I admire the hell out of my wife's vagina. I mean, three of my kids have slid out of it- three times she's swelled up like the legendary victim of a swallowed watermelon seed, past the point where I started to feel panic stricken when I imagined the process by which the thing had to make its way out of her. But she'll just smile all serene and stroke her belly, draw me towards her because sex can bring on labor and being pregnant makes you insane enough to want that. And each time the grapefruit sized head of a seven pound person with my damning features has tested the elasticity of her flesh, she's welcomed me back home within two weeks- that's less time than our QB was out with a pulled achilles this season, for crying out loud! If actual pussies played football maybe they'd make it through the season, for once.
We spent a phase exploring the limits of that glorious organ, once. I'm not a little guy and I've always found the fit comfortably snug, but with a little oil and encouragement she can get a cucumber that's two, maybe three times the girth of my cock in there. I'm a secure guy but the way she moans and comes when she stretched to the max like that makes me linger over those dick-gro ads a second longer than I strictly need to. Once, after a couple of drinks in Mexico that were garnished with shrooms that looked like tiny shriveled cocks, she kept egging me on, more, harder, and before I knew it my thumb was joining my other four fingers on the inside. Once she humped the widest part of my hand into her opening, the muscles of her pelvic floor pulled me in up to the wrist firmly enough to make me think of some of the weirder porn I've seen. But then the moment hit me and I was dumbfounded.
My fist was wrapped in molten steel, bound and encased like a boxer's hand in its glove, and every thrust and twist of my arm just drove her further over the edge until she cried out and clamped down with a grip that ground the bones of my hand together.
I wasn't sure when I'd hit the floor but I found myself on my knees, hand still inside her, and realized I still had to get my massive seeming hand back out of the slit that was sweetly gripping my wrist.
Talk about rebirth. She looked up at me with her eyes all glazed from the shrooms and hazy from the orgasm and I felt myself taking deep breaths along with her while she dropped her hand to the point of our union. She caressed my wrist and stroked her own flesh with inquisitive fingertips that came to settle on her clit with light, insistent strokes. The intimacy of feeling her renewing arousal from the inside had me frozen, but she didn't need anything from me. Rather than an iron grip drawing me deeper, now her walls softened and expanded against my knuckles, her slit relaxing as she gently rocked herself back off of my fist.
When the widest point of my hand met the resistance of her perineum she clenched briefly and her fingers quickened until a muted after-shock of an orgasm ejected my hand past the thumb. I stretched my cramped fingers deeper, greedy for the feel of the inside of her as she tightened closed around them. I'm not sure when I came but I woke up the next morning with tears crusting my eyelashes, semen dried down the inside of my thighs and my hand cupped reverently over that existential fulcrum. Maybe it was the shrooms, but we never talked about it and we've never done it again.
There's plenty of other stuff to do, though. I was one of many gentlemen who felt deeply blessed by the popularity of a particularly kinky trilogy that brought out a slightly wild side in many of its readers. Whips and chains don't do it for me, but I do enjoy being allowed to land a few solid slaps to her ass and get a good bite in every now and then. Mostly it's the complacency, the ball tightening knowledge that you can and the white hot sparkle in her eye that says she will.
That's what I had in mind all day Friday. The plumbing company called me at work to say they were there to install the water heater and my wife wasn't home.
In this day of robots it was easy enough to unlock the door electronically and pull up the stream from the security system to keep an eye on the process, but her unexplained absence gnawed at me enough that I kept an eye on the screen, expecting her to turn up with a bag of groceries any moment.
Work had me pissed off anyway, and before I knew it I had her fucking this plumber dude in my head while I watched on camera and I didn't know if I was more turned on or jealous about the idea. Two hours later the guy straightened up, gathered his shit and called to let me know he was letting himself out. I watched him go and had Jeeves the robot security lock up behind him. Next thing I knew my keys were in my hand, my jacket was over my arm and I was leaving work 3 hours early.
I could have called her, of course. I'm confident she'd have answered and given me the reasonable explanation of where she was. But my paranoid fantasy had my gut aching in a way that wasn't all bad, and I wanted to see it through.
