No more Roger. No more other man anything. For the next two years, roughly speaking, Jill went through the mystifying and ruthless curse of menopause. The hormonal changes were gradual, but with unpredictable effect, like some Gremlin had entered her body and taken charge. Life for her was a battle to salvage some semblance of normalcy, get through as many days of accustomed activity as she could. She was brave and determined, but there were periods of wild mood swings, tears, depression. Needless to say, our sex life was erratic. I gave her all the loving support I knew how to give.
And one day before she turned forty nine, it was all over. No more hot flashes. Done. She had defeated the Gremlin and given it the boot. She was all mine again. But something had changed in her I couldn't exactly pin point. She was a new mysterious woman, and the same old sexy one. Menopause didn't seem to have any effect on her lubricating reservoirs at all. She flowed just as quickly and fully as before. Our fucking was slick and prolonged and sweetly loving. But in some subtle ways she became more independent and assertive.
She began a furious exercise program at our spa. "My goal is to lose 30 pounds and by God I will," she said. "You go girl," I said. "Do I look slimmer?" "Sweetheart, it's only been two weeks. Keep working." "How in the hell do you never change, always look like a Greek God? It has to be genes. I just have too many Italian Mama Mia genes in me."
One night I lay naked on our bed waiting for her to finish her suds-soak bath. She came in, drying with a towel as large as a blanket. She dropped the towel and examined herself in the large mirror on our bedroom wall, twisting about, straining her neck to get a look. "It's hopeless, Jack. My big fat ass is here to stay." She moaned.
I studied her big fat ass. My woman. My Goddess of love and sexual desire. My wife. My lover, my soul mate. She still retained much of her summer tan, and her Italian-Latina genes gave a light mahogany patina to the full, incredibly erotic globes of her ass. And I flipped, into a psychic state of old.
"Lucky me," I said. "How long has it been since you held the bar?"
Her eyes locked with mine in the mirror. There was a flashing glint in hers, part mischief, part something deeper and far reaching. "Ages," she said. "Do we even know where the bar is?"
"I do."
I got up to search it out from our closet where it had been hidden for several years. "The bar" was just that, a device I made to hook by ropes to eye screws in the canopy frame of our bed. A sort of short trapeze. Because our first sixty nine with her on top soon after we married, had segued into her abandoning her blow job, and concentrating entirely on sitting on my face. A new, totally in control, ravaging thrill for her. A new, totally submissive and ravaging thrill for me. She said it would be much better for both if she had something to hold on to, to have complete control of leverage and contact, pressure and force, demanding and taking. Complete control of me in sitting on my face. Voilà! The bar.
Her holding the bar to sit on my face became a special thing for us. So special we seldom did it. For her it was inner need that had a genesis outside of conscious thought, that gradually surfaced into consciousness. It was exactly the same for me. The problem was those inner needs surfacing at the same time. They did, on very special occasions, via intuition, telepathy, the refined intimacy and knowledge that united us. The special occasion had arrived again, after years of neglect.
Jill lay on her back, idly fingering her clit as she watched me step over her to attach the ropes. Her body was placid in repose, but her lips formed a decidedly smug smile. Her eyes glittered in anticipation. I anticipated too, but my cock didn't rise like a roaring lion. It was only a quarter hard, swaying, bobbing, lumbering along with the rest of me.
When the bar was in place, she grasped it and positioned her knees at either side of me, facing my feet. She very slowly, ritualistically, lowered her mass of flesh and sex to my face. I watched it come down to me. The complete spread of female sexual treasure, as rich as any banquet spread for a king in a fairy tale, come to my face, for me to feed on. The gleam of mahogany tint on twin hemispheres that caught the ambient light of the room. The streaked skin of her pelvic joinery, a tiny red pimple, otherwise unknown, proclaiming itself, the curls of jet black pubic hair, the glisten of her pussy lips opening to pink nestled folds within, the nubby, purplish anus that peeked at me like a cyclopean eye from the dark recess.
I went under, literally and emotionally. I gave myself up to her and this special privilege. My woman. My wife. Her tastes and textures, the rich abundance of her sexual spread. The dark side of sex that pulls all of us, whether or not we ever go there. She sat on my face, and used it to fulfill her need. All my face. My chin, my mouth, my nose and forehead, slipping and sliding, squirming and seeking all contact points to fuel the orgasmic flame ignited in her. I got my first faint whiff of rectal moisture ever there to prevent drying out, a spicy smell of erotic pungency that pushed me deeper into my underworld of total submission to the totality of my woman
.
I feasted on her, with hunger and overflowing spittle. She teased, lifting up and holding, making me lift my head up in a strain with my tonger out reaching, begging. Then she came back down, the hot, rich totality of her sexual center smothering my face, taking it, using it. The totality in all its parts, the loose labia lips, her rush of juices, pubic hair sawing my face, all given to me but all taking me with movement and pressures entirely of her volition for her own concentrated need in each isolated moment. She made all sorts of vocal noises, deep and guttural, high and keening. She talked dirty. "Oh, baby, yes, suck my clit... Oh yes, do it, lick my ass hole, stick that tongue in as far as you can!"
Her orgasm was truly a full body orgasm, on my face, full force, and it was almost too long, with my nose buried in the dark chasm of her ass, unable to breathe. She got off me and collapsed, her gasps less than my desperate sucking air back into my lungs. I finally settled back down. Visions flickered behind my closed lids. All the details of her lavish bottom. All the tastes and scents of her pussy and ass, the feast of sex, still had a blanketing presence in my mouth and nose. She had ravished me, the only word for it, and I lay as inert as a slab of custard, transformed by submission and reception without boundaries. The bedroom air settled on my head and made me aware my entire face from chin to forehead was still painted with a light coat of bodily, sexual essences from her hot bottom. My entire face was still in heat. She stretched beside me, purring like a cat and watching me like a cat. She had also taken her trip down the dark side. Her orgasm was convulsive. How many years since we had done that?
"And now the finale," she finally said, with voice inflection making a tiny question mark.
"Yes. The finale." I said.
I followed her into the bathroom, and lay back on the shower floor. She straddled me, positioning her feet. She tensed, and her urine gushed.
Ceremony. She initiated that ceremony the first time I put the bar in place. All her own doing, no discussion. She had issued an order that I follow her and lie in the shower. I understood instantly she was going to piss on me, and I felt myself coming apart. I wanted her to.
All those times I had listened to her as she sat on the commode, a sound as common as a sneeze, no full vision had ever formed. I looked up at her as she towered over me. The columns of her thighs in a very slight bend, her pussy, her stomach, her hands on her hips, her eyes staring down at me with mesmerizing intensity. Her pee gushed out in a stream, splattering on my soft cock and then my chest. In the few seconds before I had to close my eyes, I saw that a standing woman pees just like a standing man, a strong stream gushing out, but not gushing out of a tube held in fingers. The sight had a miraculous quality. Her pee jetting out of her pussy gash. Something no man ever sees until he lies beneath, looking up. She guided the stream by body movement. The hot stream hit my face. I went under. Deep under.
That first time I showered and returned to bed on wobbly legs. "I love you more than words can express," Jill said.
"What led you to that?" I said.
"I have no clear answer," she said. "No more than why the extreme intensity of feeling demanded I talk dirty. So many impulses firing away at once. Remember the first time I sat on your face and had to go pee?"
"Vividly."
