Paul and I have been married for twenty-five years, and the routine of our life was set in stone long ago. On Sunday afternoon, he would spend time in the family room reading the newspaper or watching whatever pro sports were on at the time. Occasionally I would join him, but lately, I found that boring, so I started researching the internet for something I've been thinking about for a long time.
We had raised two children, the youngest having left the nest six months ago. When our second moved out, I converted her bedroom into a sewing room and office, where I set up my computer.
Today was the day that I hoped I would finally get up enough nerve to talk with Paul and address my boredom with our routine and to be completely honest with him.
I walked into the family room and sat down next to him, in my mind I'd gone over what I wanted to say a thousand times, but I couldn't find the words to start this afternoon. After fidgeting in my seat for several minutes, I turned sideways on the couch and pulled one leg up, bending it at my knee.
"I'm bored, Paul," I finally said.
He looked sideways at me and replied, "Do you want to do something this afternoon?"
I placed my hand on his arm before continuing, "I'm not talking about right now, Paul," I answered.
His expression told me that he didn't understand, so I continued.
"I'm bored with my life; to be more specific, I'm bored with our sex life," I said.
Our sex life began twenty-seven years ago when we started dating during our junior year of college; back then, we fucked like rabbits; every chance we got, we had sex. As the kids arrived, it became more scheduled, and I could always count on the days after my period ended as days when we would fuck.
I've always been somewhat self-conscious about my body; my tits are average in size, and no matter how hard I tried, I still had difficulty losing the weight I'd gained during my pregnancies. I would not allow him to see me completely naked, but once the lights were off, I always turned into a sexual minx. Paul often told me that my oral skills were terrific, and I loved getting him off with my mouth even though I never allowed him to return the favor.
Paul folded the newspaper and turned toward me, "When did this all start?" He asked.
I was scared to answer and avoided eye contact with my husband, "I guess it started the first time we fucked." I finally said.
He looked like I'd just hit him with a baseball bat. I'd just admitted to my husband of twenty-five years that I've been bored with our sex life from the very start.
Paul was speechless; having a bombshell like that dropped on him would stun any man. But for my sake, I had to say it.
"Paul, I love you with all my heart and always will..." I started, but he interrupted me, "Are you leaving me, Dianna?" he asked.
"Oh my god, no," I instantly replied.
"Okay." He answered.
"It just that I want to feel satisfied," I began to explain.
I suppose my use of the word satisfied provided some clarity as to where I was going with this. Paul is not well endowed when his cock is totally erect, it measures a measly three inches. It does get very hard, and when aroused pulses and throbs intensely. When he ejaculates, his balls provide copious amounts of thick, creamy cum, and to be quite honest, what he lacks in penial size he makes up for with digital dexterity, almost always fingering me to orgasm after I'd swallowed his load.
"So, what we're talking about is the size of my cock," he bluntly said.
I felt tears well up in my eyes and stared down at my bent leg, "Yes, I suppose it is," I finally admitted.
The initial shock of my admission caused Paul to angrily reply, "I suppose you have a plan to satisfy your craving for a bigger cock?"
I let his rude comment pass and replied, "Actually I've been looking at several swinger websites."
I could tell he was trying not to laugh, knowing I was serious. Then, he asked, "Don't swingers go in for orgies? I'm sorry, Dianna, but I don't see you getting naked in front of a group of strangers, then fucking anyone that wants to bury his hard cock inside your cunt."
I looked up at his eyes and said, "Could you please not use that word, I find it so demeaning?"
His anger welled up inside, and he instantly shot back, "Fuck you, I'll use any word I want you cunt." I could tell he instantly regretted saying that to me.
I wanted to get through this as quickly as possible to get away from him, so I tried to explain how the lifestyle works. "I've gone into some of the chat rooms as a quest and found out that while a lot of people in the lifestyle are into group sex, many are just looking for someone who can make them happy," I explained.
His anger was still evident as he said, "So guys go on these sites to find lonely women to fuck."
I looked up at him before saying, "You make it sound so dirty."
"Well, hello; you're telling me that you want to sign up on one of these websites to find a guy that you can fuck on the side," he shot back.
"Don't you want me to be happy?" I asked.
"Of course, I do," He answered.
"I think this will do that," I replied.
If there is one thing Paul could always count on, it was that once I get an idea in my head, there is no changing my mind about it.
"Let me guess; you want my permission to do this?" He asked.
For the first time since I sat next to him, I smiled, "Yes, I'd like your permission," I acknowledged.
He sat back, thinking for a moment, pondering his reply.
He turned toward me, took my hand in his, "I want you to be happy, Dianna, and if you're convinced this will make you happy, I'll give my permission with one condition. I want you to be very discrete and, more importantly, very careful. There are a lot of sick people in the world." Paul said.
He was stunned when I thanked him for granting permission allowing me to seek out another man, a lover, someone who could satisfy my cravings.
"So, when are you planning on getting started?" He asked.
