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Alice.
    “Describe what he’s doing, Alice.”
    “His… oh God… his fingers are rubbing my G-spot. I’m going to… I’m going to… twenty!”
    “Please,” Lewis said, his whole body shuddering. “I can’t bear to watch.”
    “But watch you must. Look closely as Heathcliff uses his fingers and tongue at the same time.”
    Heathcliff did as Madame Bovary said, going down on Alice as he thrust his digits inside her, and Lewis’s wife made a sound he’d never heard before. It was like the growl of a bear, and she thrashed back and forth with an intensity Lewis didn’t even think was possible.
    It was too arousing, too erotic, for him to handle. And as his wife shook with orgasm, Lewis’s prick jerked and he spurted all over his belly. With so little stimulation, his orgasm was a poor one.
    “Oh, Lewis!” Alice cried. “No!”
    “I warned you,” Madame Bovary said. She went to the chest and removed a bottle of oil, pouring it on Lewis’s still-twitching manhood. Then she began to stroke him.
    Lewis cried out. His cock was too sensitive, and her touch was painful. But she continued to pull on him as he struggled in vain to get away.
    “This is what bad husbands get for coming too soon,” Madame Bovary said, torturing him with tugs.
    Lewis groaned in agony. It was worse than tickling. Worse even than pain.
    “Do you wish me to stop?” Madame Bovary said.
    “Yes! Please!”
    “Then make me come.”
    She climbed atop Lewis, straddling his face, her bare sex pressed against his lips. Lewis began to lick her, desperately wanting her to stop tormenting his poor, sensitive penis.
    “Do you like seeing me sit on your husband’s face, Alice?” Madame Bovary said. “When was the last time you did? Answer me.”
    “Years,” Alice moaned.
    Years? Had it really been that long? Lewis closed his eyes, despising himself as Madame Bovary continued to torment him. He deserved this, and more, for taking Alice for granted.
    “One!” Alice yelled.
    “Lick harder,” Madame Bovary commanded. “We’ll make a lover out of you yet, Lewis.”

Alice Gets to Thirty (Which Was Really Many More But She Had to Start Over Because of Lewis)…
    Heathcliff was just as devious with his fingers as he was with his tongue, and he ripped climax after climax out of Alice until she felt ready to collapse. Even worse, watching Madame Bovary torture Lewis turned Alice on something fierce. She rode his face while teasing his soft manhood, crying out in orgasm as her husband whimpered in agony. But, incredibly, Bovary’s expert hands were able to reinvigorate Lewis’s arousal. Alice couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten it up twice in one day, let alone twice within ten minutes. Watching it made Heathcliff’s orgasm torture even more unbearable.
    Madame Bovary came a second time, then crawled off of Lewis’s face and impaled herself on his cock, reverse-cowgirl.
    It was Lewis’s favorite position. He always loved to watch his shaft disappear inside Alice as she bobbed up and down. And Madame Bovary was good at it, making her strokes slow and sensual, her breasts swinging with each plunge. Alice groaned inwardly, and then outwardly. Her husband wouldn’t last long.
    As Madame Bovary humped Lewis, she said, “Get your toys, Heathcliff. And get the wordsmith to help you.”
    Mercifully, Heathcliff stopped his oral assault, and Alice was left hanging there, open and exposed, dripping with arousal, watching a beautiful woman ride her husband. She caught Lewis’s eyes, and his were intense with passion.
    “I will try to hold out for you, sweet Alice,” he said.
    Then Madame Bovary reached down and began to knead his balls as she rode him. He moaned.
    Alice continued to watch the coupling. She’d never really gotten into pornography, but this was different. She wasn’t watching some well-hung actor. She was watching her husband, his shaft hard and ready, his eyes electric with lust. And Madame Bovary was so beautiful,