A Loving Wife's Story

During the days that followed I felt an odd buoyant happiness. I could not get that night of our fantasy sharing out of my mind. Such a powerful experience! So new and exciting! Something that came from a round the curve view of a now seedy motel on a hill side. A view I had countless times over recent years, which never triggered a thought of Ken my mature married man lover of a few hours. What ever happened to him, I wondered? I wasn't entirely sure, but I don't think I ever saw him again after that day in the motel. He is probably fat and sloppy now. Maybe bald. So what? His place in my memory was a skilled and confident and manly fucker, and that was dim and faded until I brought it out, gave it some polish, to share with my husband.

Share with my husband. That was what I couldn't stop thinking about. For all my self rated sexual sophistication, I was not prepared for that. Is any wife prepared for that? To open up and dive with her husband into her quivering self exposure? Is any husband prepared for that? Would any other husband and wife be as erotically enflamed as Jamie and I were? I had no idea. I did know a new door had opened for us. A new vista. A new world.

My thoughts about that new world became scrupulously analytical. Why was it so important to me that Jamie lose all guilt feelings about being so excited by what I told him? The reasons I gave him the next night were still valid in my mind. Full acceptance by both of us that, no matter how alien, his reaction and mine fed each other and created something valuable for us to keep. That value was dependent on Jamie coming to terms with himself and banishing any guilt and self loathing, Any negativity would erode that value I wanted us to keep. And yes, my analytical, and female, mind was also looking ahead. To a repeat. Another serendipity of intimate sharing. Confirming it as a valuable thing for us to keep and enjoy with no reservations. The ramifications of our talk and Jamie's promise to adapt to my full acceptance of his entitlement, as it were, to yield to his enflamed excitement in hearing me describe fucking another man, carried the hint that we could do that again. Any time we both were ready and wanted to.

I had to scrupulously bide my time. Allow Jamie to work it out in his mind, at his own pace. I never made any reference to our Red Rooster Inn night that opened a door for us. Our lives followed our routine. His work, my work, best friend companionship, sweet sex with a fresh level of renewed passion. He went down on me more often than before, like he was rediscovering my pussy. He was always very good at that. He became even better. His lips and tongue adoring, even worshiping, my sexual core, having a profound and meaningful communication with it. I sucked his cock with all my self proclaimed and proven expertise, in complete abandon to the joy and adoration and even worship of his beautiful manhood. I was very happy.

It was about two months after our door opening night. We were preparing dinner together. Jamie has an interest in and a flair for culinary arts. The truth is he is a far more accomplished cook than me. That was an impressive revelation when we first started dating. An accountant who cooks.

I once had a prejudicial bias on the very title "accountant." The word could only invoke a fuzzy image of a non-entity. A soft, pudgy man, very white, who wore horned rim glasses on his nose, who lived in a separate world of paper and numbers, who made no mark on the world outside his desk and office. Jamie destroyed that bias. He was a gorgeous man. Tall, slender and vital. A man with many worldly interests, a zest for living outside his office.

We met at a museum exhibition. Another of those serendipitous moments. The Rijkesmuseum in Amsterdam was undergoing renovation, and a large selection of their Golden Age Dutch Art Masterpieces was on U.S. tour. Our museum was one of the lucky stops. I immediately noticed a beautiful man in an expensive and beautifully cut suit. He was a few years older than me. I became aware he was following me. Not stalking, just coincidently drifting along in my wake. My willowy wake. Apologetic smiles were exchanged if one of us blocked the other's view of a painting. Close proximity to read the printed plaques beside a frame. He smelled good. Finally comments, musings exchanged. Telling eye contact. Broader smiles. It can happen that way. A beautiful man following me in my willowy wake, my hips and ass cheeks shifting into willowy womanly gear. Us getting tired on our feet and needing the relief of a juice drink in the attached restaurant. Cheerful conversation. A confident agreement it would be nice to meet again. An exchange of phone numbers. It can happen that way.

Jamie courted me, I seduced him. He destroyed forever my prejudicial bias of what an accountant was. He had just started his own business. With all the academic rigors out of the way, his own business gearing up, with time to devote to it, Jamie was looking to marry and settle down. I was in my first year of PhD studies, twenty five years old, finding my more or less random fucks with men un-edifying, relieving an itch but giving satisfaction of limited duration, I too was leaning strongly toward a need to fall in love and marry and settle down. Jamie and I fell in love. A year later we were married.

That night as we prepared supper together, Jamie was in an amorous mood. His finger touched and stroked my hair. Touched my cheek. That melting smile of his. I swung my hip to bump him in close passing. He put his hand on my ass and cupped a cheek in his hand, measuring the curve of form and firmness, jiggling it. An amorous mood, delicious and delightful. Husband and wife working together to prepare the evening meal.

We went to bed that night to make love. He went down on me, engaging and communicating. He gave me my orgasm, rested a moment, and gave me another one, his tongue working on the hood of my almost too sensitive clit. He mounted and slid his hard cock into me, giving my channel that divine massage. He stopped, lifted up my legs and placed my ankles over his shoulders. He bent me double. That was certainly not a first time. He did that at times, not often, but now and then.

"Ahhhh yes." I moaned.

"Was that a Red Rooster Inn ah yes?"

I smiled at him. I can describe my smile as everything I felt at that moment. We were back. Jamie was back, adapting, wanting to sample again that magic of yielding to those hot thrills that were no longer so forbidding.

"It is now," I said, "all for you, to share with you."

He closed his eyes and found his rhythm. He fucked me.

"You can fantasize me under him if you want. You have my permission. I want you to."

He didn't answer. He did suck in a deep hiss of air. His eyes were closed. He fucked me with taut concentration. Faster and faster, harder and harder. I came before he did. A wrenching, gripping, all encompassing orgasm. I shouted out his name. He came in a slamming, convulsive torrent. Grunting and gargling. He collapsed on me, full weight, gasping for air. I hugged his sweaty back, held him tight to me. My man. My love. My heels had slid from his shoulders to rest on his ass cheeks. My strong man. My love.

The after glow, the sweet lassitude. "Wow!" Jamie said.

"Double wow!" I said. "We did it again, and it was just as good as the first time."

"Yes." Jamie said, with no tonal ambiguity at all.

"Did you picture him fucking me?"

"Quite a bit. Not the full route though. Did you?"

"I tried, but it didn't work. You took over. Your cock in me. You and your cock were everything. That, and me concentrating on you imagining him fucking me. That was my prize. Not him. Imagining you imagining him on me and in me. That sent me over the edge. My God did I cum hard! I almost passed out."

"So did I. Fantastic!"

"You've made it, haven't you my sweet. Adapted. No more doubts or guilt. You are now free to be you. I am free to be me."

"I made it this time. The freedom is very exhilarating. I can't say if that is permanent or not. Right now I feel terrific."

"We have time. We can work at it. Work? What the hell am I saying? Play. All exhilarating liberated fun play. Sharing. Just allow it to happen when we both want it to happen. No schedule. No requirements. Just let it happen."

"I can do that. Right now, for sure, I want to do that. Tonight was damn good. Again."

"Oh yes my love. You are there. Where I want you to be. Our two sides of the same coin. Together.... I will rummage in my memory banks. Other memorable men. Good stories to share with you. Stories in a toy box to put on the shelf and take it down and pull out a play thing. Any time we both are in the mood and want to."

******

Life went on. Jamie's new business was growing rapidly. More and more corporate accounts were coming on board, requiring him to hire more employees. After I received my Doctorate, great fortune landed me a position in the same department where I did all my studies. My own career was off and running. Life was good.

Sex was good, as always, but flavored with a new spice we avoided remarking on. That toy box on the shelf in the closet. I didn't obsess on the toy box presence, but I did think about it often. Analytical thinking.

What exactly was my role in the toy box? What exactly was the value in it for me? My questions were not a prolonged wrestling match with the devil. The answers were already there. Jamie's "erotic enflaming," as he so vividly put it. Why was that so valuable to me? I had no clear and ready answer. It just was, that's all. And there was nothing in my experience or intellectual journeys that offered interpretive guidance. It really, really turned me on that Jamie was so closely attached, almost like he was inside me, while hearing me describe in detail how much I enjoyed fucking and sucking another man. Long before he knew me. But that wasn't all, in all honesty. The fantasy re-enactment involved a real man that fucked me and transported me on that fateful day. He was not a prop. He was real, and made the story real. As much for me as for Jamie. The first independent answer to emerge from my analytical perusing was the clear fact that I thrilled to be on exhibition, mentally, with a real man to give Jamie his thrill as a voyeur, mentally, of me having sex with a real man. No great puzzle, really. That's what it was, and I liked it. I liked it a hell of a lot. Too valuable a liking to let it go. And it did us no harm, really, our two sides of the same coin, in the privacy of our marriage bed.

Our next indulgence was several months later. Jamie was amorous. He can be that way at any time, but this time his yen had a slightly different buzz. The sort of buzz any woman can detect in her man without knowing exactly what she is detecting. A "hummmm, let's see where this leads" detection. It led to bed. Jamie in a heightened state of initiative, taking charge.

"Have we exhausted the Red Rooster Inn?"

I almost gave a shout of glee. He was back! My patience and vigilance to do nothing to guide or manipulate him had paid off. He too had not forgot our toy box on the shelf. How often and intently he thought of it did not matter. He knew it was there, and it no longer frightened him. He was comfortable with it. Tonight he was back, on his own initiative.

I gave him a smile of wistful regret. "I'm afraid we might have." But my wistful smile did not close the door. It also had a speculative flicker at the tail end. A flicker that demanded a dramatic pause, as they say in the theater. The dramatic pause of a coy woman. Jamie gobbled the bait.

"There was another man. Just as good as Ken was. When I was a young woman in undergraduate."

"Just as good as, eh? There's a story in that, then."

"But even more sordid, if taken the wrong way."

Jamie gave me a frenzied kiss that mashed my lips against my teeth. Almost painfully. "You are a witch. A sexy witch. You know that?"

"You want to hear?"

"Oh yes. I want to hear. I want to hear it all. Sordid all."

He was back, my husband, all the way back in, as was I. Back in our good, fun, and very exciting thing. Exhibitionist and voyeur. We liked it!

"It was in a hotel. The Marriott. A real hotel, not a motel. I was there for a seminar on the Romantic Poets."

"Apropos." Jamie said.

I laughed. Jamie was with me, all the way. "It ended and we all scattered, and I was suddenly alone at loose ends. You know what I mean. So I went into the cocktail lounge and had a sissy drink with rum and a paper umbrella in it. A handsome man took a stool beside me. We struck up a conversation. You know how it goes. He really was good looking. Solid but trim, near forty I guessed. Dressed like a business man. I was dressed in seminar clothes, a simple dress, and a bit rumpled by then."

"But a beautiful and ravishing college girl all the same." Jamie declared, keeping the record straight.

"A horny college girl. At loose ends. Though I didn't really know I was horny till later."

"And what made you aware?"

"His hand on my thigh. Two light pats of punctuation on something he said. Too quick to be offensive, but quick touches having a language that needed no translation. A message he delivered to see how it would be received. I was receptive enough. I knew I was in a bar and a handsome stranger was trying to pick me up. He was smooth, skilled and polished, and his intent was packaged in charm, wit and laughter. I hadn't fucked a guy in quite a while."

"Horny."

"Females can get just as horny as males, you know."

"And I always thought it was my wit and charm that won the lady."

"In your case that was all required, I have no doubt." I kissed my gorgeous sexy husband to seal the truth of that. Then I went back to the bar. "That night I was horny. I knew it when he put his hand on my thigh again and left it there, and all my response was acquiescence to his gesture. I felt those familiar zippy, zappy erotic tingles. Then he said something very odd. He said, 'A beautiful young college girl. Having to support herself.'

"I could make no sense of that. Then the shock of understanding hit me. He thought I was a prostitute on my round. The shock was so outrageous I had no way of dealing with it except to burst out laughing. He was shocked, in the opposite direction. 'Do you think I am a prostitute?' I asked him.

"No! Of course not! He said. Denials and protestations came pouring out of him. I grinned and laughed all the while. He knew he had made a hideous blunder. It was cute to watch him squirm, and after a while he started laughing at himself. I informed him, most convincingly I was a real college girl and not a prostitute. I had just concluded a seminar on the Romantic Poets in one of the public meeting rooms. So there. He apologized some more, and replenished our drinks. The whole thing became funny and a bit of fun. No harm done. We both relaxed and loosened up. His mistake made me even more horny. No one had ever taken me for a prostitute before, needless to say. Did I look like one? What on earth would it be like to be one?

"He insisted on treating me with dinner. To atone. I accepted, why the hell not? Dinner went well. He was even more charming and generous with two bottles of expensive wine. He made a humble and last apology. I asked him, 'Have you picked up prostitutes before?' He swore he never had. 'Why did you think I was one? Do I look like one?' He swore I was very lovely and wholesome looking. 'Then why?' Hearsay, he said. Other business men travelers. Reports that hookers everywhere were passing themselves off as college girls, if they were young enough. He said he just wanted to clear the air. He apologized yet again. I forgave him, with a smile.

"Here is the catch. I was having all sorts of wicked fantasies of actually being a prostitute. What with meeting him at a bar, his hand on my leg, the false if tentative assumption. During dinner I played the temptress, the seductress. He was married, traveled a lot, was lonely living in hotel rooms, even in good hotels like the one we were in. You need a woman I said. Yes I do he said.

"We went back to the bar for after dinner drinks. We were cozy and chummy, and well on the way to tipsy. How would a prostitute go about it? That's what I wondered. He put his hand on my thigh, pretty high up. I put my hand on top of his and held it there. We smiled. I was playing the role of a high priced but cool prostitute, enticing, there to please. He was a total stranger and we had spent less than two hours together. He asked if I wanted another drink. I asked if his room had a mini bar. His face took on a glow. He said the room was well equipped. I said it needed to be well guarded. He said what do you mean? With Trojan soldiers, I said, or what ever offers protection. His face beamed. He excused himself and went to the lobby area, promising he would be right back. Demanding I not go anywhere. Wasn't that clever of me, Jamie?"

My husband had to think. "Oh. Yes. I see. Trojan soldiers. Very clever. To ask if he had rubbers in his suitcase would have been too, too crude, considering the circumstances."

"Exactly. A high priced whore should never be crude. He - for the life of me I can't remember his name now - he was quick on the uptake and went on an errand. He came back with a paper bag in his hand. I put my hand in the crook of his arm and he escorted me out of the bar like we were entering the White House to meet the President. A classy whore can be elegant and haughty, don't think she can't. Here," I said, cupping my breast in offering to Jamie's mouth, "like you did for my first story.

"What do you think of your wife as a classy whore?"

"An arresting and entrancing vision. A college girl in a self created role on a self created stage."

"You got it. You are right there with me, aren't you my sweet. Ah yes...like that. Give my nipple a hard pinch with your fingers at odd times. Surprise me. A flash of quick pain then gentle soothing. Yes, just like that." My fingers were on my clit, doing a leisurely massage. My pleasure nerves came wide awake and began to stretch and wiggle.

"You got it. My self created role on my self created stage. Going up in the elevator I imagined myself as a whore with a customer. Trying to imagine what a real one would feel like. I wasn't all that far removed. He was a stranger, but he gave off no threatening or dangerous vibes. In fact he was much more nervous than me. He was a likable stranger, great bod and good looking."

Jamie's cock had been in a lurching state, bobbing and weaving, getting its bearings. It suddenly sprang up to full height, on high alert, pulsing with concentrated attention. My fingers gave it tactile praise and assurance that I wanted that response to my story.

"When we got in the room we kissed, hot and passionate, tongues licking and spearing. We groped. His hands fondled my breasts, squeezed my ass. I put my hand between us and felt the length and hardness of his cock. Just like a whore would do. We rushed to undress. I stood naked and spread my arms and giggled, and said, 'I'm not a whore, but I have this crazy excitement of feeling like one right now. I am yours to take. Free of charge!'" That made Jamie's cock throb. He gave my nipple a just enough painful pinch.

"He was like a little boy at his first birthday party. More gifts than he could absorb all at once. I lay on the bed while he emptied the bag on the dresser. A tube of lubricant was with the condoms. We said nothing about it. I lay with my legs slightly cocked and spread wide, my fingers teasing my nipples. Like a whore waiting to service. I loved the rush of doing that. My pretend role. Him a stranger, for real. But I felt safe. And very slutty."

Jamie shuddered and moaned. He was seeing it all in his mind. And I wanted so much for him to see just that, have that intense forbidden thrill of watching his wife with another man, his wife as a then young college girl play like whore in a hotel room on a bed with her legs spread wide to welcome a stranger. I shuddered and moaned with him. We were as one in our special thrill.