"Oh, god. Ohhhhh, yes..."
I stroked my right palm over the swollen head of my cock, greased up nicely by the precome that was oozing from the tip. My shaft was thick and taut, and my balls felt completely and almost painfully full. I needed to come. I needed to come badly.
I closed my eyes and leaned back a little further on the couch, letting out a lengthy sigh of pleasure and frustration combined. This was nice, but it was a shame that I couldn't count on the wifey to come and help out a little. However, asking her to even think of breaking a sweat was out of the question.
At first, our marriage had been passionate, a whirlwind of hormones and lengthy promises. Then, things slowed down for whatever reason. Kids weren't a problem; Maureen (her name) had never expressed interest in kids, and in fact I think that she flat out did not want them at all. That could serve as one of the reasons why I never bedded her anymore: birth control.
But didn't they make a pill for that?
Maureen also seemed a bit more high-maintenance than when we were dating. She seemed to have some need to keep everything immaculate, whether it be the appearance of her clothes, or the decor of the house, or the lawn and garden. Everything had to be coordinated, organized and looking like something straight out of Martha Stewart's wet dream. And she worked diligently enough to ensure that.
So guess how much time in her busy schedule that left for me? Bingo.
Zip. Zilch. Nada.
So here I was, masturbating on the living room couch before she got home from work. It was already some time past seven. Most times, she would work until about seven-thirty, eight at night. If I was hungry, I made my own food. If I wanted to be entertained, I watched the tube. And if I wanted some loving, well...
That's pretty obvious to you at this point.
I was almost functioning like your typical single male, only I couldn't masturbate any and everywhere I wanted to Maureen never had too much interest in watching that. And I couldn't leave food dishes anywhere I chose; Maureen would have a fit from hell if she found a dirty plate left on one of her spotless cherry wood coffee tables or hand polished marble counters. Other than that, why did I ever waste my time getting married? It seemed so pointless now. I could see no visible benefits to having Maureen as my wife.
Still and all, I'm not a big fan of dramatic changes.
Divorce would be a dramatic change.
But, then again, so would a change in Maureen's frigid attitude. So I guess I was pretty stuck.
That does not, however, mean I can't fantasize. And at that moment, I was fantasizing about a faceless woman, no specific features, only the willingness to give me what I wanted some physical closeness and affection. All other possible traits were superfluous.
I was imagining a soft body sealed airtight against mine, a heat and pulse from that body racing only for me, and a tight wetness around my throbbing, hard cock. I don't think I had felt the nice, tight sheath of a pussy on my cock for at least six months. It was agony, I tell you. Sheer agony.
But, I had no shame when it came to occasionally flogging the bishop. Hell, I had to get off somehow. If I had to literally take matters into my own hands, so be it.
It's just my luck, though, that Maureen has yet another ingrained flaw that I can't stand.
Awful, horrid timing.
I felt the tightness in my balls rising past the boiling point. My cock was unbelievably hard and I knew I was only a minute away from relief as I came.
Then I heard the door open swiftly, and slam shut again.
"Michael!"
I murmured a cuss word a little more loudly than I had intended to, knowing I'd have to stifle my raging erection to keep from being found out. I had been masturbating on one of Maureen's Italian silk-upholstered couches. If she knew, she'd be livid. And whatever she was yelling about must have been deemed a life or death situation by The Queen herself. It probably simply could not wait.
"Michael," she bellowed again, more insistently, her prissy whine really beginning to piss me off. She had ruined what would probably have been the high point of my day. For whatever she was interrupting it had better be damned good.
I rolled my eyes, tucked my dick back into my pants, and pulled on the crotch a little to conceal my only half-flagging erection. With a huge sigh of exasperation, I got up to go present my face for its daily slap of reality. Sometimes I wished Maureen would just disappear for a couple of years, maybe even a decade or so. By then, I'd be used to being without her and divorce would become much more of a possibility.
"Yes, dear," I said flatly, almost mockingly.
I approached Maureen, looking impeccable as ever in a charcoal gray suit coat with a matching skirt and an eggshell-white silk blouse underneath. Her make-up, as always, was perfect and succeeded in making her features look even phonier, colder. Her blood red lips, despite their fullness and appeal, were set in a hard line that threatened to stray south into a frown. I almost wished they would. I'd then have a fighting chance at knowing what she was thinking. But no they kept their shape in a thin, pursed line. God, I wanted nothing more than to slap her.
"I thought I had asked you," she said, her features twisted in disdain, "to mow the lawn today. I can't keep up the house, and the laundry, and the lawn all at the same time. I have other things to do."
With myself not being one of them, I thought sullenly.
I just sort of stood and stared.
"Well?" Maureen demanded. "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to do what I had asked of you about three different times this week?"
I shrugged, wordlessly, and headed upstairs.
Way to handle it like a man, Michael, I said to myself, seething.
I changed into a pair of ragged old clothes that would be perfect for an evening of yard work. As long as I was out in the yard doing something, I wouldn't have to see or hear Maureen. So there was that for consolation. Pretty small consolation, though.
I hadn't finished getting off, and I was aching as a result. Perhaps later, while in the shower, I'd be able to complete what I had started. Yeah. A nice hot shower and a recurring fantasy to which to beat off. Perfect.
I trudged downstairs and out the front door, not acknowledging Maureen again out of resentment, and headed for the garage. I found the half-empty gas can sitting by the push mower and filled the tank up with the remainder of the fuel. That should get it through at least just the front yard, if not our whole two acre lot.
I pulled down the bar on the handle and tugged on the rip cord. The engine sputtered to life and was soon purring like a pussycat. I started on my way, going around the front yard in straight, even rows. The mower was self-propelled, so I didn't have to do much of anything except walk behind it and guide it around turns. Before I knew it, the front lawn was done. It did need to be edged, but I decided not to go the extra mile for Maureen, since she didn't see to it to make this a request rather than an order. Better yet, let Miss Green Thumb edge it herself. Yet another thing she could put before me in her priorities.
I fished around in the pocket of my cotton shorts and pulled out a handkerchief. The evening wasn't necessarily hot, but it wasn't chilly, either. I mopped the sweat from my forehead, expelling a lengthy, tired sigh and closing my eyes. A slight breeze blew and cooled my sweat-drenched body, and as my eyes were still closed I stood there for a brief moment to enjoy it.
I opened my eyes, looking directly into my neighbor's yard. From the front door of their well-kept, nicely trimmed house came a lithe, beautifully figured girl in a small bikini. Our neighbor's daughter, Kelli. I remember when we first moved into our house, Kelli was no more than about six years old, a cute, platinum blonde little thing with pudgy cheeks and a consistently rosy complexion. I myself was in my mid-twenties, having done well for myself fairy early in life and able to enjoy the luxuries of my success.
Now, I was in my mid-thirties, but still the same old guy I used to be even though my wife had changed dramatically into some strange, reversed Stepford wife-type, I still retained some of my old fire. I thought I still looked good, too. I worked out regularly, maybe a little less than in my college and early business days, but I still kept my hard, detailed physique. Every once in awhile I got a little sun, and my skin always seemed to keep a natural dark tint to it throughout the year. Perhaps it's in my heredity. I hadn't been losing any hair, and I still couldn't detect those "laugh lines" and "crow's feet" my wife was always referring to in dread. I could say that eleven, maybe twelve years had passed without a hint of change for me, at least physically.
But biologically and psychologically, I wasn't really much the same. I used to be happy, content, and completely monogamy-minded. There was no one else for me but Maureen. I had felt sure that marriage would only serve to bring the inseparable, as we were, even closer. For awhile, it had. But now I was left with some stranger for a wife, a stranger that still slept in the same bed, cooked the same food, and even had the same features as Maureen.
But she was so completely different, and with as much as I resented it, I mourned it even more so. I missed Maureen, the old Maureen, my wife that was so full of vitality and energy and the knowledge of what was really important in life. Because of her sudden metamorphosis, I had gone years without any real, concrete affection. My body was in turmoil out of the aching to physically touch, hold, feel, experience a woman. My mind was in even more of a shambles, starved for affection, for admiration. Maureen used to tell me how much she loved my body, craved my fucking, loved my attention. She stroked my ego, but in an honest way; it wasn't hot air. I missed that someone whom I felt really needed and, better yet, craved me. Desired me. The combination of those two deprivations was indeed a deadly mix in this state, I felt I could justify any transgression.
So now, staring at Kelli, I felt no remorse, no shame. What man would? She had aged into a stunning creature, full of youth, so fresh and beautiful. Her body was fit for the Greeks and seemed to be enveloped in such soft, supple skin. Oh, and Kelli that little cherub I remember in her childhood Kelli had most definitely become a woman; the bikini she wore was filled out exquisitely with fully rounded, firm breasts, each topped with what was probably a delectably sweet nipple. She was art, a pure work of art.
Yes, sweet little Kelli, running around the yard with her fluorescent-pink clothed Barbie doll, had certainly grown up. It felt like ages since I had stopped to fully notice it. Of course, with my head buried in work and a failing marriage like an ostrich with its head in the sand, it would have taken something quite spectacular to capture my attention. And spectacular she was.
I must have been standing there in the midst of my reverie looking like an idiot, for when Kelli spoke to me, it was like a bucket of cold water being thrown on me in the summer.
"Hi, Mr. Theissen! How's it going?" Kelli's silver tinkle-bell of a voice floated over and caressed my ears.
