Monica At Home

Monica At Home

By Jason Fleming

Simmonds sipped some more Merlot and smiled across the table to his beautiful Italian wife, Monica.

“A superb meal, darling. You excelled once again.”

She smiled. That perfect, desirable smile. Her shoulder length, curly dark hair fell over her face and she flicked it back, and looked over to their guest for the evening. “And what about you Mr Fleming – was everything good?”

“Oh yes,” smiled Fleming. “Very good. Including the hostess.” His gaze lingered, and inevitably his eyes trailed down to her breasts, the shape of her nipples pushing invitingly against her low cut, black cocktail dress.

Monica smiled her bashful smile, but she knew that Fleming was another powerful man that treated most people with utter contempt. She knew that as soon as she got up to remove the plates he’d be gazing at her ass. She knew the power her beauty had over men.

Simmonds was keen to seal the deal, move things along and get Fleming out of their house. Courting for big business contracts was a part of his life that he didn’t enjoy. Simmonds and Monica had smiled and played discreetly under the table enough during dinner that they both knew where their evening was going to end up. Monica had been playing with his cock with her foot, enough to make him hard, enough to make her smile.

“I know, Mr Simmonds, that securing our account would make us your biggest client.”

“Indeed. It would. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“And I have been impressed with your company, your presentation. Everything.”

“Thank you. Shall I get the paperwork?”

“I have also been incredibly impressed by your wife. Her full, cock sucking lips. The dress she chose to show off her tits. I suspect a hot cunt like her is a real cock teaser in real life. Would you be so kind as to ask the cunt to take off her clothes and take me to your bedroom? I’d like an hour or two with her, you know, so that I fuck each of her holes.  I hope you don’t mind?”

“Mr Fleming….I don’t think…”

“Ten seconds, Simmonds. Ten….Nine…..”

Simmonds looked at his horrified wife, who was shaking her head, looking at her husband in horror and disbelief.

“Darling…no…no…” she said. “Don’t make me do this. Please. We don’t need his money. We can cope.”

“Seven……Six…..You know he loves his business more than you. I can’t wait to fill your mouth with my hard cock.”

Simmonds began to panic. His mind raced to the solution.

“Honey – I have put a decade of my life into this company – I am asking you for just one hour. That’s all. One hour.”

“Three…..Two…” Fleming was smiling now, sensing victory. “Do you like getting fucked up the ass, Monica? I bet you do..”

“Alright!! Alright….Enough. Enough. Monica,” he looked over to his distraught wife, her eyes pleading with him, begging him to do the right thing. “Take off your clothes and show Mr Fleming our bedroom.”

“Oh Jesus. You can’t be serious. Please don’t make me do this. Darling. We don’t need the money. We don’t. We can cope.”

“I have to, honey. This will all be over in an hour, and my company – our way of life – will be secure for years to come. You must do it, honey. Do it for us. We do need Mr Fleming as our client. It’s just an hour. Please do this. Please. For us.”

“Mr Simmonds – do ask your wife to make sure she provides a vigourous and enthusiastic fuck. Our deal is dependent upon her performance. I expect her to take all of my cock into her mouth. All of it,” he said, grinning.

Monica was shocked by Fleming’s continual appalling and degrading comments.

“Darling…you heard Mr Fleming. Please make this good for him. “

“How can you say that to me? Jesus. Do you love your company more than me?”

Her husband didn’t reply, and looked away from her searching, her pleading eyes.

“Fucking hell!” she exclaimed.

“Monica. Darling. Please be the best you can. Please. For us. It’s just an hour. Think of us.”

“How can I think of ‘us’ when another man is fucking me?” she shouted at him, slipping out of control, her anger and frustration boiling to the surface.

“Monica – do as your husband says. I want you to do a nice little lap dance for me and beg me in front of your husband to fuck you. Tell me how badly you want my cock. If I see the slightest reluctance or lack of enthusiasm from your wife I will take my business to your competitors, Mr Simmonds. Now,” he said, turning his attention back to Monica. “Show me your tits. What are they, D cups? They look big enough to fuck. Do you love getting your tits fucked?”

She covered her face with her hands and began to sob

“Honey – please don’t cry. It’s time to do this. Please tell Mr Fleming if you like it when I fuck your tits. Please, Monica. C’mon.”

Monica just stood up, danced one step to the right, stopped and wept again. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably.

“Answer me! Don’t be so rude to me. I asked you a question!”

“Answer him, honey. Do as he asks.”

“My breasts…”

“Tits,” Fleming corrected.

“My tits…….they are C cups.”

“My tits are C cups, SIR,” barked back Fleming.

“My tits are C cups, sir.”

“And??” He was growing impatient.

“And..oh god, oh god. And I love getting them fucked by my husband. Sir.”

“Do you want to take off your clothes for me and show me what a great fuck you are, Monica?”

“Please don’t make me say these things.”

“Answer me, cunt.”

“Oh God. Ok. Oh god. Yes. I want to do those things. Please don’t call me that.  I want to show you my body and show you…” She paused to gather herself, to stop herself from crying anymore. “To show you what a great….what a great fuck I am.”

Silence. And then she quickly blurted out “I want to show you what a great fuck I am, SIR.”

“Are you gasping for cock today, Monica?”

“Yes, sir. I…I am, oh god, oh god you are embarrassing me… I am gasping for cock, sir.”

“Then show me your fucking tits, Monica. Get them out!”

Monica have never been spoken to like this before. Harsh, vulgar and downright rude.

She reached behind her and struggled with her shaking hands to undo her black dress. At last she freed herself and let the flimsy material slide over her shoulders and down to the floor. She wore no panties. Her tits were supported by a sheer black half cup bra. Her abs pushed against her flat stomach. Her matching stockings clung to her soft thighs.

Fleming whistled approvingly and was smiling broadly, enjoying the show.

Monica stepped out of her dress and slid the stockings down. Her pleading eyes looked over to her husband and she saw him nod. Tears sparkled down her cheeks and she unhooked her bra to reveal her magnificent, high tits.

“Hands behind you head Monica, there’s a good girl. Stand nice and tall for me. Legs apart. Perfect.”

Fleming got up to inspect his prize and began to run his hands over her smooth, firm curves.

“You keep yourself in shape, Monica. Is that to attract as much cock as you can? Tell your husband.”

“Oh god…Oh god…Richard…Darling…I work out and try to look good so that I can make as many men as possible look at me.”

Fleming was behind her, and began to grind against her, pushing his hard cock against her tight ass, reaching to feel and squeeze her tits. He whispered into her ear.

“Please don’t make me say that…please. Oh god.”

“Say it,” Fleming hissed.

“Richard…I can’t stop thinking about other men fucking me. Your cock isn’t enough. I want more…..”

She looked down and sobbed, but kept her hands behind her head, and let Fleming play harder and harder with her tits.

“Ask me to do it, Monica,” he said. “Ask me to rape you.”

“Oh Jesus…..God…this is too much…please stop….please….”

“Say it!” he hissed.

“Oh god. I want you to please rape me, Sir.”

“Do you want me to rape you because your husband doesn’t fuck you hard enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say it.”

“Jesus. Oh god. I want you to rape me because my husband doesn’t fuck me hard enough, sir.”

“Get on your knees and follow me to the bedroom like the fuck dog you are.”

Sobbing hard, the naked girl dropped to her knees and then to all fours. She crawled behind Fleming, her tits firm, her ass swaying, her tears falling. She crawled behind him so that she could get fucked by this brutal man she had just met.

Simmonds sat alone. His cock was so hard. He felt ashamed but could not help be aroused by Fleming’s mastery of his beautiful wife. Fleming’s animal desire to fuck his wife. He listened to Monica crying down the hallway, and then heard the bed room door shut behind them. He knew he’d be able to hear everything. He took his cock out and began to masturbate.

“Kneel before me,” he heard Fleming say.

And then the unmistakable sound of a slap. His wife cried out. And then another slap.

“Please stop hurting me! Please stop! Please. I’ll do what you want, just please stop slapping me! Richard – PLEASE COME AND HELP ME! HELP ME! Mr Fleming…Sir…Please show me some mercy. Please. I don’t want you to hurt me like this. How can you do this to me?? How can you be so cruel?”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you worthless cunt.”

“My name is Mon….Ow!!!”

Simmonds heard a series of hard slaps and then the pained yelps and cries of protest from his wife.

Simmonds slid his trousers down to his ankles so that his cock was fully exposed, and masturbated harder.

Another slap. A brief pause. And then the slapping didn’t stop. He imagined her trying to get away from Fleming’s hands,  the savage assault onto her gorgeous, naked body. Her screams grew louder and desperate. The slapping stopped and then there was a new sound. A dull thump, followed by a deep, moan from Monica. It must have been a punch. Furniture scraping, something smashing. Another scream. The bedroom door opened but was quickly slammed shut. Gagging. Another slap. A deep, painful cry. Gagging.

“Suck me harder!” bellowed Fleming. Yet another slap. Maybe a punch. A whimpering cry from Monica. More gagging sounds, choking, struggling. It seemed to last forever. The rhythmic gagging went on and on, and he heard the occasional lustful grunt from Fleming. Simmonds continued to stroke his hard erection, imagining his wife struggling to take all of Fleming’s shaft in her mouth, her suffering, her mouth full of erect cock.

A violent slap, and the sound of Monica’s body crashing down to the floor.

“Take all of me! Your husband may tolerate your shit cock sucking, but I don’t! Don’t you want all of my cock in your mouth?”

“Yes…yes…I do,” came her scared voice. “I just can’t. I can’t do it…please... PLEASE DON’T HIT ME AGAIN. Please. I am trying my best.” Such fear and desperation ion her voice. Simmonds had never heard her sound like that. It was wonderful.

Another punch. Another deep, low groan.

He was talking to her, but Simmonds couldn’t quite hear.

And then more crying. A scream.

The bedroom door flung open and Simmonds looked down the hallway and saw the naked Fleming pulling his wife by her hair across the hard wood floor to their bathroom. He saw Fleming’s angry, hard cock, wet with his wife’s spittle. He saw violent marks on her face. Monica’s hands clasped onto Fleming’s wrists, trying to relieve the pull on her hair, her legs flailing, her pain echoing around the house, her body sliding behind Fleming. Quickly, they both went into the bathroom, but the door was left open.

“Do it!” he urged.

Simmonds then heard his wife gag, and retch, and then throw up, presumably into their toilet.

A grunt.

“Again!” he ordered. “Empty your fucking stomach!”

More grunting, this time mixed with gasps and a rhythmic slapping. He was fucking her now, Simmonds was sure of it, and at the same time he was forcing her to throw up. Simmonds sat back again and picked up his masturbation, sliding his expert fingers and palm up and down his swollen shaft, his imagination running riot.

Minutes passed. The fucking continued. More throwing up and then retching on an empty stomach. He heard him drag her back into their bedroom, slamming the door shut again. More slapping. Another loud scream. A long wail of pain. Pleading and begging.

“Now, you worthless cunt. Now I’m gonna fuck into your throat. You can retch all you want. I am going to choke you on my cock!”

Simmonds, for the next ten minutes, heard nothing but that lovely toilet plunger sound of a hard, deep, unrelenting throat fuck. Monica couldn’t take all of his length, let alone the bigger cock of Fleming, but somehow Fleming had broken her, forced her, trained her in just a few minutes to take his bigger cock.

“Look up at me, you cunt, so I can see your whore’s eyes!”

The throat fucking continued forever to the symphony of his wife’s struggling gasps and whimpers.

Then a brief moment of silence. More talking. Simmonds again couldn’t quite hear. He stroked his cock faster and faster. Began playing with his own balls. He imagined being in there with them, watching them, joining in, beating his own wife into submission. Fucking her while Fleming watched. Fucking her while Fleming beat her. Oh god, yes. That’s what he thought of as he masturbated. He locked his mind onto that fantasy.

“Yes…yes…” he heard her cry out. “My tits are yours…aaaAAARGH!”

More slapping.

“Yes. I want you to fuck them. I do. Please fuck them, sir!”

More struggling, and the gasps of effort from Fleming.

“I love getting my tits fucked by you, sir. Your cock is so good.” Simmonds could smell the fear in her voice. It was thrilling.

More slapping. Another punch. Another deep, pained moan.

“Yes…yes you can…but please not too hard. Please don’t hurt me. Oh god. Sir….sir….No. Jesus. OH GOD. Aaargh. Oh god. Oh god. Please stop!!” A continuous, long wail. “Please stop. I’ll do anything. Please. You’ll bite them off! Please stop! Aaaaargh!!”

Thwack. A deep, heaving gasp.The headboard of their bed banged against the wall.

She was on the bed now, he was sure of it. His sensitive cock was so hard, alive with the thrill of his imagination, of the exciting sounds pouring from his tortured wife.

“Turn over!” yelled Fleming. For a few moments there was silence, except for his wife’s continual whimpering and sobbing. And then the whipping began. The unmistakable sound of leather on flesh. A violent crack, followed by an horrific scream of shock and pain.

Simmonds’ mind raced. There was nothing in the room to be used for a whip. And then it struck him – he was using his belt on her.

“Thank me!” yelled Fleming. “Thank me for beating you!”

“Thank you for beating me, sir,” came the almost inaudible whimper.

“Do you deserve it?”

“Yes, sir. I deserve this beating.” Simmonds could hardly hear her. The life was being beaten out of her.

Crack.

“Aaargh!”

“Are you my cunt whore?”

“Yes.”

“Say it louder so your husband can hear. You know he is listening. Say it, cunt!”

“I AM YOUR CUNT WHORE, SIR.”

Another slap, and the echoing, shocking scream.

The violence continued, on and on and on and on.

“NOT ON MY BREASTS, SIR! PLEEEEEASE!!!”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

“OH GOD. AAARGH. OH JESUS!!”

Her tortured screams filled the house. But the beating continued, mercilessly. The force of the leather on her skin never wavered, the crack consistently hard, and over time her screams, her begging, her shocking cries of pain, her whimpers all faded, until all that Simmonds could hear was the impact of the leather belt on his wife’s delicate skin. And eventually, after five or ten  minutes, that too stopped.

Silence.

And then a grunt, this time from Fleming. He was fucking her again now. No more screams or cries. Just the headboard banging rhythmically against the wall. Fleming must have known the noise the bed was making, but he clearly didn’t care.

A man he had only just met a week or so ago was fucking his wife in their bedroom and instead of rescuing her, all he could do was masturbate. He teased and excited his own cock, thinking of the pleasure Fleming was getting from his wife’s broken body. He knew how tight her cunt was. He knew that Fleming would love being inside her, fucking her. He knew how great her tits were, how desirable they were when the bounced gently back and forth to the rhythm of the fuck. Her smooth, olive tanned skin, her tight thighs. He loved fucking his wife. After four years of marriage his desire for her never wavered. He wanted to fuck her all of the time. He loved looking down to her beautiful face while she sucked him, her dark eyes, full of love and lust, looking up to him. And her ass. How he relished those few times when she was drunk enough to let him fuck her perfect, tight ass. He never came harder than when he fucked her back there.

“Oh god. No. Please no. Please no. God…It’s not going to fit in. Please. Please no. You’ll ruin me. Oh god. I’ll do anything but not that. Please. It won’t fit! IT WON’T FIT. NO. AAAAARGHHHH. STOP!!! PLEASE STOP!! Aaaaargh. PLEASE!!”

“Beg me to do it, you ungrateful cunt! Beg me!”

“Aargh. Aaaaaaaargh. Oh my fucking god…..AAAAARGH! PLEEEEASE STOP!!!!!”

It was the worst scream yet. Simmonds had no idea what was going on, but his own cock was pulsating with desire. He couldn’t hang on much longer. His straining shaft was so close to erupting. He eased up, then started fast again, teasing his own pleasure, his ascension unstoppable now. The rising pleasure was too great. Too good. He couldn’t stop.

His wife was silent now, but he could hear the efforts of Fleming’s fucking. He could hear the pounding of flesh on flesh, the rhythm of the bed. The fucking was relentless. Fleming’s lustful gasps mixing with her cries of pain and fear. And more slapping. Simmonds masturbated on his own edge to his wife’s pain. Chocking. Fucking and chocking. And talking. Fleming never stopped talking to her, snarling his words, inaudible to Simmonds. His grunts began to blend into the sounds of her gurgling struggle for life.

Simmonds twitched. His entire body stiffened and his face contorted into his orgasm, a massive surge of ecstasy that in a millionth of a second had erupted from his hard cock to envelope his entire body in overwhelming pleasure. His thick come streaked upwards, soaking his hands and thighs. He moaned into his release, craving every precious second of his come, wanting it to last forever, thrusting his cock through his wet fingers into the air.

He didn’t see Fleming come back into the dining room, straightening his tie, fixing his cuffs, looking down at him, smiling. He didn’t see behind him Monica, crawling on all fours just as she had left that same room an hour ago, sobbing hard, her sweat drenched body shaking. She stopped at Fleming’s feet and waited.

Fleming waited for Simmonds to finish, his smile negating some of Simmonds’ immediate embarrassment.

“Cunt Whore- do you see what your suffering has done to him? His urges were so great he could not wait for you. Go and clean your husband. Lick up his come. Every single drop.”

She did as she was told, keeping her face down while she licked the come from her husband’s stomach, his thighs, his hand and his softening cock.

Simmonds sat back to her touch, his eyes still closed to his fading pleasure. She finished, and he pulled his trousers up, quickly tucking his cock away from the eyes of another man.

“Cunt  tell your husband what you are. Tell him why you are here.”

Monica took a few seconds to gather herself, and crawled back on all fours so that she was next to Fleming’s feet, just has she had been told to.

“Yes, sir. Darling…I am Mr Fleming’s cunt whore. I am….I am a cunt whore.”

More crying, and she kept her head down, averting her husband’s eyes. Her voice was different – more of a mumbled, rasping sound. She had trouble pronouncing the letter S. Simmonds afforded himself a quick smile.

“Stand over there.” Fleming nonchalantly moved his arm up to the general direction of the centre of the room. He sat down next to Simmonds and both men looked up at Monica’s broken body, enjoying the effort it took her to stand up.

“Hands behind your head, cunt. Present yourself to us properly. Push your fucked up tits out. Part your fucked up legs nice and wide. Let’s get some fresh air into that sticky cunt of yours.”

She did as she was told. A drop of blood fell from her face.

Simmonds was shocked at what he saw. Across her forehead Fleming had etched ‘CUNT WHORE’ in inch tall letters using a thick, black marker pen. Her face was hardly recognizable. Heavy swelling and the onset of deep, dark bruising all over. Two long cuts across her nose. One eye puffing up and closing. Her other eye was cut at the brow and a heavy gash on the left temple. Her lips were cut and puffing up. Blood squeezed through the tiny gaps between her teeth. Her makeup was shot, running all over her face, combining with her spittle and snot pouring from her bloodied nose. Her hair was messed up. Her entire face looked like she had just lost an hour long street brawl. Deep, savage bite marks were all over her tits. Brutal, horrific, tortured bites. Blood seeped from another deep bite mark on her neck. Venomous red lines streaked across her body, the result of the heavy beating from the belt. Welting was inevitable. Some of the lashes had broken the skin. She was unable to protect her soft thighs from the belt and they too were criss crossed with searing pain. More dark marks peppered her stomach, probably the punches. Come bubbled out of her pussy.

Her heaving chest swallowed the precious oxygen needed to start the repair work.

She stood there, and trembled. Simmonds noticed a trickle of blood snake down the inside of one of her torn legs.

“Turn around, cunt,” ordered Fleming.  “And bend over.”

She shuffled slowly around, her whimpering and sobbing fading slightly, and Simmonds saw the still gaping hole of her ass, oozing with thick, dark red blood.

“She seemed reluctant to let me fuck her ass. So I put my fist up there. I think she learnt her lesson now. Can I fuck your ass whenever I want to, Cunt Whore?”

“Yes, sir”, she rasped. “You can fuck my ass whenever you want to, sir.”

“Did you enjoy yourself, Cunt Whore? I certainly did.”

Monica leaned over the trashcan and emptied her mouth of a long drooling mixture of blood and phlegm. Then turned back around to face the men, her face distorted with torment and a deep, shocking pain.

“Yes, sir.” Her swollen lip added to her broken voice. “I did enjoy myself. I…I loved how you fucked me.” Her left eye was closing now, the dark swelling on her cheek expanding upwards.

“Tell your husband what we discussed.”

She gathered herself, sucking in whatever shitty mixture of blood and drool she had in her mouth, and coughed.

“Yes….yes….oh god…Darling...Mr Fleming has just fucked me so hard. It was so good. I am so, so lucky he came over to see us today… to teach me how to fuck properly…” She breathed in and paused for a moment, wiping away more blood seeping from her mouth.

Simmonds leaned forwards a little, to try to understand her rasp.

“I am not very good at sucking cock. I am shit at fucking. I can’t even push my tits together very well to make a good tit cunt. And….and….I still can’t take a cock in my ass very well. I know all of that now, thanks to Mr Fleming.” She began to cry. Her husband marveled at the excruciating pain she must be in, his eyes dancing excitedly over the tortured gashes burned into her once beautiful body,

Monica composed herself enough to continue reciting the words that he had pounded in her.

“Sir fucked me harder than you ever could. I never thought getting fucked could be so good.”

“Tell him what you like now,” prompted Fleming.

“Yes…yes, sir. Sir has made me….oh god, Jesus….Sir has made me realize how much I love violent, abusive sex.” Yet more crying, her blackened eyes filling with water, her face drowning in pain and humiliation. She looked nervously over at Fleming, who raised his eyebrows, encouraging her on.

“And….and…and… Mr Fleming thinks it would be a good idea if I fucked your friends and some of our neighbours, so I get better at fucking and…and…oh god…. I get as much cock and abuse as I can. I…I….I want to…I want to fuck for a living. To help with our finances. I crave…oh god..I crave hard cock.”

“That’s a good idea, yes?”

“Yes, sir. It is,” she said quietly. “I want to fuck for money.”

Her face broke into more tears, but she valiantly struggled on, knowing full well the consequences if she didn’t.

“How will you now sit?”

She turned to face her smiling husband, looking at him through her one good eye.

“Darling…I’ll always sit…oh god…all of the time, even in restaurants or anywhere like that….I’ll always sit… I’ll always sit with my legs wide open. So then everyone will know my…my cunt is available to them.”

“And that you want to be a whore….”

“Yes. And that I want… I want…..to be a whore.”

“What else,  cunt? Anything else to say to your husband?” encouraged Fleming, getting up off the sofa and walked over to the windows. “What is he to do each morning to you?”

Monica cowered when he went past her. She saw him open the blinds and peer out, but quickly looked away when he began to turn his head towards her.

“I….I want you, Darling, to slap my face and punch my tits every day, as hard as you can, to remind me that I am just a useless cunt whore. I think….I want to film this on your phone, oh god.. oh god…and send it to Mr Fleming every day so he is sure you are hitting me hard enough. It would make Mr Fleming’s cock hard to see me in pain, and that’s what I want.”

She broke down again, her body shook uncontrollably. What few tears were left fell into her bloodied face and had turned red by the time they fell from her cheek.

“Do we have a deal?” asked Simmonds to Fleming, ignoring his wife’s suffering.

“Business you mean? Of course! So long as your wife continues to amuse me - of course we do!” He laughed and stretched out his hand.

“Alright, Mr Fleming. We have a deal.” He shook his hand and smiled over to his broken wife.

“Excellent. Mr Simmonds. Get up. I am sick of your crying. Stand up.”

She did, as quick as she cold, but the tears still fell.

Fleming got up and walked over to Monica, who instinctively cowered and averted her eyes. He gripped one of her bruised and welted tits, squeezing it hard to distend the nipple. He watched her face crumple into the pain.

“Your cunt whore wife can be completely broken, Mr Simmonds. Utterly destroyed. It would be great fun. We could do it together! Would you like to break her with me?”” He clamped down even harder on her tit and calmly watched her agony. He released and turned back to Simmonds.

“Yes,” he replied, and smiled as his suffering wife. “I’d like to do that very much.”

“I thought you’d agree, Mr Simmonds. I’ll need some contact info of her family – any siblings she may have – any close friends. Just for insurance. We wouldn’t want her running off to the authorities, would we?”

“Of course,” replied Simmonds.

“Now…Cunt Whore – go and lie in the bathtub while I finish off this bottle of rather pleasant Merlot with your husband. I’ll pop in and piss on you when I leave.”

“Yes, Sir.”