Desparate Times

John tried not to make the stairs creak as he made his way up to bed. It had gone midnight and his wife had gone up nearly two hours ago.

Opening the door to their room, he saw the light from the phone in her hand.

"You and your games. Sweety Crush is it?" he asked.

"Level 19." she said, without looking away from the screen.

He took off his clothes, letting them fall in the same place as hers on the landing and climbed into bed.

"Fancy a cuddle love?" he asked, rubbing his penis against her leg where he had lifted her nightdress.

"Get off, y'dirty bugger!" she said, turning over, away from him.

His penis was hard. Despite a few attempts, it still didn't push far enough between his wife's ample thighs to make it to the opening of her vagina. Too soft. Too short.

"I said, GET OFF!"

He rolled back to his side and slid his hand under the duvet.

Stroking the tip of his cock, he started to drift away to his tried and tested fantasies. The things he loved. Things that made him climax every time. What would it be tonight?

Dogging at the beach, five minutes down the road from where he lives? That fantasy always got him hard.

Usually, it was the woman next door, Heather, waiting with the window down in their 2011 Volvo which they always kept immaculately clean on their drive. In this fantasy, she was always wearing lingerie and a fur coat. Of course, the fur coat was held open as he crossed the car park for a look through her window. Her breasts would be on full show. Big and round with erect nipples. Her lingerie would be silk or satin. Something with lace around the edges. Her vagina would be shaven, or at least trimmed.

He regularly checked their washing line in the summer. The fence between their back gardens was high but there were gaps. Some days she would put her washed underwear on the line. It was usually functional. High waisted, made from polyester. But every now and again, there would be some smaller items. Lacy, thin or sheer material. He often thought about what she looked like wearing them.

"You playin' with yourself... again?" his wife snapped over her shoulder.

He didn't reply. Just got up and went downstairs, taking the pile of clothes on the landing floor on his way.

He threw the clothes in the hamper next to the washing machine. Just before closing the lid, he noticed her underwear, balled up in her tights. They usually helped.

He tapped in the PIN code on the tablet on the kitchen table and it opened at the last browser window he had been using.

Reading the description of the woman in the photographs, he started to uncurl his wife's underwear from her tights. The gusset was still moist and the cotton, which used to be white, was stained yellow with urine.

'Kath from London likes to have her hubby watch as she gets fucked by younger, well-hung men' it said in the description below Kath's picture. It could have been anybody's picture. It was only showing her from her shoulders to her feet. She was wearing a see-through camisole top which didn't hide her long, saggy breasts, hanging down over her ample stomache. And heels. Her heels were black and shiny. But that was it, she wasn't wearing anything else. Her dark brown nipples didn't register on the sheer material of the camisole, serving instead to point towards the prize John always went for.

He scrolled down the page for more pictures as he pressed the urine soaked underwear against his mouth.

Eventually, he found what he was looking for.

'Kath from London' was sitting on a kitchen bench with no underwear and her chubby thighs spread wide. Her plump vagina was on full show with her labia peeking out from the folds of her shaven lips. John inhaled the scent of his wife's gusset and put his hand around his erect penis.

His tongue found the cotton and he could taste his wife's piss in the wet fabric. As his fist got faster, he sucked the urine from the underwear that had been nestled against his wife's plump, bushy vagina only two hours earlier.

It wasn't long before he felt that familiar warmth spreading through his legs and abdomen, and he knew he was close.

The routine was always the same.

He dropped her pants down, ready to catch the mess, the cotton gusset cupped in his hand, millimetres from the glistening opening of his penis, ready to soak it all up.

Trying to keep his voice down, he took one last look at Kath from London and grunted as a thick pool of warm, white semen flooded over the stained cotton gusset of his wife's underwear. Jerking in his fist, jet after jet erupted, covering more and more of her discarded pants. As his climax subsided and he relaxed his grip, one last drop oozed out. He mopped it up in the shiny polyester and tossed them over at the laundry hamper.

That's what he needed, he thought to himself. Somewhere he could find a good supply of used underwear to masturbate into. Or someone willing to donate it regularly. Opening up a new browser tab, he started his search.