A Stranger's Heart
Loving Wives Story

A Stranger's Heart

by Calais_docent 18 min read 3.5 (12,100 views)
wife sharing big coc barebac mmf romantic
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I HAVE A CASUAL FRIEND - let's call her June - who makes comic music videos and shows them on YouTube. Around her is a group of female and (mostly gay) male friends - we go out sometimes, to comedy shows, for drinks, and sometimes there are house parties that end up being scenes in which we contribute something to her latest project, stand in as background for a shot or deliver a line or two.

Last year June made a low-budget feature film - wrote it, directed it, starred in it - and we all contributed in various ways to its production. Then she disappeared for a while into the editing room, producing a rough-cut for us all to see and critique. It was at this screening party where someone told me about an extraordinarily erotic experience she'd had.

We were a dozen women and a few men, crowded into a darkened basement watching the film unfold on a bigscreen TV. The film was fun and light and silly, more of a musical than I'd expected (though the songs were truly wretched), and low production standards. Luckily we'd all had enough to drink and were laughing generally when we were supposed to.

The couch was crowded and there weren't enough chairs, so I found myself sitting on the floor off to the side, next to one of June's other friends who, like me, tended to stay on the periphery of these things, a cute, petite woman in her early forties named Ellen. As I watched the film, I couldn't help notice that she was agitated and glancing frequently my way, a response I thought was elicited by vague embarrassment over what we were watching. I leaned in and whispered, "What do you think?"

She whispered back, "Calais, is it true you write erotica?"

I sat up and cast my eyes around in the dark, then replied, "How did you know? I didn't think people knew that."

She leaned in close and said directly into my ear in a voice that made me pay attention, "I have to tell you what happened to me. Maybe you could write it as a story."

Writers rarely want to hear these words from non-writers. But there was something compelling in her tone and body language that made me sit up and listen. She searched my expression with something like desperation before I said, "All right. Maybe we could meet for a coffee - " but she was already saying, "In here, in here" as she shuffled towards the back of the room. I followed, keeping my eyes on June and the other guests, but they were absorbed by the movie and didn't notice. Ellen slipped through a curtain, and I followed into darkness. I felt around - we were sitting on cushions in a low, warm room.

"What is this? Where are we?" I asked.

"A play space for June's youngest. Do you know Edgar? He's autistic. It's his quiet room." The curtain was thick and shut out most of the light from the TV, and the sounds were dampened and distant. "When the other kids are playing he can hide in here."

"Is there a light?" I asked, wanting to see where we found ourselves.

"No light," Ellie whispered. "I couldn't tell this if I was looking at you." And she began to talk.

She told me first about her marriage.

Ellen is confident and warm. Her husband Tim is a few years older, and quiet and kind in his own way, perhaps a little reserved. He runs a small company which specializes in transporting art for museums - sculpture, crafts, and famous paintings by artists like Monet and Van Gogh. The couple started dating when Ellie was in high school, before the whirlwind of university and medical school and interning and working in an emergency room and finally setting up her own practice with two other female doctors, a busy, run-off-your-feet family clinic, where patients have to declare their every appointment - from a plugged ear to a suspicious lump - as an emergency, if they hope to get in the door within the month.

She'd been thoroughly faithful to Tim throughout their marriage, and he to her.

They'd suffered a crisis recently, when she told Tim she was afraid she was going to leave him. Not because she wanted to, but because she felt she had no choice: she'd only ever slept with one man: Tim. In discussion they both recognized the irony of this situation, how in a previous age people got married to have sex, and these days they were getting divorced to have sex - with other people.

"It doesn't have to be," Tim had said. "There are options." And then they discussed, in their rational, measured way, about polyamory, about making their own rules for marriage. "We need to find you something, El," Tim told her. "Someone special."

Ellie spent the next few months preoccupied by fantasies inspired by this talk, but those slowly faded, replaced by the same despair that had inspired the discussion in the first place. She feared that Tim hadn't meant what he'd said.

And then he asked her for a favour.

Tim never asked for medical favours, so she was surprised when he came to Ellie with a request to run a battery of tests on a man she didn't know, a pilot from Belgium who had flown extensively for Tim's company, mostly in Eurasia and Africa. Due to some technicality, he needed his medical certification updated so he could fly while he was spending a few months in Canada. Though she could not take him on as a patient, she could do this single examination.

When Ellie sped through the crowded waiting room that day she immediately noted a tall stranger, curiously exotic among the old ladies and moms with coughing infants. While she saw patient after patient, she could not get him out of her mind, and when she opened the door to examination room three and saw him sitting there quietly in his suit, she was momentarily flustered. He was softspoken and shy about his accent, which was French, but many other things too. When she asked about it, he said his voice was like his body - a little from every part of the world. He had ancestors in Israel, Egypt, India, Denmark, Siberia, and Ivory Coast. She liked him immediately, and could not fathom why.

She conducted the physical exam thoroughly and professionally, sent him for blood tests, and that was that. Though she had to admit she was still thinking about him a week after the appointment, especially the moment she reached into his unbuttoned shirt and slid her hand over the swell if his pectoral to probe the beat of his heart. There'd been something there, and she'd had to listen for a long time to catch it, moving the stethoscope's probe to home in on it, her knuckles against his warm skin. Listening. Waiting for what she thought she'd heard: an extra beat. He cleared his throat.

"You are hearing my PVC," he said shyly.

"Premature ventricular contraction?"

"I'm told it is harmless. Completely."

"I'm sure it is," Ellie replied. She closed her eyes and listened. And there it was, an extra thump among the steady cadence of his heart.

"It is part of who I am. I think it makes me stronger," he said.

She hadn't stopped thinking about that beautiful man, and the extra beat of his heart, since.

Ellie was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, clutching an empty wineglass, Tim seated on a wingback chair in the window nook. The blinds were drawn to shut out the winter afternoon light, and Ellie was panting slightly, heart hammering in her chest.

"Do you want more wine?" Tim asked, and she nodded. He came with the bottle and filled her glass. Instead of moving away, he lowered himself to a squat so she was looking down at him, and he was looking back into her eyes. "How are you?" he asked softly.

"Tim, is this right? Will you still love me?"

He took her hand, said, "Be honest, sweet Ellie. Is this how you want your life to be? To have been with only one man?"

She wanted to tell him if that one man was him, then yes. But she was listening to something deeper, and she let it come up, and speak through her. "I desperately want to experience another," she replied, and her voice had such an earthy, deep quality, it surprised even her. Tim smiled, a sincere, pleasured smile, kissed her hand, and said, "And I will love you more than ever," before he returned to the chair and watched her.

A knock at the door raised Ellie's heartrate to new register. She reminded herself that all the arrangements today were hers - the time, the location, and what essentially would transpire. And Tim had agreed to all of it, instantly, eagerly. She rose and hurried to the door and opened it.

Camille was standing before her, taller than she remembered him, in a simple grey suit. He handed her a small bouquet of flowers. As instructed, he did not speak. He shut the door and followed Ellie into the room. He looked once at Tim and they nodded cordially at one another - Ellie thought, in some specific way, in the way men do when the husband is going to watch his wife with the other. Then Camille turned to Ellie. He took the flowers out of her hand and put them on the bed, then he bent down and kissed her on the mouth. Ellie expected the first kiss to be a peck, but his arms were immediately around her body and his mouth was opening and his tongue prying its way between her lips, which after an instant of hesitation she opened eagerly. He tasted different than Tim, his lips were softer, his tongue more urgent, stronger, moving deeply in her mouth. His want. He wanted her. She felt her own lips responding, yielding.

At that moment, and very quickly, she began to lose herself in a way she never had before. At first it frightened her, and she put up a moment of resistance to the sensation, but that felt so ordinary, so typical of her response to things, that she was able to isolate it and set it aside. Her sense of self, which seemed to be intensely wrapped up in propriety. She succumbed. Maybe not yet to actual impropriety, but to the idea of it. While she wouldn't

be

improper, she could behave that way.

She slipped her arms inside his coat, felt his body through the shirt, felt ribs and muscles. Her hands wandered along his flanks, his back, then returning to his chest. She remember putting the stethoscope to his breast, only now allowing herself to acknowledge what was so apparent - the swell of his pectoral, tight under her hand. His hands meanwhile were exploring her body, moving from her shoulderblades to her buttocks, gliding up her sides and sweeping the curves of her breasts. One hand moved up her throat to her jaw, and then his fingers were probing her lips even as they kissed. She licked his finger, drew it into her mouth and sucked it. He backed off to watch her sucking his finger. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and licked her palm, and then drew her own index finger into his mouth. He sucked hard, took it into his mouth all the way, then pumped it in and out. Ellie felt between her legs a deep, hot feeling of wetness. Her nipples and clit pulsed as she watched him sucking her finger.

Then he abruptly stepped back and threw off his jacket, cast it across the room so it landed on the chair beside her husband. He flinched as it came flying. He'd been watching them with a rapt expression. Ellie looked at him, and he looked back at her, somewhat dazed, before gathering himself. He smiled and nodded a little, and then swept his eyes to Camille, showing that he wanted her not to look at himself, but to watch her new lover. Camille was going around the room, turning off lights, leaving illumination from the candles that burned on the desk and nightstands. She wondered why they hadn't thought of that. Then he was moving the flowers to the bedside table, roughly, impatiently, pulling open the bed, drawing the comforter and top sheet back to expose the white bottom sheet, which looked pure and smooth and welcoming.

Then he came to her, and he took her lightly by the shoulder, and moved her to the edge of the bed. She realized this was exactly what she wanted, what she needed - for him to take control. She sat on the verge of the bed, feeling the sheets cool beneath her palms, and he moved in front of her, so she was looking up at his face. He undid and removed his tie, and cast it way. Then he took her hands and brought them to the buttons of his shirt. He undid the top one himself, moved her hands to the next one, which she dutifully unbuttoned, one at a time to the bottom one, so his shirt was open, but not parted, so she could glimpse through the narrow opening his naked chest and belly. He took her by the wrists and slid her hands up, inside his shirt, over his warm and lightly-haired skin. Drew them up until each palm was open on his pectorals. She could feel his nipple under her left thumb, and she moved it minutely, and he sighed in a way that made her want to do it more. Soon she was smoothing both her hands along the distinct curves of his chest, sometimes touching his nipples.

She noticed once when she did this his hips tilted forward. A small thrust. She homed in on his nipples then, began to stroke them, moved from the balls of her thumb to using her fingernails, and as she increased the stimulation his hips moved more, pumping, and when she looked at the front of his pants she could see the increasing prominence of his erection. It mesmerized her. Her desire became focussed on one thing - to make that definition clearer. To make this stranger's penis hard.

She was surprised when he suddenly gripped both wrists and pulled her hands away. At first she feared she'd done something wrong, but he stepped back only to remove his shoes and socks and set them neatly by the side table. Then he returned and put her hands, as he had on his shirtbuttons, to his belt. It was not a design with which she was entirely familiar, and she fumbled, waiting for his help. When she looked at his face however, he was only watching her hands with a look of attention. She concentrated on the operation to the point that for a moment she forgot what she was doing, simply negotiating some complex mechanism, and only when she managed to defeat it, and get the clasp unfastened, and then draw the belt open, did the truth of what she was doing come back to her. Opening the pants of a stranger.

She hesitated before liberating the button and drawing down the fly. She slowly drew the pants open, revealing grey boxers, and within them, the definition clear, a cock. Partially hard, and already, she understood, substantial. It was something she had not expected. She moved her eyes along its outline, and saw that it extended low, directed down his left leg, so that it almost emerged from the bottom of his boxers.

She was surprised to find herself taken aback by it in a professional way. Like it was something physiological and factual that she doubted could be true. That a man could have a larger-than-average penis. Her dismay with the porn industry's depiction of only enormous penis size making enormous penis size less likely in the real world. And like she had missed an important fact when she had examined him. And so it was with almost medical curiosity that she reached out and ran her fingers along it through the fabric, from the radix to the glans. Assessing its length and girth. While she was touching through the fabric the ridge of the head, she felt it stir and respond, and was brought instantly back into herself, her sexual self. Returned her hand to the starting place, and stroked it along that length and thickness again. Feeling it augmenting through contact. She was making him hard.

She repeated the action again, and again, enraptured by the effect her touch was having on this penis. In a moment it was straining against the fabric, eager to escape it. She slipped her fingertips into the waistband, feeling the heat of this man's skin - his name, she couldn't remember his name! She paused as she tried to remember it. But then a different thought occurred: that it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was releasing that cock. Getting to that cock. She found that her legs were pressed together, chafing. Now she begin to draw the boxers down, and she watched every moment of the revelation. His dark pubic hair, and then suddenly the top curve of his penis, the shaft becoming revealed as she brought the boxers down, bringing it into view inch by inch, in a kind of exalted revelation. As she moved it down, exposing the darker, blushed skin, the thick veins, she kept expecting to reach the glans, for it to be revealed, but cock continued to unreel in her view, inches and inches of it. And then, at last, after a tremendous quantity of cock was showing to her, she saw that he was circumsized, and she saw that the firm edge around the glans was exposed, and still she pulled down as the whole thing emerged.

It was nothing short of spectacular. And she desperately wanted it, in a way she had wanted no other thing in her life. She could think only of touching it, of making it hard, of stroking it, of bringing all of it her attention. To pleasure it. To make it feel the joy of her touch, in whatever way she could offer.

And she didn't know where to start. She looked up, up this man's long, taut belly and strong chest and neck to his kind face, gazing down at her.

(It starts with a C, she thought. Carl? Calvin? Strangely, she could remember all manner of other details about him: 185 centimetres tall, 86 kilograms, blood pressure 117 over 76, and from the blood and urine tests, excellent HDL ratio, sodium slightly high, liver function, potassium, creatinine, glucose good, HIV, HSV, and all other STIs negative...)

He was breathing slowly and deeply, and she brought her eyes back down to that cock. Saw that it was raised a little, slightly engorged with blood (about 30% capacity, she thought professionally), and pulsing with his heartbeat. She watched it for a few seconds, thought - about 84 beats per minute.

It was time to touch it. Touch the skin of another man's cock. Only then, and guiltily, did she even remember that her husband was in the room. She turned to look and there he was, her loving Tim, leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, watching intently. Before they could make eyecontact and break the spell, she returned her scrutiny to that cock. Lifted her hand, index finger extended, and prodded it lightly. It yielded a little, and she had for a moment a thought about what penises are made of, the Corpus cavernosum, the Corpus spongiosum, evolved to accept blood and become engorged. To become hard. To facilitate efficient penetration of the vagina.

She chastised herself for approaching all this medically. It was like she had to - that if she were touching a stranger's cock while her husband looked on, it had to be in a professional context. She didn't want that. She wanted to let this go and be a woman with this cock - this man - in front of her.

She closed her eyes and let her fingers slip around the shaft, noting that her fingertips could not meet her thumb when they were fully wrapped. She felt the pulse of it, a deep, throbbing. Felt it thickening, becoming more firm in her grasp. It was a good feeling. It was something she wanted to aid and promote. Now she opened her eyes and saw it, this most erotic of things: her own hand wrapped around a thick cock that was hardening in her grasp. She squeezed experimentally as she felt the tissues becoming firmer, then slid her hand a little towards the tip, but not all the way there, and then back again. The cock continued to grow. She moved her hand lightly towards the root and was startled to feel her knuckles against his testicles, which were mostly hidden from view, but by touch apparently sufficiently large to supply their accompanying penis.

She moved her hand towards the tip again, not quite reaching the sensitive glans, and slid back to the base, liking the heat of his balls against her fingers, and she felt a more substantial stir, a thickening. The cock was beginning to rise now, responding to her attention, and it made her want to move her hand more. She was looking at the head of it; it was quite large and continuing to grow. She hesitated to touch it, but then very much wanted to, and on the next stroke brought her thumb into contact with the ridge. The man let out a small sigh, and Ellie glanced up, momentarily ashamed that she had forgotten about him as a man and not only this glorious cock she was now causing to become erect with her touches. Objectifying. Although the shame didn't last long. Because all of it felt so damn good.

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