Ophelia & Tyrone 4ever: TyronebyGirlMidnite©
"Tyrone, get that for me will ya? Thank you honey." Ophelia grabbed the lavender chiffon scarf that Tyrone curve balled at her, and draped it round her shoulders, gazing at herself in the mirror, tugging it in various directions, each fussy pinch, pull and pluck to enhance a cleavage that already appeared to be buoying gratuitously out of her blouse like sepia mangoes.
"Got a special meeting?" Ophelia didn't detect the dry, bitter subtext stringing Tyrone's seemingly innocuous question together. He rubbed his shiny ebony temples as he watched her pick up her briefcase and rifle through it. His black brows knitted together.
"She's a bitch she's a bitch she's a bitch."
"Oh yeah, real special, uh- Mr Waterman and I are close to getting the Fisherhouse company to giving us the account for their new e-business ads. It's kind of exciting dontcha think? This could be the big one. I get a bonus if we nail it. Our shareholders will go berserk with joy. Probably not berserk, I guess it ain't all that exciting."
Ophelia turned and looked at him, her dusky face, sweet and heart shaped as a mouse gazing at him with wide exotic eyes broke into a devious smile.
"When I get my bonus, we'll cruise the Pacific, and you can paint something naked of me somewhere, maybe it'll even be your big break. Kissy kiss kiss." As quickly as she had adhered herself to his lips, she unglued herself, snipping over to the car with scissor-like precision. She got in, and drove off.
Ophelia was half-Korean, half-Jamaican, with soft-focused corkscrew curls, cock screwing puckered lips, and generous breasts. A petite curvaceous woman who had always had a surprisingly ruthless attitude for a dungaree-abusing, art school graduate, she had chosen to follow advertising whilst Tyrone, after art school where he had met Ophelia, had opted to 'suffer' for his art (whilst secretly dreaming of big bucks and eager naked models.) The results had been more dismal. Tyrone was Ophelia's big cocked parasite, attached to her only by his eight-inch appendage and calloused fleshy fingers. Seven years after graduation, and Ophelia was no longer starry eyed in love with Tyrone, the 'Black Byron', the 'Boy Medusa' (he'd had dreads, back in the day), the player with a paintbrush. When she looked at him, it was no longer with bedroom eyes, she simply looked tired, specifically, tired of him. He languished, he burned, he sculpted, he was as broke as fuck, and he had housekeeping skills of a Tyrannosaurus rex with extra tiny arms (he didn't do any.)
She did everything. Still, he had to keep himself useful.
Tyrone was no good, he was bad, and to prove this, he was also fucking the neighbour.
"Oh Tyrone! Oh Tyrone! Oh! Oh! Oh! Marry me!"
"You're already married slut." Tyrone smacked Rebecca's small pale bottom that reddened with the force of his slap. He then gruffly squeezed her ruby nipple between his forefinger and thumb, before stretching it out and letting it twang back onto her breast like a lovelorn cherry.
Rebecca's puffy white pussy mashed hard against Tyrone's swollen black cock, and Tyrone grabbed her hips and ground against her, like her pussy was a mortar and his cock was a fleshy hard pestle.
Rebecca was bouncing on top of him, strands of glistening long red hair stuck magnetically to the sheen of perspiration that had enveloped her small slender body.
Tyrone watched his cock slide into her body, he liked it a lot when she went on top because he could see everything, he liked watching his pink cock-head slide into her pale shaved pussy, until the pink had disappeared and you could only see the black gold of his shaft peeking out, and boy did she work him like a gym session.
"Do you think of burning calories when you fuck me?"
Gruffly, he moved her lithe hips and picking her up whilst she was still spiked on his large black cock,
He whispered 'wrap your legs around mine, you're in for a wild ride girl.' She wrapped her arms round his neck and wrapped her legs round his strong rippling spine; a cream bow wrapped around a rippling dark body.
Then with her back plastered to the door, he ploughed his cock into her, forcefully fucking her, gripping her hips so hard that it would leave light indigo bruises, and tenderly nibbling her jaw line as she whimpered his name. His pubes tickling her aching clit.
"Tyrone, please, Tyrone, please..."
With one last thrust as her heels dug into the small of his back, he gently bit her earlobe and spilt his seed into her squeezing pussy.
They gasped, and then slowly he slipped her off, and turned his back to her.
He got dressed with jerky discomfort as he could feel her eyes following him longingly. Expecting.
When he had fucked her, every time, he could only see someone who looked needy, pathetic. But it fed him; fed an appetite he didn't care to ponder. He smiled politely, avoiding her gaze with some embarrassment and left.
Suddenly the room felt cold, Rebecca, naked and with cum stuck to her thighs, closed the window overlooking the garden. And then just watched the garden, initially not thinking at all, but then the amorphous mass of thoughts began to gain clarity. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Tyrone only wanted sex from her and that was the turn on for Rebecca- she was waiting for the day when it would mean so much more, knowing that day wouldn't arrive gave her a reason to keep fucking him.
Their 'affair' had the cliché feel of a Porky style flick- she was married to a bore of a systems analyst, Rebecca was beautiful and twenty six, he (Norman) was okay looking and thirty five. Their sex lives had been adequate, but it hardly had the sailors singing at sea. Then Tyrone and Ophelia had moved in next door, and both Tyrone and Ophelia had gone round to see their new neighbours.
Rebecca had always been bisexual by imagination, though not by deed and had initially been attracted most to Ophelia. Ophelia was gorgeous, Rebecca wanted to run her slim fingers through Ophelia's curly hair, and her personality was aromatic and sparky; Ophelia was compelling company. Rebecca felt a bit shy around her, and was keen to impress with tall tales of the Muir's who lived across the road and who were amusingly anti-social neighbours.
But Tyrone had been the one to watch her, barely flickering predatory eyes, and a still smile that was a camouflage against a backdrop of friendliness. Rebecca had decided she would be careful with him. She was surprised Ophelia didn't seem to realise how creepy her partner was.
Even Norman had noticed.
"There's something not kinda right with that guy. He kept watching you."
"At least someone's looking."
Rebecca brushed the thought out of her head, and her red hair, slowly speaking to Norman through the reflection in the vanity mirror, "Don't be silly Norman. That's probably how he looks at people. Some people really need to focus in on something when they're, talking, listening."
Then, with Tyrone as a househusband, and Rebecca as a housewife, things began to develop along a predictable path of two individuals who had nothing better to do than dig their own graves.
It had started as a bit of fun.
"Ophelia, you are a legend woman!" Mr Waterman, sixty years of age and counting, watched in building anticipation as they saw the cork nudge, kinetic breath by kinetic breath out of the glossy bottle. The cork popped, Mr Waterman looked excited like he'd seen New Years at Times square all over again. He then carefully poured himself a glass, and clumsily poured a glass for Ophelia, splashing it on her shoes. The rest of the team cheered heartily and gathered for their glass.
"You chose the Salon Blanc sir? I thought you were going to give it ten years?" Mr Waterman, his nose burst of blood vessel and chronically flustered with Dionysian indulgence patted Ophelia's bottom in a reassuringly intoxicated way. No one blinked, Mr Waterman did this to everyone, it was more unfortunate when he got the wrong end of his male staff.
"Ophelia, this occasion is worthy of this bottle." He said loudly and then heroically rose his glass to the tungsten lighting- some people half cheered; others made their way for the crackers and salmon 'thingies.'
Ophelia leant in and whispered in Mr Waterman's leathery hairy ear, "Daniel, I know that you brought out this bottle because you drunk everything else in the cellar."
Mr Waterman giggled and whispered back, "Ophelia, you're more than the best director, you are, well the best. You coming out to the function?"
Mrs Waterman liked to host charity events, it was a hobby that she and her Manhattan Matrons liked to do on a quarterly basis. The tickets cost $150 for this particular event; Ophelia had never attended and bought two tickets, one for herself, one for Tyrone.
"I can't go Daniel, Tyrone ain't coming." she lowered her eyelids. Tyrone was a corporate embarrassment. Actually, he wasn't that bad, but he had humiliated himself, and Ophelia badly at the last party when he was caught trying to force himself on the mailroom girl.
Ophelia had walked in on him when she went to her office to touch up her make up. He had taken the spare keys and had used the discrete space of her office to try and convince the petrified mailroom girl that she was the new love of his life as he squeezed her breast and stuffed his hands down her panties. Ophelia hadn't known what to think, the mailroom girl had burst into tears, fled the room, then fled the corporation. After the weekend, news of Tyrone spread like a hot potato.
Tyrone didn't want to come to the charity event because she had bought the tickets without asking him.
Mr Waterman rolled his eyes, and appeared to mutter something to himself before grabbing Ophelia's arm, "Tyrone is a bum. You don't need to be married to him. Mm, I tell you what, you know. There is this guy. He's a writer. He writes horror. You would like him."
Ophelia cynically cocked an eyebrow and a smile, "Why would I like him? I'm not running off with some guy with the grizzlies all over his imagination. I'm married to Tyrone, he's my life partner and my life for better or worse."
Mr Waterman shook his head sympathetically and patted her bottom some more, "Darlin', you sound Catholic. This guy, he's nice, my wife thinks he's a catch, and hey, she caught me. He's half Korean..."
Ophelia looked interested, "Half Korean? Half what else?"
"Half Californian. White."
Ophelia looked less enthusiastic.
Mr Waterman piqued, "What? Don't you like us vanilla brothers?"
Ophelia pulled her guilty face, "I prefer 'em black. Just one of those things."
Mr Waterman looked at her, "Ophelia. If you come, you will get along with him. He'd probably only want to be friends though. I don't think he's attracted to black women..."
Ophelia caught the bait. Her competitive heart pulsated with maddening speed. How she hated racism: or more specifically, how she hated men who were not attracted to black women. He would suffer fools.
Tyrone sat on the edge of the bed and watched as his wife tried to shimmy into her corset top, she looked beautiful, golden brown and beautiful. But her tits were too big for the corset.
Ophelia breathlessly gave in, "Help me get in Tyrone! This thing, it's too small!"
Tyrone lay even closer to the bed, and lazily scratched his stomach as he watched his wife's breasts jiggle all over the place.
"Ophelia. It's much more fun to watch. 'Sides, why should I reward you for what you're doing?"
Ophelia turned to look at him quizzically before quickly turning to sort herself out in the closet mirror.
"Tyrone, what have I done?"
"Well, I know what you're doing. You're waiting to displace me."
"Displace you? You're paranoid."
Tyrone got up, and slouched towards her, through his blue cotton boxer shorts she watched his thick arousal grow.
He grabbed the unlatched section of the corset and tugged it together tightly, roughly, so that her generous cleavage popped out and over spilled, her nipples poked out like surprised mocha expressions.
"Ow! Tyrone, I'm not made of marble."
She looked at him seriously through the mirror image. He sneered at her, but then his face softened, she felt his hands, let go of the corsetry and slowly work their way up her back, across her smooth soft shoulder blades, and then dramatically and deftly grab her breasts, twisting her thick nipples. Ophelia's smooth golden cleavage squeezed through his coaly fingers. His cold hand roughly massaged her sherry warm breasts and watched as her face seemed to work through a list of lists, her eyes closing as each problem fell and was washed away by his descending kisses.
He kissed her neck, his white teeth gently pressing against her coffee-tinted flesh.
Ophelia snaked her hand across to his jaw. Softly scraping it with her nails. He lightly bit her shoulder. She flinched and tried to move away, but he squeezed her breasts against him and began to rub his hardness against her back. Feeling his hard curve pressed tight against her soft round warmth. His biting kisses moved to her neck, and he bit with enough hardness to cause her skin to tingle in alarm, redden with excitement, but not break flesh. He stilled himself, waiting for her reaction.
"What are you Tyrone? A vampire?" Ophelia felt a little nervous. She was also due to meet Mr Waterman and her 'date' in less than an hour. They were coming to pick her up.
"Ophelia, you are not going anywhere. You got me hard, are you going to be a tease and leave? I don't think you are."
Ophelia looked at his blank expression through the mirror, a handsome remorseless carbon slate.
The brunt of his nails dug into her flesh, her heart raced.
He leant in and nipping her earlobe he whispered, "You're hearts racing, you want it."
He lifted the taffeta of her dress; dark fingers working through the light azure material, plucking it apart like a harpist, watching her shapely brown legs come into view. She was frozen in curiosity and fear, but she had safe words to make him stop, when she really wanted to. They would turn him to ice.
He lifted her up like a true prince and carried her with some ceremony to the bed.
"Only fifteen minutes Tyrone. Only fifteen minutes. Be careful of my hair"
He laid her against the bed, watching with pleasure as her delicately worked hair was turned into a mess of tendrils by the bed sheets that worked her follicles like furious satin-handed hairdressers.
He looked her, brushing the hair out of her face, she looked at him trustingly, no fear, no vulnerability. He was no longer her man.
"I don't scare you do I? Is it because I'm your gigolo now?" He looked at her and grabbed her face, roughly kissing her, and tugged her voluptuous rose-red lower lip with his teeth, scraping her lipstick onto his white enamel.
He then effortlessly flipped her and pulled her hips into a doggie position. Why was she wearing such pretty lilac panties, what was she hoping for? No girl ever went to a party alone. He violently smacked her ass, she squealed and clamoured to escape. He grabbed her hips. She tried to kick out, so he kneeled on her calves.
"Tyrone, it hurts."
He laughed bitterly, "Oh it hurts baby, but it ain't pain." He then pulled her panties down so forcefully that they ripped slightly, and watched her muscles tense on her thighs, her pussy hanging between her butt cheeks. He stuck his finger in her pussy hole without warning, she tightened like a vice not wanting to let go, she clenched around him, slightly moist. She tried to turn her head and look.
He smacked her ass with a sharp 'whap!'
"Don't you turn and look. Look straight ahead. You're my wife; I can do whatever I need to do to you. I ain't no stranger."
Slowly, he sucked her juices from his finger, relishing the tangy taste, before rubbing his large finger across her slippery slit. She pushed her hips against him.
Ophelia stared ahead, at the eggshell coloured wallpaper; her breath was partly constricted by the corset, making her feel more lightheaded. Her calves were dead.
She felt his fingertip; cold with feathery strokes tickling her clit as another spread her pussy lips wide open.
Tyrone's disembodied voice stated, "You're a horny little bitch Ophelia, you should see your little cunt drip. You know I own you. You own the house, but I own you. Look at you, pushing your ass all onto me, what you want?" He squeezed her red nubby clitoris then spanked her thigh so she flinched.
"Ty, my leg's dead. Can you remove your knees? It really hurts."
Tyrone ignored her, sliding his hand from her clit and pussy lips and then slid two fingers into her pussy, watching as his blackness began to pump her red little hole. She pumped back, gasping as he crooked his fingers and curved them round, gently rubbing the sensitive smooth G-spot in her wet pussy. When she did this, she rotated his ass for him, feeling the tingling shots from her dead calves shooting crazily, he peeked her little rosebud.
He kissed the exposed top of her back as he did this then curved round, spooning her, and gently kissed her neck.
"Ophelia. I love you." He began to kiss her more urgently as if she would turn to stone then dust, kissing her with increasing force. Eventually when he envied his own hot pumping fingers he slipped them out, wet and sopping, her cunt winking at him, he delighted in her whimpers.
"I'm going to fuck you now." He removed the knees from her calves but she was still, breathing raggedly. He spread her thighs more, so he could appreciate the view of his wife's golden round ass. He smacked her, alternative cheeks and listened to her high-pitched grunts.
Finally he pulled out his cock, stroking and squeezing it, he was so hard and ready to screw her. God, he wanted to fuck her ass, so appetizing and peachy did it look, but that was for another day.
Ophelia still stared ahead at the neutral wallpaper patterns, as she felt these sensations felt Tyrone's cock head rub her slit, her wetness making slippery noises, he was still, then she felt him kiss her neck again, this gave her immense pleasure, before he drove his cock into her to the hilt. His cock head hitting her cervix making her squeal and try to scamper. He grabbed her hips, squeezed them reassuringly, and began to slowly slide his large meaty cock into her tight neat pussy, she tried to push against him with a whimper, he slapped her ass again so hard that it left a rouge imprint of his hand.
"You move when I tell you to move. This fuck is for me."
He rotated his hips a little and watched her shoulders slump as he corkscrewed his way into her pussy. Then he rammed into her again and began to piston fast, cocking his strained abdomen forward but trying not to hit her cervix so much. As he did this he spanked her, make a volley of noises; the moist sounds of her cunt dripped off the sounds of his balls bounced against her bottom.
Her head was buried in the pillow, so he pulled her hair, riding her like she was his animal.
Her neck strained and bowed, she emitted guttural sounds as he pounded her in delicious rough cascades, the spanking making her flinch and clench her pussy round him. Occasionally she would feel a finger brutally rub her sore clit.
She felt her perspiration and sweat mingle with air, and sponge into the textile of her dress.
Suddenly his pumps became jagged, his fingers curled into the skin of her soft rounded hips as the taffeta material rustled and moved. He spurted, coming hard. The thought of his desire peaking and unleashing itself made her tighten, cumming with him, milking him. Until all pulsating sensations resonated in the temporal distance.