Sunday, 13 December 2015

My Futa Wife and the Waitress, Part One

It's summer here in Australia, so for all you people shivering your butts off overseas here is something to warm the cockles of your heart (and pants). Inspired by a true story about a super sexy waitress (you know who you are).
Contains: Hardcore fucking, threesome, futa on female, male on futa, oral, theories about man-woman relationships, and semen.


My wife and I spot her from down the street... and across the road. Actually, it’s her legs: long, tanned, fit. They shine like a beacon and make it hard to see anything else. We’re sold when we see her blonde ponytail bobbing about as she takes orders from customers.
We’ve been looking for somewhere to have breakfast for about twenty minutes. ‘How about that one?’ Colleen suggests, motioning along our line-of-sight. It’s not really a question. And I don’t think she’s talking about the café. I heartily agree.
As we approach we slowly get a better view of the woman. She’s tall! Might be about six-foot. She has a young, pretty face; probably in her mid-twenties. Casually striding from table to table with those long stems she takes orders and delivers coffees with a large smile; much slower than we would prefer in the city, but we’re not in the citywe’re on the coast, and this is as fast as they need to move. No one has anywhere to go. They’re just enjoying life.
‘Hi guys,’ the waitress says as we arrive. Her voice is sweet and relaxed. ‘Just take a seat; I’ll bring out some menus.’
The first thing that hits me (apart from her big, pretty green eyes) is the Nirvana slit shirt she’s wearing. It’s old and raggy, like it might have actually been made when Kurt was still around. Very cool. It has huge cuttings down the sidesshowing tanned skin across her back and down the side of her tight torso. She turns to serve a guy who arrived before us, and I see the cursive lettering of a cute little tat run out from the strap of her white bra. I salivate.
Colleen has been looking as well. She glances back at me, and without a moment of thought declares, ‘She’s mine.’
I don’t argue. Instead, my jeans just rise a little. When you’re married to someone as proficient at pulling pussy as my wife, you just go along for the ride and end up with some nice leftovers without having to raise a finger. With her pretty, island-girl looks, extremely sporty figure, and her ability to become best friends with anyone in a matter of seconds, she has a lot of power; and that’s before you get to her hidden talents. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problems impressing the ladies myself. My tall, brown, rugby-player build, and handsome, mixed-looks bring the girls to the yard. It’s just that no oneand I mean no oneis as good as my wife. I usually just sit back and let her work her magic, and then help out when she needs me. This one will be no different. Colleen always gets what she wants: in business, life, and sex.
The waitress is back. She stands in front of us with a wide, joyous stance. ‘Sorry about the wait, guys. How’s your morning been?’
‘It’s great now that we’re out of the city,’ Colleen replies, casually looking up from her menu. ‘We’re with the chilled, beautiful people again!’ She flashes a big, friendly smile. First impressions count.
‘Oh, you guys live in Brisbane?’ She smiles back; I see her subconsciously taking note of my wife’s bulbous rack, which is struggling to remain modest under her thin, colourful sun dress.
‘Yeah, not by choice!’ I say. I see her take a quick peek at my large, exposed arms and shoulders.
She chuckles, then says, ‘Oh yeah, it’s so much better out here. I could never leave.’
‘Let me guess,’ my wife says accusingly; ‘you work in the morning, and then just surf all afternoon? Am I right?’
She guffaws. ‘Yeah, something like that. Well, I don’t surf, yet; but I definitely don’t waste the beach. Not this time of year.’
‘You’re so lucky!’ Colleen almost howls, throwing her arms in the air. The waitress laughs. ‘Everyone here is so gorgeous! I mean, just look at you!’ she says, taking an obvious look at our blonde friend from head to toe. She’s not wasting time.
The waitress runs her fingers through her long pony tail, her face radiating. ‘C’mon, you guys would fit right in here,’ she contends. ‘You look like athletes or something!’ Colleen wasn’t fishing for compliments, but that comment will make her want the waitress even more.
‘N’aww, you’re too kind!’ Colleen feigns bashfulness.
The waitress suddenly recalls that she should be doing some sort of work. ‘Can I get you guys some coffee to start with?’ she asks.
‘I’ll have something... tall and white,’ Colleen says. Wow, she’s going for the finishing moves already! She has a small smirk, and her powerful brown eyes are penetrating the waitress, who laughs like a schoolgirl and fumbles with her pen and notepad. She doesn’t know it yet, but the pussy lying under those short denim shorts already belongs to my wife.
‘I’ll just have a strong long black,’ I add, trying unsuccessfully not to pound the red-faced woman with too much innuendo (I really do just want a strong coffee).
‘Alright, I’ll be right back out with those,’ she says, probably trying to remember what else she should be doing right now; but more likely imagining being oiled up by my wife’s supple fingers.
‘Oh,’ Colleen calls to her as she walks away, ‘sorry, one more thing: do you have a bathroom here somewhere?’
The waitress turns, flicking her hair. ‘Of course, it’s just out the back and to the right.’ She points through the café to a flyscreen door on the back wall.
‘Could you be a sweetie and show me?’ Colleen asks sweetly as she stands. ‘I’m terrible with directions.’ She’s really not. The waitress seems happy to assist though, and they walk off together. Colleen flashes a cheeky grin back in my direction; is she going for her number already?


Watching the tourists and surfers and retirees walk by, I suddenly realise Colleen has been in the toilet for a fair while. And I still don’t have my coffee. I can’t even see the waitress to ask where it is. My phone immediately responds to my concerns with a “buzz”; it’s a message from Colleen: ‘Come to the women’s bathroom. Need some help.’
Period problems perhaps? I grab Colleen’s bag and take it with me; there must be something in there that would help with most issues. I walk quickly through the café and out the back (where there’s quite a nice little outdoor area with tables and plants and shadewe should sit out here to eat!) I see the door for the women’s toilet off to the side, under a canopy of vines. I walk over and knock politely.
I hear a muffled laugh inside. Did I knock on the wrong door?
‘Is that you, hon?’ It’s colleen’s voice on the other side.
‘Yeah. Are you alright?’
‘Um, can you come in here for a second?’ Another hushed giggle. After a moment the lock clicks. I hesitantly push the door open and realise why my coffee hasn’t arrived yet: the waitress is busy serving someone else! Namely, my wife!
‘Come in! Come in!’ Colleen bustles me inside and locks the door. She then skips and hops, barefooted, over to our waitresswho is casually sitting back on the toilet seat with a smirkand straddles her long legs. Sitting on her lap, she grips the blonde hair and kisses the waitress long and hard.
My heart pounds. I stand at the door, her giant handbag still on my shoulder as I calculate what’s happening in front of me. I seriously didn’t expect her to work this fastshe must have been keen! My jeans tighten.


‘Don’t just stand there!’ Colleen says, looking back at me while the waitress smiles over Colleen’s shoulder and eats me with her eyes. ‘This floor is gross. I need you to be a big sexy mattress for us.’
I don’t argue. It’s a small price to pay for the rewards that might follow. Plus, I am a gentleman. I whip my singlet off and lay it on the floor, then drop down on top of it, face up. Luckily it’s quite a large bathroom—one of those with a shower and a place to get changed—so my long body fits easily on the floor.
Looking up, I see Colleen pull the waitress up off the seat by her long arm. She then wraps her hand around the girl’s neck and makes her bend over for a standing kiss. (As commanding and statuesque as Colleen is, she actually only stands a touch above five-foot; the waitress towers above her.)
Colleen is standing with her legs on either side of my head. I take in the view of her luscious, caramel calves and thighsthick and juicy, but incredibly toned from many, many hours in the gym and pool. I also see that she didn’t wear any panties today. Her big brown cock glares down at me. It’s growing, and slowly pushing up against the fabric of her dress. I wonder what the blonde will do when she finds it.
Their bodies press together and Colleen’s penis grows even more; the foreskin retracts; the shiny bulb glows. It lifts the dress, opening it up like a tent. Her large balls pull forward with the rising dick, and I can now see her moist, dark lips above, slightly spread, revealing the pink between. I never get sick of this sight!
‘Whoa!’ the waitress exclaims. She’s found it. ‘What is that?’ She steps back and looks down at the bulging dress. She lets out an uncertain laugh; one eyebrow is raised. ‘Is that... some sort of... dildo or something? You really came prepared!’ She seems a little offended; perhaps that Colleen would be so presumptuous as to bring a giant strap-on to breakfast.
My wife lets out a knowing laugh. ‘It’s not a dildo, honey. Why don’t you have a peek?’ I’m sure the waitress can see the outline of the fat head through the thin fabric. That, and the throbbing motion has cemented her feet in curiosity. I watch, and snigger on the inside—the reactions are usually fairly similar: shock and awe; but the final result is usually fairly similar as well.
The waitress can’t help herself. With a questioning look she steps forward and reaches down. She pulls Colleen’s dress up. ‘Holy shit!’ she squeals. ‘What the? How the?’ Her stammering continues as she gazes at the fully erect beast. Blood pounds through the thirteen inches of meat. It’s straight as a lamppost, but its underside curves down like a snake’s belly after eating an unlucky animal. The waitress doesn’t blink. This is normally the point where desire takes over from shock, and there’s no return.
‘You can touch it if you want,’ Colleen says sweetly, pulling her dress up over her head and dropping it to the side, revealing a fleshy but tight form to the speechless woman. This is the finishing move. My wife has a stunning body; it’s muscular, but smooth and curvy—especially her legs, which she takes the most pride in. Her long, wavy black hair drapes over her full breasts, still contained in a skin-coloured bra. The waitress drinks in the view, and beams like a kid on Christmas morning upon seeing a bike-shaped present under the tree.
Still unable to act, though, she just purses her naturally light-pink lips and continues to stare. She’s wondering what to do, and how to do it. This situation is a little different to her standard surfer-boy hook-ups. Colleen helps. She steps forward and takes the woman’s hand, then drapes it over her penis like a tea towel on a hanger. It takes the weight easily. The waitress needs no more prompts, and her hand tightens around the hard flesh; she draws it back toward her; the foreskin barely makes it over the skirt of her expansive glans. Her other hand joins, and they slide together down to the base.
‘It’s really real!’ she says in amazement, looking at Colleen’s face. She nods and smiles. Gaining some confidence, she bends over to have a closer look, even lifts it to examine the underside and the balls. ‘But you look so much like a woman!’
‘I am a woman,’ my wife replies; ‘just a very lucky one.’
‘Very lucky indeed,’ the waitress says as she seems to enjoy feeling the thickness between her fingers. She’s fully under the spell now. I’m sure she’s forgotten that I’m even there watching the whole thing. She squats to the floor to gain better access with her mouth, and then her lips slide over the reddish-brown helmet. She’s a natural, and she’s hungry.
She pulls back, and saliva drips from Colleen’s tip onto the floor. I shimmy along the tiles beneath them to make sure I catch the next one (and to get a better view of the blonde sucking my wife).
The tall waitress takes a huge amount of cock; she gets at least halfway down before the belly of the beast becomes too wide for her lips; but that’s an astounding effort. Her style is slow and sultry, with a lot of tip-licking, and suctioning of the head with pretty pops each time she pulls away. Colleen is loving itmoaning and looking down at the woman, who is not only gorgeous but can actually work a dick. She’ll definitely get a tip before we leave today!
Colleen reaches down under the Nirvana shirt and fondles the waitress while she works. She somehow manages to unclip her bra with one hand (one of her hidden talents), and the waitress allows it to fall over each of her shoulders and out of the shirt. Colleen pulls the material of the shirt from each side of her chest to the middle, revealing full, natural tits, and very hard and wrinkled nipples. They look delicious from below, especially as they bounce with the motion of her head. Colleen must think so as well: she makes the waitress stand up, and then attacks them with her tongue and teeth.
As she yanks the waitress’s denim shorts and panties down to the floor, Colleen says, ‘Here, why don’t you make yourself comfortable.’ She motions to my broad, bare, tattooed chest. The waitress looks down at me with wide eyes, maybe surprised that she forgot there was another person in the room.
‘Really?’ she asks, probably concerned about using a human like a mat.
‘Sure, he loves it,’ Colleen says. I should probably explain something here. You see: I’m not a cuckold; I don’t like to be humiliated or demeaned in any way, and I’m never used purely for the pleasure of others. I’m a Zeta. I’m strong, I have a mind of my own, and I’m emotionally secure; I just do everything I can to support my powerful wife, and I trust her. We both have opportunities to live our dreams, and I’m thrilled when I can assist in her dreams of fucking the beautiful women of the world, whenever and wherever she can.
The waitress, wearing just her loose shirt, lies gently on my chest, afraid that she might hurt me in some way. Very unlikely. Even though she’s tall, she’s not as tall as me, and she’d be about half my weight. ‘Don’t worry,’ Colleen tells her as she crouches to the floor, undoing her bra to release her own set of round, stunning boobs, preparing to dive in; ‘you won’t hurt him.’
Her weight now fully on me, her warm body presses against my chest and her hair covers my face. It smells like shampoo and coffee and woman. Delicious. I move my hands under her firm butt and lift it into the air to give my wife better access. The waitress moans and arches; Colleen has probably just parted her with a hungry tongue.
The blonde is a writher! I have to hold her tight, by the hips, or she’d squirm right off me. I don’t blame her: Colleen is not only good at catching quim, she’s extremely good at taking care of it. I’ve learnt incredible techniques just from watching her little tongue go to work. She’s always making them guess, making them desperately want more, making them die a little inside by building, brick by brick, lick by precious lick, toward a mansion, only to turn it, right at the end, into a rocket ship to the moon.
The blonde takes off. I grip her hard; stop her from crawling backwards over my head like the girl in The Exorcist. She wails like a siren and her sharp fingernails pierce my sides. She’s cumming hard, and Colleen is not relenting. ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUUUCK!!’ Her long legs shudder in my hands.

Go to >>>> PART TWO 

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