The Glutton and the Gourmet

Most likely she told me she fondled him because it would have been normal for a wife with her husband, and she wanted to appear and to present herself - to me, at any rate - as "normal."

However, she must have done something to arouse him.

What seems much more likely is that she rubbed the thick, rather rough material of his pyjama trousers against his inert penis. That could have been enough to rouse him, especially if he were uncircumcised.

We do not know whether he was and it may be that she did not know, unless she had quite undeliberately taken note at some unguarded moment - of hers rather than his. Even if she had observed his condition, it may be doubted whether she knew how to distinguish an uncircumcised man from his surgically "improved" brethren.

However, the rest of her story is no doubt accurate.

She said he became restless as soon as she began to untie the bow.

When she fondled him or rubbed his pyjamas against his penis, he quickly responded.

She said it rose up - she giggled - "like a charmer's snake...and looked at me - wobbling about menacingly - even before he was properly awake."

By the time he was fully awake, he had a huge erection - "Throbbing," she said, "and urgent."

He had too a raging desire and, since he was never a man to "fool around" in preliminaries, he pushed his already loose pyjama trousers down urgently and, without a word, rolled on top of her.

"Was he asserting himself?" I asked her.

"I think all he wanted was to fuck me.... to get it in as fast as he could - whether it was an act of assertion or not."

As always, he made no attempt to take her nightdress off. It would take too much time and not be worth the trouble. All he wanted was to demolish his erection by getting inside her – quick and lively.

So, with his right hand, he swept the nightdress up high on her body, to clear the path for his penis to dive into her tunnel of joy. With the fingers of his left hand, he opened her vaginal lips with a quick swipe, and then he was going strong...stabbng with his enormous rod into her really quite tiny body.

"Didn't he notice anything?" I asked. "You must have been already 'open' from our earlier loving."

"He gave no sign. He's not very sensitive to these things. If he noticed anything, he probably put it down to my wanting to make love to him as urgently as he wanted just simply to fuck me."

She smiled. "In a way," she added, "he would have been right!"

"He's a big man - heavy. You're quite tiny. Don't you feel overwhelmed, smothered by him when he's on top of you, intimidated by his aggression?"

"Never. He's always curiously gentle. He's overcome by how much - how urgently - he wants me - and I love that; but he never forgets not to hurt me. You know, he really does love me."

She hesitated for a moment, then she went on.

"You mustn't imagine that he doesn't value what I give him - or that he doesn't love me for it. A glutton loves his food - adores it, lives for it, would want to die - and probably would - if he didn't get it. In the same way, my glutton loves the little dooverlackie I keep for him between my legs. He wants it, needs it, adores it. He'd die if he ever lost it."

Once inside, he moved powerfully in and out, his heavy buttocks heaving up and down, saying nothing but grunting loudly.

"Urrh...urrh...urrh..."

His mouth was open, his eyes open too but far away, absorbed by the mounting pleasure in his loins.

"Grunting?" I queried.

She smiled. "He grunts, yes, always. As soon as he woke, he started. When he pushed down his pyjama pants and took his prick in hand to guide it into my honeypot, he grunted more. It's a grunt of arousal, of desire. A grunt of eager anticipation. 'Oh boy, here we go. I'm going to fuck her and I'm going to love it.' Grunt. Grunt. Grunt."

"Like a pig?"

"I suppose so. He's a grunter - a confirmed grunter," she told me smilingly. "He's like a man who belches when he eats. He's right into doing what he's doing - energetically indulging himself - thoroughly loving it. He has two main appetites to be satisfied every twenty-four hours: one is to gorge himself with food and drink and the other is to 'get his end in', as he puts it. To do that - to get a good fuck - he relies on me. He needs me - and I satisfy him. I'm his reliable, every day, good-fuck facility. His grunts get louder, the closer he gets to ejaculation - and to his Paradise..."

She reflected. "Then his grunts coalesce into a great explosion of release that goes on and on, while he keeps thrusting into me. I'd miss it if he didn't do it: he's assuring me I'm still giving him the essential service he wants me always to provide."

She looked at me shyly. "He doesn't do much touching or kissing - on the mouth or anywhere else; but I always like his rough way of making love - his energy and power; and his grunting goes with that. He doesn't ask; he just takes. Somehow, I like that too. He's the primitive male. It arouses me - turns me on. I know he's getting pleasure from my body; and I feel pleased - proud - that he does - that I can give that pleasure to him. He's paying me a compliment - in his own way - and I appreciate that. I want him to have his pleasure - as much as he can take....as much as I can give. He's not a gourmet; he's a glutton - a real glutton and he's always ready for another helping – drooling with the sweet taste of it as he says, 'I want some more.' I love that."

She smiled and spoke even more softly. "It gives me power too. He needs me - he can't do without me. That's comforting - and also empowering."

That told me more about her than it did about him. What she wanted from loving was simply to be taken and enjoyed. Despite her demureness, it told me a lot about her penchant for physical lust.

Despite what she said, he must have been surprised how accommodating she was when he took her, how easily he slipped into her, surprised at her delicious softness and moistness, since it was only a matter of minutes since I had been with her.

The outer lips and the vagina have a peculiar and exciting feel when another has been there just a short time before. The tunnel of the vagina too seems more "furrowed" - it tickles and teases the new visitor more - and more sensitively - after a prior session of lovemaking. At least, it has always seemed so to me and I assume that other men are no less sensitive to the fascinating peculiarities of the vaginal wonderland.

She said she was so excited - from being with me, as she put it - that she went off again as soon as he thrust into her.

"He was hardly into his third grunt," she said, "and I was already moaning with pleasure. I couldn't help it."

She began as quickly a new climb to a new peak which she reached just before he achieved his climax, with an enormous, sustained final grunt - "Urrrrrrrhhhhhh...." - pulled his prick out without a word, rolled off her and promptly went to sleep again.

She laughed when she told me about it. "He didn't even say 'Goodnight'," she told me.

"Or wipe his prick?"

"Or me. He never does."

"Did you mind?"

"Not a bit. He'd got what he wanted." The spur of memory stirred her lust. She kissed me lovingly. "And so had I."

She was a most unusual woman, I thought, in being so shy and at the same time so frank; and yet, in her lovemaking with me, she was so sensitive in so many ways.

She just wants a change, I speculated. A variation on a theme. He gives her the big, barbecue steak - which she loves; I offer her the angels on horseback - which she adores; but she's not satisfied with only one or only the other. If she had to choose though, I bet she'd go for the no-nonsense grunter with his big, clumsy, satisfying cock.

Despite all that, she said she spent a restless night and longed for an opportunity to be with me again. For the first time in her life, she said, she felt "used" as she'd always wanted to be and as the circumstances of her upbringing had denied her.

"I think I'm a bit like him - more a glutton than a gourmet; certainly I was that night, after I left you," she told me.

What is of special interest is what her husband thought of the night's events. He was not unaware of the way his wife and I had danced together. By leaving early, he knew he'd presented us with opportunity but he'd made no attempt to frustrate or investigate what use we made of it.

That she aroused him sexually and awakened him, when she came back to their bed, would have comforted and reassured him. Her eager enjoyment of his lovemaking too would have helped convince him that she had not strayed. If she had strayed, she would already have been satisfied, wouldn't she, and not have wanted him? She would have simply gone to sleep beside him.

He was probably one of those men who underestimate a woman's lusts and how, to satisfy them, she will sometimes take any risks and any man - or men - to complete her evening's entertainment.

Those are matters, probably, that he didn't even bother thinking about.

But might he not have had some suspicion?

"Just in case," she told me, "Before he woke in the morning, I tickled him again. I'd been awake wanting you most of the night anyway. I thought I could ease my longing and reassure him at the same time."

"You imagined, then, that it was me, when he was fucking you?"

She looked into my eyes carefully before she answered. It might be risky, she was probably thinking, but she was going to tell the truth.

"No," she said finally. "You're too different - you're a fine wine; he's a bootleg rum, with no coca-cola. I wanted to enjoy the bootleg rum, not imagine it was something else - something it could never be."

She said that, when she tickled him, he was awake, his erection again enormous, in an instant. Before his eyes were properly open, he was in and going strong - grunting as usual - "Urrh...urrh...urhh..." - when suddenly he muttered.

"What?" I asked.

"Hard to say. It was probably just a half-articulated grunt, I think. He was probably saying to himself, 'Oh, my God, that's good... that's bloody good' as his prick went in and out, the ecstasy building, the crisis coming...."

"Whatever it was, I'd never heard him say anything like it before," she told me. "Made me more eager than ever to join in the fun. I held on to his great big backside and pulled him into me as hard as I could. In the end, I went off with a long, lovely cry that must have helped finish him off too - not that he really needed it. His final grunt - Urrrrrrrhhhhhhhh - was the loudest and longest I've ever heard him utter. He really enjoyed himself that time."

"In that facility - that luscious little dooverlackie between your lovely legs?"

When I said it, I realised there was more than a hint of jealousy in my tone. And wasn't there hypocrisy too? Hadn't I, when I first saw her, wanted to use her facilities, get my heartbreaker deep into the luscious little dooverlackie between her lovely legs?

Of course I had. Did I love her more - or better - than her clumsy husband? Did I want her more than he did? I'd have to think about that. Meantime, in talking to her, I kept quiet about those issues: I didn't want to risk losing the delicious moments that her delightful little dooverlackie could provide – to me.

For her part, she was wise to play a straight bat to the googly I had bowled her. When she did reply to my question whether he really enjoyed himself in the little dooverlackie she kept between her lovely legs, she said simply -

"Yes; and he really does cherish my little dooverlackie – cherish it, I mean CHERISH it - quite a lot."

Then she added, smiling shyly, "As my luscious little dooverlackie cherishes you."

"And him? Your grateful visitor? Do you cherish him?"

She giggled. "You mean your not-so-little dooverlackie? Oh, yes, I love and cherish him even more than I love and cherish you. Of course!"

Her husband left a lot behind when, after his long, pulsating climax and his parting grunt, he pulled his subsiding member out; but he still didn't wipe his prick.

He just gave a final grunt as he pulled his pyjama trousers up. In two minutes, he was snoring again.

"He said nothing else - not how nice it had felt or why?"

"Actually he did, in a way. He pursed his lips - sort of blew me a kiss..."

"That was nice."

"Wasn't it? Unusual too. I guessed he was saying - in his own rough language 'You're a bloody nice bit of snatch - your little bittie down there fits me like a fuckin' glove'. That's what I like to think, anyway. Then he turned his back, went off to sleep again and snored."

"You're like the Miller's wife," I said, "You give him everything he could ever want and you still have something left for me."

She laughed. "I like that."

She moved closer and kissed me - lingeringly, on the lips.

"I've got a little bit left over right now. Like to fuck me? It would be a pity to let it go to waste..."

"Have you got your pants on?"

"Mnnnn..."

"You have?"

She gave me a wicked look.

"I can easily take them off..."

She lifted her skirt, put her thumbs under the waistband of her pants on either side, and eyed me with a naughty, little-girl smile.

Slowly, seductively, she drew her pants down. The small patch of downy blonde hair appeared, the already pouting lips - impatiently waiting for me - the lovely thighs, smooth and sweetly plump where they joined...

Smiling, she watched the gathering lust in my eyes.

All I wanted was to be down there - in headquarters country, never mind her beautiful face and her neat little tits. I wanted to be between her lovely thighs - to stick my prick into her so exquisitely accommodating passageway - her soft, warm corridor of love - and stuff her lovely crevice so full that the heavens would open in ecstasy for us both.

My prick, I flattered myself, must now be at least as big as her husband's ever was.

It wasn't - never could be - but, at that glorious, euphoric moment, it felt like it.

I couldn't wait.

I had to make love to her, or was my mood now rather, "I have to root her, fuck her, frig her.....and I want to do it - get into her, get up her – instantly - right now...."

I wanted to tear her pants off her; but I constrained myself. Instead, I helped her take her pants down the rest of the way and lay her back on the bed.

Again, she signed the consent form unconditionally: she smiled a welcome as, invitingly, she spread her legs ...

Then, as always, she closed her eyes - in anticipation of the good, the bad and the ugly. She would see nothing of the last two. She would bask only in the warm glow of the pleasure she was about to enjoy - and bestow.

It was her ultimate invitation...

Her ultimate female gift.....

I was no longer the gourmet. I was the glutton.

I was the big, heavy, clumsy husband, not asking, but taking what he was offered - and what he was entitled to.

As I thrust my organ of delight into her welcoming portal, I couldn't help myself.

I began to grunt - "Urrh...Urrh...Urrh..."

My hot, swollen cock now deep in her tunnel of love, she was making her little whispering noises as she hugged, embraced and lovingly fondled him. Soon she would give her lovely cry as she reached her starlit pleasure-dome high up in the sky; and I would pour my love into her, grunting as I did with pure, unconcealed, animal satisfaction.

Then I'd pull him out. I wouldn't wipe my prick. I wouldn't wipe her. I'd had my fuck. I'd golloped up my pleasures like a true glutton and I'd delighted in it. What else was there to do but just roll off her, turn my back, go to sleep - and snore....

I'd leave her to put her pants back on her delightful little dooverlackie. That was her worry, not mine.

I wouldn't even say "Goodnight"...

From that moment on, we acted as though we had a green light to enjoy ourselves for the rest of the holiday. Sometimes I was the gourmet; sometimes she tempted me to play the glutton. I loved both.

"You're getting better at taking me without saying 'Thank you'," she told me. "Please - you can grunt all you like - but sometimes, just sometimes, when you take him out and before you go to sleep, please kiss me a loving goodnight!"

I promised her I would - and I did.

"In a way," she said to me, very privately, when we were all about to go home, "it's been a threesome hasn't it?"

She giggled. "And I got twice as much fun out of it as either of you ... Most women are never lucky enough to have either a genuine glutton or a genuine gourmet. I've had them both."

"Which do you like best?"

"I love the glutton - his hunger and his loutish way of satisfying it. I even love the way he never wipes his prick. But I adore the gourmet, the way he savours - values - every last little titbit I have to offer..."