The Splits

The Splits

by Ray Gordon

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Product Details

BN ID: 2940044301818
Publisher: Chimera Books
Publication date: 02/07/2013
Series: Ray Gordon Erotic Stories
Sold by: Smashwords
Format: NOOK Book
Sales rank: 971,486
File size: 365 KB
Age Range: 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

He was around twenty-five - married, good looking, with a rugged, masculine body and long black hair cascading over his forehead. He was also my latest sexual conquest. As I knelt before him and sucked his huge purple knob deep into my hot mouth, I laughed inwardly. Another married man falls, I mused as he shuddered in his adultery, his penis twitching, his knob swelling dangerously.

As his sperm gushed, filling my cheeks, waking my taste buds, I kneaded his heavy balls and took him even deeper into my mouth. Gasping, trembling, he clung to my head to steady himself as his knees sagged and his bollocks drained.

Making her timely entrance, his pretty young wife screamed hysterically as I looked up at her, her husband's sperm glistening on my lips, dribbling down my chin. She'd expected to have coffee with me - a chat and a giggle as we caught up on the latest gossip. But, taking the bait, she'd instead discovered her husband's infidelity. Now their marriage was over - destroyed in a few seconds of mindless lust.

As she fled, her flushed cheeks streaked with tears, he pulled his trousers on and gave chase, desperate to explain that it had been a mistake, that he really did love her, that I meant nothing to him.

Too late, I gloated wickedly as I slipped my panties up my long legs to cover my wet pussy - my weapon. Too much water under the bridge, too much sperm in another woman's mouth. Another conquest, another broken marriage to add to my ever growing list. The wedding vows had been broken. Now the tears, the pain, the hurt would come. As they had to me.

I'll never forget that fateful morning last summer when my husband, Jim, stood before me in the lounge - and glibly destroyed me. In seconds, from happily married, I became a deserted, betrayed, broken woman.

I hadn't believed the anonymous note lying on the doormat that morning. Until I'd opened that white envelope and playfully confronted Jim, I'd thought we were together, that things were fine between us. Reading the scribbled words of an alleged affair to him, I'd laughed, thinking he'd laugh too and offer a reassuring explanation. He didn't. And my stomach sank, fell like a stone as his riposte pierced my soul.

"I'm sorry, Sue. I'm leaving you." He was standing on the hearthrug we'd bought only three weeks previously - the rug I'd anticipated us spending long winter evenings on, sprawled out naked by the coal fire.

Shock registered first - and a frightening sense of total devastation. I could barely comprehend what he was saying, let alone reply. My mind reeled with obscene images of my naked husband in another woman's bed - my best friend's bed - entwined in lust, loving her, writhing in the lewd act of adultery, his penis penetrating her pussy, filling her with his sperm as she gasped her illicit love for him.

My hands trembled, my heart beat wildly. Parts of my life flashed before me - our first meeting in the small coffee shop off the High Street. Our Greek island honeymoon - the orange glow of the setting sun bathing our naked bodies as we made perfect, idyllic love on that sandy shore.

"Sue," he called through the mist of my tormented mind. My legs were shaking and my head swimming as I focused my tearful eyes on him.

He was a stranger to me now. His black hair hanging over his unusually lined forehead, his crisp white shirt open, displaying his bronzed chest - he wasn't the man I'd known and loved. He lifted his head, his dark eyes gazing into mine as he attempted a slight smile. Opening his mouth as if about to speak, he sighed. Usually positive, a pillar of strength in a crisis, I saw a wimp.

"Sue, I'm sorry," he mumbled, his head hanging low. Sorry? Was that it? After what I'd thought had been three years of happiness married to the man I loved... sorry? "It's not your fault..." Not my fault? He screws my best friend, says he's leaving me for her, wrecks my life - then tells me that it's not my fault?

"How long have you been lying to me, cheating on me, betraying me?" I finally managed to blubber through my tears. The stark reality of my words had hit home, I knew. He winced slightly, biting his lip as he searched for an appeasing answer - a lie. Obviously realizing that I at least deserved the truth, that I'd eventually discover the truth if he were to lie to me, he hung his head again.

"All along, I suppose," he mumbled.

"All along? You mean, you've been screwing that little tart throughout our entire marriage?"

"I was seeing her before we married, Sue. I tried to end it but..."

"Good in bed, is she?" I interrupted the pathetic figure standing before me. He looked like a dishevelled schoolboy who'd been caught wanking. Holding his hand to his forehead, he screwed his eyes shut as if trying to black out the truth. "Got a nice fanny, has she?" I persisted, imagining him kissing her there, loving her there - slipping his penis into her. "Tighter than mine, is it?"

"No. It's just that..."

"Just that what, Jim? That she's a better fuck than me?" I screamed hysterically. "Is that it? You'd rather fuck her dirty little cunt? Get out. Get out of this house and never come back."

As he turned and left the room, my stomach churned. I felt dizzy with fear, sadness, anger, grief. Bastard. The front door banged shut, loudly, and that was it - he'd gone. I thought he'd come crawling back to me before long - pleading, begging me for forgiveness. Once he'd realized what he was giving up - me, the house, our future - I thought he'd be back. But I was wrong.

For several days after Jim's departure I stayed in bed and mooched around the house in my dressing gown, asking myself why? Where had I gone wrong? Could I have been a better wife? In my despair, I blamed myself for the note. If I hadn't confronted him, I'd have never known that he was fucking another woman behind my back. In my ignorance, things would have been all right.

I didn't eat, or sleep. Sobbing into my pillow into the early hours of the morning, I'd come to, puffy-eyed, wet, drowning in my sorrow. Letting myself go, I wallowed in grief - anger. Lost in self-pity, injured pride, there seemed little point in dressing, bothering to put makeup on. My world had gone, spun off out of orbit into oblivion.

For a while, I blamed myself for his affair. I remembered the times I'd said no to sex, the times I'd known he was feeling randy and I'd turned my back on him in bed. But, on those rare occasions, I'd felt tired. I couldn't force myself to make love when I was too tired even to think straight. Perhaps I should have done?

But, as the days passed, I recalled the times when I'd eagerly said yes to sex - many, many times. And the times I'd begged him for sex, instigated nights of wild and desperate passion. Wet with excitement of the little surprise in store for my husband, I'd climb into bed with him, knowing that he was longing to lick my pussy, drink my come.

Between my thighs, he'd lick, suck, and then gasp with delight as a banana popped out between my cunt lips. Extracting the delicacy from my pussy with his teeth, he'd savour the creamy fruit before sucking a beautiful orgasm from my clitoris.

I thought long and hard about those heady days, those frantic nights we'd spent making love, doing anything and everything, fulfilling each other's every whim, every desire, every sexual fantasy. Only the night before he'd dropped his bombshell we'd spent hours making close, passionate love.

And to think I'd had no idea that he'd been screwing my so-called best friend all along. Bitch. Bastard. Why had he said that it wasn't my fault? Was it some kind of psychological ploy to have me believe that I really was to blame?

I began to think of her, my best bloody friend. At twenty-six, Caroline was two years older than me, shy, unimposing, with her dull, wispy blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. My own luxuriant blonde tresses were thick and long. What did she have that I didn't? What was the attraction? She had to have something to offer, something to lure my husband away from me. But what?

Sensible, well educated, I'd thought she was my friend. I'd never have imagined her offering her body to my husband, making love to him behind my back. I'd never have imagined my husband making love to anyone behind my back, let alone Caroline. She was a bitch, I decided. But she had Jim.

The house was quiet. Only my thoughts, swirling thoughts, thoughts of hatred and revenge disturbed the peace. It would always be quiet now it wasn't a family home, I reflected, sitting in the lounge one evening. We'd planned to have children, or at least, I had. Obviously the patter of tiny feet couldn't have been further from Jim's mind as he sank his solid penis into Caroline's wet pussy and gave her his sperm - my sperm.

Alone, I felt as if I was in a void. A huge, black hole - empty, bottomless, meaningless, pointless. After a month, I felt worse. I'd thought that time would heal my wounds, take the pain away, but the passing weeks, and another note describing in graphic detail how Jim and Caroline would be making love, had only heightened my anger, hatred, and bitterness.

Trying to come to terms with what had happened, I'd go for long walks. I'd sit in the park watching couples walking hand in hand - and despise them for the love they shared. I'd watch couples in the supermarket buying the weekend shopping, as we used to - and detest the very idea of marriage. I became obsessed. The bitterness eating away inside me, I grew bent on destroying relationships. If I couldn't have a relationship, then no one else would.

I started writing anonymous letters - scathing, libellous letters to Caroline telling of Jim's unfaithfulness to her. To ease my pain, I'd tell her that hers wasn't the only fanny he was screwing. I'd conjure graphic descriptions of his penis entering other women's pussies - their slippery juices glistening on his shaft as he fucked them behind her back.

She'd have known that the letters were from me, of course, but I didn't care. It made me feel better just to think that I'd planted the seed of doubt in her mind. A seed that would grow and grow until, like ivy creeping up a tree, it strangled the bitch.

"You'll soon find yourself a nice man," my friends would console me smugly in front of their husbands. It's funny how human nature works - how people seem to derive satisfaction from other peoples' demise. Perhaps my sadness served to remind them how lucky they were, how happy they were? They had their husbands, their love, their sex-lives. I had nothing.

My friends began to pity me. They'd call in for coffee, trying to cheer me up with their incessant drivel. I suppose they meant well, but I sensed that they were more curious as to my state of mind rather than genuinely wanting to help me. I felt like a freak on parade at a circus, and they'd all come to look, to point. When they'd had their fill, they'd go home laughing, cracking jokes at my expense.

But even worse than my so-called friends were the notes, the relentless notes, relating in explicit detail what Jim and the bitch got up to in bed. Caroline wouldn't lower herself to such deranged behaviour, I knew. She'd won, after all - she had Jim. The only reason she'd bother sending notes of that kind would be to rub salt into my wounds.

I knew that I had to shake off my depression. Despite the cosy couples, the pitying wives, the notes, I had to take control of my emotions, free my mind of Jim - and the bitch. And then it happened. Quite clinically, the healing process was set in motion one Saturday evening, when Tony materialized on my doorstep clutching a screwdriver.

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