Her Breeding Bull Billionaire

By: Francis Ashe


My eyes drank in the cock before me, and when I noticed the vaguest hint of cum dribble out and over my knuckles, I had to taste him. Shooting a glance over at Jeff, I saw that he was rubbing himself through his trousers. I’d never seen him this excited over a blowjob, but then I was really doing a hell of a job here.

“Two... ahhh...” Mr. Richards’ time announcement was cut short by my lips closing over the ridge of his cock. I squeezed hard, pulling my hands from his balls to my mouth with wrenching quarter-turns that he seemed to enjoy.

Clamping my lips around him, I slid my mouth down his shaft until I felt his tip butt up against the opening of my throat. Hands pumped harder, tugging, yanking, I wanted to taste his cum. I needed to taste him. All thoughts of our little deal, or anything else, were gone from my mind. The only thing that existed for me, right then, was the feral urge to suck every drop of cum out of Clark Richards while my husband watched and impotently rubbed his dick through his pants.

My pussy tingled. That never happens when I’m giving someone head. I knew this was serious.

The harder I jerked him off, the harder Mr. Richards breathed. Finally, squatted in front of him, dragging my lips and teeth gently up and down his prick, I heard a little “aha!” behind me. Jeff cumming, I thought, this must be quite a show. And then, the moment I stopped sucking to catch my breath, the billionaire exploded over my tongue.

He opened his mouth, but this time, only to let out a rumbling sound that seemed to come from deep in his belly. The hand on my shoulder went to the back of my head and grabbed my hair; shoving my face forward and plunging the gushing cock in further.

All I could do – all I wanted to do – was mumble an “mmm!” and coax every last drop out of Mr. Richards. As soon as I gulped down his first spurt, he filled my mouth again, and again. I tried to suck it all out, to not waste a single drop, but there was just so much that a little trickle of his hot, thick juice dripped down my chin.

I left his cock in my mouth until he stopped pulsing and his breathing began to calm.

Behind me and to the left, I heard Jeff’s chair make a sound as he shifted. Looking up, Mr. Richards had an eyes-half-open look of relief on his face, and the barest hint of a smile.

“Good,” he said, as I pulled the trousers up his body and buckled them for him. “Very good. Forty-two seconds to spare. I will see you tomorrow evening. I can’t be more specific than that, but it will be late. Be ready for me.” He stopped speaking for long enough to nod at Jeff. “He’ll get me ready to fuck you. Understand?”

Jeff acknowledged him with a soft “yes, sir.”

“Right. That’ll be all for now.” His voice took on a slightly menacing tone, and for the first time, I noticed his strange accent. He rounded his ‘a’ sounds.

“Oh, one more thing,” he intoned just as my hand touched the doorknob. “Have ropes.”





***





The next day was absolutely frantic. Cleaning and fretting took up most of my time. Jeff just sort of wandered around in a haze, still a little dumbfounded at everything. Usually before these encounters, he gets chipper but this time he seemed a little over-mellowed.

“You doing okay?” I asked, rubbing the back of Jeff’s leg as he rooted around for something in the attic.

He poked his head out of the hatch. “Hey honey, what’s up?”

“Seem kinda out of it. You doing okay? We can call this guy and tell him not to show if you’re nervous about it. Big step and all.”

“Oh, no, no – not at all. I’m really excited. Just have a lot to do. Mr. Richards, you know, he asked for rope, so I’ve been looking. I think I have one up here somewhere.” He stuck his head back up in the attic. A moment later, a strange thwip sound came from somewhere above my head. “Grab my leg!” Jeff called, muffled by insulation. “I gotta really pull this thing!”

Jeff braced himself against me and tugged.

“Got it! Whew!”

Very carefully, he descended the ladder and proudly showed me his dust-covered trophy: about a six-foot length of nylon rope with a dummy tied to the end. “Halloween, what, three years ago? Remember, we tied this little guy to the chimney.” Jeff wobbled the zombie’s head at me, making its googly-eyes go stupidly from side to side.

“Huh-hey, Athlee!” He jibbered.

In spite of myself, I snorted, sucked in a honking laugh and slapped Jeff on the back. After all the tension, stress and cleaning, it was good to know we could still laugh. We sat there and played with the zombie, who we named “Jed” for a few minutes until I happened to look outside to see the sun setting behind the tree-line.

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