When Taken at the Flood Pt. 02A

I could not tear my eyes away from Sheila; but when he responded, quietly, hoarsely, I heard raw pain and deep unwillingness in his voice. "God, Grace, haven't you done enough already?"

"Mark," she responded steadily, "your wife is the one who has John all the way inside her body right now. She's the one feeling him as he thrusts inside her, and she can't do a thing about it. In a minute she's going to feel his sperm shooting up into her. You are as much at fault for all of that as she is. I know you are weak, but the least you can do is share some of that burden with her."

The man was sobbing, now. "W-What do you want from me?"

"I want you to look at her crotch, Mark. Look at that spot where John's dick is entering her, do you see it? Look at how her body is shaking each time he pushes into her. Think of what it will be like, inside her, when sperm is shooting out of his penis and into her body. You need to remember these images, Mark, so you don't make the same mistakes again."

I suppose he did, because Grace seemed satisfied. At any rate, I was beyond caring. My thrusts had lost all inhibition now, pulling way back and slamming home, eagerly, urgently, greedily, over and over. My face was flushed, my breathing ragged, my balls throbbed, and my cock seemed to begin acting of its own volition, plunging its way into Sheila's cunt with desperate, ravenous, insatiable desire. I felt the fluid rising in my shaft, as if a dam had broken, and knew this was it.

Sensing I was about to come, Sheila's eyes opened wide, pupils dilated, and the expression in them changed one last time. Silently, she begged me to pull out. If only she might not have to suffer the indignity of this sticky-white badge of possession. If only she might not have to face her husband, knowing that another man's seed was still inside her. If only she could be spared the indelible memory of having her womb bathed in my sperm. Through the haze of my lust, I did register these unspoken pleas, and in another mood I might even have sympathized with them, but now they were inconsequential to me. My whole being was bent on securing final proof of ownership of this woman, through the act of ejaculating inside her.

I grunted, involuntarily. My toes pressed against the slick hardcourt surface, my calves, thighs, and glutes flexed hard, as my every part of my body worked together, striving automatically to jam me as far into her cunt as possible. Spurt after spurt of semen began washing into her canal, seeking its mindless way toward her uterus. Sheila's body lurched upward with the force of my final thrust, and at last she did close her eyes, her senses and composure overwhelmed by the pressure of my body and the hot gush of my fluid filling her. She let out a low. guttural moan through her half-open mouth.

Off to my side, I heard a hollow exhalation from Mark, a catch audible in his throat. Obviously the sight of my body grinding and spasming into his wife, the knowledge that with each thrust I was pouring more of my essence into her, was almost too much for him. My dick continued to pulse hard, propelling each jet of sperm far up inside. Her cunt was slipperier now, as my semen oozed up and in and around, mingling with the other juices there. I pumped and pumped and pumped, with gradually decreasing speed and vigor, knowing that with each thrust, I stamped my mark on her a little more deeply. A warm glow of victory rose within me—for what greater conquest could a man have over a woman, than to claim her body in this way?

At last I was spent. I pulled out and stood between her legs. My cock gleamed with our mingled fluids, and a few lingering drops plopped on her lower abdomen. She remained sprawled open, eyes still closed, gasping with breaths that were heavy but remained high in her chest. The opening to her cunt gaped wide, and traces of my semen oozed among the folds of her pussy. I looked at Mark, taking in the dejected, forlorn look on his face, and watched as his eyes shifted between his wife's gaping, fluid-filled cunt, my bright-red, still engorged dick, and my face—the face of the man who had possessed his wife. I couldn't help thinking that this man had bested me at everything, big and small, a thousand times over, and yet I'd won the one competition between us that really mattered. Grace snapped one last picture, capturing both Mark and his wife in the frame.

I began to turn away, and then stopped. "Thank you, Sheila" I said quietly. It was a strange thing to say, and I'm not quite sure why I did. I think it was merely an automatic response of my human-self, beginning to reassert control, or perhaps it was my subconscious trying to offer the woman an apology of sorts. At any rate, Sheila cringed as I said it. Though I had not intended it, I believe she took it as derision—as if to imply that she had given herself to me gladly, or to emphasize how much I had enjoyed using her body.

"No need, babe," Grace said coolly, "they were just paying us our winnings."

With her eyes still closed, Sheila slowly shut up her legs and then turned onto her side, body curling up. Mark stood over her, head downcast, shoulders slumped. Grace started to turn away, and then stopped to address them both: "Look, we never wanted any of this. If you're honest with yourselves, you'll admit that. But you took things too far—you disrespected, and abused, and tried to intimidate us once too often, and this is what you got. You got fucked. And now that we've fucked and inseminated you Sheila, and now that you let us do that to your wife Mark, you really don't have much claim to say you're better than us anymore, now do you?"

Looking around, I saw that the people pressed against the windows were still watching, engrossed, silent, motionless, eyes and mouths wide. Turning, I walked to the other side of the net. I put on my underwear (stuffing my still engorged cock inside with some difficulty), then my shorts, and finally stooped to pull on my shoes. Grace was still standing near Mark in her underwear. "OK Mark, let's finish settling up. I think five thousand should cover the car."

Mark started and looked at her with blank eyes for a second. Then he stumbled over to the chairs and his duffel bag, pulled out his checkbook, scribbled for a moment, and ripped off the check. Shuffling back to Grace, who stood watching him, arms crossed over chest, he handed her the check. "It's for ten thousand," he croaked. Grace looked it over, folded it, and tucked it in her bra. Wheeling, she walked over to join me, picking up her tennis dress and slipping it over her head. Then she sat on one of the chairs to put on her shoes. I saw that Prakesh and Mark had helped Sheila to her feet, and she was walking gingerly, slightly bow-legged, naked, over toward the chairs on the other side. My cum slid down her inner thighs in greasy lines, and dripped onto the court.

"OK, hon," Grace said, gathering our stuff, "let's go." As we approached the glass doors, the mass of people beyond parted silently, opening a wide path for us. We made it to Grace's car, and each of us called in sick. Then she drove us home.

* * * * *

It wasn't long after that that Mark left PhytoCorp. There were various rumors: that he'd been fired after some indiscretion or misdeed had been discovered; that he had had a mental breakdown; that he had left to take a position with Sheila's father's company, on the other side of the country. At any rate, we never saw Mark or Sheila again. His departure allowed my boss to move up to become divisional director, and I got promoted into her old position.

Surprisingly, as far as we could tell, none of the pictures or footage of our tennis match was ever uploaded to the web. Maybe the whole thing was just too raw for anyone to dare publish. After some debate, Grace and I both agreed that we shouldn't post the images she'd captured, either. We figured we'd taken enough from the Schwetzers already.

Grace kept on teaching. Pra had offered her a job at MidlandsBank, but she decided she preferred working with kids. In fact, we've even started batting around the idea of making some babies of our own. She'll be one hell of a mom.

There was one time when I thought the whole imbroglio had caught up with us. It was a couple of months after that fateful bet with the Schwetzers, when I got a call from Mrs. Simmons, Grace's principal. Here it is, I thought, the shoe has finally dropped.

"Is Grace around?," Mrs. Simmons asked. I told her that my wife had gone shopping. "Well, dear, I'm calling to say that a few days ago, the school board received an anonymous accusation against Grace—a personal decency complaint. Specifically, involving some pictures of her playing tennis without her underwear. But, I just wanted to let you and Grace know that she doesn't have a thing to worry about. We've heard a few rumors about that incident at the club. In fact, two or three of the board members have had run-ins with that other couple that was involved. We talked it over, and I reminded them of how excellent Grace's performance has been in the classroom, and we all decided that this doesn't merit anything more than a caution letter in her file. Between you and me, if half of what I heard about that tennis match is true, then those two got what was coming!"

You might think that, when I'm beating off, I fantasize a lot about the time I fucked Sheila. I suppose I do occasionally, but not often. Mostly, the whole episode just made me that much more attracted to Grace. It gave me a new appreciation of her self-confidence, assertiveness, composure and, yes, even a ruthless streak that I never knew existed. That strength is a definite turn-on. In fact, I think Grace thinks back to our fateful tennis game more than I do. Not in a sexual way, but as a means of recalling the power and dominance she that exercised that day. She has a photo of Sheila, naked, spread-eagled, posted beside her home-office computer, and once or twice, when she's having a hard day or dealing with some bastard on the phone, I've seen her reach up and touch it, like it's a talisman.

My own feelings about our tennis game remain conflicted. I can't say I'm comfortable with what we did. And yet, on the whole, I find myself agreeing with Mrs. Simmons—the Schwetzers simply did get what was coming to them. Karma really is a bitch.

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END

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