Fucking My Dead Husband’s Best Friend the Day of His Funeral

The church parvis feels cold under my black heels. Frank’s coffin rolls in. I’m Irina, his brand-new wife from Odessa. Heartbroken? Sure. But my pussy tingles spotting Chris, the tall guy Frank raved about. ‘My best mate, huge dick, knows how to fuck,’ he’d brag. Today, at his funeral, I need that.

Few people show. Colleagues whisper. I step out of the car, skirt hiking just enough to flash garter on bare thigh. Chris stares. Good. I saunter over, veil fluttering. Shake his hand. ‘Chris, Frank talked so much about you.’ My Slavic accent drips honey. His eyes devour my legs, tits straining silk blouse.

The Approach

Church is quick. Empty pews. After, just us at the grave. I grab his hand, squeeze. Tears? Yeah, but my nipples harden against lace bra. His grip’s firm. We toss dirt. I lean in. Perfume hits him—musky vanilla, mixed with fresh dirt smell.

Restaurant next door. Noon sharp. He orders vodka. ‘To Frank.’ I sip, eyes locked. ‘What now, Irina?’ ‘Don’t know. Hotel in Paris.’ His hand on mine. Warm. Electric. He kisses my cheek, lips brush mouth corner. Boom. Phone in my bag vibrates—ignored Tinder match from Ukraine days. No time. ‘Take me home,’ I whisper. He nods.

Car hums on autoroute. Paris fades. I recline, hat and veil on. Skirt rides up. His hand lands on my thigh. Slow. I part legs a fraction. He strokes higher. Jarretelle snaps under fingers. Skin burns. I press shoulder to his. Lips graze his cheek through veil.

Fingers hit panty edge. Lace black, soaked already. Days of grief-fueled horniness erupt. I spread wide, guide his hand. He rubs my clit through fabric. Wet spot grows. I yank lace aside. Blonde bush, slick lips. His finger circles pearl. I moan low, Russian curses slip.

He dips in. One finger, then two. Pumping slow. My hand dives to his crotch. Zipper down. Cock springs—thicker than Frank’s. ‘Fuck, bigger,’ I gasp. Stroke it. Lean over, suck head. Salty pre-cum. Tongue swirls. He swerves, pulls off at toll. Attendant gawks.

The Explosion

Country road to his mill. Gravel crunches. I pump him steady, nails tease foreskin. Door opens. Bags drop. Fire crackles. I’m on knees before hello. Skirt bunched, stockings taut. Free his balls, lick sack. Deep throat. Gag wetly. Eyes up—perverse gleam through veil. He grabs hair, thrusts. Cum floods mouth. Gulp it down, last drop on tongue.

Moquette by flames. He strips me slow. Keep stockings, garters. Spread me. Tongue dives pussy. Laps juices trailing thighs. Sucks clit. Fingers ass. I buck, scream. Cum hard, thighs clamp head.

Doggy now. Ass high. He slams cunt. Balls slap. ‘Fuck me like whore!’ I yell. Switch to ass—easy glide, lubed by pussy drip. Pound alternate holes. I rub clit, cum nonstop. French-Russian filth: ‘Da, harder, ebi menya!’

Pull out. I jerk him. Spurts hit veil, sticky white on black dots. Cognac after. Fuck again slow. Dawn, we crash entwined.

Door bangs. His friend walks in. Sees us naked, cum-dried. I smile cool. Dress quick. Grab bags. ‘Thanks, Chris. Frank was right.’ Kiss cheek. Out the door. Stranger again. Back to Paris. Pussy aches good. Next hunt starts now.