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Above her, the young man remained relatively still. All that moved were his hips. They rotated in tight circles, clockwise then counterclockwise. They pulverized her clit between two, cunt-juice-soaked pubic bones.
And below him, Donna Morgan came and came and came. Unnatural sounds emanated from her slender throat as her body continued to shudder and tremble atop the table. Juice flowed from the weak seal her battered cunt formed around the kid's invading shaft; it pooled on the tabletop before dripping off the edges, splattering on the worn hardwood flooring.
"Where you . . . want me . . . to cum . . . whore?" he inquired as Donna's quivering body began to settle, as the convulsions in her cunt subsided.
"Inside me," she breathed. "Cum . . . inside me."
With effort, she lifted herself to her elbows, her sweat-soaked tits wobbling on her chest. Her nipples were a wreck: thickened; red and pink; glowing from their rawness.
She shifted her weight so that she was leaning on just one elbow, the saline packs injected beneath her titflesh rolling with her torso. She slid her free hand down her body, between their groins. Her slender fingers closed around the three or four inches of young meat that had been withdrawn from her now cavernous cunt, manicured nails scraping along the overheated tube of flesh.
She increased her grip on the shaft and vigorously stroked it, half the length still buried in her destroyed hole. Her eyes burned into his; though her cunt was satiated, her baby blues still dripped with unadulterated lust.
"Cum deep in my cunt," she demand, her fist streaking up and down the thick shaft. "I want to feel . . . your hot cum . . . deep inside me . . . coating that . . . wedding band."
The young man, knees weak and wobbly, watched Donna's brazen and wicked display. Her small white hand and bright red nails were but a blur as they stroked the base of his cock. The quick movement of her hand had set her enormous, fake tits wobbling on her tight chest.
The image seared itself into his brain, but her words sent him over the edge. Her debauchery, immorality. The very corruptness of this wealthy wife and mother.
"Cum in my cunt!" she hissed. "All over . . . my wedding . . . band . . . drown it!"
The young man's hips crashed into her, smashing her dainty hand between their pelvic bones. Her slender fingers squeezed tight around the base of his cock, the tip of her index finger pressing against the underside of his thick shaft.
He pulled back and Donna kept up the pressure, rubbing and squeezing and jerking.
"Give me your cum!" she screamed.
And he did. With the pad of her index finger jammed tightly against the sensitive underside of his cock, the young man's black balls lurched. They released scalding sperm which coursed up the length of his shaft. Deep within Donna's quivering cunt, the tip of his cock winked open and he shoved forward, embedding the full length of his shaft in her.
"Oh, fuck," he grunted. "Oh, fuck, you fuckin' cunt!"
When the deep purple cockhead banged against her wedding band, a torrent of cum spilled from his shaft, splattering against the stretched out walls of her cunt, coating the band in thick globs of sperm.
Still buried in her, his cock trembled and shook and lurched a second time and then a third, flooding her cavernous cunt hole with his cum. His strong hands, gripped tightly to her pliant hips, fingers sinking into her soft, supple flesh, lessened their hold on her as his orgasm subsided.
Panting, he nearly collapsed on the adulterous North Shore whore. He caught himself on his hands, palms down on the table, and remained there while he caught his breath.
"You are one . . . nasty . . . bitch, Mrs. Morgan," he managed, sweat dripping from his brow, splashing on the tanned and taut flesh of her stomach.
He pushed himself up and backed away from the prone woman, his softening cock slipping from her destroyed, bald cunt lips with an audible pop.
"Only with you," she muttered, her lithe body still lazily arranged on the young man's kitchen table, his thick cum beginning to leak from her gaping cunt.
He chuckled. "Yeah. Right. I doubt it, bitch."
The young man stepped to the refrigerator, pulled a cold beer from its confines and popped the top. He turned around to find Donna on her elbows again, her glimmering blue eyes dropping to the sticky shaft that hung limply against his thigh. He leaned against the Formica countertop.
He knew what she wanted. More of his fat cock. Probably wanted it buried in her rich-bitch asshole. But he wasn't going to give it to her. Not tonight, anyway.
"Go on," he said, tilting his head toward the living room and the run-down bungalow's front door. "Get the fuck outta here."
"Huh?" she asked, pushing ravaged body off the kitchen table.
"I said, get outta here. I'm done with you for now. Go home to your husband."
Donna's cheeks blushed a scarlet red, but she bent to pick up her clothes as the young man sauntered from the kitchen. As she pulled her pants over her panty-less and cum-filled cunt, she heard the shower turn on near the back of the house.
Embarrassed, ashamed, she slipped her tanned arms through the tattered oxford cloth blouse and held it closed over her cleavage. After slipping into her heels, Donna exited the bungalow into a torrential downpour. By the time she reached the door to her Mercedes, her blouse was soaked.
Sliding behind the wheel, she started the car to get the heat going. Her image in the rearview mirror caught her attention; hair drenched in sweat and rain; make-up ruined; her once crimson-streaked lips were now a soft, natural pink. She adjusted the mirror downward to her chest; her areola and thick nipples were clearly evident through the rain-soaked white fabric.
A smile of contentment creased her features as she put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway.
- COMMENTS
TammiBadgerabout 1 month agoMy ex wife lives in the North Shore. She left me for her coke dealer. I guess he was more fun.
hair9411 months agoOver the years I have probably read this story and the others featuring Donna Morgan dozens of times. This particular one is one of my all-time favorites.
Any chance you might resume writing? Please do.
Anonymousover 4 years agoYou do not tell WHAT ON EARTH HAPPENED WITH HER WEDDING RING!Did she let it stay in her vagina?!THAT’S ABSURD!If that ring would have remained there for some time,SHE WOULD HAVE HAD PROBLEMS!The ring WAS A FOREIGN BODY which COULD HAVE CAUSED INJURIES or even SOME INFECTION!That ring ALREADY SCRATCHED THE SENSITIVE FLESH inside her vagina!CLEARLY SHE MUST HAVE IT REMOVED FROM HER VAGINA,not letting it there,as you say!Be REALISTIC when you write something and STOP TAKING US FOR YOUR FOOLS!
Anonymousalmost 8 years agoSick- even for Literotica. Depraved mind. I half expected her to die from a Coke overdose.
Anonymousover 12 years agoI live in Chicago so I know a bit about the North Shore and its poor neighbor, North Chicago. The story is good enough for what it is, and it has room to evolve.
Where is Mr. Morgan's position in all this? Is he really a cuck waiting at home to clean his wife's pussy? It would be easy to make him into one of those guys placing the hotwife for BBC Lake County ads, but there is good reason to leave him as a busy often-traveling professional with a trophy wife. Let Ms. Morgan be furtive with a huge humiliation fetish.
This Mrs. Morgan is potentially lot more interesting, IMHO than Mrs. Morgan, the cougar. So let's say maybe she got her Mrs. Degree at USC and ran with a fast crowd in L.A. She's now challenged with getting the hijinks and thrills in a much less accepting environment.
There are a lot of possibilities for characters in Frank's Bar. Is the kid a "gangsta" or a "hustler"? He seems to be "flying under the radar" so that would make him a "hustler" based in unassuming Frank's Bar, but that Benz's seems likely to attract some attention on one of these weekly visits. Give the hustler kid a name. He obviously doesn't use much if his product, but he probably enjoys a blunt now and then.
He's at least got his own bungalow. As a poor black kid, he doesn't have much access to the pansexual / straight Chicago BDSM scene, but the temptation to show off his rich, white whore might take him to Berlin on Belmont and such venues while skirting more gangstereque venues.
The thing I like about this proto-narrative is that "the kid" has to struggle with his own biases. She's a cokehead, but has deep enough pockets. He likes to show her off and she loves it when he does, but that could easily land him in jail or a box. He's traditional and possessive, but knows a whore needs variety so he's got to struggle with the conditions of her infidelities to him. He's no more a pimp than a gangster.
On Mrs. Morgan's end, she's got problems of her own. She's terribly lonely and sometimes seeks camaraderie with underclass women accustom to involvement with a criminal justice system that makes far fewer class distinctions than that of So Cal’s. The kid ends up saving her from unhappy endings to crack binges and craigslist escort work. At the same time, he must learn the art of safer BDSM and humiliation play to keep Mrs. Morgan from straying from his orbit to crash and burn.
To top it off, “the kid” has a deeply culturally imbedded powerful impregnation fetish for Donna Morgan. As their adventures multiply, he becomes attached and wants to seal their deal the only way he knows. He wants her to willingly bear his child, but this would bring Mr. Morgan into the picture, and mean convincing Donna Morgan that kicking cocaine and cigarettes at least during her pregnancy would not be a permanent sexual death sentence. All this comes out when during a period of excess and drama, Donna Morgan neglects her daily pill frequently enough for a pregnancy to happen. She cleans up and aborts, and is then faced with “the kid” coming clean about his true desires.
ISawYourMommyabout 18 years agoAuthorAnon in Canada is right. Bimbo Beth should not have been published, but it was. North Shore Coke Whore? Well, I actually thought - think - it's a good story for the genre. (Of course, I must add that qualifier because there are plenty here that will slam the story simply based upon its genre; that's their freedom, I suppose.)
Anyway, I seem to have fallen into a pattern and I can't get out of it. Bimbo Beth began as an effort to get out of the pattern but evolved - devolved? - into what you read here.
I have basic plot lines for a dozen or so future stories. I just read through them. As I sit here, I don't see the stories going anywhere new. I know they can, I just can't conjure the storyline right now. There are times when inspiration hits and I sit down and bang out a story in a few hours. Now (meaning this calendar year) has not seen many of those times.
There were a few comments on this story, on Bimbo Beth, and in private e.mail saying essentially what Anon in Canada has said. And those comments have all hit the mark.
Rather than try to churn out a story a month, I think I'll take longer between them. I'd rather have - and rather you have - quality rather than quantity.
For those that have left comments of a constructive nature, thank you. You've voiced what I either have been unable to see or unwilling to admit.
Anonymousabout 18 years agoOkay, i've read all of your stories and will actually check literotica simply to see whether you've posted something new or not. I think you write wonderfully and are perfecting your art of bringing to life the "wife slut" character.
However, i have to say that a lot of your writing is becomming redundant, and while i thoroughly enjoy the theme of the cheating wife/whore, etc., it's getting quite predictible (Although, i loved the infusion of the cocaine motif in this one).
Look...i don't want to knock your writing because i love the niche you've carved out for yourself, but please, i'm begging you, can you vary some of the themes a little rather than just the locations. It's becomming mechanical and obvious. What happened to the classics..."Just add alcohol pt. 2" where the mother is asking the man to compare her and her daughter...or Lincoln Park Mommy where she's fucking the cab driver even though she doesn't want to and the lights are on in the house but she's so consumed by lust that she doesn't care anymore...man, that's classic. That's where you should be. On the cutting edge. Lately, it just seems like you're treading water with the same themes...the same dialogue...the same characters...
This really isn't meant to be criticism...it's just...and i don't know how to say this without sounding condescending...but, i know you can do better!
In any case, keep up the good work!
