"You know I'm not, though?" I tried to contend.
"Sure. Of course not," was her reply. Unfortunately, it didn't hold the weight of much conviction.
Still, we did not have sex—not actual intercourse—and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Naturally, I felt deprived, like she was holding out on me on purpose. We did not discuss whether we should scrap the whole abstinence thing or not, but all we ended up doing each night was cuddling to sleep. It was warm and wonderful and unbelievably tender, but I would still get every time I held her. I just didn't try to force the issue, and she didn't seem to need me in that way, so the situation never manifested.
On Friday we had friends to contend with, so most of that evening was out anyway. We had a night out in the city, with me and a couple buddies playing pool and having drinks while the ladies had more fun dancing. I loved the way my wife looked on the dance floor. She still had all the right moves, and I could not help take note of all the men in the place that stared at her when she went by. I never felt jealousy as much as pride. Look all you want fuckface, but that is may ass you're staring at, not yours. I'll be hittin' that while you go home with your hand.
Of course the reality of late promised that I would not, in fact, be hittin' that, not anytime soon, but the thought and attitude stayed with me despite that. She was my girl. She loved me and I loved her and there was no more to it. Even when guys tried to flirt with her, I did not feel threatened. I knew where she was going home.
When a couple of black guys spent some moments laughing with her, I did feel a pang of something I couldn't quite describe. It may indeed have been jealousy, but I saw from across the place how my wife could handle herself. I knew her body language well. She maintained her distance, kept her self safe. Even if she smiled or laughed with a stranger, she made a point to say without words, off limits, boys. She even pointed me out and gave me a chance to wave to let them know she was already spoken for.
At one point when the six of us were sitting around the same table, one of my colleagues yelled out, "Don't be a bitch, David!" He was calling me out on some of my political views, nothing relating to anything, really, but Lynn actually spit her drink trying to suppress a laugh. No one else noticed any connection, of course, but Lynn and I shared a look. It was the first time that made my heart race all night.
The second time was when Lynn asked for another drink. There in the middle of the club, she came up behind me and whispered right in my ear, "Go get me a drink, faggot." Her whole demeanor was absolutely playful, but by the time I returned with her beverage of choice, I had to adjust myself discreetly under the table.
The ride home was mostly random talk. She had consumed far more alcohol than I, so she was already too tired to take much of anything seriously. When we did get home, it was already way late, so we both agreed that sleep was calling us. As I was brushing my teeth at the bathroom sink, Lynn was on the toilette peeing. I was in the middle of a joke about something, just stepping back to the bedroom, when she jumped behind me and threw her panties over my head.
They were black and silky, and it caught me by surprise, so she managed to get the whole thing pulled over my head so my face was covered almost completely. And of course, she had been dancing much of the evening, sweating amid the heat of bodies and movement. The resulting aroma that struck my nose was pure, unfiltered ass.
"Gotcha," she exclaimed, almost pulling me backward. She was holding the garment taut, almost like a kidnapper putting a bag over my head. Every breath was full of her musk, nothing but the mingled perspiration of her entire evening. "You like that, faggot," she said, almost as if reading my mind. "You like wearing my panties?"
I stopped where I was. I didn't try to pull away or free myself. I had no idea where she intended to go with this, but already I was throbbing with excitement. "Take your clothes off. Now," she cooed. She still held the panty tight against my face.
In that position, I unbuttoned my pants, let them drop to my ankles. As much as I was able, I slid my boxers down until they fell as well. I could feel my cock stiffening.
"You are so cute," she whispered. "What am I going to do with you?" I tried my best to step out of both pants and underwear but only managed one foot free. Unexpectedly, her hand came down and smacked my naked butt. My groin tingled as I contracted from the sudden jolt. "Get on the bed," she said.
She had let me go, but left the panties on my head. With one eye, I could see the direction of the bed. I freed my other foot and moved over to it, inhaling her sweaty scent for all it was worth. I did not choose to speak because I recalled what happened last time. That was fine with me. I was liking Lynn in control. All I had to do was enjoy the experience. A guy could really get used to this if he allowed himself.
When I reached the edge of the mattress, she said, "Stop." I did. "Turn around." I did. "Now get naked and then put those panties on properly," she instructed. "Then get on your knees." I immediately set to doing all that while my beautiful wife removed all her own clothing as well. As I knelt in front of the bed wearing her silky black underwear, she strolled over to me. My cock strained outward visibly, but didn't poke above the waistband.
"You look so pretty," she said.
I smiled back at her,
"What are you?" she asked.
"Um, I'm a bitch?" I wasn't sure which term of endearment she wanted.
"You're not sure? Say it like you mean it."
"I'm a bitch," I said more confidently.
"And whose bitch?"
"I'm your bitch." This was definitely getting more comfortable.
"Yes. Remember that." She stroked the top of my head, her naked pussy staring at my face. Neither of us had showered, and I could smell her aroma like a thick cloud surrounding her. "And what else are you?" She tousled my hair.
"I'm a faggot." That one still felt difficult to say out loud for some reason.
"That's right, faggot," she said. "You're a faggot who wears panties, aren't you? Say it for me."
When she said it, my balls got a jolt; but when I had to say it, it seemed infinitely more shameful, more degrading, like an admission of an ugly truth I didn't want anyone to know. Still, I stared at her pussy and said, "I'm a faggot who wears panties."
"Good boy," she said. "Now get up on the bed."
Eagerly, I complied. This turn of event was charging our sex life so much. I can't believe it took us this long to discover it. I didn't mind being her bitch or her faggot because I knew she understood me. We were playing games, role-playing, and every healthy couple did that sort of thing. Some people played cops and robbers, others might do harem girls and shieks. This was our thing. Wherever it stemmed from, no argument it was working.
"Lay on you back," she told me. I did just that. "Arms at your sides." I ended up laying in the middle of the bed with my arms and legs straight like I was standing at attention flat on my back. My cock was straining to stand as well, but the panty held it pressed again to one side.
Lynn was quickly up on the bed next to me. She thoughtfully adjusted a single pillow beneath my head. "Comfy?" she asked. I nodded. Then she kissed me and stroked my chest, sending tingles all the way to my toes. "Good," she said.
Without asking what I wanted or what I was in the mood for, she straddled my body. Her knees locked my elbows against my sides with her feet squeezing against my shoulders. I found myself staring up at her amazing ass, her thighs parted wide, revealing her swollen sex and puckered anus right above me. The smell was profound and I couldn't escape it, not without pitching her off. I didn't bother to struggle.
The fact that she didn't ask, made it all the more enticing. It was as if she didn't care how I felt at that moment, or just assumed I would be okay with it. Either way, when she dropped her ass right on my face, I had no choice but to receive it. Her pussy found my mouth and her asshole my nose. Within seconds my face was smeared with her stink, her warm juices mingled with her pent up sweat all coating me nose-to-chin as she started rocking her hips, sliding her moist slit back and forth as if she was fucking my face. Indeed, that was exactly what she was doing, masturbating on my face instead of using her own hand. I only tried to stick out my tongue to find her little button as it rode back and forth.
At the same time I felt her hands pressed down on either side of my hipbone. Nothing touched my cock except for the silky thin fabric. She was moaning and panting, groaning a little as she worked my face, but all was muted somewhat by the suffocating presence of her thighs and ass.
