This is an embellished version of real events in my life, as are most of my stories, though not all. If you are offended by stories about wives who experiment outside marriage, please don't read this. You will only be offended, then in the nature of nebbishes, you will write a review reflecting those nebbish views. I'm not looking for approval for me or my wife, nor am I apologizing. I'm just putting forth a story that some people will like to read and some won't. But for Chrissake, don't get serious on me and treat me like a fallen parishioner or pathetic victim. I am neither, and you are not qualified to judge me in any case. So fuck off and preach to somebody else. If you're not in a moralistic mood and just want to read a sexy story, please read on. Thank you.
*
Claire and I were sitting at our Saturday morning breakfast table when I revisited an ongoing conversation that fascinated me, but one in which Claire usually showed very little interest -- at least in the light of day.
"You've always liked getting felt up, right?"
"You know that. I've never hidden it from you. But I've also never hidden the fact that I'm going to fuck one man in my life, and you're him. End of conversation. I'm NOT going to fuck Bobby. He's nothing but a trophy hunter, and he's not going to mount me."
The good news was that Claire was the top trophy at the bank -- and would be in virtually any environment she chose to frequent -- but Bobby would never get into her pants. She was a classy 5' 2' blonde with long hair and a tight body. She played tennis several times a week, and walked or jogged the other days. She had absolutely perfect tits and wore a 32 "C" bra, but didn'really need it because gravity seemed to not notice how much mass she had attached to her chest. Yes, she was definitely a trophy, but she was a committed, one-man woman, and Bobby had no chance with her. Neither did any other guy. Still, I liked to tease her about Bobby -- and other guys too. I knew that if anybody had a shot at her, it was Bobby -- but, realistically, he had no shot either.
So, I pressed Claire for details on a minor little incident at the bank on Friday. He had succeeded in separating Claire from the other women and used a pretty transparent trick in an effort to get a little tit.
I tried again, cautiously, trying to build on what had happened the day before. "OK," I said. "When was the last time you got felt up by another man besides me and Bobby."
"First of all," she said, "To say that Bobby felt me up is stretching the concept a bit, but for the sake of argument, let's say he did. That's it: finis. It's over. No more tit for Bobby from Claire. Further, if you keep probing, you might hear something you don't want to here."
Ignoring her admonition, I tried another tact. "OK, Ms. Claire, how long has it been since another man felt you up?" I expected her to say that it was Dale, her boyfriend before she met me.
But she surprised me by answering, "Well, since you insist on pursuing this line of questioning, I'll answer you. The last time I got felt up by another man was the night before our wedding. You were at that stupid bachelor party, and I knew the guys planned to get you laid, so I decided it was a good time to have just a little fun myself."
A bit taken aback, I said, "OK, tell me who felt you up and how it happened."
"Are you sure you want to know this?"
"Yes. I definitely do."
"No, you don't. You really don't."
"I'm thinking I really do, and I'm just on the verge of getting pissed."
"You may get more pissed if I tell you."
"Claire, quit playing games. Tell me the fucking story."
"OK. Remember: you insisted. So, as you know. I had decided to have a quiet night and not go out and get drunk and be bleary-eyed for our wedding. Well, as I was sitting at home, staring at the walls, I decided that I might be able to have a little fun without drinking. So, I called up one of your old football teammates (I won't say who) and told him that if he could get over to our apartment in five minutes, there was some bare tit waiting for him here. He made it in three."
"Wait a minute: You invited him to our apartment?"
"Sure, I figured it was the best place. I knew you would be staying out all night with your buddies, watching strippers and getting laid -- and I know by whom, by the way. It was planned way ahead of time. But that's another story."
"I don't know what made you think I was getting laid, but we'll talk about that later. Go on; finish your story."
"OK. So I was thinking about what I could do to make the night memorable for your friend -- and for myself."
"As if feeling you up wouldn't be memorable enough," I interrupted. "So what did you do to make things so memorable?"
"There was just something I had always wanted to do for you, but somehow I had never gotten around to it, so since this was my last free night, I decided to go for it with your friend. When he knocked on the door, I opened it and stood in front of him wearing only a big, clear plastic bag -- and I had a bow stuck to each nipple. I was a gift-wrapped treat."
"You didn't have a bow stuck to your pussy?"