Chapter 2

Tea was a torturous interlude, the men sipping Earl Grey tea from china cups while I knelt naked on the living room rug, body glistening with drying cum and sweat, torn pantyhose clinging to my thighs like a second skin.

My tits hung heavy, nipples still peaked and bruised from their relentless pinches, the choker tight around my neck as a constant reminder of my cheating slut wife role. Justin set his cup down first, eyes raking over my marked form—red hand prints blooming on my ass cheeks, pussy lips swollen and leaking a cocktail of their earlier loads down my inner legs. Cum flaked from my skin in crusty patches, thighs sticky from the endless leaks, but the rest was brief—a half-hour of idle chatter about bank accounts and golf while I fetched refills on hands and knees, ass swaying to display the welts.

Justin clapped once, breaking the lull. ‘Break’s over, boys. SLUT, upstairs—time to suit up for round two. We have some Ivory white seamed stockings, a peephole bra and panties set, those patent red heels, anklets jingling, and keep the choker locked on. Make it quick; we’ve got rooms to christen.’

I rose on wobbly legs, the short trek to the guest room a haze of anticipation, fingers trembling as I stripped the remnants of my previous outfit.

The new ensemble waited on the guest bed: sheer ivory stockings with bold seams running up the backs. I rolled them on slowly, the nylon whispering against my skin, seams arrowing toward my core like a promise. The peephole bra cupped my tits, holes framing my nipples in lewd exposure, the matching panties a scrap with a slit exposing my pussy lips and asshole, ready for instant access. Red heels locked around my ankles, three-inch spikes forcing my posture into a slutty arch, silver anklets chiming with each step. The SLUT choker clicked shut, the loop dangling for their leashes.

Descending the stairs, I felt their gazes ignite—tits bouncing through the peepholes, stockings gleaming under the lights, heels clicking a submissive rhythm. My cunt dripping wet already,

They were waiting in the kitchen, fruits arrayed on the counter like perverse props: ripe bananas curved and firm, thick cucumbers ridged and cool, even a zucchini for variety, all washed and menacing in their innocence. Harold grinned, peeling a banana with deliberate slowness. ‘Showtime, whore—entertain us. Fuck yourself with these till you crash over the edge. Start with the banana; make it sloppy.’

I leaned back against the fridge, legs spreading wide in the heels, the peephole panties framing my slick folds. Taking the banana, I traced its tip along my inner thighs, teasing the seam of the stockings before pressing it to my entrance. ‘Watch your secretary slut stuff her cunt with fruit—I’m a willing fuck pig for you old pervs.’

The peel slipped off easily, the soft flesh yielding as I pushed it in, inch by inch, the curve hitting my front wall with a squelch. I pumped it slowly at first, twisting to grind deeper, free hand pinching a nipple through the bra’s hole, the exposure making it harden instantly.

Groans filled the room—Reg stroking his bulge, Len licking his lips. I was going faster now, the banana mashing inside me, juices coating it messy, my hips bucking as the fullness built pressure. ‘Deeper—Oh fuck, it’s splitting me like a ripe slut!’

My climax hovered, but Justin barked, ‘Switch to cucumber—bigger stretch for that tight pussy.’

I pulled the banana free, a trail of pulp and arousal stringing out, and grabbed the green length, cool and unyielding. Aligning it, I thrust hard, the ridges dragging my walls raw, heels scraping the tiles as I rode it standing, ass clenching.