Sylwia was stressed. Having stood over the eight-ringed hob for an hour, with its pots and pans brewing and boiling away like a witch’s black mass, she dabbed at her sweaty forehead, directing cool air into her cheeks from a lipsticked mouth. Her simple dressing gown; a lavender coloured, silk and skimpy number (a present to herself the year previous to make up for receiving nothing from her husband Nigel), clung to her sweaty skin, her exposed breasts steamed with the hot breath of parboiling potatoes bubbling hastily. Her bare genitals beneath the thin layer, warmed by the oven below as it did her bidding, cooking the family’s Christmas Day feast.
This year, she was trying a new recipe. The Turkey, a hand-reared, organic and regal-looking bird, that didn’t leave much change from a £50 note, was to be brined this year. It was a Nigella recipe and by all accounts, was to make for a life-changing experience. A moist and tender delight, one anonymous reviewer on the BBC Food website, had written. The only thing however that was currently more moist than the cooking Turkey, however, was Sylwia’s, hairless, hungry middle-aged pussy, and much like the flightless, fancy bird, it was due to be stuffed to full capacity.
Checking her makeup in her round pocket mirror, she touched up her foundation, adding an extra layer of rouge to her lips. Her watch told her it was 11:47, meaning she had thirteen minutes until a stranger; a complete stranger, would be inside her. Two knocks on the back door: that was the arranged signal. No quicker than five minutes. No talking, no names and most importantly, no condoms.
Stirring a small ornate saucepan of gravy furiously, she walked over towards the oak kitchen door, calling out to the occupants of the living room.
“Lunch will be a little delayed guys— 12:45 on the dot. So don’t go stuffing your face with sweets, OK?”
“OK love,” replied Nigel in the only submissive, absent way he knew how.
“OK, Mum,” said her twin teenage daughters, Magda and Marta in unison, distracted by the television screen, as they attempted to annihilate their father playing a video game.
“Just make sure you don’t come into the kitchen. Under any circumstances. Got it?”
With them all agreeing absent-mindedly, Sylwia shut the kitchen door, locking it from the inside. She was ready to be fucked.
Two nights previous, while browsing classifieds sites on her phone, her English husband fast asleep, she stumbled across one advert in particular that caught her attention. A few messages back and forth and a plan was forged with this stranger. As someone who had been denied all realities of risk (having married the first person who’d asked her during her first week in the UK) and who popped twins out only two years later, Sylwia relished her pre-married life— the thrill of being used; being a stranger’s sticky fucktoy, her womb marked like feral territory. To add to that, since the pregnancy, it was as though her pussy craved cum; like it winced and wined for it, pulsing and thudding throughout the day whenever she’d spot a good-looking man who looked as though he could knock her up with a good fuck. It was the perfect storm for something extremely risky and extremely rewarding. Sylwia had to have it.
Stooping to check the browning turkey, she grinned at it, pleased with her handiwork. Although still cooking, it looked impressive. Suddenly, she heard two flat knuckles rapping on back door’s frosted glass. She froze for a second, like a deer in headlights awaiting certain peril, her bare feet rooted to the spot. Was it him? He’d be early. Do I look alright? Fuck, it must be him!
With no time to check her mirror, she paced along the smooth wooden tiles and taking a deep breath, opened the door. A man stood there. At about six feet tall, he towered over Sylwia, instantly making her gasp to herself with arousal. His ethnic makeup, although obscure, was exotic enough to make her lick her lips; an instant attraction usually reserved for sexy strangers seen on her sad, grey commutes to work. His seductive eyes were only seconded by his seductive smile.
Pushing her back toward the freshly installed teak countertop, the man kissed her passionately, his large, rough hands, handling her doll-like physique, clawing and caressing the curves of her ass and thighs. Sylwia covered her mouth to stifle her moans of arousal as she sat on the countertop, spreading her legs, her dressing gown now opened. Her nipples, both pierced, were on full display to the stranger, who licked both of the puffy, pink nubs toothily, before unzipping himself and guiding his way towards her crotch. At first, his cock— longer than her husband’s, thicker and circumcised with an elongated head, could not fit inside her. As hungry as her pussy was, years of little to no sex has made her tighter and tighter, so much so as to rival a virgin in a nunnery. Plus, rarely masturbating on account of liking the thrill and the build-up of desire, her pussy was not used to visitors of any kind.
Thinking quickly, she reached over a heap of vegetable trimmings, before fingering a jar of duck fat, slathering the translucent lubricant up and down his cock, forcing it with devotion and a wince of pain, inside herself. Her pussy was immediately overwhelmed with rushing pain and pleasure as the stranger mercilessly stretched her cunt open for the first time in what felt like years. She could feel her layers of labia submitting to his thrusts; feel the thick veins of his cock rubbing against the insides of her warm, welcoming hole. Eyes rolling in an uncontrollable trance of serenity, she tried to maintain consciousness, gripping his firm shoulders for support as he fucked her. She nodded, spurring him on faster and faster, as he put his large hand around her throat, their gaze interlocked, intimate and bestial in its intensity. Then just like that, she felt it. A load; a thick, sticky and red-hot sensation, lining the inner walls of her fanny. An explosion of runny, delicious ambrosia, feeding her unworshipped, neglected cunt. The creampie that she craved more than anything else. She gasped with a sigh of relief. The stranger slowly pulled his still-erect cock from her heavily-glazed hole. Wiping her lipstick off his face with the back of his hand, adjusted his jacket and grinned, sharing a long, sticky kiss with his temporary lover, before walking out into the Winter world beyond, never to be seen again.
***
“Could you pass me the spuds, love?” Nigel asked hesitantly. His wife handed him the warm white Pyrex dish, smiling at him, radiant in her outfit; a silver dress, that hugged her slender figure like tin foil. The girls ate with impressed nods, silent for the first time all day, as somewhere in the background, Frank Sinatra sang Silent Night.
“The Turkey is to die for,” Nigel said, slicing his second helping. “You’ve outdone yourself, darling. What’s your secret?”
Beneath the table, Sylwia’s pussy, fervent, raw and satisfied in the aftermath of her anonymous Christmas fuck, dribbled a trail of fertile semen, down onto the leather hide of the chair. The sensation made her smirk cheekily to herself, lowering a hand covertly to check her genitals for a gift that kept on giving, as she grinned at her husband, with as much sincerity as she could muster.
“A firm hand, and a good, deep soaking.”
