Cheating Wife: My Fucing Routine

This is a stand-alone story. You do not have to read any of my other 'Cheating Wife' stories to understand this one. However, many of you won't like this posting, and I get that. I wish I could convince you in advance not to read it, but that is a fool's errand. You'll read this, and it'll have impact -- large or small -- and you'll own that. I'm OK with that; I hope you are too.

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My tale begins with acceptance, and the unintended consequences of acceptance.

I married a wonderful man, former military, who desired to provide for his family. My husband married a vivacious woman, an unemployed artist, who longed to bring passion and excitement into the world. There were many overlaps in our dreams, but the overlap was not complete.

Our major conflict arose out of minor events: my husband preferred routine, and I rebelled against it. He preferred meals and events -- including lovemaking -- to occur at a specific, and agreed upon, time. I wanted spontaneity, and variation, in my life. We fought over this frequently, until one day he made a compelling request.

"Sweetheart, I don't care how you do it, but you have to find enjoyment in routine."

"I don't think I can, I find it boring. Seriously -- it's fucking boring!"

"I know you feel that way, but that's only is because you are thinking about it too narrowly! We make love three times a week -- Tues, Thurs, and Sat -- but each time isn't the same. I don't think you can say that our love life is boring, and I doubt your friends are more active!"

He had a point, and a lesson. Firstly, he was right -- our lovemaking was wonderful and interesting -- so routine was not a problem there. Secondly, routine is what you make of it -- I hadn't realized that our love life was so scheduled! 

I had no choice but to concede.

"You make a great point, really, what can I do?"

"All I want is that you develop your own routine, find joy in it, and let it play out! I think it will be good for you as an individual, and great for us as a couple."

"If that's all you want, I can try it."

"That is definitely what I want."

And with that he gave me a kiss on the forehead, and the discussion was over. Anyway, it was close to bedtime -- 10:30 -- so there wasn't much else to discuss. Frankly, I wish it had been a Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday, because I could have used a good fucking to take my mind off the topic.

But it was Monday, so I went to bed -- not to sleep -- with my husband's perspective on my mind: "develop your own routine, find joy in it, and let it play out!" I tried to imagine what that meant as I fell asleep.

He was correct in that I needed a schedule for creating art, and that the schedule needed to compensate for us -- for meals, for 'connecting', and for love. And in honesty, he wasn't asking much, given what he was offering. He kept us well fed, and our apartment is lovely. He was taking excellent care of me!

If I could contribute -- emotionally or financially -- it would make his life better. I focused on the first, and hoped for the latter. By finding my own routine I could help his.

And his routine was strict! Not only was our physical love scheduled, so was preparing for a successful week (for example pressed suits, nutritious lunches, etc.). We prepared meals the night before, we knew what we were going to wear, we even know the path we would take to work.

My path was short; his was much longer. I worked -- or rather I created art -- from home. Once he ate breakfast in the morning (at exactly 6:50AM), he would leave the apartment (at 7:10). Because he considered it best to combine location with exercise, he chose to walk down sixteen flights of stairs. I waved from him each morning from our window when he emerged on the street (after ~5 minutes, at 7:15) and again, still from our window, as he turned the corner down the road (~10 minutes, at 7:25).

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A routine found me, and I submitted to it.

I won't bore you with specific details of how we met, and how the relationship started. The short story is that I was both surprised and delighted that a model lived so close, and that he worked so inexpensively. Given the time we have spent together, it is surprising that I still only have a partially finished charcoal drawing of him. But that is a story for another day, if there is any interest.

What is of interest for this posting, is that my model made me appreciate routine, and in that understand my husband's perspective. Routine became my master, and as a result my husband and I got along much better. As an example of my routine, I'll explain this morning.

The alarm whet off at exactly 6:00. My husband turned it off, woke me gently, and went to make coffee. I stumbled into the bathroom for a quick shower, when I reemerged into the bedroom, hot coffee was waiting for me. My husband then kissed me on the forehead, left me with my coffee, and headed to the shower.

He showered while I selected my morning attire. I chose to wear one of his 'wife beaters', which I find hugs my body well. At 5'6" and about 120 lbs, I can wear his clothes, although most fit me loosely. My nipples are pale, so although hard, their color did not protrude from the tank top. To match color, I put on a white thong, although I would have preferred to leave it off.

When he emerged from the shower, he liked what he saw. "I married such a sexy woman - I must be the luckiest bastard on the planet." When he makes these comments I wonder if he can sense my level of arousal -- I have been excited since my shower.

I often wonder what communication occurs beneath conscious understanding. To some degree, I've always been understood by men -- even when I didn't understand myself. Discovery through another is my favorite form of education. But I didn't share this with my husband.

"You're sweet! If you skip work, I'll let you get lucky." He wouldn't, of course, but did suggest some play once his workday was through. Instead I sat with him while he enjoyed breakfast, walked him to the door, and kissed him goodbye.

I didn't lock the door.

I removed my thong, walked to the window, pulled the curtains open just enough to poke my head through, touched myself, and waited. My husband would emerge from the building below in five minutes; I heard footsteps behind me in less than one.

As I stared out the window, I knew what was happening behind the curtains. My body, aroused and exposed, was prepared. I heard clothes fall to the floor, and then I felt one hand on my hip. The other hand I knew was placed halfway between the head and the base. Great size requires stabilizing help.

No words were spoken as I was penetrated. I held my body tight as I waved to my husband, just now exiting the building. Having waved back, he now turned up the street. As I waited for him to complete the first leg of his journey, my body began another.

As my husband turned, and matched my wave, a wave of passion exploded through my body. It was 7:25, and I just had the day's first orgasm. It wouldn't be my last.

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"J-girl, you are the only chick I have ever known that fucks to get ready to fuck!"

"Maybe, but you love me for it, don't you?" I'm not sure why I brought up love, that topic should be taboo. But so much of this was already taboo! I didn't wait for an answer; I just turned and got down on my knees.

I took him in both my hands, pulled the tip of his penis to my lips, and asked, "May I?" He answered by pressing his penis into my mouth.

I don't get to do this often enough. I find the whole process impossibly sexy. My lover, staring down into my eyes as I stroke his long, thick cock and take as much of it into my mouth as possible.

I wonder what he sees? Does he like the contrast of my white hands on his black cock? Does he imagine grabbing my blond hair, which I pulled into a ponytail just for him? Does he see anything at all, or is he just feeling the moment? I have learned one thing, no matter how I try to please him, this is not how our moment ends.

"Janet, take me to your room. I need you now. And take that shirt off."

I pulled the shirt off my body immediately, dropped it to the floor, and led him - penis in my hand - into my bedroom. I love the feel of air on my naked body, especially since it is almost always an invitation to love.

"Sit down, girl."

As is my obligation, I comply with all of his requests. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his beautiful, muscular body. I felt grateful.

"Lay back."

This too I complied with, immediately. I felt the head of his penis return to my threshold, and longed for him to return home. He did not make me wait. Each strong hand clasped an ankle, held them high and separate, while his weight pressed toward me.

I think he sees me, at least I hope he does.

Certainly, he watched my body accept his, watched it beg for him when he retreated, and watched it shutter with happiness when he returned. He brought me to orgasm three times this way, each time he held his body still as mine pulsated around his powerful cock. My movements are normally unpredictable, but with him inside me I can only thrash along his length.

Finally, when he grew close, we engaged in his routine. He and I have been together many, many times now, and we have made love in many positions, but this is how we finish. We move closer, face-to-face, and with my legs along his body, we make love. My hips thrust upward, my knees near my head, he takes all of me. And I give him everything.

There is no space between our passion, no difference between our hearts. I feel him -- physically and metaphorically -- reach places no one else has. His power is not diminished, but distributed more asymmetrically. His lips touch mine gently, while his hips pound with indescribable force. I desperately hold back my orgasm, because I need to focus on his.

His release is powerful; I feel the heat, the pressure, and the fullness of the moment. And it induces my own explosion. For that moment, our bodies - our spirits, our souls - are one. Our love is a fluid medium, and I am happily drowning in it.

This too is our routine. He will stay in me, kissing me, or nibbling my neck or ears, or teasing me playfully with his words, until his body fully softens. This may be as few as 10 minutes, or he may remain in me, my hips skyward, and my calves on his shoulders, for an hour or more.

This time is precious.

He will eventually pull from me, and I will invariably feel empty, hollow, lonely, but I don't share this with him. He and I both have a day to capture, his starts when he leaves my apartment, mine as I wash the sheets. As I do, I'll recite the generous word of my husband.

"Sweetheart, I don't care how you do it, but you have to find enjoyment in routine."