This is a novel, of twenty-five chapters. It deals with hotwifeing and cuckoldry. If those aren't subjects that interest you, you might choose not to read this.
Please read my comment on anonymous comments in my biography.
copyright 2013
*
'Not bad,' I thought, 'for an old geezer.'
On the night before my sixtieth birthday, I was lying on my back, my good friend Bobbie rose and fell above me, doing all the work and enjoying herself, as I could tell from her moans.
Beside me, my wonderful wife Molly was on her knees, Nick behind her pounding, she was giving out those wonderful birdlike calls, I reached over and pinched one of her nipples, it seemed to amplify her sensations, and she became louder and Nick let go, filling my wife's womb with his sticky residue.
"We're always behind them," Bobbie jested. As I prepared to do my part for her, I thought - as the Grateful Dead wrote - what a long strange trip it's been.
Chapter 1
Molly returned home from a dinner with her old friend Kat and had a revelation. "Kat told me tonight she's a hotwife!"
"What's that?"
"Well, she has sex with other guys. She says that sometimes her husband watches her. She told me some of the raunchiest stories!"
"Why did she tell you?"
"Apparently, she thought I'm a hotwife too!"
I could see why Kat jumped to that conclusion. Molly is three years younger than I am, at that point she was 53, and has always flirted with other guys in a totally harmless way. The men like it, she's five feet nine with shoulder length dusky auburn hair, still at a hundred and thirty-four pounds, and if her bra size is only a 32b, she wears it with pride. Molly loves to tease men, it's as much a part of her personality as her grand smile or intense cobalt irises. If we were at a party, Molly had a tendency to easily put her hand on a gentleman's arm, laugh joyfully at a joke or offer sincere compliments to him. I'd watched scores of times when a man would respond, wondering if she was coming on to him, and when he took it a bit too seriously, I'd seen Molly just as easily cool him with a joke.
Molly told me a few of Kat's stories, enough to get me in the mood, and fifteen minutes later we were in our marriage bed, doing what married couples do. After twenty-seven years we knew each other's bodies well enough, and if the lust had dimmed over the years, our love was enough to compensate, or so I thought. That night, Molly and I spooned in a comfortable position, and chatted as we made love.
"Have you ever thought about being a hotwife?" I asked.
"Like Kat is? No, of course not. Oh, I've had fantasies like everyone else - like you have for Sigourney Weaver. But I've never thought about just going out and getting a guy." Something in the tone of her voice indicated she might be spinning her response for the intended audience, me.
"Would you like to? You know, just once, meet a guy at a party and take him someplace and have your way with him?" The question was met with a hush, but I thought I got my answer in the way she pushed her hips at me, and the accelerated onset of an orgasm. For seven or eight minutes we played silently, I climbed on top of her to finish myself off, and then in the afterglow we continued our talk.
"You've never done anything like that, have you?"
"Of course not. Not since we were married, you know I had lovers before then." Not a shock, we were wed in our late twenties, both of us played the sport before we met. "Not even a serious kiss! You haven't either, have you?"
"No, I've never done anything," I renounced, and it was the truth. We drifted off then, and during the night I had a strange dream of Molly writhing beneath a strange man's torso, and my reaction was far from angry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At a party a week later, I watched as Molly, garbed in a one-shoulder dress, frolicked flippantly with a few of our friends. The wives didn't seem to mind, we'd all been there before, they were positive Molly wasn't trying to steal their husbands. Then, late in the evening, I was in a conversation with three or four guys when I spied Molly sitting in a corner with a handsome man I didn't know. My wife was in full flirt, and her hand covered his as he reached for a drink. He nudged closer, the dialogue seemed a bit more intense, and then he placed a hand on Molly's knee. She let it be for a couple of moments, then she moved a few inches away from him, his hand left her leg, a couple of moments later she rose and left him.
That night, again in bed, I asked, "Who was the guy?"
"What guy?"
"You know. The one you were sitting with just before the party broke up."
"Oh, you mean Alex. He's a friend of the Franklin's, just in for the weekend."
"You were getting pretty close to him."
"Was I?" she rebuffed.
"Uh huh. He had his hand on your knee. I didn't mind."
"You didn't?"
"No, there wasn't any harm in it, was there?" A long silence. "Or was there? Tell me, would you have liked to take him home?"
"Of course not," she rejected, and yet a clutch in her voice gave me an idea.
"What if it was okay with me, if I didn't mind. What would you do then?"
"Would you ever let me do something like that?" The voice in the dark room was incredulous, yet interested.
"I don't know. But if I didn't care, would you?"
Another long silence, I toyed with her nipples which were suddenly rock hard. "Maybe . . ." she admitted, "maybe. Since Kat's been telling me her stories, I've had this, I don't know, this sort of dream of being with someone else. It's just a fantasy, I'll never do anything about it, of course, but it's been sort of exciting."
"If you could have taken Alex home tonight, what would you have done with him?"
In her fantasy world, she opened up to me, "I guess I'd take some time just kissing him . . ." For the next twenty minutes she described the various ways Alex would toy with her, strip her of her clothing, perform oral sex on her, and then make satisfying love to her. While she was depicting her mirage, I helped her with my hands, my lips and, finally, my manhood. She came at least twice, a rarity at that point in our lives, and I had a gigantic discharge, thinking of another man who was, in dream, violating my wife, my possession.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We played the game for months, I found out Molly's dream man was taller than she, at least six feet, hair color was unimportant but she wasn't in favor of facial hair, and that he'd be gentle. When I asked about size down there, she thought back to her single days and told me, "I've never had a really big guy, more than nine inches or so, and I don't think I'd want one. It really doesn't matter. You're the best I've ever had, and you're not much bigger than average."
When I asked her who her best lover other than me was, she told a story from her youth. "Oh, that has to be Ralph."
"Ralph! You've got to be kidding me. You're making that name up."
"No, really, that was his name. Or at least the name he gave me."
"Tell me about it," I solicited.
"Really?" She was unsure, we had never talked of our lovers, but when she realized I was sincere and simply interested, she continued. "Okay. It was when I was living with Tommy, I must have been, oh, twenty-three. I had a big fight with him, I walked out, and didn't have anyplace to go. After driving around for a couple of hours, I stopped at a hotel, I figured they had a bar where I could warm up. I was sitting there, minding my own business, when this very handsome man in a suit offered to buy me a drink. I said yes. It was Ralph. I knew Ralph was married, he had a ring on his finger, but he was willing to listen, and you know how I am, if someone's talking to me, I've got my hand on their arm, and he kept looking at me, and then, after the third drink, he said that either he could keep on buying at the bar, or we could raid the minibar in his room. I knew what I was getting into, but I was really pissed at Tommy, and Ralph was pretty sexy, and I was drunk, so . . ."
