The Supremacy of Samantha

Chapter Four-1

Chapter Four

Tom woke in the morning slowly, lazily, as if from a very sound and satisfying sleep…and yet his belly fluttered strangely inside, seeming confused, but about what, he could not quite recall. He felt vaguely hungry somehow, or jittery, filled with an indefinable, unnamable emotion that seemed to teeter unpredictably between anticipation and dread and then back again. It made no sense, he told himself groggily.

As he stretched beneath the sliding sheets, however, his every nerve jangled in a more familiar, pleasant sort of confusion. Now this was something he understood, he realized with a sleepy grin. And that readiness, that need, would indeed bring a corresponding flutter to the abdomen, would it not? His hairy thighs felt heavy, very heavy, as heavy as the sac that hung so plump-full and promisingly ready beneath, while the tight-crinkled little peaks that crowned his flat male chest ached, helplessly oversensitized, with the motion of each ragged breath. Yes, and below his hungry belly he was thick and erect, his c**k standing straight up and pounding, while his whole face reeked beautifully of p***y, and he licked his lips, tasting his wife.

And suddenly he remembered everything, everything, and the blood drained from his once-eager cheeks. He hadn’t had enough money to call Mike’s bet at the poker table that night, and when he asked, a little incredulously, if Mike was sure he wanted to go all-out like that, the other had replied, “You bet your life,” so Tom, thinking that with his full house of aces over fives he simply couldn’t lose, grinned back, “No, I bet my wife.” The others had just stared at him wide-eyed, but Tom had wanted the nearly thousand dollars in that pot so much, and he knew he would win, knew it, so like a big man, he talked up his supposedly serious proposition, trying to stay in the game.

Yes, for Samantha was full-bodied and blonde and busty, and he knew that, in an instinctive, and of course, theoretical way, Mike and all of the other guys must want her, too. He had seen them sneak a quick peek now and then, after all, in the almost automatic way a man will, when he thinks no one else is observing him. Tom dangled the impossible notion alluringly before them, therefore, leering quietly about the joys of squeezing those big boobs and that nice cushy ass, reaching beneath her soft belly to rub in warm honey-gold curls until she juiced up like an absolute w***e, and then just plunging blunt-headed and drizzling into that snug, smoothly enveloping comfort, balls-deep, where you could do anything you ever wanted, anything.

It was shameful, really, for any man to talk about his wife like that before others, but he did it. He wasn’t thinking about it in any serious way, of course. It was all part of the game to Tom, merely a stratagem, essentially just another bluff so that he could call the obvious bluff Mike had made, and win the pot that he otherwise would miss out on due to his final shortage of ready funds. That pile of soft green bills in the center of the table—ones and fives, tens and twenties, all ready to be folded into bulging pockets and brought home in triumph to show his impressed and joyous wifey—called to him irresistibly.

At last, rather disbelievingly and yet unwilling to pass up any possible chance, Mike had accepted his friend’s crazy, terrible bet. Ah, how triumphant Tom had been, almost trembling with eagerness! He merely smiled, however, and nodded as composedly as he could. Smugly he waited, his eyes darting covetously over the cash piled up between them as all the others looked on in breathless silence.

And then the fucker showed a hand with four of a kind, baby threes, while Tom, white-faced, mutely laid out his once-proud full house, and felt like a fool. He was broke now, flat broke, and losing after his swaggering big-man act made him seem just that much more pitiful and small, and he could only squirm in attempted good humor at his friends’ playful jibes. Mike, raking in the dough, shrugged with a tolerant, offhand air that he would have won just the same had Tom folded, so it wasn’t as if he was out any money. The man’s eyes, however, could not help looking faintly wistful, and surely everybody knew what in the primitive, unevolved recesses of some very deep-down and secret level of his mind he really must have been thinking.

So poor Tom had had to slink home then, penniless instead of flush with cash, and confess to his wife. Losing was bad enough, but as very wittily and self-deprecatingly, he was sure, he was telling the story of the epic duel of strategy and determination, he accidentally let slip too much…and then he had to tell her the whole story. God, the icy fury in those slitted green eyes! He couldn’t blame her, of course. Mesmerized by the lure of those tremendous winnings at stake, he had been a thoughtless cad, and he knew it. He had wanted the money, and he had wanted to look big and confident and strong, and he hadn’t wanted to back down. That was no excuse, certainly. It was just the way it had been, and as much as he might wish, the past was past, and he couldn’t take anything back. All he could do was apologize in his shamefaced sincerity, and move on and never be such a stupid asshole again.

Only Samantha had not been her usual forgiving self, had she? he reflected now as he blinked his gritty, unfocused eyes up at the ceiling toward which his morning erection, mindless and instinctive, still pointed. She truly was such a good wife to him, and a loving mother to little Samuel and Emily, and he knew that at work she was one of the best and most-liked teachers—Tom was very proud of her, and so glad to have her at his side. Yet last night he had offended the poor woman more deeply than he ever had before, and although he had expected the bosomy honey-blonde to explode like a volcano, her glacial demeanor had been perhaps even more frightening. How sorry he was, how miserable and forlorn at what he had done! He deserved every bit of that anger and resentment, he knew.

When finally she loosened her grip on that self-righteous fury and she blinked rather shyly down at the lush curves and swells of the soft round body which Tom in his thoughtlessness had offered up to his friends, how deeply reassuring it had been to have her smile again, and to see that she felt flattered, and a little playful, too! Apologetically he had caressed her then, appealingly, fondling those big soft mammaries that not only had tempted his uneasily aroused friends but had comforted the loving husband night after night, even nourished in their infancy the fuzzy-headed products of the proud couple’s devotion. Mm, and the ivory globes’ pink-brown centers, which when flat spread as wide as the palm of his hand, had crinkled up fearsomely thick and tight, as fat as a baby’s fist, and he pinched delicately, reverently, at the sensitized things. Smiling dreamily, he watched her unbutton her jeans and reach into her panties and begin to masturbate, and he was happy as he held her completely without demand, and breathed deep of her innermost scent.

But then she had said things, strange things. God, how the remembrance chilled him and yet somehow, confusedly and very, very secretly, thrilled him even now! Why, Samantha had offered to make good on the silly, selfish, thoughtless bet he had made—she would let Mike have her. And yet, she reminded him in grandly superior tolerance, all those other guys had been in the poker game, too, and she would not want them to feel that her husband had tricked or defrauded them either. They all should be able to have her, therefore, each and every one of the once-disbelieving eight—it was only right and proper, she asserted as her green eyes studied him carefully.

It was terribly humiliating for any husband! Of course, he already had humiliated the poor woman with the way he had talked about her before his wide-eyed poker buddies, had he not? There was, perhaps, a logical symmetry to the notion, therefore. And in addition whispered one hidden little corner of his guilty mind, that could indeed be a very, very naughty thing to see, could it not? His own beloved lying spread-legged and moaning beneath man after man—gangbanged, he told himself with secret glee—her tousled blonde waves spilling all about her soft pale shoulders, her big boobs lolling stiff-tipped and available for any erect male beast to grab and juggle, even suck, her face flushed and beautiful in her simple animal pleasure as the loving wife, devoted mother, and upstanding member of the community at last threw off all convention and propriety and restraint, and instead simply wallowed unashamedly in pure sensation. God, the thought of it! At last, therefore, ashamed and unwilling and yet desperately excited, Tom had agreed—why, she made him beg her to do it, literally beg.

At her husband’s acquiescence, however, Samantha only grew more sneering, more intoxicated with the power of her irresistible feminine sensuality. She called him a cuckold. She told him how much she was going to enjoy getting f****d like that, since he apparently wasn’t man enough to have taken care of the situation at the poker table himself. And she was not going to use condoms either, she insisted darkly. She was on the Pill, and his friends were clean—if she was going to pay Tom’s debt, then this was how he was going to pay back his wife. It was only natural, she asserted, staring with almost challenging calm into the shocked man’s face.

Those eight guys, she explained with devilish delight, were just going to climb up on top of his once-respectable wife and treat her like a w***e. Wallowing between her splayed thighs, they would ride her bareback to leave her swimming in their comingled splooge, and her enslaved cuckold would just watch, helpless and breathless and confusedly erect, jerking off compulsively as he waited for his turn. Yes, she continued hypnotically, he could only suffer and shiver and sweat, until finally, if he was a very good little boy, he just might be allowed to put his hands, his mouth—God, his mouth! he marveled, aghast and yet sickly entranced as well—and maybe, just maybe, his poor neglected p***s into that betraying pink paradise of flesh and hair and fluids.

Tom’s face had gone white…and then red again, as red as the engorged head of the achingly congested organ which, no matter the terrible wickedness that her syrupy voice heaped upon him, would not soften but instead only pounded all the more fiercely. The things she proposed were awful, humiliating beyond belief. Why, he loved his darling wife, and cherished her…and yet all his poker buddies were going to open her up hairy and spongy and wet, and just use her. Ah, the things they would do to her! God, their hands all over her fleshy bare body, and their mouths hungry and smacking upon her rippling titties to make her gasp and squeal like a w***e. Yes, and their thick bare p*****s would be inside of her, he told himself again in helpless fascination, and all their jism, too, and nobody would care how it affected the poor stabbed husband. Oh, it would be terrible, he assured himself quickly.

She wanted it, did she not? he reasoned desperately. And he would not be jealous of her own right hand, would he, or of the vibrator she kept in the bottom of her nightstand? Might this not, therefore, be merely just another type of naughty, self-indulgent game that the adoring man simply did not have the heart to deny her? How much the adoring man always craved the feel of that slippery pink flesh in his mouth! Nothing could arouse him so wildly, nothing! And then the time, that one, impossible, oft-remembered time that the poor groaning man had even done it afterward. Oh, the breathy sounds of her raggedly intensifying pleasure, the way she trembled and spasmed so gratifyingly beneath his worshipful tongue, the taste of what he had done as he bubbled and slavered and splashed.