I.
IN LOCO PARENTIS (AND OTHER LATIN PHRASES)
You can call me Carl, although I'm Mr. Gillett to my students at the suburban high school where I'm Head of Social Studies.
I made the mistake of marrying a beautiful woman, physically beautiful, that is—the “prom queen” type. She was a willowy blond with tits like apples. For the purpose of this survey, I'll call her Ivy the Heiress. Our pre-marital romance was promising and our sex life was okay for the first three years, although she thought oral sex—giving or receiving--was disgusting. One problem was she was always preening and primping. She went to a manicurist and had her hair done practically every month; and, of course, she didn't want me to muss it up during sex.
When we went on trips, one suitcase was entirely reserved for beauty aids. The last four years I was lucky to get laid once a month. Thank God, we did not have any kids. During our last fight I yelled at her, "Where the hell do you get your hair done? At the funeral parlor?" and she kicked me out of the house. I sucked it up and resolved that I'd get along on my teaching salary. Actually, the pay scale at my new school was pretty good.
My new school, my new life, my new love. The place was to become for me a happy family of serious students, half of which were beautiful girls. I couldn't have known, that first September, that my wife Ursula was sitting in the front row of my senior history section. She was an average-looking buxom girl, with glasses, more industrious than she was creative, I thought, and most pleasant. It was her overall attitude that was most endearing. She'd erase the blackboard and joke with me at the end of the school day. Then she was right there that first day of my fall tennis practice--determined to make the team. And that was the fateful beginning of things: I was impressed by the serious mind; she was my funny friend; but then, seeing her in her short tennis dress, I knew I was in love with the whole person. This tall girl had the most delicious-looking legs I could ever hope to see. The balls of her calf muscles were just prominent enough to lend the thick legs most appealing lines and harmonized with the fullness of her curvaceous thighs. I had to restrain myself from falling on my knees before her to hold their smooth loveliness to my cheeks, thence to kiss and tongue my Ursula from her sport socks to her crotch.
I had a problem with coaching and drooling at the same time. I do, nonetheless, take my role of teacher and friend seriously: I am in a true sense
in loco parentis
. I do admit to dispensing a short hug of congratulation or farewell, and even a quick peck of a kiss on special occasions. But I continue to follow the advice of my wise old methods teacher: "Carl, don't fuck the customers!" With Ursula, a short peck of a kiss two months into the school year turned into a lengthy, open-mouth expression of our lust for each other. Damn it, I had crossed my own line. Further, I was married.
I knew that she was dating a greaser who'd been out of school for some time--certainly not good enough for her--and, even though it was none of my business, I was jealous. I know I could have regained my equanimity if Ursula hadn’t been such a tease. One fatal day in April she appeared in class without a bra. Unbound, her big pointy tits had a delightful wag to them. Through the light texture of her shirt, I divined dark halos spreading about the tips of her tits. Ursula's eyes, furthermore, said they were for me. The professional educator had to revamp his standards. She and I wanted me to touch and handle her individual breasts--and in the worst way!
When she turned eighteen in May, my rationalization fuzzily elevated her to adulthood, and I made love to her above the waist. However, I would not sink to adultery. It was hard, but Ursula understood where I was coming from. Nonetheless, discovering her sexual appetites fired my attraction to her. She had told me about the loss of her virginity recently to this older guy with a reputation of being bad actor. He had demanded that she omit underwear in dressing for their dates. Further she said that, while their sex together was rough, Ron’s fucking was something she loved and needed. That confession didn’t do much for my morale. But I thanked our lucky stars that soon, she’d be taking her loveliness off to a fine small college, even though she had no intentions of becoming celibate. Nonetheless, we remained in love--still treading the high wire, sexual desire pulling from the left, moral imperatives from the right. I dearly hoped that she would find a fine young man to love her with tenderness and concern for her well-being.
With my marriage going poorly, my sex life was weakly fulfilled in my love letters to Ursula. She was so sweet to put up with them, even as she had fallen for a graduate student whose company she was enjoying. Nonetheless, her sweet and frequently very sexy responses seduced hell out of me--such as her telling about Paul's big cock and how she imagined it was mine to aid her in reaching orgasm. And she was glad to learn that I jerked off when writing to her or receiving her letters. Certainly we were still in love.
I drove to visit her twice within the next two years. While continuing to abstain from intercourse at the motel where we lived in the nude for two days at a time, Ursula's loving was fantastic. I had written her about the effect of her beautiful legs on me, and she invited me, after I had sucked her tits adequately, to do her completely, without sport socks. Slowly, up toward the beautiful loins, I kissed and licked. She elevated her hips and pubis to accept my stiffened tongue in search of the center of her heat; I drank the flow of her sex; I nibbled and sucked the erect clit.
Our friends agree that Ursula has the sweetest pussy to suck of all our partners. One of my greatest turn-ons is watching her approach her peak while being eaten. She screams softly and pants audibly before she arches. Then she contorts as wave upon shuddering wave undo her completely. In that final phase, her great thighs quiver in her complete ecstasy, as they did in response to her first oral sex, fifteen years ago in our country motel.
II SAFETY AND NUMBERS
Some of the kinky things we did in our pre-marital period, I guess, sparked our interests in opening our marriage to special people. I agree, it's been a switch for "straight-laced Carl Gillett."
Shortly after my divorce from the heiress came through, we made complete and beautiful love, got pregnant, and got married, forcing my darling to pick up her senior credits two years later at a city university near us. As I'd always known, she is bright and determined. Her accomplishments and personality are much appreciated by the Board of the local library, where she's the Associate Librarian. She laughs when I say she looks like a librarian. Not so with her clothes off! She's still a beautiful girl. Her tits are a little longer, but they don't hang! They merely branch out at a lower level.
I'm trying to get to our expanded sex life. The setting then is our cozy little suburban home. The time is four years after our marriage. I am thirty-eight and Ursula is twenty-six. Of course, we must analyze the circumstances, which are the fun part.
Back at college, Ursula's primary sex mate had been Paul, her biologist friend. I'd met him and I could immediately see the attraction. One of our sex games was for Ursula to tell me all about him and them in her letters; and later we had several three-way phone conversations, which we found highly erotic. Can you imagine celibate Carl lying on his single cot at eleven at night and Ursula's voice in his ear: "Now he's filling my pussy with his big cock and I want him to come in me." Well, that was enough to lead a thirty-three-year-old man to jack off!
Paul’s annual Christmas cards told that his work on the west coast seemed to be going well and that he had married and was looking forward to raising a family. Some time in August he wrote that his young wife of three years, four months pregnant with their first child, had been killed in a traffic accident. It was so very sad.
Shortly after hearing that distressing news, Ursula sat up in bed one night. "Honey," she said, "let's invite Paul to Christmas." That was something to think about, and I did in living color and cinemascope. I thought of Paul tall, strong and naked. I wanted to see the big cock that gave Ursula so much pleasure. I imagined her kneeling before it in love and Paul returning the favor to her delight. My own dong began to rise in contemplation of those images.
"Do you think he'd come?" I finally said.
"I think if he were here, he would," she laughed.
"Oh, darling, would you want him to fuck you?"
