Mrs Jizm Ch. 04

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The fourth installment of Mrs Jizm. I think there will be just one more chapter after this one.

I deliberated about which category to submit this piece too – it could, perhaps, have found a home in Fetish. There’s a latex outfit in it (Mrs Jizm’s naturally), and a lot of references to semen … come … jizm …

As before, I hope the reader enjoys it. If you have comments, constructive criticisms or any feedback, please use Public Comments here, email, or drop me a PM. I’m not ‘fishing for compliments’, I’m genuinely interested in how this is received.

As usual, forgive any errors; i quite often balls it up!

GA – in me kitchen in Peterborough, UK. 12 Jan 2012.

THE SENSE OF FOREBODING settled in my stomach like a brick dropped into a puddle of mud when Peter arrived. I knew that this wasn’t going to be something I liked. The sense of something unanticipated coming at me flared when Peter turned his bloodhound face towards me and grinned. There was definitely something off here, something I sensed but couldn’t quite grasp. He’d obviously been invited, but why?

Robyn’s expression, which I caught from the corner of my eye, was odd as well.

The jealousy, hot, molten and corrosive boiled inside me when I recalled the time, a few months earlier, when Peter had surprised us with his horse’s cock. After a photo session in a London hotel, which had led beyond anticipated boundaries, Peter had fucked Robyn Chisholm, apparently unconcerned that he was pushing my spunk around inside her. In fact, I think that Peter enjoyed the kinkiness of it.

“My turn now,” he’d said, stroking his length slowly with his fist. “Get on it,” he’d then instructed Robyn after sitting on a chair. “Stir that porridge with my big spoon.”

And she had. Robyn had clambered onto Peter’s cock with indecent haste, with eagerness that I found astounding. Then I’d watched as Robyn lived up to my nickname for her – Mrs Jizm.

I could see her skin stretched tight around the thick shaft. Her clitoris shone, greasy and swollen with arousal while obscene farts and squelches erupted from their coupling. A thick, opaque dribble of my semen squirted around Peter’s shaft when Robyn rose to the domed tip, the viscous trickle skidded over his balls and along the cleft of his arse to stain the chair fabric. Robyn’s cunt farted as she sank down onto that column again.

“Oh God,” Robyn babbled. “I’m sorry, Simon,” she groaned, knowing how I felt, but staring into my eyes while she fucked peter all the same. “I can’t help it. It’s just so … Fuck … It’s just so …”

Her head lolled as Peter’s nicotine stained fingers appeared and he mauled her breasts, rolling Robyn’s long nipples between his forefinger and thumb.

Then, with one arm encircling Robyn’s waist to hold tight her against him, Peter stood, hefting the woman to the bed where he then began to fuck her very hard.

Robyn’s nails clawed at the bedcovers. She groaned and wailed and exhorted the old man to do anything he wanted to her. All I could do was watch, moribund and mortified, as Robyn climaxed exuberantly.

“I’m going to do it too,” Peter groaned while Robyn writhed and convulsed.

He hugged Robyn tight against his body, her buttocks squashed against his flabby stomach, and he pumped what was probably a gallon of goo into her.

Robyn had been filled to overflowing with semen that afternoon; both Peter and I had come inside her. There had been two other men there earlier as well, two men who had won the prize of a photo-shoot with their favourite model. Those two men, Mark and Alan hadn’t been allowed to fuck Robyn, although that was a close-run thing; instead she’d merely posed for them, teased them too, before taking their combined loads on her breasts.

Mrs Jizm’s penchant for semen had been born that day.

Now something strange was afoot in Robyn’s living room. Her strange look and Peter’s presence just about confirmed it. I sensed conspiracy. A thought occurred to me, an image that curdled my guts – Had they been fucking behind my back? Had Peter, with his nicotine fingers and teeth the colour of pound coins been stuffing Robyn with his unfeasibly large penis?

Granted, Robyn and I weren’t lovers in the true sense of the word, our relationship had never been anything formal, more like the Americans would term friends with benefits or fuck-buddies, but all the same … Peter?

“Another beer?” Robyn asked, eyeing the bottle I’d already drained.

I had a hunch I might need it. “Yes,” I replied curtly.

Robyn looked askance at my abrupt tone but said nothing, just nodded and turned her attention to the old man, who’d settled in a leather arm-chair opposite me. “What about you, Pete? Drink?”

“A beer’ll be great, ta, Robyn,” Peter said. I noticed his eyes swivelling along the contours of Robyn’s body. Supressing the urge to break something, most likely being Peter’s legs, I dug my fingertips into the soft arm of the seat and gritted my teeth. Peter’s rheumy-eyed gaze turned towards gaziantep escortlar me when Robyn left with his coat under her arm. “What’s up, Simon?” he asked, curling his lip in what passed for a smile. “Not happy to see me?” He forwards conspiratorially in the chair. “I might have some good news for you,” he winked.

“Here we go, gents,” Robyn trilled brightly as she walked back into the room, a beer in each hand. “How are we getting on?”

I noticed the strange look cloud her face again as she looked at Peter. Robyn seemed nervous, edgy.


“Are you gonna tell him, or shall I?” Peter said as he accepted the proffered bottle.

Mrs Jizm showed me instead.

Animosity hung between us like a fart in Robyn’s absence. I could feel the tension building in the room, tangible enough to almost taste it; I imagined it to have the flavour of sour milk. Floorboards creaked overhead as Robyn moved around her bedroom on her mysterious errand.

“Give me ten minutes,” she’d said after exchanging yet another uneasy glance with Peter.

And here we were, each sitting with a beer in hand while the television flickered with the sound turned down.

“Not happy to see me?” Peter repeated. He shrugged and, without waiting for a reply, as though it were a rhetorical question he’d asked, carried on. “I get ya,” he said. “I get it, that you’re all caught up wiv Robyn.” His face twisted into a leer and he winked at me again, as though we were mates. “She’s a good-lookin’ bint … for her age. Great tits even if they are manufactured. Not that it’s obvious,” he added hurriedly, shaking his head and pursing his lips. “Best pair of knockers on any of the wimmin I’m managing …” Peter tapped his nose with a forefinger and winked yet again. “And I’ve got a few girls on me books now, Simon, me-old-china,” he said, slipping into his rhyming slang. “I’m lookin’ after a good few models wiv their websites an’ blogs an’ all that malarkey …” He paused and regarded me through those baleful eyes of his for a long moment. “Which is where I might be able to—”

Robyn’s entrance, if that’s how her strutting arrogance could be described, cut Peter off mid-sentence.

Thoughts of what he had been about to offer left my head as well.

The incongruity of what I saw amid the vanilla suburban surroundings unhinged my jaw.

She strode into the room on heels like ice-picks. It took several beats of my accelerating heart for my brain to register what my eyes saw. Even then I didn’t believe it.

The uppers of those boots reached to the tops of her thighs, held in place by some kind of reinforced ring like an unrolled condom. They shone like dark pools. A corset, rubber or latex, black, like the boots, cinched Robyn’s waist and emphasised the size of her breasts, which hung like a comber wave over the cups in the garment.. But what really caught me by surprise, what held the breath in my throat was the mask, a black, close-fitting facsimile of a skier’s balaclava.

Robyn posed for a few seconds, a palm on one cocked hip, eyes boring into mine as she stared at me through the twin holes in the mask. The boots squeaked and her breasts, always those tits, swayed as she walked towards me.

Now it all made sense, or most of it anyway; the gym membership, the new tattoo. It had all been in preparation for this.

But what, exactly, was this?

“What do you think, Simon?” Robyn asked. I recognised the lust in her voice, treacly and thick. She ran her hands over her exposed breasts, pausing to tweak the nipples. Releasing her tits Robyn’s palms smoothed their way down over the corset before resting on her hips. “The anonymity behind this mask,” Robyn continued huskily, “makes me so horny. My pussy is so wet …” Her eyes stared at me through the holes in the mask. “Do you like it, Simon?” she asked. “Do you think it’s sexy?”

I couldn’t reply. Robyn’s outfit had me speechless.

“I think it looks fuckin’ great,” Peter said. I looked across at him. His eyes bulged out their orbits, his lips wet with spittle, and he pawed at the front of his trousers in a way that would have concerned me — If I’d been in a fit state to notice. “Tell ‘im,” Peter mumbled after licking his lips. “Tell ‘im wot you wanna do. Go on, Robyn,” he urged.

“Mrs Jizm,” the woman snarled in response. “Don’t call me by that name when I’m dressed like this; this is Mrs Jizm’s costume …”

The woman moved closer to me. Her boots swished together at her thighs as she walked. While I sat in the chair, immobile, just staring up at her from the depths of the chair, Robyn … Mrs Jizm … lifted a booted leg over my own outstretched thighs. She settled into my lap, facing me, her hands moving to my cheeks. I felt her breasts against my chest as Mrs Jizm leaned over me. Her face came towards mine; I saw her mouth open …

We kissed. I opened my mouth and let Mrs Jizm’s tongue slide over mine. Of course, despite my brain’s sluggish reaction, my cock stiffened. As Mrs Jizm writhed in my lap and we shared that kiss, my hands, almost of their own accord, ran from the warm flesh of the woman’s hips and up against the slippery coolness of the corset she wore.

Mrs Jizm broke the kiss, her face moved close to my shoulder. “Feel my tits,” she murmured. “Squeeze my breasts.” Her mouth was now close to my ear; I could hear her breathing close by and felt the waft of it against my cheek. “Do you want to fuck?” she asked. “In front of him,” she added. “I want to. I want to fuck in front of Peter.”

Mrs Jizm leaned backwards from me, arching her back and thrusting those big jugs almost into my face. As instructed I reached up and massaged the pliant flesh in my hands. I could feel the tight points of Mrs Jizm’s nipples on my palms. The woman squealed and then laughed after I dug my fingers into her tit flesh. Growling, I sucked at her teats, licking the areolae until they glistened with my saliva.

“Bloody hell,” I heard Peter mutter.

Mrs Jizm rested a hand against my shoulder and pushed herself away from me. She laughed again when I made a grab for her.

“Eager,” she said. “I like that. Are you eager for me, Simon? Does this latex stuff make you sexy?” A filthy chuckle rumbled from her throat. “It turns me on,” she admitted. Her eyes moved from me to Peter and then back to me. “Both of you,” Mrs Jizm barked the order, “both of you, clothes off.” She pointed to the old man. “You stroke your cock. Don’t come! Just stroke it.” She turned her attention to me. “You’re going to fuck me … after I’ve sucked your cock. You’re going to fuck me and dump a load of spunk inside me.”

I heard Peter mutter again. “You filthy cow,” he mumbled.

My clothes lay in a pile next to the chair I was sat in, the beer, half-drunk and forgotten sat next to the heap. Peter was hurriedly undressing as Mrs Jizm, her boots creaking as she knelt, reached for my cock. Her lips parted inside that hole in the mask. I groaned when the warm, wet cavern of her mouth closed around my erection. Mrs Jizm only sucked me for a few seconds. Her fist massaged the root of my cock as I stared at the incongruous sight of my erection sliding into the mouth-hole of her mask.

“Come here, Simon,” Mrs Jizm said after letting my penis spring from her lips. She paused as she walked away, beckoning me to follow her to the sofa. I watched her backside sway with that oh-so-feminine swing of the hips as she moved away from me in those boots. Her buttocks jiggled in invitation. “Come on, Simon,” she urged, settling back against the cushions and raising her legs. She wriggled her rump to a more comfortable position and opened her legs wide, hooking her hands behind her knees. Her cunt gaped, scarlet, hot-looking, almost bubbling … “Now!” Mrs Jizm cried in frustration. “Come here and lick me. Stick your cock inside me. Fuck me with it. Fuck me ’til I split … Fuck me and fill me with spunk …”

“For fuck’s sake, Simon,” Peter croaked. “Just do it. This is killing me … Look at her … Jesus, what a sight, what a fucking picture …”

I looked at the old man, and immediately wished I hadn’t. He was sitting in his chair, naked, skinny shanks, thighs like strings, round belly like he’d swallowed a beach-ball … all of it on display like a cadaver on a mortician’s slab.

But with that enormous cock in his fist. Damn that thing was huge.

Any cooling of my ardour rapidly re-ignited when I looked back towards Mrs Jizm, latex-clad and splay-legged on the settee. I moved quickly to her, stroking my cock as I went. When I knelt in front of her, her feet hung suspended, level with my ears. The woman moaned in anticipation when I forced her thighs wider with my hands, her meaty labia trembling slightly as her body split wider.

“Oh fuck,” Mrs Jizm sighed when my mouth touched her sex. “Oh fuck, oh fuck … oh … fuck,” she swore as my tongue squirmed into her opening. My hands slid over the smooth texture of Mrs Jizm’s boots when I forced her thighs even further back. With my fingers digging into the pliant neoprene, and while Mrs Jizm squirmed against my oral onslaught, I manipulated the bitch into a lewd yoga position. The woman’s backside hung over the precipice of the sofa seat; her cunt, tender and molten, sluiced and gaped, clamouring for cock. “Lick my clit, finger me, stick your cock inside …” Mrs Jizm babbled, delirious with lust.

With my own desire burning, white hot and overwhelming, I lifted my mouth from Mrs Jizm’s sex and, despite her vocal objection, manoeuvred her into a supine position on the sofa. Again I forced her legs wide, with her knees pushed back towards her ears, and I clambered onto the cushions to lean over Mrs Jizm’s body. Holding my erection steady with one hand, while the other held the woman’s left leg in position, I aimed the dome of my cock-head at her opening …

… and slid in, with a long, slick glide.

There was absolutely no finesse to what followed. For me the imperative was to teach Mrs Jizm a lesson. I wanted to use my cock to pound at her delicate insides. My sole intent was to drill into her cunt, to use her and damage her — to fuck her ’til she split, as she’d said herself. Of course the reality was that Mrs Jizm’s body was capable of absorbing any punishment I could dish out with my penis. Even Peter with his fire hose of a cock wouldn’t be able to quell the flames that raged inside this woman’s sex once those fires were stoked.

But I tried. I banged into her, mauled and tore at her breasts until the skin glowed pink — she showed me the bruises the next day. I verbally abused her, called her every filthy, obscene insult I could call to mind; pushed her legs back until I was sure they couldn’t take any further contortionist flexing … and then pushed some more. My body hammered relentlessly against Mrs Jizm’s pubic bone, the slap-slap reverberating in her suburban living room.

And all the while Mrs Jizm exhorted me to greater exertion. To go deeper, to fuck harder, faster … more …

The semen pumped from me as I groaned and jerked and pushed my spitting cock as deep into Mrs Jizm’s body as I could manage. “Take it,” I snarled as the woman’s eyes stared up at me from inside the mask. “You want Jizm, Mrs Jizm?” I added through gritted teeth. “Here, take … my … load …”

Mrs Jizm’s mouth, a cerise aperture in contrast to the black mask she wore, opened wide. She offered me her tongue. “Kiss me,” she wailed. “Kiss me while I … Oh fuck … Kiss me while I come.” I felt a jab against my penis. Looking down between our bodies I saw Mrs Jizm’s fingers busy against her clitoris. “I’m going to do it,” she moaned. “Push your cock in deep, squash that spunk into me … Kiss me … Kiss me … I’m—”

The apocalyptic climax ripped through the woman. She writhed and spat and scratched at me; her fingernails rent my skin, and I was forced to push away from the twitching, groaning thing on the sofa, or risk being slashed by those sweeping talons.

Panting, breathless, but wild-eyed and searching, Mrs Jizm saw Peter, with his cock in his fist and a slack-jawed stare stapled to his face.

“Bloody hell …” Peter murmured.

“You!” Mrs Jizm screeched, her finger pointing at Peter. “You fuck me now. Stab me with that thing. From behind …”

I wondered if, in spite of the delirium brought on by desire, Mrs Jizm had retained a modicum of taste and only wanted Peter to fuck her where she didn’t have to see his morbid countenance.

Peter looked quickly across to me — perhaps he imagined I’d object? Seeing no indication that I’d become violent — who was I to refuse Mrs Jizm? I had no formal claim to monogamy with her alter-ego, Robyn, even less so with this latex clad wildcat, and so Peter hurried, with an expression of delight on his face, to kneel behind Mrs Jizm and her proffered derriere.

The latex boots rubbed and squeaked when Mrs Jizm positioned herself on the settee. Her rump swayed from side to side with all the seductive allure of a snake charmer’s lute. Peter’s long face lengthened further, his jowls drooping as his mouth hung open and he stared, enraptured, at the sight before him.

In spite of my latent jealousy I could only watch in morbid fascination as, after he’d lifted the weight of his length in his fist, Peter aimed his cock-head at Mrs Jizm’s oozing sex. The woman gasped and looked over her shoulder when, from behind, the mushroom head of Peter’s rubbery erection split the crinkly piss-flaps and nudged against her opening. Mrs Jizm gasped again, wincing and then sighing as peter’s cock met an ever-so-slight resistance, before he finally slid half of his considerable length inside.

“Fuck,” Peter grunted, his hands clamped tight against Mrs Jizm’s hip bones.

“Indeed,” Mrs Jizm purred. “Fuck me. Go on, Peter, push Simon’s spunk around inside me.” The woman turned her fevered gaze to me. “Kiss me,” she whined. “While he stirs your porridge … Kiss me.”

The obscenity of Mrs Jizm’s suggestion turned me on like nothing I could remember. The power of that remark, the suggested intimacy — Yes, Peter was fucking her but he wasn’t kissing her. She would never kiss him.

And so, while Mrs Jizm’s cunt squelched and farted around Peter’s girth, and while he groaned and spluttered a lewd description of how it felt to have her body clenching around him, I kissed the woman. Her tongue danced with mine as she held my face in her hands and panted into my mouth. I pulled away from her and stared into her eyes.

“Who are you?” I asked; a rhetorical question delivered more to me then to her. I was questioning whether or not I truly knew Robyn, searching for how she’d changed so dramatically. I recalled our first meeting, the reticence she’d shown, her objection when I’d launched myself at her, unable to hold back, desperate to suck her nipples. She’d protested that she didn’t offer that kind of service, claimed that she was a model; no sexual contact. Where had that woman gone? Who was this here now? Wasn’t this still Robyn, albeit dressed in a black latex corset, boots and mask? Who was this slut who’d fucked two men, one after the other, and who wanted, no, who craved, their spunk?

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