[This is the fourth part of our ongoing story, "Revealing Miranda." If you missed Parts I-III, they are alive and well and living in the archives. You can find the full text there. But for now, here's a clip from where we left off:

"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."
***
Now for part IV...]

I leave the kitchen. I dread what the girl might say to my wife when I leave. But I dread being there even more. Besides, what will she say -- "I saw your husband whacking off while I flashed pussy at him"? No. I don't think she will say that. But still, in the several days after I left them alone in the kitchen talking softly, I cringe in wait for the ax to fall. When my wife says, "Hon?" I hold my breath. But the ax does not fall. Two weeks go by. Things get back to normal. Even at the office, the tension has subsided. When someone is told to leave, everyone has the jitters for a time and it spreads over me, even into my home life. But they've calmed down at the office. So now, I start to feel my cooler, controlled self settling in, and I can tell myself that jerking off to Miranda's strip tease was just a way to release tension. So it's all cool now. And I'm feeling surprisingly great. Like I've had my illicit affair in Paris, flown home rejuvenated, and no one's the wiser.

About three weeks after the episode with the she-bitch, Victoria sexually blows my socks off. She practically makes an appointment with me, so I know she's horny. I just don't expect the all-out treatment. She tells me we're making cookies together. She sets out the ingredients and gets my nose buried in the cook book, slips off and then comes back in this white, silky see-through thing. It utterly teases her skin. We're kneading dough, buttering pans, all that stuff, and she's rubbing up against me, or like shoving her fat breasts against my arm, my chest, just all this touching, everything touching everywhere. I don't know how she can stand it because I can smell her pussy, even over the sweet dough and melted chips. Holding out a tray, padding across the room to the oven, her tits jiggle, the silk catches on the pits of her nipples, up, down, up, down. I'm jealous of the silk. I ache to be so fluid over her bowing nipples.

"I want you to take off your pants," she says to me, "and we'll continue baking with your dick swinging loose." Damn. I tell you, it's fun. And so damned sensual. Opening the oven as a rush of warm air tickles my cock and folds over my balls. The scent of cookies, of chocolate, of pussy. I don't know whether to eat or fuck. Of course we do both. It gets down to a nasty game, her spreading her cunt, placing chocolate chips just above her wet hole, letting the lips of her twat fold back over a spray of brown chips. They melt and stick to her and she's making me suck the chips out from her plumped up folds without using my hands at all. We then melt chocolate, let it cool just a bit, and drip it on her nipples. She jumps a little. She squeals. Her nipples harden. How I pull and stretch them; how my mouth dominates them, trying to suck all the chocolate off. Then she holds herself open and I dribble gooey splashes over her clit. I watch the little muscle squeeze, pulling back her clit, surprised by the heat. Chocolate drips like a tiny waterfall off the edge of her clit, hitting her slit, her sweet spot, pouring down, down to her crack. I smear goo into her until her pussy is a sparkling brown.

I'm tasting chocolate topped with woman-cream until the chocolate's all gone and it's just the cream, coming and coming out of her hole. Oh god do we fuck. Oh, god do I love that woman. She knows how to eat me, suck me, take me every which way. She knows the obscurest secrets of my lust, about what I like -- she shocks me sometimes how intimate. She tongues my asshole while stroking me in just the right way, and when I squirt, her finger's there, in me, doing something that makes me see stars, Jeez, and I can't even remember when she slipped the finger inside there because I'm feeling so damned overloaded with pleasure. When we're done, her nipples are raw. I hardly remember what I did to them -- sucking hard, I'm sure. And around them -- her melonous boobs are so powedery pale I can see the blue of her veins, and I love that -- and the raw pink spheres pied with hickies. They like a hard suck, those titties.

"Nasty boy," she says when I point to the bruises. And you know, I'm thinking life can't get much better than this.

I'm thinking it for days. That my life is too good to be true. And it is until that in-heat animal bitch -- she must have decided somewhen that she needed to fuck up my life -- makes her move.

It's a day when Vicki has her Spanish class and I have to cook for myself.
Usually I go out to eat, but I'm tired and a little fed up from the office, and there is a good baseball game on. I was looking forward to it -- a quick
sloppy sandwich, a drink, put my feet up.

I'm fixing the sandwich, when there's a knock on the door, and in walks Miranda, sweat gleaming over her bare shoulders, sweat beaded on her upper lip.

"Do you think you could just help me for a sec?" she asks me.

She's sawed a 20 year old tree that has begun to hang over the shed; it's
ready to fall; she needs me to push it away from the shed. Her small tube top is drenched translucent from sweat and I can see through it, the pushed-in breasts like pancakes, the wide brown circles like open mouths stifled by the shirt. I'm irritated by the sight of her, but something is stirring in my pants. And that irritates me more.

And yet, I agree to go help her.

She's sawing and I'm pushing, and our legs are pressing against each other, hip to hip. We're in close quarters. Over my shoulder, I watch her breasts heave out and flatten back and writhe sideways like splashed water, and heave out, slam back, writhe sideways. "They need to be messed up," says a voice in my head. But I divert that energy into the tree, the energy that wants to scramble on top of her, mashing one breast with my hands, the other with my mouth. I picture ripping her shorts right in half, right off her, because I know it will be bare cunt underneath. And there's an animal in me that wants that: bare cunt. And as I think this, the tree goes over, and she gives a little surprised yelp, dropping the saw safely away. I lean forward; she lurches into me, her breasts are at the crook of my arm and I do not swing my arm out of the way; I act off balance and grope her as if her breasts were something steady I could hold onto. My hand is caught up in titties and arms, then it seems to throw her off balance. As she falls sideways, her leg catches in mine. I could extricate myself right now, but I don't. Instead, I fall nearly on top of her to see what she will do. To study this animal. Yes, I'm pushing the boundaries. I stay there, pinning her under me. She moans.

Only then do I pull away a little. She's lying there, panting, her eyes so smoldery. My wife's name comes into my head -- Vicki, Vicki. I'm practically shouting it to myself as I see Miranda heaving underneath me looking hungry. I stand. She lies there. "Vicki, Vicki," I'm screaming in my head. I lean over the girl's body, offering my hand and she ignores it. Instead, she pulls the tube top over her head. Up and off, just like that. And her large-eyed breasts, I'm standing over their loud brown areola as they tumble, it's all too loud for me to shout down. I think, "put your top on you little slut," as if I might actually say it. And yet there are two of them, sunny side up, saying, take us. Squeeze and suck and fuck with us. Work us. We need man-sex.

I'm staring at her, my hand offered out dumbly when I know she's not going to take it, not going to get up off the ground.

I should walk away.

I should remember my wife's name.

I should tell this bitch to put her shirt back on and go home.

But she's undoing her pants now, knees up and spread like she's in the
doctor's stirrups. I want to see it when the pants come off, to see the opening, after her proud tuft splits, lips fall open slowly, velvety folds drift apart. And there, then, all that full cunt regalia submits to my cold examination.

I'm a man standing in his own back yard, a man with a son and a wife, staring
down at a girl wriggling out of her shorts. I'm a strong man hanging over a girl lying nude in the grass with her knees up and her cunt open and it's glistening and I can smell it.

I'm a married man on his own lawn, dumbstruck, with a brown, slick, naked, sexy bitch fingering herself -- I hear it crackle -- playing with the nub, wiping the gooze from her finger onto her nipples. They quiver a bit now in the breeze, and the drops of cunt juice bead on them like tears.

I'm a man with a raging hard-on who should say, "Get the fuck up, slut.
I'm faithful to my wife. The lady who is your boss, you ungrateful bitch." And I'm about to say all that, truly I am, but first, I say, but first...

[to be continued . . .]