[This is the third part of our ongoing story, "Revealing Miranda." If you missed Parts I or II, they are alive and well and living in the archives. You can find the full text there. Otherwise, here is where we left off:

"Yeah, I'm talking dirty to her, guttery, under my breath, show me those hot little bitch-titties, I'm coaxing. When she goes me one better. She takes and un zips the fly of her shorts, runs her fingers into her pants. Oh, yeah, baby, I'm saying, my hand jerking now like the crudest of porn theater desperados getting it off in the dark. Yeah, honey, let's see your tight little pussy. Open up for daddy, I growl."

Now for part III...]

Oh, she doesn't disappoint me, I'll tell you. She drops those shorts -- there's nothing underneath. Nothing underneath -- I repeat this to myself and flash on a dozen times I've seen those pants saddling her crotch. I revise all those memories for future reference to make them have no underwear in them. My god, I could almost come right now, I think.

But I slow down. I'm holding my breath because she's stepping out of the shorts and she's totally naked and I desperately want her to turn around so I can grab her cunt with my eyes. I'm saying it to her in a soft growl -- as if her little animal ears can hear me. She bends over. Oh, yeah, just like in my vision. But her pussy's so much bigger than I imagined. Not all closed tightly and timid, not squeezed shut and hidden, but raw and spreading. Practically open. Loose as if it's been fucked by many a bigger animal than she. Oh my god. She's feeling the water, her knees are locked, her lean legs a little open. She's a bitch. A nasty little animal bitch because she's gotta know she's got a hot man animal behind her hungry ass, aching to ram something brutish and big in her.

OK, but so this is the thing you won't believe. I don't believe it myself, what I do next. Because as she's been flashing her wet pie at me, the sun's been going down. I can still see her very clearly because the clever cunt has positioned herself where the shafts of expiring light whip across her back, her buttocks, but there's shade all around her, and I know she knows I'm here about to spurt waves of cum and so, you know what I do? I turn on the light. Oh, yeah. Take that you little animal. I'm jazzing all over the sliding glass door at her when she dives headlong into the pool, and I stand there anyway, shaking it, shaking it so she can see, thinking this is how it goes in the animal kingdom, you girl-beast.

I don't know how long I'm standing there holding it. I'm vaguely aware that even as it's shrinking, I'm taking the head of my cock and rubbing it in circles in the cum slime on the glass, making circles, and the cum's already drying on there, like kid's glue. The gunk proudly defaces its muse like a Jackson Pollock.

You have to know that at some point, Vicki comes back into my head. Yeah, it's the smell of pot roast, the way she does it with carrots and onions and cilantro and basil… And now, bygod I'm ashamed. I've never done anything like this. Never really entertained the idea of other women, except for masturbatory purposes, well and you know, in my head, where they belong. I find this thing that I've done shocking. I find it thrilling. I don't know what to think. I don't know if I should say something to Vicki. I can't even imagine what she'd say. She's down there cooking for me, loving me, feeling safe with me, and this bitch back here is spreading her twat to me. And me . . . oh, I know; I'm no angel here, jacking my damned self all over my wife's and my private lovemaking haven.

My head is reeling when I go down to dinner. While Vicki's chatting on, I'm waiting for the post-coital hungries to settle in so I can show her cooking the appreciation it deserves. I'm talking, but I don't know what I'm saying because there's this image of a really wide, well-spread pussy in my way, glistening, and I can't concentrate on what I'm saying. Vicki has no idea, I'm saying to myself, calming myself. She's in her own little world here. She's happy. No harm done. It's not like you fucked the girl. Or even wanted to. -- But you know, right here and now, I have to admit that I did want to. If she had been within ten feet when she bent over and gave me that deep, rosy invitation, I'd have rammed me all up inside her hole.

I'm not eating like I usually do. I try to. I really try, so as not to call attention. But I can't really. I just nibble.

There's a knock at the door. It's the little bitch-in-heat, I know it -- she knocks again, and I can feel my body go flush and hot and panicked. I don't know if I will be able to stand being in the same room with her and my wife, and the knowledge of what just passed between us, and (what if her pussy smells of cum stink?), and this creeping nervousness about what she might say that could alert Vicki. Women have a sixth sense about infidelity.

She lets herself in. It's her habit. She's dressed now, as much as she ever is, and her clever little bikini top and shorts are soaking as if she didn't just strip for me and bitch pose for me and swim naked in the pool with my chlorine clawing at her pussy skin.

"Hey, thanks for the swim," she says to my wife.

"You know you're welcome any time," Vicki says cheerily.

I can't look at her, you know. I'm eating like a horse now. Shoveling the food in as if I've never eaten.

"Hey, you're welcome to have some pot roast," Vicki says to Miranda.

No, no, no, no, no, I'm repeating silently, but so the she-animal can hear it with her animal senses.

"Uh, well," she says. "I'm all wet now."

"Aw, come on in," Vicki says.

My brain is just now starting to come back. I'm hoping this girl says nothing about skinny dipping. But no, it doesn't seem like she will since she went to the bother of hiding her shameful cock-tease by drenching her tiny shorts. Now I think I'll call her aside after dinner. I'll tell her we don’t need her services any more. But who am I kidding? I just want to press in close to her. To smell her. To see if she smells of cunt juice; if it turned her on to have me staring at her, to have me pumping my meat over her little display.

So I say nothing. The two ladies chat. I don't look up. I'm done eating. And before I get up, I realize I've been sniffing the whole time in her direction, trying to draw in a piece of her, something from her body, something intimate. I smell the chlorine on her, and the faint remnants of grass and flowers and dirt, probably still in her short, shiny chestnut hair. But there's no smell of sex. Maybe she spread her legs in the water, rubbed the chlorine between them, through her bush, along her inner thighs, up inside her animal cunt lips and along her hard animal clit, washing away all trace of the way her animal junk was beating because she knew I had my eye on it. Anyway. There's no smell of sex. As I stand to get up, I realize that this disappoints me.


[to be continued. . .]