We pulled up to the nursery with my wife, plotting our dream garden. Her childhood friend, the owner, hugged us tight, led us through conifer rows. My wife chatted away. Then I spotted her. Thérèse. Kneeling in plant trays. Early twenties apprentice. Baggy, dirt-streaked smock. Round red face, acne-pocked. Greasy hair framing it. Plump, formless. Saggy tits under there, I knew. Heart raced. Cock twitched hard. Ordinary girls like her always hooked me. Wife’s no stunner either. Never has been. Back in England, first fuck was a gangly horse-faced girl, huge teeth like dentures. Picked her over beauties. Always the overlooked ones. Psychiatrist says inferiority. Bullshit. I like real women. Neglected, needy. Not prissy beauties with their games.
Monique, my wife, was a mousy bookworm. Sad face, fragile. Gave me kids, great fucks once I broke her complexes. But nearing forty, infidelities. Caught her with a buff black employee in our bed. She swore it off. Still, suspicions lingered. We got by.
The Fever
Thérèse’s sad, vacant eyes, hunched body. Instant obsession. Returned next day. Found her in the greenhouse, scraping dirt. Boss yelling at her. Nodded to her. Blank stare back. Got her name: Thérèse Raguin. Village girl, temp worker. Lazy, late, ugly as ass, he sneered. Perfect. Learned her schedule. Waited at bus stop that evening. She shuffled up, odd gait. Pulled over. ‘Ride, miss?’ Stunned eyes. Hopped in fast. Slammed door.
Offered bar drink. Heat’s killer. Locals gawked at suited me with this freak. Her floral sack dress, tight on flaws. Greasy hair, acne glow. Told her she’s sensitive, captivating. Held her hand after tries. Foot under table. She blushed, stayed. Twenty-eight, alone in furnished dump by church. Unemployed, hated dirt work. No friends, no boyfriend. Bad ex.
Village buzzed: who’s this with the retard? Server eyed us. They whispered: she’s a slut for city guys. My cock throbbed. Love surged. Not just fuck. Deeper. She led me across square. Her door. Dingy hall, messy living room, tiny bedroom. Unmade bed, stained nightie, worn panties. She grabbed me. Hungry kiss, sloppy tongue. Clung like mad.
The Blaze
Skin on fire. Pulse hammered. Folded suit careful. She yanked shirt. Fingers on my bulge. Slid briefs down. Dove on cock. Saliva flood. Gagged deep, eyes water. ‘Slow, Thérèse.’ Sniffed her fresh panties. Musky cunt scent. Flipped to 69. Huge wet spot on white cotton. Pulled aside. Bushy, dripping. Lapped her. Strong, heady aroma. Hips bucked. Ground pussy on tongue. Moans built. Body shook. Raw scream. Flooded my face with juice.
She stripped. Cheap undies. Flat, floppy tits like deflated pancakes. Sucked nipples anyway. She mounted. Missionary pull. Pussy hot, snug fit. Perfect glove. Thrusts lit her face. Synced rhythms. Sweat slicked us. Hearts pounded wild. She matched every slam. Better than Monique. Climax hit together. Roared release. Spermed deep, pulsing jets. Her wail shook walls.
Collapsed on her. Lips locked. Bodies glowed. Called wife: business trip. She bought it. Or didn’t care. Fucked all night. Now, daily. She lost job. Easier visits. Cuddle or pound. Love her mess, her mind. Plan divorce. Move her across valley. Mine alone. Village pricks used her rough. Quick fucks, no care. I unlock her depths. Perfect match.