“Whose pussy is this?”
Hannah looks over at me. Her eyes are so sad.
Sitting on the bedroom chair, I remain stoic.
The man lying naked atop my naked wife’s back repeats his question.
“Whose pussy is this?”
Hannah turns her head away from me. I can barely hear her.
“That’s your pussy, sir.”
He raises his hips. I can see the midsection of his long cock.
He trusts down. Quick. Hard.
Hannah gasps.
But to her credit, she doesn’t sob.
It all began five days earlier.
That night, I had scooched over on the sofa and started kissing Bunbun.
Tongues first, then I worked my way down to her neck.
I took off her blouse and bra. Licked her nipples.
I really love nipple play.
Love to bite them.
Twist them.
Pinch.
Maybe I overdid it. But I was enjoying myself.
So much so that I suggested she go to the bedroom and get sexy for me.
(Ha! As if anything I tell her to do is a “suggestion” only.)
Usually it’s up to her to pick the proper lingerie to fit my mood, but this time I knew exactly what my horny self wanted.
“Put on the skimpiest sheer black panties you have,” I said.
Adding …
“And that bra I like. The cupless lacy black one.”
Here is where we reach the critical phase of every well-structured Story Arch.
It’s when Rising Action becomes Confrontation as the tale’s Hero (me) goes jackhammer-down on the villain (Hannah, aka Cunt).
But first, an intermission (as if this were a movie rather than a piece of narrative scribbling, but whatever who gives a rat’s fuck)
Anyhoo …
HOW WE SERVE MASTER 
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