5 comments/ 52745 views/ 2 favorites Mrs Hot-Hot Honeycombe Ch. 01 By: Egmont Grigor Emma was left alone for six days in a strange city in a foreign country, away from her parents who were caring for her two children. It was understandable she was miserable about this but she was happy for her husband Paul who'd left excitedly that morning as a member of a five-person party on a charter fishing trip – a catch guaranteed, which Paul had said probably would be either a cold or perhaps an STD if a woman was onboard. Meeting that last cynical comment with a brave grin, Emma kissed Paul goodbye and assured him she'd have a wonderful, busy time and would really enjoy not having him wanting her to move on to the next store, next counter or even the next street as he did when accompanying her shopping. Paul had wanted to come to this country for the fishing, said to be fabulous, and to walk two of the world-rated tracks in the South Island of this place called New Zealand. It had rained every day on those bush walks – amazing scenery yes – but scenery is not a priority when your legs are tired from sloshing through mud and you have a rain-wet ass for five to six hours a day. She didn't complain because whenever she had a mind to complain it was Paul's considered opinion she should keep her mouth shut. Emma knew in some ways she'd be better off without Paul. She'd take control of her life and revel at laughing without being told she laughed too loudly, and wear dresses that allowed men and even interested women to see how she stacked up and to stay in the bath for two hours simply because the alternative to getting out was to stay in and at times that seemed the better choice. Paul was a bully and she was a wimp. Emma was perfectly aware of that, but awareness does not change fact. Because of Paul she lived in a beautiful home in Chicago, they had two adorable children and Paul was always saying he loved her to bits and those bits he was talking about were on her chest and both sides of her lower middle. There had to be more to life than generally having a lack-luster time living with Paul who was old before his time at thirty-two, Megan an impish six-year-old and she had Danny seven years ago when she was twenty and tearfully pregnant. She'd forever be grateful to Paul who did the decent thing and married her, partly because of his desire to see what his child would look like and partly because Emma's father loaded his shotgun in front of Paul but definitely did not point it at him or threaten him with it – though Paul always said those things were definitely implied. Oh, he confessed to her drunkenly one night five years ago that his insurance company bosses had let it be known to him that they preferred their senior executives to be married with children as that established those executives as solid, stable citizens. Emma had thought about having an affair, but Paul never introduced her to any likely types and besides she was timid about indulging in such liaisons because in all the affairs she read about in books the guys administering to the women's loneliness always seemed determined to push their thing up the poor women's back passage. Is that what I really want, Emma would ask, almost gagging. Prepared to suffer on-going days of boredom, Emma soaked for 135 minutes in the bath and emerged nude from the bathroom, her wrinkled skin from that long immersion in water making her look like at woman 129 years of age, rather than one not long into her twenty-ninth year. She then dressed in a half bra and a low neck sweater usually she wore over a silk shirt – thinking Paul would be less than impressed with this. She wondered about going to a bar to see if there was a man she could be interested in; the thought of Paul sharing the one woman on the boat with five other men – well, he had implied that, hadn't he? – had not impressed her at all. But it was only 9:30 so the men in bars that early in the morning would unlikely be suitable for a clean-living female used to sex once a week and then only with her husband. Walking to an intersection Emma saw a bus that carried a sign indicating it continuously circled the city centre. She stepped aboard and the driver said she couldn't do that – she'd have to board at the designated bus stop. "You sound like my husband," Emma said airily, dropped a coin into the cash receptacle and sat down. Before too long she became aware they were leaving the shopping district and worked out she'd prefer to be traveling in the other direction, so left the bus at the next designated bus stop, saying to the driver as she turned to go down the steps – "Be nice to your wife when you arrive home, do you hear?" She thought the reply was 'Fuck off" but perhaps she was mistaken. Right in front of Emma were the high walls of the rear of a supermarket. Though aware she'd not come to New Zealand to go to a supermarket there was not rule to say she shouldn't, so she walked around the corner and found an entrance. She felt at home instantly, devouring all the 'special' signs and boggling at the prices that seemed unbelievable low to her. The thought of amusing herself by trying to find a suitable male to invite back to her hotel room – well knowing that wouldn't happen as it would scare the crap out of her – Emma picked up a hand basket, rather than a trolley, because she had no intention of buying anything. But soon, forgetting she was thousands of miles from home – Emma had deposited into the small basket a box of rubber bands (42 percent off the normal retail price), can of fly spray (28 percent off), 4 inch paint brush (33 percent off), two lovely T-bone steaks (there were no cooking facilities in her hotel suite), a pack of AAA batteries (free from the passed use-by date bin) and eleven items from the skin and nail care aisle. Satisfied with her haul, the trawling for which had completely removed boredom from her mind because she'd been operating in familiar territory, she went to the check-out where reality struck. The chewing gum cashier, aged about 20, looked at the $100 bill offered by Emma and said: "Sorry love, we don't take that foreign stuff". Emma: "Oh, what can I do?" Cashier: "Put it all back or wait aside until my supervisor comes free. Voice behind Emma: "Here's the money." Emma: "Thank you but you certainly cannot do that. I don't know you." Cashier: "If you two have finished may I have the money." Voice: "Certainly – here it is." Emma: "Stop, you can't do that." Second voice: "Take the fucking offer, lady." Third voice: "Go home Yank." Fourth voice: "You're holding everyone up." Supervisors: What's going on here?" Emma walked out greatly embarrassed and by mistake rode the moving walkway to the top level of the basement car park instead of walking out the way she'd entered. In the car park she looked about vaguely attempting to figure out why she was in a car park. "Lost your car, love," said the same male voice of the man who'd paid $34.27 for her purchases. "No, my car is back in Chicago," Emma answered, bottom lip trembling. "Oh dear," said the voice which then introduced its owner as Harry. "You better come along with me. We can't have Mrs America wandering about confused in this strange city of Auckland, and I'm telling you it can be strange." "I'm not Mrs America – I'm Emma." "Hullo, Emma," smiled the tall man in jeans, T-shirt and sandals and in need of a shave. However, Emma immediately judged him as trustworthy because he looked very much like Pastor Luke and was about the same age (42 or 43), height (a little over six foot) but without the nasty side effects (bad breath, balding, squinty eyes and yellow teeth). "You are gorgeous," she said. "No, I'm Harry – Harry Pybus." The name sounded romantic enough, encouraging Emma to think this could be the man who'd sweep her into an affair. But if she was expecting to be driven away to his castle in a silver and maroon Rolls Royce she was a little out with her visualization – what they stood alongside was a sad-looking car about the same age of its owner, rusted throughout, dented and the tire she looked as was as balding as Pastor Luke. "Emma, may I introduce you to The Rust Bucket," Harry said, tapping the roof of the vehicle fondly but not so hard as to pierce through the rusted metal. "My car doesn't have a name," said Emma, bottom lip trembling again. "Oh dear. Into the car, Emma, but enter through my door as the passenger door was welded permanently shut when the door opening mechanism disintegrated." He threw everything into the trunk and arrived at the open door just in time to see Emma's ass high in the air as she negotiated the shift stick and brake lever, wondering if either of those worked. "Lovely stocking tops," he said softly, having a great view right up to her floral panties. "Yes, bought them at Macy's sale on the day we flew out." "That 'we' being you and your husband?" "Yes, he's away on a five-night fishing trip." "Leaving you in the company of others on your tour party?" "No, there is no-one else." "Jesus." "Are you a pastor?" "No, I'm an insurance company marine claims inspector." "I'm not sure I've ever heard of that category of insurance company person." "As the relevancy of question rates practically at zero, I'll not bore you by answering your question fully." "Pardon me, but I need to know; my husband works in insurance." "Oh well, I inspect boats and interrogate people probably trying to cheat the company out of its money through lodging false claims – like claiming for storm damage on a day when the sea was too calm for sailing." "Oh, like burning a hole in the middle of the table so we can get it resurfaced free." "Yes, exactly. How did you know about that particular swindle?" "Because I did it once." "Oh yes, what is the name of your insurance company?" "As the relevancy of question rates practically at zero, I'll not bore you by answering." "You're awfully cute Emma," Harry said, switching on the motor, which started at the first attempt and to Emma's inexpert ear appeared to be running like a dream. "Where to now?" "A bedroom or have me across the table if you wish." "What!" cried Harry pushing the manual shift into first gear instead of reverse and the sad little car hit the wood barrier just in front of its front wheels which stopped it from ramming the concrete wall. "I'm sorry," Emma said, patting his arm, amazed at this sudden flow of adrenalin-boosted wickedness. "I apologise for distracting your from your driving but you did ask." Enlightenment appeared on Harry's confused face; he grinned. "A natural misunderstanding of two people from different cultures speaking the same language: The expression I used was a shortened version of 'Where would you like to go now, Emma?' meaning where can I drive you and let you out and hand over your shopping." "I see – well the alternative was rather long-winded, wasn't it? The Rex Hotel please." They drove sedately to the Rex Hotel where the doorman hurried over and said: "Please remove that heap of junk from our frontage immediately." "Up yours," snarled Harry. The doorman blew his whistle – two sharp blasts. Two cabs came off the waiting rank to the entrance, not being wanted of course, and out came the responding day manager. "Trouble Fergusson?" "Yes, he's refused to remove this heap of shit from our premises." "Call the cops, Fergusson." "Wait," called Emma. "I'm a guest of his hotel." "Oh yeah," laughed the day manager, and I'm President Eisenhower, you Yank." "Here's my room access card." "Christ," said the manager, looking stunned at the gold and black card issued only for penthouse suites. "Has this rogue kidnapped you, ma'am?" "No, quite the opposite – he's saved me from abandonment." "Please remove yourself from the car and come into the safety of our hotel, ma'am." "That was our intention." "Yes, ma'am." "She had to evacuate through this door," said Harry. "This is the only door that works." Harry, the manager and the doorman stood back and watched Emma back over the gear shift and brake handle and out the door. It was only the second time Harry had even seen floral panties and the manager and doorman probably had never seen them before. There was a minor melee as all three rushed forward to help Emma stand upright as her feet touched the ground, ending one of the best shows in town. "Park my car between those two Mercedes, thank you," Harry ordered. "Have it parked in the darkest corner or the underground parking area," the day manager whispered to the doorman. "Oh, we forgot your shopping," said Harry, as they entered the most luxurious hotel room he'd seen. "I'll fetch it." "Leave it, Harry – just dump it. I scarcely knew what I was doing – going through a confidence low, I suppose. But shopping and then you normalizing me have made me determined to have my way with you. Go to that wall screen over there, press five and a woman will come on-screen – order me American style coffee, three soda crackers and a cream cake – you order anything you wish, a full meal if you want to build up your strength. Just say you're ordering on behalf of Mrs Honeycombe." "Who's she?" Harry asked, pretending to look bewildered. "Me, you dope. Make yourself comfortable – I'm off to have a long bath." "Your coffee and food have arrived." "Goodie – bring them in, Harry." The heavy tray appeared around the door, but no sign of Harry except for his hands and forearms. "Enter Harry – you are free to look but I'll disappoint you as I don't have three boobs." Harry entered, demonstrating bravado or was it sophistication: "Lovely bathroom; quite palatial in fact, eminently suitable for a princess like you." "Look at me Harry when talking to me – you don't wish to be adjudged rude, do you?" Harry looked. She was well down in the water and two of the loveliest orbs that he'd seen in a very long time seemed to float on the foam. Her slit was not in view. She pushed up her hips. "Was this what you were looking for, Harry?" It was a shaved pussy with fat cheeks and ever so inviting, or so he reckoned. "That is classic," Harry breathed. "Have a shave and then join me after you've had your food, Harry. Harry gulped down his tomato, parsley and peach omelet – the woman taking the order thought she could tempt the assistant chef to add peaches – and took his green tea into the bathroom. "Goodie, you're back. Have a shave before you come into the bath, Harry. My skin is a little sensitive to whiskers as is the case with all but hardened women I suppose." The doorbell chimed. Harry went out and returned with a bottle of French champagne and a card. "It's from the day manager with his compliments and an apology for not treating you impeccably." "Oooh. Put it in the cooler, Harry. We'll get into that when we are resting." Harry lifted up the water-proof rechargeable shaver and was about to put it against his face when he drew it away and stared at it. "What's wrong, Harry – a slight tang of pussy. Don't be such a baby – your face is going places where you'll definitely recognize that fragrance – I guess calling it a fragrance is acceptable." Harry began shaving, wishing the device had a super speed option... TO BE CONTINUED... Mrs Hot-Hot Honeycombe Ch. 02 Harry Pybus finished his facial shave with the Emma's shaver, having watched the lush Emma stretched back in the bath, eyes closed, gently massaging her breasts, which served to pump a injection of lust through his heart to his brain and then on to his very interested dick. His aim was simple: to give the hot-hot Mrs Honeycombe a vacation she'd never forget. She'd said hubby would be away for five nights, didn't she? Harry grinned, cuffing his half-aroused cock back into quiescence. He sat on the bathroom chair and began removing the hair from around his penis and testicles, working with intense concentration and thinking the shaver was a wonderfully well designed appliance – obviously designed to do its job effectively between a woman's legs with no skin pulls or cuts even when she was in the shower or bath. Obviously it was designed and crafted with the sculptured fluidity in form and functionality to at least equal the design of a man's cock with its different duties to perform in a woman's orifice or two or three. He patted his erection, whispering, "Don't worry buddy, if she pressures me I'll just put you away and we'll go, telling her we don't do ass penetrations." Worried about the finer feelings of his dick, Harry gave it a couple of loving tugs and heard a gasp. Looking up he saw Emma, eyes like hubcaps, had lifted up and focused on the dick in his hand, her tongue lolling across the corner of her mouth, dribbling. He checked out her nipples; they were slicking out of swelling breasts like rampaging boils…er...like the tips of billiard cues. His dick writhed in his grip, attempting to turn itself in the direction where it could smell sex. "Are you doing this for me?" she asked hoarsely Looking at the door Harry grinned. "It has to be; the room service maid has gone." "Oh Harry, bring that pretty boy over here – he needs to be kissed." Harry was sure Pretty Boy grew another half inch at that compliment – he'd been called names before – 'pull out your Fucking Dick' and 'wham that Heavenly Fucker into me Harry' were typical comments but the most hurtful one had been, "bring that Ugly Brute to mummy' (no, certainly not his mother). But pretty? Harry's cock shed two tears in adoration for this new, well-hung woman of Harry's although it could be excused for wondering why she spoke English in such a painful fashion. Some of the women Harry had sent him in to bat for him had been real English ladies, speaking oh so beautifully; pity they hadn't a clue about sensuous fucking. Harry's dick had not experienced in-depth relationships with New Zealand women as they tended to keep their identity hidden, wanting to do it in the dark, and their conversations were usually limited to 'You're hurting me, Harry', 'please cum Harry, I'm all puckered out' and 'that's enough Harry, that's my husband's car'. Harry's dick had tried to warn him about one woman who was persistently bad in bed, turning away from Harry as soon as the first bout of ejaculations hit the end of the condom. She wasn't into tit-fucking and when Harry attempted to put the dick into her mouth she spat and screamed at him to never again be so foul or else the marriage was off. The dick tried to warn Harry, for the next six weeks refusing to discharge, resulting in Harry walking around, head down and almost going out of his mind. The dick's plan horribly misfired, the woman showed some emotion for Harry at last telling him it didn't matter, that she preferred to be fingered off anyway. She wouldn't care if the dick was surgically removed. At that the dick retreated in terror, refusing to get up any more. Poor Harry. He went to a sex therapist who probed Harry's mind with questions and even asked Harry to strip off so she could inspect his non-inflating penis. The therapist tried everything by the book, without success, so decided to be devious. She lay beside Harry reading him filthy sections from a book she'd bought in some dive in Egypt – and she noted the dick showed some flickers of interest. The therapist went over to the bookshelves and was rooting around the shelf at ground level, bent over, and obviously not wearing knickers and clearly was a adept with her shaver. The dick went rigid and Harry leapt off the couch. The therapist screamed, in pleasure, as she received her best dicking of the year (it was mid-December). But stupid Harry – he went a married Miss Anti-Dick and the marriage lurched onwards for five years before she ended it after catching Harry for the seventh time exercising his dick with one of the numerous women who lived nearby. Upset that havvy had to put up with such a bitch, they took their concern for him to his marital bed. Harry washed and dried his dick and went over to introduce it to Emma. Sitting up again, Emma greeted her prize in a most delightful way, kissing it a dozen times on the head sweetly and then giving it tongue-tip licks like a playful kitten, leaving Harry's balls to ache with frustration at not being part of play. "I'll see you later, sweet one," Emma said, looking at Harry's dick which winked at her. "But I'll give you something to remember me by, to keep you keen." At that she closed her mouth over the head and seizing Harry's butt, pulled him right against her, causing the dick to penetrate deeply into her throat brushing tonsils. Harry climbed into the other end of the bath and came up on to his knees as she spread her legs outwards – one over the side of the bath, the other resting knee bent, against the wall. That of course allowed her to float her butt up to the surface and out of the water came her vulva, shedding water like the surfacing submarine 'The Hunt for Red October'. He lowered his head and she grabbed his hair in one hand, pulling him down on to it as if she were in desperate need. "Paul won't do this to me…I've only read about it." Presumable Paul was her husband. Harry also wondered what books she'd possessed to be reading about pussy licking. Perhaps True Romance paperbacks had come into the 21st Century since he'd last read one. She was squirming and splashing about so much as he clamped his hands on her thighs he thought of calling room service for a face mask and snorkel. Emma pulled the butterfly wings open, calling "Hurry, hurry" or was that "Hurry Harry"? He was in no hurry but obliged. Wham! The tip of his tongue had just found the slit when she heaved, the rings on her finger holding open her outer labia thudding against his top lip as she convulsed into her first ejaculation of the day. It was an ejaculation rather than a super-charged orgasm as the taste was something other than normal pussy juice. "Are you all right," she gasped. "Sorry about that, I'd just become so worked up. I wanted this but it's the first time I've participated in an adulterous liaison." "It's fine," he soothed, "providing you keep those discharges coming and enjoy to the max. You slugged my lip, which saved me from a tooth chip, for which I am grateful." "Oh, sorry – whatever can I give you in compensation?" "A mouthful of pussy is fine for right now – enjoy!" It took almost fifteen minutes of dedicated tongue and finger massaging before Emma fired again – it was the finger delicately rimming around the perimeter of her asshole that did it. She jerked, gasped, thrust and splashed water everywhere before yelling "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek". "Oh, you wonderful man. That sent my across the divide for a few seconds." Jaw aching, Harry called for a compulsory break. He stood up in the bath and pulled her up, immediately thinking sex when her breasts fell into normal position, no slump that he could see and the nipples turned cutely upwards as if proclaiming, 'Please suck me.' He licked his lips. Emma reached down and squeezed his balls, making him yelp. "Come on Harry, you called the break. Let's hit the champagne." Harry couldn't believe that this was normal behavior for Emma. She sat right opposite him, just out of reach, and cocked a leg over each arm of the leather lounge chair, her slightly gaping slit winking at him. His dick, as usual unable to contain itself, rose up to look at a juicy hairless cunt and winked right back. "This is lovely," she cooed, sipping champagne from a most elegant flute and eyeing his cock, moving slightly as if caught in a breeze. "I'm going to suck that mother-fucker." Harry's champagne slopped down his virtually hairless chest and ran down on to the base of his dick and between his legs and on to the leather. How on earth did a conservative American woman, playing around for the first time in her life, know an excruciatingly foul phrase like that? "Where did you learn the term 'mother-fucker'? "We watch a lot of police and private detective films on TV – and that word is normal language for them." "Do you know what it means?" "I think so – an insult about the person the term is directed at." "Yes, and meaning?" Emma turned crimson. "Ohmigod, what a disgustingly obscene term. I'd never thought about it. It's like when you say he's in the crap – you never think of him standing up to his knees in excrement. Oh, please accept my apologies." "I have a better idea – when you've finished that drink, come over here and wash out that foul mouth of yours with my cum." "Now that was a disgustingly obscene invitation," Emma said, throwing back the last mouthful of wine and lurching across on her knees, breasts swinging. The sight of those swinging boobs made Harry come close to losing his load. She reached him and they kissed, his erection doing its best to nestle between the orbs of delectable flesh. Harry pulled his head back. "Before you start, have you done this before?" "No, never." "Have you tasted cum?" Emma burned pink. "I confess to having licked my fingers after touching Paul a couple of times after he'd withdrawn from me. It makes you wonder about Cum Sluts though – I thought it tasted a bit like that stuff we had as kids." "Sago or tapioca?" "Yes, that's it. Pretty tasteless from memory." "Well, in my role as tutor, I suggest you bang away on my dick, varying your tempo and mixing licking, sucking, rubbing and light squeezing and when I warn that I'm coming, direct the cum stream over my gut and chest and then lick up as much as you wish. If you don't like it, don't do it. Where did you learn about Cum Sluts?" "When masturbating I visit hot-hot websites." "Do you have toys?" "A whole box full." "Does Paul know?" "I don't think so; I don't think he'd be interested. I just keep them in a shoe box stacked with my other shoes." Harry rather liked this conversation – his dick could wait. "Have you ever inserted a shoe?" "Yes, several times. I have a pair of blue shoes with 6-inch glass heels. The first time I used one I squirted for the first time ever. I was so horrified, thinking I'd peed all over the bedspread and on to the carpet. But I tasted some and realized it was not urine." "Can you squirt at will?" "No, much to my disappointment as it's super-sexy seeing the gush and feeling your eyes gyrating. It only happens with the blue shoe." "Have you those shoes with you?" "No, you dirty depraved man. Now let me get on with this job. Your poor little man – ooops – your poor big man will feel neglected." "It's all yours, Emma," Harry said, pushing his hips forward and sinking back into the chair, hands behind his head, one of his biggest smiles of the year on his face. Emma had a playful time and learnt what what worked for her and what drew responses from Harry. Finally he grunted at her and she pulled away but too late – cum sprayed her face and hair. She scooped dollops on to her fingers and sucked them, tentatively at first and then greedily. "You like it?" "It's okay, a bit mild and salty but the naughty feeling I get doing it is so pleasurable. Lick me clean, please." "Me," asked Harry nervously. He had no trouble doing this when heavily aroused, with cum, pussy juices, sweat and dribble all over the place like a potpourri – he particularly liked being put in charge of cleaning up around the tits and vulva. "Come on, clean me up Harry or else I'll fetch your belt and strap you." Between lickings Harry asked, "Are you sure Paul is only a dedicated Missionary man and that you haven't played around since your marriage?" "It's the absolute truth Harry." They awoke in each other's arms on Harry's chair. It's lovely being with you," he said. "Do you have to go home?" "No, I am on my own at present." "Will you stay with me for the next five nights?" "Yes." "Why?" That question was like a hand gripping Harry's balls with pliers. There were so many possible permeations – answer correctly and he'd be flooded in pussy juice for the next five nights, providing she could keep up with the pace, being a once-a-week woman, though she'd not stated her masturbation schedule. He wondered how could she keep such crucial information from him. If he answered pathetically she might say, 'Goodbye Harry', two words he had no wish to hear. Harry cleared his throat and took the plunge, stroking one of her sweat-dried breasts as he spoke. "Emma, you were a lady in distress when I first saw you. We have bonded, delightfully so, and you are such an interesting and invigorating woman for me to fondle and to converse with. The most compelling reason for me to stay on as your surrogate husband is because we have yet to fuck. Imagine that – we've been several hours together in the most intimate situations, exchanging the most intimate thoughts and – yes – body fluids - and yet we haven't fucked. For me to walk away now would be a disgrace to my sex, an unthinkable cowardly act on mankind and a sizzling, tumultuous act of deprivation the like of which you're never experienced." He looked at her, she was wide-eyed and appeared close to either falling asleep to chicken shit oratory or else she was romantically close to swooning in the classic submissive way of a Victorian heroine. With a signal from his brain confirming that his system was recharged with the ability to overflow her cunt with semen, Harry heard the inspirational rousing orchestration in his ears of the opening music to Bizet's Opera 'Carmen' and pressed his case. "I have been sent to you by destiny, dear one, to tear you out of the bondage of inconceivable banal sex and lack of mutual soul-touching to take you through the amazingly emotional uplifting and tiring steps to ultimate sexual fulfillment. In setting you free to become your own woman I will give you the key to turn your hitherto underperforming husband into an audacious sex machine or, if that fails, to give you the reason to walk away from him and seek the sexually artistic administrations for your unleashed body will crave so desperately." That was it. Harry had shot his biggest bolt ever – verbally. It would be diarrhea to men but to some women it could be a turn on of monumental proportions. He tensed, closing his eyes, ready to hear the march signifying the death of the matador or would it be the triumphant march of Escamillo? "Harry – fuck me, fuck me thoroughly." TO BE CONTINUED Mrs Hot-Hot Honeycombe Ch. 03 Emma Honeycombe's deep emotional yearning for sexual excesses accompanied by out-of-this-world soft caressing and poetical soft and caring utterances motivated her like a woman possessed, turning Harry's cock of unspecified length (it never had been measured) into a burning, pulsating piece of flesh covered thickly veined steel. "Oh Harry – look at the length and thickness of it? I could never accommodate it without being tore apart." "Oh slut of little faith (oops, thought Harry, that should have been 'Oh woman of little faith') you have been built to accommodate such an invasion of your vagina. "Did you hear the word 'slut' my hot-hot babe?" "No. – who used it?" "Funny what you can't hear when you're consumed by lust, isn't it?" "What did you say, Harry?" Terminating that going-nowhere-conversation but pleased Emma was rarin' to go Harry put out his hand and bowed, she going all coy and taking his hand stood up and said, "Yes Master?" Harry wasn't into that deviant stuff and she was probably copying something she'd seen on the web. It was time she had something else to focus on. "Bend over the table, my sweet." "Oooh – the table," she said excitedly and with great difficulty tried to bend over it on her back. "You'll be more comfortable if you flip over." She did that, then looked at him over her shoulder and worried: "Are you going in my back passage?" That shocked Harry. He wasn't a tail-gate Charlie and didn't expected her to be a chute-minded woman, not with her inexperience and notwithstanding what she saw on the web or in the unlikely event she frequented men-in-raincoats XXX cinemas if indeed any still existed. What had shocked him was the comment, 'Are you going in my back passage?' – that presented merely as a nervous question. He would have expected a near-hysterical rejection such as 'Get away from that hole, you filthy beast'. Women can be so surprising at times. He reached down between her legs and burrowed two fingers into her soppy cunt. "Is that your back passage?" "N-o-o-o, but fingers out and stick that hot-pump in there instead, please. I'll do my best to accommodate it." Harry grasped around her hipbones, steering with one hand to ensure it was the correct orifice and pushed forward. She turned around to look at him, eyes huge and biting her bottom lip. He put on his best leer, believing that in their hearts women really loved reprobates as it touches their mothering core. He pushed the last inch fully home, watching her eyes bulge and water. "Take it easy sweetie, relax and your body will automatically adjust to it; as Captain Kirk might have said, 'Spock, we are fully docked'." "That's cute, but I feel I'm going to burst." "That feeling will pass," said Harry, pulling his hips back slowing and coming out until only the head was gripped by the curtain of membrane he'd long assumed formed a almost leak-proof bulkhead to turn back the tide of millions of sperm so they swam in the right direction to the target area. Slowly he fed his length back in and Emma turned to face forward stretching out her neck like a swan. She was now more relaxed as it slid in more freely. His groin thudded against her butt, jolting her forward slightly and she moaned as if greatly satisfied. This time as he pulled back Harry could feel her pulling away, pressing into the table, and then pushing back at him. He grinned and reaching under her arched torso began playing with her tits. "Oooh, that's nice." "I want it to be nice; I really want you to enjoy this so that you taste your potential." "Is that all I'll be tasting?" she asked naughtily. They picked up speed and soon were rattling in and out like a woman's tongue at a fish market. With perhaps the not-so nice side effects of fucking they both began sweating, puffing and juices ran down their thighs. Harry began to worry that he might cum before she was ready, so gave her nipples some heavy rolling and a couple of tweaks that made her squeal and pound against him a bit more heavily. He began to see the first of the red dots floating across his eyes and then thankfully felt his cock being squeeze by her cunt muscles. Just as he was about to fire, the circles he was drawing with his other forefinger around her butthole suddenly slunk into the centre to just touch the edges of the hole. She squealed and began bucking so in relief Harry threw his head back and began firing, his vision now a red haze changing briefly into pitch black. She clamped down, the head of his splurging cock swelled and they momentarily locked, their thrusting braking to an abrupt halt. Still groggy and massively aroused, Harry rolled Emma on to her back and began sucking at her cunt and dabbing at it with his tongue, sending her into another round of ejaculations which he vacuumed up nosily causing her to still buck her hips although she was almost exhausted. He lifted up to her, she expecting to be kissed. Instead he dribbled a string of liquids into her mouth. She swallowed and croaked, "You obscene, filthy bastard – more!" Harry obliged. While she drifted off to sleep, a cocktail of juices leaked out of her on to the floor and dribbled out of the corner of her mouth and on to the table, Harry ran a fresh bath and filled their flutes with more champagne. He then sat on a chair for her to wake, drifting off. He awoke minutes later to find her gone, the table wiped clean and a bath towel on the carpet where their combined juices had leaked. "Hi," she yawned, as he appeared in the bathroom. "I awoke in time to avoid a bathroom flood. Jump in and we'll have a toast to my best fuck ever." "One of my best ever, too," said Harry, raising his glass. She looked ever so pleased and toasted, "Here's to fucking." "To fucking." The door chimes went; Harry and two room service staff pulled in a loaded trolley and another bottle of champagne. "The day manager says please forgive him, and here's lunch and champagne with his compliments. He hopes you haven't eaten." "We've eaten, but not lunch," Harry snickered. "Ooooh," said one of the maids. "We are not busy right now; perhaps you may wish us to join you and Mrs Honeycombe?" "No thanks, Mrs Honeycombe is strictly conventional, I believe." The maids looked disappointed but then one of them gave Harry a card. "It's our phone number," she said. "In case Mrs Honeycombe changes your mind or alternatively you, sir, would be welcome to visit and see just how comfortable Anna and I are in our shared bedroom." "Thank you ladies," Harry said, giving them a generous tip. He thought it seemed so civil and courteous; prostitution was so sophisticated these days. According to the hourly rate on the card, their prices were bordering excessive but then he figured they were principally catering for wealthy tourists. During the time left to them before the return of the heartless husband Paul, they fucked themselves almost to a standstill. Finally came time to say goodbye. Emma had received a call. "He's just just flying out of a place called Whakatane. He's never caught so many trophy fish in his life, including trout at Lake Taupo. He says he can't wait to get home to show the photographs to the guys." "Did he say he loves you?" "No, he didn't come to think of it; he just said, 'Hello, have you missed me?' and I answered truthfully, and said no." "The callous bastard." "Don't talk about him like that, Harry, he's my husband." "I love you." Emma looked at him, and her knees appeared threatening to give out. "Come to bed, Harry." They said their goodbyes, exchanged cards, and she shut the door to the suite behind him with tears streaming down her cheeks – this from the woman who never cried! At the hotel entrance Harry asked the doorman for his car and a bellboy drove up with it and handed the ignition key to the doorman. "That's four night's parking fee, $120 – pay it and you'll be handed the key to get this heap of junk out of here." "Up yours mate," Harry said, blowing a kiss at the doorman. Taking a spare key from his pocket he drove off without paying. The doorman attempted to read the number plate to make a complaint to the police, but there was so much grime on the car's registration plate he couldn't read it through the haze of poxy-blue exhaust smoke. Two hours later Harry phoned Emma. "How was the reunion?" "Unremarkable and he stinks of fish." They continued the conversation until she said, "I have to go as he's coming back from the bar." "Emma." "Yes?" "I love you." "Oh Harry." "Emma, start divorce proceedings and settle up and come back here with the kids. You'll get residency because I'll marry you." "Oh Harry, I can't – as much as I'd love to do that, I can't." "Listen, Emma, every time he treats you like shit just think of me. Eventually you will see the light." "Bye Harry." Ten days later Harry received a phone call. "I've commenced divorce proceedings. Come over and meet the children, Harry..."