled relief and disappointment, knowledge of her infidelity would wound him, but it would not make him a better actor.

As they readied for bed later that night, she felt the familiar shift in her stomach when she watched him undress, carefully going through the pockets of his slacks before folding them neatly and replacing them on the shelf where they'd sat this morning. She could not explain it, but following every bout of infidelity, she was nearly bowled over by her love for him. Once a week since she'd been seeing Tom, the wave of feeling welled up inside her and would always burst forth that same night, manifesting itself in a new shirt, or a backrub. Watching him prepare for bed tonight, his cute ass firm in their boxer's sheath, she had something else in mind.

As he was closing the blinds, something she always forgot to do when she undressed, Corrina came up behind him and took a cheek of his ass in each hand. Surprised but pleased, he leaned his head back and turned to look at her.

"Well, hello. To what do I owe such a fabulous gesture?"

She turned him around so that he was facing her and backed him toward the bed. When the backs of his knees hit, he sat abruptly. Her body followed his until he was lying down and she was prone upon him.

She shimmered down his body, her hot breath like a promise on his neck, then ruffling the crisp hairs of his chest and stomach. Hovering over the growing bulge in his underwear, she remembered a line in an old movie.

"Put it down as a gesture to love," she said in her best Bogart.

She pushed the irony and pathos of the line from her mind as she lowered her head and licked the length of his penis, the head of which by now was peeking from the waistband of Michael's underwear.

She put her predicament and what awaited her tomorrow out of mind and devoted herself to his pleasure, licking and sucking, sometimes surprising him with sharp nips that brought his body arching off the bed. She orchestrated his reactions masterfully, keeping him on edge until he was begging in broken sentence fragments for release, then took his entire cock in and slipped a thin finger deep into his receptive ass. Without a word, she demanded and received his essence, the hot cum pulsing against the back of her throat as he spurted like a severed artery, his body bucking uncontrollably.

She sucked harder as his spurts weakened and continued to skewer his tiny hole with her finger. Her ministrations became even more forceful when he began to twist away from her, his pleasure rapidly becoming discomfort and then pain.

"Corrina," he said, pushing at her head to try and force her to disengage. "Corrina!" This time he yelled, and grabbing her hair with one hand and her wrist with the other, he yanked her from him.

Her mouth came away with a loud noise while her finger made a rough egress. They were both trembling, him in the aftermath of his orgasm, her in some undefined need.

He held her raven hair tightly in his fist and looked quizzically into her eyes.

"God, you scare me sometimes."

Her eyes were steady on his in the dim light cast by the world outside.

"Good," she told him, as she climbed on hands and knees to her side of the bed and dropped into a shallow, troubled sleep.

She woke alone and with a terrible awareness the day ahead. Her stomach rebelled, and when she moved her bowels she smelled the liquid stench of fear. She showered, then took the letter from her purse and re-read the part that mattered.

I will see you tomorrow at noon, but you will not see me. I demand a token from you, an act that shows me that you understand that you are now mine. At 12 pm you will be in the Starbucks at the northwest corner of 75th St. and First Avenue. You know it well, I've seen you there before. You will take a seat at one of the tables at the window. There, you will show me that your will is not your own. That it belongs to me. Your Stranger. Your Master.

Corrina took a deep breath and continued.

You will face the street and spread your legs to the world, most of which will surely pass you by without a glance, intent only on the sad station of their own lives and ignorant of the beauty surrounding them. Then you will take your panties off. I will not only be out there looking at you, I also will be looking at my watch. If it take you less than a minute to slide them down, your husband will get a picture worth many hundreds of thousand words. I want a long, sexy show. When they are off, leave them on a table under one of their silly brown napkins and leave. When you have gone, I will come pick up my gift.

Be bold. If I am disappointed, you will not be happy.

The note was signed with a single letter, a large J.

Corrina dressed like a robot, giving her full attention to each minute task; putting on shoes, buttoning her blouse, pulling the long skirt up around her hips – anything to take her mind off what she must do.

Opening up her underwear drawer, Corrina was overcome by nausea. She stumbled into the bathroom and fell to her knees seconds before the bile shot up from her stomach. She flushed and brushed her teeth, looking at herself in the mirror.

Was her marriage and reputation worth this? She thought of the life she had become accustomed to and the pain her husband would feel, and she knew it was. Barely.

She went back to the drawer and picked out a pair of burgundy panties, not a G-string but French cut silk, that rested high on her hips and plunged down precipitously. She slid them on beneath her skirt and walked out of the apartment, the door shutting beside her with finality.

She walked into the dimly lit Starbucks with the sun's dazzle still in her eyes, forcing her to spend a moment just inside the door letting her eyes adjust. The place was full, and there was only one window seat available. She nearly ran to grab it, earning herself nasty looks from a pair of fortyish, slat-thin women in workout gear, impeccable makeup and enough perfume to outlast a night with a regiment.

Corrina ignored them. If there was no window seat, what then? She didn't want to think about it. She left her bag on the chair and went to grab some napkins from the dispenser. She returned to her seat and glanced at the street clock across the way, a couple of minutes to 12.

She looked out the large floor-to-ceiling windows, trying in vain to find her tormentor. It was impossible, the streets were teeming with people, in the space of 5 seconds she picked out a score of men who might have been her puppeteer. Her lips trembled and her body felt odd, almost empty, as if all her organs were on loan elsewhere.

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