A Loving Wife's Story Ch. 06

I was challenged. My husband expected my next story of fucking another man to be something spectacular. I wanted it to be too. We were so interlocked in our toy box indulgence it was now my wifely duty to see that I didn't disappoint him. Standards of effect had been set high, and must be maintained, or raised higher. And all the responsibility for that rested in my lap. It was up to me to create the scene that would enflame and transport us both to our delicious other world. But I was like a novelist who turned out a few best sellers then found herself emptied of all ideas.

The ten remaining sex partners of my single days were so obscured by history that not a one of them could light a memory even interesting, much less spectacular. And did I really fuck a dozen men or boys back then? I only came up with a round figure. Probably they were less. However, it could have been a few more. Whatever, I had great difficulty remembering any of them. Only Ken and Kirk. And they gave their all to my stories I had already shared with Jamie.

The man at the bar at the Marriott still hung around the edges of my mind. Like he was pulling strings attached to vague thoughts struggling to take shape. What was most fascinating about him, in hindsight, was the way he blended reality into fantasy. The way a master chef swirls a contrasting colored cream sauce into a bowl of soup. The way Scheherazade blended his reality into her Masterpiece of fantasy reenactment, incorporating his role to raise her husband's erotic flame to the boiling point A real man her husband had seen and could clearly see again. The best ever sexual excitement from our toy box for Jamie, and for me. The man at the bar, long gone, was still pulling strings in my head.

Was this the next step? My actually fucking a real contemporary man and returning to my husband with all the details to give him that special gift? That gift to his real and unquestioned capacity? That next step question shocked me, frightened me, made me think we - or I for sure - had taken us too far. To the edge of a precipice that overlooked dark and beckoning doom.

But I kept returning to that edge, staring into the dark precipice the way a tongue probes a sore tooth. Probing my limits. Our limits.

Jamie is my husband. We are married. No other man has made love to me since our wedding day. He loves me and cherishes and protects me. He is all that I need and want. Yet... Could I really do it? Just for erotic story material? What an absurd question! But...on further thought... What a spectacular gift that could turn into for Jamie! If he could agree to it. There was absolutely no reason for me to assume he could, or would, or want to. On the other hand...

More times than I can count I had examined my husband and his surrender to that over powering sexual excitement in hearing me describe sex with other men. A surrender he could have experienced once then rejected there after. But his, and my, positions became fixed. We learned we neither could reject, nor wanted to. His surrender to that special thrill arose from a mystery deep inside him, and he chose to accept it. There was no longer any reason to ask why he was so ravished by the visuals and words of my stories of another man fucking me. That was just the way it was, a part of him as intensely real as owning his own accounting business, and all other non-sexual things about him. And so was my position of narrator, inflamer and enthraller just as real, a part of me. Just as fulfilling of sexual transport.

I could do it. Go out and fuck a contemporary man for the purpose of sharing all with my husband. Of course I could. I had already admitted to myself my capacity - that special word again - to fuck a man with Jamie in the same room watching me. And my capacity for that possibility gave me a searing sexual thrill. But it passed. The threesome concept was like a joker in our deck of playing cards, something that had no business in our game, so we tossed it out and reshuffled. I looked long and hard at the possibility of our next step, and saw a crazy sort of logic there. What would my husband see in that possibility? Could he even bear to look at it?

*****

Time passed. There was no hurry. Life was good. Our toy box sat on the shelf awaiting our bidding. We controlled it. It didn't control us. And that made me wonder, at times, if we actually had that oh so rare "need?" Maybe the need was nothing more than accident. Even so, the accidental emerging had an extremely satisfying consistency. If an accounting had to be made, my accountant husband would appear as the catalyst of most of those accidents. After my loving support led him to complete acceptance of his kink, and complete acceptance of mine. My loving support for him to accept the next step would require great patience and skillful guidance, and most of all for him to be the catalyst once again.

*****

"With or without?"

My bra was in place, but I stood twirling the matching panties in my right hand. We were dressing to go to the country club for a dinner dance. Jamie knew exactly what my question referred to. His sudden start, stare, said he was back in the Marriott lounge where I had confessed a passing highly charged sexual exchange with a man sitting at the bar, all in eye contact and body language, which moved me to take my panties off and put them in my purse in the ladies room.

"With." He said, his eyes sliding over my legs, my hips, my under belly, onto my sandy-reddish-blond bush and my cunt. "You can always remove them later, if the need arises."

Bingo. He was with me. We were both in the game. And "need" was given its due by his saying "if the need arises." I sat on the edge of the bed and put on my panties, slowly, giving him a show, a preview of possibilities, coddling our mutual need with a satin band snug to my cunt.

My dress stunned Jamie. "My God! You are gorgeous beyond description!"

Try to make me believe any wife would not burst with triumph on hearing her husband say that. If she loved him, that is. I burst with triumph and joy, and love for my husband.

I had carefully chosen my dress and paid for it with my own money instead of our joint account. I paid the seamstress extra to make alterations for a perfect fit. The material was silk and the color a deep rust, somewhere between Van Dyke brown and burnt umber. The fabric was stamped, woven, embossed, somehow fixed with tiny squares filled with geometric designs that caught the light and made that shimmering mixed statement of color. A statement that praised my creamy freckled skin and the naturally ambiguous golden straw sheen of my hair falling in waves to my shoulders.

The dress style was simplicity itself. The bottom half came closer to my knees than mid-thigh, and held my thighs and ass closely but not skin tight. The upper half hugged my tummy, then opened into a rectangle with inch and a half wide straps that went over my shoulders and crossed my back. The rectangle was a copy, after minor alterations, of a popular style of T-shirt many girls and women were wearing. A daring exposure of bosom down toward the nipples and more than half out to the outer edges of turn under, an exquisite display of tits, yet retaining a strong suggestion of innocent, virginal purity. That delicate feminine softness that commands a man's eyes to look and see and imagine and at all costs remain civilized.

"You think this dress might be too daring?"

"You are going to spoil the party for a lot of women tonight. Stir up a lot of envy and jealousy. But that's their problem."

"I might stir up some men too."

"For certain you will."

"I don't want that to be a problem."

"For them or me?"

"For either."

"Then you must maintain strict self-control, mustn't you."

The dinner was country club grub and no more. The crowd was lively and congenial. The women were women and turned the room into a competitive arena of sizing each other up, the style and effect and cost of dresses and jewelry. I didn't seem to stir up any envy and jealousy in them. I actually wasn't all that friendship close with any of them. A few I had met casually, mingled with at tennis, the pool, the bridge table. They were likable and we got along. Jamie and I were relatively new members, and the club was not our social crutch. As the evening progressed I bumped into those women and we did the smiling and cheek bussing and exchanges of "how nice you look!" One or two gave lingering looks at my breasts displayed in the silk rectangle, comparing perhaps, some feeling perhaps a bit ill equipped, others smug with greater abundance.

The husbands were in their own competitive arena. Successful business men all. Movers and shakers in the community. Packed with testosterone and masculinity exclusive to a millionaire. Even the short and paunchy bald ones. It wasn't a part of the style for a woman to cheek-buss them. But in their brief hand shakes was a masculine assertion, in their eye contact a predatory inclination, and they all gave a helpless gaze to the creamy, freckled, soft, virginal purity of my tits innocently exposed. Exactly as I had intended by design and paying extra for it. My rush of female triumph soared. My power over those rich men confirmed by their eyes glued to my breasts. I felt giddy and open to the night, thinking how much giddier it would be to see a really attractive man give my virginal tit's a visual caress, his eyes licking them like his tongue wanted to do. There were bound to be really attractive men in the crowd. I would bump into them sooner or later.

The tables around the dance floor were soon moved into clusters of various sizes, cliques of friends forming. Jamie and I found a table for four for ourselves, and within minutes were forced to yield to Marge Levine who said "Oh goody! May we join you?" "Of course" Jamie said, ever the gallant. Oh shoot, I thought. Marge's husband Peter was not an attractive man. He had a high forehead, sunken cheeks, and eyes that wandered everywhere except to my virginal tits innocently exposed. He seemed to harbor a dislike for idle conversation. If it wasn't stocks and bonds and the bitchy Federal Reserve, then what was interesting to talk about? Marge was, damn it, attractive, in an over blown way, to some men, no doubt. Her tits were large, quite large. So was her ass. So was her hungry smile at Jamie. She was old enough and heavy enough to have a double chin. Her dress merely bundled her exaggerated curves. It looked like a sack compared with mine.

Dances at this country club were unique. It was all ball room dancing. Couples actually moving together in the melody and rhythm. None of that solitary jerking and gyrating demanded in television beer commercials. No strobe lights. No techno artificiality of pounding noise with no variation and no cease until someone flipped a switch. No. A real dance band with reeds and brass horns, a piano, a bass, an acoustic guitar. The drummer used brushes as often as wood sticks. Real music. From Cole Porter up to any song in the modern era that had a genuine melody, and those were becoming so rare as to be almost extinct. Real dancing. And real adult sensuality given license to let go, discretely distribute. Exhibitionism strictly controlled. The way of wealthy, privileged adults.

Jamie an I danced to an old favorite I couldn't remember the name of, but it was real melody, lovely rhythm, sensual and harmonious. I loved his arms holding me. Molding to his body. Moving as one.

"Having fun?"

"High as a cloud."

"You are highly admired by all. So is your dress."

"Every woman's aspiration... Not a problem?"

"Not a problem in sight. You are naturally deserving."

I kissed my husband. After two dances we returned to our table. Marge said, "Now my turn." She grabbed Jamie's hand and pulled him back to the dance floor. I sat and looked at Peter with an inquiring expression that he would not or could not meet. He had no interest in dancing with me, and seemed pained by the social obligation of having to chit chat. He was relieved when a man appeared and said to me, "May I have this dance?"

That was another thing about these dances. It was open house. Any man was perfectly free to ask any woman to dance, as was any woman free to ask any man. Just as Marge latched on to Jamie. No elaborate "con su permisso" curtsy required. Espousal largess was assumed.

The man who rescued me from the confines of Peter Levine was handsome enough, not top drawer, but well put together, splendid in his tuxedo, highly confident in position and power, and in his virility. He pulled me snugly to him and moved us smoothly in the slow melody, the rising of body heat. He smiled at me with assurance. His eyes went from my neck downward, and got that lusty glaze as he took in every square inch of my innocently exposed bosom. His hard on was instant. A virile man for sure. He pressed it to me. I fidgeted, then pressed my groin to his. An acknowledgement. Like my cunt and his cock were in a flirting game. He squeezed me tighter and my chin turned on his shoulder and our groins fused and my cunt said a long hello to his big hard cock strutting its stuff under his pants.

That was another thing about these country club dances. The open house policy permitted these liberties of sneaky, private sexual exchanges, so long as they were strictly controlled. No public mauling of tits and asses on the floor. No kissing, except for spouses. Keep it discrete and civilized. Jamie and I had found this out. Discussed it and laughed about it. Wondered if this permission for sneaky groin play went further and made those rich country club members the largest wife swapping club in the city? We had no direct knowledge of such a thing.

I didn't even know my dance partner's name. I did know the feel of his cock pressing against me, and I like that feeling, because I knew I would feel more and different ones before the night was over. A really attractive man with a mighty erection pressing my cunt. I was Sondra in a beautiful and expensive dress that offered a view of my tits for all men to see. I was in my element. I looked among the swirl and sway of dancing couples and saw the most beautiful man of all. My husband. Marge Levine held him in a vice grip, her curvy bulk plastered to him, her big cunt pan caking his groin. That bitch! Sneaky tolerance or not. That bitch! Did Jamie have a hard on?

"Did you get a hard on dancing with Marge?" I was dancing again with Jamie. Wanting to tease him.

"You kidding?! I was too worried about suffocating. Her arm cracking my rib."

"I saw her pushing it to you."

"I saw you and your man in tight quarters too. Who ever he was."

"Not the same thing." I said airily.

"Ho, ho, ho!" Jamie said. "Did he get a hard on?"

"Well... Uh... Since you ask. Yes. He did. A rather nice one, from all I could gather. Such a male thing. Cock jumping up like a wild thing. That's why I asked if you..."

"Not to worry. My wild thing wouldn't even wake up for Marge Levine."

"The night is young. There are lot's of attractive women here. I want an immediate report if you do get a woody."

He laughed. "You will be the first to know. Make that second. No, third. Me, her, then you."

"Remember to keep it under strict control."

"You too."

"Yes. Me too. Especially me. In this dress," I said, in sultry, visionary introspection.

Jamie smiled his smile that melts me. A smile of love, with little curlicues of mischief added on. He was open to a game.

It was mix and mingle. Much walking about, greeting acquaintances, gracefully agreeing to dance with several men. A couple of trips to the bar where Jamie ran a tab in our names. An inescapable sentence at the table with Marge Levine, both of us pretending oblivion to her obvious hots for Jamie. Peter had gone off somewhere. He might have even gone home for all I knew. He wasn't missed. I didn't dance with Jamie much, but it was edifying when I did.

"Still giving men erections?"

"Not all, thank goodness. Some, well, what can I say? And you? Those pretty ladies?"

"Not even a stir. They are only women. They can't do for me what you do."

"No, they can't. That is fixed. Only you and I have a special toy box for us to open and for me to do for you what no other woman can do."

"Yes." He said, feeling a game in the making. Then he asked, "Who is that guy that seems to be monopolizing you?"

"His name is Warren, and he is a guest of the Jennings. Do we know them?"

"I know Mr. Jennings. Been trying to snag him as a client for some time."

"I don't know how Warren fits in with them. Visiting, from what I gather."

"Maybe that's why he's wearing a business suit instead of a tux."

"Could be."

I was much aware that Warren had monopolized me. We had danced to two or three songs without leaving the floor for a break. And for good reasons. He was the most attractive man there that night - not counting Jamie. I knew I would luck into someone like him, and I did at last. It was for a man like him that I had chosen my fantasy dress, and he was the man to make fantasy reality. He was late thirties, trim and fit. Black hair, black eyes, self assured, charming, and exuding a sexual magnetism that no woman could resist for long, I had no doubt. He looked at my tits on display like he was studying an exquisite work of art. A cultured man in control, experienced in controlling. But he had no control over the erection that bulged down the side of his leg. My beauty and my body was the creator of that. We did dry fucking on the dance floor, practically, song after song, which were all slower in late hours, to accommodate elderly fatigue and clandestine lovers. All discrete and civilized. When Jamie finished our dance and we went different ways, I went straight to Warren and claimed my right.

We made no attempt at conversation. No pretense of needing it. Our bodies did the speaking. Our dancing still dancing, but incorporating a sexual union that was about to push the boundaries of acceptability on this particular dance floor. His hard cock snug to my cunt and making my juices gush.

"Wheeew!" I fanned my face, and my tits. "I need some air."

I walked to a door that opened to a flagstone patio. Warren followed, in nonchalant control. The patio was deserted, but Warren said "This way." He took my hand and led me down stone steps to the dark shelter of the patio wall. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed my lips.

*****

Home again, safe and sound.

"Shall we have a night cap?"

"No thanks, my love, I've had enough for tonight."

"All in all, this was a very fun night wasn't it."

"Much more than I expected it to be." I said.

"Oh? Are your panties in your purse?"

I laughed. "They are still in place, intact, on me. Tacky. Maybe sticky is the better word."

"Oh ho! I think you have a story to tell me."

"Let's sit together on the sofa."

I relaxed on the cushion, slightly splayed, knees apart, arms fallen to either side. Jamie sat close, slightly turned, his arm on the back of the sofa, gazing long at my breasts daringly exposed in my clever dress, seeing what so many other men had seen that night.

"I'm afraid I was a naughty girl tonight. Only for a brief spell, thankfully."

"A brief lapse of strict control?"

"Yes. That could describe it very well."

"How? When? Where? Who with?"

"With Warren."

"The Jennings guest of honor."

"Their ever so handsome guest of honor."

"Who no doubt got a monumental boner while dancing with you."

"I wonder if it ever went down, even while I was dancing with someone else. A very virile man he is."

"That kind of naughtiness was acted out all over the dance floor tonight. Marge trapped me a few more times."

"I wasn't naughty on the dance floor."

My husband waited, his breathing tight but steady, his eyes taking on a glitter of capacity.