You should first read or re-read the original story, "Match Maker." 

 




                         MATCH MAKER 2
                     
                              by 

                          C. Lakewood 

                           



    Up until recently, my life had been fairly conventional.  I'd 
been a high school teacher for 9 years before finally realizing 
last year that I was just not cut out for it.  So now, at age 32, 
I was a contented, stay-at-home, suburban housewife.  Chris, my 
husband, makes pretty fair money (in addition to a sizable sum 
he inherited).  He teaches in high school and is well-suited 
to it.  We have no kids -- Chris is infertile -- and that's 
fine...ideal, in fact.  Our relationship is okay.  The 
lovey-dovey "honeymoon period" lasted just less than a year, 
but we settled into a comfortable rut.  Along the way I'd 
also come to think of my husband as basically just "okay" -- 
comfortable, but often...well, inadequate.
   
    And then, one rainy morning in late April, I discovered 
Chris's secret, and things changed....  

		******************************

     I sat there for a while, letting my temperature and 
respiration gradually return to normal.  It took me a couple of 
moments to realize that I'd been massaging my pussy right through 
my shorts and panties...and that the latter were embarrassingly 
soggy.  I found it all powerfully exciting.

    And I thought long and hard about Chris and me.  Obviously, 
judging from the quantity of those Xeroxed letters -- and the 
consistency of their theme -- this was an important fantasy for 
Chris.  But did he ever want to take it beyond fantasy?  Would he 
really want to turn me into a promiscuous slut?  Has he ever tried 
to "set up" an "occasion" for me to be unfaithful, and it just 
never worked out?

    We had planned to attend that big convention in San Diego in 
mid-June.  It would be packed with people...with men.  I wondered 
if Chris had made any plans he hadn't shared with me....

    Or was I becoming delusional?  

    In the end, I made sure that the binder and its contents were 
exactly as before.  And I decided just to act as if I'd never seen 
it...to continue being the oblivious housewife.... 

    Outwardly.

		******************************

    The next day after my discovery of my husband's secret stash 
of wife-watching letters, I returned for a second look.  I spent 
all morning reading and masturbating, and, by noon, I'd realized 
that I'd be doing this often...and, to minimize my risk, should 
have my own copies.  It took me a long time at the copy-shop to 
repro everything. 

    In the process, I saw that the publication dates (which Chris 
had thoughtfully noted) stopped abruptly three years ago.  We had 
been married for almost six years, so his fetish had continued well 
past our wedding...and then apparently stopped.  Or had it?  Three 
years ago....  That was when we got our new, more powerful PC and 
began accessing the Internet.     

    Accordingly, I snooped around on our PC.  All seemed okay, 
except for one folder (innocuously named "Watch") that was 
password-protected.  After trying birthday and anniversary 
dates and a few seemingly appropriate words, all without 
success, I sought advice at the nearest electronics store, 
Video Village.  I wound up buying a program called "Web-Eye," 
that was supposed to be an "undetectable keyboard monitoring 
tool" that recorded passwords, URLs, e-mails, chats...everything.

    And it worked.

		******************************

    By means of the Web-Eye, I was able to discover the password 
to the suspect folder, and inside I found a cornucopia of goodies.  
There were more letters, of course (scanned now instead of 
photocopied).  There were pictures (usually of white women and 
non-white men).  There were a number of porno sites.  And, perhaps 
most interesting, evidence that Chris had acquired an e-mail 
account with "juiceemail.com" under the alias "Tom Peeper" and 
joined a Whoopee! group called "Shared_Wives."  

    After I got my own "juiceemail" account -- as "Wanda B Watched" 
-- I joined "Shared_Wives," too, and spent a couple of days reading 
the archived messages.  It was a fascinating collection, and, of 
course, I found the messages posted by "Tom Peeper" particularly 
compelling.  But I soon decided that I wanted to take an active 
part, and, to do that, I should also have a male persona.  I went 
through the process a second time and created "Hawkeye," a supposed 
46-year-old man from California.

    "Hawkeye" posted a few times on the group's message board, 
and then sent "Tom Peeper" an e-mail.  The two then began a 
XXX correspondence...chiefly about wife-watching, of course.

    Chris soon began discussing his schemes with his new friend, 
asking for comments and suggestions.  Gradually, a plan was 
formed, involving fixing me up with his boss, the new principal.  
Since the man was black -- and I was something of a racist -- 
Chris was worried that the risk here would be prohibitive.

    (That gave me pause.  "Racist"?  Me?  I thought about that.  
While it was true that I considered blacks in general to be 
inferior to most whites socially and intellectually, I rated 
them superior in many physical and...well...sexual attributes.  
But that pretty much balanced out, didn't it?  Racist?  No.  
"Pragmatic," yes.  "Realistic," yes.  Hardly racist, though.)  
My fingers were playing furiously with my pussy, and I was 
breathing hard.  (The very idea of Chris wanting to set me up 
with a BLACK man...!  It was revolting!  Yet...it was also 
intriguing....  I mean, if Chris would do THAT, he'd stoop to 
anything.  Maybe it could be to my advantage to set a trap for 
him....)
 
    "Hawkeye" answered Chris that, if his wife did put out for a 
nigger, then Chris would know that she'd do just about anything.  
The trick would be to arrange it so that, if the plan fell through, 
she wouldn't suspect a set-up.  He also asked about the principal.  

    "Tom Peeper" replied that there was no problem there.  The man 
-- his name was "Lyle" -- was unmarried and had what appeared to 
be a very strong sex drive and a liking for white pussy.  He always 
seemed to get a large lump in his pants, for example, whenever he 
observed white girls in mini-skirts or short-shorts.  Other than 
the size of his cock, though, he was rather unprepossessing....

    Chris went on to describe Lyle, and it was disappointing.  I 
guess I was hoping for a Denzel Washington, a Dennis Haysbert, or 
a young Jim Brown...but this guy sounded like a middle-aged Fat 
Albert.  On the other hand, I wasn't planning on letting him do 
anything, anyway, so what did it matter?

    And so we -- Tom and Hawkeye -- spun our web.... 

		******************************

    I admit that I had only a hazy sort of idea what I was going 
do to Chris once his perversion was exposed.  I mean I could 
divorce him and get a huge settlement...or I could just trap him 
in a wife-dominated marriage and let him squirm for the rest of 
his life....  But I could decide that later.  Meanwhile, it was 
too much fun playing Hawkeye and encouraging, prodding, and 
bullying him into finalizing his plans for cuckolding himself.  

    Besides, the process WAS arousing and the basis for many dirty 
fantasies.... 

		******************************  

    Chris made the first overt move when he suggested that it might 
be good politics to begin socializing a bit with Lyle Gorch, the 
principal of the school Chris had been transferred to last fall.  
Dinner sometime soon, perhaps....  

    I was, of course, all in favor, and so he arranged things for 
the following week-end.

    "Wear that black dress that I like so much," he said.  Of 
course he liked it.  It was very short and form-fitting, and 
its spaghetti straps pretty much precluded a bra.  Since I had 
a nice golden tan, I went bare legged and wore black patent 
high-heeled sandals.  My auburn hair was up; my makeup was 
dramatic; my jewelry was green topaz set in yellow gold.  

    I thought I looked like a sophisticated slut.  Chris thought 
my appearance was "perfect...very classy...."

		******************************

    We picked Lyle up at his house and continued on to the club.  
I was pleased to see that the man -- though balding, overweight, 
and at least ten years older than Chris and me -- was not really 
as repulsive as Chris had led me to believe.  (Indeed, he might 
have been Ving Rhames's slightly uglier brother.)  And he was 
practically salivating from the moment he first saw me. 

    (And, though my name is "Susan," he persisted in calling me 
"Suzy," which I loathe.  I tolerated it, though, because I didn't 
want to bring down the mood of the evening.)

    The club was dimly lit, and we were sitting at a banquette 
table, with Chris to my left and Lyle to my right.  So as not 
to waste time, I flirted with Lyle just a little.  And "just 
a little" turned out to be more than enough.  He didn't really 
need much encouragement.

    We ordered drinks, were served, and had begun to study our 
menus, when I felt Lyle's thick-fingered left hand drop onto my 
bare right thigh.  I managed to stifle a gasp.  As he nonchalantly 
sipped his mojito, his fingers slowly crept up my thigh until he 
could touch the lacy fabric of my panties.    

    (How could Chris want to give me to this ape?  But he would 
PAY....  They would BOTH pay.)

    We ordered and then chatted briefly, until Chris rose, 
announced that he had to make a phone call, and hurried off, 
leaving Lyle and me alone at the table.  He leaned back and 
smiled confidently.  "Chris is a lucky man," he said.  "You 
are a VERY attractive woman, with wit and charm, too."
 
    I thought I'd help things along a bit.  "Sometimes...well, 
Chris doesn't seem really...um...'appreciative,'" I said, with 
almost a pout.  "Maybe he needs testosterone pills or something."

    "Ah!  Yes, he DOES seem...'soft.'  Maybe you need someone who 
will appreciate you for the woman you are....  AND, at the same 
time, someone who is...shall we say...a 'leader'?"

    "Do you...have s-someone in mind?" I murmured.  My voice was 
breathy and inviting.   

    "Yes," he answered calmly and worked his fingers inside my 
panties.  

    A sexual shiver ran through me.  

    "Please...," I whispered ambiguously.

    His fingers were resting on my pussy -- which was now drooling 
freely.  He moved his hand up and down, his knuckles gently 
stroking me.  I gasped.  I could feel my labia opening like the 
petals of a flower....  And he could feel it, too.

    "What do you call this hole?" he murmured.

    "P-pussy...."
   
    He tickled my clit, leaned close, and whispered, "No.  It's a 
'cunt.'  You have a 'cunt,' Suzy.  Say it."

    "I...I have a-a....  Oh, it's such a dirty word."

    "Nevertheless...."

    "I-I-I ha-have a...a cunt...."

    "And that cunt ought not to be covered.  Tonight you will shave 
both your cunt and ass-crack, but, right now, I want your panties." 
His voice was smug and assured. 

    "Y-yes...sir...."  (Okay, I had rapidly transitioned from wily 
vamp to helpless plaything, but why was I calling him "sir"?) 

    "Lift up," he ordered and tugged on my panties.  "Chrissy will 
be back soon."

    Chrissy.

   I lifted myself off the seat a bit, and he pulled my panties 
down to my knees, letting them slither down my calves to my ankles.  
Without attracting attension, he managed to bend below the level of 
the table and adroitly slip them off my feet.  (I guessed he'd done 
this manoeuvre before....  With how many women, I wondered.)
    
    He put the panties in his pocket, and, a moment later, Chris-sy 
returned.  Almost immediately our salads appeared.

    I really don't remember much about the food or the meal-time 
conversation, but I guess I got through things okay.  I mean, I 
was sitting there, naked under my dress, while my husband's boss 
played with my...my cunt and my husband just sat there, feeding 
his face and spouting what must have been inanities.   

    Finally, the meal ended, and, after draining his coffee cup, 
Lyle announced it was time to go down to the lounge for drinks 
and dancing.

		******************************
    
    Downstairs the lighting was even dimmer.  After we found a 
table, Chris volunteered to get the drinks while Lyle and I did 
some dancing.  

    The center of the dance floor was marginally better lit than 
the rest of the lounge, but of course Lyle steered us over to a 
dark corner.  Without hesitation, he reached under my dress and 
up between my legs.  His fat fingers groped for my...cunt, and, 
as if in a trance, I slid my legs apart.  My cunt was still wet 
from all the attention it had received upstairs, and being out 
in public, with no underwear on, dancing with a black man was 
itself so damned exciting.... 

    I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift on the moment. 

    But then Lyle moved my right hand down until it was brushing 
his left thigh....

    Oh my god!  I felt his...oh, god!  It was massive!

    "Unzip me, reach in, and play with it,"  he whispered.  It was 
an order, not a request.

    I did as he said and worked my hand into his trousers and then 
into his underpants -- finally touching his cock.  My trembling 
fingers stroked its rigid length and cupped the huge, velvety head. 
I tried to envision how big the thing must be....

    At least nine inches long...AT LEAST.   Chris's penis was about 
half that.  Chrissy.  Chrissy's penis, Lyle's cock.  I realized 
that I wanted to SEE it.  But I imagined that Lyle was intending 
me to see it, and soon.  To see it, to...to TASTE it....  I hated 
doing that with Chris...Chrissy.  Fortunately, he didn't expect me 
to do it too often....  And semi-annually would have been too often.

    Well, I might give Lyle a hand-job just to advance the program 
-- but that's all.

    And it wouldn't be tonight.  Lyle abruptly told me to take my 
hand away; he didn't want to cum in his pants. 

		************************************

    Lyle was moving his finger sensuously around inside my cunt and 
then in and out.  I was wriggling happily on that finger, when he 
slid a second one into me...into my cunt.  Then a third went in.  
They were thick, those fingers, and were filling me up, but they 
were going in so easily because my cunt was producing so much juice.
  
    I would certainly never have let Chrissy do what Lyle was doing 
to me in public.  In fact, I wouldn't even let Chris do it anywhere 
outside the bedroom.

    My heart was beating wildly, my breathing was shallow and 
rapid, I was sweating and dizzy, and my mind was a-whirl.    

    
I closed my eyes and climaxed...hard. 

    But Lyle wouldn't let me enjoy it long.  He danced me back to 
where Chrissy waited with our drinks.  I slumped into my chair, 
half-exhausted, and gulped a third of my highball.

    They alternated dancing with me the rest of the evening -- with 
Lyle getting the majority of the time.  During what turned out to 
be our last dance, Lyle made me promise to "compensate" Chrissy.  

    "How, exactly?" I asked.

    "You decide," he said with a wink.

		******************************

    In the end, after making plans "to do it again," we dropped 
Lyle off and went on home.  I was tired, and Chrissy was tipsy, 
but I supposed that I was committed to "compensate" him, somehow, 
so I went on into the bedroom and hurried out of my dress and 
sandals.  

    What was I going to do?  I could have simply done nothing, but 
I didn't want to sabotage the set-up.  I wasn't, however, going to 
give much in the way of "compensation."  Hmmmm....

    Just then, Chrissy wobbled into the bedroom, and I caught him 
as he was gaping at me, yanked down his trousers and shorts, and 
gave my conniving husband the hand-job of his dreams.  It took a 
long time because of the effect of the alcohol he'd drunk, and also 
I'd get him all worked up...then let him cool off...over and over.  
I teased his tiny cock and tender balls with the soft pads of my 
fingers, alternating with my crimson-lacquered nails.  When he 
finally did cum, he erupted like Krakatoa.  (I guess he'd been 
saving up for a while.)  It was actually a fun process, and, I 
must admit, part of the time I was imagining I was doing it with 
Lyle....
  
    Not, of course, that Lyle was really any less reprehensible 
than Chrissy.  They both were pigs.

    Besides, fantasizing is not like committing real adultery...or 
suborning it.  

    Is it?  

		******************************

    Chrissy fell asleep quickly -- only half-undressed, but with a 
stupid grin on his face.  I went into the bathroom and, with only 
a few misgivings, shaved my "cunt and ass-crack."  

		******************************

    In the morning, Chrissy "reminded" me that he was flying off 
to California that day on a week-long research trip funded by the 
school board.  He and Lyle apparently had discussed it during 
dinner, but I had no recollection of it.  I was able to make some 
vague, ambiguous noises, however, that made it sound like I was up 
to speed on the subject.

    What I did remember was Hawkeye's suggestion that "Tom" find 
some excuse to leave town for a while.  That this trip was 
according to plan was confirmed a moment later, when Chrissy 
mentioned that Lyle had volunteered to keep me entertained.  (And 
the pervert said it with a perfectly straight face.)

    I thought about some of the things Lyle would do to "entertain" 
me, and my hairless cunt began to drool.  Right after brunch, 
Chrissy went off to pack, and I retreated to the bathroom...to 
masturbate. 

		****************************** 

    I drove Chrissy to the airport before mid-afternoon.  I didn't 
go in with him, because he'd be checking in at the counter and then 
going right on to the security check.

    He kissed me and scrambled out with his bags.  "Have fun," he 
told me; there was a vanilla smile on his face, but I'm sure that 
I detected a smirk in his voice.  He hurried into the terminal.    

		******************************

    I was very nervous by the time I got home and sat by the phone, 
expecting Lyle to call.  And, finally, he did.

    "I promised your husband that I would keep you 'entertained,' 
Suzy.  Why don't you make supper for us?  I like pasta.  I'll 
come over in a hour or so with some red wine, and we can 
'entertain' each other....  And, by the way, how did you 
'compensate' him?"

    "Um....  I...I ma-asturbated him...."

    "That all?  Well, I think you ought to be encouraged to do 
more for your husband, don't you?"

    "Maybe...."

    "No 'maybe' about it.  Right now, though, go fix supper.  When 
I get there, I'll expect the food to be ready and you stark naked.  
Okay?"

    Then he hung up, without waiting for an answer, and I was left 
staring at the phone.  Naked, indeed!  I knew he was a pig, but he 
was going above and beyond the bounds of swinehood.  Yet, I'd come 
this far, and I didn't dare risk ruining my plans -- no matter how 
amorphous they might be at present -- over what was really such a 
minor matter.

    So I stripped naked and spent the next hour fixing supper (and 
fingering myself off and on). 

		******************************    

    Everything was ready when Lyle arrived, with a smirk and a 
couple of large bottles of chianti.  I was already somewhat 
turned-on (what with playing with myself and fantasizing about 
what Lyle might have in mind to do to me), but my arousal began 
ratcheting upward the instant I answered the door.  He looked 
me up and down, and his frown made my nipples stand fully at 
attention and my clit begin to throb.

    While he ate supper (noisily), I had to kneel at his feet.  
He fed me with his greasy fingers, morsels of pasta and salad.  
I washed them down with large gulps of the fiery chianti. 

    When he was done eating, he ordered me to clear the table and 
wash up, while he drank coffee and watched me work.  I was nervous, 
knowing that he was observing every tit-jiggle and butt-wobble.  I 
wished I were firmer and a few pounds lighter.

		******************************

    At length I'd finished my chores, and we went upstairs to the 
bedroom.  After looking around, he stood in the middle of the room 
and ordered me to undress him -- as if he were some arrogant 
African chief and I his white slave.  

    I saved his underpants until last, and, when I pulled them 
down, freeing his erect cock, I couldn't suppress a gasp.  It 
seemed even bigger now in the light of day than I had imagined 
it last night.  I gazed at the dark chocolate shaft and bulging 
crimson-pink head.  I touched it gently, mesmerized by its 
possibilities....  

    He interrupted my reverie by putting a hand on my head and 
gently but firmly pushing me downward.  Still a trifle dizzy from 
the wine, I went to my knees unresisting and found myself staring 
directly at IT.

    "Kiss it."

    I couldn't refuse.  I reached up and cradled it in my hands.  
I tentatively licked my lips and gently kissed the tip and then 
here and there along the shaft. 

    "Put it in your mouth."

    (Oh, god!  IN MY MOUTH!  A wave of revulsion hit me, and I 
hesitated.)

    "In your mouth, girl!" he rasped. 

    (Girl...white slave girl being commanded by her despotic black 
master to make love to his grotesque "thing."  The fantasy made it 
easier for me to obey.)

    I did it.  The swollen head, already dripping slime, slipped 
between my lips...and I caressed it with my tongue.  The white 
slave girl HAD to obey...to make it sweet for her black master.  

    "Give me your best 'bad girl blow job' -- lots of saliva and 
moaning.  Make like you loooove it.  When I cum, you swallow the 
whole load...ALL of it....  And afterward, you've gotta convince 
me that you absolutely LOVED sucking my dick, and beg me to let 
you do it again...often.  

    I trembled, but got to work.  My master had spoken.

		******************************
   
    When it came, it was way-more-than-a-mouthful, but 
I managed 
to choke it all down.  I'd never swallowed ANY cum before, and I 
was appalled.  I felt as though my mouth were defiled.  Still, I 
had to obey.  

    Didn't I? 

		******************************

    He tied my hands behind my back with a bathrobe sash and then 
gave me a long drink of chianti to cleanse my palate.  In return, 
I had to lick his balls, as he sprawled on my marriage bed, until 
he was almost ready to cum again.  So I ended up swallowing a 
second (and somewhat smaller) load of cum.

    Nigger cum.

    My master's cum. 

		*******************************

    After he'd rested, and I had told him at length how much I'd 
adored sucking him off, he untied my wrists.  Immediately, my hands 
went to my crotch.  I needed to cum so badly that I didn't care if 
he watched me masturbate.  But, before I could even get started, 
he slapped my hands away.  

    "No, none of that.  You're being punished, and you don't get to 
cum until I say so.  Right now, I want you to dress up -- the same 
outfit you wore last night.  We're going out tonight, and you'll be 
the only white in the place, so I want you to look gooood."  He 
slapped me on the bottom -- hard! -- and propelled me toward the 
closet.

		******************************

    A few minutes later, I was as ready as he would allow.  (He 
wouldn't let me do much to my hair; slightly disheveled, it gave 
me a rather slutty appearance.  Amazingly, he did let me wear 
panties.  The real reason for that became apparent just before 
we left the house.  He showed me a pair of small golden balls 
connected by a nylon cord.  "Some people call these 'Ben-Wa' and 
some 'Duo-Vibro Balls.'  Under either name they work pretty good.  
Pull up your dress, pull down your panties, and spread your legs.  
You're going to wear these in your cunt tonight.  They'll keep 
you on 'simmer' as long as need be."  He snugged them into place 
against my G-spot and then made me wiggle my hips as a test.  The 
vibration effect was definite, but subtle -- probably not enough 
to bring me to climax unaided.  Lyle read this conclusion on my 
face and laughed.  "Okay.  Pull up your panties, Suzy, and let's 
go."

    I gritted my teeth.  "Damn you, Chrissy," I thought.  "This is 
all your fault."