Chapter 3: Marge Again

Freddy, his pockets a little heavier, his cock still tingling from Marge’s enthusiastic servicing, bounded down her porch steps with a newfound spring in his step. “The sun,” that old motherfucker, “seemed to shine a little brighter, the birdsong a little sweeter,” as if the whole goddamn world was in on his little secret. He whistled a jaunty tune, his mind replaying the scene he had just left, “the feel of Marge’s soft flesh against his skin, the taste of her cunt, ripe and musky, on his tongue.”

“Maybe this paperboy gig wasn’t so bad after all,” he mused, a grin spreading across his face, a grin that could launch a thousand ships, or at least a few more housewives. “In fact, it was fucking fantastic. Who needed a girlfriend,” a whiny, clingy cunt, “when you had a stable of housewives eager to trade their sexual favors for a glimpse of his youthful prick?”

He continued his route, his mind awhirl with possibilities, each house a potential conquest, each window a portal to hidden desires. He delivered the remaining papers with a newfound enthusiasm, his eyes scanning the windows of each house, wondering “what hidden desires lurked behind those closed doors, what ripe pussies waited to be tasted.”

As he approached Marge’s house again, a wave of anticipation washed over him, a tidal wave of lust that threatened to drown him. He remembered “the feel of her body, the taste of her cunt, the way she had moaned his name as he fucked her,” her voice a raw, animalistic cry. “He wanted more, wanted to delve deeper into the depths of her pleasure, to push the boundaries of their forbidden encounter.”

He rang the doorbell, his heart pounding in his chest, a drumbeat of desire. The door opened, and there she was, Marge, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of guilt and excitement, a delicious cocktail of forbidden pleasure. She was wearing a sheer negligee, the thin fabric doing little to conceal her full, ripe nipples, her cunt practically begging to be tasted.

“Freddy,” she breathed, her voice husky with desire, a low, throaty purr. “You came back.”

He grinned, his cock already hardening at the sight of her, a throbbing, insistent prick. “Of course, I did,” he said, stepping inside, his voice thick with lust. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Marge closed the door behind him, her body pressing against his, her lips finding his in a hungry kiss, a desperate, almost frantic embrace. Freddy, his hands roaming over her body, pulling her closer, his cock straining against his jeans, a caged beast eager to be unleashed.

They stumbled towards the couch, their clothes falling away like discarded leaves, a trail of lust leading them to their destination. Marge, her body on fire, pushed him down onto the cushions, her cunt hovering over his face, a dark, inviting vulva. “Eat me, Freddy,” she moaned, her voice raw with lust, a desperate plea. “Eat my cunt.”

Freddy, his tongue already tracing the outline of her cunt lips, didn’t hesitate. He plunged his tongue deep inside her, savoring “the taste of her, the musky scent of her arousal,” a heady, intoxicating aroma. Marge cried out, her body arching against his face, her cunt clenching around his tongue, a hot, wet vice.

He lapped and sucked, his tongue a tireless explorer, charting the depths of her pleasure, delving into every crevice, every fold of her cunt. Marge’s moans grew louder, her body writhing beneath him, her cunt milking his tongue with every movement, a rhythmic pulsing of pure, unadulterated lust.