Red on canvas

oldart4….following on from – The Morning after………..

I wonder how many married women who’ve found themselves fucking another man, for whatever reason, afterward feel the need to go and fuck their husband’s brains out? As if his cock is some sort of device that can overwrite the wrong that has been done to him; as if it’s a penance; a righteous fuck to plaster over the cracks left by the other wrong-eous fucker.

Yes, that was me that night. I’d done him wrong – so the song goes.
It all started with me slaving in the kitchen, preparing his favourite meal with all the trimmings; which included me in suspenders and stockings, transparent blouse and no bra or panties. Number two, on page one in the male fantasy hand-book. It comes right after blow-jobs twice a day, for life.

When he walked through the door thought his birthday and Christmas had come all at once. If I’d been in the mood for laughing I might have found the glazed, disbelieving look on his face comical, he completely ignored the smell and sound of sizzling steaks, his eyes instead feasting hungrily on me, as if he’d come home and found that I’d obligingly ordered a hooker take-away.
It was all I could do to stop him yanking down his trousers and taking me over the dining table; wouldn’t have been the first time.

Men rarely ask the question, “What did I do to deserve this?” when their cocks are hard. The voice of reason and caution are muffled into silence as the blood rushes into their groins.

I let him play with the toys for a few minutes, then whispered into his ear about what he might get if he waited until after dinner. He was still slavering like a rabid dog, but he squeezed his erection back into his trousers and shuffled toward the bathroom to wash the smell of wet pussy of his fingertips. Yes, I did see him put his fingers to his nose as he walked away. Men!

Dinner was jolly. Of course I told a few lies about the night before. The truth would have ruined the ambiance. Oddly, the sight of my nipples staring at him from across the table didn’t put him off his food; he just kept looking at them with undisguised hunger.

When he’d eaten and drank his fill, I turned into Mata Hare and led him into the bedroom.

I pulled out all the stops that night, starting with the best blow-job I’d ever given, bringing him to the point of orgasm a dozen times without the happy ending.
Almost an hour later he sighed contentedly, kissed me hard on the mouth and slowly drifted off to sleep a happy smile on his face.

I was contented as well, but it’s not so easy for us women. I’d cum, but by sexual nerves were still tingling.

When I finally closed my eyes I was granted a cinematic, techno-colour image of a tall Italian man with a fine, almost transparent scar on his left cheek, laying on top of a half struggling woman; she pinned face down, her legs kept wide by his knees and feet hook around her calves; his buttocks driving back and forth, sending his long, smooth cock sliding into her vagina, its girth stretching the elastic lips that fold in with each thrust, and roll out as he dragged out.

She clawed at the mattress, groaning and screaming and whimpering, but it was only a half a cry for mercy, the other was a demand for deeper, more violent penetration.

There are I think, moments in our lives that seem to act as markers of our existence. Moments, where, and when our lives change, and go off at unexpected tangents, for good or bad. Such I believe was the moment when I stood before a painting labelled – “Red on Canvas.”

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