The picture on my cell phone was of my wife's big round tits. The nipples were fully extended, and amazingly...they were covered with endless gobs and ropes of a sticky thick white substance. I'd never gotten a picture like this one before. "He just left. I'm glad he blew his load across my chest, or he might have drowned me!" The accompanying text message read.
My erection was trembling, pulsing with each heart beat. Holding my phone in front of me at the office, I found it difficult to breathe. I could hear my blood pounding in my ears.
The phone trembled, and my wife's ringtone sounded. It was Joan Jett's "Do you wanna touch me!" The volume was low so there was no disturbing my work mates. A picture of her gorgeous face, lips pouted into a kiss. "Love you. Did you close the Norman account?"
The shifting of gears didn't immediately ease the pressure on my zipper. Standing up at the moment was still out of the question. My wife was teasing me, expertly so. Even before our marriage she had known of my sexual inclinations. Some men are leg men (my dear Barbi's are a mile long and sculpted by the treadmills at Gold's Gym). Some men are tit men (Barbi's are virtual volleyballs). Some men are this, some are that. I crave, like an addict, my hot wife. Teasing, public exhibition, and cuckold fantasy. I need it, more than Christopher Walken needs 'more cowbell'.
And she had gotten good at it over three years.
I mean, all star, all -- universe levels. They should give out awards and trophies, she'd have them all. This Norman account has had the whole office on eggshells, working nearly 80 hours a week, for nearly a month.
And me coming home every night, wiped out, stressed to the point of being held back from the office window ledge, just to grab a few hours sleep, maybe a few minutes of 'home time'...on the couch. Exhausted. Haunted. How did I keep going?
Barbi. It was Barbi that kept me together. Texting me pictures of her in lingerie. A bikini. An evening dress. Nude. Messages like
"I've got another date tonight. Ok?"
"That same guy called again, we talked for hours. I want to see him."
I thought that she could never out do the night she had gone to her mother's to visit and sort thru a family issue with her. You see, she hadn't said to me she was going to her mum's. Full serious, right to my face, pouty lips and everything. She had said she was going to spend the night with her lover. I mean Oscar trophy winner, hands down.
You see my wife has not cuckolded me. Not by my hesitation, by hers. She doesn't really like the idea. What if this 'other guy' treats her like trash? What if it made her feel like trash? What about STD's, pregnancy, getting abused physically, meeting a nut job, etc etc.
But hot damn she can play out my fantasy! The 'cum' all over her big round tits! In my mind I rationalized that all the 'ingredients' needed to create the facsimile were readily available in our apartment, but at the same time I suppressed this thought and really allowed myself to enjoy the photo. Previously she had played the 'forgotten condom' game. My 'accidently' finding an unwrapped, unrolled condom in our bedroom, her look of shock and humiliation (with big eyes and hands to her mouth). And now I reckoned it would be an easy step to start leaving 'misplaced' condoms filled with her faux semen. I was really hoping the obviousness of this would not be lost on Barbi. If history was any indication, she would continue to find creative, surprising ways to craft my psyche into sexual boiling.
Now let's stop just a moment. You might be thinking this tale to be a farce, and that I'm playing the role of fool. Be assured, that this is not the course of this tale, earnest reader. My wife has not 'gone all the way'. Oh, she's dressed the hussy in public places with me. Flirted like a street walker. But by the look of our eyes into each others. By the touch of her hand on my shoulder. I know with all certainty that her teasing, no matter how skillful, has not gone beyond.
Oh, I've pleaded, begged. But no. She won't.
And I know why. Deep in her heart, she doesn't WANT me to be a cuckold husband. She's settled into the reality of it, but would not choose such a life style. She isn't comfortable in the role of cuckoldress. She truly wants a man who will punch the bloke in the face who gets fresh with her. A husband that will send threats back at anyone who leered inappropriately.
In balance to her tolerance of my proclivity towards cuckold fantasy, I have redoubled my love for her. Imagine her putting up with such a thing? She is an angel. And in response to her heavenliness, my devotion is boundless.
And she has met me in the middle. Her love for me, and familiarity with my inner soul, has driven her to be the freaking Meryl Streep of cuckold fantasy.
"The deal is done! Just waiting for the final signatures. The boss has the whole crew here still, he's asked we not leave yet." I texted.
"Great! I know your penis has weeks of lava, just waiting to erupt! Maybe tonight! Although sweety, my boyfriend did text me, he might be free for the weekend. Your cute wee wee has been left dry almost four weeks, it could wait for Monday, right?"
My erection shot up, banging against the underside of my desk. I groaned and leaned over my work area. She was so good. So good at this.
It occurred to me that she had been 'without' for a month too. Well, she confessed she masturbated a few times each week, but still, for a grown adult...going without real sex for weeks is an ordeal.
In contrast, my work regimen over this same time frame, which Barbi crossly described as 'torturous' had left me erectionless nearly 95% of the time. The other 5%? Yeah, me at my office...getting sexually teasing texts from my beloved. And since I won't masturbate here at the office (not even the men's room...the humiliation of being overheard!), my balls were expanded uncomfortably with stored up 'lava'.
If you think it impossible to 'go without' for weeks at a time, it is actually very common during military entry training camp. The rumors of 'saltpeter being mixed with the rations' is untrue. The stress and extreme pressure can send even the healthiest young male erectionless for weeks at a time.
Mr. Heitzel came out of his office. The dozen people on our open work floor turned to him. All conversation stopped.
"It's done!" Heitzel raised a ream of papers into the air.
Tumult! Temporary lull, and then another uproar!
I called Barbi. She answered on the third ring.
She was out of breath. "Honey, Maximus is here, could you call back in an hour?" Perfectly delivered.
I hastily sat behind my desk.
"My dear girl, it's done! And get this...the office is going to close for a week! And, we fly to Puerto de Erotico tomorrow morning for four days at the resort!"
"Mexico?" Her 'breathlessness' evaporated abruptly. Caught off guard, she had fallen 'out of character'. "Four days away from these freezing temperatures?" And then a sort of spontaneous yelp. My smile wouldn't stop. The thought of giving my wife a joyous getaway, a small repayment for her constant support.
A few hours later...
I mentioned earlier an expedition my wife had made to her mum's. Well, this plays back into the narrative at this point. You see, a family heirloom, a necklace which didn't seem the least attractive to me but evidently had a lot of family history was to be given to my wife's sister. My entire office had plane tickets for the next evening to fly to Mexico. But if Barbi and I left tonight, we could connect thru San Diego. Her sister would meet us at the airport and we'd give her the heirloom. This would side step putting the treasure in a Fedex box, and provide a safe 'hand delivery'.
This also meant that Barbi literally had to pack while I was driving home. We'd hustle the luggage out the moment I arrived, and then drive directly to the terminal. It meant my personal sexual release was again delayed. Although given my current level of physical exhaustion, perhaps a blessing in disguise.
Barbi might have guessed how tired I was, but she put the pedal to the metal for me that night. The crowded airport terminal, sitting a couple hours on the plane. And my wife's 'traveling clothes'?
Her high heels were of a brown leather color. There was no lift under the toes, but a good four inches in the heel. Her skirt was well up past mid thigh, showcasing legs that would make a traffic cop swallow his whistle. Her blouse was shoulder less, frilly, and bared her fit midsection. The over coat she wore on the drive was packed away into our luggage before we checked them.
She was like a visage of hot babeness. Her volleyballs bounced around braless. Her nipples making points in the delicate fabric. She seemed to never miss a chance to twist at the hip for this reason or that, and her high heel straps needed her 'bent over at the waist' attention with mysterious frequency. A dreary Chicago winter night was just outside the airport windows, but Barbi was a walking paradise. Men's necks nearly put out of place as their eyes latched onto my walking Goddess.
The moment I settled into the plane's bucket seat I was comatose. Opening my eyelids required Herculean effort moments later. But it wasn't moments later. We were in San Diego.
The artifact 'hand off' went smoothly. Sis couldn't stay due to a child's appointment so for the two hour layover we were left to our own devices. I sat in a booth; 'slumped' might be more accurate. The short rest on the flight had helped. I had recharged a bit, but still I was dragging.
Just as in Chicago, my wife was beaming hotness in all directions. Although the environ was far less morose, and several other attractive girls were about in pretty clothes. San Diego airport was teeming with young virile soldiers. Thus, my baby was teasing me wonderfully with her exhibitionism. About halfway thru our layover, as our boarding time became closer, she leaned over to me and we exchanged whispered conversation, the kind of which you might guess.
She smiled. I smiled.
She nodded. I nodded.
While our eyes looked each into the other, we held hands on the table top. Her fingers twitched nervously in my loose grasp.
In a moment when the crowd at the terminal eatery thinned, Barbi got up and moved from our shared booth to a chair at the counter. She picked a stool that was right in front of me, maybe ten feet away. The row of backless swivel seats was slightly higher than the booth I was in. Her body was displayed wondrously. I felt something in my hand and turned my palm up. Her wedding ring!
While she avoided looking directly at me, my eyes could not drink in enough of her. The early day sun shining through the terminal gave a slight transparency to her light blouse. Finally she had to look at me and shake her head. I had been staring too much and been too dim to realize. I had to content myself to stealing looks as often as I dared without being over the top creepy.
