Our lives went on in a routine fashion. Jamie had to travel at times to various cities where his corporate accounts were. Usually, two or three of his staff went with him. Usually to review account procedures and keep all within IRS approval. Sometimes he would be away for a week or more. I missed him terribly when he was gone. Sometimes when he was away we would have phone sex. The phone sex was a Scheherazade transference. I would tell him in detail how I was dressed, in a chair, on the sofa, lying on the bed. How horny I was for his touch, his mouth, his cock. What my hands were doing to relieve the ache. Actually bringing myself off with my breathing and words reaching him over the phone. Listening to his voyeuristic breathing as I exhibited, hearing the sounds of his jerking himself off.
For one business trip phone sex play, I invented a scene. A pizza delivery boy scene. So trite and silly I'm half ashamed to reveal it. What it does reveal is the solidity of our trust and comfort had reached a point where I could deliver my story as though it had really happened. With no "I've been a bad girl" apology or begging for forgiveness. I was Scheherazade telling my husband how I had fucked the pizza delivery boy, in the same manner and style of telling him how I had fucked Ken and Kirk. For my benefit and for Jamie's. It was a new twist, and a very exciting one.
When Jamie was back home, he had me tell him again. He asked many specific questions about exactly how my tryst began and progressed. My invention went into high gear. Keeping it plausible and workable as fantasy demands. The boy was a college student, a very handsome lad, strong and healthy looking. My husband was away and I was horny for sex. I had deliberately dressed in a wrap with waist tie, with no bra or panties. When I answered the door chime I invited the boy in to bring the pizza to the kitchen counter. My wrap was loose and my tits jostled and were almost totally exposed.
Jamie listened with round eyes and tight breathing. My fantasy boy fell into his appointed role as any strapping boy loaded with testosterone would do. I offered him a tip. He fucked me on the sofa. He left with a huge smile on his face. Jamie had a huge smile on his face, and he fucked me hard and long on our bed. We rested and sighed and cuddled. We talked.
"Are you happy I told you about fucking the pizza boy?"
"Yes. A most enjoyable story. Fucking the pizza boy and NOT telling me would make me very unhappy, to say the very least."
"Of course! That will never happen. Telling you all about it is now our special thrill we share. Pizza boy. Who ever might come along."
"Your past lovers."
"Yes. They are still waiting in the wings. Tell me, which of my three stories turned you on the most?"
"Hard to say. They all had pretty much the same effect. The pizza boy was too spur of the moment to be up to par with Ken and Kirk."
"That's the problem with quickies. They don't have the yeast, the fermentation, the bubbling to turn a fast fuck into a fine wine of story telling."
We both burst out laughing. The utter silliness of my hyperbole was whipped cream on our pretense that the pizza boy really happened. But it pleased our sweet tooth for perverse indulgence. Me as eager exhibitionist, my husband as addicted voyeur of my sex with other men.
"No more quickies, then." I said. "Scheherazade will hone her craft. Create tales that fully enthrall you, from start to finish. That's what it's all about. Building your erotic fire."
******
Of course, it was also about me building my own erotic fire. I wondered how much Jamie understood that? How my enflaming him was just as enflaming to me? For that matter, did I completely understand it myself? My evolving power as Scheherazade, the flamer. Me as exhibitionist, Jamie as my audience. My inspired creativity for verbal detail of my sex with other men spun like an intricate spider web to snare an evolving fascination in my husband. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became that my sex with other men was the pivot point around which Jamie and I revolved in our naughty but oh so thrilling special game. His sex with other women was pushed far into the back ground, out of sight, by mutual agreement. My sex with other men was the pivot point and our point of focus. My sex with other men was the fuel that enflamed Jamie, and me.
So far, the other men were two real lovers from my past, and a fantasy boy. The fantasy boy lacked the intensity of effect the real men had on Jamie. But he did show promise for me. Even a challenge. Fantasy men were in endless supply. I only had to put a keen edge on my imagination to produce an irresistible man that would desire me, court me, break down all my defenses and fuck me. I could certainly do that, drawing on stores of real experience to build an imaginary one. The trick would be me doing the opposite. Being the aggressor with all defenses cast aside. Seducing a fantasy man to fuck me so I could tell my husband all the details. I felt confident I could do that. And I would do it to enrich and increase the heat and passion of the intimate sharing my love and I had seized. There was no rush though.
I was satisfied that Jamie was now entirely comfortable with that discovery deep inside him of a mysterious kink he had no idea existed before. I was convinced millions of men had the same kink, of what ever shape and degree, of being ravished by the vision, mental or actual, of another man fucking their wives. Out of the norm, no question, but apparently not unnatural. No, that kink was only one of many in the variety of human nature. And his kink was the mirror of my kink on the other side of the coin. Oh yes. I had also discovered a kink buried deep in me I never knew existed. Joyful sex with other men in my mind for the single purpose of thrilling my husband. Our toy box on the closet shelf to take down and play with any time we both needed that play.
Needing that play was a sexual dynamic in our married love that I thought long and hard about. Did we in fact really NEED it? A question not answered by a simple yes or no. I initiated it that first time, on out of the blue impulse, and it was a smashing success. Though in the aftermath Jamie had to wrestle with his conscience and demons of threat, and win the contest. Later he brought up the dynamic to prod me into more revelation. And that was a smashing success with no negative aftermath at all. Was that something he needed? Was my eager and willing response to his subtle prod something I needed? At that time of our personal convergence, I thought yes, it was, an erotic need we both had to indulge. But it was a need we controlled. It didn't control us.
That was very important to me. I wanted Jamie to have big hard erections and fuck me on desire for me alone. Not with ever present fantasies of some other man fucking me in his mind. I think he did so. Not that I could crawl into his head to be certain. But our sex was free and joyous and altogether united in husband and wife love. There was a thread running through our sexual union that was tied to our toy box, I had no doubt of that. But it was like a nerve branch in a body that only heightened peripheral sensation of our love making. It was like the visions I had given to his mind of other men fucking me had made me even more desirable and valuable to him. And that was very good for both of us.
As days rolled on I often thought of our game, and various ways and styles of approach to enthrall and erotically excite Jamie. I was drawing blanks in the memory banks of my previous lovers. After Ken and Kirk, no one stood out. They were a blur of couplings that I no doubt greatly enjoyed at the time, but over time had difficulty remembering. I needed to hone my craft to suit our needs.
One afternoon I called Jamie and suggested we eat out. Have a night on the town. Meet at Mario's and have Italian. Jamie was all for it. We met and had a fine meal of pasta and scampi with Chianti. Jamie kept telling me how nice I looked. His praise made me feel wonderful. I had gradually modified my wardrobe to alter the professional look of Dr. Andrews. Dresses and skirts and blouses most complimentary to my willowy frame. Some were snug, others whispery and free flowing. All solicited notice of my breasts and buttocks without blatant accent. Their effect was to make me look like a sensual woman, who was unaware of her sexual appeal to men.
I was aware, of course. All women are. That is why we take such pains in selecting our clothing and adornments, our make up and hair styling. We want to be seen as sexually desirable by all men. The entire male species. Including our husbands.
My sexual desirability was soon apparent to male colleagues at the University, who gave me second looks, prolonged looks. Even apparent in my boy students, who slouched in their desks and gazed at my body when I walked or stood before the class. I felt beautiful and sexy and desirable. And much of that feeling was generated by the game my husband and I had invented for our mutual pleasure and had played when we needed to.
That night at Mario's, I wore a rust colored sheath dress of clingy knit that caressed my legs and the curved swell of my ass. The top went up to the neck at a circle hem, but the fabric was so clingy conforming it suggested I was braless. Jamie was dazzled. Many other men in the dining room were too. I saw their glances. When the question of after dinner drinks came up, I suggested the Marriott. Jamie's eyes did a dance to find expression. They told me that at that moment we were thinking the same thing.
"Bring back memories?" Jamie said.
We sat in a booth at the dark edge of the Marriott lounge. "Vivid memories." I said. "A girl is not likely to forget her first, and last, time of being a whore."
"What stool were you on."
"See the beer tap handles on the left side? One of those stools in front. Right next to that handsome man, best I remember."
"Handsome man... You think he is handsome?"
"From this distance, in dim lighting, yes, he looks quite handsome to me. You don't agree?"
"That is something I never thought about before. A man being handsome. He seems well built, no gut, neat casual dress. No tattoos thank God. So I suppose he is handsome. Interesting you think he is."
"That piques your interest, does it? Well, I do think he is handsome. Very trim and masculine. Quite a bit of sex appeal in fact."
"More so than Kirk, when you were whore for a night?"
