Loving Husband/loving Wife

"I think I have an admirer," my wife said one day.

"Oh? Do tell."

She told. The man was a divorced, highly successful business man who served on the museum board of trustees, as did my wife Jill. I had met him once or twice, very casually, and it took some concentration to remember exactly what he looked like. Nothing impressive came to mind. And that made Jill's fluttery, bubbly response to his admiration all the more intriguing.

They had spent proximity time at the museum, enhanced with private lunches and other togetherness, talking business. He was obviously attracted to her, and had been tossing signals in a civilized and courtly way.

"You know? I had pretty much forgotten how much power that kind of flattery can hold." She said.

"And... are you... attracted to him... in, you know, that way?"

She looked me in the eye, and said, "Yes. I am."

For the very first time I felt a sharp twist of jealousy. In our threesomes I had watched her suck cocks of other men. I had watched her dig her heels into the ass cheeks of other men to pull their thrusting cocks deeper into her as she reached for her orgasm. And I never felt the slightest bit of jealousy. I had no jealousy whatever of the many men who fucked her in her single years. But when she looked me in the eye and said "Yes. I am," sexually attracted to her new admirer, I felt the clinch of jealousy. Crazy!

She read all that in my face, with a very strange expression on her face, which contained - damn it - gentle amusement. "You will like him when you get to know him." She said.

"Are you thinking...?"

"But of course! It's been a long time. We both need it, don't you think?"

"This is a new avenue of approach."

"And a quite exciting one. So... shall I cultivate him? Explore the possibility for our mutual benefit?"

"Hummmm." I stalled. This was different. Cultivating him, exploring the possibilities, was packed with ramifications never present in our previous threesomes. He was not an old fuck buddy of hers. He was a stranger to me. My wife was seeking my approval to unload all her seductive charms on him, all on her own. In many ways, it was like reverting back to our earliest fantasies of another man - do we really want to do it for real? Do we have the nerve? Actually, the question was did I have the nerve to reverse our roles and allow her to select and seduce a man to join us , instead of me choosing a man and giving him to her.

"What's his name again?"

"Roger."

"If Roger really turns you on, then okay," I said. "Cultivate him. Just be extremely cautious about exposing us to scandal."

"Do you really think you have to give me that warning?" She said, genuinely miffed.

Jill began a seduction of Roger. For all her experience in her single years, it was child's play. But she had to play her cards very carefully, calculate odds, manage her bets, cultivate his capacity for adventure, lure him into the jackpot of a threesome. An altogether new excitement gripped her. In many ways it was similar to a married woman having a cheating affair, except this husband was informed of every detail. She was more than flattered by his focused attentions, as they dovetailed with her stratagems, and her desire for him grew exponentially. Especially after their first kiss. And more kisses. Groping hands. Surging blood. Body heat.

"Nice cock?"

"Very nice. I gave it a hand rub in his pants. Big and hard."

"So, when are you going to pop the proposition?"

She laughed. "Damned if I really know. The timing is very delicate. Too soon and it could blow up in our faces. Trust me, Jack. I'm not trying to sneak in an affair under your nose. I don't want to lose him by playing our trump card too soon."

Hmmmmm. Very disquieting, her last statement. A different avenue of approach indeed. She was afraid of "losing" him.

Days later she said, "I'm beginning to suspect Roger doesn't have the mental wiring for a threesome."

"Did you ask him?"

"Much too soon. I have done some exploring of his mind set, feminine wiles and intuition, you know..."

Days after that she said, "I don't know how else to put this, but I might have to fuck him before I dare suggest a threesome."

"Putting it that way is clear enough."

"Well, it's entirely up to you. Would you be okay with that?"

God. What a question. Hell no I wasn't okay with that. At the same time, I questioned myself what would be so objectionable about it? The difference was I wouldn't be there, watching her, participating. And watching over her. A big difference. But everything that had transpired with Roger was a big difference. Their affair (why not call it that?) was a totally new experience for both of us. She had invested serious time, thought, and emotion in "cultivating" him. And in doing so she found a thrilling excitement and happiness neither of us could have foreseen.

"Well, if you think that will seal the deal, okay. But let's stipulate. You are not to make a habit of that."

"I know that! Trust me, Jack. You have to trust me, just as I always trusted you in selecting a man to provide that extra special thrill we both enjoy so much."

A telling reminder. I trusted her. I knew from my side of the equation the delicate risks of exposure, no matter how gradual and cleverly manipulated. My exposure, but especially Jill's. Any notion that my wife was a common whore beneath a camouflage of material wealth and social privilege had to be isolated and squashed. But her beauty and sexual allure made that relatively easy. A man could quickly reach a new level of sophistication, agree that such unusual perks could be incorporated in a solid and happy marriage, in light of his fantastic opportunity to fuck my wife. A truly unique and special woman, and he would respect and revere her. Jill's side of the equation was much different. Her exposure had already made clear her desire to spread her legs for Roger. That she was my wife was of no concern to him. But for him to learn that I knew, and was open to the possibility of his joining Jill and I for threesome sex, obligated her to protect my person and reputation at all costs. If the man I chose for us had some initial, and excusable, thoughts of Jill as a whore, what would the man that Jill selected to join us think of me, when he had the full picture? "Whore" could be a mild word by comparison.

Two weeks later she said, "Roger invited me to his house tomorrow night. After I told him you were out of town." Bam! My guts fell to the floor and I was hollow inside.

The following day, late afternoon, I watched her prepare. I even assisted. We both were abashed, and didn't quite know what to say. We compensated for that by being ultra cool about what was happening. My wife readying herself to fuck another man at his house while I waited at home. The first time ever in our marriage. The outrageous daring to do this. The sizzling erotic thrill in doing this, each of us sailing off into uncharted seas on separate ships. Our insides were churning with emotions, many of them exactly the same, others separate and intensely private. The reality of her going off alone to fuck Roger began to bury our common motive of seducing him into a threesome.

She sat on the commode cover and asked me to trim her pubic hair. "Trim it just the way you like it," she said. "When you go down on me."

"What's the last sound of a pubic hair before it hit's the floor?"

"Ptffff," she said on cue, and we both laughed loudly, releasing tension.

I trimmed her bush just the way I like it. Cropping down the longest glossy black strands, creating a wide short border beside the lips and over the clitoral hood. For a moment I lost myself in the ever awesome, aesthetic beauty of her pussy. I really mean that. Beautiful. I don't know if other men ever see their wives' pussies in that light, but the sheer beauty of Jill's pussy was an everlasting seizure of recognition the first time I went down on her. Woman. Femininity. Femaleness. The secret allure, the depthless mystery, her sacred place.

Then it hit me that I was grooming my wife's beautiful pussy with highly focused attention, like a stylist in a beauty shop pampering a highly valued client, for another man to savor with his mouth and tongue in a few short hours. My woman.

"Thank you, my husband."

"You're most welcome, my wife."

Role reversal. She was in charge. She was confirming our agreement that she make the selection and choice, for both of us to share and enjoy. She had the power to ask me to trim her pubic hair, and give her unreserved support in all her lengthy preparations. Very much the same as her yielding to my choice of a man on past occasions, and her shaping her mind and sexual desires to make love with him, open herself completely to him and receive all he had to give with unreserved joy.

She filled the tub and hot soaked in foamy suds. I scrubbed her back with a loofah. My woman. Luxuriating in her full prime of a vast capacity for sensual, sexual, erotic stimulations and realizations. Soon to fuck a new man with my permission. And for that very reason we talked of other things. She showered and washed her hair. I helped her dry off. Held the dryer to fluff her hair. She had that combined dreamy and electric air of a girl going to her first prom. We did not mention her date, or the waiting dance, so as not to break the spell.

That was very different from the sharing we did in a threesome. But similar in one way. Seeing and knowing her individuality, her separate entity as a woman. My wife, my love, my life, always. But a separate entity in the core of her that was her alone. The female mystery. The sexuality and potential that no man can ever totally possess. My woman prepared herself. A long while at the make up mirror. So womanly. Her body, that I had loved countless times from her toe nails to her hair roots, seemed to have a new lushness of sexual allure, the lines and curves ripened by fruitful seasons of joyful inner experience, her breasts full and proud, her ass a cosmic statement of erotic power, all seeming to be exclusive attainment of a woman in her forties. So womanly.

"New panties?"

"Of course. For my new lover."

She was in charge. She led. I had to follow. The panties were powder blue with tiny lace trim at the leg edges. She stepped into them and pulled them up and let the elastic waist band go with a little pop, with a smoldering glance at me. The panties were close to, but not quite, bikini style. Two half moons of ass cheek bulged below the blue bisecting lines. She put her hands under the half moons, and gave them a tender jostle, while twisting to see in the mirror, and send a look into my eyes. We were in telepathic communication. Calling my attention to her marvelous ass was her indirect statement she knew how men responded to it, and in less than an hour it would be available to Roger. What was happening did not have to be put in words. She left off the bra. She put on a snug blue sheath dress slightly darker than the panties. Her nipples made tension star bursts under the thin fabric.

We exchanged declarations of eternal love, honest and true and understood and unquestioned. She walked to her car on higher than usual heels, her fabulous ass under the tight dress doing a number that took my breath. I watched her drive away.

Then the waiting began. My memory banks were filled with images of her in our threesomes, and they began a herky-jerky slide show across my brain as I began my wait. But threesome images didn't work. This was different. She was alone with him. I was home waiting. I paced about the house. I sat. I experienced a variety of erratic physical sensations in my chest and guts - some of them highly exciting, some intensely threatening. I constantly glanced at the clock. The clock mocked me, saying give her time to reach his house and settle in before the sex begins.

How would the sex begin? How soon? What steps of sequential progress? I thought back on my bachelor days, when I had opened my apartment door to welcome in girls, with our mutual intent to fuck a given. But those thoughts were unstable and fuzzy. I could not bring them into focus. None of those dim memories could portend what my wife would be feeling and doing when Roger welcomed her into his house, his arms, his bed. Would he be an excellent lover and for a few hours would she forget I even existed? Those questions exploded like pop corn on the heat of my fevered excitement, and finial full understanding of what I had agreed to. And that final full understanding made it impossible to imagine a clear vision of them together while I waited.

I finally found a basis of comparison. Waiting at home while she fucked Roger was in some ways like our confessional exchange soon after we met. She coxed me into revealing my sexual history, with the promise she would do the same. It wasn't easy, but I experienced a liberation that has no equal in telling her things I could never tell anyone else, all in a matrix of absolute honesty, trust, and intimacy I had never known with another woman. A context of the purest love I had ever known. She was just as loving and honest and intimate and revealing. And her sexual history had much more content and variety than mine.

She discovered in her teens she loved to suck cock, and had sucked many of them. At about the same time she discovered, as she put it, "I really, really liked being fucked!" This was highly disturbing to me in a totally unexpected way. An alien excitement I had never known before. For I was completely, head over heels in love with her when our intimate confessions took place. My "natural" feeling should have been jealousy. Instead, I got spontaneous, huge erections when she told her stories of other men. Especially her detailed (I interrupted with many questions) description of her first threesome with two boys her sophomore year in college. Some erotic place in me I didn't know existed burst into flame and burned with incandescent heat. A new me was created.

She "cultivated" the new me, very carefully, very honestly, bringing me out. Giving me permission, even encouraging me, to visualize her with the man when I fucked her so wildly after she had told a story. For my burning excitement fed her with feelings of immense power in her womanhood and sexuality, and our fused excitement made her understand before I did that we were perfect mates, that in our minds in the privacy of our bed we were utterly free to do anything we both wanted to do. She gently led me to understanding, and full acceptance, that I wasn't a sick, disgusting pervert in being so aroused by her describing sex with other men. "Didn't you know that is the number one fantasy of married men? Their wife with another man?" "No, I didn't." "Many psychology questionnaires have confirmed that." The clincher was her reciprocal position. Did I see her as a sick, disgusting pervert because her excitement fed on mine and matched mine when her stories made my cock so big and hard so quickly? "No way." "We have it, my love, inside both of us. Unique, for sure. Very out of the mainstream. But it is there. Let us enjoy it, not fear it."

That utter freedom of fused exploration and discoveries evolved. Fantasy sharing, playful but highly focused scenarios created by each of us and dedicated to the other. All centered on another man in our bed, and my giving her to him, her taking him in combined lust and pleasure in unrestricted freedom, for me to see. "Is is inevitable that we will do this for real?" "We are capable of it. We know that."

I placed her present time with Roger in the category of her stories of other men before I knew her, those stories of her, or me, selecting a man from some public environment and bringing him back home for a fantasy threesome that night, and the erotic flame grew hot. The visuals were fuzzy and fleeting, but a potent fuel, and I slowly masturbated and dove into that transport that captured me when I first heard her stories of other men having her. I emptied a great load of cum into a towel.

*****

I cleaned myself and thought about masturbating again when I heard her enter the front door. I was a little surprised. It was only ten o'clock. She came into the den and stopped to study me where I sat. Her look was composed, very steady. She had an ambiguous half smile on her lips. She didn't look the same as when she left. She had a faintly disheveled look - hair strands out of place, her complexion a little blotchy, her dress wrinkled, a general untidiness.

"You look like a woman who has been well fucked." I said.

"I have been." She said. "Come here."

I stood to walk to her, and the singularity of the event hit me anew. This was nothing like sharing her with a man in a threesome. My wife had gone out alone, to return well fucked by a man who presumably thought his superior masculinity had removed all her defenses and commanded her irresistibly to his house and bed. I embraced her. She squeezed me so hard her arms quivered. She put an arm around my waist, and holding her shoes in her other hand, led us to the bed room. I kissed the nape of her neck and unzipped the dress. I sniffed, like any alpha male in the animal kingdom.

"Do you smell him?"

"I smell something funky. Dried sweat, sex juice, his cologne I think."

Jill purred and flexed. She finished undressing. I got naked and joined her on the bed. I kissed her. Her lips had that tell tale softness of overripe fruit over squeezed on a store counter. Her lips had been used. I breathed deeply. "His smell is still on you."

"His chest was a dense matt of hair. Crackly and raspy against me."

"A treat for you," I said. I am not hairy. A hairy man was a special treat for her, for those isolated hours he was with us.

"Oh yes," she hummed. "I buried my nose in his chest hair, his pubic hair, and did my own sniffing."

I had watched her do that before, acting out her own version of the alpha female. "He was energetic?"

"He came three times. Once in my mouth." She paused, remembering. "He seemed fascinated with positions. On top of me, behind me bending me over, my heels on his shoulders, doing me from behind while we lay on our sides. Me on top riding cow girl."

"You liked that?"

"Oh yes. I liked it. Very much. It was sort of like he was following instructions he read in a manual. But it was sweet and tremendously exciting too. He was right up there with you in staying power. Thrusting on and on without cumming." She paused. "His cock was certainly adequate, but not in your big leagues," she said, putting her fingers around my cock, which had expanded to what she called "mythological proportions" when she first discovered how her descriptions of fucking other men affected me. Which always happened when she fully revealed herself to me in threesomes, too. "Now I want you. I need you. God, I need you. Fuck me, my husband."

I did. Transported to first ever heights of a new delirious excitement, because it was truly different. I filled her with my cock and absorbed all the warmth and silky snugness inside her, the pure communication ever present by the countless times I had fucked her before. Then I realized, my cock was where another man's cock had been an hour or so earlier. Experiencing the same paradise of my wife's pussy in a variety of positions. That was different, not the same as taking my turn in a threesome. Because it wasn't a threesome. She had gone off alone to fuck Roger, with my blessing, and now she was back with me. I didn't see her with him. I didn't even have a clear mental picture of what he looked like. My visions were dependent on what she told me, and her well fucked look when she returned, and the lingering smell of sex they had generated together and in private, while I waited at home alone. That was different, and unbearably exciting, and I fucked her with a new and wild release. I think she began to orgasm as soon as I entered her, and didn't stop until I exploded mine.