December 11, 2015

Friday Free Read: Dysmorphia

Here's a bit of an experimental "challenge" piece, prompted by a fellow author. It needs a little cleanup, for sure, but I'm actually very pleased with the results.

“Oh, honestly, Harold?”
Francesca Delaney threw down the handful of business mail she’d just retrieved outside. Crossing her arms over her chest she glowered. Not even twenty-four hours back from his latest jet-setting jaunt –this time to Greece – and here sat her soon-to-be-ex husband, in her home office, being straddled by some new twenty-something. The little cunt’s simpering giggles carried well out into the hall and any of Francesca’s staff might hear it, just as they would surely witness the blatant sex-play with their own eyes simply walking past the wide-open double-doors. Harold wouldn’t mind any of it, of course. Humiliating Cesca just made him more pleased with himself.
As Francesca walked in on them, Harry’s red-headed bit of candy was holding both ends of his loosened tie in one fist. The bright, shimmering gold tips of her nails bit into his almost-naked chest a little above his heart. Francesca wondered if the cunt undid the buttons of his tailored dress shirt with her teeth. He’d always liked it when Cesca herself nipped them off. Back when he and Cesca still fucked. Now the two interlopers glanced up, feigning surprise. It must be feigned of course. They hadn’t ended up in her office by accident, after all.

Harold grinned a shit-eating grin and opened his mouth, but Francesca cut him off.
“I don’t care how many women you’re banging these days, Harold, but damned if I’ll put up with it in my house, and in my office.”
As she stalked past the sofa she pushed the redhead off his lap, as brusque as shoving needless paperwork out of her way. With the girl off his lap, the shape of Harold’s erection showed, and Cesca grimaced. His fly down, his silver-satin boxers darkened by a small, damp impression...the little cunt must not have any underwear on under her stylish skirt.
“Tramp,” she spat. She made no effort to clarify which one of them she meant.
Taking a seat on the edge of her massive, glass-topped desk, she began leafing through a stack of invoices and contract documents. “I’m busy, so this better be quick. The faster you’re both out of here, the better.”
“I’m here to pick up my Challenger,” Harold told her. Without bothering to straighten his clothing or zip his fly, he leaned casually back on the sofa, stretching one arm around the new bimbo. He looked exactly like the human personification of Mid-Life Crisis: halfway through his fifties, hairline receding in a slow but certain crawl, the beginning of a small beer gut pooching his middle. “And my copies of the new house keys. My lawyer assures me you can change the locks all you want but you can’t bar me entrance until a judge officially awards you the house. If they award you the house.”
His snide, wheedling voice made her think of a young Jack Nicholson. Her skin crawled.
“Sorry, but I haven’t had time to run down to a key cutter and have them made. Far too busy, you know. As you may have noticed, I’ve fired my personal assistant.”
She cut a hard glance at the redhead. “I found her fucking my husband. On my desk. The old desk, mind you. No way I’d keep the thing after he pounded her naked ass all over it.”
After a pause, she tilted her head to one side and added, “You know, you’re really a step down from her. She dressed better and had perkier tits.”
Instead of looking at all chastised, the girl popped up from the sofa and held out her hand. She wore a radiant, rosy smile and her gray eyes sparkled. If Francesca hadn’t just walked in on her dry-humping the crotch of a man twenty, maybe even twenty-five years her senior, she might mistake her for an interviewee, someone eager to take Rachel’s old position. Rachel of the pert little ass what ended up all over Cesca’s desk.
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Delaney. Hal’s told me so much about you. I’m Maegan.”
Francesca blinked. Instead of answering she sent a glare over the other woman’s shoulder and snapped, “Where did you get this one? Does she come from one of those places where the wives and the mistresses are all good pals? I want her out of my house, Harry.”
“We met in Greece,” he replied, ignoring the important part. Cesca’s scowl deepened and she wished she could curse his stupid mouth shut, sew his lips tight like a wicked witch.
“Ever since he told me about you, I’ve wanted to meet you for myself. See, I have a proposition for you both.”
“I don’t go in for threesomes, honey,” Francesca said in an acid tone. How gauche, how tactless, could this little idiot be?”
“Oh, no no no no. Nothing like that. I want to give you both a chance to fix your marriage.”
Stunned silence hung in the air for several moments. Francesca stared at the woman, then at Harold. By the expression on his face, he hadn’t expected the cunt to say such a thing either.
When Maegan’s pleased smile didn’t falter, Francesca spun away from her, crossing to the other side of the desk.
“No thank you. Not interested. You may go now.”
“Oh, you don’t understand, Mrs. Delaney—”
“Stop calling me that. Stop addressing me entirely. If you and he don’t leave right now I’m calling my security staff.”
Harold snorted. “Cesca...”
“Shut up. Get out.”
Rolling his eyes, Harold stood and straightened out his clothing. At least she’d taken the wind out of his sails: no sign of the stiffy now. His damn girlfriend, though, kept on smiling. In a strange second of recognition, Francesca realized Harold couldn’t see the girl’s smile himself; with her back to him, Maegan shut him out of their silent exchange. And the smile had lost its original bubble-gum, Barbie doll politeness. Now it came off as a knowing, conspiring look. As Francesca puzzled over it, the girl leaned over the desk, crooking her finger to beckon Cesca nearer.
“If you could change anything about him,” Maegan whispered, “what would it be?”
“His heart,” Francesca blurted, not meaning to but speaking anyway. “His goddamn dog’s heart. I’d squeeze it until it popped in my fist.”
“Love the visual. Very nice.”
Now she sat against the desk, taking up the lean Francesca had abandoned. Nonchalant, she folded her hands on her knee. “I’d like to give you both the chance to change things between you. Turn your marriage into everything you could dream. I want to give you each the power to shape the other into your ideal mate.”
She glanced to Harold. “You can give Francesca whatever gorgeous body you want her to have. Fancy a blonde? Make her blonde. You want tits like a college girl’s and legs like Miss Universe? You can have them.”
Francesca opened her mouth to protest but Maegan cut her off. “And you. You can sculpt Harold into a living Adonis. Make him young and tan and hung like an ox. Like your riding instructor, from your trip last May. Give him a cock like a summer sausage and the face of your favorite movie star. Anything you want.”
Francesca’s hand flew to her throat. “How did you...who told you about my riding instructor? Not Harold—”
The shock on her soon-to-be-ex husband’s face said no, he hadn’t known about the breathtaking southern boy or the sultry noontime fling she’d shared with him the last time they’d gone on vacation. It shouldn’t surprise him. Harold had been having his women on the side for years and he should have expected Francesca wouldn’t deny her own pleasure, her own payback, once she’d found out. But how did his new fuck buddy find out?
“Is this extortion?” she demanded. “Are you fishing for some proof I broke my vows first?”
She shot her gaze at Harold. “Is she some half-ass private eye you’ve hired to screw me?”
But Harold still looked as stunned as she felt. Maegan let out a bright laugh.
“No, of course not!”
“What the hell do you think you know about me?”
“I know all about your infidelities,” Maegan said with a sly tilt of her chin. “Both of you. You haven’t shared an attraction for each other for years. You and the southern boy...him and your dog-walker. You and your daughter’s econ professor. You two are a regular pair. I thought you’d jump at the chance to custom-build each other into the partners you really want.”
She paused, then shrugged. “Beats the price of a drawn-out separation, doesn’t it?”
Harold’s mouth dropped open. “You fucked Holly’s teacher?”
“Oh, don’t act so sanctimonious!” she spat.
Maegan put out her hands. “There’s no need for you to argue any more. Take the offer. You can make each other perfect. You can be with exactly the person you want the most.”
They both studied her. Francesca tried to ignore the chill on the back of her neck while Harold gawped at his newest girlfriend, who had somehow turned into a magic genie offering them wishes. No sound came from him either.
Finally Francesca asked, “Why would we ever believe something like this?”
Maegan took her by the hand, and Cesca, still too dumbfounded to protest, let the redhead guide her around the desk to Harold’s side. Maegan lay Francesca’s fingers over Harold’s coarse, curly hair, and said “Try it.”
As the other woman’s hand fell away, Francesca only wrinkled her nose, feeling stupid. The very idea was ridiculous. Before too long she realized what an idiot Harold and his fuck toy were making of her and, infuriated, she jerked her hand back. Right as her fingers left Harold’s head, though, it happened: his plain, clean-cut dark curls softened in hue to a sun-warmed blonde, tousled and long, like the southern boy’s.
With a gasp Francesca stumbled back from him, putting a fist to her mouth to stifle a cry. She collided with the desk and seized on it to steady herself. Meanwhile Harold had  a little meltdown of his own, grabbing at unfamiliar locks as if she’d jammed an uncomfortable new wig on him and stuck it there with adhesive. “What did you do?” he shouted at her. “What is it? What did you do?”
“Calm down, both of you,” Maegan implored. “See, like I said. Now you can have whatever you want in each other. You can turn each other into perfect mates.”
“How did you do this?” Francesca demanded. The redhead tipped her a wink.
“It’s what I do. Reaching out to people who’ve wronged their lovers, helping them get what they truly want and deserve. Now, I’ll leave you two here to get re-acquainted.  I think you’re each about to learn exactly what the other one needs.”
She backed away toward the door, waving at them. “Play nice, now! I’ll go wait in the living room, if you need me.”
Then she disappeared through the office’s double doors, closing them behind her.
Harold—the blonde hair didn’t suit him, no matter how luscious it looked and felt on her riding instructor last May—stared at Francesca. Francesca stared at him.
“This is a joke,” she muttered. “It must be.”
“This?” he snapped, tugging at a length of long blonde mane. “Does this strike you as a joke, Cesca?”
“I don’t know how she did it but it must be. And you. Of course you’re in on it, too. You’d just love to make a fool of me like this.”
“Is that what you think? Let’s see if we can make it a twofer.”
He strode across the room to her and seized her by the hair. Francesca gave a short cry—it didn’t hurt, really, just shocked her—and a second later Harry drew back, just as she had.
Shit.” His eyes grew wide and round with surprise. “Shit, Cesca. It did work.”
She spun to face the glass-fronted cabinet housing her sound system, and the breath went out of her. Her own long, glossy black hair now hung hardly past her shoulders in a feathery, layered cut, ash-blonde and fine.
Harry drifted close behind her, staring at their dual reflections. “I think...I think we really can do it, Cesca. We really can...make ourselves different.”
Francesca knew the first thing she wanted to do, then. She ran her fingers down her own cheeks, concentrating hard on smoothing away twenty years of fine lines. It didn’t work, though: when she looked in the glass again she still looked very much her age, and she sighed.
“She said we could remake each other,” Harry reminded her. “Nothing about ourselves.”
She turned face-to-face with him. “Well then...what’s your first change going to be?”
He considered her carefully, studying her face in a way he hadn’t for many, many years. She wondered if she could even remember the last time he’s searched her so closely. Something in his eyes—some old, familiar thoughtfulness—made her think for a moment he wouldn’t change anything. He’d see the woman he’d married, underneath a few extra layers of age, but he’d keep her the same after all.
Then he put his hands on her cheeks, as she had, and did what she couldn’t. Her skin tightened, and under the pads of his thumbs, little wrinkles and flaws melted away. She could feel it happening. When he withdrew, she looked into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts about the process. He’d obviously seen what she’d wanted when she looked into her reflection, and, maybe in a nostalgic act of kindness, he’d given her exactly what she’d wished for. Only it didn’t fill her with relief, as she expected it might. Coming from him, it was almost...embarrassing.
When she spun back around to study the change in the mirror of the glass, though, she discovered he hadn’t only smoothed away the age in her. He’d actually re-shaped her face. The slant of her cheeks, the pout of her lips, the tip of her nose, all of it different now.
He’d changed her face into something utterly new.
“It’s incredible,” he marveled behind her. Francesca wrinkled her nose—no, not her nose, some other woman’s nose. One of the women he’d been banging on the side? Did she detect a hint of the lately-removed Rachel in those high cheekbones? A twinge of jealousy sprung in her gut.
“My turn,” she said in a false, bright tone. Without letting him prepare himself, she reached for his face. She didn’t bother to be gentle, instead touched his skin like she was working clay, imagining in her mind some other, more handsome, more jaunty, roguish man. A stronger chin; a sharper jaw. She gave him smoother cheeks, unscarred by razor burn and years of tiny blackheads. She straightened his nose and gave it a subtle dip, nothing like the aquiline jut she’d come to resent in its snobbish, Ceasar-like appearance.
“Oh, yes,” she said, patting his new, more youthful and much more appealing visage. “Now there’s a face I wouldn’t mind having between my thighs again.”
He grimaced. She didn’t mind, though. Now it looked pouty, and oh-so smoldering. She could almost forget he was Harry underneath.
“Alright then, it works.” He sounded petulant, which she liked. “But let’s get down to the real brass tacks, shall we?”
Without warning he reached up and seized her blouse, yanking it open so roughly most of the buttons flew off. Francesca gave a short sound of surprise, but with that new face on him, the new, lovely sneer, she almost didn’t mind. A stranger tearing open her blouse, exposing her breasts. It made it thrilling, really.
“I’ve always thought you could use a bit more up top,” he told her. He slipped his hands under the cup of her lacy bra, and under his palms her tits swelled, plumping up several cup sizes at a go. The sensation made her groan, rolling her head back in pleasure. She slid her own hands over his, and her pricy French brassiere sprung open from the strain. She barely noticed.
Harold’s thumbs ran over her nipples, and she gasped at the tender, ticklish delight the motion stroked to life. Heat rushed to her tits, making her pretty little peaks harden, and her heart sped up.
Glancing down, she saw they weren’t her breasts anymore. Her breasts—perfectly reasonable B-cups, only just beginning to show a slight, natural sag—had come capped with large, olive-toned areolae, and dark brown nipples. Harry had turned them into a plastic surgeon’s wet dream, with tiny, pebbled nipples of pale pink. Porn star breasts. Big surprise. Still she found this change a little easier to accept. Perhaps because along with new, prodigious size, he’d brought her a dirty, ragged sensation of pleasure, far beyond the subtle enjoyment her God-given tits could manage. Every greedy squeeze of his hands pumped her veins with visceral need. Then he slapped her across the heavy swell of her new rack and she cried out loud, unable to believe the nasty joy it gave her. Suddenly she had to sit down; she couldn’t trust her legs when the rest of her so wanted to rock against her man’s hard body.
“Come to the couch,” she told him, and grabbed his hand to lead him there. She sat, stationing him before her, and fumbled for his fly. While she worked it loose, she touched his chest, belly, and hips with her free hand, picturing a hundred hunks on the covers of romance novels. Smooth, flat pectoral muscles; abs like a marble statue’s; strong, muscular legs and thighs. He looked nothing like Harry anymore, and in fact she couldn’t even think of him as Harry. He’d become a true fantasy, and there was only one wonderful part left to perfect.
“I always wanted you hung,” she murmured, words rapid in her hurry to undress him. “You never really filled me quite right. A couple more inches, I think...a bit more girth. Oh, and I hated your goddamn, uncircumcised dick. Let’s correct that, shall we?”
She yanked down his pants and his boxers, and not even taking the time to consider the cock growing stiff between his beautiful new legs she seized it, working it between her palms into a masterful, full-sprung phallus. The sort of dick sex toys were crafted to emulate; the cock of an Adonis, just as Maegan had suggested.
“Oh, yes,” she breathed, in awe of her own creation. She stroked it, adoring its flawless, shining crown and the weighty, thick shaft. “Oh, I’ve never wanted to suck a cock so much in my life.”
“Well, do it then.”
The petulance colored his tone again. Maybe he hadn’t liked her frank critique of his natural endowments. Only fair, though, considering he’d turned her into a pair of dual airbags.
 Francesca bent forward and took her new plaything into her mouth. She struggled, eager, to manage it in full. Satisfying tastes of salt, skin, and the first hints of pre-cum thrilled her. Soon she found herself working him, hand and mouth, pausing only to dance her tongue along the tip of his cockhead, and trace it teasingly along the seam of his frenulum.
Harry moaned. His hands clutched her by the hair, holding her tight until she almost gagged. One of his favorite flirtations. Francesca dropped her hands to fondle his warm, pleasantly yielding testicles. After a split second of thought, she willed these larger as well, though not by equal proportion. She could really only take so much.
“Yeah, baby,” he moaned. “Oh, yeah. Yeah.”
She adored the new, amazing cock, but she forced herself to relinquish it before she could make him burst. They both paused to admire the slick sheen of her saliva glistening along his length. At second thought, she leaned forward again, coaxing the smooth swell of his flush red cockhead, and ran her tongue around it one last time. She kissed a bead of pre-cum from the tip, then let him go, switching her attention to her own business slacks to get them off.
Harry’s hands found her shoulders. As she worked he ran his palms down her arms, and she once again felt skin and muscle tightening, smoothing out. He lowered himself behind her on the couch, cupping her breasts again as she kicked off her heels and shimmied the pants down her legs. When she looked down, she assessed the impossible white, flat stretch of her stomach. No pregnancy marks and of course, no C-section scar. He made it the flawless, well-toned belly of a girl who surfed or skied or did her Pilates religiously. When she freed herself fully from her clothes, he slipped a hand over her already-hot, already-needful pussy. Under his touch, the dark, coarse hair of her mound disappeared, and her cunt emerged from under his fingers smooth as silk. Again, not her pussy. Not her lush, spilling labia. He’d made her plump and well-ordered, with no naughty folds out of place on the subtly juvenile mound.
“Get down there,” she demanded. “I said I wanted that face between my thighs. Hop to it, lover, and make it good.”
He obeyed her, switching sides on the couch to crawl up on her. He touched her legs—more smoothing, more scars and marks and cellulite erased—and then he spread them, prying them open with harsh need. He fell upon her wet cunt in a relish, eating it up. He laved at her entrance, licking a ring around it and then thrusting his tongue in. His strokes were quick and confident. Francesca wriggled against the leather of the couch, stretching her arms over her head to grab the armrest, and let out a gasping, crying moan.

“More. Yes, more. Fuck, that’s right. Keep—keep going...”
He strummed her clitoris with his tongue, but only briefly. It left her churning and craving more of the same. Again he dropped down and his tongue invaded her. She felt wet arousal spill from her pussy, and it glistened on him mouth and chin when he drew up.
“Take back what you said about my cock, Cesca.”
“What?” Her head was in a jumble. What was he stopping for.
“I said take it back. We don’t need to be assholes to each other...this could be really amazing.”
“You said my tits weren’t big enough for you,” she snapped. His abandonment of her cunt, however, irritated her far more than his first few comments.
“You don’t insult a man’s cock, woman. You’ll be lucky if I fuck you with it after what you said.”
“Fuck off. She said we should turn each other into our perfect fantasy. Mine happens to have twice the cock you do, is all.”
Harold growled. On his new playboy face it was a dream come true, and she grabbed him by the hair again, pushing him toward her waiting cunt.
“I can’t believe you,” he snapped. He took hold of her then, seizing one ass cheek, his thumb pressed hard at the bottommost swell of her out labia, as if he’d slit them open like a letter. “I always knew you were a ball-buster, though, I guess. Let’s see how you like it.”
Francesca gasped again, only this time the pleasure accompanying Harold’s sudden change of her anatomy was wild and disturbingly strange. She lifted her head to stare down.
He’d crafted her balls. An actual, weighty, dangling set of balls.
“Holy God!” she cried. “What did you do? Take those away, Harry!”
“No, I don’t think so. They sort of suit you, don’t you think?”
She didn’t know what to think. The notion of her with balls—they swelled from below her fattened labia hanging there like a sort of punishment toy—she couldn’t even fathom it.
Then Harry slapped them. Not hard, as he had her new breasts. Soft and swift and just the tiniest bit sharp. A shock of mingled electric pleasure and a sore twitch of pain cut deep into her loins. She didn’t want to make any sound of enjoyment now...but any sound at all might be mistaken for approval.
“You know what you need to go along with these? A nice, fat cock of your own.”
The hand stroking her pussy began its work. Cesca protested, but the transformation followed Harold’s desires, not hers. He stroked and shaped the mound of her pussy, the fat swell of her outer lips and the rigid bead of her clit, and as he did they grew. Her flesh lengthened, drew together, changed shape, stiffened. The thrill of his stroking drove her crazy and she pressed her thighs together.
She looked again. Harold didn’t bless her with the same large, confident organ she’d given him. Her cock turned out more humble, and that rankled her a bit at first. He’d also left her conspicuously uncircumcised, no doubt to spite her for her earlier comment. All the same, though, she couldn’t criticize the thing too much. It had a comfortable familiarity, and as a woman who’d never had a cock before, she took solace in it.
“It’s not very big,” Harold sneered. He still stroked it, almost absent-mindedly, and his firm grip worked her harder and harder. What an odd sensation. She thrust her hips to his motions, fascinated by the mounting, tender pressure.
Holy God. The thought struck her abruptly. What if I come like this? What will that feel like? Like squirting? Like bursting?
She’d never squirted, herself, and she couldn’t reconcile the thought of a burst with the twitching, pulsing jets of hot semen she’d coaxed from her lovers in the past. Another groan escaped her and she closed her eyes, continuing to match his rhythm, feeling her new cock tighten and grow even stiffer, if it were possible. The sensation of pressure built, getting intense just below the split curve of the head.
“Suck it?” she asked him, without realizing she’d even intended to. “Would you suck it for me?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t suck cock, sweetheart.”
“Let me help you with that.”
She seized his head and pulled it down, guiding her cock up into his mouth. Almost immediately, the urge to thrust and thrust hard overtook her, and she cried out as she twitched and rocked her hips, pumping herself to the hot, wet limit. He gagged, and that made her laugh. When she released him to catch his breath, Harold scowled.
Francesca blinked. She could hardly believe her eyes. She hadn’t meant to, but while she’d so eagerly fucked his mouth, she’d changed his face again. Now it was softer, his lips fuller and his eyes bigger. He looked...feminine.
“Oh my God,” she laughed. “A woman’s face. I gave you a woman’s face.”
“You what?
“Oh, probably so you wouldn’t feel awkward.” She waved a hand at him. “Don’t blame me. You’re the one too manly to suck a cock, you damn pussy.”
His eyebrows went up. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She hadn’t really thought of it, but of course it was perfect. She lunged forward, grabbing for his crotch before he could stop her, groping and kneading the gorgeous dick she’d already given him. Like soft clay, it yielded under her touch, and presently she found herself massaging a delicate dark cunt covered in coarse, curly black hair.
“Now there’s a real cunt, Harold,” she needled. His wild, hot eyes pierced hers, and she thought if she hadn’t been slowly tickling the delicate folds of his labia, sliding her middle finger down to enter him, he’d probably start yelling. She caught him by surprise, though, just as he’d caught her: the rising flush on his new ladies’ cheeks said she’d definitely hit the spot.
“There, now,” she crooned. “Fancy fast you get wet, Harold. Just like me. You know, you were lucky to have me. I bet a lot of your cheating buddies didn’t feel this wet, this smooth, like I did. I bet they didn’t come like I did, either.”
“They all came just fine,” he growled.
“Let’s see how you come, why don’t we?”
She shifted, pushing him back against the other arm of the couch, spreading his legs, stroking his inner thighs and admiring the lovely cunt she’d created for him. Yes, he had long, plush lips; a fat little clit. She knew just how a pussy like this should be fucked.
“Roll over, please,” she said in a teasing voice.
“If you think I’m going to let you—”
“Come on, Harold. We know where this is going. And I have to admit I’m really getting hot for you like this. You’re starting to look damn good to me. I never thought I’d say that about a woman’s body, but...”
Yes, she’d always believed herself straight as an arrow, no crazy bi-curious side in the wings. And even now, she didn’t precisely think she’d be this hungry, this needy, for any other female body. Something about the shape she slowly bestowed on Harold, piece-by-piece...she thought she must have a real talent for this magic, whatever it really was. She definitely was crafting a lover she couldn’t resist.
“Wait, though,” she muttered. “Let’s get the rest of you in order.”
This time he didn’t protest. Francesca ran her hands over his chest, cupping, squeezing, sculpting. As she did, he slid his hands down her back and to her buttocks, and the swell of hard muscle formed under his touch. She stroked breasts onto him, making them pert and warm and dark, like coffee and cream. Unable to abstain, she paused to take each plump, pebbled nipple into her mouth, sucking in long, strong, steady focus.
“Get these goddamn things out of my face,” Harold snapped, and a second later he smoothed down the ridiculous gourds he’d stuck on her. He rubbed them down to almost nothing, a couple of negligible swells. Oh, well...she’d get him to give back her B-cups later on. At least those massive tits weren’t hanging down off her chest like swollen fruit, now.
“I’m not waiting any more,” she muttered, and she hardly noticed the short blonde locks she’d given him turning to glossy black waves as she ran her fingers through them. “Roll over, Harold. I want to fuck you.”
He didn’t protest this time. He rotated beneath her, propping himself up against the couch arm and lifting smooth, feminine hips up, offering her his backside. She wedged one hand—bigger hands now, broader—between his thighs, and parted them to reveal the wet, ready entrance of his wonderfully familiar cunt.
Francesca took hold of her cock to guide it to his entrance, but she didn’t enter right away. She teased him, prodding his quivering entrance with just her swollen cockhead, popping it in and drawing it out as he uttered soft murmurs of surprise. She slid the head, slick with pre-cum, up and down the valley of his inner labia, coaxing him to open even more. Yes, she knew how this pussy would work.
Finally, she thrust into him, letting out a low, throaty sound of joy. Her cock plunged deep into hot, soft, clinging flesh, and when she withdrew again the inner channel of his pussy squeezed her, working that pressure again closer and closer to the head.
“You like getting fucked like this?” she whispered in his ear. Her whole body lit up with a prowling, growling desire. “I don’t know about you...oh...but I surely love doing the fucking from this angle. You’ve got a hot, hot pussy, Harry. You’re lucky, it’s a good one. A real good one.  Fuck, are you enjoying this as much as I am?”
“Yeah,” he replied, all trace of protest gone. His voice came softer, a little higher, as he sank into pleasure. He thrust his hips and ass back against her, eagerly accepting her deepest, hardest strokes, moaning long and low and desperate.
“I think—I think I’m going to come, Harry. Yeah...Oh, what’s it going to feel like, oh, Harry I can’t—I can’t take it. Here it comes—oh, fuck, I’m coming!”
Yes!” he shouted, and pressed hard back to her. She seized his hips and thrust herself in to the very limit. Her cock twitched and the dam broke: course after course of spurting semen shot deep into his hot, clinging channel. Harry groaned, and slid back and forth, taking over the rhythm for her until he fucked himself into climax on her dick, and his cunt seized around her, tightening and throbbing.
“That’s right Alecto. I swear it happens every time.”
Maegan—Maegara to her sisters and the rest of her family—lounged in the Delaney’s wide, bright living room, heels kicked up on the coffee table, jouncing one ankle as she chatted away on her cell phone with Alecto, her oldest sibling.
“You offer them the chance to heal their wounds and instead they feed their own greedy egos. Every time.”
“Well, Maegara, you do go looking for adulterers and cuckolds. I don’t know what you expect.”
“They’re the ones most deserving,” Maegara countered. “And it’s fun to watch them tie their own nooses with their own hands. These two have been especially fun. I offered them the chance to mold the other into their perfect mate, their ideal partner, and you know how that ended up?”
“How?” Alecto asked.
“They turned each other into themselves.” She uncrossed her ankles, lowered her feet from the table, and leaned forward. “How narcissistic can you get?”
“I'll ask Narcissus. Are you going to change them back?”
“Nope,” she said. “I actually think they’ll be happier this way.”
“Until they clear their heads enough to remember what’s changed...”
Maegara shrugged, though she knew her sister couldn’t see it.
“Not my problem. I told them I came to give them what they deserve. As far as I’m concerned—”
“This is exactly what they deserve,” Alecto finished.
Maegara grinned her sly grin.

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