This is part 2 of the Forced Cuckquean story.

Heather woke up slowly. For a second there was just the ceiling, the blanket and nothing else.

Then she blinked and reality rushed back.

Flashes at first. Abigail in their living room. Her young body.  Her thighs.  Her lips.  The way she slipped her fingers inside Heather, between her legs, and how at first it made her angry, and then something different.  Something wrong, but also perfectly placed. Then her mouth at Heather's ear goading her into speech. The way the words were pulled from her throat.

Then Mark. Not his face, his sound. The noise he made when he ejaculated inside Abigail, low and broken. Then later, while Heather was on her knees, Abigail stroking him, and the groan he made when she made him cum on Heather’s chest. That one was worse. He had been looking directly at Heather when it happened, but the sound belonged to Abigail.

Mark had never sounded like that with Heather. Not once in all of their years of having sex.

Her concentration broke when Mark groaned next to her. Soft and normal. The sound of her husband waking up on any given morning. She almost didn't believe it was the same man she witnessed the day before.

She remembered now, afterwards, she hadn't spoken the remainder of the evening. Not a word. She had eaten because he told her to, gone to bed because he told her to, and lay in the dark as he fell asleep until somewhere in the night she had fallen asleep too.

His hand came down on her thigh over the blanket. Flat and heavy.

"Up."

She didn't move.

He patted her thigh again, then slid it down and took a handful of her cheek into his palm and squeezed.

"Come on. You'll be late."

Work.  The commute.  The coffee.  The version of herself that existed before last night.

"Mmhmm," was all she said.

She sounded flat. Auto pilot.

She got ready.  Nearly forgetting to shower as she quickly dressed.  The idea of having no clothes on in front of him now, the way he commented on her body, made Heather more self conscious than she’d ever been.  

“No shower?  After yesterday?  Dirty girl,” he smiled at her and gave her a wink.  

Yesterday?  Of course.  Her orgasm and his.  Hers between her legs and his all over her chest and left there to dry into the skin.  She never wiped it away.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door.  Showered, scalding hot, and when she came out the bedroom was empty.  He was downstairs.  It gave her a moment to breathe and she found it incredibly hard.  

Was she still in shock?  Is that something a person even can tell for themselves?  She shook her head and went downstairs, walked into the kitchen and stopped.

Abigail was sitting on the island, legs dangling innocently off of the edge.

She was wearing one of Mark's t-shirts, a white one, that laid flat against her small, perky breasts and went down to her thighs like a tunic dress. Her hair was up in a tight ponytail.  Cute, fun, playful. 

She looked up and smiled.

"Morning!”

Heather didn't answer. She couldn't figure out if she was in the wrong house or what her world has turned into.

"You look nice, Mrs. Wright."

The smile was too steady to read. It could have been a compliment. She could have been mocking her, like some sort of territorial humiliation. Heather, in her blouse and pencil skirt, heading out to work, being told she looked nice by a nineteen-year-old who looked as if, other than her husband's shirt, was naked.  Abigail, who would be spending the day in this house doing whatever she wanted, or having whatever she wanted done to her.

Abigail's knees were apart. The shirt stretched with them, and Heather found herself looking at the shadow that held there and wondering if there was any clothing under the shirt. Wondering if they'd already fucked this morning. Wondering whether they had been fucking all day every day while Heather was at work, whether Abigail just walked over after Heather drove around the corner then went home before Heather pulled in the driveway, whether the house she came back to in the evenings was a house that was a constant sex-fueled marathon where Mark’s cock spent less time outside of Abigail’s vagina than inside of it.

A slap landed on her ass and Heather jolted forward.

Mark had come up behind her. She caught herself stumbling forward then looked up to see Abigail's legs part wider, the shirt pulling up her thigh, light chasing the shadows and unveiling more and more skin, and then Mark’s form stepping between and the view was gone. He kissed her, long and hard as if he needed it.  His tongue was in her mouth and Heather felt like a voyeur staring at them.

"How's my girl this morning?"  He breathed the words down her chest when finally pulling away from her lips.

"Good," she said in a cheery, girlish voice.

So they hadn't fucked. Not yet. He'd just seen her. But then why was she here?  Why was she in his shirt, did he give it to her?  Heather’s thoughts had seemed to separate from her body.  While she tried to see if there were signs of this going on she could have picked up on, the rest of her watched her husband and this much-too-young for him girl as if Heather was the third wheel.

Abigail pulled him into a hug, her chin hooking over his shoulder, and stared at Heather.

"I'm really glad I finally got to play with Mrs. Wright. I've been thinking about it for a while."

"Me too," Mark agreed. "I thought it went really well."

He turned his head toward Heather and waved his arm to motion her towards them. Casual, as if this all were normal and Heather had been a part of it for weeks.

Heather's mouth dropped.  Her eyebrows pulled inward.  Her breath caught in her chest.

Mark stepped out from between Abigail's legs, and Abigail reached her arms out, waiting, the way you wait for a hug. Heather's feet moved before she'd agreed to move them. She didn't know why but she was walking towards them.

Abigail's hands found her hips and pulled her the rest of the way in. She made a small satisfied sound into Heather's shoulder, a low contented mmm like holding Heather against her was the same as pulling a warm blanket over her on a chilly night.

Heather stood with her hands up, stiff in the embrace, while Abigail's hands started to wander. One on the curve of Heather's ass and squeezed. The other slid up and found the zipper at the back of her skirt and pulled it down.

Heather's head was swimming.  Abigail was breathing steadily, rising and falling against her chest, and her warm breath was running along Heather’s neck.  The feeling was making her tremble, but she couldn’t tell if it was anxiety or something else.

Mark's voice slipped between Abigail’s slow breaths.

"Give her a kiss, Heather. Abigail’s a great kisser."

Heather's whole body was rigid when Mark's voice reached her ear. Give Abigail a kiss?  

Her face caught fire. Not a blush, something heavier. She could feel the heat moving upwards, rushing from her chest into her neck and across her forehead.  She could feel the sweat forming at her temples, under her arms, along the back of her neck where Abigail's breath was warm and steady. Heather’s body was reacting to something she didn’t understand, and it felt like she was standing outside of herself watching it happen.

Abigail pulled back from the hug but kept her close, digging her heels into the backs of Heather's legs. Her eyes were enormous. Round and so blue they looked fake, like a doll's eyes, and Abigail was staring straight into her face with a smile that made Heather forget to breathe.

She was gorgeous. That was the thought Heather couldn't keep out. Not pretty, not cute. Gorgeous. The kind of face that could have had anyone. Any boy her own age, any man at all, and she had chosen Mark. Heather's husband. Heather's forty-two-year-old husband who sprawled on the couch on Saturdays and watched golf. Why? Why him? Why this house?

Abigail tilted her head, sweetly, but too sweet at the same time, as if she was plotting something much bigger than her next move.  Abigail's eyes were fixated on Heather, but the rest of her face had a laziness to it.  A playful smile.  Relaxed cheeks.  Gentle tilt of her head.  But Abigail’s eyes never moved from Heather’s.

"What do you say, Mrs. Wright? Do you want to kiss me?"   

Heather shook her head. Slow. Small. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

Abigail dug her heels in tighter. Behind her, Mark's hands found the waistband of her skirt and pushed it down over her hips, it fell and Heather was standing with her skirt hanging around Abigail’s feet in her own kitchen at seven in the morning. Mark's fingers traced the waistline of her panties, light, teasing, while Abigail brought her hand to Heather's jaw and turned her face back.

"It's alright. Come here. Kiss me. Let me show you what your husband likes so much."

Abigail leaned in as she said it, and the last few words were so close and so quiet that Heather felt them more than heard them, warm air slipping between her lips, and then Abigail's mouth was on hers.

The kiss started slow. Careful. Abigail leading and Heather frozen, her lips barely parting. Then Abigail's tongue found Heather’s and something cracked open and the kiss deepened and kept deepening, a pulse that thrummed harder with each beat that Heather couldn't control, and Mark's hands were working from behind her, unbuttoning her blouse while Abigail's fingers pulled at the front, and between the two of them Heather's clothes were disappearing and she couldn't tell whose hands were where anymore. She could feel Mark pressed against her from behind, the thickness of his erection pressed into her panties, and Abigail was kissing her like she'd been starving for it, and somewhere in the middle of all of it Heather realized her own hands were on Abigail's thighs. Under the shirt. Squeezing. Hard.

Abigail gasped and pulled back from the kiss, grinning, wild, and bit gently on Heather's lower lip, sucking on it before pulling it with her and letting it slip through her teeth. She bit her own lip and let it drag playfully until it was back into position.  Full, luscious pink lips that made Heather’s burn.

Then her expression shifted. Sweeter. Almost tender. She curled her fingers into the collar of Heather's open blouse and pulled her closer.

"You know what, Mrs. Wright? I think you should get to watch. I think you should see why he loves to fuck me so much.  Up close this time."

Abigail pulled the white shirt over her head, tossed it on the ground, and leaned back on her palms with her arms stretched behind her. The small, palm-sized breasts barely moved as she leaned back, fully exposed now.  She unlocked her heels from around Heather's legs, the skirt falling to the floor, and pressed one bare foot against Heather's waist, pushing her gently backward. Mark sidestepped around Heather and guided her to stand beside them. Her body still on autopilot.

Mark stepped between Abigail's legs again and pulled his shirt over his head. He turned to Heather with an expression so simple it could have been asking her to pass the salt.

"Sweetheart, can you take my cock out?"

Heather's head snapped up. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

After a series of blinks from Heather and a steady stare from Mark, she reached for his erection like taking a pan from the oven.  She pulled his briefs down below his testicles and took his cock in her hand, holding it while looking up at his face as if to say, like this?

Abigail looked down and made a low, satisfied sound.

"Mmm. Mrs. Wright. Put it inside me. I want to feel his cock stretch my pussy.  Don’t you just  love how thick it is?”

Mark held Heather's gaze.  She stared back but her thoughts were on Abigail’s question.  She had never thought of him as thick or over sized.  Then she thought about the repeated mentions, by both of them, about Abigail’s tight cunt.  Heather tried to make herself smaller, invisible.  She never wanted to be looked at again.

"You heard her. Go ahead. Put my dick in her.”

Heather cradled Mark’s cock and brought it to Abigail’s cunt. The head pushed into the young girl’s pink pussy. It even looked tight. She watched her husband’s hard, bare cock disappear into Abigail and heard both of them react at once.

"Now tell me," Mark said, and his voice had dropped into that register she barely recognized. "Tell me to fuck her."

Heather's mouth was open. No sound.

"Heather. Say it."

"Fuck…her," she whispered, her eyes lowered.

"Say it like you mean it!”

"Please," Heather said, and the word surprised her.  It sounded like a different person, “please. Fuck her."

Mark started to thrust his hips, pushing his cock until his pelvis was against her cunt. Abigail wrapped herself around him, legs and arms, ankles locked pulling him deeper inside as if she needed every inch, and Heather stood close enough to feel the heat of them.  Her arm was pressed between their bodies as her hand still rested under his shaft, close enough to feel Abigail’s dripping cunt as Mark pushed in and out of her.

She watched him fuck Abigail the way she had never watched anything in her life from a position so close she could feel their sweat land on her skin as they moved. 

The way he touched her. The way he took her nipples into his mouth. The way Abigail received all of it like it belonged to her. Heather watched Abigail's body tighten and arch and fall apart, but Mark didn't stop.  Abigail fell back, nearly limp and heavy-lidded and still he kept going, pounding her unblemished young body without any sign of slowing down.

Mark turned to Heather. His breathing fell hard on her face.

"Give me a kiss."

Heather leaned in, expecting what she had watched him give Abigail, something deep and consuming. He gave her a single soft peck on the mouth. Quick. Almost gentle. He smiled.

"Good girl."

Then he turned back to Abigail.

Heather stood there, the taste of him on her lips, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't close to what he gave her. And something in Heather's chest broke at that, at the tenderness of it, at how small it was compared to everything Abigail got.  Just as Abigail got the deep, unmasked orgasms and his cock hard in her pussy, Heather was the one who cradled Mark’s cock and felt another woman’s arousal coating the length of it as they fucked.  

Mark was close now. Heather could tell. His rhythm had changed, his breathing had changed. He turned his head toward her without stopping.

"Tell me where. Come on, baby. Tell me where you want me to cum."

Yesterday. The same words.

"Tell me. Say it."

Heather's eyes were wet. Her voice was catching as she tried to, what?  Cry?  Scream?  Moan?

"Inside her."

"Say it."

Heather swallowed.

"Please. Inside her."

"Heather."

She closed her eyes.

"Breed her. Please. Fill her cunt. Breed her tight pussy."

The sound Mark made was the one from yesterday. The one that didn't sound like him. The one he had never once made with her.  His body tensed and he leaned forward heavy onto Abigail’s body.

The kitchen was quiet after that, only sounds of heaving chests catching their breath.

Heather moved her hand from between them as she felt Mark’s cock slip from Abigail’s pussy.  She redressed herself, picked her skirt up off the floor and pulled it on, buttoned her blouse, and didn't look at either of them. She picked up her keys from the counter. She briskly walked to the door as if she were dismissed.

Behind her she could hear them. Soft sounds. Kissing. The low murmur of two people sharing an intimate moment.

Heather closed the door and the sounds stopped.  She stood on her own front step, silent for a moment, and then gasped for air.