Oscar And Irene Pt 02

It was this thought, of Irene on her back with her legs wrapped around his muscular ass, that pushed me over the edge, and I threw my head back as I came inside her. My wife allowed me to compose myself, and then grabbed one of my earlobes, and applied downward pressure on it.

"My turn," she said cheerfully, as she maneuvered my tongue into her desired position.

This was becoming more of a habit than I wanted it to be, but I guess that was the price I had to pay, for being no longer able to satisfy my wife through penetrative sex. Irene was much more vocal about her desire for Matt as I ate her out, and she ended up coming very quickly on my face.

"You should be very grateful that Matt is such a gentleman," she teased, as she rested between her orgasms. "If he had been just the slightest bit more aggressive, you would be eating his load from me, right now."

"Irene, please," I begged, much less interested in her dirty talk, now that I had come twice. "Don't joke about unprotected sex."

"Matt is actually the perfect candidate to bare-back me," my wife quickly responded, as if she had already given the matter some serious consideration. "He hasn't been intimate with a woman in seven years, so I would have no fear of sexually transmitted diseases. Plus," she added with an excited giggle, "he would make beautiful babies."

I raised my head to give her a look of disapproval, but she put her thumb and forefinger back on my earlobe, and guided me back to her pussy.

"One day you will eat Matt's load from me," she threatened, as she approached her second orgasm. "He makes me want to try new things," she continued, hitting all of my hot buttons. "Maybe when we go to New York, I will broaden my sexual horizons, a little."

As Irene's business trip to New York fast approached, I was getting more and more jealous. I wanted to supervise her packing, so that I could witness exactly what lingerie and underwear she intended to take with her.

"Jesus, Irene, you are only going for three days," I said in exasperation, upon learning that she had packed eight garter-belts.

We argued incessantly in the days preceding her trip, and fucked even more than we fought. I was insatiable, my desire fueled by my jealousy and my furtive imagination. I imagined them making love in front of an open fireplace, their sweaty bodies intertwined as they basked in their post-coital bliss. I imagined them bathing together, lovingly soaping each other as they enjoyed the deep, claw-foot bathtub, in their opulent New York hotel suite. I imagined her cavorting playfully in her garter-belt and matching stockings, trying to entice him back to bed, as he tried in vain, to get some work done.

After a few days I was twisted with jealousy, and even though Irene had drained my nuts every single day, I was constantly hard, and continuously pestered her for sex. Irene had seen enough, and finally sat me down.

"Oscar, you have to stop torturing yourself," she instructed me. "I am going on a work trip with my boss, with or without your approval. If I want to pack every single piece of lingerie that I own, that is my prerogative. I understand that you are jealous but that is your problem, not mine. You need to figure out a way to deal with it, that doesn't involve sex with me."

My heart sank as I processed her words. Not only was she adamant that she was going to New York with Matt, but it appeared that she was cutting me off from sex. I sought clarification, and was faced with immediate disappointment.

"Just until I leave," she said sweetly, as she stroked my forehead. "Your needs have become overwhelming, and I need a few days off."

Time really dragged as her trip to New York got closer, and even though I approached Irene with much more respect and consideration for her needs, she was adamant that I was cut off from sexual activity. She did relent one afternoon, two days before her trip, and she ended up giving me a hand-job. It was quite unexpected, and much appreciated on my part, although the mood was slightly spoiled when Irene pulled out a tape measure, once I was fully erect.

"This notion of average-sized penises has really piqued my interest," she explained, as she measured the length of my cock. "Oscar, you told me that you possess a cock of average size, and Matt assures me he is also average. One of you is lying," she said coldly, "so I am going to measure you both myself."

As she unravelled the tape measure, I had flashbacks of having my height recorded at school. As one of the shorter, less athletic kids in the school, this periodic validation of my lack of testosterone, was the scourge of my young life.

As the nurse pushed firmly down on the horizontal headpiece of the stadiometer, trying to negate the effects of me on my tip-toes, it was an ongoing battle between her trying to get an accurate assessment, and me struggling to get credit for every single quarter of an inch. Once my height was established, it was then broadcast to the assistant charged with recording our stature, in full earshot of my class-mates.

"Oscar, 4 feet eleven inches," the nurse intoned, as the captain of the football team took his place on the measuring instrument, eager to find out if he had yet reached six feet tall.

Irene placed the tip of the measuring tape at the base of my nuts, her manicured hands grazing my taint, as she sought to get an accurate length.

Reverting back to my school days, I sucked in my stomach, thrust my hips forward, and thought about my wife getting impaled by Matt over the trunk of her Ford Escort, trying to squeeze every last quarter inch out of my measurement.

"Oscar, 4.25 inches," she said with a disparaging sneer. "I looked it up," she continued, our respective penis length's evidently of some importance to her.

"The average Spanish man is 5.5 inches," she assured me. "The two of you are definitely not both average," she added, to my dismay.

Having been quantified as less than average, I had to assume that Matt's cock was longer than mine. This was certainly my wife's inference, although quite why she felt the need to actually measure it, was beyond me. I should have let it go and enjoyed my hand-job, but Matt had burrowed his way into my skull, and was not going anywhere soon.

"How big was he?" I blurted out, as Irene started to pour lubricant on my cock.

"Baby," she whispered softly, as she began to slowly jerk me off, "I told you I have only touched Matt through his suit pants. My gut feeling though? Way bigger than average."

Irene knelt before me, her mint green garter-belt peeking out from under her recently shortened skirt, as she continued to extol Matt's physical superiority over me.

"Why don't you get into some kind of team sports?" she asked, suddenly critical of my middle-aged body. "Matt is on a rowing team, and that keeps him in great shape. I can scarcely believe you two are the same age."

A few seconds later, I ended up blowing my load across my wife's thighs, soaking the straps of her garter-belt with my semen.

"I guess that piece of lingerie won't make it to New York," she teased, as I struggled to catch my breath.

Irene got to her feet, and gave me a look of pity, as I knelt there panting. For the first time in our seventeen year relationship, I felt inadequate, and it was eating me alive.

"I am going to wash my hands," she said cheerfully, "Toss the measuring tape in my suitcase. I am taking it to New York."

With less than two days to go until her business trip, there were some last minute complications. Matt realized that he had bitten off a little more than he could chew, and he told Irene that he needed someone else from the office to accompany them.

"I have to give a presentation," he told her, "and I will need someone to work the digital projector in the conference room, while you and I field questions."

I wasn't privy to their conversation, but at some point, my wife, recognizing that an additional employee from our company would be a very effective cock-block, suggested that I go with them to New York.

"He is familiar with Power Point, and can operate a projector," she assured an initially skeptical Matt.

That night, as I was unaware of the decisions that had already been made, that directly affected me, Irene offered me the chance to go to New York.

"I have been thinking, Oscar," she began magnanimously, "would you like to come with us on our business trip? To New York."

I accepted immediately, happy to have been invited and relieved that Irene had come to her senses, and decided to have her husband there, to prevent any untoward advances from her boss. After the initial euphoria faded, I tried to book a flight. Unfortunately, due to the short notice, even though I was able to get on the same plane as Irene and Matt, business class was fully booked, and I had to suffer the indignity of flying in the "cheap seats."

"I will switch seats with you baby," Irene generously offered, trying to make light of it. "You can sit up front with Matt in business class, and get to know each other better."

Naturally, I refused her offer, wondering what the hell I would have to talk about with this Alpha Male, and why the fuck I would want to get to know him any better. I already knew everything I needed to know about Irene's boss. He had kissed her on several occasions, had given her late night massages after the office had cleared out, and was in possession of a pair of her panties, given to him as a signal that she wanted him to fuck her. I certainly didn't want to sit next to him on a nine hour flight to the States.

I adjusted quickly to the reality that we were flying in different classes, and focused on packing. I didn't need many clothes for the three day visit, so when I had loaded all of my stuff into my over-sized suitcase, Irene shooed me away, and commandeered the rest of my space. It wasn't until we unpacked in New York that I realized that she had made good on her threat to pack every single piece of lingerie that she owned, except of course the mint green garter-belt, that I had defiled two days earlier.

When we got to the airport, the gulf between business class and coach became apparent. Matt and Irene checked their luggage within moments of arrival, having been assigned a concierge to expedite the process. I watched enviously as they walked towards the entrance of the First Class Lounge, and swiped their boarding passes to be afforded entry. Matt motioned for my wife to go first, and then placed his hand on the small of her back, just above her ass, as he looked over his shoulder to gauge my reaction.

I felt jealousy surge through my veins immediately at his affront. Thirty-five minutes waiting in line to check my suitcase, did nothing to reduce my anxiety, and by the time I got to the doors of the First Class Lounge, I was very annoyed.

Airline staff, and people in the service industry in general, have one set of mannerisms for people who can afford to avail themselves of the best things that life has to offer, and another set for the rest of us. This was made abundantly clear to me by the way that the impeccably dressed, First Class Lounge staff member, repeatedly intoned the requirements for entry.

"I am sorry, sir," she repeated again and again, managing to sound more bored with each passing pronouncement. "Access to the First Class Lounge is restricted to First Class and Business Class passengers, only."

"My wife and I are flying to New York together," I pleaded. "I would like to have a drink with her before we board."

The airline employee, remained steadfastly polite as she switched to her speech number two.

"If you feel that the check-in staff made a mistake with your boarding pass, please head back to the counter and have it rectified," she said, with a practiced smile.

Undeterred, I tried calling and texting my wife, but my attempts to reach her were in vain. I didn't see them until the announcement was made that the airline was boarding First and Business Class passengers. Again, as the airline staff did a great job of separating us, according to our economic status, I saw Irene and Matt at the front of the line, his hand having now moved to her ass-cheeks, where it rested possessively, as they were ushered onto the plane.

I could feel myself getting heated watching my wife's boss take liberties with her, but I also, embarrassingly enough, was erect. In fact, as they herded the cheap seat passengers through the luxurious environs of First and Business Class, my face was flushed, and I used my carry-on luggage to hide my erection. I avoided eye contact with my wife and her boss, as they relaxed in their reclining leather chairs, that had removable armrests that turned them into a small love-seat. I did notice that they were both sipping a glass of champagne.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, although once they dimmed the cabin lights, I did go to the curtain that separated Business Class from Coach, to see if I could catch a glimpse of my wife. I was only able to take a quick peek into the luxurious cabin, before I was shooed away by a snooty flight attendant, whose sole goal in life was to prevent the intermingling of the classes.

Matt was reading a book, the overhead light illuminating his subject matter as he held it aloft, so as not to disturb Irene, who had evidently enjoyed one glass of champagne too many, and had fallen asleep with her head in his lap.