A Woman Scorned

By Succubus

She wanted him the moment she met him.  It happens that way sometimes—that first eye contact, the chemicals flying about the body, the initial intense and sudden reaction.  Instantly she felt it, the butterflies in the stomach, the tingling sensation between her thighs, almost as though her pussy were swelling in reaction. 

He looked her slowly up and down that day, even though her husband stood not two feet away.  His lingering eyes were felt, a small caress against her skin like electricity.  Deep in his eyes was a smile and the recognition of the attraction.  She knew when he looked into her eyes for a second longer than was comfortable, that he was aware of her reactions, of her desire.

Sitting there across from him that first day, she’d studied him, wondering once more at her body and it’s responses, it’s desires.  His hair, once pulled back tight, had slipped half free of it’s tie, leaving black wisps of hair sticking out about his face, dangling into his vision.  She could smell the man from where she sat.  The odor of hard work, of sweat, even a touch of a scent that told her he didn’t wash his laundry nearly enough.  None of it mattered to her, if anything, having the smell of him in her nose only made things worse.

She studied his hands, wondering if he was watching her as intently as she watched him.  Hard, strong hands, rough hands, calloused and scarred.  They were dirty, and she couldn’t stop thinking about those dirty hands roving across her body. 

Her eyes looked up into his face once more, seeking there the answer to her question:  why?  Why on earth should this man’s eyes shoot straight into her gut?  What was there so special about him?  He looked a little like a boyfriend she had when she was a teen, but even that resemblance didn’t explain the mystery—she had never wanted her old boyfriend the way she wanted this man.

Sometimes, it seemed to her, there was no explanation.  It was like two people recognizing each other for the animals they truly were.  The contact, the spark, was beyond definition, beyond understanding or quantifying.  It simply was, and no explanation would erase the wetness in her panties.  She knew, when their eyes met, that he was like her, and that he could see in her the slut she was.

She saw him often after that day.  He’d stop in to visit, sitting on the porch, talking with her husband, like everything was normal as could be.  Perhaps it all was normal, and innocent, she would think—perhaps it was all just her overactive imagination. 

She always took care with how she looked when she knew he would be coming over.  Then there would be that moment, when their eyes would meet, and she would feel her confusion slipping away.  Inside his eyes there was always that look, that let her know quite simply that he knew.

She was careful.  She loved her husband; she didn’t want to hurt him, to lose him, to do anything that would cause him pain.  But she couldn’t help the way she felt.  She worried; she was scared for herself.  She knew all too well the way she worked.  Given half a chance, she’d throw her life away for a taste of heaven with this man, knowing that after a few hours, her life would be destroyed.  She knew that were he to ask her, she would place her hand in his and walk away from it all, with no promises, with no tomorrow.

She’d give it all:  all to taste his skin, all to feel those hands upon her body.

The bathwater bubbled and foamed around her as she lowered herself to the water.  Although it was early, she knew that later he would be coming over.  She wanted to be perfect.  She lathered and soaped, caressing herself in the steaming water. 

She felt naughty and sexy, running the razor across the tender folds of her pussy, feeling the barer-than-bare skin the razor left behind.  She thought of him looking over her body, of his approval of her freshly shaved cunt. 

Her hands ran across her curves, while in her mind she imagined the hands to be his.  Sliding her slippery fingers inside her heat, she was not so amazed to find herself shaking, to feel herself so close upon the edge of orgasm.  She pressed her palm hard against her clit, her fingers wiggling inside her cunt, and came, her body shaking and writhing, bathwater spilling across the floor.

She lay gasping, looking at the bubbled paint upon the ceiling of the bathroom.  She felt ridiculous, pathetic, masturbating so sordidly.  But still her hand lingered on her cunt until she forced herself to stop. 

Stepping out, the towel felt rough against her soft skin, rough against her fresh shaved and still throbbing pussy.  A drop of perfume at the top of her cleft, another between her breasts, and she was ready to dress.  It was always hard to decide what to wear—its no easy trick to try and look sexy without looking like you put any attempt forward at all. 

Whatever would her husband think if he noticed she went to such lengths when this man came to visit?  A small feeling of guilt niggled at the back of her mind but she resolutely pushed it back down.  She’d done nothing wrong—it was all just harmless excitement—right?  She wasn’t sure if she believed her own excuses.

She chose a short dress—nothing fancy, just a sundress that flattered her, its skirt short enough to show miles of leg, yet casual enough to seem like something she would wear for anyone.  She slipped into the white cotton panties, foregoing the slinkier sexier blue silk—her husband would be sure to wonder over the sexy panties.  She pulled her hair back, exposing her tender neck, opening the slope of her shoulders to his view.

Now she waited, for hours she waited, pretending not to wait at all.  She never mentioned his name, never mentioned his impending visit, but it was the only thing on her mind.  She was afraid that any mention, that any sign of interest would betray the powerful feelings coursing through her body. 

And then he arrived, finally. 

A casual “hello” masked the intense look in his eyes; a question about the weather covered up the glance that lasted a few moments too long.  She felt again that swelling, pulsing, thickening feeling in her pussy.  She felt the dampness on her panties.  As she walked inside to grab a couple drinks, she hoped his eyes followed her.

How long she sat by him, making small talk, chatting with her husband, with him, about stupid, meaningless things, she didn’t know.  In her tortured body, it felt like forever.  Foremost in her mind was him, his presence, his smell, the electricity that ran through her every time he looked at her.  She was sure he felt the same as she—didn’t he?  She was sure she recognized in him the creature of lust that also shared her skin. 

When her husband ran out for a few moments to the store, she felt her heart speed up.  She was alone with him.  Even if they continued to speak of nothing, to deny the reality of their desire, they were alone for a few precious moments.  She squeezed her thighs together, feeling herself juice, feeling the jolt of pleasure as it uncoiled from her stomach. 

She rose, speaking to him of mountains and clouds and emptiness, and stood at the railing, looking out at the world.  She felt his eyes upon her ass, like a heat, like fingers touching her.  As she cast about for something safe to say; she felt him come up behind her.

Her heart raced in her chest, beating so loud she was certain he would hear it.  Panic and confusion rose up in her.  Instead of saying anything, doing anything, she froze, looking forward, staying silent.

When his hand first grazed against her waist, she jumped.  It felt as though a jolt of fire had licked at her skin.  She thought ‘I should say something, I should stop him.’  But she didn’t.  Her breath caught in her throat. 

His hand slid across her waist, gently, sliding around in front of her, his palm coming to rest against her belly.  She could feel his presence directly behind her, could feel the heat emanating from his body.  She could smell him, goddamn it, and her body was responding.

Quickly he grasped her hair in his free hand, tightening his grip around her waist with the other.  Forcibly, he bent her forward, across the railing.  He slid his hand across her panty-clad ass and down between her thighs, feeling the wetness and heat of her need, while his other hand held firm in her hair, keeping her pinned in place before him.  His body pressed hard against hers now.

Roughly he slid the panties to one side, and thrust two fingers into her dripping snatch.  She gasped out loud, her entire body spinning, as what she had fantasized about for so long was becoming a reality.  His voice, ragged and rough in a whisper against her ear taunted her. 

“I knew it.  I knew you were a fucking slut, I could smell your pussy every time I got near you.”

Shame washed over her, but more than that, pleasure.  His words fueled her desire, humiliating as they were.  And it was all true.

“How long have you wanted me, bitch?  Huh?  How long have you been thinking of me fucking you? Of my hands squeezing this ass, of my fingers and mouth and cock filling that cunt of yours?”  As he spoke, he fucked at her cunt with his fingers, rocking them inside of her, using her hair to pull her back against him.

“Fucking slut, that’s what you are, aren’t you?” he asked

The woman moaned, her face burning with her shame, flushed with her excitement.  He fucked into her harder with his fingers, rocking her whole body.  He let go of her hair to grab at her breast, his fingers cruel as they dug into her tender flesh. 

“Tell me, bitch, tell me about how you’ve wanted to fuck me, tell me about how you’ve been panting after me like a bitch in heat.”

She could barely think, let alone speak.  The waves of pleasure rising through her body were stronger than her brain, stronger than anything.  He yanked hard at her nipple, pinching and twisting it between his fingers.  She moaned and gasped, her body twisting uselessly, still trapped between him and the railing as she was.  Harder he rocked his hand, his voice a flood washing over her.

“Answer me, you fucking whore.  I know you, I know all about you.  I know I can do anything I fucking want to you and you wont fight me.  You’re pathetic, you know, to let me see how eager you are for my cock.  Just a stupid little slut, that’s all.  You want it, don’t you? You want me to fuck you, don’t you?  Say it bitch, say it.”

He twisted harder at her breast, plunged deeper with his fingers.  Feeling herself upon the edge of orgasm at his hands, she moaned loudly, finally crying out a breathy “yes” in response to his words. 

“Yes,” she cried out to him “yes, I am a slut, I’m yours, please, just fuck me, take me, do anything you want to do to me.”

He twisted his fingers viciously inside of her, his ragged nails scraping against her tender walls.  And then, he laughed.  His chuckle started deep, against her ear; it’s sound sent chills through the woman.  He pulled his fingers out of her dripping and squeezing cunt, laughing even more. 

“Too bad, cunt” he said, a sadistic smile upon his lips.  “Because I’m not going to fuck you.”

As the woman leaned against the railing, her mind reeling from her passion, he walked away.  Confusion overtook her, then shame, then a deep and utter humiliation.  He smiled at her as he climbed in his truck, and waved as he backed out of the driveway, his laughter still sounding in the gathering dusk.  She wished she had something to throw.  She wanted to fly at him, nails out, teeth bared, and tear him into a million little pieces.

The tears flowed down the woman’s cheeks; her own shame was a lump inside her stomach, a knot inside her throat.   Hatred filled her being, rage, pure and clean.  But mostly, to her dismay, there lingered still the need for him, the complete and total lust, and the wetness in her panties.  She slid her own hand down, touching herself, and cried.  Self hatred and pity made her feel as pathetic as he had said she was.

When her husband came home he never asked where the man had gone; he never asked why his wife wanted to fuck him so badly. 

She climbed atop her husband and ground her pussy hard against him.  She fucked him with a fire he couldn’t understand but wasn’t going to question.  She placed his hands upon her breasts and asked him to squeeze them, to hurt her, to do it harder, harder, please, harder.  She came screaming, soaking his cock and his belly with her juices, thrashing with her rage and desire. 

Lovingly her husband held her as she cried.