Jack Tyler (recently rendered absent from control of his own being albeit remaining as a dispassionate observer from within himself), witnesses Lucifer (Lew), now in control of his body, spend the first night with Jack's wife, Jemma...
The road trip was upon me earlier than I’d anticipated. If
I’d been in possession of my human emotions I had a strong feeling I’d have
been throwing up at Lew’s saccharin sentimentality. Thankfully I was spared the
emotive aspects of his performance with Jemma but one thing he did manage to
secure, the sly dog, was her blessing for my road trip. By the time he’d
finished licking her toes, drooling where I’d never drooled before and generally
trading foreplay for grovelling, he’d pretty much won her over. She saw me in a
whole new light. It was a light I was certain would flicker and fade when I
regained control of my entire body sometime in the future. However, it was a
performance worthy of praise from the casual observer, if one had to measure it
upon physical performance alone. No small coincidence that Lew behaved like a
veritable demon. What transpired could hardly have been construed as lovemaking
but it was not without passion. He literally fucked her from one end of the
bedroom to the other, over the bath, in the bath, against the dressing table,
straddling the ottoman, on the bed, under the bed and finally half in and half
out of the dressing room. It was exhausting merely observing such a mercurial
bout of shagging. But inexplicably he had my good wife eating out of his hands
by the end of the evening.
The disaster of Kate’s botched pantomime performance was
nothing but a distant memory after Jemma’s fourth orgasm. I was certain I could
feel my manly organ increasing in length and girth beyond its usual capacity
and tried vainly to thrust this thought into Lew’s maddened lust-filled brain
as rapidly as he thrust my penis in and out of Jemma’s receptive quim.
Intercession was, however, useless, which was as diametrically opposed to his
prowess as was possible. Actions did indeed speak louder than words or, in this
case, thoughts.
I didn’t know if I’d ever given my wife an orgasm in all
the time I’d known her. She went through the motions of grunting, gasping and
panting at all the right times but nothing compared with the twisting,
shrieking frenzy I witnessed this night. There was no faking this. Her
misty-eyed devotion in the afterglow paid testament to that. Her fawning
acceptance of my need to forge into the regional wilderness in pursuit of
riches for our suddenly idyllic marriage nearly made me puke. I would have,
given the capacity. As it was I watched helplessly as my body lit a cigar and
polluted my lungs with its pungent smoke. Protesting that I was a non-smoker
was useless particularly as I didn’t really give a monkey’s anyway. Lew sat in
the darkened lounge wearing my bathrobe, smoking my guest cigars and sipping on
a Wild Turkey, feet tapping in time to Hotel California.
Somewhere amid the steamy, miasmic aftermath of sexual
madness, in a twist of Biggie Best linen, Jemma slumbered like a Cheshire cat.
There should have been something deeply disturbing about this, I thought. But
for the life of me I just couldn’t feel it.
The First Book Of PRANA - coming soon... watch this space...
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