Dishonor Thy Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

car and race to the door, shoving the key
into the lock.
    He covers my hand with his, stopping me from turning the
key. He is breathing heavily, almost painfully. The hair on the top of my head creeps
across my scalp and his hot breath heats my skin all the way down to my toes.
    He picks me up and I’m kicking my legs and screaming. He’s
laughing!
    Brad carries me to the car and opens the back door.
    Damn, I should have locked it!
    He flings me across the seat. “Quit playing hard to get,” he
pants. “I can smell your desire.”
    “No!”
    “You don’t mean no, Ronni. Quit being coy! You know you want
it. You were giving me sex vibes when we played pool! Every night you’ve been
touching yourself, playing with yourself all for my benefit.”
    “You are sick!”
    His index finger crawls down the zipper of my skirt as if
the little teeth are piano keys.
    I sigh with relief because he does not yank at the zipper.
Fine. He scared me. Now we can both go into the house and act like sober
adults, a married couple with no sex privileges.
    Yipes! He yanks up my skirt.
    I push my knees together, beating his chest with my fists.
    He grabs my wrists, jerking them over my head.
    He climbs on top of me grinding his rough, denim crotch
against my panties.
    Oh, God, what is happening to me? Brad feels so good.
    He pants, whispering in my ear and grunting, “You’re aroused
when I touch you. Admit you want me, Ronni!”
    I shake my head back and forth, meaning no.
    But then his thumb slides in between our sweating bodies and
pushes against my moist sensitive button, circling fast and…If he really
touched me there with no clothing in between I swear I...my fists are
pathetically punching him…now rubbing his chest, then encircling his neck as my
head spins. A wanton desire engulfs me. Something more is happening, a heat
seeping through my veins, a pulsing… there .
    I wrap my leg around his leg and move against the crotch of his
denim jeans, pushing hard, panting and sobbing as wave after wave hits me. I
bite my lip, swearing not to beg him to make love to me; only it won’t be
making love, the act would be fucking and I can’t…not with Brad…never again
with Brad.
    Oh, God! I long to touch him. Squeeze him. Caress him.
    I grasp his shoulders, totally losing control as he pounds
against my body with the lump in his pants.
    Finally, my body shudders, slowly coming back to earth,
limp, relaxed.
    I am confused and angry at the delicious feeling. No, say
what it is, orgasm. I have had my first orgasm with a partner and he is still
humping against me, making me want...oh, God! Again!
    Brad is still fully aroused and then he pushes hard against my
panties and groans, his head slumping over my shoulder.
    Well, he did not exactly rape me, he did not penetrate me, but
I yell nevertheless, “Get off me, you pervert! Quit molesting me!”
    “Well quit teasing me,” he growls.
    Am I angry with him for taking advantage of me? I have had
too much to drink! Or am I mad at myself because I still want him?
    He climbs off me, appearing embarrassed because he
ejaculated in his pants.
    Guilt seeps between my legs. I should want to please this
man the way he pleased me, except he forced me, sort of. He has a rough way of
seducing a woman. The first night Brad came back from Philly, he begged me to have
sex, and now I understand why. Sex with a partner can be good, addictive even. No
wonder he wants it so badly. But with Barbie. Do not forget about his
mistress. Quit wanting to make him feel as good as he makes Barbie feel.
Do not try to prove to him that you are just as good as she is in the sack. Remember, Brad blames you because Barbie, on the rebound from their
cancelled wedding, married mega-rich, old man Bubba Simpson. As consolation,
Brad got stuck with you and Traci.
    Good! I have come to my senses.
    I yank down my skirt and stroll nonchalantly to the door,
pretending I did not slip my right foot into my left heel and vice-versa,