Vadim
It was official. She was driving me crazy.
The knowledge didn’t stop me. If anything it encouraged me to do worse—which was how I had arrived here, pushing butter into my wife’s asshole in my own kitchen at this hour, entirely focused on keeping her on the edge of whatever she was currently experiencing.
The butter had begun to soften with her heat. I pressed a second finger in alongside the first, working past the tight ring of muscle, feeling it yield reluctantly around me.
She began to pant.
I pushed the remaining butter inside her.
“That’s it,” I murmured, easing both fingers in and out, the slick warmth making the movement easier with every stroke. “Now hold yourself open for me.”
I stroked her flank with my spare hand, feeling the tension running through her, and twisted my fingers slowly.
“What are you going to do the next time your husband messages you?” I asked. I kept my eyes on my fingers—the rim pressing inward as I sank in, hugging tight as I withdrew, her body doing exactly what bodies did when given no alternative.
“Message you back?” she cried.
“Is that a question or an answer, Iskra?”
“I don’t know.” A pause, broken by her own breathing. “I can’t think when you’re doing that.”
“Doing what?” I asked, and pushed as deep as my fingers would go.
Her legs began to tremble beneath her.
She was far too sensitive for her own good.
I pulled out when her hole loosened and reached for the carrot.
“Reach back and hold yourself open,” I said, teasing her entrance with the tip of it. “Fresh organic produce. Only the best for my wife.”
She shook her head but leaned into the counter and reached back regardless. Her fingers gripped her plump cheeks and she spread herself open.
“Wider.”
She complied.
I pushed the carrot in.
Little by little.
She opened up beautifully—her body accepting each slow inch with the same reluctant obedience she brought to everything I asked of her.
Her cheek was pressed flat against the counter, her breathing deep and deliberate, the kind of focused concentration that told me she was managing herself carefully.
Another inch and I paused.
“Almost there,” I crooned, easing it back and forth in small movements, working her open gradually.
I didn’t stop until the green leaves dangled down to brush against her wet pussy.
I considered the view for a moment.
“There you go,” I said. “All nice and plugged up.” I slapped her thigh and she yelped before it dissolved into a groan. “You can let go now.”
Her hands moved back to the counter and I pulled her hips back, nudging her legs further apart to admire my handiwork.
The carrot. The butter. The wet pussy dripping without permission.
I reached out and flicked the green leaves over her back.
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” I mused. “Your pussy is dripping wet.”
She didn’t answer.
I gripped my cock at the base and buried the head between those slick lips, dragging myself up and down her slit — slow, unhurried, coating myself in her arousal before I decided to do anything with it.
“Not so defiant now, are you?”
“Nyet,” she spat out.
I smiled at the back of her head.
She couldn’t even manage a full sentence of defiance without her body making a liar of her. Still fighting. Still spitting. Dripping down my cock the entire time.
I shook my head.
“You just can’t help yourself,” I murmured.
And pushed myself into her heat.
The carrot made her pussy tighter around me — considerably so — but it didn’t stop me or slow me down.
I held her hips and found the rhythm, rocking us both in the oldest pattern there was.
The bright orange and green kept drawing my eye back to her, a reminder of exactly how thoroughly this situation had been managed.
It wasn’t until she began to push back to meet my inward thrusts that I increased the pace.
I reached down and cupped her swaying breasts.
“How does it feel to have both holes stuffed full, Iskra?” I asked, palming her flesh before tightening my grip.
She didn’t answer. She moaned instead, which was its own answer.
“Yeah,” I said. “You love it, don’t you?”
I used her breasts like handles and began to bottom out on her — full strokes, no restraint, feeling her take every inch.
“Da,” she moaned. “Da. I love it.”
“Then take it,” I said, and moved faster.
My balls swung until they began to smack against her pussy, my pelvis nudging the carrot deeper with each drive forward. I released her breasts and gripped her ass cheeks instead, dragging her on and off my cock at the pace I wanted.
“Oh—oh. Vadim. I’m—oh god—I’m going to come,” she panted.
“Yes you are, my little whore,” I growled, ploughing into her the way I had been thinking about since I sent that message two hours ago.
Her body began to jerk. Tremors ran down the backs of her legs. Her strangled cry cut through the kitchen and her pussy contracted around me—tight, rhythmic, pulling at me with the insistence of a body that had stopped pretending it didn’t want this.
I thrust through it. Again and again, fucking her through every wave of it, until I groaned and pressed hard against her ass and buried myself as deep as I could go and allowed myself to come.
It was a win.
She didn’t control me.
My head tipped back.
Hot.
Wet.
And hopefully straight to her womb.
The sounds of our breathing and the indifferent ticking of the clock were the only two things left in the kitchen. I looked down at Iskra.
She had collapsed against the counter, cheek on the marble, entirely spent.
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I passed her the salad platter.
“More carrots?” I asked.
She looked at me with an expression that could have stripped paint and stabbed at the dumpling on her plate.
“Why so angry?” I said, setting the salad between us when she didn’t take it. “This is our first dinner together. They even lit candles for us.”
The candles in question flickered between us with complete indifference to the atmosphere.
“You really should consume more fruit and vegetables,” I added. “They are high in fibre and will help you—”
“That’s enough,” she hissed.
Her eyes cut to the open doorway where Bogdan and Radovan were stationed. Aware of the audience.
“You seem a little tense,” I observed. “Almost as if you have something stuck up your ass.”
She pushed her plate back and stood.
She made it almost to the door before she stopped, reached back to the table, and grabbed a handful of her berry pirozhki.
Then she left.
I slanted my head and watched her go.
She couldn’t quite manage the full storm-off.
Not with the carrot still up her ass.