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.
