Excessive Sex Drive

As I pressed the accelerator pedal of the Range Rover, pushing it far beyond the legal speed limit, I watched in the rear view mirror as the prostitute squirmed and giggled in my husband's lap; his penis thickening and pressing against her buttocks through the fabric of her tight leopard print dress. I watched as he pulled her dress up around her hips, pushing her fake tanned thighs apart and peeling aside her flimsy underwear; revealing her vulva and thin landing strip of pubic hair. Both their eyes met mine in the mirror as with thumb and forefinger my husband penetrated both her vagina and anus simultaneously; she moaned the fake moans of pleasure I had moaned so many times myself.

Our marriage, like the Range Rover, had become merely a vehicle in which to travel between increasingly depraved sex acts. My husband and I had long been unsatisfied by normal sexual relations. In the beginning my husband had become unable to orgasm without vivid descriptions of my extra material affairs, both real and imagined; a travelling sales executive sodomising me in his hotel room after a complimentary meal, my secretary administering cunnilingus to me under my desk whilst I idly fill spreadsheets of sales figures. Recently he could not achieve an erection without re-enacting increasingly extreme pornography; I would stamp on his penis whilst wearing expensive designer high heels or urinate on his chest and genitals. Either way, neither of us could climax until his firm grip around my slender throat had chocked me to the edge of consciousness.

Now there were encounters like this with escorts. The word escort in some way giving a middle class approval to paying for sex. My husband had chosen this prostitute specifically, after weeks of frequenting airport hotel bars searching for a suitable candidate. She look like a younger model of myself; slim but shapely with long tanned legs, her breasts a similar size to my own before the enhancement surgery. Her hair, however, was naturally blond. Perhaps my husband had fucked her before.

By now my husband had pulled down the front of her dress, reducing it to a wide fabric belt around her midriff. Her nipples were coated with his saliva before he inhaled a line of cocaine from her bare breast. She laughed as if this was the first time this had happened to her, or perhaps at us for indulging in such a clichéd display of depravity; no doubt this expensive whore had seen and endured far more surreal, depraved and demeaning sexual encounters than we could even imagine.

I negotiated a number of complex intersections through the darkness; cutting across the five lanes of the motorway to meet the entry ramp to another endless span of near deserted express-way. Cars blared their horns and flashed their headlights, illuminating the semi naked bodies contorted in the rear seats of the Range Rover.

Accelerating to dangerous speeds along the empty highway, finally able to look in the mirror, wriggling excitedly in the comfortable seat as I watched the young whore devour my husband's swollen penis, her eyes locked on his as she expertly rolled her tongue over every inch. The crown of her bare buttocks pressed against the rear passenger door window, visible to the cars we speed past. He held her head in both hands, pumping his penis into her mouth in a rhythm mirroring the rhythm of the motorway sign gantries passing overhead. Holding her head against his pubis, penis deep in her throat, until a thick stream of saliva draws from her mouth, running down over his scrotum. I wonder if this act will cause her to vomit over his genitals but he releases her. As she gasps for air I recognise for the first time a look of genuine excitement in her eyes.

After undertaking some cars sticking priest like to the speed limit in the fast line I take a glance over my shoulder. My husband's average size penis, coated in pre cum, saliva and the hooker's cheap lip gloss, held firmly in her small hand. Slow deliberate strokes drawing more pre cum from the glans of his cock, the thick clear mucus coating her fingers. Grunts of pleasure filling the cabin space as my husband reclines on the tan leather rear seats, the airport whore contorted in the remaining space her tongue rapidly flicking between scrotum, perineum and anus.

The escort's short dress had been discarded onto the front passenger along with her underwear. As I drive I pick up the orphaned panties from the seat, feeling the soft lace between my fingertips. Perhaps this black and pink thong was a favourite of one of her clients, or a present from a past lover. Bringing them close to my face I inhale the scent from the gusset; her celebrity endorsed perfume and the sharp, almost sweet, smell of her vagina and anus. Also an underlying cocktail of almost familiar of scents; no doubt the memories left behind of any number of male sex organs which have penetrated her orifices.

My husband had repositioned her, her knees on the rear seats, hands gripping the rear headrest. She was in the perfect position for me to see my husband's penis penetrate her, the thick glans parting her vagina lips and plunging deep inside without warning. As he fucked her she rocked back against him, her scuffed imitation high heels pressing into the back of the driver's seat marking the tan leather forever with the memory of the act. Her false moans filled the cabin; "fuck me baby", "just like that", "your cock feel sooo good" as my husband's hands roam over her body, groping her unimpressive tits and spreading apart her buttocks. She gasps in surprise as he inserts two fingers into her anus right down to the root, pressing them against the tip of his penis as he pushing it deep inside her. This move, I know from our own love making, feels incredible for both of us. My toes curl in my high heels as I watch in the mirror; my eyes less and less frequently watching the road as the speedometer tips over 120 mile per hour.

A speeding ambulance, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing, illuminates the interior of the Range Rover spreading erotic blue shadows over the walnut and chrome details. The blue light on the sweaty skin of the whore and my husband making their sex act look like a bizarre South American drug fuelled ritual.

As my husband moved closer to his climax the thrusts of his hips become more forceful; his pubis pushing the hooker into the firm leather seats. As he furiously pounds her vaginal canal he pushes her head against the rear window, her faced squashed against the glass visible to the drivers behind; her smeared makeup leaving a ghost like impression of her face on the glass for days to come.

Holding down the horn impatiently urging a slower car out of our path I hear the hurried grunts of my husband's climax. As the troublesome car finally peals aside and I push the tip of my shoe against the accelerator to speed past I look back into the passenger compartment. My husband, exhausted with his effort, reclines on the seat, his penis already limp and discarded against his bare thigh. The prostitute reclines next to him, her long legs intertwined with his but her thighs still parted enough to the sloppy mess he has made of her vulva. My husband's semen splattered over her bare stomach and breasts, she looks into my eyes as she smears his seed into her bare flesh with her small hands well aware that this sexual misadventure is as much for my gratification as it is for my husband's. Fluttering her eyes lashes regardless of her smeared makeup she leans close to my face and whispers "was that good for you hun?" This comment uttering from her lips, my husband's cock still lingering on her breath, was enough to make my loins burn.

...

I paid the escort in cash and another line of cocaine she snorted off the dash board of the Range Rover after reapplying her makeup and adjusting her dress. Left in the ash tray were the stubs of three half smoked cigarettes, her pink lip gloss staining the tips. She thanked us politely as she elegantly stepped out of the Range Rover into the car park of the airport hotel she did business at. My naked husband I watch her slender figure make its way across the car park; whilst we watched her flirt with some suited business men who had just stepped from a chauffeur driven Mercedes my husband's penis began to harden once more.

...

The Range Rover cut through the darkness of the deserted express way, the orange motorway lighting illuminating the cabin, reflected off the large white panels of the body work. I crouched in the passenger seat; white Armani jeans and pink underwear pushed down around my thighs, my bare buttocks resting against the pencil thin heels of my shoes, cutting into my firm flesh. I let my husband thrust his penis into my mouth as he accelerated beyond safe speed, one hand stroking his cock into my mouth in time to the whines of the engine being tested to its limits. As his right hand clenched the wheel his left hand pressed two fingers wet with his saliva into my anus forcing me to moan into the throbbing flesh of his cock. My own spare hand alternated between thrusting two fingers into my vagina and smearing the cervical fluids which coats them into my swollen clitoris, my excitement still heightened by the memory of the blonde escort and the taste of her vaginal lubricating juices that I hungrily suck from my husband's cock.

We both climaxed at the exact moment the Range Rover hit the central reservation; spinning out of control across oncoming traffic and back the other way as the rear quarter of the vehicle is hit by a coach unable to take avoiding action. The deployment of the Range Rover's numerous airbags traps out bodies into the incriminating sexual position; the spraying of my husband's sperm into my mouth mirroring the ejaculation of engine coolant from the Range Rover's forward bulkhead marking the scared concrete of the motorway in the same way my husband had marked the prostitutes body with his semen less than an hour before. This the culmination of our long lusted for threesome; husband, wife, Range Rover.