I didn't want my wife Amanda to have to go back to work. After we had the kids she wanted to stay home, and I was proud to support the family as she spent time being a mom. And even once the kids were both in school I had hoped she would never need to work full time.
But times were hard.
My career wasn't taking off the way I--or we--had hoped. I was stuck in middle-management. We had enough money to get by, but it was becoming increasingly clear that we weren't really getting anywhere, not with my income alone.
So in the end, after much discussion, Amanda decided, at 36, to head back into the workforce, taking a job as an executive assistant at an investment firm downtown.
It was pretty fucking far from her dream. And I knew she resented me for it--or maybe just life or fate or luck or whatever was responsible. Whatever. It was pretty fucking far from ideal for her.
And I could sense things changing as soon as she went back to work. Changing in the way we related physically, the way we touched, what we fantasized about.
From the very beginning of our relationship I always suspected that I found her just a little hotter than she found me. Actually, make that a lot hotter than she found me. I'm OK in most departments, or almost OK. But Amanda was beyond words. She had been a dancer, and her body was perfect in the ways only a dancer's body can be. Long legs and arms, capable of singular elegance . . . and--let's be honest here--her tits were . . . again, just fucking beyond.
Over time we'd been connecting a little less physically, which seemed to me inevitable as we aged. She would still do her wifely duty of getting me off from time to time, but it was increasingly apparent that she conceived of it as a duty. There was less intercourse; there were fewer oral sessions. And there were far more hand jobs---or scenarios in which she would encourage me to jerk off as she held me, maybe telling me a naughty story to help me get aroused.
I knew it wasn't doing much for her, but I was weak. She was hot, she turned me on, and I'd do anything I could to feel her body against mine as I came.
Ultimately she discovered--we both discovered--that she could get me to come faster if she told me stories of imagined infidelities. From relatively innocuous tales of crushes and kisses to things a little more hard core. I couldn't quite explain why it got me off--maybe I was just working through the guilt I felt for not being able to support her properly, or satisfy her properly. Maybe I was just trying to cope with the humiliation I felt for all this. Whatever. All I knew is that it was as hot as fuck, and I was becoming addicted.
So, now that she was back at work, some of her stories inevitably began to center on the cast of characters in her office, all of whom I knew, which added to both the authenticity and the excitement. She'd tell me of a hot 25-year-old in the mailroom who had fucked half the girls in the office, of a distinguished-but-still-sexy 53-year-old client who was cheating on his wife. But ultimately her stories all began to revolve around her boss, Eric. Eric was a charismatic guy: 45, six-foot-two, well-built, with just a hint of gray in his hair (though he had quite a bit more of his hair left than I did). And given the power he had over her as her boss, he was the perfect object of desire for Amanda and I to imagine in our stories. And over time, I began to sense that there was indeed some trace of attraction there for Amanda too, as she was able to tell better, more detailed, more believable stories of her infidelity when they centered on Eric.
I'm not naive, and I've read enough erotic stories in my time to know that sleeping with the boss is hardly a rare fantasy for women. So I was excited to think that Amanda might be getting at least some pleasure out of these fantasies too. She had always been so good, so faithful, so restrained (and sometimes so distant). It was pleasing to think that we had connected on something sexual--even if it did basically involved both of us getting off thinking about her fucking a guy she seemed to respect more than me.
She'd touch my cock slowly and start by saying something like, "baby, I'm sorry, but I have to tell you about something that happened at work today." That's all it took. I would be lost to my perverse desires.
"Tell me, baby. Tell me what happened . . . I won't be mad . . . just tell me everything."
"Well," she would continue, "I accidentally messed up a mail merge and it caused some problems with Eric and a client, so he had to call me into his office."
"Yes . . . "
"And, well, you know how when I go in there, I get a little scared . . . and a little excited . . . all at once?"
"Yes . . . tell me babe . . . I won't be mad . . . just tell me what happened . . . I need to know."
"OK--I knew that I'd messed up bad, and I just didn't want Eric to be angry. So I asked him if maybe there wasn't some way I could make it up to him. I said I'd do anything . . . that I knew it had been a stressful week for him . . . that I'd do anything to take that stress away. Do you know what I mean, babe?"
"Yes, I think I know what you mean. Did Eric?" I knew this was all made up, but fuck did it feel real. I wanted to keep pushing and pushing to get her to take the story further, further than she had gone before.
"Well he's not naive, not innocent--god knows he's not at all innocent from what I've heard. So he knew what I was offering."
"Fuck that is so hot--what happened next?"
"He stood up and walked out from behind his desk." She shifted to grab my balls as she went on, "God, babe, he looked so pissed off at me, and so fucking good. Why do I want him so bad when he is so cruel to me?"
"Sometimes it just works that way," I said, my cock hardening rapidly, "besides, I don't think he's really pissed off at you. I just think he wants to fuck you."
My wife laughed a bit, no beginning to play with the head of my rock hard cock. "No no--sweet I know this is only a fantasy, but that's taking it too far. I'm just an old housewife headed back to work. He fucks the 23-year-olds in the office, he doesn't need that from me."
"Don't be too sure, you are hotter than any of the girls I've seen in the office," I said, truthfully. "But also, don't worry--It's just a fantasy," I whispered, not wanting to break the mood and get into a discussion about all this. "Come on, just tell me a little more."
"OK--let's agree to disagree on that one. I think all he wanted from me is submission. He wanted me on my knees, and he wanted his thing in . . . well, you know . . ."
"No---tell me---I told you, I won't get upset---just tell me, I need to know."
"Ugh--do I really have to spell it out for you?" she asked, laughing again and clearly back into it. "He wanted me to suck his cock! He told me to unbuckle his belt and take it out, then he asked me to suck it."
