A Night to Remember or Forget?

I never really expected anything would happen in my life that would be worth writing about. But maybe there's something here that someone can learn from. I know there's a lesson. I'm just not sure what it is.

My husband, Ben, and I were about five and a half years into our marriage, and things were going pretty well. Ben had just started his career as a police officer, and I worked as a secretary downtown. Things were going pretty well for us, even though I worried quite a bit about the potential dangers of Ben's job and didn't much care for the late shifts he often had to work, being one of the newer officers on the force.

Maybe it would help with the story a little if you knew what we look like. Or perhaps I should have said "looked like," because what I'm going to tell you about happened quite a few years ago. And unfortunately, none of us looks the same as we did 25 years ago.

Ben was not what anyone would call a handsome man, although his inner strength and wry sense of humor made him quite attractive when you got to know him. He was about 5-10 and was a little stocky at 185 pounds. He had wavy brown hair, which he kept clipped short because of his job, and piercing brown eyes.

It's funny, but when I try and describe Ben, I always think first about the way he smells—a really masculine combination of after shave and that just plain natural smell that many men seem to have. It's a little hard to describe, but it gets stronger whenever you're having sex with them.

Some people, I guess, considered me attractive. I could look pretty nice when I took the time to fix myself up for a party or other special occasion. I wore my light brown hair just below my shoulders and liked the way the natural curl sort of made it cascade down. My eyes were brown, too, like Ben's, and a few people had mistaken us for brother and sister when we first started seeing each other.

I had a slender build at 5-7 and about 125 pounds, and the occasional times when someone commented on my appearance, most of the comments were about my long, and apparently shapely, legs. My small breasts matched my slender frame, and I'd had to resort to padded bras for years to make my clothes fit right.

I always enjoyed looking at the wedding picture of Ben and me that set atop the bookcase in the living room of the modest home we'd managed to purchase right after he got on with the police department. It would be safe to say that both of us had never looked more attractive in our lives than we did that day. And I'm pretty sure we'll never look that good again.

All right. Now back to my story.

I was at work when I received the call—the one that all police officer's wives dread. Ben had been badly injured. Not shot or stabbed, thank god. But he had been in a serious wreck in his patrol car and had been rushed to the emergency room at University Hospital downtown.

I dropped the phone and didn't even take time to tell my boss where I was going. The hospital was only a few blocks from my building, and I ran every step of the way, arriving breathless, disheveled and trying my best to muffle the sobs that kept welling up inside my aching throat.

The emergency room admitting clerk wouldn't give me any information for quite awhile, until I finally made her understand who it was that I was looking for and that this injured cop was my husband. She treated me with much more courtesy after that, but I'll never forget how helpless I felt as she made me wait like that.

I won't go into a lot of detail about Ben's injuries. I really have tried to put that scene out of my mind—those first moments when I went back to the treatment area and saw the tubes sticking out of him and his poor battered face. Remember, this was in the days before all cars had air bags, so when you had a bad wreck, the chances were pretty good that your head was going to hit something hard. Ben's certainly did.

It wasn't long before I was joined at the hospital by Terri, the wife of a cop that Ben worked with. She and her husband, Mike, lived just down the street from us. We had become pretty good friends, sharing the cares and concerns common to police officers and their families.

It took several hours for Ben to become stable enough to be moved into ICU, but by the next morning, he was settled in and seemed to be getting almost constant attention. Terri and I stayed together all that day, talking quietly in the ICU waiting room, holding hands like sisters. Every two hours I was allowed to go in for a brief visit, and I did what I could to let Ben know I was there for him.

Three days passed, and I began to get used to the routine of the ICU. I had figured out the best times to grab a bite to eat in the hospital cafeteria and even the best times to make a quick trip home to change clothes. I did most of my sleeping on the hard couch in the waiting area.

I also began to get to know, or at least recognize, the nurses from the various shifts. I was so impressed with the caring and competence of most of the staff. But one stood out. Not just for her caring and competence, but also because of her physical appearance.

Appearance wise, she was everything that I'm not. Angela was beautiful, blonde, voluptuous. But the great part was she didn't seem to realize it. She just went about her business of taking care of patients—my Ben included. And I was so grateful for the way she seemed to care about him.

Fortunately, Ben made steady progress and was moved from ICU after four days . . . into a semi-private room. As his condition improved, I felt as if I could spend more time away from the hospital. In fact, I needed badly to get back to work—both for the sake of my own sanity and the sake of my employer.

As the building where I worked was nearby, I could take my lunch hours to visit Ben and help with his meal, too. I'd then make another trip to the hospital after work, help with his dinner, visit for awhile and head home.

About every other trip I'd see Angela, and we'd exchange a few pleasantries about how Ben was coming along. I was so glad to have the chance to tell her how much I appreciated her looking after him.

Finally, a month to the day after the accident, I brought Ben home. He was not able to move around easily at first and it would still be months before he could return to work. But every day, he could do a little more for himself, and it was great to see him making such wonderful progress.

Unfortunately, there was one area where there didn't seem to be much progress—our sex life. It had now been months since Ben and I had made love. To be honest, it wasn't as if fireworks went off every time we fucked before the accident. I'd have to say our sex life was . . . well . . . just ordinary. An ordinary sex life for two ordinary people.

But there were times when it was very good. We'd collapse into each other's arms after a particularly vigorous session and lie very close, breathing hard from the exertion, bodies glistening with perspiration, smelling of sex.

I found myself thinking about those times a lot after the accident. Ben and I were sleeping apart so he could be more comfortable, and I'd lie there alone some nights practically on fire with the need to be touched. I'd been raised with the idea that masturbation was wrong—and particularly so for married people. There must be something really wrong with the relationship if you felt the need to masturbate after you were married.

But I did it anyway. It seemed as if I was in an almost constant state of arousal in those days, and couldn't wait to get in bed each night to gain what relief I could.

I'd lie on my back, draw my feet almost up to my hips and press my knees wide apart. This would cause the lips of my pussy to open and I could feel the nectar already beginning to flow. The skin was stretched tight around my clit, and the least little movement shot these intense sensations through me.

My hands would drift lightly over my firm breasts, making little circles around the areolas, teasing my nipples by not quite touching them. But finally, I'd allow my fingers to reach the center of my little mounds and pinch the hard nipples until I gasped audibly from the combination of pleasure and pain.

My breasts may not have been large, but they were sensitive! And there seemed to be a direction connection between my nipples and my clitoris. When I got to this point, each time I pinched them, I felt an electric current shoot directly to my throbbing clit.

Finally, one hand would slide lower, across my flat belly, over the curve of my mound to the center of my pleasure. By this time, my lips would be swollen with arousal and I could feel little droplets of nectar on the soft dark hair that outlined my slit. I knew I was right on the edge and had abandoned every inhibition when I slid my finger inside my sex, then raised it to my lips so I could taste myself.

This, I thought in my naiveté was the ultimate act of decadence. I couldn't think of anything more wanton than a woman tasting her own pussy! I also couldn't think of anything that could push me over the edge quicker.

As I got closer and closer, my thoughts would play over some of my favorite fantasies. But there was one constant in all of this. Each night, just as I was about to cum, my mind would fix itself on the same image—the image of a large cock all covered with veins, head throbbing and pre-cum drooling out of it.

It was not a cock I recognized. It was certainly not Ben's, which was of a very ordinary size. This one was extraordinary! And as that mystery cock parted my lips and began to plunge in and out of me—harder . . . faster . . . deeper—I would tumble over the edge to an incredibly intense orgasm.

Fortunately, Ben was recovering steadily. But, in truth, he was getting pretty difficult to be around as he got more and more restless and wanted so badly to return to work. The only person who wanted that more than Ben was me!

On the Friday before he was scheduled to be back at work on Monday, I decided to slip away from the office at lunchtime and see how Ben was getting along. I thought it might help break up the monotony for him. To be totally truthful, I was thinking that I might be able to tempt him into a "nooner," to hopefully signal that our lives were completely back to normal.

As I arrived at the house, I noticed that a strange car was in the driveway. I assumed that one of Ben's buddies from the police station had stopped by to see him. But the house was quiet as I let myself in the front door. Something—I'm still not sure what—told me not to call out. Instead, I walked quietly toward the back of the house where our bedroom was located.

It was then that I heard the sounds—muffled though they were. Voices speaking softly. Laughter. The rustle of bedding. I knew immediately what it was, but I just had to see for myself.

I thought I was prepared for what I was going to see. Or at least I thought I knew what to expect. But I was wrong.

I walked softly toward the bedroom door, which was open just a crack—enough to allow me to see the bed. Our bed. And there in the middle of our bed was Angela, the beautiful nurse from the hospital, sitting astride Ben, apparently unconcerned about any lingering effects from the accident.

She was sliding vigorously up and down Ben's cock, which I could see emerging from her with each lifting of her hips. His dick looked rock hard and was covered with her juices, making it glisten in the early afternoon sunlight that filtered through the blinds on the bedroom window.

My eyes grew wide as I watched her luxurious blonde bush and pink lips swallow my husband's cock . . . over . . . and over . . . and over again.

Angela's luscious breasts were bouncing freely as she raised her hips over and over again before grinding back down to impale herself fully. That beautiful face was the picture of desire—eyes half closed, lips parted, panting with effort and arousal.

I felt the jealousy rise within me—not so much that she was fucking my husband. It was more because Angela was feeling things at that moment that I hadn't felt in a very long time, perhaps never. She was lust personified. And I wanted to feel that way, too.

Her large areolas were nearly a perfect shade of pink and nearly twice as big as mine. The nipples, too, were large and must have stood out nearly an inch in their intense state of arousal. Her neck and chest were starting to flush a deep shade of pink, which I knew was a sign that her orgasm was very close. And has the color deepened, it made a very sensual contrast with her creamy white skin.

"Fuck . . . me . . . Benny," she panted. "Take . . . my . . . cunt . . .it's . . . yours . . . baby."

Angela's words came in short bursts that sort of escaped through her clenched teeth each time she lowered herself onto my husband's cock. I'd never seen anyone so lost in her own desire before. And I marveled at it.

My first thought when I saw the two of them together was puzzlement that a gorgeous woman like Angela could find my Ben attractive. But there she was—this extraordinarily beautiful woman riding his very ordinary cock and apparently loving every minute of it. My second thought was that I needed to get out of there—and quick.

So I grabbed the knob and pulled the door shut with a bang and retreated quickly from the house and back to my office. My one consolation was that I probably interrupted a very wonderful orgasm that they were both on the verge of.

I was not much good at work for the rest of the afternoon, but I dared not take off, as I had already missed so much time with Ben's injury. So I toughed it out until 5:00, then telephoned my mother to let her know I'd be spending then night with her.

And I warned her I might be there for quite some time.

As it turned out, I was at my mother's for less than a week. Ben began to call me that night and kept it up continually, at mother's and at work, until I finally agreed to meet him to talk. I insisted on "neutral territory," so we met in a diner downtown after I got off work the next Friday.

He apologized all over himself. It was almost a little pathetic, but he seemed sincere. He looked good, as if it was really agreeing with him being back at work. I listened to his apologies, his excuses, and something deep in those brown eyes of his made me believe that he was sincere.

Or maybe I just wanted to believe it. The image of that wedding photo sitting on our bookcase at home kept flashing back to me. I thought about how happy we looked on that day. Maybe it was that image that made me give in.

Whatever the case, I agreed to come home and moved back the following weekend.

For weeks, it was like Ben was walking on eggshells around me. He just couldn't do enough to let me know how grateful he was to me for taking him back. I really didn't extract much "revenge." I decided if we were going to make this marriage work, I'd have to do my part.

My one requirement—before I moved back that weekend, Ben had to go out and buy us a new bed. But this time it was Ben's turn to sleep in the guest room, and he languished there for almost a month, until one night I just . . . well . . . I needed him.

I took his hand and led him back to our bedroom, where we made love for the first time since before the accident. I'd like to tell you that it was glorious make-up sex, but it really wasn't. But we both had nice orgasms and went to sleep with the feeling that things might be getting somewhat back to normal.

But "normal" turned out to be a little different after Angela. There was this heaviness in the air whenever Ben and I were together. It just wasn't quite as much fun any more. And, of course, that feeling carried over into our sex life. Our times together became less frequent and the sex . . . well it was even more ordinary than before.

About six months later, Mike and Terri invited us to a party at their house. I hadn't been in a partying mood for quite some time, but I thought it was about time to at least act as if things were back to where they should be. So we accepted the invitation, and I went out and bought a new dress just for the occasion.

I picked a short one that would show off my long legs. The skirt was flared, and I knew it would swish around quite nicely when I danced. I didn't select it with the sole purpose of "showing off," but I needed to feel as if I was attractive to someone again.

The dress was made of bright blue chiffon, gathered at the waist before flaring out to that deliciously full skirt. The neckline was modest, as I didn't have much to show off upstairs, anyway. I chose a black lacy bra (slightly padded, of course) and matching bikini panties (this was well before thongs came into vogue, or I probably would have chosen one just to be daring). Some thigh high stockings and strappy sandals with four-inch heels completed the sexiest ensemble in my wardrobe.

Ben grumbled a bit about having to go. He had not been in the partying mood lately, either. But he finally acquiesced and we took our hosts a nice bottle of merlot as a thank you for the invitation. Terri and Mike greeted us at the door and, and it was clear that the party was well under way.

There were about 10 other couples scattered around the large living/family room. The furniture had been pushed back to the walls to create a makeshift dance floor in the middle, and several of the guests were already taking advantage of it.

Looking around, I recognized most of the men there as Ben's fellow cops, though I didn't know the names of most of them. A few of the wives I was on speaking terms with. Mike and Terri were the only two people that I knew well at all.

There was food and drink aplenty sitting atop the bar that separated the family room from the kitchen, and Mike mixed a gin and tonic for me and gave Ben his usual scotch on the rocks. Ben took the drink and made a bee line to a chair, where he proceeded to sit and act as if he'd just as soon be anywhere else but here.

I knew immediately that he would be drunk by the time we got home, as that was his way of handling social situations that he found uncomfortable. Sure enough, he was going back for his second scotch by the time I had taken two sips of my own drink.

I had barely taken my third swallow, before Mike deftly took the drink from my hand, set it on an end table and pulled me out onto the dance floor. I have to say I was flattered at the attention and loved the feel of being enfolded in Mike's strong arms as we began to move with a nice slow ballad.

Mike was a big man—well over six feet tall and very muscular. I had seen him a few times in a tee shirt and was taken by the size of his arms in particular. And now I was enjoying the sensation of having those arms wrapped around me as our bodies moved as if we had been dancing together regularly. I tried to hold myself at a discrete distance, glancing over at Ben to gauge his reaction. Not surprisingly, there was no reaction, as Ben made his way back to the bar for his third scotch.

So I allowed myself to respond to the pressure Mike was exerting on my back and moved closer to him. It truly felt warm and comfortable to be held like that, and I began to respond, allowing myself to relax a little and lean into his muscular chest.

By the time the dance had finished, I was beginning to feel just a bit uncomfortable, as Mike's hand had drifted a little too far down my back and was resting on that curve just above my bottom. But even at that, it was arousing to be touched like that in a room full of people, including my husband. I felt almost pretty. Certainly desirable.

I noticed that the lights had been dimmed in the family room, and with the cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air, it almost felt as if we'd walked into some private club. As I started to pull away and head back over to where Ben was plopped down in his chair, Mike pulled me tight to him again.