Foreword
A short Loving Wives piece this time. No wimpy cuck husband, no BBC, and no slut-wife or BTB revenge. This is a short scene about a husband and wife and some spice they add to their marriage.
Feedback is appreciated. I hope you enjoy the following.
Thanks for reading.
GA – Thirsk, North Yorkshire – 18th of November 2015.
***
"It's porn night," she says.
Anxiety squeezes his guts. Alan closes his eyes and replies with, "What have you done?"
Her chuckle comes out of the mobile. "Nothing for you to worry about," Alan's wife coos. "I'll tell you when you get home."
Alan lunges forward in his chair, elbows going onto his desk. He pushes his fingers through his thick hair, holding the phone up to his ear with his free hand. He's already half hard in Pavlovian response; his wife's opening words have found their mark. Although only occasional – four times a year as an average – porn night is always a thrill.
He sighs, then mumbles, "Can't you at least give me a hint?"
Alan hears her laugh. "Patience," she says, her tone laced with amusement. "All good things come to he who waits." There's a pause before she goes on with, "But I'll tell you this, babe, I'm going to the salon. I'll be perfect when you get home. All silky and bare ... my legs, my pussy..."
Air hisses out of his nose. "Jesus, Melissa," croaks Alan. He throws a glance at the clock on his laptop, then adds, "I've go to work. It's only eleven o'clock. How am I supposed to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day?"
Melissa chuckles again. "Think of me using that black dildo," she says with a purr.
He swallows heavily and then mutters, "Oh shit."
"I'll be dressed for you, too," continues his wife. "Anyway," she says, "I'd better go. Have a good day."
*
The drive home usually takes eleven minutes – Godalming to Peper Harow. Today, Alan does it in eight.
He leaves the car on the drive instead of putting it away in the garage, slamming the door on the beemer before vaulting the front steps.
The front door opens before Alan gets there, the sight of his wife stopping him dead in his tracks. "Oh God, baby," he moans. "Melissa ... Jesus, you're beautiful."
She's obviously pleased by her husband's reaction. Melissa smiles and tilts her head to one side, posing to give Alan the full benefit. "Thank you," she says, turning to walk back into the cottage. "I've poured wine but I want you to shower before we get to it."
Alan stands and watches his wife hip-sway away, the sight of her taut buttocks through the gossamer mini dress wrenching his core. He thinks she's perfect, a low, visceral tug of desire for his wife stiffening up his already firm cock.
There's a glimpse of shiny smooth legs cutting along quickly before Melissa pauses and looks back at him over one shoulder. "Come along, silly," she grins, blue eyes sparkling with devilment beneath a precise fringe of blonde hair. "I've been fingering my cunt all afternoon, this pussy is ready for some tongue."
Melissa's use of profanity still has the power to shock him. It isn't often she swears in her day-to-day life, 'bloody' or 'damn' about as strong as it gets, but porn nights are different. Porn nights are when Melissa lets go, her vocabulary cast into the sewer.
Alan stands there a few seconds longer. He's captivated by Melissa's physical form, staring at the undercurve of buttocks just visible below the hem of her dress before, following a lascivious wink from his wife, he bursts into the house and backheels the door closed, hands going to his tie.
He's tearing off his suit jacket as he approaches, with Melissa giving a squeal as she dances away on dangerous high heels.
"Don't you
dare
," scolds his wife as Alan moves in. She strides into the lounge, heels pecking at dark wood flooring, seeking seeks refuge at the far end of the large sofa. "Shower," she says, the barrier between them. A red-painted talon points towards the ceiling as she delivers a curt, "Upstairs. Now. You touch me and porn night is off!"
Alan is framed in the doorway. He looks at his wife while imagining striding with purpose to claim her as his. He sees himself kissing her mouth while running his hands all over her body. Alan's cock pulses with need, imagining bending her over and splaying her labia with the tips of his fingers. He has to suppress a groan while images of fucking into her pussy from behind fill his mind's eye. He knows from experience how sublime her molten embrace will feel around his girth.
Snapping back to reality, Alan takes in his wife's hair hanging loose and long in a blonde hippy-chick style. He gulps when he sees her eyes flashing blue ice, then soaks in the perfection of her compact body. And to Alan she is utterly perfect. He adores everything about her: his wife's mind and quick wit, her prettiness enhanced by maturity, the forty-two years sitting well. He's aware, in some distant place in the back of his mind, of Melissa's physical appeal, her diminutive feminine shape all taut and toned, every curve honed in the gym. She's full of vitality, vivacious and feminine, all in one gorgeous package.
Through the mesh of the mini dress, Alan can see his wife's breasts, the nipples like pebbles in the tiny coins of their areolae, and the urge to maul those pert tits comes a near physical ache way down deep. "Please don't say that," groans Alan, his focus going to his wife's thong. He gulps one more time when he makes out the line of her underwear through the gauze of the dress packed with her plump vulva, the insignificant waistband pulled high up on her hips.
"Then go and get in the shower," Melissa responds, crossing her arms while cocking one hip. An eyebrow goes up while she challenges her husband, her belligerent stare saying, "Go ahead, Alan, see if I'm bluffing."
Alan looks at his wife for a few beats longer, then croaks, "But you're gorgeous, Melissa."
"Go!" she insists with a laugh.
Alan turns to comply, but then her voice stops him.
Melissa says, "Hang on a second," and slinks towards Alan, coming at him all lithe and sensuous, eyes brimming with libidinous intent. "Here," she adds with a whisper, kissing his mouth, the act withdrawing her earlier caveat of no touching. Her tongue slips in while Alan responds with a groan, his hands going to her waist. They kiss for long seconds, tongues writhing and swirling while Alan's erection clamours for release. His fingers slip under the very brief hem of the dress, palms cupping her buttocks. At over six foot and given his build, Alan could easily lift his wife off her feet. Their difference in size would make it simple for him to haul out his hard-on, pick up Melissa, and then ease her onto his cock.
