This is a continuation of my story Slick. You should read that introductory chapter first,
Chapter 2
My wife Jude and I had recently celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary. At the time, we had one kid in college and another set to graduate high school soon. I was contemplating retirement and Jude was bored. She had been a stay-at-home mom for the past ten years and, with the kids all but gone, she was looking for something to do with her time. It should have been an occasion for us to think about our future together. Instead, It became all about Jude.
It was around that time that Jude first got into yoga. Her best friend Melissa was taking classes at a small studio in a strip mall not far from our house and raved about it every time Jude spoke to her. I have to admit, Melissa did look happier and in better shape than I'd ever seen before. So, when Jude told me she wanted to start going to class with Melissa, I was all for it or anything that kept her happy. Well, within reason, of course.
I remember how excited she was after her first class. She came home invigorated and couldn't stop telling me all about it. I listened patiently but didn't understand half of what she talked about. She enjoyed the physical challenge but was even more intrigued by the spiritual aspects of yoga and yogic philosophy. It sounded like claptrap to me, but I've never been known for my free thinking. To top it off, so she told me, the instructor was this gorgeous hunk of a Frenchman, named Marcel.
Friday morning, over breakfast, she brought him up again. That was unusual, and I started getting a slight twinge in my gut. "Should I be worried?" I asked her across the kitchen table.
"About Yogi Marcel," she asked, not realizing how silly she sounded. I couldn't help but chuckle.
"Yogi? Is he smarter than the average bear?" I fired back, sure that my wit would win me some Brownie points.
"Huh? Bear?" she had an angry look on her face until she figured out my joke. "Oh. Yogi Bear. Cute. He's a yoga master, so he is known as a Yogi. It's a title, you know, a sign of respect."
"Yes, I know what a title is," I replied, then went on, giving her my very best attempt at a Yogi Bear accent, "Whatever you say Boo-Boo."
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. I couldn't help myself. I figured I'd worn out the Yogi Bear jokes, so I shifted my humor to the only other Yogi I knew.
"You know," I said with a smirk, "when you're in your class, you can observe a lot just by watching."
Jude didn't seem to get the reference. She nodded, "Well, Yogi Marcel wants us all to participate to the best of our ability. So, nobody gets to stand around and watch. You should come sometime. You might like it."
No chance that would happen, and I was pretty sure she knew it before she suggested it. Yoga was not something I anticipated ever needing, at least not in this lifetime. I got my physical challenges in the gym and enough pseudo-spiritual mumbo jumbo from my Aikido classes.
"Well, make sure you don't give up during class because you know what they say," I said, trying my best to keep a straight face, pausing for dramatic effect. Jude stared at me like she had no idea what "they" say, so I continued, "It ain't over 'til it's over."
Jude squinted at me. "Wait a minute," she said suspiciously, "are you quoting Yogi Barret?"
"Yogi Berra," I corrected her. "He was a great spiritualist, too."
"Ha ha ha," my wife fired back. "Do you ever take anything I do seriously? This is important to me."
"I'm sorry, honey, you're right," I said, in all sincerity. "You never answered my question?"
"What question was that?" she asked getting up from the table to freshen our coffee. I seriously doubted she didn't know which question I was referring.
"I have deja vu, all over again," I quipped, then with a serious face, repeated my earlier question, "Should I be worried?"
"If you keep belittling the things that are important to me, yes, you should be," Jude said with one hand on her hip, then added, "but about Yogi Marcel, no you don't have anything to worry about. He's not my type."
I grinned. "What type is he?"
She replied, raising her eyebrows as she delineated each point of comparison. "Well, he is young. He is handsome. He is very athletic, lean and limber. From what I can tell, he seems to have amazing stamina. He is brilliant and doesn't put my interests down. And his package looks fucking huge in tights."
"Oh, so nothing like me at all," I replied, laughing.
"He's about as unlike you as one man could be," she replied with a sigh and sat down to sip her coffee, putting my cup near me. She had a dreamy, far away look in her eyes.
"He must be gay," I snorted.
"You think every good looking guy is gay," Jude replied.
"That's not true. How could you say something so incorrect and uncaring? I only say that about the good looking, well-dressed, perfect teeth ones, who you seem to be routinely impressed by. And anyway, I'm always right. Tell me one time I was wrong."
"The actor who played in the movie about the love note, I forget his name," she said, pretending ignorance. I knew she knew his name. She put him on her celebrity hall pass list, just after Bradley Cooper and ahead of Brad Pitt. Poor Brad had dropped several slots in the post-Angelina years.
"He's still in the closet," I replied confidently. "Wait, you'll hear about it soon enough. There will be some scandal, and he'll admit his passion for teenage boys."
"He's married."
"She's a beard."
"You're just jealous of all hot, young, studly men. You hate that you're getting old and you're projecting."
"Projecting? Is that one of those words they teach in Psychology 101?"
"Mmmm-hmmm," she replied, pursing her lips at me.
"I flunked Psychology," I lied. I graduated with a double major in Criminal Science and Psychology and went on to get a Master's degree. Several years back, I had been one of the lead detectives that caught the North Dallas Rapist. I'd gained some national notoriety and had a short-lived semi-best seller called the Pathology of a Serial Rapist that had been made into a movie on Lifetime.
"Right now you're flunking at making up to me," Jude said with a smirk.
"Making up? Did we have a fight?" I asked, playing along. "If you want to make up, I know a good way. Makeup sex."
"It's too late," she chirped. "You'll be late for work. It's too bad, too. All this talk of Ryan Gosling has me in need of a quickie."
"Fuck work," I said as I stood and pulled my beautiful wife into my arms. "I want to retire anyway, but you won't let me."
"Don't fuck work," she said as she wrapped her arms around my thick shoulders and jumped up to encircle my hips with her legs. "Fuck me, instead."
I leaned her back onto the kitchen table. I had built the table myself; It was extra sturdy from solid Texas pecan. I knew it would handle any abuse we gave it. I pushed her t-shirt up over her bare breasts and began to maul them with my mouth. Her nipples were rock hard and protruding fully.
"You're such a caveman," she groaned, her fingers moving through my short-cropped hair.
"Ugh," I said, with a grunt, as I pulled my hard cock out of my pants and rubbed the bulbous head between her legs, forcing her labia apart.
Jude moaned and spread her legs wider. "Hurry up," she whispered, "I don't want to be late for yoga class."
I lifted my mouth from her breasts and stared down into her face, feeling a bit of anger and jealousy well up inside me. I shoved my hips forward and penetrated her roughly. Her cunt was slick, and she adjusted quickly to my thick shaft. I pounded her pussy hard, my curved cock pumping in and out of her like a fleshy piston.
Jude grabbed the back of my shirt in her fists and cried out, arching her back and bouncing her ass off the table to meet my cock. I hammered thrust after rapid thrust into her. Neither of us spoke. We fucked. I could feel my orgasm approaching, and instead of slowing down to take more time, I went faster, harder, fucking her like I would fuck a slut.
Suddenly, my wife cried out and bit down on the fleshy part of her hand to keep from screaming. She shook and rocked as her whole body spasmed through an intense orgasm. I reached my climax just after she did and groaned hard as my sperm shot out, thickly, filling her completely.
Spent, I pulled out and kissed her hard on the mouth. I pulled my pants back up and put my still-wet cock away.
"Aren't you going to shower?" Jude asked, surprised.
"No, I want to be able to smell your pussy all day," I said.
"That's just gross," she said with an upturned lip. However, the smile on her face belied how proud she felt knowing that I wanted to carry her scent with me all day.
"I'm old and gross," I told her, using her own words. "If you want a young, well-kept pretty boy, go to your yoga class and stare at your Yogi. I bet he smells like Patchouli."
Jude was wiping her pussy up with a tea towel, absentmindedly. She had that dreamy look in her eyes again.
I stepped forward, leaned down and kissed her hard, "I love you, Jude. But, if you ever cheat on me, you know what will happen, don't you?"
"I would never cheat on you, my big, hairy caveman," she said, then kissed me back.
"Yeah, well, keep telling yourself that when you're staring at Yogi Boner's package."
I said my goodbyes and went to work. I had a big case that was taking a lot of my time. We had another serial rapist at work in the North Dallas and Collin County area. There were three victims that we knew of, and we wanted to stop the creep before there were more victims or he escalated to more than just rape.
Chapter 3
Originally, Jude started out going to yoga class only on Wednesdays and Fridays, in the afternoon, while I was at work. After a couple of weeks, she added Monday morning. Shortly after that, Jude was doing yoga every day. When she wasn't in a class, she was practicing yoga at home. Yoga became a dominating activity in her life. She was either doing yoga or talking about it. She was into everything about this New Age lifestyle.
