Without another word, I let my hands drift over the top of my shirt, feeling on my breasts, playing with them as my husband might have. He had not yet noticed what I was doing, and it was only after my shirt landed in his lap that he looked over at me, sitting up straight, fingers playing over the 34DD's he loves so much. Perhaps in an effort to keep me going without shame, he did not speak. Instead, he let one of the movies run and sat back in his chair.
His eyes never left me as the bra came off, and I let my hands drift to the waistband of the sweatpants I wore. I lowered the pants around my ankles, doing my best to look seductive while doing it. I must have done something right because even though alcohol kept him from performing, his own hand hand slipped between his legs and he was stroking himself over his shorts.
Watching him watch me was more stimulation than my own hand, even as I leaned back against the wall, legs bent, my neatly trimmed puss facing him. My fingers were met with sopping wetness, and with a sucking in of my breath, I spread the juice on my inner thighs, moaning as our eyes met. There was little inhibition left in me now, and I began to rub at my clit shamelessly, pushing my fingers in and out of my warm passage with the other hand. Those wet fingers came up to my mouth, sucking the wet off them in a move that made his eyes widen.
Breaths quickening, the notion of doing this before an audience barely keeping up with my hand, I furiously rubbed at my clit, and each time my legs pulled together reflexively, he leaned forward to pull them apart, telling me in a quiet voice that he wanted me spread. He wanted to watch me cum. I found my voice then, the last shred of inhibition going straight out the window.
"Tell me you like watching me. How it turns you on," I begged, voice cracking.
He told me. He told me that he wanted to see me cum all over my fingers and that he wanted me to lick them clean when I was done. He wanted to see me pleasure myself over and over again. He could never get enough, and if he weren't so drunk, he would fuck me like a beast. Then, the words were lost, the build up in my gut giving way and a powerful orgasm throbbing around my fingers, which had by now, left my clit and were wiggling deep inside me. I screamed, vaguely aware that the dogs in the next room were barking, vaguely aware of anything but the intense pleasure that rippled violently through my body. I think I called out his name, as though his own hands had caused this.
Then, I collapsed quietly on the bed, smiling to my husband through a strand of dark hair that had fallen across my eyes. I knew from that moment forward that there were no limits between us, and that there were other things, better even, to come.
