Starving - Pilot

My fingers were buried deep inside my dripping pussy, and I was moaning like a whore into the empty bedroom.

“Fuck, Damien… right there, baby,” I gasped, my voice already hoarse from moaning so much. I had two fingers pumping hard into my soaked hole while my thumb rubbed furious circles on my swollen clit. My back arched off the silk sheets, my heavy tits bouncing with every desperate thrust of my hand. They were full and aching, nipples already stiff as stones, begging for a mouth that never came anymore.

I was on my knees on our massive king bed, ass up, face buried sideways into his pillow so I could at least smell what was left of his cologne. My red lace thong was shoved to the side, the crotch soaked dark and juices ran down my thighs in messy rhyme or streaks. I added a third finger, stretching myself open, imagining it was Damien’s thick cock splitting me apart instead.

“God, I need you to ruin this pussy,” I whimpered. “I need you to fuck me like you used to--hard, nasty, like you hate how much you want me.”

The house was silent except for the wet, filthy squelching sounds of my fingers slamming in and out. I was so fucking wet the sheets were ruined. I reached back with my free hand and spread my ass cheeks wider, pretending Damien was behind me, staring at my holes while he destroyed me.

I missed being wanted, and being fucked like a slut.

It had been almost seven months since Damien last touched me. Seven months since I felt his weight pinning me down, his hand around my throat, his cock pounding me until I squirted all over his expensive suits.

I missed being fucked like a slut. I missed gagging on his dick while he called me his dirty girl--those was those days--these days he barely looked at me. The last time we had sex—three months ago—he came in under five minutes, rolled over, and checked his phone while I finished myself off in the bathroom without complaining.

After our third baby, everything changed. I went from the sharp-tongued investigative journalist he couldn’t keep his hands off, to “the mother of his children.” My body changed too, my hips wider, my ass fatter, my belly softer with silvery stretch marks that he now pretended didn’t exist.

My tits had ballooned to 38DD and stayed heavy even after I stopped breastfeeding.

I fucking hated how much I still craved him.

“Oh fuck… Damien!” I cried out as my pussy started fluttering. I fucked myself faster, twisting my fingers, grinding my clit against my palm. My juices were everywhere, coating my hand, dripping onto the bed. I pictured him flipping me over, shoving my face into the mattress and railing me from behind while calling me his dirty little wife.

My orgasm hit me instantly at the imagination (apparently that's all I get now). My toes curled, my walls clamped down hard around my fingers, and I gushed all over my hand with a loud, broken moan. I kept rubbing through it, riding the waves until my legs shook and I collapsed onto the bed, panting, sweaty, and still aching.

It wasn’t enough. A finger-fuck, no matter how hard, was never enough anymore.

I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my pussy still twitching. The spot beside me in bed was cold again. Damien had left early this morning for prep on tonight’s big televised fundraiser. He was announcing his run for governor, and the entire state would be watching. Mr. Perfect Family Man.

What a fucking joke.

I sat up, my heavy breasts swaying, nipples still hard. I caught my reflection in the mirror, my messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, red lips parted, thighs glistening. I still looked good. I looked fuckable. Right?.. But the man who was supposed to worship this body treated me like I was invisible.

Tonight, I was done waiting.

I showered quickly, then spent extra time getting ready. I picked the sluttiest lingerie I owned: a sheer red bra that barely contained my tits, matching crotchless thong, garter belt, and thigh-high stockings. Over it, I wore a long, elegant black coat that went down to my ankles. Nothing else--No dress or panties to get in the way.

I wanted my husband to fuck me right, fuck me in the green room before his big speech. I wanted him to bend me over the makeup counter and pound me until I couldn’t walk. Then I’d send him on stage dripping with my pussy juice.

The drive to the hotel felt like foreplay. My clit throbbed against the seam of the coat with every movement. By the time I reached the venue, I was soaked again.

I used my wife privileges to slip past security and made my way backstage. The green room was quiet, dimly lit, with mirrors everywhere. Damien stood in front of one, adjusting his tie in a crisp navy suit that made him look like pure power.

He turned when the door clicked shut behind me.

His eyes widened.

“Linda? What the hell are you doing here? I’m about to go live in five.”

I didn’t answer with words.

I locked the door, then let the coat fall open. It dropped to the floor in a pool of black fabric, leaving me standing there in nothing but red lingerie, heels, and pure sex desperation.

Damien’s gaze raked over me, on my spilling tits, the wet spot on the crotchless thong, my thick thighs.

“Jesus Christ, Linda…”

I walked straight to him, dropped to my knees on the floor, and yanked his zipper down. His cock was already half-hard. I pulled it out, thick and heavy, and swallowed him to the back of my throat in one hungry motion.

“Fuck!” he groaned.

I moaned around his cock like a whore. I sucked him hard and sloppy, lots of spit, lots of noise, bobbing my head fast while my hand stroked what my mouth couldn’t take. My other hand dipped between my legs, rubbing my dripping clit from under as I worshipped his dick.

“Mmmph— I’ve been so fucking horny for you,” I gasped, pulling off just long enough to speak. Strings of spit connected my lips to his shiny cockhead. “I fingered my pussy twice today thinking about this fat cock stretching me open. I need you to fuck me stupid tonight, Damien. Please.”

I dove back down, deepthroating him, gagging wetly, tears pricking my eyes from how deep I took him. I loved the fuckin taste of him. Loved the way his hand finally tangled in my hair.

He was breathing hard, hips twitching. For a moment, I thought he was going to give in.

I pulled my phone out with my free hand, hit record on audio, and set it on the couch. I wanted to listen to this later while I rode my dildo. I wanted to hear his grunts, my moans and the filthy wet sounds of me choking on him.

“That’s it, baby,” I purred, licking up the underside of his shaft. “Use my throat. I’m your dirty wife. I’m so fucking wet for you bab-”

My words were cut off as I swallowed him again.

The sounds in the room were pure p**n,, my loud, sloppy sucking, his low groans, my fingers frantically rubbing my soaked pussy.

I had no idea the microphone was broadcasting live.

I had no idea my I*******m Live(I usually do around this time everyday) had started, camera half-covered by the fallen coat, audio crystal clear to every follower, journalist, and staff member who had notifications on.

And all they could hear was me moaning like a whore on my knees for the future governor.

Damien’s phone started exploding with notifications.

Someone banged HARD on the green room door!.

His hand tightened painfully in my hair as horror replaced the pleasure on his face.

“Linda… what the fuck did you do?”

*To be continued...