Dianna, Lynn, and I were close friends. We were a sort of three Musketeers: we hung out together, we drank, we hiked together, we paddled sea kayaks together. Lynn was my wife; Dianna often joked that she was my second wife. Sure, I would say, all of the headaches and none of the pleasure.
Lynn and I were a match made in heaven. Everything in life that was important to me was equally important to her, from our politics to our values, our love of the natural world to our experience as outdoor leaders. In our years together, we have gone on extended sea kayak expeditions around the world, skied for a month at a time north of the Arctic Circle, hiked the 100 tallest peaks of New York and New England, and back-packed the Pacific Crest Trail. My 40th birthday was staring me down, which meant that Lynn was 35. If we were going to have a family, now seemed like the time. And whenever she could, Dianna joined in our adventures.
The pregnancy was going along smoothly, with one minor hitch: Lynn lost virtually all interest in sex.
I misspoke when I wrote that we were a match made in heaven. The one chink in the armour of our marriage was that I craved sex daily, at the very least, and Lynn was satisfied with every other week. The "sensitive guy" in me learned to not push her when she was not in the mood. When we made love, it was incredible; but in the interim, that meant that I was often crawling the walls with the desire for release. I got used to quite literally taking matters into my own hands. The thought of looking for gratification elsewhere never crossed my mind...well, it crossed my mind, but there was absolutely no intent to pursue an alternative.
Five months into the pregnancy, and nearly two months since our last intimacy, I was seriously considering taking a vow of chastity.
Lynn was determined to keep her physical fitness up as long as possible. One winter evening, after a day of skiing up Acadia National Park's Penobscot Mountain with Dianna, the three of us went to the Thirsty Whale for the best blackened fish sandwich north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Having a guaranteed designated driver for nine months, I was taking every advantage of it. So was Dianna, who lived in the apartment over the studio at the back of our property just outside of Bar Harbor. Dianna and I were matching each other, Dark-and-Stormy for Dark-and-Stormy. At 1:00 a.m., we were the last customers out. Dianna and I were singing drunken sea shanties to keep Lynn awake for the drive home.
Two things happen when I drink: I don't sleep deeply, but I wake up in the middle of the night, after only a few hours, feeling well-rested; and I am incredibly horny.
By the time we reached our Long-and-winding Road home, Dianna and I were both sloshing around in our Wellies. Rather than have her tromp through the new snow to her apartment and have to get her woodstove going, we offered her our guest room.
Once in bed, Lynn was more fidgety than ever. Always a fidgety sleeper, pregnancy has exacerbated the problem...well, it is only a problem for me. Inevitably, I stumble into the guest room to sleep. This night was no exception, except that I had the presence of mind to know that Dianna was sleeping in the guest room, so I stumbled, quite literally, down the stairs to the living room couch, where I promptly fell asleep.
My alcohol-induced dreams were all about sex: my wife had gotten horny, had come down the stairs to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, saw me on the couch, and decided to give me a beautiful surprise. She worked my penis out of the front opening in my boxers, and proceeded to swallow it to the base. The feeling of her mouth, working up and down the shaft of my six-inch staff, was exquisite! I could tell this was going to be one of those memorable dreams, where I wake up and try to figure out if it was real or a dream.
As I slowly roused, I tried to stay in that dream state: I did not want to lose this incredibly erotic feeling. As I struggled to keep the dream going, I slowly moved my hand down to finish the job. Funny, but it met with resistance. Something was in the way. No, something was repetitively bumping into my hand. Now I struggled against the dream, trying to wake up. What was going on? There was a head bobbing up and down on my turgid shaft.
Lacing my fingers in her hair did not give me any clues in the dark. Was this my wife, who seems to have lost all interest in sex with her pregnancy? Was it Dianna? Lynn and Dianna are both similarly built: about 5-foot-eight; 165 pounds of female fitness; long, straight, soft hair down to the middle of the back. The big difference was in the chest: Lynn was on the small size of a B cup while Dianna was pushing a D.
Running my fingers through the mystery woman performing miracles on my penis elicited an encouraging hum of pleasure. The more I stroked her hair, the more she hummed. But that hum sounded just a bit off! I was now wide awake. Despite my extreme horniness, I was scared to death about what it would mean if this was Dianna. Sure, I had used a mental image of her on more than one occasion to help me with my masturbatory relief, but fantasy is different than reality, and the reality is that I am married to a wonderful woman and am soon going to be a father.
If it is, indeed, Lynn, I definitely do not want to do anything to dissuade her from her oral ministrations. On the other hand, if it is not, I have to do something! Oh what to do....
