EXTRACT

Under the Bed

 

There was the uncomfortable, irritating noise of the bed springs squeaking inches above my face, sprinkling dust balls over my body, but it wasn't the only noise I heard in the room. There was the woman moaning from her pleasure on top the bed including gasping grunts of the man who was fucking her. Doggy-style, I reckon, though there was no way I could know from being cooped under the bed.

How did I arrive at this assumption?

Because I could see the man's feet spread inches apart, moving slightly with each perceived thrust he made; his thrusts were in sync with his grunts, as well the woman's whimpering cries. It blended with the thunder-clapping noise of their bodies connecting, including that of the bed's headboard knocking against the wall.

A black man's pair of feet.

The bed was king-sized. I lay under it wearing nothing but my skivvies; my body was partly covered with dust and mothballs from the cheap-looking rug. It looked as though this part of the room hadn't been cleaned in ages. I managed to turn over and lay on my chest, resting my chin under my arms and stared at the man's pair of feet. My ears absorbed the intense lovemaking with the weight of the bed groaning inches from my skull. Aside from the man's feet, I made out two chairs and a table standing further to my left corner of the room. That part of the floor was littered with clothes. Mine was amongst the pile, including those belonging to the couple.

I listened to the woman's heightened whimpers as they matched along with the man's exerting, juxtaposed with the repetitive claps that came with their bodies making contact. The discordant music they produced was like a badly recorded soundtrack that grew seductively infectious the more I listened to them. It made me wish I was the man, or that I was carrying out what he was doing instead.

The woman sputtered words of lust amid their intense fucking. Her sharp cries cut through the noise barrage of their sex.

SMACK . . . SMACK . . . SMACK . . .

"Wuuhhh . . . Awwhhhh yeah! Fuck me, Tyson! Uugghhhh, fuck! Auuwwhhh fuck . . . Oh God, fuck the shit . . ."

SMACK . . . SMACK . . . SMACK . . .

"Aaahhhggghhh, you fuck . . . Aaahhh, you fucking motherfucker! Uuhhgh! fuck it! Fuck that pussy, you fuck!"

The woman spouting these lewd expletives is my wife; her name is Sheryl. The man fucking her is called Tyson, her three-month old lover. Sheryl connected with him in the mysterious manner that she often applied when seeking suitable men. Never has she shared with me details of how she does it, or whether it is they who find her instead. It is not for me to curtail who she meets when it involves her satisfying her sexual habits and she knows it. Maybe before, during the early periods of our marriage, but that was long ago. Sheryl loves sex the way obese individuals crave food. We are in our seventh year of marriage and never have I satisfied her in bed.

Their fucking continued for a while until I then heard Sheryl beg him to stop.

"Awwhhh . . . hold on . . . wait a minute, babe. Ohh boy, you're gonna rip me apart one of these days," she gasped.

"Ain't that what you fucking wanted, bitch?" came the abrupt response.

Sheryl loved it when her men spoke raw and nasty to her. It made her feel appreciated when they treated her like she was less of a woman and more of a whore.

Tyson climbed onto the bed and there came a loud smack that produced a squeal from her; Tyson responded by laughing. Neither of them considered my misery under the bed. Tyson wasn't wearing a rubber; Sheryl loved living dangerous and didn't like getting fucked while wearing one.

Tyson then asked, "You wanna get on top?"

Sheryl murmured what sounded like approval. I felt the bed move, which told me they were getting into whatever sexual position they wanted. My position didn't change under the bed.

It was Tyson who ordered me to get under the bed after he and Sheryl welcomed me into the room. The room itself was a tacky motel located on Pilsbury Road, a three mile stretch of cracked asphalt located near the airport. I had no sense of time. For all I know, they could have been fucking for hours while I laid under the bed waiting for them to get done.

I did doze off a bit, but woke up immediately when someone kicked at the foot of the bed. I looked up and recognized it was Tyson getting my attention. Hopefully they were about done and now required my service.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," I responded.

His feet stopped hitting the bed and then he stepped away from it. "Get your ass out of there, white boy."

My hand rubbed sweat that was dripping down my face. I managed to crawl out of the bed and it felt like I was pulling myself out of the rubble of a disaster; I was relieved and happy to breathe better air again. Tyson was by the window staring beyond the curtains at whatever, while I came to my feet and swiped sweat mixed with dust off my arms and torso.

"Hi, honey," said Sheryl.

She was sprawled on the bed wearing thigh-high stockings and black pair of high heels. Her body glistened with sweat and cum; the room stank of semen and cum. She was chuckling as she spread her legs for me to appreciate evidence of her concluded sex with Tyson.

"Get over here and clean me up, cleaner boy," she said.

I went to her without a word and did what I was there to do-I lapped up the remains of Tyson's ejaculate spilling out of my wife's enticing orifice. Sheryl moaned and squirmed against the onslaught of my tongue. She adjusted herself for me to acclaim more out of her. I consumed her lover's essence and tasted the splatters that dotted her body, including her thigh stockings. The whole time Tyson stood by the window making like his work was finished while I proceeded with mine. Yes, in case it hasn't become clear to you, this is my job. This is the new life that I'm living-that of a dedicated cum cleaner.

The irony is that the journey to what I am today began on my birthday.