Revenge As Sweet As Honey

Two shaker cupboards later I found her range of jams and marmalades and honeys. The choice was wide ranging, every English fruit boiled sweet and sticky, even the honeys available in hard set Welsh white, thick Cornish amber fluid, or semi-liquid Somerset golden in a clear plastic squeeze top. I chose the Somerset, if only for the squeeze top, and from the fruit bowl I took a still greenish banana, because that would be firmer than those that were already turning yellow.

She had not moved an inch. I went to stand beside her, not at her feet, although those were still touching, her knees still bent and splayed, her slit still pinkly open, her clit apprehensively peeking from within. Only her chest was moving, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Her eyes sought out mine, still anxious as I stood beside her, level with her rib-cage.

The banana stalk broke with just a little more pressure than a ripe fruit would have required, the green skin splitting open, baring the white flesh within. I peeled it fully while she watched.

"You're not,.." she said. "I thought..."

"Have you a dildo in your bedroom?" I asked her.

She did not answer, at least not with any words. Her eyes conceded that I had guessed right. There were times when she took her pleasure when she was alone. I set the skin on a corner of the table top close to her head, and placed the firm fleshed fruit itself on her lower belly, so that the curved end lay over her mons, covering her slit, resting on it for that moment.

The top of the honey had not been opened, and the rim of plastic that secured it broke away with a single twist to hang loose around the neck. I unscrewed it all the way, inverted the flat bottle over her and squeezed gently. A thin trail of honey descended from the nib and fell to her areola, forming a wormlike spiral over its centre. She gasped, perhaps with the coolness of the thick liquid.

I moved my hand over her still body and the honey trail ran down the slope of her breast to the valley between both, then up the second peak, to form another spiral there. From that spiral the trail descended to her ribcage, and coiled once around her navel. My other hand removed the banana resting on her mons, and the honey trail continued there, a final spiral forming around and atop of the exposed stub of her clit.

Unless undressing a woman is in itself aggression, or carrying her naked, or even anointing her with honeyed sweetness, until that point I had done nothing that constituted actual unwanted sexual assault on another person's wife, and, although I planned to fuck this woman, I would hesitate to do anything unwanted. I wanted her to want it too.

"If you want me to stop doing what I am doing, you only have to say," I said slowly and deliberately.

"I know," she answered.

It was an answer that intrigued me. I meant what I had said. I would stop at any time she asked me top, but her answer gave me permission to continue and it also told me that she trusted me to keep my word.

I had chosen the fruit well. Its firmness meant it opened her slit as soon as I pressed the curved end to her opening. Its girth stretched her. Its length allowed me to ease it deeper than some men's cocks would have gone.

Bananas have a mixed reputation. Whilst sculpted by nature to please a woman just as I was doing, they also make you think of slapstick, the skin on the floor causing the unwitting passer-by to slip and fall, feet high in the air, with laughter all around.

Set that image to one side. Think instead of Eden, the God-given heaven on earth before man sinned, and of naked Eve waiting for Adam to recover from having fucked her, wandering amongst the fruit trees, her mind dwelling on the orgasm she had just enjoyed, but wanting more, coming across this fruit in abundance, peeling the skin away, touching herself with it, enjoying the sensation, considering the possibility, then using it to give herself the pleasure that she craved, nature's dildo.

The ancient Hebrew name for this perfectly shaped fruit was 'ana'. Those who disapproved of the way in which Eve, and the women descended from that time, made use of 'ana's, banned such salacious practices. From that time on, 'ban-ana' was its name.

I used the ban-ana just as Eve had done, touching it to open slit, inching it within, withdrawing slightly, inching deeper, working it inside, until just an inch remained in view. Her wetness made it all so easy.

I left it there, and bent over her breasts, bringing my mouth to the spiral of honey on the nearer of her two areolas. The honey tasted sweet as, well, I guess it was as sweet as honey.

I lapped at it, lapping at her areola as I did so, my head bent over her. My tongue sensed the slight stickiness, the traction created by the honey, but also sensed the smoothness of the taut skin of her areola, and the raised bump that was her nipple stub or the closest thing to stub her nipple had. I savoured it. I took my time, licking not just the obvious thick globules of sweetness, but cleaning every trace of honey from her breast, opening my mouth wide and sucking her entire areola within, creating a vacuum in my mouth, licking hard against the breast tissue, using the flat upper surface of my tongue against it, knowing that if her nipple was just fractionally sensitive, it would be stimulated by the attention I was giving it.

She whimpered softly, not just once, but each time she released a breath.

I had told her that all she needed to do was ask me, and I would stop. I used my teeth. I closed them softly, taking an inch or so of breast flesh between my upper and lower teeth, very gently chewing on the flesh, biting, and sliding my jaw from side to side.

I released the flesh, and bit again, now just at the slight swelling that was her nipple stub, hard enough to old it firm, without inflicting pain, or not too much pain to bear. I raised my head, drawing the nipple upwards. At first she just accepted it, still whimpering, but not complaining. I straightened my back a little, and she arched hers to compensate. I raised my head further, and she raised her torso. I sensed her use her arms now, supporting her back. Still no complaint, just compliance.

Testing her, I released her nipple stub. I heard her gasp, not in pain but in relief. I closed together once more, this time taking just millimetres of flesh between my teeth, not so much biting the flesh as nipping the delicate stub at its very tip, and the tender nerves just beneath the surface. She gasped again, this time not in relief, but in real pain.

"It hurts," she complained, but it was a statement of fact, and of acceptance, not a request for me to release her nipple stub, so I played a little more, and listened to her gasps.

It is only fair to share. One breast had been licked clean, or at least the areola. I licked the honey trail that went between her breasts and rose again, then lapped at the second spiral of honey, now more a pool, the lines of the spiral dissolved into one another. It tasted just as sweet.

She stayed leaning on her elbows this time. I guess that she expected me to treat her second breast just as I had done the first, and she was right. She did not ask me not to, but she did wince a little, and she gasped more than once. They say that a woman's pain threshold is higher than a man's, which leaves me wondering how they measure, and if that includes sexual pain-pleasure play or just plain pain, but either way I was impressed. So I could tell it hurt, at least a little, but I pain-pleasured her a little more, because although she could have asked me not to, she said not a complaining word.

All this time, I still had my thumb and forefinger on either side of the remaining inch or so of white ban-ana flesh that was protruding from her slit. Now I began to play with it, drawing it most of the way out, only to ease it back inside her, repeating this, slowly and steadily, as I licked at the honey trail that went from breast to navel, and from there, a few more inches further south.

She lowered her body again, relaxing, pain over, only her pleasure nerves engaged. I reached the mound of honey that had once been a spiral built atop of her protruding clit, and carried on licking her clean. My tongue tip grazed her clit repeatedly. Meanwhile I was dildo-ing her slit with the hard unripened flesh of ban-ana from her kitchen table, not deeply, because ban-ana can be slippery to hold, but compensating for the lack of depth with speed, using my wrist more than my hand, rhythmically but unremitting.

She moaned.

She did much more than moan.

She shuddered. She gasped. She shook her head in disbelief. She began to buck, her butt rising from the table top, her legs flailing. I used my free hand on the concave flesh of her belly to keep that part of her at least, as still as I could manage.

She groaned. She cried out alternating with long whimpers with guttural moans and high pitched shrieks. Neighbours hearing her might have thought it a fox was being dogged by its mate. I really did not care. If they knew that this was a human orgasm, wild and unrestrained, and if they knew its source, the garden it was coming from, I could not give a damn. Nor, in that moment, it seemed, could she.

Except she got too loud, and when the chips are down I am basically a considerate kind of guy. I intended that her husband would in due course learn that I had taken full advantage of his wife, but their neighbours did not need to know. I clamped a hand over her mouth, gagging her, and she fell silent. She writhed and squirmed and shuddered, but she stayed muted, until her orgasm started to subside.

She calmed.

Nature's dildo having done its job, I removed the ban-ana from her slit. I threw it and the discarded skin towards the flower bed where I had been working earlier that morning. They would provide a useful form of compost, once dug in.

I walked from the side of the table, where I had been all that time, and went to the end, where her feet were no longer touching, but dangling, her legs still parted, knees reaching to the table edge, her lower legs hanging vertically. I unzipped my fly and manoeuvred my cock from within. It stood proud, a healthy forty five degrees of thick, solid, angled flesh.

I suspect that not many of my clients would welcome me gardening naked, although in fairness, I have never asked. I tan pretty well, but it is my torso and my legs from my knees down that turn nut brown. My cock stays white, or at least the shaft. So does my butt, but that was still covered by the fabric of my gardening shorts.

I took hold of her by the legs and pulled her towards me. She half slid, half squirmed, uneasily along the glass. I got her butt right to the rattan edge of the table top, her legs on either side of my waist, my cock resting, shaft on her slit, head pointing skywards, somewhere above her naval, large guy, compact woman, decent sized cock, cute slit, moist from its own secretions.

"Do you want me to stop?" I asked her.

"Would you?" she asked. Just two words, so full of meaning.

She was good. I mean she was good at reading me, because before, when she had said that she knew that I would stop, she had been right. I would have. But that was before I had watched her come, and before I had taken out my cock, and before I had rested it on the warmth of her body. Stopping now, forgoing the pleasure of sliding my cock into her, stretching that delicious slit wide with the mushroom head and flange, that was something else. Stopping now would be seriously hard. It was a tough ask, so she was right to raise the question, if i would stop, now that I was so near to sliding deep inside her, even if she asked me to. Sadly, I knew the answer, hard as it would be, was that when push comes to shove, I do not force myself on anyone.

"I'd stop," I said. "If you really don't want me to fuck you."

Her breasts rose and fell and she looked at me with those green eyes, and it felt like her slit was pulsing beneath my shaft. I did not have to wait. I could have eased back, lowered my cock head, and eased it into her without giving her time to tell me what she wanted, but I waited.

"Don't..." she said, pausing just long enough for me to wonder if she was beginning to ask me not to fuck her, and for me to see the opportunity to enjoy that delicious slit evaporating right before my eyes, before she said one more crucial word.

"... stop."

Two words in total, maybe three, depending on how you count, given that she had abbreviated the first two words into just the one.

Like they say on the show, "Don't stop," was her last and final answer, or not so much an answer as an invitation, or a request, not strong enough to be a command, or instruction, but more an expression of submission, of willingness to let me take my pleasure of her, and of her own desire, to have another orgasm, not this time from a banned fruit, but in contravention of her marriage vows, from someone who was not her husband, but to whom, with those two words, she had immorally surrendered.

Even fucking someone else's wife, you should retain a sense of responsibility. I drew a square foil pack from one of the many pockets of my shorts and was about to tear it open when she shook her head.

"You don't need it," she said, her voice soft and gentle.

I remembered the absence of any sign of children in photos or in art-work in the kitchen and wondered if nature had been cruel, but I accepted that she knew what she was saying to me, and slipped the square of foil back where it had been.

I had to angle my cock downwards to get the head level with her slit. I am thicker than any ban-ana you will find in a kitchen fruit bowl, or on a tree, so when I eased the head inside her it stretched her wider than before. I watched as her cunt closed over the rim of my cock head, welcoming it within, holding tight around the shaft as if to retain the head inside until it filled her with warm sperm-filled semen.

She need not have worried. I was not planning to withdraw. I pressed on, easing my cock further into her, taking my time, but steadily sliding within, feeling the tightness of her, but also the slickness that allowed me to effortlessly probe yet deeper.

Another inch or more of shaft remained, not yet in her, when she raised her head, and then her shoulders, using her elbows once again to take her torso's weight, her green eyes going to where shaft and cunt were one, wide with wonder.

"It's too..." she started, not knowing how to finish. "I can't... it's too... I... you..."

Not a single phrase had been finished words left unspoken, nothing actually said, but the message was conveyed. I understood. I also knew that she could take even more of me, that her concern came from knowing I was now deeper than she had known before. I know when I should go no further, and i had not reached that point.

I leaned forwards. One hand behind her shoulder blade, I eased her torso towards me, then used my other hand, reaching behind her to her spine, and drew her closer. Her elbows left the table top. Instinctively she reached to hold me by my neck. I squeezed the hand that had been behind her shoulder blade, beneath her butt, cupping the flesh, the back of my hand against the unforgiving glass of the table top, and then I lifted her. She clamped her legs around my waist. Her breasts pressed against my chest. Between her arms holding me by my neck, her legs around my waist, one of my hands beneath her butt, the other at her lower back, and my cock still lodged inside her, her weight was now entirely supported without the glass topped table in the frame. I stepped back, away from it. She gasped.

My left bicep was taut and hard as iron, taking most of her body weight because it was my left hand that was beneath her butt. My other hand provided stability, but not much more. Her legs and arms helped a little, but more cosmetic than real supportive strength. I took the decision, and relaxed that bicep just a slight fraction.

She whimpered.

Her head was turned sideways, hair and ear against my left shoulder. The whimper was because that relaxation of my bicep had let her body slip downwards by perhaps a half inch, which meant her cunt had just slid downwards by that half inch, or from my perspective, it meant my cock head had just claimed another half inch of her cunt, a deeper incursion than she was used to from her husband, and just possibly deeper than any other guy she had been with before.

That half inch mattered. Fucking another guy's wife is a pretty strong assault on his ego, his self respect, his honour, but going deeper inside her than he has ever done, or ever would is something else again. If revenge is sweet, then this was as sweet as it could get.

Not that my entire shaft was yet inside her. I relaxed my left bicep just a little more. She drew in breath as she slid lower, my cock penetrating even deeper. Then I did something I had never done before, not with any woman. I removed my hands, and let my arms hang naturally, as they would, on either side of the legs that were gripping tightly to my waist.

My right hand had been behind her back, more for stability than to hold her weight, so removing it made little difference to how she was supported. She had her arms around my neck, preventing her from falling backwards. Her legs were still wrapped around me, her ankles locked together. It was removing my left hand that made the difference.

Most of her body weight had been supported by that left hand, palm under her butt, her coccyx dead centre, remnant of prehistoric times, when humanoids had tails. Without that hand beneath her, her weight was distributed between her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, and my cock, now fully in her cunt, the head so deep it would be nudging at her womb.

Quite literally, the stockbroker's wife was being shafted, and in the process, so was he, and he deserved it.

I stepped further from the table just to make sure she did not try to lower herself back onto it. She clung on tightly, much as one chimpanzee will cling to another. So much for civilization. Essentially, we are all apes, and without her Indian cotton skirt, and yellow blouse, and flower embroidered light blue apron, no longer in her kitchen, the guy's wife was just a female ape, giving herself to the strongest, fittest male, impaled on his cock, all too ready to receive his sperm.

Push wheelbarrows of earth around, mix concrete, carry paving slabs, and your thighs get pretty strong. Mine were good for a short walk-about, so walk about is what we did. I carried her, still clinging on, around their garden. I wanted her to remember this each time she came outside. I wanted her to know that while she might be married to the rich guy, there was more to life than money, and anything that it could buy.

Human anatomy is fascinating, and so varied. The female sexual nervous system is centred on the clit, and if it is positioned so that a cock shaft grazes it, the sensations that are produced can bring her off. If the clit is just that bit too far away, the female will need more help to come, because the shaft will not generate that stimulation, however well you fuck her.

She was one of the lucky ladies. As I walked around their garden, across the lawn, between flower beds that I had yet to finish planting, her body shifted against mine, my cock moved inside her, the shaft pressed one way, then the other, and her clit felt each and every movement, or so it seemed, because she whimpered as I walked her around their outdoor Eden, shuddering a little, squirming, gasping. She would remember this all right.

Of course I kept both hands behind her, at her shoulder blades, more for reassurance, because her arms were holding tight. I was enjoying every minute, thinking of the day two years before when I had been invited to her husband's office and told by the smirking senior manager that he was going to have to let me go.