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Fetish Fun with Dick and Jane Ch. 02

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“Fetish Fun with Dick and Jane, Chapter 2”

by J.D. Savanyu

I log out of my job with Morgan Stanley and stare at Jane Ryder through my living room window. Jazzercising like hell in her own living room in a skimpy pink bikini. COVID-1984 is pretty much over, but my Biden-loving boss is still making us telework every weekday. Thanks to him, I started a nice little affair my neighbor’s housewife. That girl is a real fetish freak; the kind you don’t take home to mother.

Time to stop managing hedge funds, and start getting hummed. She won’t let me fuck her until she “gets to know me better,” and the anticipation is killing me. I open a text message from Jane on my phone, and her personality shines right through:

“hey dick, cum here and lets get super freaky. i got a hot new game and sweet reward if u play nice”

My response is equally authentic:

“fuck yeah bitch. get naked right now, dumbshow stripper style”

I watch Jane reading that message in 128 Sound Beach Avenue, from 127. She shoots me a devilish grin, then she puts down her phone and starts wiggling around like an exotic dancer. (Does anyone still use that euphemism?) She takes off her bikini top slowly and tantalizingly, and takes off the bottom the same way. Looking like Jenna Jameson and slithering like a golden serpent, drenched in sweat. She finishes with a flourish, and I give her performance two thumbs up. She waves me toward her house, and I’m out in a flash.

The heat wave is still going strong in Old Greenwich, CT (the Stepford Wives capital of the world.) Jane opens her front door while standing behind it to conceal her nudity from the ritzy neighborhood. I take a few steps into a big room full of her creepy psychedelic paintings. She slams the door behind her, drops right to her knees, and unzips my khaki shorts without uttering a single word.

“Getting right down to business as usual, eh Miss Ryder?”

“I’m a true professional, Mister Davis,” she replies sweetly. She yanks out my flaccid prick and stuffs in her mouth, getting it up to nine inches in no time flat. She twists her head slowly back and forth, sucking hard and squeezing harder.

“A professional cheating cocksucker.”

She giggles with a mouthful, and keeps performing fellatio like a felon. The best blowjob in Fairfield County. My gaze is drawn to a painted portrait of her husband, Jack Ryder, hanging over a fireplace. A fellow hedge fund jockey who’s currently working in his office in Lower Manhattan. Lucky for me, Goldman Sachs has a conservative CEO who hates the idea of teleworking. Everyone should hate it, because it’s killing the economy of the Big Apple.

“Deep-throat me, Miss Ryder.”

“Yes konya escort sir, Mister Davis. But you better not cum, because I want to have lots of fun today.”

“Me too, Miss Ryder.”

She goes down as far as she can without gagging, and bobs her head back and forth a couple inches at that point. Picking up the pace while moaning on my manhood. The pressure builds up slowly but steadily in my glands, just like a tea kettle. I make her stop a minute later, wanting to make this last just as much.

“Tell me about this new game you’re planning.”

She tilts her head upward with a girlish grin. “I won’t tell you, because that’ll spoil the surprise,” she beams girlishly. She stands up on the paint-speckled living room carpet and gazes deep in my brown eyes with her sky-blues.

“Get down on your knees, Mister Davis.”

“Yes, Miss Ryder.”

I drop down and move my face toward her crotch, assuming that cunnilingus is the name of her game. But she puts a hand down there to block the access.

“Ah-ah, don’t kiss my pussy. Kiss my feet.”

I wrinkle my face in disgust. “Seriously?”

“You better do what momma says, or she won’t give you any dessert.”

“You drive a hard bargain, just like a hedge fund jockey.”

I bend over and kiss her slender ankles, fighting off a wave of revulsion. I poured milk and chocolate syrup all over her naked body yesterday, so I might as well up the ante.

“I said kiss my feet, not my ankles.”

I kiss the top of her pale sweaty size 5 feet, and she moans approvingly.

“That’s so fucking hot,” she groans while I smooch her blue-painted toenails. “My husband used to love kissing my feet after we went jogging.”

I kiss my way back up to her ankles, and look up at her face with a bemused expression. “Can I have some ice cream now, momma?”

“Hell no. We’re just getting started, Dicky-boy. Go upstairs and get in the bathtub, and I’ll be there in a minute.”

She goes into the kitchen, and I climb a spiral staircase, wondering how many more “surprises” I can handle from this desperate housewife. Hopefully Jack won’t surprise us by coming home early. He has that “crazy-ass Kennedy” look in his eyes, and he might bring down the fucking gauntlet on me. But the danger makes our fling twice as fun.

I enter her gleaming French country bathroom, get naked, and sit in a spacious retro bathtub, hearing the annoying tock-TICK tock-TICK of a retro wall clock. I gaze up at a thinly curtained window, twenty feet away from my own bathroom window. I’ve been watching her nude silhouette ever since she moved in here, two years before we hooked up on Ashley Madison. Jane enters the konya escort bayan bathroom holding a full canvas bag with the Kings Gourmet Markets logo.

“I got my bag of tricks, and I’m ready to play.” She sits at the other end of the tub and pulls out a bag of enriched white flour. “Get some flour all over footsies.”

She raises her right foot up in the air. I grab it reluctantly and sprinkle flour all over it. She groans triumphantly.

“That’s right, give my feet the royal treatment. Princess Jane commands it!”

I turn her left foot pure white while she plays with her puffed-up pussy. She pulls out a bottle of high-end extra virgin olive oil, imported from Sicily.

“I want some olive oil with that flour.”

“Oh god. You’re a crazy fucking bitch.”

She gives me a dirty look. “That’s no way to talk your momma. Shut up and give me an Italian pedicure.”

I unscrew the cap and pour it liberally on her powdered feet, making her groan louder.

“Fuck yeah, I love authentic Italian food. This reminds me of my honeymoon with Jack in Palermo. Rub that shit all over my feet!”

I turn the flour into golden mush, and my cock returns to full mast.

“When was the last time you played footsie with Jack?”

“Two fucking years ago. He’s too busy fetishizing his mutual funds.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Ryder. I’ll pay down the interest on his principal.”

I squeeze her feet harder, and she moans while jacking her clit. A minute later, she grins devilishly and reaches into the bag.

“One more ingredient, baby. This one’s the kicker.”

She pulls out a jar of high-end tomato sauce, imported from Sicily.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Fuck no. Pour some salsa di pomodoro on my piggies.”

“Crazy fucking cunt. You better give me a nice dessert afterward.”

“I will, Dicky-boy. Now shut up and make some foot pizza.”

I take the jar and unscrew the lid. The spicy vinegar smell makes me want to puke, but I get it over with, turning her feet into a crime scene.

“Oh yeah, that’s so fucking nasty. I fucking love it!” she cheers.

I mix the ingredients by hand, feeling like a fake pizza chef in an 80’s porn parody. Spanking the Noid.

“Squeeze those feet harder,” she growls while flicking her bean. She reaches into the bag, pulls out a foot-long pink dildo, and goes to town in her twat.

“Come on, fuck my feet. Get that food all over your big fucking cock.”

I squeeze her slimy blood-red feet on my cazzo and thrust away, feeling like Jeffery Dahmer screwing some gay guy’s small intestines, a minute after the murder. The intense perversion makes me lose any semblance of control, escort konya and I’m ready to blow in less than a minute.

“Here’s some cheese for your pizza, bitch!”

I push her legs toward her face and shoot a massive wad. Most of it lands on her size 36 tits.

“Hey, you naughty boy! Look at the mess you made on my boobies. You better lick it off, right this minute.”

I sneer at her while catching my breath.

“Every last drop!”

“Fuck you, Miss Ryder.”

She grabs my shoulders and yanks me down to her chest. I lick off the splooge reluctantly, wishing she had some chocolate syrup in her bag of tricks. I lick the last white clump off her belly button, and she strokes my head like a kitten.

“Good boy, cleaning off your dinner plate. Are you ready for dessert?”

“Fuck yeah. Gimme some sugar, sweetheart.”

She pulls out a plastic container from Rinaldi’s Bakery on Cos Cob avenue. “You’re gonna love this, Dick. A big slice of coconut cream pie, made the old-fashioned way. Real butter, real sugar, real everything.”

She opens the container, sticks her right index finger in the creamy confection, and points it toward my mouth.

“Open wide!”

I open my mouth and she rubs it on my tongue. I love the decadent tropical taste after all that sour jizz.

“Want some more?”

“Fuck yeah. Please give me some more, Miss Ryder.”

She scoops out a big clump with three fingers, and smears it on her vagina.

“Come and get it.”

I lick my dessert off her snatch like a dog on a spoonful of Skippy, and she squeals in delight. Jamming my tongue deep inside, wanting to consume every ounce of her body. Wanting to steal her away from that Wall Street douchebag and make her my trophy wife.

“Here I come, you fucking prick!”

She grabs the back of my head and blows her load in my mouth. Hints of pineapple and quinine. Her howling gradually subsides, then she takes a big bite of pie.

“Mmm, this is dee-lish,” she beams comically. “Just like Momma Ryder used to make.”

“My mother never made coconut cream pie. She was more of a brownie girl.”

We finish our dessert in a pleasant haze, then she takes out a roll of paper towels and cleans up the crime scene. I pull a plastic curtain around the tub and turn on the shower. She steps into the lukewarm water and kisses me tenderly on the lips.

“Do you really love me, Dick?”

“Two days isn’t big enough for a sample size, but I’m leaning toward yes.”

She sighs wearily, and kisses me again.

“How long until you let me fuck you?” I ask.

She cocks her head and giggles in that irresistible way. “You’ve earned it, baby. You can fuck me tomorrow afternoon.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

We lock pinky fingers together like a bunch of fifth-graders, then she lathers up my chest with luxurious rose petal Provençale soap.

“You can do whatever you want to me tomorrow… after I piss all over you.”

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