My wife loves to come. I love making her come. A match made in heaven. Recently, though, there's been trouble in paradise. Surgery rid me of cancer but left me with a dysfunctional cock. I could still get her off with my fingers and tongue, and we own a couple of vibrators that do the job nicely. Like the majority of women, thrusting doesn't make her orgasm, much as she enjoys it. So, she keeps telling me she's okay.
I wish I could say the same. I'd never realized how much I love the sheer act of fucking her. Ploughing my hard cock in and out of her wet pussy feels great for me, but what I miss even more is watching her tits bounce, hearing her gasps and moans, seeing her face flush with pleasure. My doctor said my erections might return, eventually. She made a point of taking her birth control pill in front of me each day, saying it was because she has faith I might be back at any time.
I'm not sure I share her confidence, but it gave me an idea.
We've never had what you'd call an open marriage, but a few years ago, my wife did have an online affair. What made it hot instead of threatening was the way she kept me informed at every step. Her virtual sexcapade started with a work assignment to do a project via email with a guy in the Midwest. After a few weeks she told me, somewhat sheepishly, that they'd been flirting, and she hadn't exactly mentioned that she was married. I smiled and shrugged. A week later she said he now knew she was married, but they were enjoying it so much neither wanted to stop. I smiled again. The next week she asked if I was okay with them doing a virtual hookup session. That meant they'd email back and forth about exactly what they were doing to each other. "Fine with me," I said. "And in case you're worried it bothers me...." I grabbed her hand and held it to my crotch so she could feel how hard her mere suggestion had made me (those were the days).
That weekend she brought me a printout of their session. It turned us both on so much we spent the afternoon fucking our brains out. I figured that, if he got to jerk off over my wife's emails, no harm done.
Last week, I pulled the printout from the drawer of my bed table (I liked to jerk off to it, too, back in the day) and got his address. I contacted him and explained what was going on and the favor I wanted him to do. I capped it off by offering to buy a plane ticket.
On Friday I was cooking my wife's favorite dinner and pouring champagne when she got home from work, wearing a constricting, conservative business suit and clunky heels. She ducked into our bedroom and a couple minutes later padded out barefoot in skinny jeans and a flimsy t-shirt with nothing underneath. She sipped champagne as I plated the crab cakes. After we ate, we kissed. Then we sank to the floor, making out. I stripped her t-shirt over her head and sucked on her erect nipples. She sighed and moaned. When I put my hand between her legs, I could feel her wetness through the denim. She purred and reached down to unbutton her fly. "Go down on me," she whispered, urgently.