Lori snores. It hardly defines my wife as a person. It neither limits my affection for her nor makes her less of a loving, warm person. It’s not the loud, sawing racket that one would attribute to a man’s snore. It’s more a demure, rhythmic breathing that I’ve grown accustomed to as being a part of my home life.
Except that lately I lay in bed at night hard as a rock when she drops off to sleep. Gail is a friend that works as a schoolteacher in Mississippi. She comes and visits us on weekends when she wants to stay in the big city. Gail and Lori were roommates in college and have remained friends and lovers ever since.
I’ve always enjoyed when my wife brought her female lovers home because we have the understanding that at the very least I get to watch. Participation is completely dependent on the woman’s attitude to men in general and me in particular. For the first ten years I knew her, Gail wasn’t much interested in my participation.
Which was a real shame, because I was very much interested in participating with her. She has a slender build and short, blonde hair. Gail is very feminine and is one of those Southern gals that seem to glide when they walk. She’s smart and funny and we’ve always had a relaxed, cordial acquaintance when vertical.
When they’re together, Lori takes charge. None of us are into domination or anything, but Lori’s relationship with Gail is more about Lori’s needs than visa versa. I’ve never really understood that part of it because otherwise my wife is very giving.
For instance, very soon after Gail arrives at our house for the weekend Lori will have her sprawled on our bed with Gail’s head propped up with pillows and my wife astride her. Gail will be performing cunnilingus as though she were dying of thirst and drinking from the well of life. It’s like a ritual re-enactment of something for the two of them. Lori doesn’t even wear panties when she knows Gail is coming over. It’s a fast, hot tongue-fuck that gets them both off quickly.
They go at it like two cats, unable to control themselves, unable to even wait to undress. Lori hikes up her dress and straddles Gail’s pretty face. She splays her labia out with one hand as she steadies herself against our headboard with the other, lowering her pussy onto her girlfriend’s eager, pink tongue. The sigh that emanates from both of them when contact is made comes the closest to enflaming my jealousy as anything can.
But then comes my reward. Gail, prim and priss, Southern miss hiking up her skirt with both hands and lustily frigging her cotton-covered snatch like the most perverse of all whores. God, I love to see a woman masturbating. Especially when she’s eating out my wife.
For one year, all I could do is gape at their ritual greeting. For several more, I stayed on the side and wanked at the visage of Gail’s underwear - white cottons and demure pastels. After three years, when Gail had become accustomed to me, I was able to crawl up between her legs and stare intently as her delicate fingers danced over the ever-moistening fabric. Another six months to lightly stroke her thighs. And another six to worm a finger betwixt panty and puss.
Finally on that occasion, I experienced what Gail’s orgasm are like from the inside-out.
Feeling her climax on my outstretched index finger was … indescribable! I had tasted Gail’s flavor many times from my own wife’s lips, but savoring it from my own hand was intoxicating.
After the ritual, which usually included several climaxes for Lori and one intense, gut-stirring cum from Gail, the two girls would relax in each others arms and catch up on their lives. Weekend plans were discussed. Schemes were hatched.
From the beginning, Gail slept in our bed, though at first she was so uncomfortable with the arrangement that she slept as far from me as she could afford to do so and still be in the same piece of furniture. Over time, as she became acclimate to my presence, we became quite adept at fucking Lori together without really interacting with each other.
It was five years before Gail quit flinching away when my hand brushed her soft, alabaster skin. Another year or so before she would accept a direct caress.
