Eating out
We married shortly after leaving university and have been together ever since, with our golden anniversary now well behind us. Our sex life had followed a predictable course from the initial constant excitement stage when we explored each other's body and mind, through childbirth and early parenthood with the obvious negative effects on passions, and a resurrection of heavy action once the kids were old enough to go to school, when I started to see that my wife had a real, though usually well-concealed, kinky streak. Even then, the demands of parenting and careers for both of us meant that our desires had to be satisfied in just a few hot hours each weekend.
By the time we entered our fifties, I was working away all week; the children had their own places and my wife had a job that she enjoyed. I got into the habit of bringing her a present of expensive and sexy underwear each week and we both enjoyed the displays of each new item and what inevitably followed. It felt as if we both knew that this was our time to ensure that there were not going to be any regrets later that we hadn't tried all the things we wanted to. Oral sex became as big a part of bedtimes as fucking, with both of us loving the taste of each other and ourselves; teasing her big nipples and gently slapping her superb tits was no longer enough to give her what she fancied, so now she issued instructions to "really hurt me". The punishments, which she wanted for "being such a slut" involved slapping her breasts really sharply, then fitting pegs on her nipples and tweaking them until she pretended to cry for mercy. In fact, it made her as wet and filthy as hell. She asked me to slap her faster and faster between her legs as well as putting several fingers inside her and frigging her until she squirted, which she did regularly and to a remarkable degree of volume and distance.
At first she pretended to be unaware that this was happening, until one night the evidence could not be ignored and we agreed together that we actually loved it. She told me to find a position kneeling in front of her where I could both finger her cunt as much as we both wanted and make her squirt all over my face, which she would then lick clean, becoming even more turned on with every lick, every taste of her own wetness. There were nights when she wanted to tease me and stopped me doing that to her, telling me it would have to wait until we had another man in bed with us; he could then use his fingers to make her squirt onto my face and mouth, after he'd fucked her in front of me.
The wish to be punished, to be hurt, was mutual. In the early part of each sex session, I loved to go behind her as she parted the cheeks of her arse, then smell her hole and tell her what a turn-on it was. This gave her the chance to tell me how disgusting I was and slap my hard cock as a punishment/reward. On the steamiest nights, usually after a meal out with her wearing her latest undies and telling me midway through the meal how wet she was, I'd go further than smelling her arse and commenting on it; I would lick her hole and, not being told to stop, then push my tongue right into her, which gave me the chance to tell her what a fucking filthy bitch she was and her to tell me that she knew that I would do anything she asked, no matter how dirty, no matter how long it took.
I changed jobs and found something local, which meant I was at home with my wife each evening and night. We both realised that this new arrangement was reducing the excitement of the weekend sex we had looked forward to and so enjoyed. Right through all our years together, sex had been just the two of us, although we had shared the standard fantasies of her taking on someone else and me cleaning both of them afterwards. We'd talked of orgies and she imagined how many men she would take on during such a session -- surprisingly many, she thought! Such conversations still provided us with something of a spark in bed, but we both knew that the excitement levels were falling and sex was in danger of becoming a chore.
One evening, we sat, each with a glass of wine and tried to address what was wrong and what we could do about it. We struggled to get past each stating that we missed the hot sessions and wanted to get back to that level of pleasure. She reminded me that a big part of the excitement had come from telling each other what we would like to try, even if that involved other people and both of us knowing it wasn't going to happen, just fantasy. I told her that her body and her words had always driven me wild, but the real kicker was when she revealed the really kinky, dirty side of her make-up.
"I thought that perhaps it was that stuff that was putting you off now I'm getting older," she said. I assured her that nothing could be further from the truth.
I told her that I loved her acting like a slut in what she wore, the words she used and the things she asked me to do to her; the dirtier the better.
"Then tell me what you want us to try," she told me.
I felt that it was now or never. I told her that whenever we were in the bathroom together getting ready for bed, I loved watching her pee and that I wanted her to stop wiping herself with toilet paper and let me, even make me, clean her with my tongue. The silence stretched on and on and I thought I'd blown it.
"I would have to be a really dirty slut to do that," she protested "and you would be very, very kinky."
Realising that she had not said no, I stood up and drew her to me, feeling both breasts and her hard nipples.
