How my wife Arlene and I met, and our backgrounds, are not particularly important for this story. Nor are detailed physical descriptions. Probably all of the background necessary to get a good idea of the relevant information can be summarized in a few paragraphs.
At the most relevant time of this story, I, Austen Weston, and my wife Arlene, were both 33. We had been married eleven years and had two daughters, Justine, 8, and Cybil, 6. Arlene and I are both slightly better looking, taller, smarter, and fitter than average, but no geniuses, actors, or models. Our libidos are also slightly higher than normal and we have enjoyed a very good sex life, even though not earth-shattering. Arlene was a corporate attorney, specializing in negotiating contracts although also knowledgeable about trust, wills, and estates. I was and still am the vice president in charge of purchasing, including IT equipment, of a small public company.
My sister, Jen, her husband, Bill, and their twin fraternal twin daughters, Kate and Beth, 7, live about four miles away by roads, one mile as the crow flies because there is a large park and forest preserve that you have to go around to get there. Our kids and their cousins are best of friends, and in the same school. Although I didn't really know Bill before he started dating Jen (and married her six months later), he has become my best friend.
One idiosyncrasy that Arlene exhibited was her approach to finances and saving money. She insisted on "investing" in jewelry and art. "Gold and platinum jewelry and artwork are investments that you can enjoy while they appreciate," was her common refrain. While I put a little away in the stock market, most of our savings was invested in jewelry – for both her and me – and artwork in the form of paintings and a few sculptures.
We also encouraged relatives to give our kids gifts of jewelry and art, and also gave them that type of gift as their "big" present on birthdays and Christmas, of course also with toys, games, books, and/or clothing.
Because of the significant value of our jewelry and art holdings we had a sophisticated security system. That included electrically powered sensors for each of our approximately twelve most valuable paintings and two most valuable sculptures. Also, we had a safe in the floor of the bedroom, and each of us had a locked desk. Arlene had the only key to her desk, I had the only key to mine, and Arlene had a key to the safe with the only other one in our bank safety deposit box.
To insure that power to our sensors and security system never went down, we had a backup generator and also a battery backup – double redundancy!
Bill has sort of taken a page from our book, but in a slightly different direction. He had high resolution cameras covering the only three entrances to his house, and a security system, though it was less sophisticated than ours.
Another idiosyncrasy that Arlene had, probably because of her semi-specialty of wills, trusts, and estates, was specifically adding expensive jewelry and artwork to our wills shortly after we purchase a piece. All male jewelry gets added to my will with the beneficiary alternating between our daughters Justine and Cybil (should Arlene predecease me), and vice-versa with Arlene for female jewelry. For pieces of artwork we alternated between Arlene and I who bequeathed them in our wills, again alternating between Justine and Cybil. This had the effect of designating some of our assets as mine, and some as hers, since you can't bequeath something you don't own outright.
Life was going along swimmingly, as far as I was concerned, until one Thursday night. When I got home from work Arlene was there, but the kids weren't. We were having a candlelight dinner, and Arlene had a skimpy outfit on and gave me a passionate kiss when I came through the door.
"Where are Justine and Cybil?" I innocently asked.
"Jen and Bill were nice enough to take them tonight, and to school tomorrow. You should have seen how excited they were when I told them they were having a sleepover at Kate and Beth's house," Arlene replied with a diabolical smile.
"Whatever will we do without them?" I said playfully, pulling Arlene close to me and giving her a passionate kiss."
"We'll think of something," she replied, squeezing my crotch.
After a tasty, flirtatious, and light dinner, we put on some CDs and danced. We mostly practiced the steps of slow dances we were learning in a weekend dance class, in our house, with our shoes off, for a good hour. Once Arlene started humping me on the "dance floor," that was the end of that. I carried her upstairs, she stripped me seductively, I stripped her unceremoniously, and we fell into bed.
While Arlene had never indicated an aversion to sucking cock, to the best of my recollection she had never initiated oral, always waiting for me to eat her first, or for me to almost push my cock in her face. Not that night. She started out sucking me like my cock was the last ice cream cone on earth, while manipulating my balls.
Then Arlene started sucking my balls while fingering my ass, both of which she had never done before.
I was groaning like a wooden ship being pulled out of the water, and saw flashes in my eyes. Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore she virtually jumped in the air and landed her soaking wet cunt on my stimulated upright cock.
As Arlene grabbed my chest hair and continuously moaned "Fuck," she was bouncing up and down on me like she was on a bungee cord. It didn't take long before she was screaming and I was squealing as our bodies were wracked by mammoth orgasms, and she collapsed on top of me.
We lay there, with my dick still up her pussy, as we both ground our pelvises together ever so slowly. Every thirty seconds or so one or both of our bodies were "tortured" by an aftershock.
When I finally went flaccid, Arlene rolled off of me and started planting kisses all over my face and neck. "Did you like?" she rhetorically asked.
"Does the Pope poop in the woods?" I replied, out of it enough to mix my metaphors and getting a chuckle from the sex Goddess who had taken over my wife's body.
We soon fell asleep; but Arlene was not done. She woke me in the middle of the night by sucking on my cock again, and soon I was blasting another full load of cum into her sweet pussy as her ankles were supported by my shoulders and I massaged her tits.
You're probably wondering why, just before I described the best sexual encounter in my experience, I said "Life was going along swimmingly, as far as I was concerned, until one Thursday night." That's because I knew Arlene and thought "Shit; what does this mean; more over-the-top sex in the future, or does she want something."
It is with the latter thought that I fell asleep for the second time.
The next morning, Friday, Arlene was all lovey-dovey and I allowed myself to believe that the only thing the fantastic sex we had meant was that our sex life had turned a corner from very good to excellent, and more phenomenal sex was in store.
My happy-go-lucky attitude, and big shit-eating grin, both mentioned by a number of my colleagues at work on Friday, changed in the early afternoon when the phone rang.
"Austen, it's Arlene," my secretary said over the intercom.
"Hi, sex Goddess," I opened the conversation.
"Hi, yourself, Eros," Arlene laughed.
"Hey, I'm not Greek," I laughed back.
"No, but you sure are the God of lust and sex," she giggled.
We continued trading compliments, which devolved into small talk, then the purpose of her call.
"Say, Darling," came over the line from her beautiful lips, the preface of a disaster to come. "Some of the people from the office are going out for some food and drink tonight as part of a team building exercise suggested by the morale consultant I told you about that our corporation recently hired. Are you OK with picking up the kids from day care, and getting dinner tonight?"
"Aren't you even coming home?" I blurted out with pure disappointment in my voice.
"Sure, I'll need to change. But I won't have time to pick them up and fix dinner. We're supposed to meet at the restaurant at 6:30. Oh please be a dear, I don't want to be the only one in our group not to go," she purred.
Miffed, I asked "Why such short notice?"
"I think that was part of the exercise – sacrifice for the team. You know that I'd much rather be with you and the kids, but I feel I should do this," she continued, purring even more.
What was I supposed to say at that point? After the best sex of my life she knew damn well that I couldn't be a jerk and say "Hell No!" I resigned myself to the inevitable.
"Sure honey. We will get to give you a kiss goodbye, won't we?" I ask sweetly.
"As long as you don't try to drag me to bed, Eros," she giggled.
We said our goodbyes. I sat stunned at my desk. She had never "gone out with the 'guys'" from work before; as far as I knew she didn't really like most of them, and I don't remember her ever inviting any of her co-workers to our house; nor did I remember her ever telling me about a "team building consultant." This smelled like three-day-old mackerel!
My sunny disposition and shit-eating grin disappeared.
I picked the kids up, made them their favorite meal of macaroni and cheese (although I did make them eat a salad too), and we saw Arlene off. We couldn't really kiss her, "Don't mess up my makeup or wrinkle my dress," she tittered as she gave us all light pecks on the cheek.
"That dress doesn't look like team-building garb," I mumbled to myself, "unless the exercise is to get fucked."
When Arlene came home that night, I noticed the clock. 1:02 a. m. Hardly dinner and a few drinks. I pretended to be asleep to avoid a confrontation. She crawled into bed with – as far as I could tell and confirmed the next morning – with some average negligee on and spooned me.
There was no sex Saturday night, but I did get some conventional, for us, sex Sunday and Tuesday nights.
I liked it less and less as the next two Thursday and Friday nights I got the same treatment. Well, it wasn't that I didn't like the fantastic sex Thursday night when it seemed that her aim was to fuck me senseless in positions or manners (including her virgin, as far as I knew, ass); rather it was what it meant. More "team building" on Friday night. After the second Friday night outing she got home at 1:22 a. m, the third 1:51.
The fourth Friday night, I had had it, despite the fact that she possibly outdid herself Thursday night as far as giving me physical (though not emotional) pleasure was concerned by riding me reverse cowgirl while massaging my balls, and then giving me the best blowjob of my life in the middle of the night.
As Arlene was getting dressed Friday, into a slinky outfit I had never seen before, I was direct. "Arlene, I really don't like this going out on Friday night shit."
