First Time Revenge: Fingering a Furious British Wife Under the Table
September evening, 6 PM, Mulhouse motel parking. Exhausted after updating factory robots. My young colleague Yannick and I spot a British couple by their packed monospace. Him: balding sixty-something in green pants, tartan vest, yellow shirt. Her: forties, tall redhead, huge square glasses, floral dress buttoned to the neck, massive yellow sandals. Plump hips, heavy tits, long legs. They need a traditional Alsatian restaurant rec. I suggest our booked farm inn, offer to lead them.
Helping unload. Doors jammed, so rear hatch. He staggers bags to their room. She unbuttons bottom of dress to climb in, squats low. Heart pounds. Dress gaps open. Flesh-colored stockings, brown garters flash. She waddles, fabric rides up. Girdle with crotch snaps peeks. She knows I’m staring, thighs clench. Fuck, my cock twitches. First real upskirt thrill. Innocence cracking.
The Approach
They change. Her in cream linen pantsuit, him same loud outfit. Drive chatting: he’s dentist, ex-nurse, three kids, wine route buzzed. Dinner table: her beside me, Betty. Crémant offers, Tokay flows. John blabs Paris lingerie buys, then cheats: seminar fuck, clients spreading for him—including her friend. Betty rigid, knuckles white. I grab her hand under table, squeeze thigh. Whisper ‘vengeance.’ Her eyes spark. No turning back.
My hand creeps up her thigh, strokes pussy through fabric as John rants. She pauses fork, spreads legs. Fingers slip under waistband, into cotton. Bushy pubes, silky. Wet folds. Index dips in hot slickness. She eats calmly, but juice floods my hand. Farmer checks in—I yank out. She grips my wet fingers, thanks me.
Schnapps ordered. ‘Fantastic night!’ John oblivious, drunk. Back to van, strap him in backseat—out cold. Moonlit lot. Betty between us upfront. Maternal kiss for Yannick, then devours my mouth. Tongue sucks mine. Hand dives in blouse, unhooks massive bra. Heavy milky tits flop out, huge areolas, fat nipples harden under my sucks. Heart hammers. Yannick’s hand in her panties too.
John snores. Betty flips, cusses him. Pants to ankles: ‘Appéritif before orgy!’ Wide thighs, hairy cunt exposed, tits swinging. My tongue laps her musky slit, she moans soft. Yannick mauls breasts. She halts us—motel awaits.
The Instant
ATM condoms. Drop John. Give her my room number. ‘Try that Paris lingerie.’ Twenty minutes later, she’s back. Heavy makeup, red lips, black heels. Dims lights, strips. Black seamed stockings, red garter belt, fluorescent pink crotchless panties framing bushy pussy. Balconette bra strains tits. She teases, caresses slit, offers udders to suck. Kneels, tits sway hypnotic.
I devour her gaping cunt, finger asshole—she squirms but yields. Yannick kneads tits. She grabs cocks, strokes shy. I push to her lips: ‘Vengeance.’ Mouth opens, sucks deep. Gags eager, drool mixes pre-cum. Four paws: tongue-fuck pussy and ass, she yelps.
Condoms on. Tag-team: doggy, spoon, missionary—legs pinned. One cock in, other in hand or mouth. She howls orgasms. Yannick blasts inside, wipes on tits, dips out.
Betty sucks me clean, assumes prayer pose, guides cock to gaping ass: ‘Vengeance.’ Slides in tight heat. She bucks back. I pound hips, explode. She bites sheets, cums muffled.
She cleans me, wipes cum from face, tits, holes with cum-soaked panties—gift for John. Tunic only, I walk her back. Midway lawn, squats, hikes tunic: powerful piss arcs from hairy gash, glittering under light. ‘Sorry!’ Laughs, shows stolen condoms. ‘For the honeymoon.’ Wet kiss goodbye. Pulse still races. Boyhood gone, man unleashed.
