Keeping the Secret

She supported her torso above the bucket seat on extended arms. Her tits hung down and one of her nipples rubbed across the shift lever. Carl moved in behind her and spread the throat-slime down the length of his cock with enough left over to smear on her sphincter. He rubbed it all over the wrinkled pucker and then pushed his thumb up her ass.

Unlike many of the women he'd done anal with, Chelsea was totally relaxed against the foreign object penetration. He withdrew his thumb and pressed his squishy, slippery knob against her rosebud. He pushed down on it with his thumb and watched as it deformed to fit into the tight ring of muscle and as her sphincter expanded to accept it. It popped in and re-expanded inside her as her asshole tightened around its neck.

"Oh, fuck!" both of them said at the same time. They laughed, and then Carl said, "You want me to tip-fuck your tight little asshole?"

"Yes!" she said definitively. "I haven't felt a fat knob pop into my ass like that in ages!"

He pulled back but as he did she tightened her sphincter as if to hold him in. He had to pull hard to escape and the stretch on his cock-head as it seemed to roll almost inside-out was amazing! When it finally popped free, he left his knob nuzzled against her reclosed pucker, and said, "God damn, woman, you know your way around a cock! Tommy is one lucky son-of-a-bitch and he sure as hell wasn't lying about you!"

He then began to shove his mushroom in and out of her asshole. Sometimes it would slip in and out easily and other times she would constrict her butt-hole and make him force it in and tug it out.

In her bent-over position inside the car, she had one tit mashed over the shift knob and the other hanging so its stiff nipple was grazing some control button. "Okay, shove that thing up my ass! Fill my guts with your hard cock!" she finally told him.

Holding her hips he leaned forward until his chest was hitting the door opening and he had to pull her back toward him to bury his boner all the way up her ass. He then began rocking his hips and pushing and pulling her hips, experiencing the most incredible ass-fuck he had ever had.

The whole filthy situation of fucking his buddy's trophy-wife up the ass while she hung, bent over, in his precious car brought his orgasm boiling forward. As he rocked her inside the car, driving hard and deep into her tight asshole, he growled, "I'm gonna cum, sweetie! You want me to fill your glorious ass with my spunk?"

"No!" she said and reached back to push him away. She turned herself over in the car and plunked her slime-and-cum-soaked ass on the leather seat, and told him, "Jerk off on me! In my mouth and on my tits!"

Still slick with her throat-slime, he began hammering his cock just inches from her face. In seconds, he grunted and the first long string of his cum shot into her mouth. He kept jerking and squirting and soon his jism was dripping off her chin, oozing down between her tits, and plopping onto the Jag's shiny black upholstery.

With one hand on the roof of the car to steady himself, he stood on slightly wobbly legs to catch his breath. He looked down at the splooge on the seat between Chelsea's legs, and joked, "That's gonna leave a mark."

"Fuck him!" she replied. "Let him wonder what the smell is the next time he turns on the seat heaters!"

Carl laughed, and said, "Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off wife!"

***

Carl had wiped his dick off with some paper towels and had gotten dressed, but Chelsea stayed naked. He told her that he'd order the paint when he got back to the shop, then have one of his guys drive him back later to pick up the car.

After she showed him to the door she got into the shower. The hot rain-fall of water rinsed Carl's cum from her body but also calmed the fury that she had felt toward her husband that had caused it to be there in the first place.

As the blood that had engorged her nipples, her pussy-lips, and the depths of her cunt began to flow back into the parts of her brain that had been starved due to her anger, tendrils of guilt started to replace the flames of vengeful arousal that had been there. Had she overreacted to Tom's indiscretion with his poker buddies? It's not like he had cheated on her, and he was actually bragging about her.

Then she thought about Carl's goading; how he had stoked her anger and then used it to "allow her to get back at her husband." Shit! she said to herself finally seeing how masterfully he had manipulated her. She couldn't lay all the blame on him, of course, but he sure as hell knew how to push her buttons! Prick!

After she got dressed, she went into the garage and cleaned the seat of the car, even using Q-tips to get down into the seam of the leather. She didn't bother to wash the fender; that was going to get repainted.

When Carl returned to pick up the car with one of his employees, he acted as if nothing had happened between them just a couple of hours before. Chelsea was glad for that. Apparently, he was satisfied that he had received payment in full. Such was not the case, however.

Six days later, when he drove the car back to her house, he suggested that she should give him blowjob as a tip for turning the job around so quickly and for doing such undetectable work. She didn't want to antagonize him—she still needed him to keep the secrets of the damage to the car and how she had paid for its repair—but she was not going to have sex with the manipulative prick again.

"I think we've both fulfilled our ends of the bargain," she told him. "You caught me at a very vulnerable time and you played your cards perfectly. I'll admit that you are a pretty good fuck, Carl, but I am not going to cheat on Tom again, with you or anyone else."

To his credit, Carl didn't push any further. He was able to read women well enough to know when there was zero chance of scoring, and he called one of his employees to come pick him up. Before he left, he told her, "For the record, you are one hell of a fuck, yourself, Chelsea. Tom is one lucky son-of-a-bitch. I hope he appreciates you."

***

Chelsea picked Tom up at the airport in her generic, white SUV. When he climbed into the passenger seat she kissed him, and asked, "So, how was your flight? How did the meeting go? Did you land that contract? You must be tired. Are you hungry? Do you want to stop somewhere and get something to eat?" She was so nervous about what she had decided to do that she was rambling almost incoherently.

Tom laughed at her run-together questions, but he also recognized it as a sign that she was nervous about something. That's what she did.

As she pulled out into traffic, he answered, "The flight was great; I actually slept for half of it. We did get a commitment on the job; we just need to tweak a few things before they'll sign. I'm actually not too tired, but I am a bit hungry. Let's stop at Vince's; I feel like celebrating a little." He looked at her, and added with a chuckle, "Now, what the hell are you so nervous about?"

She took a deep breath, and then said, "I, um, I scratched the Jaguar backing out of the garage."

"Oh, shit," he said. But his tone wasn't one of anger but was more like disappointment. "How bad is it?"

"It's actually fixed," she said. "I ... I was going to try to hide it from you; not tell you at all. I had Carl take it while you were gone. He did a great job. And he did it quick. It's back in the garage and you can't even tell where I scraped it."

She was still rambling, he noted; she was still nervous even after her confession. It must be about the money. Carl must have charged her a fortune to turn the car around so quickly, and probably to keep the secret, as well. Of all of his poker buddies, Carl could be the biggest prick.

"How much did the SOB charge you?" Tom asked.

She had to blink hard to clear the tears that were filling her eyes in order to see the traffic, but then she answered, "I ... I paid him with sex."

"What?" he responded turning in his seat to face her. "You screwed Carl so he'd fix my car?"

Glad that she was driving so she had an excuse to not face him, she said, "I'm sorry, Tom. I'm so, so sorry. But I was so angry with you, and he just ..."

"You were angry with me?" he interrupted her. "What the hell for? Because I parked crooked or something? You ran into the Jag and it's my fault?"

"No!" she snapped. "Because you told him and your buddies what a good fuck I am! You told them how I deep-throat you and that I take your cock up the ass! You told them that I was a diagnosed fucking nympho! That's why I was pissed at you!" She relaxed her fierce grip on the steering wheel, took a breath to calm down a bit, and added, "And he very skillfully used my anger to push my revenge buttons. He played me like a frigging violin." She looked over at him, and said, "I'm sorry, Tom, I really am, and it will never happen again, but at the time I thought you had it coming. I mean, how could you tell them about all our personal things? That I had to see a shrink when I was eighteen because I couldn't keep my fingers out of my cunt. What kind of blowjobs I give you? How often and which ways I like to fuck? How could you make me out to be a goddamned slut like that?"

Her nervousness was gone and anger had set in. She rarely swore unless she was very angry.

"Shit," he said resignedly and slumped back in his seat and hung his head. "I'm sorry, honey. You're right. That was wrong; it was stupid; it was childish. It was playing can-you-top-this when Carl would brag about his latest conquest." He looked at her and went on, "I ... I guess I wanted to be the center of attention for a change. I know it sounds stupid in retrospect, but I didn't tell them about all those things to make you look bad; I wanted to make them jealous of me and how lucky I was. I was bragging about you. Again, I know it's stupid, now, but I somehow missed the fact that I was disrespecting you at the same time." He paused a second then added, "I know it's no excuse, but there was a fair amount of alcohol involved."

They rode in silence for the next mile or so, and then he said, "Can we, um, forgive each other for our mutual indiscretions? Tit for tat, as it were?"

She chuckled, and replied, "More like tits for tattling ... along with other body parts."

He laughed at her joke, happy that her anger had dissipated somewhat. He then asked her, a bit nervously, "So, um, what other body parts would that be?"

She looked at him and said, "Do you really want me to tell you? Isn't it better that we just push this under the rug and let it go?"

He blew out a long breath and then said, "As long as we're confessing buried secrets, I have to admit that the thought of you with another guy actually turns me on. I know I wasn't your first and when you've told me about certain other guys that you knew before me, you might have noticed that it gives me a raging hard-on. Maybe you'd call me a closet cuckold, but the idea of seeing my gorgeous, nympho, trophy-wife fuck another guy arouses the shit out of me."

"Really?" she said. "So, you're actually not mad about me fucking Carl?"

"Not at you," he answered. "I'm pissed at Carl for manipulating you and for telling you all the stuff I told him and the others about you in confidence, but envisioning you in bed with him, sucking on his cock or taking his dick up your pussy, actually has me hard, right now." He pulled his slacks taut across his boner to show her.

"Well, holy shit!" she said. "Aren't we a pair that would beat a full house!"

"A nympho wife and a cuckold hubby," he replied with a little laugh. "It's a good pairing."

"I wouldn't call you a cuckold hubby," she said. "To me, that's some wimpy guy who can't satisfy his wife and who's forced to accept that she likes fucking other men. You're certainly no wimp and you sure as hell satisfy me, and it sounds like you'd be okay with me fucking around." She looked over at the bulge in his pants, and added, "Not just okay, but the thought actually turns on. I'd call you a hot, kinky, perverted hubby, but not a cuckold-hubby. Which makes me the luckiest fucking slut wife around!"

"So, um, you want to tell me about it?" he said as he ran his hand up and down his entrapped dick.

"Well, first off, we didn't fuck in our bed," she replied. "We did it in the garage; up against your car. It seemed appropriate at the time."

"Oh, shit!" he said, gripping his boner tightly through his pants. "Tell me about it, baby! Give me one of your hot, real-life porn stories!"

Knowing the kind of smutty detail he liked when she told him about how one—or more—of her previous boyfriends had fucked her before they were married, she started with a vivid description of Carl's big, uncut cock, even going into its raw, musky taste. She told him about gargling his dick in her throat; how he'd eaten her cunt while she sat on the Jag's trunk; and about leaning over the car so he could fuck her from behind.

She glanced over and saw him tugging hard on his trapped boner. She smiled, and said, "Do you want me to go on? Do you want to know how I leaned over inside your car and rocked my naked tits across your shift lever while he stood outside and shoved his fat cock up my ass? Do you want me to tell you that I came all over your precious leather seat and when he jerked off in my mouth, on my face, and all over my tits that his cum drooled onto your seat, too?"

"Oh, fuck!" he groaned as he stiffened in his seat with a death-grip on his hidden cock. A second later he let out a low growl as his dick erupted in his pants.

Panting and catching his breath, he said, "Holy shit, babe! You know your nympho stories always get me hot, but being able to picture exactly where you were doing it and knowing the guy you were doing it with brought it to a whole 'nother fucking level! I have to say that I wish it was anyone else but Carl, but on the other hand, he's exactly the kind of manipulative, egotistical prick who could get you to do those things." He chuckled and added, "I'll have to send him a thank you card."

Chelsea laughed and said, "I'm not sure that even Hallmark has a Thank You for Fucking My Nympho Wife card."

As his dick shrunk back up his pant leg, leaving its huge wet spot behind, he said, "So, um, what now?"

"So, now we skip dinner," she said, "I drive us home, and you fuck the shit out of me in the garage! That was so nasty and hot! My crotch is as wet as your pants!" She pulled his hand over and put it between her legs pushing up her skirt. Her panties were drenched.

As he rubbed his fingers over her wet pussy, he said, "That's short-term and I agree one hundred percent! Only this time, we're not cleaning your pussy-juice off the leather; I want to smell it on every hot summer day!" He skewed her panties aside and slid a finger between her lips and into her cunt-hole. He pushed it as deep as his awkward reach would allow and wiggled it there. "I'm talking about long-term. How do we take advantage of our newly-revealed perversions? Well, my secret desire to watch you fuck other guys is newly-revealed; I guess we've always known you were a nympho."

She stiffened and gripped the steering wheel hard as her pussy erupted around his wiggling finger. He moved his hand and ground his finger against her clit as her cunt contracted and gushed. She had to fight to keep her eyes open and watching traffic.

Although she knew he could have drawn her orgasm out much longer, she had to move his hand from her crotch so she could take the next exit safely.

She adjusted herself in her seat and concentrated more on the closer side-street traffic. After a minute or so, they were stopped at a light and she leaned over to get a kiss. When they broke and as the light changed, she said, "Again, baby, I am so, so sorry for cheating on you, and I promise I will never fuck another guy!" She then added with a suggestive lilt, "Without your permission and unless you're there to watch!"

He laughed, and replied, "Permission granted!"

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