I was starting to get a little frustrated. What started out as a game had turned into something of a ritual. I realized that part of me wanted to go back, but so much more of me was enjoying myself, but always looking for more. It was like a drug.
For a while it was insane. I was worried that my husband might be gay, the way he would suck on my strap-on and moan like a little schoolgirl when I shoved in inside of him, almost always coming without even so much as a little of my help.
He wasn't I was pretty sure. He was the same man I had married, only not in bed. We still went out with friends and none of them, I am certain not one, even has a clue to this day. To them we were just growing older, changing. I was becoming more forceful, getting what I wanted at work. He was getting mellower, more subdued.
Of course it's hard to be a hot head when you're wearing pink perfumed panties and your cock and balls are all shaven like a little boy.
He was the same man, but he was different. I was certainly different.
We had gotten married when I was just out of college, but we met much earlier, when I was just sixteen. I had never been with anyone else before, and I hadn't since. I could count the number of boys I had kissed on one hand. For a long time I was proud of this, but as I got older, and we started down this crazy path, I wondered.
I'm sure I wondered partly because of the desire to have a man on top of me again, bearing down on me with his hard cock pushed so far inside of me I could burst. I missed being fucked as much as my husband seemed to enjoy it. This was hot, but just not the same.
We tried several times, each time ending in some sort of failure. I started not even getting hot when we tried anymore, almost knowing we were doomed to failure. He tried the Viagra, but while it did keep him hard, he never came. Even though he was inside of me, it never felt right, finished. It wasn't enjoyable, it felt like work.
I started taking more time away form home. I had a lot more work piled on me after two promotions and the desire for more. When my husband lost his job, we lost a considerable salary, I was hoping to make that back. I was working on it, and I didn't realize it, but all this play was working with me. It was empowering me everywhere.
But I still wanted something else. Something more exciting. That's what it was coming to, me looking for excitement, fulfilling some unmet need that I'm still uncertain of.
Then something unexpected happened.
It was late on a Friday and I was looking at a pile of expense reports that had to be filed or accounting was going to eat me for lunch. I picked up my cell phone and called home.
"Honey," I started, "there is no way I'm going to be make it home for dinner tonight."
Silence. I knew he was upset. It was Friday, our day. I tried over and over to convince him that it was unavoidable. I would be reprimanded, punished or worse. Reluctantly, he understood and I went back to staring at an incredible pile of receipts.
"Ma'am", our administrative assistant Sandy said, knocking on the side of my office door. "I was assigned to lock up, Friday rules remember?"
My rules. Who would tell their office they had to be out by five on Friday no if ands or butts and then sit at her desk doing expense reports herself? I was in a bind.
"I have expense reports due yesterday," I smiled.
She wasn't taking no for an answer, another one of my rules.
"Where is happy hour?" I stood up and gathered my belongings, giving in. "I told my husband I was going to be late."
I turned off the lights to my office and walked through the empty halls to the elevator. Sandy was adorable. I didn't know if she was twenty or thirty to be honest with you, I found out later she was twenty-two, but she was a doll. She was always the first one to work and the last to leave. Never complained, a literal dream.
"About happy hour," she pushed the button for the parking garage, "it's to close to the holidays, no one really wanted to go. I know you told me to organize when I could. I do have wine and cheese at home? It's nearby."
I tried to turn her down, telling her over and over again that I really should get home to my husband. I was sure he made something for dinner and he sounded hurt when I told him I wasn't going to make it home. She was a pushy one.
We drove to her place. It was a nice apartment and just a few blocks from my house.
"We should carpool," I asked as we walked up to her front door. She nodded.
The inside of her apartment was exactly as I had pictured. Perfect. Cleaner than clean. The coffee table was laid out with crackers and three bottles of wine. Otherwise not a piece of clutter anywhere.
"In case we had happy hour," she pointed at the table, "looks like at least two us will be happy. I'll get some cheese."
We sat down and chatted about work. I spilled the beans about a raise and bonus to which she gleefully opened up our second bottle of red wine. Then the talk turned more personal.
