Gallic Sausage

From my Twisty Tales series of short stories...

“Are you still awake?”

Nicola opened her eyes and glanced across at her husband, his face dimly illuminated by the Citroën’s instrument binnacle and the reflected glare of the headlights on the road.

“Yes, I was just resting my eyes a moment. It’s been a long day.”

It had been a long day.

In fact it had been a long year, relocating to a rented house in the south of France while Patrick managed his company’s latest building project. The work was nearly finished now, and they’d be moving back to England next week. Nicola wondered if they’d be going back to anything like the life they’d had before.

Patrick had been so busy with the project – sixteen hour days all week through and no time to rest. He’d been getting more focussed, more tired, more irritable, while she’d been increasingly at a loose end, away from her friends, with nothing to do.

He’d had less and less time for her. For the two of them.

Oh, she knew this building was important, a flagship project for the company. But the weight of work had left no room for anything else.

Patrick flicked the indicator stalk and turned off the autoroute onto a smaller road, the Citroën’s headlights picking out the lettering on the road signs. Nicola didn’t focus on them. Instead she closed her eyes and tilted her head back onto the headrest again.

It had been three months since they’d last fucked.

No. That wasn’t really right. It had been three months since they’d last had sex. It had been pretty much a year since they’d fucked.

Nicola wanted to fuck. She wanted to get fucked. That snarling, animal feeling of getting what she needed, all the way into her, like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

She missed that. Right now, coming back from a dull project hand-over party, and a little bit drunk, it felt like it was the only thing that mattered.

She shifted on her seat, feeling the warmth rising.

This kept happening.

They’d used to fuck. A lot. Back when they were first married, they’d fucked often and hard. In fact, there would have been a time when, coming back from a dull work party as they were now, he’d likely have stopped the car in some dark lay-by and thrown her into the back seat, not able to wait until they got home.

She’d have known it was coming too. All through the party, they’d have been exchanging glances, coded phrases that told her in no uncertain terms that, as soon as they were alone together, she was going to get hers.

Her reward for being a good girl.

He’d use his strength to dominate her, control her, position her just the way she liked. She’d squeal and struggle, just for the show of it, but not too much. Patrick always won.

Tonight, she’d had to make polite small-talk with near strangers, while getting a little bit drunk, as usual, all the while idly imagining what it would be like to get fucked by one of them.

They’d used to do that together at parties too, her and Patrick. “Which one would you have? Him? Her?” They’d whisper conspiratorially about what it would be like to snare a few willing participants for their trysts. They’d giggle at the thought of how he would watch her, just watch as she took another man’s cock in her mouth. Or, oh god, hold her down, pin her arms by her side, dominate her with his strength as he made her take that other man’s cock. In her mouth and then in her wantonly dripping pussy. He’d watch her get pounded to a gasping orgasm around that invading, foreign cock. And then follow that cock in with his, driving her to the biggest, most helpless orgasm of her life.

Because Patrick always won.

Once or twice, they’d very nearly turned words into deeds. Those times, those nights, she’d be the one to jump him on the way home, her need so great she’d make him nearly crash the car as he tried to find a safe place to stop and let her have her way.

Tonight, though, there’d been no sly, dirty talk, no shared glances, no pay-off. She knew her filthy thoughts were going to lead nowhere.

Her head was swimming.

So was her crotch.

Some of the party guests tonight had been fit enough, in that smooth French besuited kind of way, all luxuriously wavy hair and clouds of cologne. She could easily imagine fucking one of them. Frankly, right now she could easily imagine fucking any of them. Get inside the neatly-pressed suit trousers of any businessman, you’d find what you were looking for easily enough.

Or a businesswoman, even. Her tastes didn’t usually run that way, but needs must and all that. And it would be worth it just to see the look on Patrick’s face. His intense stare, clouded thick with lust. Watching her and some stiletto-heeled power bitch, going at it beneath his startled gaze. That would get him fired up again, for sure.

She could do it. Do it and feel wanted again, for her body, for her prowess at fucking, uncomplicated and so alive.

There was no shortage of possibilities, since the French weren’t exactly backwards in their appreciation of her finer points. She was in her early thirties, tall and yet taller still in her heels. A black cocktail dress, long enough to cover everything, short enough to offer the occasional daring flash of stocking top as she moved. Dark hair, firm breasts, curvy hips. She knew there had been eyes on her, openly gazing at her body.

She shifted again on her seat, pressed her thighs together to hold it in.

Businessmen were all very well, she reflected, if all you wanted was to get smooth-fucked. After all, a French guy would doubtless know exactly what he was doing, just where to place a finger on the root of her to bring her off neatly. He’d be very refined about it. Urbane.

Professional.

But it was Patrick’s other work colleagues who truly trapped her imagination. The sort of men who didn’t frequent cocktail parties.

The workers.

The builders and carpenters and electricians.

With their tanned, muscular bodies bulging under their overalls and their palms rough from manual work. Strong hands that would paw at her, rip off her dress to get at the vulnerable body beneath. They wouldn’t worry about professionalism, oh no. They’d be just as unprofessional as it was possible to get.

She often thought about them, the workers, in idle moments, dark moments, of which there were a lot these days. Of getting a generous helping of Gallic sausage. Maybe a double helping, if she was feeling hungry.

She was always hungry these days.

She was sure they noticed her too, when she was on site visits with Patrick. Strangely, given their cruder, less refined background, they were less obvious about it than the businessmen at the parties, more surreptitious. But she could still feel their gaze. Sizing her up. Recognising in an instant what she was, her hard hat doing nothing to hide it. An interloper, helpless and vulnerable in their world, dressed entirely inappropriately for a building site in her heels and stockings.

What would they have done with her if she’d been alone with them there that day? An interloper in their midst? Would they have smelled the fear on her, the hunger?

She thought about that a lot.

Thought about being pressed to her knees before some workman, his rough hands pulling his overalls open to offer her the tool he kept beneath his belt rather than on it. Knowing all the time that there was another man behind her, out of her line of sight, ready at any moment to lift her bottom, and her skirt.

Maybe even a queue of them. Construction workers, allied trades, ready to give her the first fix, followed by the second fix, and then make good.

Once, on one site visit, she’d been so overtaken by her thoughts she’d had to excuse herself and go to the toilet to take herself in hand. Squatting in the stinking toilet, trying to touch no surface other than herself, staring at a dog-eared poster of some topless bird while she brought herself some temporary release.

Then wondering if Patrick could see the truth on her face when she returned to his side, realising the only thing that made her blush harder than the possibility of him seeing what she’d done, quirking the corner of his mouth upwards in that knowing smile of his, was the fact that he never noticed a thing.

He was too busy.

Too wrapped up in what he was doing to smell the lust rising from her.

Nicola slid down slightly lower on the car seat, her knees parting slightly as she did so.

Her knickers were wet.

There had once been a time when, like as not, she wouldn’t have worn any knickers to one of these parties. She’d have told Patrick that fact in a breathy whisper among the canapés. Or, if she had worn knickers, they’d have been off her and in his pocket by halfway through the evening, a present and a promise.

He’d have taken the first stolen opportunity to check on her condition, would have smiled slyly to find how far along she already was. Would have held her scent on his fingers as he chatted to his business colleagues, occasionally bringing them to his nostrils to breathe lightly of her, savour her, his every movement making her knees weak.

Maybe when they got back to England they would get back to the fucking.

And have the conversation about children.

They’d been putting it off, and putting it off.

Of course, they’d have to have the conversation before they resumed the fucking, because she’d had to stop taking the pill. It had been giving her migraines.

She hadn’t told him yet, but he’d need to know before they next fucked.

If they ever did.

She wasn’t sure how that conversation would go. They’d always said they wanted kids, but with Patrick it was always next year, or the next year. And he always won.

Patrick always won.

Frankly, she wasn’t quite sure what he wanted from her any more. For the past year, it had felt like he’d been looking through her rather than at her. More and more distant with each passing day, until she’d almost turned invisible.

Was he just tired, or just tired of her?

With a start, she realised that Patrick had turned the Citroën into a narrow country lane. She didn’t recognise where they were.

She glanced across at him.

His eyes were on the road ahead, but she could sense his attention was on her.

“Which knickers did you wear tonight?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, stunned by his sudden question, by the directness of it, breaking into her reverie.

“Or aren’t you wearing any?”

His eyes were still on the road, his face unreadable. The question, entirely out of the blue, hung in the air.

“Black lace,” she answered at last.

“Show me,” he said, in that tone of voice he had, the tone that brooked no argument.

Patrick was never violent, never even close to being threatening, but he always got what he wanted, and his voice was a big part of that. She’d always, always, obey that voice.

He always won.

Slowly, her eyes on his, his eyes on the road, she wiggled her black dress up her thighs and over her hips, and then parted her legs to display the black triangle of lacy material that covered her down there.

Patrick glanced down at the space between her thighs, just for a moment.

Nicola was suddenly very glad she’d made the effort to wear something sexy. She’d nearly worn neat, plain cotton, knowing the chances were she wouldn’t need to show them. Something comfortable, cute. But this… whatever this was… was rapidly turning into a night neither for comfortable nor cute.

“Give them to me.”

“What?”

“You heard. Take them off and give them to me. I can’t see them properly down there in the dark, and you don’t need them. Give them to me.”

Don’t need them?

She hooked trembling thumbs into the waistband of her knickers, snicked them down her legs and over her feet. As she bundled the tiny garment into her hand, she could feel the damp in the material, and her cheeks burned.

Patrick’s hand was held out towards her, his palm open to receive.

Hesitantly she dropped her knickers into his hand.

Wrists cradling the steering wheel, he opened the ball of material up, spread his fingers within the waistband, and examined her knickers in the reflected glow of the headlights.

Nicola heard his brief grunt of approval, and her bared cunt throbbed, demanding acknowledgement.

She wanted so much to answer herself down there, but she didn’t dare. She was so lit up, she’d probably explode at the first touch.

Patrick balled up her knickers again and tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket, then put both hands back on the wheel.

They drove on in silence.

“You’re wet,” Patrick said, after a while. It wasn’t an accusation, more a mild observation.

Nicola didn’t reply.

“You’ve been having thoughts, haven’t you, like a naughty girl?”

And how.

What was she supposed to say? Yes, I’ve been getting wet thinking about banging your workers? Actually, knowing Patrick, that might not be such a bad idea…

“Maybe,” Nicola allowed, meekly, “Maybe I am a naughty girl.”

She turned away from him slightly, rolling over to raise her hip, present the curve of her buttock.

“Do I need a spanking?” she asked, her voice treacly.

She had no idea where that had come from. Maybe it was her cunt talking. It certainly seemed to be running the show right now.

“I know what you need,” Patrick replied, evenly.

The car slowed.

They were pulling into a countryside parking area. It was pitch-black, deserted apart from a crew-cab pickup parked off to one side, its windows darkened. Patrick avoided the other vehicle, aiming for a corner of particular darkness at the other end of the open space.

Was this really going to happen? Had Patrick reached into her mind, read her thoughts, felt her longing for their old passion?

Had he smelled the heat rising from between her thighs?

Were they going to fuck, just like they used to fuck?

Nicola moaned, soft and low.

Patrick turned the car and reversed into a gap between two bushes. As he turned the ignition key to kill the engine, his hand knocked the headlamp stalk. The main beam flashed briefly, then it was suddenly inky black.

The Citroën’s diesel rattled to silence. There was no sound except the ticking of the exhaust, cooling slowly.

Nicola looked across at Patrick.

Any previous time, he’d have been on her the instant the engine stopped, his hands lifting her bodily, boldly, into the back seat, his hips pushing her knees apart, nothing for her to do but get her fingers on the buttons of his fly. But he hadn’t moved. His eyes were still gazing out into the black beyond the windscreen, his hands were still on the wheel.

Was he expecting her to make the first move?

Well, okay then.

She undid her seatbelt and moved towards him, a sly smile forming on her lips.

tap-tap-tap

She started at the sudden rapping sound on her window. She turned her head, heart trip-hammering at the unexpected interruption.

In the near-pitch dark, she couldn’t quite make out what she was seeing. Then suddenly it resolved, and she jumped again.

There was the face of a man looming there. He’d rapped his knuckle on the window.

What did he want? Why couldn’t he just go away?

She turned back towards Patrick.

There was a click and a whirr, a sudden rush of cold air on the back of her neck.

Her window was opening.

Patrick was holding down the electric window button, opening her window.

She couldn’t understand why. And then she realised.

He must be going to tell the man to go away. Yes, that was surely it.

She kept her eyes on Patrick until the window was fully down, not wanting to confront the stranger herself. Her eyesight was now much more accustomed to the dark, and she could see Patrick’s face, his expression blank. Staring straight ahead.

She waited, but still Patrick didn’t move.

Oh, so she’d have to deal with the man herself, would she?

Fine.

She turned back towards the stranger outside the window, her mouth opening to form the phrases in French that she would need.

Comment?

His cock was in her face.

Oh fuck, it was right there. While she’d been looking the other way, he’d straightened up and taken out his cock and it was right fucking there, erect and primed and angry.

Before she could react, before she could recoil, his arm had snaked in through the window, hooked behind her head, and pulled her in.

And now his erect cock was between her lips, smearing over her teeth.

It had all happened so suddenly, and her mouth had been slightly open anyway, that it was in before she even fully realised what was happening.

She tried to twitch back off him, but his hand was on the back of her head, his fingers laced in her hair, and his cock was probing deeper into her mouth, pushing her jaw wide, pressing down on her tongue, making its own way inside her.

Her fluttering mind, grasping for a reason, an explanation for what was happening to her, cried that it must be a mistake. Was this a dogging spot? Had they stumbled into the wrong place by accident, had this man got the wrong idea about why she and Patrick were here? How embarrassed and apologetic would he be when they explained the mistake?

Did the French even do dogging?

What would they call it?

Le dogging?

Chiennereusement? Nicola mumbled the syllables around her mouthful of stranger.

Her fingers flexed convulsively against the fabric of the man’s overalls, torn between pushing him away and… and what? Grasping onto him?

She heard Patrick undo his seatbelt behind her. She felt him move.

Patrick. Patrick would know what to do.

His hands reached for hers.

He pinned her arms down. Held her in place.

What was he doing?

The cock pressed deeper.

Oddly, it never occurred to her to bite the man. To clamp down on the intrusion, to make him pay for his insult. Instead, barely realising she was doing it, she ran her tongue over the shaft, tasted it, sampling the sweat, the musk, the need. There was a cock in her mouth, so she just did what a girl did when there was a cock in her mouth.

She worked it.

Was it because she was too stunned to be outraged? Was she just a little bit drunk and more than a little bit horny?

Was she just being polite? In case it was some quaint local custom to which she hadn’t yet been introduced, to shove your cock in a woman’s mouth before you’d even shaken her hand?

Was it because Patrick was right there behind her, willing her towards it? Had he sensed what she needed, how deeply she needed it?

Or was he acting out what they’d talked about all those times? Holding her down while a stranger fucked her mouth? And was her body now responding because it knew all this and was totally ready for it, even as her mind fluttered in confusion?

She’d never in a million years have actually cheated on Patrick. But was it cheating if he was making you do it? Was holding you down so it could be done to you?

Well, she didn’t speak French that proficiently, but she did speak cock.

So she worked him.

There was nothing else for it.

He was sweaty, and he was quick. It seemed bare moments before he grunted, and shoved himself hard to the back of her throat, where she caught him.

Hot jets of his sperm pulsed salty into her mouth, coated her tongue, welled up over her lips.

And then, as quickly as he had come, he was gone.

As the man at the window stepped back, his cock springing free on a string of saliva and thick, unctuous sperm, she saw the silhouettes of more people behind him. Before she could react or respond, one of them stepped in.

She was dazed, by the saltiness in her mouth, by the sudden intensity of the act that had put it there, by the heat of the new man’s body so close to hers. She hadn’t had chance to decide if she was going to spit or swallow, and now there wasn’t time to think about it.

She could hardly spit the first man’s sperm onto the second man’s crotch. That would hardly be polite. So, before she opened her mouth to receive the new man, she swallowed quickly to clear the way, the sliminess of it slipping easily down her throat, just as she knew how.

She was barely aware of Patrick’s strong hands pulling her.

He drew her shoulders back towards him in the driver’s seat. The man at the window took hold of her hips, twisted her. She was rolled over and her hips lifted. She was stretched crosswise across the car, her bottom raised towards the window, her face in Patrick’s crotch.

The sperm on her lips soaked into his suit trousers.

There was a stiff bulge there, in the middle of his lap, in her face. There were hands at the window, lifting her short cocktail dress further up, to bunch around her waist.

The cold air on her buttocks shocked her skin.

But of course. She’d taken off her knickers, given them to Patrick.

You don’t need them.

Then there was sudden heat, at the centre of the cold, a tongue pressing wet and fierce into her cunt. She gasped at the surprise of it, squirmed as it lapped along her cleft, unerringly found her clitoris.

She tried to move, the actual direction of travel - away from the heat or towards it - less important than the imperative simply to writhe at the sensation. But she was stuck fast between her husband in front and the intruder behind. She arched, trapped. Then groaned as the wet tongue pierced her, opened her.

She’d been on fire before, buzzing with her frustrated lust, so tightly-wound that she’d been sure if she so much as touched herself she’d explode. This… this was too much… if it continued, she’d not be able to help herself.

Then the tongue disappeared, was replaced by something larger.

Harder.

A cock.

A thick, meaty cock.

“Attends,” she heard Patrick say, “Ne pas finis dans sa chatte, rappelez.”

She didn’t speak French particularly well, but she was pretty sure she could guess what her “chatte” was.

And then no sounds made any sense any more, as hands gripped her hips, held her fast against the window opening and – without preamble - the stranger’s cock slid firmly, insistently, all the way up inside her, and all rational thought fled.

She gave a cry, muffled in Patrick’s crotch, a nameless grunt of shock, of abandon, of…

…of triumph.

She hadn’t fully known, until that moment of truth, of spearing division, quite how much she’d missed the feel of cock. How hungry she was inside. How much that slick void inside her had yearned to be filled. Now there was a stiff, urgent cock inside her, and the outrage that it wasn’t her husband’s cock, was the cock of a complete stranger, didn’t matter. Didn’t matter at all.

It was still made to fit her, and she was made to fit it.

She didn’t want to admit the fact, not even with Patrick willing it to happen, not even with Patrick’s own cock mere millimetres away, yet achingly, infinitely far from where it ought to be right now, that this other man’s cock was a perfectly adequate substitute.

Her face was buried in Patrick’s crotch, pressed against the bulge he hid there, dampened with her saliva and the sperm that had leaked from her mouth. So she tried to reach for him, to free that beast from its cloth prison, to take it into her mouth as she had taken the first man. To show him how much she wanted him, her husband, more than anything else. To reassure him that he was still her first and most important. Even if at that moment she wasn’t sure it was true.

But he held her down, his hands fierce and firm, and all she could do was bury her face in him, breathe her husband’s heady musk as the man behind her started to slide back and forth with hard, deep thrusts.

Oh god how she needed this.

She could feel the need in him too, the relentless, single-minded way he used her, a fuck-hole for his lust. She could feel his balls hanging heavy between his legs, could feel them bump against her mound, slapping on the wetness of her at the hilt of every thrust.

Those balls, heavy with the promise they held withi-

Wait.

She wasn’t taking birth control any more. And she could tell the man inside her wasn’t wearing a condom. She really shouldn’t risk letting him come in her.

Instead she should raise her head to warn Patrick, tell him not to let the man put his sperm in her.

His strong hands were holding her head down. Her voice, her warning, if she gave a warning, would be muffled in his crotch. If she even could voice a warning, string a complete sentence together, while she was on the end of that hungry cock, rather than mere incoherent squeaks and grunts.

So that was how she explained it to herself, justified letting it happen. There was nothing that could be done. It couldn’t be helped.

Any moment now, it would be too late to worry about it, because she could feel his balls tightening and his pace quickening.

She should say something.

Any moment now.

But she surely, probably, maybe definitely couldn’t prevent him now even if she had wanted him to stop.

She really didn’t want him to stop. She needed all his cum, right where it needed to go.

She let it go, gave way to the lust overtaking her, to the need she’d had to bottle up for too long. She couldn’t stop now, not for anything.

She had just enough freedom of movement to meet the stranger’s thrusts behind her, squeezing back onto him. So she did.

And then he shoved himself in to the hilt and held there. His balls slapped heavy against her clitoris, and she felt them twitch and contract, and any last vestige of doubt fled.

Oh fuck, yes!

Nicola came, clenching hard around his cock, milking him as his whole body jerked and he pumped jet after jet of heat deep into her opened body.

She cried out, squealing muffled into the gag of Patrick’s crotch, jamming herself bruisingly back against the window frame, trying to get at every bit of the man behind her, to possess him utterly, but abruptly he pulled away, his cock slipping free to pulse the last few clots of his sperm onto her upturned buttocks.

Her cunt mouthed and twitched emptily.

Greedy. Greedy for more.

She’d uncorked her lust. It was spilling from her, enveloping everything, swallowing all rational thought.

The car door flew open behind her, strong hands caught her as she fell backwards. Patrick released his hold as she was half-dragged, half fell from the car.

There were men around her. Three, maybe four of them. She couldn’t see their faces in the dark, but they were all wearing – were half out of – workmen’s overalls.

She was pulled upright, a man at each arm.

Her cocktail dress was still rucked up around her waist, her bottom bare. She took small, tottering steps, unsteady on her heels, unsteady too in the aftershocks of her orgasm as they walked her round to the front of the car.

There they bent her over the bonnet.

Strong arms pressed her forward, a burly man folding her around his broad palm splayed over her belly, followed by a firm hand in the centre of her back to keep her in place. She turned her head to one side, her cheek pressed against the warm, smooth metal, the smell of oil and diesel rising from the cooling engine beneath. Heavy feet pushed her legs apart, splayed her wide over the bonnet of the car.

She planted a hand either side to anchor herself, and groaned lasciviously as she felt another cock probing for her cunt.

Fuck. This was what she needed.

It was bigger, this one, with a chunky head that created a breathless pop as it slid past her swollen cunt lips and followed its predecessor into her depths. It had a long, heavy shaft, and it filled her deliciously.

Her aching need was met once more.

Oh god she was so greedy for it.

This man was steadier, more patient, less urgent as he gave her a few measured, languid thrusts of his lovely thick cock. Nicola was just settling into the rhythm, knowing it would easily carry her all the way to the peak, when abruptly he pulled out.

She gave a little cry of dismay.

Why had he stopped?

Then she felt his hands on her again, one on each buttock, pulling them wide apart to display the neat little hole that normally hid away there. Showing her secret place to the dark night. She felt her sphincter stretch at the division.

He couldn’t seriously want that, could he?

He seriously could.

Behind her, out of her sight, she heard him hawk and spit. His phlegm splashed thick and full, onto her upturned bottom hole.

“No,” she said, in trepidation “Not-”

He released his grip, letting her cheeks close over the wetness he had put there. She was instantly full of regret that she’d spoken, had broken the spell, that he’d seemingly given up without trying.

When she so much wanted him to try.

But then, with one hand planted alongside hers to support himself and the other gripping the shaft of his cock, he started to work its rounded head into the deep cleft of her buttocks.

She squeaked as he pressed clumsily at her, searching for that dark knot now out of sight within her furrow.

“No. No, that’s no good...”

She had no idea if he understood her, wasn’t even certain she had spoken aloud, but her hands were now moving of their own accord, reaching back down her spine, between their close-pressed bodies, reaching back to find him.

Nicola’s body was pressed flat against the Citroën’s bonnet beneath the stranger atop her. She barely had room to tilt her head back and gaze through the windscreen.

Patrick was still sitting motionless in the driver’s seat.

She locked eyes with him.

His expression was unreadable in the dark, but she held his gaze, firm and steady as she placed a hand on each of her own buttocks, and spread herself wide for the man behind her.

She watched Patrick and waited, meek and defiant, for her penetration.

The man’s cock was slick with her juices and his saliva, and there was even some of the previous man’s sperm down there, but she was tight, unused to being taken this way. He wasn’t about to be denied though, and no sooner had he found the spot she had presented to him, than he was pushing firmly in.

Nicola tugged hard on her buttocks, spreading herself as wide as she could, and tried to relax onto him. She groaned. She twitched.

And then he was in.

She gasped as the bulbous head parted her, popped past her body’s resistance. The gasp turned into a deep-throated groan, from a primeval place deep inside, as he kept on, driving all of his fat cock up her.

Her eyelids drooped, her head dropped back down to rest on the Citroën’s bonnet, and her hands let go, dropping limply at her side.

Her spine was still taut, her back arched to push herself back towards him, transfixing herself on her impalement.

He was all the way in. There was a stranger’s cock in her arse.

All the way up her arse.

She’d occasionally done the buttsex with Patrick. That was what they’d called it – the buttsex. Actually they’d written it as “butsecs” to avoid his work e-mail filter. It had been an amusing diversion sometimes when they were a bit drunk, a silly thing. A dare.

This, as the stranger started to work his cock back and forth, wasn’t silly. It was reflexive. Animal.

Primal.

This man behind her, with his stiff cock in her arse, his stroke building and deepening, was pounding her flat into the bonnet of the car with such force that the metal was flexing, deforming at the bottom of each stroke, popping back into shape on the rebound, his pitiless strength driving through her and into the metal in his single-minded aim to have her completely, to own her.

She couldn’t get the leverage to push back, so she just abandoned herself to it, let it happen, rode it. The heat, the friction, the dirt of it.

Each instroke lifted her onto tiptoes, her feet slipping helplessly over the damp ground. She hooked her fingers round the trailing edge of the car’s bonnet, the only place she could find purchase, and angled her spine to gain every inch of him.

Yes, that’s the way.

Nicola lifted her head again. Patrick was still watching her. Watching her being buggered over the bonnet of his leased Citroën saloon.

From his position, he could surely see the shaft of another man’s cock penetrating his wife’s arse. Opening her up. Having her.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

She stared into Patrick’s eyes as the man atop her grunted and pumped his sperm all the way up inside her arse, before collapsing heavily onto her, his fingers clutching reflexively over hers.

Finally he pulled free with a wet, sucking pop, spent, and Nicola slumped down to the ground in front of the car, panting heavily.

Her arse was throbbing, dripping, angry.

Hot.

So was her cunt.

Fresh hands pulled at her. She turned her head.

A man was sitting on the ground in front of the car, legs straight out before him, blue overalls bunched around his ankles, the rest of him naked save for a sweat and oil-stained once-white vest.

His hands were reaching out towards her.

His cock stood up proud and pugnacious from a nest of tight dark curls. It had a distinct upward curve to the shaft, slim at the tip, but widening to a girthy root between weighty balls. It looked rock-hard.

Nicola didn’t hesitate.

In for a penny…

She shuffled forward to straddle him.

Her stockinged knees sank into the cold, damp earth as she knelt either side of his hips.

She wasn’t tall enough to clear his cock, so the head bumped against her mound as she wriggled up over him. It slid along her cleft, her weight pushing the thing stiffly upward in the narrowing gap between their bodies. She gasped as it dragged over her clitoris, and then it sprang up, pointing straight at her hole.

She stopped moving up him, and reversed direction, pushing determinedly backwards to capture him. Capture him with her tight, willing cunt.

The slim tip of the man’s cock slid easily into her. Nicola gave a satisfied purr, rumbling deep in her throat as she settled on him, filling her need once again. He grunted, and took hold of her waist. She shuffled her knees further apart, widening her stance, and sank further onto his fleshy member.

The tightness, the stretch, increased, and as she reached the thick base of him she groaned, pain and pleasure overlaying each other, intertwined.

Oh god he was so big, so hard.

As she began to grind herself on the cock impaling her, gingerly at first but with rising vigour, the man reached up and tugged at the front of her dress, trying to get beneath the tight fabric. Nicola sat upright to slip the straps of her dress down over her shoulders. He grabbed a big handful of the material and yanked it roughly downwards.

Her breasts came free, and he eagerly grabbed them with calloused hands, kneading and pinching. Her nipples were as hard and angry, as hot and needy, as his cock inside her.

Oh yes, this was exactly how she’d imagined it. The filthy daydream made real, the dark night-time fantasy made plunging flesh.

He craned his head up, and she lowered herself down to meet him, planting a hand either side of his body to support her weight. She gasped as his lips closed hot over one nipple, his tongue fierce at the centre of it, his hand still teasing and pinching the other protuberant bud. The action felt somehow even more intimate than the cock inside her.

Beneath her, his hips were rising and falling, his cock sliding back and forth. She settled herself into the same rhythm, concentrating on meeting each thrust with her own. The pace built, the insistence rose. She was going to come again.

Behind her the Citroën’s headlights came on, full-beam.

Patrick was still in the car. Still watching her getting banged, right there in front of him.

No, not getting banged any more. She’d taken charge. She was on top.

She was banging a stranger.

She wasn’t going to stop. Not for anything.

Somehow the thought of her reddened arsehole, winking at her husband in the spotlight glare of the headlights, only redoubled her lust.

Nicola was past shame or restraint now. She reached back to grasp her buttocks, pulled herself wider to display herself, defiantly flaunted the evidence of her debauchery at her silent, staring husband.

He’d be able to see it all. The redness. The glisten of another man’s cum oozing from her back there. And, below it all, a fat cock pistoning unstoppably into her cunt, his wife’s cunt, angling up into her, the slopping slickness betraying her excitement, her wantonness.

The man beneath her was in shadow, eclipsed by her own body above him, so she still couldn’t see him clearly. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to see him clearly. After all, he was just a cock, nothing more. A fuck toy, all fat cock and rough hands and – oh god – molten lips and hard teeth teasing her nipples deliciously.

Concentrating on the task at hand, Nicola did the little roll of her hips and squeeze she knew drove Patrick wild whenever they fucked cowgirl-style. It seemed to work just as well on the man beneath her, since he gasped, muttered “merde” under his breath, and redoubled the force of his thrusts, pounding the breath from her lungs with each up-stroke.

“Salope,” he was gasping under his breath, “Salope.”

She lifted her head and gazed out at the forest beyond their joined bodies, lit up harsh white in the headlight glare.

A shadow fell across her.

Somebody was stepping in behind. Kneeling at her back.

Another man, with his work overalls round his ankles.

Nicola suddenly realised what he intended.

Well, she’d never done that before.

She heard the flip-lid of a squeezy tube being opened, paused and held herself still as something hard and plastic was pressed to the base of her spine, where her buttocks divided. Beneath her, the strange cock still pistoned into her cunt, quivering her whole body.

A big dob of something jelly-like was squeezed onto her, ran chill down the cleft of her buttocks. It was soothing on the soreness around her back passage, but at the same time it stung slightly, tingly, hot and cold, like peppermint.

It was followed by something hard and rounded.

A cock.

The fat head of it slid down her buttock cleft, gathering the jelly-like lubricant along the way.

Finding her hole, it pressed inward.

Suddenly she was shouting, incoherently crying out, “Oh, oh god, oh fuck, ohhhh fuck…”

This second cock was so much harder to accommodate, in this position, with her cunt already stretched around its own fat intruder. There was so much less room to ease into it.

It stretched, it burned.

It was in.

The cock in her cunt paused, suddenly competing for space, the groove it had made in her cunt compressed by the second cock sliding full and fat and heavy into her arse alongside it.

There was a pause. The three of them – the world - seemed to hold their collective breath.

And then the two men started to move.

Nicola tried to move with them, to fit to their rhythm. But there was no fixed rhythm. Each man moved in her at a different, uneven pace. Sometimes there were two cocks full in her, stretching her, sometimes just one or the other, sometimes barely the tip of either. It made it impossible to work out how to move to meet their thrusts, or to avoid losing one or the other.

In the end she gave up trying, and just let them work her, spreading to press herself onto the man below her, his stubbled face between her tits, his pelvis butting up against her inner thighs as he drove into her again and again.

The man behind Nicola held her hips firmly as he ploughed his cock into her back passage, sometimes short hard strokes, sometimes long, deep lunges, always varying. Occasionally he would raise a hand and bring it down hard and fast, without warning, giving her a ringing slap on one buttock or the other. The smack of his palm on her flesh sounded like a gunshot, her cries – a mix of surprise and outrage and filthy delight – were the squeals of a naughty girl getting what she deserved.

Nicola’s eyes watered. Her breathing was ragged, her body squeezed tight between the hardness of two rough and muscular men, crushed like a flower in a press, barely room to breathe. Her cunt and arse were afire, tingling, dripping with juices and lubricants and lust.

“Yes, yes, yes!” she gasped, trembling and bucking between them. And then, somewhat redundantly, as if they might not have understood the universal language of fuck, “oui, oui, oui!”

“Petit chatte, petit chatte,” groaned the man in her cunt, “petit chatte, putain chatte.”

The man up her arse broke first, his cock twitching to the spurts of his climax deep within her. That tipped Nicola over the edge, and her cunt convulsed and gripped on the man beneath her, who groaned and thrust up, hard.

She felt his heat splash and spread inside her shuddering cunt, so deep that it would surely never come back out.

The cock slid from her bottom, and she rolled off the man beneath her to lie, spent and sated, on her back on the damp ground.

Her bared breasts heaved to her exertions. Her legs were spread-eagled, cocked apart, her disarray carelessly forgotten. Her cunt and her arse were both squirming, full of the sperm of strangers. There was the tang of more sperm on her tongue.

The four men gathered around her, and stood over her in her tangled déshabille.

Their cocks were still stiff in their hands.

Now each man pumped himself to a final climax over her face. Nicola laid back, her face upturned to the night, and let it rain down on her, shining pearls from above, glittering in the headlight glare.

Finally it was done, each man turning away and wiping the final drops of his spending on some piece of black cloth they passed between them.

Her knickers.

They’d been in Patrick’s pocket.

He must have given her knickers to the men.

As the four workmen walked away, pulling up their overalls, chatting and joking amongst themselves in French, Nicola heard the driver’s door of the Citroën open.

One of the men handed the sodden bundle of her knickers to Patrick, and then they were gone.

Patrick opened the ball of material up, spread his fingers within the waistband, and examined her knickers in the reflected glow of the headlights.

Nicola heard his brief grunt of approval, and her bared cunt throbbed once again.

She heard a diesel engine clatter to life over on the other side of the car park.

Patrick stood over her, silhouetted in the headlights, and the lights of the pick-up as it swung round and drove away.

He picked her up, carried her to the car, and laid her across the back seat, her muddy knees high and parted.

His erect cock was out and in his hand.

He loomed over her, his face close to hers.

His eyes, glittering in the dim glow of the interior light, were as intense and as full of lust as she had ever seen them.

He thrust himself into her in one fierce motion.

Oh god, his cock was perfect. The Goldilocks cock. Not too big, not too small. Not too hard, not too soft. Not too hot, not too cold. Made perfectly to fit her, as she was made to fit him. How could she ever have thought any other cock could ever be as right?

His cock fixed her, transfixed her, soothed her pains, stirred her loins and she cried out and clawed his back as she shuddered to one more trembling orgasm. The biggest, most helpless of all.

He cried out too, his hips pounding hard against her, his pubic hair matted and mingled with hers as he released jet after molten jet deep into her body.

Only now, as he subsided, did she remember.

“Patrick,” she said, cupping his face in her hands and trying to focus on him through the tears of her release, “Patrick, I’m not on-”

“I know,” he soothed her, “I know.”

She wrapped her legs around him then, held him inside, letting his sperm settle into her, his head resting between her heaving, sweat-slicked breasts.

Finally he rose, his cock sliding slickly from her cunt, and as he rose he caught and held her feet, started to slip something over her ankles.

Her knickers.

Her knickers, sodden and claggy with the sperm of four strangers.

Patrick slid them up her legs, slowly up her thighs and over her upturned buttocks.

The sperm-soaked cotton slapped clammy onto her throbbing cunt, and Patrick held her open, lowering himself onto her once more to keep her in place, his face next to hers, stickily smearing the spunk the strangers had left on her cheek.

She felt him move his hand between their tightly-pressed bodies, sliding a finger up against her down there, in amongst the wet of her knickers, pressing into her cleft.

Slowly he kneaded and worked the four men’s sperm into her cunt, deliberately, methodically, until the cotton gusset of her knickers was stretched as far as it would go inside her and the sperm it had carried was all squeezed in.

All inside her.

Patrick turned his face to hers, whispered soft in her ear.

“We can go back home now. The three of us.”

Nicola stared at him in confusion. Then realisation dawned, and she smiled.

“You mean..?” she started, “I mean… are you ready?”

Patrick rose, keeping his finger pressed into her as he lifted his weight from her body.

Nicola gazed down at the little triangle of black lace, drawn tight where Patrick’s finger pressed it deep inside her body. Then she looked up into his eyes, the question on her lips.

“Mine will win” he murmured, “I always win.”

And then he withdrew his finger from her cunt. He patted her there, proprietorially.

Well done.

He stood up, helped her rise from the back seat, and helped her rearrange her cocktail dress.

He used a handkerchief to wipe his cheek, cleaning off the mess that had transferred from her cheek to his. But he left her face as it was, clagged thick with semen, crystallising jewels of fuck scattered across her brow.

There was mud on her stockinged knees, and on the back of her dress. There were four kinds of sperm speckled on her face. But Patrick treated her like a queen as he handed her to the front passenger seat, buckled her in, and closed the door.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, she laid her head back and closed her eyes.

Should she tell him about the two men who had come in her before he had? Whose sperm had been pumped too deep for him to tell it had even been?

Nicola smiled to herself.

No. No need.

After all, Patrick always won.

Didn’t he?

~The End~