It wasn't the most comfortable spot for viewing, but the cedar tree behind me gave cover. I peered through the window studying them. My wife, Lily, was stirring the Bolognese sauce on the range top with one hand, while balancing a full glass of wine in the other. Smiling in between sips, she repeatedly turned to engage her companion.
Quite closely, and also fully attentive, stood Stephen, at right angles to Lily, his butt against the bullnose of the tile counter, with his right hand also holding a wine glass. He was talking, gesturing with his left, and frequently touching Lily on her shoulder, and sometimes on her back. Lily was smiling, obviously enchanted by Stephen's stories.
My dog curled at my feet, more interested in listening to the evening sounds than in taking a walk, which was what I was asked to do while they volunteered to slave away in the hot kitchen making the supper. Now I understood what Stephen meant by "hot" kitchen.
Their shapes were very similar, both of them pears, generously endowed Bartlett's, with a lot of extra pulp on them. For their age—both in their late fifties—they had very few signs of aging. In other words, no wrinkles, as the extra adipose kept their skin taught as balloons.
My wife, fair-haired with a reddish sheen, which miraculously hadn't grayed, was endowed with large breasts and especially large hips, a BBW she called herself. I loved her for her passion, sometimes overly dramatically so, but she readily embraced all sensual aspects of life.
Well, almost all. She loved the panorama of an expansive ocean beach, the music of crickets and owls in the evening, and the aromas and flavors of everything food. As for touch, she loved the press of my lips into hers, and the caress of my fingertips, nail edges, knuckles, and beard hair upon her skin. But she had not allowed anyone else to enjoy that tactile sensuality because her sense of marriage was that of a faithful touching contract between herself and only one man, me, her husband.
But surprisingly, that insistence was beginning to waver, ever since I began hearing the call for cock. She soon started wondering whether being so monogamous was limiting one broad area of sensuality in her now middle midlife.
This was like a light switch being flipped from off to on. For Lily, a monogamous marriage was what she had dedicated herself to for thirty years. My devotion to such a commitment was not so steadfast. And I think the tension in our differing fidelities, especially over the last few years, gave Lily plenty of opportunity to reconsider her own allegiance to a pact that her husband wasn't going all in for.
Stephen refilled his and Lily's wine glass, and, drinking in big swallows, they continued their conversation. Stephen let his hand linger a bit longer on her shoulder than he had been, and she spent lesser times stirring and more moments looking at him full face-on, and beaming.
There was no withdrawing from his touch, and, in fact, the tactile connection—and the extra wine—may have been beguiling her. Lily raised a spoonful of the Bolognese to her mouth, cooled it by blowing, took a tiny taste, turned, and put the remainder into Stephen's willing mouth. Both of them nodded and smiled in approval. Then, as if that taste only whetted their real appetites, they each set down their wine glass, Lily her stirring spoon too, and moved closer toward each other.
Stephen placed both hands on her shoulders, slid them down to her elbows, and gazed into her eyes, as he listened to whatever she was saying. I saw him smile, and then they both moved together into a kiss. It was a brief one, maybe a tasting kiss, but the pause afterward was not long, for they began kissing quite ravenously after that, the two of them wrapping their arms around one another, tightly hugging while grinding their faces into each other.
I could have predicted this, and maybe I did, in a way—even facilitated it. I had known Stephen now for several months. As bi-guys, we had gotten together on numerous occasions with my intention being to find a dominant man to fall in love with, but I kept wondering if Stephen's goal was to train me to become his perfect submissive.
On one of those days, Stephen had dressed me as a woman at his house, and then had his way with me. I had been a maid-servant for him on an afternoon when he entertained a couple that he had known for years, and when the wife left, the two men had double-teamed me. In his virgin flogging experience, he had beaten me to the point of painful euphoria and then fucked me.
Those were the most memorable and the most special times. Mostly though, the parts of my training were different. He would summon me to his house when he needed to be "drained," and I would come over, suck him off until he came in great gobs in my mouth, which I dutifully swallowed, and then he would say it was time to go, have me zip him up, and I would leave.
It wasn't a 24/7 type of arrangement that we wanted, however, a lifestyle that some people seem to crave. In fact, when we were not inside his house, we interacted as friends, buds, and equals. Conversation would happen easily between us, we would make decisions collaboratively, and it wasn't until we were together in his house that the roles of dominant and submissive even came into play. It was during one of those times, however, when Stephen insisted, that he meet my wife.
Upon hearing how faithful she was to one man in a marriage, I surmised that he wanted to test that resolve. The first time that we all got together, the three of us had lunch at a local restaurant and engaged in a spirited conversation that ranged through all the safe and superficial subjects. Afterward, though, Lily had confided in me, that she liked Stephen, and in fact would like to have him visit again and again. It was her suggestion, in fact, that he come over today. And my telling all this to Stephen might have sped up any long-drawn out seduction.
My attention was kept rapt. They were becoming feverishly more familiar with each other's body. Stephen drew up Lily's shape-hugging knit dress from behind so that he could now surround her buttocks through her panties, jiggling them in his palms and bringing delighted giggles and sighs. Lily, likewise, had pulled Stephen's shirt up and above his shorts and was rubbing her smooth palms all over his hairy back. That brought them tighter together, and the kissing became more savage.
I found myself getting hard in this vicarious thrill of watching two people, each of whom I had been intimately involved with, making love with one another. Maybe it was the act of watching them secretively that also turned me on. But far from being jealous or rushing in to protect my wife, I wanted to see this through. I knew Lily's momentum when she got aroused, and that, added to Stephen's, would be a runaway semi barreling down a steep mountain grade.
I didn't have to wait long. Sure enough, Lily, assertively, unbuckled Stephen's belt, undid his snap, and unzipped his shorts. Stephen pulled Lily's dress up and over her head and she stood before him in her bra and underwear. Stephen's shorts dropped to the ground and he kicked them off, standing in his tented boxers, and then, off came his shirt, Lily heaving it into the dining area.
She turned her back to Stephen and let him undo the four clasps of her bra, slipping it off her shoulders, and then she pivoted back, with her hands above her head, and shimmied her pendulous breasts, making Stephen's eyes pop.
Lily knelt down, lowering his boxers to his ankles, which he stepped out of, his big cock at full attention. Lily then gave it her full attention and begin slobbering up his meaty offering with her hot, copious saliva.
Stephen tentatively ran his fingers through Lily's hair and was rewarded with little pleasure shrieks. He seized on that discovery, putting purpose into his hair play, trying out traction and tousling, tickling and tangling. Lily responded with vigor, rapidly deep-throating his shaft, augmenting its turgor and making him moan so loudly, my dog began whining.
