"You'd imagine him caressing me . . . and me touching him, caressing him, sucking his . . ."
"His cock!"
". . . yes. His hot hard cock. . . my tongue like butter up and down his shaft . . .his cock . . . his prick . . ."
"The prick he's going to fuck you with . . .!"
Dave was between my legs now, his cockshaft on my clit. His breath shortened, hardened, as did mine. His lips were suckling my nipples like a baby. He groaned. His prick slid into me. Oooooh I can feel it filling me as I write this.
Once again, my cognitive mind knew it was Dave, my loving Dave. But in imagination's realm, it was someone else--- it almost didn't matter who. My head was spinning --- and then I was shuddering, cumming and this phantom lover's pulsing prick was pumping semen into the deepest recesses of my cunt. Not vagina . . . not when I was like this. Not penis, but cock, prick. Not making love either. It was cunt, and cock, and fucking like animals.
The image faded with my orgasm. It was Dave, sinking down beside me. His flaccid prick slipped from my deep, slippery cavern. I kissed his brow. He hugged me close, his pillowed face against mine, and slipped off into sleep. And as I drifted after him, I tried to fathom what demons in this man, whom I loved so dearly, and knew loved me in return, impelled him to know, and hear, about me violating the most intimate experience we shared--- and knew too that I was asking myself this as a screen to hide the fact that, deep down, I wanted it to happen. I felt a tear slide slide off my cheek, across my naked breast, and knew it was mine.
* * * * *
It was a question I pondered through idle wakeful hours. I'd always equated sex with love--- some form of love, anyway. And love, to me, meant possessiveness. I surely didn't want Dave fucking others. So at first, I simply decided that men--- at least my man--- was weirdly different from women. But as time went on, that oh so firm conclusion gradually gave way, like a sand castle being eaten out by the tide. Psychiatrists tell us that there is no clear line between the sexes, that there's a little female in every male and a little male in every female. And maybe the twain in me had begun to meet and cross over a little.
Whatever it was, the idea of fucking someone else, given Dave's approval, grew and swelled in me like Dave's own prick just before he cums. I felt the urge. I was transforming into two persons, not just one. One was Dave's loving, faithful wife; the other, some hot slut wannabe--- a sexual Doctor Jekyll, and horny Mrs. Hyde.
The idea grew, got randy, raunchy--- as slutty as I could make it. I wiled away lazy afternoons in our bedroom, drapes drawn, splayed out naked on our bed, remembering each of my nine premarital cocks, imagining that I was in some funky motel, my cunt--- not my vagina, my cunt--- oozing juice, as one of them, or some errant stranger, moved between my thighs. I imagined was his big, thick prick easing between my cunt lips, and made it live through a cock-shaped vibrator I'd named Marcel Proust (for "Remembrance of Things Past").
That was half of the fantasy. The other half was coming home, cuddling in bed with Dave, telling him all the wanton details, sensing his heartbeat quickening, feeling his cock harden and rise, and then, overcome with lust, hearing him sigh, moan, then slide into me and fuck me with even grander love and devotion because he knew I was imagining that he was someone else.
On a scale of ten, it was nine-hot (ten, being reality).
But, hey! I wasn't about to wreck my marriage. And common sense warned that for all his protestations of earnestness, I couldn't be sure how Dave would react to the real thing. He talked a good game. But in crossing the no- man's land between fantasy and reality, men are unpredictable. I recalled a tale an old sorority sister had told me between sobs at a Wellesley reunion a few years back--- how her husband at the time, now long since divorced, had pleaded and cajoled her into a threesome with him and another man, and then, just when her legs were spread and her husband saw the man's veined, tumescent cock nudging at her cunt lips, he had suddenly thrown up his hands and burst into tears.
But the urge, reinforced by Dave's constant retelling of it in bed, was becoming an obsession. What to do? We're prominent in a gossipy California small town, so I wasn't about to frequent bars in search of a partner. Newspaper ads could be traced, if someone were so inclined. And then the obvious dawned on me: AOL chat rooms are the technological equivalent of the old fashioned pick-up lounge--- only online, the woman is no longer subject to the prying eyes of her neighbors; she doesn't have to drink; she's anonymous, and in control. Like a fantasy within a fantasy, I began "shopping" online for a suitable man. Keyword: suitable. There are more boors on AOL than privates in the Chinese army. I wanted someone civilized, someone discreet, someone within my intellectual ball park--- someone I felt comfy with.
And more. I made out a mental shopping list, to narrow the risk of an online engagement. For easy reference, I labeled my putative partner "Mr. Fuck." Then, because I wanted no entanglement, no dragged out affair, I shortened him to Mr. F. He had to be married, and intended to stay married. That reduced the risk of STD, and would give me leverage, if he became a nuisance later. He had to be around my age, 42, or older: I've no use for achey-breaky boners. He had to be good looking, clean cut, straight, and vasectomy-safe (I wanted his semen, not his sperm). He had to live in another town, close enough that meeting wouldn't be difficult, yet far enough away that he knew none of our neighbors and friends. The size of his cock didn't matter. I've never been a size freak. As Merlin, the magician, told his court, "It's not the length of the wand. It's the magic that you work with it."
One last thing: I absolutely wasn't going to fuck him on our first "date." Our first date would be a dry-run. I wanted to test Dave's reaction without risking his wrath.
All well and good. But finding "Mr. F" turned out to be more difficult than I'd imagined. Perhaps online men are simply seduced by their own fantasies. Perhaps Rick Rockwells really do believe they can pass for Robert Redfords. And some are so appallingly stupid--- When one fellow assured me he was single, and I explained that I only chatted with married men, he simply reversed himself and asserted that he'd "forgotten" that he was married after all. And when I actually met one allegedly intelligent, attractive man for lunch, I discovered that the person who had described himself as a 6-foot 1-inch, 195 pound stud was really a 5-foot 6 inch, 195 pound fatty--- with bad breath. There were other unpleasantries, but you get the point.
****************
I was nearing despair, goaded by David's fantasies and aching to experience another man, but constantly coming up empty. Then Ian appeared: "45, 6'1", trim 195, m/good looking" in the short hand language of the chat room. But when we got to im'ing back and forth, he foreswore the "R U married LOL" illiteracy. He actually chatted in real words and complete sentences. We chatted for a week, and traded pics. He was blonde, firm, handsome and bright, a Jewish lawyer who made fun of lawyers. I kidded him about his Irish first name. He said his last name, which he'd told me was McCabe was really Macabee.
And he liked my looks as much as I liked his. We met at a nice little Sichuan restaurant in the next town, and had a lovely lunch. "Did you know that 'pork' in Chinese is pronounced 'Jew row'?" I asked. He smiled and ordered chicken. We went off in his Porsche for a drive in the California countryside. On the edge of a reservoir, with a forest of firs across the water, we parked and talked--- and talked.
I had explained the fantasy that Dave and I shared, had made it clear that we weren't going the whole nine yards today. Ian had assured me, with the transparent assurance of all philanderers, that he understood. Then he told me that all-too-familar tale: his wife was sexless, afflicted by some problem he didn't understand. I shrugged that off, the cliche of the Jewish American Princess.
This first rate mind hadn't found out why his wife had given up sex? Gimme a break. But what the hell, I reflected, he was a gentleman, sexually lonely, and, I had to admit, his dark intense eyes turned me on. Besides, I reminded myself, all I wanted was a fuck, not an affair. God! Just the fact that I'd met him face to face and was here alone with him now had gotten me started. I began to wonder what his cock looked like.
It began to rain. The car steamed up. In one of those pregnant pauses that always come up in conversations like this, Ian drew me to him and kissed me. I let him. More than let him. I answered him immediately, fervently, with a kindling passion I hadn't anticipated. I felt the warmth of his body against mine. It stoked the fire in my own. This was the first man, besides Dave, to kiss me since my errant Arab on the eve of my marriage. I wanted his lips on mine; wanted his hands on my tits--- not breasts; tits; wanted his fingers touching my pussy. I wanted to feel his prick in me. Inside me. In my, yes, I said it to myself, my cunt! I was squirming, undulating under his touch. . . I wanted him inside me!
I got everything but the prick. His hands slid beneath my pullover sweater, unhooked my bra, squeezed, caressed, milked my nipples. They swelled. His fingers slid beneath my skirt, up between my thighs, pulled aside my panties, slithered through my thick, dark pussy hair, and found my hot, wet labia--- and I twisted and writhed as they slipped inside and his thumb ran lightly up and down my eager clit.
"I want you," he breathed.
"No!" I said. Then "Yes! I want you too, but no . . ."
"Why?"
"Your car's too small . . ." I giggled.
But oh, God! I wanted his cock--- and when he put my hand on it, and I squeezed it through his pants, he whispered, "Take it out." I needed no further urging.
Such a lovely, rigid cock! Upright, veined, circumcised, a hard muscle encased in velvet skin--- a soft fresh taco wrapped around a dinner dog, I reflected incongruously.
"You're a dinner dog," I whispered as he fingered me.
"A kosher tamale."
We both giggled. His fingertips slid deeper. I moaned.
"Salsa?"
"I'm hot enough now," he said. "Eat me?"
"Pass the French's."
"That's not Mexican."
"Neither are we."
He gave me his fingers, slick with my juice, to suck on and lick.
"Now this," he said, "Senor At-His Peak-O."
I leaned over, licked and lapped the quivering crown of his lovely prick. I took it between my lips and laved it with my tongue. I slid it into my mouth until its head lodged in my throat and my nose lay in his pubic hair. Oh, I loved sucking him! And then two of his fingers slid up into my cunt and rubbed my secret spot above, behind the pubic bone. And together, then, we gasped, and groaned, and spasmed--- and he flooded my mouth with his hot creamy semen. I swallowed it all, except for some that escaped my mouth and dribbled down my chin.
