Ex Wife In Forty Years

Locked Eyes Over Her Clitoris

As he raised his head, he saw Vicki's green eyes peering in his eyes between her nipples and over the top of the swell of her labia. Her landing strip tickled his mustache, but his tongue was the piece he moved to checkmate her to a climax. His tongue was wrapped around her erect, stubby clitoris, and he thrummed his lips and moaned onto the tip. He was able to hold her hips while she bucked upward against his face.

While he was causing Vicki such ecstasy, his cock was about to erupt down Karen's throat as she slipped her tongue up and down around his balls.

"Uh," Vicki grunted.

"Huh," Karen voiced.

"Uh huh," Dale confirmed.

All three seemed to climax and relax at the same pace after that dialogue. Dale broke the silence when he said, "Wow."

Karen said, "Wee."

From Vicki came a whispered, "Wow-wee! Pussy. I like eating pussy. Karen, are you ready?"

Dale said, "Climb on the bed; I have the cameras set up there so we can watch us afterward."

Karen said, "Vicki was the one who spoke first. I think she should get to come first."

"Fuck all of that planning horse shit, you guys. That's why I divorced both of you. Jesus, some things never change. But some things do change, and sex changes us all, so let's find out how we have changed."

Vicki offered, "Since we were divorced I have learned to eat pussy. Let me show you. I used to like to suck your cock, but now I love to make women as happy as you have ever been after your climax. So, get comfortable, get some Astroglide to start stroking, and watch me eat Karen's pussy."

Karen slid onto the bed, ready for her eating out. It was settled as Karen laid out her widespread offering.

Karen presented a white-haired, wrinkled and wilted, wet, labia, both inner and outer; as though all the blood had left her crotch. Her thighs were dark stained; her labia were dark and shiny wet. The outer lips folded back onto her thighs as her fingers spread her vagina as far as she could stretch her lips. Dale could see the blood vessels surging fresh energy-filled blood to her cunt's lips. Her inner lips were prominent and stole the visual show as the shine of her pink birth canal was like a flashing beacon, drawing his eyes to search her most intimate body area.

Dale pulled a pillow down onto the floor, Vicki kneeled and dipped her face toward Karen's pussy, and swept upward from Karen's asshole to her clitoris with a flat tongue. Karen bridged her crotch upward into Vicki's face, attempting to make firmer contact.

Then Vicki looked at Dale and dipped her mouth down into Karen again in the same way, causing the jerking of Karen's body to peak climax.

Dale kneeled and kissed and licked deep into Vicki's cunt, tasting cunt flavor he hadn't tasted for at least forty years. His brain flashed to a time when he had to teach her that she liked her ass licked and sucked as much as she did her tits and cunt.

It was their wedding night. He locked the car and brought in their overnight bags and her makeup kit. He locked the car, locked and chained the door, and said, "Vicki, I am going to fuck you until you say out loud, "'Thank you, I have had enough,' or until I am unable to answer the bell again."

He was hard until they were able to drift off to sleep at about eight am. He had been after that cunt and those nipples voraciously since around nine pm, but when she seemed to push her ass at him, he decided to see if she would let him corn-hole her.

She had preferred that ass fucking to his cunt fucking, and he didn't care. He could live if her cunt was for eating and her ass was for fucking, as long as they were both okay with it.

For their time dating, six or seven months, Vicki had been submissive and bent easily to all of the sex and nastiness Dale asked of her, except fucking. For the Saturday nights, they had often been at her sisters, where Vicki routinely babysat. As soon as her sister left, Vicki would get the kids in bedclothes, feed them, and put them to bed. Often, it was as early as six pm.

She would hang a Christmas bell on each bedroom door so we could hear any of them leaving their bedroom.

When we had the kids in bed, we would bring sheets in, remake her sister's bed, and suck off each other as early as we could. I had to teach Vicki to use her sister's bed without guilt. It was ideal because her sister provided a place for us to play, and it didn't leave any evidence that we had used her sister's bed. Little did we know that her sister suspected why we remade her bed every evening we babysat.

(We learned in divorce court years later that when her sister mentioned it to her husband, he nearly panicked in fear as he had been fucking my sister behind Vicki's sister's back when he was 'sleeping' after his night shift. My sister, next-door neighbor to Vicki's sister, would use the back gates of both yards to enter the house, climb into bed and fuck Vicki's sister's husband.)

Dale reached and rolled Karen's nipple. He hadn't seen her naked for at least thirty years. She had gained at least twenty pounds, and her beautiful figure had matured loosely but kindly. Her nipples seemed the same, long and flexible, sitting astride those dark areola at the front of her grapefruit-sized globes.

Karen had a landing strip of long white hair that was short, straight, and neat, like a butch, with the outsides of her labia shaved smooth. Her hips were wide and plush with tattoos of lists of names stretching around and around both upper thighs. She had a tattoo of a two-lane road from her navel to her clitoris. She had a single-lane road up to each nipple where she had a roundabout complete with cars. What is with people and their tattoos?

Vicki was my first wife, and she was the least worldly. When we married, we were in our twenties, full of piss and vinegar, hormones and pheromones, innocent about each other, life, sex, and the desires and fantasies we all have when horny all of the time. We didn't know enough about life to consider each other's thoughts and views of connecting our lives.

Vicki has forgotten the truth of why we separated, and I am not going to drag her through her slutty behavior here, but I will set the record straight.

When we met, she was dating an Air Force guy. She lived in Sacramento, and I lived in Coronado, on base.

On Friday, I would hitchhike to Sacramento, call Vic, and we would go out. I would hitch back on Sunday afternoon. I would sleep from around four am Saturday morning until eight, go to work with my Dad, get home around seven, and go out with Vic. Until three or four, I would sleep until ten and start thumbing home. There was a truck stop at the exit nearest my folks' house; I often caught rides to the base nickel-snatcher in San Diego.

Our sisters introduced us, and when I arrived for the first date, Vicki wore a poodle skirt and a starched white blouse with puffy shoulders.

When we got to the car, her skirts were everywhere, so she had to sit on the right side of the bench seat holding her skirts down. After about three blocks, she asked, "Dale, would you please pull over for minute?"

She said, "What a dumb thing to wear, sorry."

She wrestled busily, pulling skirts from under the poodle skirt, unticking her blouse in the process.. She threw the skirts in the backseat, and ties the blouse shirt tails in a knot under her tits.

We were going to a dance, so on the way, we drove up on to the river bank, parked, and worked on consuming a twelve-pack of Lucky Lager, and talked. We had spent three or four hours on the telephone the last week, so we had a level of joking established, and quickly became relaxed with each other.

"I enjoyed the show."

"What did you see?"

"I saw pink."

"Do you think it was pussy or panty?"

"Trust me, Vicki, I know the difference, and the sight I saw was panty."

At the third beer, I had her bra off. We were going to go to a dance, but getting to those nipples changed my immediate dintent for our first date.

"I heard sailors were fun, but I had no idea. Are you always so direct? Hand me a beer; I'm not driving."

She opened the glovebox and removed a box when the fourth beer was gone. She handed me the box, saying, "Pick one."

I was holding a box of rubbers of assorted sizes. The box had been ripped open, and only a few were left. I noticed and kept my mouth shut, thinking this woman was mine tonight.

She had almost no breasts but succulent nipples and areoles. Her pale white skin accentuated the darkness of her nipples. They looked like little licorice bits. Her Polish heritage sure showed as nearly black areoles and nipples.

Her vagina was beautiful. It looked like Carol Channing's lips; it was almost as though she had Botox injections. She had sparse pubic hair, mostly around her ass, and taint, as though she couldn't see to shave. Her clitoris was the longest of my three wives. The bulbous tip couldn't hide, poking from under her rolls of swollen, puffy labia.

My bladder needed attention, so I stepped out of the car and was going to pee when she said, "Wait. Let me show you something I learned from some Air Force guys." She was moving the skirts to the front seat.

She slid across the back bench seat, and we could hear her damp skin squealing against the vinyl-leather seat. She was jabbering about "...the right grip this time... will not let it loose to become a firehose..."

She stepped around to the front of me, took my cock in her hand, held it like I always do to piss, and said, "Piss now; I have the situation under control."

I let loose and felt the pressure relieved; then she dropped me. I had a full head of piss coming, and in a few seconds, it required me to stop the flow. My cock swung around and swept across first her face just above her eyebrows and then across her chest, I stopped the flow, and Vic looked chagrined and accused me of pulling away from her.

We had two stripes of pee across the front of us, her face and chest, my nipples, and belt line. Fortunately, the pee wasn't full of protein, so it likely would not stain our clothes or skin. But it still had the thick odor of cadaver pussy, and we agreed to the need to find a change of clothes or wash these.

Nearly too drunk to drive, we crawled back to her house on the back roads, me fingering her and licking my right hand all the way.

The washer was busy, so I dumped the clothes in the hamper and turned around to leave the laundry to find you, but you followed me, and when you closed the distance between us, you said, "I am sorry. Here, I'll take it all now."

I said, "I will finish." But I misunderstood.

You wanted in on the sex, connecting, touching, and being touched. You had been thinking about showing your mom that you were grown up enough to have sex by dragging the Air Force home late some night.

But we snuck in, you grabbed some sweat clothes, and we left silently, rolling away from the curb by releasing the emergency brake and coasting around the corner. You were wanting to go back and fuck me on the living room floor where you could scream and holler and get them to come running while you came all over my cock. I wasn't about to willingly get caught fucking her.

Instead, we went to the 24-hour truck stop and had French fries and more beer in the car. I'd left my clothes in the hamper and was wearing a pair of your Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt.

You had on a pair of Daisy Duke shorts that you had removed all except the sewn seam through the crotch so that the lips of your vagina were separated when you moved. You also had on a white top, a wife beater that caused your little tits to be bee sting bumps.

Sitting in the truck stop, you told me again that you didn't want to lose your cherry until our wedding night, so you let me eat you, and you sucked me off on nearly all of our dates.

When we finished the fries and used the toilets, she told me to move the car to the back of the lot, where all the trucks were idling while the drivers slept, presumably.

Wrong!

The back row of a truck stop in the nineteen sixties was a whore house of sins and fun. Long haulers were a loose group of shell-shocked veterans who preferred to live their days alone, running from their demons. Women were scarce except for the whores who competed with gay guys getting paid for sex. I didn't know about the truck stop, but Vicki assured me before we got there that she knew the ropes around the truck stops she directed me to that night. It was the same one I always hitched toward San Diego.

I backed her 1957 Ford two-door coupe between two double trailer units, shut off the engine, and saw that Vic had hung a Kleenex outside from the top of her closed wing window. I asked why, of course.

"This is the way I signal that I am willing to give a blow job."

As she said that, a flashlight beam shone through the side window at her face, dropping directly to her chest. She quickly turned to face the window pulling her shirt up and exposing her tits. The flashlight blinked three times; she rolled down her window and said, "Fifteen dollars."

A big black cock lay on the window sill until she licked and sucked it into her mouth. A hand reached through the window and pinched and caressed her nipple firmly. I watched, stunned, as three more men lined up, and one by one, Vicki showed me why we had chosen this place to park. She was a champion at getting a load of come quickly.

When the fourth guy had come, Vicki wiped her chest and face and said, "Let's go."

"Where?" I chirped.

"Out the driveway to the left. Get up on the highway and go toward the West."

She was moving around as I was driving in traffic; I looked at her to see her hand in her cunt, and a hand on her tits. She was naked, had turned on the dome light, which was dim, to say the least, and was attempting to get other drivers to look at her.

She suddenly said, "Oops, get off at this ramp." I managed not to hit anyone, and we pulled into another truck stop and parked in the back row.

I now knew Vicki could become a slut in only a few seconds, and it seemed to be triggered in a second. One second she was normal, and the next second, cock was all she wanted. And not just one or two, but as many as she was offered.

She again hung the Kleenex; this time, she had the window down and said, "Fifteen bucks," to the first guy who walked up.

After six guys and about forty-five minutes, she said, "Your turn."

Unsure I needed or even wanted a turn at her after all that come she had taken, but young, dumb, and full of come, I shot her mouth as full as any of the others had.

When I had stopped coming, she told me, "Your come tastes the best of the evening." She added, "Go drive around while I get you hard again. I want you to come on my face and tits, okay?"

After that first date, we always wound up with her whoring one way or another. If it wasn't the truck stops, it was the bus terminal out by the Air Force Base.

That I married her was a result of her being such a slut. Occasionally, I could come home and wait for a man or woman to dress before they left the bedroom. Vicki made as much in a month fucking, blowing, and whoring at home as I made in a year in the Navy, and she loved doing it. Her absolute favorite was sixty-nine with her friend Sandy.

She kept at it for a couple of months, and as Christmas approached, she said, "I am going to a fertility Doctor; please come with me."

I agreed, and when we got test results a couple of weeks later, we found out that her body was capable of pregnancy, but due to her physically abnormal cervix, she might not be able to carry a baby to full term.

She would come and go at all hours of the night and day. One time, she gave me two thousand dollars when she came home as I was going to work. When I asked, "How did you get this?"

She said, "I was the girl on the cake tonight. A thousand for the gig and a thousand for thirty-two blow jobs. She pulled open her trench coat and revealed her body covered with dirt, come, leaves, and feathers."

"What kind of party?" I asked her.

"A pilot squadron on the base threw a party in the O club for the retiring senior female officer. I was the surprise retirement gift. The lady had been suspected of being a lesbian, but no one had ever charged her or confirmed it. However, when she retired, she said in her retirement remarks, "Attention on deck! All females are hereby warned that they cannot discuss their experience fucking their commanding officer, me. If I have one regret about my retirement, it would be that now I have no leverage and will need to step up my game among equals."

Knowing the quality of her ability to get a cunt to come, Vicki then came out the top of the cake dressed in nothing except a strap-on with a bright yellow ten-inch cock.

Her nipples were as tight as ever, her cunt was flowing heavily, and her mouth appeared almost smeared-looking, the way she had her lipstick applied. Her instructions were to smear the retiree in a large French kiss, thus leaving a mess of red lipstick as evidence of her sexual preference. The retiree had asked for the lipstick trick, and when she received the kiss, the crowd in the club began to chant, "More, more, more!"

There had been gallons of alcohol consumed, and the result was a lady from the crowd stepped forward and asked if she could join the two of them. Of course, it morphed into an orgy in the Female Officers barracks.

After giving birth to our kid, and after the doctor released her to have sex again, she had sex with her friend Rich at work. She didn't come home that cold winter night. I woke up the next morning, and as I was leaving for work, she called crying and said, "I fucked him. It was different than all my whoring, Dale. I thought it would be the same, but it isn't. I am not coming home. I am leaving you, rather I left you already. I will come pick up my things after you leave for work."

"Well, Vicki, I have another lock for the front door, I will change it before I leave, and then I will pack your shit tonight and stack it on the front porch where you can come get it after about nine o'clock."

"She wailed a bunch of more poor me shit, so I said, "Goodbye," and hung the phone up. We were divorced within six months.

Fifty years later, I now realize that my immaturity, her desire to leave home, her sexual experimenting, her final fucking someone else, and not coming home were all factors in our divorce. I suspect the majority of blame, if there needs to be some blame laid on someone, should rest on me. I loved this woman and enjoyed living with her; she was fun and available for anything, whether socially acceptable or not. But I didn't take care of her emotional needs.

My only reservation was how little I seemed to care about her health issues. She definitely had mental issues related to her Mensa IQ and lack of basic common sense.

In the end, as we departed again after this weekend, she said deep, sincere goodbyes to all and rode off into her sunset, driving her car, a little Dodge Colt. It was fourteen hours later they discovered the broken guard rail on the pier, and sixteen hours before, they advised me of her death off the end of the pier when no one was on the pier to stop her.