Loving Husband Loving Wife Ch 06

The Evangelical freak professor had given my wife's self-esteem a painful blow. The opposite of what her freedom of choice in solo affairs was intended to provide her. Roger and Larry had restored her confidence of youth and potential so much it was like gilding the lily. Charlie Moffit was such a drastic reversal that Jill was genuinely alarmed by loss far greater than youth - losing her mind. The morning after her debacle she wandered about, her eyes often squinting at mysteries in every corner.

"How could I not see more of what Charles was all about?"

"You just moved too fast."

"I moved fast a lot of times before, and was on target every time." She smiled and cocked her head. "Well, maybe not every time. There were some duds in the old days. But this. Could it be early onset dementia?"

I laughed. "How many fingers on your right hand? What day of the week is today? When is my birthday?"

She regained her composure and humor. But still she was slightly unsettled by what had taken place. We practiced no religion. We had no belief in any desert deity from the Middle East. Nor in any icon housed in a cave in the Orient. Evangelical freaks were in a category of faddish behavior as far removed from our interest as those who surrender half their body skin to hideous tattoos.

Charlie Moffit must have prayed to a disdainful God. A week later he started calling Jill. She ignored the calls. One day, out of curiosity, she answered. He wanted to see her again, with some half baked idea in his head that God would tolerate them having more sex. She countered with her conviction that God wanted her to inform his wife and the three of them join together in prayer sessions. Charlie disappeared, for ever.

The days passed. Jill regained the full bloom of her habitual good humor. But she ceased her slutty games with me. Her erotic communication with me became very subtle and deep with meaning. One night we made love and she said, "You are going to put your big hard cock into me. That is what it means to be a woman. A man's cock entering her." Her words were electrifying. More so the next day when I remembered and thought about them.

"A man's cock entering her" did not fly over my head. The generalization. The universality. The implication that the "meaning" for her was not exclusive to my cock; that it included Roger and Larry Felts, our threesome partners, all of her men before me entering her with their hard cocks. Endorsing the meaning of her being a woman. It was truth. It was definitive.

It defined our combined motive of my sharing her with other men. The shattering, devastating excitement of the "idea" of it was a prerequisite for me, but the first reality proved much stronger and meaningful than any fantasy. Her aura of radiant beauty when I was to the side to watch another man fuck her. Another man fuck my WIFE. But the concept, and the reality, expanded. My wife was a woman as well as my wife, an entity and a mystery apart from my social claim. I saw that at once, but it took a few experiences of progressive understanding to fully realize the meaning of it. And Jill herself was the key to my understanding and realization. She kept in balance her extension of wife to universal woman with honoring and loving me with unfaltering purpose and devotion. That was the key.

I am no dummy. I knew from the beginning she was very ski fully and patiently manipulating my mind to face and accept that blast of discovery of that perverse excitement that sprang up in me. "Many men are like that. They just have that unique internal wiring for it. Similar to the way people are wired to be Gay." But I also knew from the beginning that my "Achilles Heel" held a valuable benefit for her. At first it was her joy in feeding my erotic flame with stories, true and invented. And her joy in feeding my flame made clear that in matters of sex Jill had no sense of guilt or shame at all. Then her joy developed another truth - the enormous thrill of her still having other men while mated for life with me. If only in fantasy. She could have her cake and eat it too.

It was inevitable, maybe ordained by alignment of the stars and internal wiring in both of us, that fantasy led to reality of my bringing a carefully selected man to our bed, and my wife fucking him with no reservations, with positive joy, doing what we both had consciously chosen to do, as I watched. She had her cake and ate it too. It was a piercing, beautiful truth to behold. In time that truth crystallized, and last night, years later, Jill put it into words - "That is what it means to be a woman. A man putting his cock into her." That was the meaning for both of us when I shared her with other men. And in that sharing my wife and I were facilitators and enablers for each other, each giving the other unique individual fulfillment attained only in that way. It was truly a symbiotic experience. And in that was another marvelous mutual benefit.

The symbiosis supporting her fucking other men required and self generated perpetual demonstration of love and devotion and respect. Never did she let slip a word or action that was demeaning of me. Never did I accuse her of greedy self interest. We kept in balance another man's cock entering her, with the sacrosanct meaning of us as husband and wife. We carefully skirted any temptation to engage in common power struggle. She put me on a pedestal to honor and revere after the first time I fucked her. That honor and respect only grew over the years, like the fabled spreading elm tree. My honor and respect of her was set very quickly after meeting and knowing her, and took monumental proportion the first time I watched another man fuck her. The awesome mystery of my wife as universal woman. Seeing her.

"Do you see me?" That was her mantra when we began it all. The discovery of what lay hidden in me. Her need to bring that out into the open and explore the potential for both of us. With no guilt and no shame and no fear. Her guiding me, and herself, into that socially forbidden realm, with pure honesty of feeling, when she told of experiences with previous lovers, when we created fantasies of another man in our bed to have his way with her. "Do you see me? Who I am? What I am? The real me inside of me?"

I saw and knew when the first real man lay naked on her, his cock in her, having that Jill inside of Jill. She held nothing back. She wanted me to see. Her thighs opened wide and her calves clasping his back. Her hands hanging on to his shoulders. Her pelvic hunches meeting and loving his thrusts. The electric currents of bodily pleasure his moving cock generated in her. Her eyes suddenly opening wide and staring into mine, into my heart, into my soul. Her hand reaching out to grip mine. She spoke to me without words. Do you see me? Do you see I have surrendered to the thrill, excitement, intense pleasure of another man fucking me?

I saw. It took me several days to fully understand what I had seen. Intense private thinking. First was the force of perspective from being aside and watching. All the times I had fucked her I had a limited view point, and much of the time my eyes were closed. When our friend joined us to make our fantasies real, I saw my wife, my love, in full perspective of all the details of copulation, sexual intercourse, man and woman fucking. She lay naked on her back on the bed. Legs cocked, knees high. Her arms lifted and her fingers made come to me wiggles to our guest, her smile bright with honest expectancy. His condom sheathed cock high and hard and quivering with masculine imperative in its approach to her. Her putting her hands behind her knees and pulling them back to her breasts and spreading wide to receive him. Wanting to receive him. Experiencing the fulsome thrill of his hard cock enter and take command of the potential space ever waiting for a man to shape and define. That is what I saw with shattering clarity. A man fucking a woman. My wife. My love. All those things I do not clearly see when I fuck her. Sounds I might or might not be aware of when I fuck her were so clear they could have come from the ultimate development of surround sound speaker systems. The smack of skin on skin. The squishy pop sounds of his cock thrusting in her copious flow of lubricating fluid. The scatter of totally involuntary vocal sounds scrambling from deep inside both of them and out through clenched teeth and dilated nostrils. Do you see me?

Seeing, reviewing, analyzing, in intense private thought, I reached understanding. All the erotic electricity of my sharing her with another man was the warp and woof of our combined creation of our private tapestry. But seeing it really happen, I saw the meaning in her Do you see me? The reach of her exposure. Her vulnerability in that reach of her exposure. The risk she must take for me to see her, and then choose to love her still. But I really didn't make a choice. Watching her fully engage with that first man, the full reach of her exposure and vulnerability, all the base sounds and sights of fucking that defy poetic camouflage, the timeless act of sexual union, and the openly exposed orgasmic pleasures she experienced - all distilled into a single all encompassing emotion. A respect for my wife that had over tones of reverence. It wasn't a choice I made. There was really nothing else to consider. I saw her. I saw it. And seeing it made it impossible to see Jill only as an object in a sexual tableau. She was transcendent. And respect for her was the only word that fit. Respect was the carbon molecule of life in my love for her, which grew steadily every day thereafter. Respect that held awe, adoration, devotion, and a love so deep and broad it was sometimes an ache needing even larger room. That respect and love was never spelled out in formal declarations. It was demonstrated in countless thousands of ways in the indissoluble bonds of our marriage. And her respect and love for me was returned in equal measure, every day.

*****

Another year, another opportunity, another man.

His name was Steve Larsen. She picked him up in a bar. Well, not exactly a bar. One of those places with blond oak wood work, glass with frosted designs, potted ferns, that served chi-chi food and alcohol. She didn't exactly pick him up either. The place was over crowded, and he simply, politely, asked if he could share her table for four which she occupied alone.

"There was an instant spark, Jack," she said, almost like a stranger man giving off an instant spark was some thing rare and unknown. Or comprehensively effective in burning away any lingering after image of the gruesome Charlie Moffit.

Her narrative of sharing her table and getting acquainted with Steve was segmented observations and reactions. "Damned good looking." His manners were polished. He was a flawless package of masculinity. His poise and confidence filled the entire room. His eye contact was riveting, but glances did settle on the exposed cleavage in her blouse. The four carat diamond on her finger was neither here nor there. "He is quite the smoothie." He seemed well educated, and had an interest in astronomy. He told a story of cosmic doings he had read in Scientific American, and Jill was fascinated. When the meal was finished, he gave her his card and said, "If you would like to hear more about our expanding universe, please call me." A smoothie, initiating a pick up.

Jill took the card out of her purse and studied it with heightened interest dashing about inside her. "Let me see that." She gave the card to me and I studied it with my own interest, committing the details to memory. I returned the card to her.

"Are you going to call him to learn more about your expanding universe?"

She delighted in the pun, and gave me a smile of devilish complicity. "I expect I will," she said.

She did call him. Their courtship began. Phone talk at first, then let's have lunch sometime, and then man and woman dating. All the rewards of her feeling beautiful and desirable returned to her in increased abundance. She kept me fully informed, though I knew there were details she failed to mention, because of the sheer number of them.

I gave Steve Larsen's card details to the confidential research company, with specific instructions to look into his religious affiliations. That delayed the report. Crimes, finances, sexual deviance, a piece of cake. Private religious practice was a murky area snoopers were unaccustomed to. Anyway, Jill did her own carefully directed research, and was convinced Steve was not an Evangelical freak. When the report came, there were no alarm bells. His net worth didn't match mine, but he was no pauper. He had been married and divorced twice, and paid heavily for each divorce. He had three grown children out in the world. I could find nothing threatening in him. He went about seducing my wife, he thought, and my wife shared with me all the details, and I was a fixed part in her ever increasing excitement. Jill was in no hurry. He was patient.

She took sneaky pictures of him with her cell phone, and we, with our heads close, studied them on the computer screen. Our breathing would suddenly get tight. It was clear to me what she saw in him. That clarity didn't have homosexual undercurrents. He simply was a damn fine looking man. The type any woman would find attractive. His salt and pepper hair was neatly groomed. Laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and lips. His bony facial structure had chiseled definition. Obvious strength in his broad shoulders, arms, torso; very much a masculine man. Clear to me. A much fuller clarity to Jill, who's breathing got tight as she gazed at Steve on the computer monitor, her head close to mine.

It happened. "First kiss," Jill announced proudly.

"Where?" I almost shouted.

"On the lips."

"You know what I meant. You tantalizing witch."

It happened in her old haunt, the Botanical Gardens. "He is good. Very, very, very good. I soaked my panties."

"Oh to be a praying mantis on the rhododendrons," I said "Watching. Listening."

There were more kisses, in the Botanical Gardens and elsewhere out of public view. Roaming hands, his cupping the volume and weight of her breasts, exploring the voluptuous dimensions of her ass; hers exploring his face and jaw line, his chest, the muscle in his ass curve, the promise his cock held in his pants. She did not comment on his size. I didn't think it appropriate to ask. She did say, "He was incredibly hard. Like it was made of steel or concrete or something."

"Tell me. How do you think he views you? What over all opinion...you know..."

"Over all he sees me as a married woman besotted with his good looks, charm, and masculine attributes which he has aplenty. And something more too. He is a smoothie, but this Steve Larsen is also an evolved man. Quite sophisticated. I don't doubt he has fucked other married women. If he has any curiosity about you he doesn't show it. He knows what he is doing. He knows what I am doing." She paused. "And, speaking of his view of me..." She looked at me with pure Jill sensual, sultry, sexuality, ran her hands lightly over her breasts, on down to the swell of her ass. "I'm not exactly a Wal-Mart greeter myself." She sashayed out of the room, her dancing ass cheeks mocking me in proclamation - YOU NEED TO ASK? DO I HAVE TO DRAW YOU PICTURES?

Mental pictures came pouring in. The common place of her commentary outweighed the erotic-sexual specific. His liking and tolerance of hot chili peppers at a Thai restaurant, for example. She reported that detail to me. Getting to know all about him. She rattled on with her courtship commentary every night. With that restored delight and happiness and fizzing thrill of taking a new man for herself, and with diligent regard for my inclusion in the process. Roger and Larry were outstandingly good, but after the Charlie Moffit fiasco Jill reassessed just how fantastic was my gift of her going solo once a year. She took her time. She employed all her resources of intuition, intelligence, and sexual experience to satisfy herself that rude surprises were unlikely. She romanced Steve, and savored every moment of it. She thrilled to my cock swelling to "mythological proportions" when she reported spicy details. She was inspired and inventive and fluent in fantasy scenarios of what Steve would do to her, what she would do for him. The heat and energy of my gift, her going solo, was gathering forces for a major electrical storm. And I felt a pang of being left out.

"Oh to be a fly on the bedroom wall when he really takes you."

She smiled with genuine caring and understanding. "I wish you could be there. I would love for you to see me with him. See it all. Fly on the bedroom wall."

At that instant I had a "eureka" instant, the pop of an idea, a solution. "I can't be a fly, but I could be an ear."

She gave me a blank look.

"Hear it all instead of see it all."

"Like...what? I call you? A three person version of phone sex?"

"Better than that. A sound recording of it all."

"Aaaaaaah. I see. Bug the room."

"You take the bug with you. In your purse."

"So very spy movie," she said with a little giggle more nervous than amused.

"There are all sorts of gadgets for that on the market. So I'm told. It could be done."

"I don't know about that. The idea sounds a little creepy."

"When you do it you are going to tell me all about it anyway. A recording will be sort of like a tele-prompter to help you remember the lines. When you narrate all the juicy details. And watch my cock get big and hard."

"Oh my. A recording of every word and sound. I can see how that would benefit you. And that is still a full half of why I will do it. The sizzling excitement you get from it. The other half is all for me." She smiled knowingly. "A different man, different cock, different personality, giving my sexual pleasures a new level of intensity. Your gift to me. Oh my. Oh my indeed." She put her hand on her pussy and clutched. It was a masculine gesture. It was much like a man clutching his cock and balls in his pants and making an exuberant offering to an audience of women, with a smirking grin on his face. "If you're going to bug my purse, you had better hurry. Steve and I are getting very close to hopping in bed."

"You are totally in charge. You can make him wait."

"Still. You'd better hurry."

The next day I asked for the purse she would carry when she went out to fuck Steve. That put her in a mild tizzy. "God. I don't know. I don't even know what dress!" Well, she had better make some quick decisions. Time was running short, I reminded her. That unbalanced her even more. I followed her to her closet. "This one probably." It was soft white leather. I took it from her to begin my mission. "Just a minute! Where are you going with that?" I knew exactly where I was going, but I couldn't tell her. Radio Shack? Electronic Express? "Like hell you will. Not with my Louis Vuitton on your arm." She snatched the purse back to her possession. "Just buy the spy ware and I will put it in myself."

"Well, I was thinking of time and expediency."

"Radio Shack? Really?"

I laughed. "Not really. There are security services out there, very high tech, very private and discrete, ready to do whatever a business tycoon like me needs. I will explore the market. They might have to punch holes in the leather for microphones. What do I know? I've never bugged my wife's purse before."

"Well, for damn sure you won't be punching holes in this purse," she said defiantly, chin raised, ready to fight.

I was flabbergasted. Women. Is there any tangent too far off for their minds to take? This was all about her once a year opportunity to fuck a man of her choice, just the two of them, with the added bonus of recording all the sounds of their sex for my special benefit. She was turning it into a spat over the pristine value of her designer purse. Hell, I could have bought her a dozen Louis Vuitton purses. I threw in the towel.