1.Pillow Talk
It was a Thursday night in the middle of August. My wife Nancy and I lay in bed embracing after having sex for well over an hour. Actually, except for its duration, the sex was fairly conventional (lots of oral sex and vaginal fucking). But for some reason it had seemed especially good for both of us.
Even though we were incredibly relaxed and it was past midnight, we lay in bed for some time talking.
Nancy, her head on my chest, began talking about how "well fucked" she felt and more generally about our sex lives: "I guess we aren't much like other married couples, are we?"
"That's an understatement," I answered, though the question seemed only rhetorical.
"I mean," she continued, "we have super sex together, like tonight, and still you allow me to have sex with other men. Sometimes I wonder if this isn't unfair to you. After all, you're a very sexy guy. Wouldn't you like to have other women? I wouldn't object. How could I?"
I thought a few seconds before replying: "There are several women I'd fuck if the chance occurred, but I especially love fucking you whenever I want to and occasionally watching you with other men. In fact, I have to admit that sometimes when I'm fucking you, images of you with other guys run through my mind."
"The same thing happens with me," said Nancy. "I mean sometimes when we're having sex my mind sort of drifts to what it felt like getting it from some other guy."
For some reason, I found the thought of her being unfaithful to me in her mind even while I was fucking her very arousing.
Since I didn't respond to her right away, she asked, "You don't feel betrayed by that, do you?"
"Not at all. In fact, I feel very lucky."
"Meaning?"
"I'm lucky to be able to watch you meeting other guys, watch you turning them on, watch you allowing yourself to be seduced, watch you being pleasured by them -- all those parts of the game are incredibly horny to me. And knowing that your sexual experiences with these guys sometimes get into your head while we're fucking, well, that makes the whole thing even hornier to me."
She didn't say anything, so I continued. "When we're alone having sex, there are different kinds of thrills. Sometimes I feel really possessive, like I own you or something. Sexist pig that I am, I objectify you as a beautiful sexual creature that I'm lucky enough to be able to enjoy any way I want to. Sometimes, though, I have more traditional romantic feelings. Having sex with you makes me feel like your very intimate friend, your soul-mate, and, well, your loving husband."
Nancy laughed and said, "I'm relieved that you like doing me as much as watching me being done."
"That pretty well sums it up. Sometimes I'm not sure you're getting as much out of our little sex games as I do, though. When you have sex with other guys, is it really as good as you make it seem?"
This question didn't come out of the blue. It's one that comes up in our conversations pretty regularly, almost as a sort of sexual ritual. We both know, in a general way, what her answer will be. But she knows I like hearing it over and over again.
She paused, seeming to mull it over: "Generally, yes. It's different than when I fuck you, though. With guys I don't know, there's an element of risk or danger involved. I'm not sure how it's going to go with a strange guy, or several strange guys. Since you're always nearby to protect me, I'm usually not too worried about it, though."
"But do you enjoy it fully?" Again, this question was a part of our sex-discussion ritual. Nancy's answer(s) to this question, which vary slightly with her mood, tend to be almost comically quasi-analytical.
"Oh, yes," she answered, kissing me on the neck. "Very much. I guess it's a high-risk high-reward thing. My orgasms with other guys are usually no better than the ones I have with you. They're just different. You know my body perfectly. You know just how to arouse me and fuck me and bring me off. With other guys, there's a newness, an awkwardness, an uncertainty about the whole thing. They usually bring me off, too, or at least I get off while fucking them. But sometimes this is because I let other thoughts enter my mind. I think about you watching me and being excited about what you see. I think about how wicked and unfaithful I'm being. I even think about how degrading it is to be used like a whore. All these thoughts make sex with other guys a slightly more complex thing."
As she whispered these things to me, I could feel her breath against my neck. I could also feel her right hand caressing my cock, which was still flaccid but beginning to come to life.
I asked her then the question that nearly always comes next: "Which guys did you especially enjoy fucking?"
"Well, I don't know," she began, pretending that she hadn't expected the question, "I tend to remember the most recent one best. That would be that chunky guy who fucked me downtown in the hotel room. Having him fuck me hard in front of his drunken friends while you stood by watching was very exciting. I felt used, but in a safe way. When I was cumming, I was thinking 'How could I let these guys do this to me? What sort of a wife am I?'"
I didn't say anything. Nancy had begun stroking my cock, which was now half-hard again even though I'd cum in her only about thirty minutes earlier.
"I suppose I should see a psychoanalyst," said Nancy.
"Why?"
"I mean, how normal is it for a woman to get off on being degraded? There's probably something wrong with me. Or maybe the problem is that I have no guilt about it."
"Are you worried about it -- I mean not having any guilt?" I asked.
Instead of answering me, she went back to my earlier question. "I think the guy I enjoyed most was probably Adrian, that big guy you filmed me with up in our bedroom. Of all the guys I was with in that eighteenth-century-costume thing we did, he was definitely the best. When he was fucking me in our bed my orgasm was so strong I nearly passed out."