Paul Gable - Whipped wife

Diane Hathaway crossed her long, tapered legs and pushed her ass cheeks against the back of the living room couch as she rubbed the tall, cold glass slowly over her flushed cheeks. The blonde was trying to fight down the hot, mushy feeling between her legs. She lowered her eyes to the green carpet and tried to appear as if she were completely unconcerned with what was happening around her. But the way that man's eyes were zooming in on her body for a close-up! The way his stares seemed to burn through her clothing and sear across her flesh made her skin crawl with excitement. Diane's fingers trembled, making the ice rattle against the sides of the glass as she took another long sip of her drink.

"And that's it, ladies. My company's willing to take a chance on you if you'll take a chance with us," the tall, black-haired man said breezily as he flashed another hot glance at Diane. The nervous blonde felt her pussy stirring with the kind of hot excitement and lust that she swore she'd never give in to again. Diane knew only too well that it was this kind of feeling that got her into trouble every time. She lost her cherry to the high school football team captain because she couldn't keep her twat under control that night of the senior prom. God! The way they fucked and fucked that night under the stars on top of his tuxedo jacket, staining the white material with cum, blood from her ruptured hymen and sweat, made Diane think that that dream would never end.

It did. The next week good old Jim Byron pretended as if he never knew her. His regular girlfriend had made up with him, and he didn't want the bitch to know that he'd been fucking around.

"Diane, isn't he handsome?" a short, attractive young woman with long, shiny black hair sitting next to the blonde asked softly as she kept her eyes riveted onto the speaker's muscular body.

"Mmmm," Diane answered with a low hum, surprised at how husky sounding her voice was. The blonde shook her head slightly, pushing several strands of stray blonde hairs away from her face. Even that careless movement had a certain dignity, almost regal quality about it that attracted attention. In fact, everything about Diane Hathaway seemed to attract attention from every normal male near her. The proud, almost stiff way she carried herself about; her golden, long hair that she wore parted in the middle of her head and hanging down beyond her shoulders; her sparkling, dark-blue eyes that were surrounded by long, black lashes; her pert little ass that jounced back and forth under her clinging slacks whenever she walked; those melon-like, high-riding titties jiggling against each other with each step she took everything about her made men's breaths quicken and their cocks stiffen up with hot blood!

"I'd sell myself for a man like that," the girl said under her breath, reaching over with her right hand and pinching Diane teasingly on the right arm.

"Oh, stop it, Sharon!" Diane whispered as she took another drink. She was sorry she ever came to this demonstration. She should have been at home cooking dinner for Matt.

Matt! That was another mistake in her life. After the football captain business, Diane swore that she'd never fuck with another man until he slipped that magic ring on her third finger. It was hard to keep her pussy quiet, especially in college when every coed around her was yakking about how big so-and-so's cock was, or how so-and-so made her suck him off in the back seat the night before. Diane pretended that talk offended her. But the blonde envied all those girls. She secretly wished that she could be in their places at least once, feeling a strong, hairy, masculine hand prying open her reluctant legs and stroking her inner thighs while while Diane blocked the rest out of her mind. She knew that if she thought about it, she'd go crazy in her dorm room while her girlfriends were out there in the fields fucking like butterflies in heat.

"Don't forget your samples and the sample booklets, ladies," the big man said, flashing a white, gleaming smile at Diane as he passed out the shiny pamphlets to the crowd of giggling women.

"Too bad you're married, Diane," Sharon said as she started to get up. "I think he's making a pass at you."

Great! Diane thought to herself as she drained the glass of the vodka and tonic, then placed it down on the end table on her right. That's how it started out with her and Matt. He seemed to be quiet and mature. They met in Art History I at UCLA. Matt wasn't like the rest of the men at the university who started conversations out with something clever like: "Don't you think Gauguin was influenced by the pre-Romanticist movement in German wanna fuck?" He seemed to respect her body as well as her mind. They'd walk for hours in the Sculpture Garden next to the Graduate Research Library and talk about various art movements, the situation in the visual arts today, and other academic subjects. And he didn't even once try to take her hand, let alone try anything more suggestive. At first, Diane thought that he might be gay and wanted just a sister-type figure around him all the time.

That kind of thinking went out the window one evening after they attended a concert of Baroque music at Royce Hall. Matt escorted her out of the hot, stuffy auditorium after the last notes died away into the still night. He was strangely quiet that evening, fidgeting in his seat while the tiny amateur string orchestra sawed bravely through Bach's early ensemble music. Diane sensed that Matt's mind was somewhere else. But until they strolled into the dark, deserted Sculpture Gardens that night, she had no idea exactly where it had been hiding.

After several minutes of silent strolling, Diane felt Matt's right hand grip her wrist tightly and spin her around.

"Matt?" Diane asked in a questioning, slightly nervous voice as she looked into his eyes. The full moon lit up the tall pines and shrubs around them with an eerie silver light. In that same bright moonlight, Matt's face looked savage and twisted. His deep-set eyes looked like holes in a death-head. His nostrils quivered nervously, and his lower jaw moved spasmodically. "Matt, come on. What's wrong with you?"

"I-I," he stammered, still staring at her. Then before she knew it, the blonde was being dragged off the twisting concrete path into a cluster of tall bushes some ten feet away.

"Matt! Please, don't!" Diane cried all the way through the rape, clawing at the boy's flushed face as he ripped away her blouse, bra, skirt and panties. It all happened so quickly that Diane didn't even realize that Matt had blown his wad in her pussy until he collapsed on top of her violated body. He kept his dick embedded in her snatch for several minutes, hunching spastically into her while he covered her mouth with his right hand. When he was sure that she wouldn't scream any more, he took his hand off and started to apologize.

"You filthy animal!" Diane hissed, reaching up and pushing him off.

That horrible night! Diane wanted to forget it. "We have a lot of success with women like you, Mrs. Hathaway, who go out into the field and sell our products," the man said, handing the blonde a box of the printed pamphlets.

"Thank you, Mr. uh" Diane stammered as she pressed the box against her protruding tits.

"Jack. Jack Moore," the man said, taking Diane's hand in his and pressing it tightly.

"It's attached to me," Diane said after several long seconds went by. She pulled back gently but steadily, feeling a thrill flash through her box as Jack kept on smiling at her.

Just like Matt, Diane thought sourly as she turned and walked back to the couch. After that night in the Sculpture Gardens, the blonde didn't hear anything from him for several days. He wasn't in class, and didn't bother trying to call or see her at the dorm. That was fine with her. He'd purposely led her into believing that he respected her. Then slap, bam! Into the bushes and into her cunt!