The Easiest Piece Of Ass

Tomorrow night I will film her slogging her way through several hung men. This moment I sit in my pub near the brazier's tendrils of yellow light, she is no doubt fucking Norman, a blond haired man with the muscle tone of a dedicated sportsman. Sometimes she sleeps over at his condo near the lake. Norm is wealthy you see, has the style and grace of a man to the manner born. They are often lulled to sleep by the bubble of perfect stillness enveloping the nearby freshwater lake.

Of course, me her cuckold, hears it all when she is done. How he fucks, his moves, his pushing and pulling of his cock from her cunt, shoveling his raw meat into her tender trap of mouth. She polishes him clean with her pink tongue. He is but one of the several good men who Ann fucks directly in front of me in the style practiced in polyamoric marriage; she adores his twelve inch rod, naturally lets him do anything he desires. Their copulating is not mere fucking but something intimate, more like lovemaking, the passionate synergy of honeymooning lovers.

Norm comes over. Kicks me out of my bed, joins Ann, and they fuck for days on end. I have to be content to film their fornicating and beat my meat listening to them through the bedroom wall.

Where does Ann get such relentless enthusiasm, impressive energy, such insatiability? A great mystery of the ages it seems.

In the mornings she sits at our simple pine table in breakfast nook. A vista of green foliage fills the bay window. Her pretty bare feet are crossed at the ankles under the table. Brushing her knees is a yellow linen gown. Curls of brown hair float about her neck. She needs to brush her hair. Her cheeks are flushed. Daintily, she sips her tea from one of her rose colored tea cups, one left to her by her grandmother. After splashing two sugar cubes, a dash of cream in the tea, she slowly stirs; the telly is tuned toTodayon the Nine Network. Karl Stefanovic and Jessica Rowe are doing their thing to rev Australians up to running speed for the new day. She is the prototypical middle-aged housewife, a petite home-bound goddess living in regal solitude. Male courtiers, female bedchamber vixens dally for a time, have their way with her; she is generally full of semen, looks radiant, relaxed and ready for another full day.

Ann's bedding down with four special men, a quartet of fathers for her quartet of babies. As I mentioned not one child is even remotely of my paternity. To think she was a chaste virgin until twenty-two, a woman who thought it was the mandated to be unbendingly committed to her monogamous marriage bed, to be rewarded with the mildest of orgasms, the tepid simmering of average sex as the prize for such fidelity. Her feline reticence while quite sexy to me ultimately did not suite her. She needed to be feral, to get down and be dirty, limber her talons, get it on with any willing tom cat. She found what she did not realize she was looking for one evening while I was deployed for the crown. In an upstairs bedroom with lemon-colored Chinese paper on the walls, several small black lacquer tables squatting on the floor, Ann lay down on top of a pile of jackets and coats and her sexual being changed forever. She discovered completely new resonances within her hungry body, what an average man was capable of achieving in her oily, untapped, truly untried depths. Unbeknownst to her, she had fallen in with a glittering array of licentious males and females. Finely dressed people chattering everywhere it seemed. Yammering, all of them swallowed in cigarette smoke and clouds of expensive perfume, acres of silk stockings and powdered cleavage. One almond eyed woman a short black dress clutching her tightly, white pearls around her throat, the most amazingly high platform heels was downstairs leaning over a rattan coffee table doing a line of coke through a red licorice stick. Amazing. Truly amazing. This was nothing like she expected, totally alien to her understanding, she absorbed it all as readily as a blotting paper.

Until that party Ann was the reticent one, my submissive wife. Sex was private, not something to be bandied about with just anyone. No flirting, a total non-availability, she was inert to sexual beguiling or so it seemed. Then on that particular evening she exploded into a wanton sexual frenzy.

In these circumstances, I have come to terms with my wife's sexual predilections. The husband who is now content to feed the whims of his wife's unfettered lusts. What else could I do? She is my whore, takes on all comers and will even do anything and everything. She the easy piece of ass loves being fucked in front of me. Ann loves having cocks in her mouth. Anything goes from gang bangs to orgasms sustained by porcelain and ebony dildos. Rape role play action. She the Frau fucking a long line of Russian soldiers in a dark corner for a lump of chocolate and a dozen French cigarettes. Then there is always the anal sex, butt fucking, a lover jabs his cock deep into her twat, jams her head against the bed's headboard. Sometimes in her partying she inexplicably becomes more demure, becomes caught up in concentric wave after concentric waves of lust radiating through her body. Demanding, insistent, Ann relentlessly achieves orgasm after orgasm.

In communion with her you must show no shame, no resistance and no hesitation whatsoever. Lads, be sure you hoist her on those catchphrases she loves, the sweet nothings that rivet her attention and power her imagination. She must be your little cocksucker, want to be fucked good and deep, made a true bitch in heat. You will plug and ram her, spurt deeply into her. That is the sort of thing you need to say. In this way your incantations will sweep Ann into a whirlpool of sensation as you endlessly try to satisfy her hunger, quell her heat just enough to rest your prick deep inside her.

From our bed, how many times has Ann looked out at men lining up, the queue extending into the dimly lit hallway? I dutifully play the game and say such things as "Ann, how much do you think these fellows will pay to shoot their load in your cunt? Some of them will shoot their load before they get in you. They will come on your stomach, your tits; you will be covered in semen. Some of these men will be old and dirty, they won't have washed, and they may have scabs on their skin. Dirty, old fuckers that still manage to get it up. I imagine someone will wish to piss on you too and even shit and you will love it all. You'll arch your back and beg for more."

In one enchanting fantasy I am one of Satan's earthbound minions, a bald-headed man with an affinity for garish bow ties, a frumpy looking man in his wife-beater tee shirt. Jolly in his beer belly plumpness. My master comes down from on high to spend his time fucking Ann, finding his release justified by her eagerness administered in our marriage bed with no restraint or remorse. Hell with all its delicious definitions is found between her loins, in the moist juncture of her perfect ass. I ask for no more then to be overwhelmed by languor. Fuck me dear sweet Ann.

My pub keeper with his frizzled hair stands behind the bar with dried ovals of salt under his armpits, perspiration running down the back of his shirt, a man with cauliflower ears, a flaring red nose and a black patch over his left eye. This faux Pigger's real name is Sid Franklin. He keeps a cricket bat ready to fend off pissed lorry drivers, sheep men and roustabouts. These rowdy sentiments are too often expressed with head bashing, the administering of broken noses and fractures too numerous to mention. The heat in this country does make us all a bit daffy.

Dear Sid keeps his nails buffed and his hands are quite soft from working so long in the pub. Many years ago he was a herder of sheep, he still remembers how randy he was at night, how much he craved the attentions of a woman, any woman. Every now and then he fucks Ann, shows her what a grizzled old man is capable of when he has stocked up sperm for so long during his youthful days. He tells her how many lonely nights he squatted near a fire, his only companions the smelly sheep and the keening wind. Then he bends Ann over, fucks her doggy fashion. I know he is thinking of how much he wanted to do this very thing to any available woman, to roar, and shoot his sperm deep into her anus.

"Will I have to suck that fucking cock?" It always begins that way on those nights Ann gets gang banged. She also said much the same thing the several times she worked as a hooker in a bordello known far and wide as the best whorehouse in Western Australia.

"Naturally," some one said and I can still see those big doe eyes of hers anticipating such a big, red cock deep inside her mouth. "Yes. All night you will suck one cock after another, big ones, small ones, fat ones, thin ones, strange ones looking more like a beast's prick then a human one." She swooned hearing this. I think just the idea of taking on so many cocks in one marathon session made her orgasm.

Ann and I live in a valley brimming over with minerals, silica and jeweled stones you pluck from the ground with ridiculously little effort. Hot as it gets we do not mind. Its sweet scented vistas are of such compelling extravagance, so opulent in its stunning picturesque dominion we find it frequently necessary to compare our view to something in far off Tibet.

Our house has no great architectural distinction. Its spacious main part opening on to a large courtyard is its greatest claim to fame. Set beside a river, the white house with its yellow trimmed windows is comfortable and meets our needs. The eaves give some shade from the hot sun and we have a small covered porch looking toward the river.

My pretty, narrow hipped wife with the large gray green eyes, highly defined cheek bones, a willowy figure is just my cup of tea, satisfies me constantly.

Right now I sitting on this mole skin covered bar stool, looking at the picture behind the bar, the group portrait of serious men, a platoon of bruisers, hale young football players who are ready for sustained combat. Ann is at home getting well and truly fucked. Just like the vicar in the small church next to our playground, she performs a homily of sorts on the voracious man topping her.

In such alliances we enjoy unrivaled sexual pleasure, reflect on its trappings, what restorative sustenance to our flesh is contracted, how such connubial bliss binds us together and inexplicably refreshes our obligations to one another.

Nor in our marriage is romance dead. In the tiny enclosed garden behind our place, Ann sometimes sits on a slightly chipped stone bench in front of the fat trunk of a tree. She cools her bare heels in the green grass, opens her legs wide, tugs her panties down, I eat her until my mouth is quite dry, lips parched, she is so wet and needy. In her hair she wears a garland of purple wild flowers, her dress a maiden's frock made of plain lavender cotton. How is that for her hapless husband, the voyeur who never tires of seeing his wife getting fucked?

I love this easy piece of ass, this wanton slut. She takes her full measure of pleasure and I catalogue it all with my camcorder. Nothing is wrong, anything permissible.

At once a real woman and at the same time a figure of fantasy, a veritable thrill a minute in our bedstead.

I maintain an album of Ann's dalliances. Constantly updated, these images are a veritable treasure trove of comely Ann's concupiscence. Routinely, I update the photographs, keep them fresh. All of them are eight by ten, glossy, in color, equal to any glamour shots. Close ups of Ann's head, her hair shorn short, ear rings dangling from her ear lobes, big meaty cocks in her mouth. Shots of her looking radiant, positively glowing as a cock spills its semen on her forehead, near her nose, down her chin in scimitar shapes, the pure pearly residue resembles a villainous Fu Manchu moustache. One marvelous shot of her sprawled on a brown plaid sofa, her left leg high in the air, sexy foot curving out. A man is buried deep in her womb. Another man, his waist a tad smaller then his partner has his shaft buried in Ann's mouth, his balls slapping against her lips. Another great image Ann is getting well and truly fucked by three lads. Just before I snapped the shot, Ann said, "Boys, assume your position." Then her wicked laugh.

Another picture shows Ann with her eyes closed, her right arm lifted above her head. Three islets of come are deposited in curls just above her right eye. A peninsula shaped dollop of sperm rests on her right cheek. The man is forcing his cock against her chin. A heavy ribbon of the jazz covers her lips as does a knuckle of sperm trickling away from her mouth. No that is from the same spillage bracing her right cheek.

As a fresh faced lad I remembered a Russian émigré, the proprietor of a candy kiosk, told me a story of Tolstoy and his trek in the forest at Yasnaya Polyana. He stopped in a clearing, watched a lizard sunning itself on a rock. "Your heart is beating," said Tolstoy to the lizard. "The sun is shining. You are happy." Then Tolstoy looked sorrowfully at the green reptile. "I am not."

When I am not like the great Tolstoy and darkness beclouds my soul and a foulness of spirit poisons me, I glance at my photographic gems, they act as a well spring lifting me back, restoring my verve. These pictures are truly magical.

Our life is so full and constantly rewarding. I take such joy seeing a man getting behind her, jacking his cock into her puckered ass. My eyes wide open, viewing another man entering her mouth at the same moment. A third man watches, plays with one of her nipples.

"Lady, you are such a slut," says the man playing with her nipple.

"Yes, Dingo I am. It turns my hubby on, don't you see?"

The man in her ass pushed in deeper. "Ann, your hot ass is such a turn on." This man is black as the inside of a coal bin.

Ann, still gripping cock in her mouth managed to look back over her left shoulder and grin at her black conqueror.

Holding my camcorder up high, always looking through the extended viewfinder at the action.

One evening I captured the voice of a woman across the bedroom. In a singsong voice, she was intoning what sounded like an epic poem from the Dark Ages. The song was pregnant with unveiled meaning, the call of the wild spoken in cadence. From the corner of my eye I could see the woman fingering her pussy, waiting to take on some cock. She wore silver lame, sat next to an uncluttered, polished table, her small beaded bag in its center. Her blond hair was cropped short, her features fine, she wore no make-up. I think she had some dried semen hardening around her perfect lips but they may have been my wish, my want not the way it truly was. When she finished singing she sucked my cock and I came in her mouth.

Across from her, sitting in one of our black leather chairs is a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to the Big H, Harry Beitzel, the pre-eminent umpire in Australian Football. Of course it was not him. However, he exuded the same sense of trust and unbridled confidence. He was sitting in one of our high backed chairs, his naked legs crossed at the knees. He sipped pink lemonade from a tall, frosty glass. On his face he looked at the festivities taking place on the bed with the ravenous desire of a cannibal hungry for human meat. I could imagine him standing in a football pitch, supremely confident, ruling the sun was rising in the west. The player captains looked up in the sky, saw the sun climbing in the east, scratched at their chins and of course they said, "Fair dinkum, mate."

Finishing his fresh lemonade laced with a dramatic portion of vodka, he wipes his lips and patiently waits his turn. He only fucks Ann when she is brimming over with sperm. His dipping requires a soggy pussy, an equally endowed mouth laden with semen. Nothing else suffices. Amidst the din of all this romping and stomping, me recording all the color, the shadows, the spectacle, he smiles, the grin of a satisfied mate. We two wanton men share something uniquely special. We know it too. Fuck football.