Chloe and I, in our mid-thirties, have been married for eleven years, since we graduated college together. No kids yet, and may never have them. Right now, we're having fun, and we don't feel that our lifestyle is "settled" enough yet for children. This is the story of how that lifestyle started.
Chloe teaches high school English, mostly the advanced placement courses. She's good friends with a lot of the other young women who teach at her school. They like to go for drinks after the last bell.
One day, with two empty margarita pitchers sweating on the table, the subject of posing nude came up. "Would you or wouldn't you?" The question bounced around amongst them. Once they sorted themselves into who would and who wouldn't, someone pointed out that the local college art program recently had advertised for models.
The drunkest of them swore that she would go in for it.
Chloe, who usually holds her liquor well, swore that she would, too.
The other woman chickened out, protesting that she couldn't even remember what she said.
Chloe doesn't chicken out. And thus, one evening, she stepped into a college art class and dropped her robe. What did that class see? Her brown hair, of course, cut short and chic. Her pale, heart-shaped face. Blue-gray eyes. The dusting of freckles on her nose. And they saw every inch of her petite, willowy, milk-white body.
At that point, she glanced around, and only then noticed one of her former students: a dirty-blondish, Brad Pittish, motorcycle-riding artist that she once confessed to me she had a crush on.
I was reading in bed later when she climbed in and told me all about it.
"So I thought, okay, I can be self-conscious for the whole next hour, and worry about whether he can see between my legs or not, or I can get it out of the way and relax, and pose like I'm supposed to."
I kissed her cheek. "Mm. So?"
"So I wasn't lewd or obvious or anything, but, uh, he got a really good look at me. A really good look."
I nodded.
She went on: "In fact--"
I shot her a sideways glance.
"Well, we went for coffee afterward. He told me I have beautiful labia."
"Oh really?" Went for coffee afterward? I kind of felt that a line had been crossed. I also was suddenly, ragingly erect. I set the book I had been reading down over my lap. I hoped it would hide the tent I was making of the bedsheet.
"Yeah." She blushed. "He said that if I didn't mind posing for him privately, he'd like to do more detailed studies."
"Of your labia?"
Chloe snatched my book up. "Oho! What have we here?" She gave me a playful swat with it. "You're turned on!"
That's how it began--our first serious discussion about sex with other people. It lasted all through the night, and wasn't even over when we kissed goodbye to go our separate ways to work. We met for lunch and talked about it more. And more when I got home.
The more we hashed it over, the clearer it became that we both would like it better if I stayed monogamous and she had the freedom to be with other men.
No doubt, it's easier to understand that decision from her point of view than mine, so here are my thoughts on the matter: Chloe's sexuality is beautifully complex. Buoyant and rambunctious, unashamed and unafraid, curious and filled with wonder. No one man could possibly make all her facets shine, and I'm painfully aware of parts of her that don't find full expression in our relationship. The worst thing about that is, we found each other early in our lives, and she's never had a chance to explore some of those parts. She'd only been with two other guys before me. Both were steady boyfriends. She's been completely faithful so far, but I feel that, at least once, she needs to go crazy, have no limits, and follow her pleasures as far as they will take her.
We decided that letting her friend study her labia would be a perfect first step. Surely he just wanted to get her pants off. Chloe was looking forward to a good, rowdy lay. I was excited for her.
Only it didn't work out that way. The artist went through with his meticulous sketches of Chloe's labia. She brought one home, and I have to say, it's impressive. When he finished with those, he didn't seem to know what to do. Very uncharacteristically for Chloe, she didn't seize the moment either. I think they both got shy. One's nervous awkwardness probably fed off the other's, in a downward spiral. If I'd been there, I would have tried to help them along, but I wasn't.
Chloe was pretty depressed when she got home. She was also fifty dollars richer.
"He insisted I take it," she told me. "My modeling fee or something. Whatever. At least I got something for my trouble. Woo-hoo. Come on, I'll buy you dinner."
* * * * * * * * * *
After our initial disappointment, we had another long talk. We were both in firm agreement that we still wanted to go forward with Chloe's sexual adventuring.
Chloe suggested that I script a fantasy for her to act out. That would give me a hands-on role. We didn't just want this to be her thing. We wanted to build it into our love, intimacy, and marriage as something shared between us.
"Here's a great resource for you." She showed me a website, literotica.com.
"Huh," I said. "That's where you published those stories you wrote a while back, right?"
She beamed at me. "Right! Now check this out." She indicated a category of stories called Loving Wives. "Thousands of stories, all about the kinds of things we've been discussing."
"Wow!" I stared at the screen, taken aback. "So this is like its own sub-genre of erotica. That's pretty specific."
"Most erotica is. And it breaks down even more specifically."
"How?" The idea of our fantasy was so new to me that I couldn't think beyond the fact that she'd be having sex with other men.
She moved out of the chair and let me sit. Leaning on the chair-back, she watched over my shoulder while I clicked around and browsed the titles.
"Well," she said, "there's the little white wifey and the hung black stud fantasy."
I laughed. "Okay, I can see that."
"There's poker night fantasy, where the wife starts out as hostess and ends up getting gangbanged."
Now I really laughed. "And there are whole bunches of stories that cluster around these scenarios?"
"Uh-huh! Oh, you bet."
"Go on."
"There's the cream pie fantasy--letting other guys come in your wife, then you eat her."
"Aaww! You're shitting me!"
"I shit you not." Chloe scrunched her nose.
"Definitely not for me!" I said.
"Anyway," Chloe went on, "just browse around. Take notes. If something turns you on, maybe you'll want to write it in my script. If something makes you feel jealous or uncomfortable or turned off, let's talk about it."
I rose out of the chair and swept her up in an embrace. I stared into her eyes and said, "Chloe, you are too cool."
She giggled.
We kissed.
She said, "I love you," and I whispered it back in her ear.
"Oh darling," she sighed. "All right." She pulled away. "Come on, now. Get to work. Write me something. I'm rarin' to go!"
I sat right down and started reading. A lot more quickly than I expected, I zeroed in on just the kind of fantasy that I knew would rock our world to the core.
* * * * * * * * * *
Chloe's face turned whiter than the papers in her hand. Her mouth hung open as she read. When she finally recovered her composure, she gave her short brown hair a little toss and said, "Leave it to you. The most extreme version!"
I grinned. "What were you hoping for? Picking up some guy in a disco?"
She looked again at the script in disbelief. "How about just something legal? That seems like a minimal, reasonable expectation. If I got arrested, even if I got off with a warning, I would lose my job for sure! And you might, too, for that matter. Or we'd have to move, or something."
"Yes," I agreed. "Those are real considerations."
"You really want me to do--" She waved the script. "--this?"
"Chloe, that's the script I wrote for you. If you don't want to do it, if you find it too intimidating--"
"Hey! Whoa!" she interrupted. "Whoa! Intimidating?"
I went on: "You don't have to do it. But that's my absolute, ultimate fantasy of you. Yes. I do want you to do it."
"Well!" She slapped the script down on the table. "Then I will!" She turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.
I gave her bottom a quick pat. She wiggled it, and winked at me over her shoulder as she left the room.
I picked up the script, and flipped through the pages, smiling. The details weren't important; the gist of it was for Chloe to work for a weekend in a brothel.
How did I come up with that? I didn't realize it at first, but the fifty bucks from her artist friend had dropped into my subconscious and taken root, a turn-on waiting to explode. It's not hard to understand. She got naked and let him stare for hours at her pussy. Then he gave her money for it. I got a strange thrill, later that evening, when she paid for our dinner with the fruits of her labor. I think the fantasy had already grown into something full-blown in the back of my mind, when I found the literotica stories about whoring wives. I recognized "it" instantly. That was what I wanted for her. And I knew she'd be up for it. Chloe's brave. She loves rising to challenges.
Now, I had her word she would go through with it. And like I said, she doesn't chicken out.
In the days that followed, she shoved aside the worries she had expressed to me. Other concerns occupied her now.
"I'll need to get in shape for this."
Her idea of "getting in shape" was like a fantasy, all by itself!
We had lots of sex, in all kinds of ways. She spent a lot of time masturbating, playing with toys, etc. She did other things, too. Stretching exercises, yoga. She's actually run a marathon before, and she stepped up her running as though she were training for another--"Endurance," she explained. She mentioned that she was doing Kegels constantly, whenever she could. It was like she was in training for a sexual olympics.
As for birth control, Chloe has always preferred the diaphragm to pills or patches. Looking forward to her new adventure, she decided to update to a cervical cap, which is smaller and can be left in longer than a diaphragm.
