Conversations with Amy (All)

(Editor's note: this is an edited version of a multi-chaptered work that was previously on Literotica under this author's name.)

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Chapter 1 Amy needs a shoulder

Amy is a neighbor and one of my favorite people. She's in her mid-twenties, dark red hair, slim--even after two kids, cute, great sense of humor, and generally a joy to be around. My name is Robert, Rob for short. I'm 20 years older, and live one house away from adorable Amy. Currently I am unemployed, by choice. I left my last position with enough money to take a year off and plan my next foray into the business world. My wife runs her own business, the kids are all gone out into the world, and I was enjoying a serious unwinding from years of living the rat race.

Over the past several months, Amy and I had developed a comfortable routine. Three times a week, or so, we would meet for coffee at my house. It came about because we would see each other outside and start into some of the greatest conversations. We would talk about almost anything, argue politics, even share cooking and gardening tips. She has the green thumb, while I am a closet gourmet chef. It evolved into a ritual, usually Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 10:00AM, she would walk in from the deck after cutting across John and Joanie's backyard, and I would have the coffee ready. It might sound boring, but without a doubt it's a highlight of my quiet days.

A typical day for me was pretty dull, which is exactly what I wanted. I get up with my wife, fix breakfast and see her off to her shop. The rest of the morning was spent on any household chores and exercising. I wasn't a fitness fanatic, but a belt is designed to hold up pants, not hold in a gut! Besides with the way I like to cook (and eat), a fitness regime is a requirement. I was usually cleaned up and ready by 10 to relax a bit. Amy, or Aim as I started calling her, would come in almost on the dot of 10. If I was still in the shower, she would grab a cup of coffee and browse my book and movie collection until I came down. From there our conversations would range from the depths of Dante's Inferno to the heights of Burroughs' Barsoom. Nothing was beyond us and over time we developed a genuine trust and affection for each other. Amy became my best friend and I think I became one of hers.

Was any of this a secret, no! Our spouses knew about our visits and all four of us were always getting together for almost any reason. Our neighbors were already used to us helping each other with chores, hanging out on my deck, or attacking each other with rubber band guns and water pistols. Of course the neighborhood rumor central made some passing comments, but since nothing seemed to support them, the rumors died down. We had nothing more than a perfect friendship, until it became something more.

One day as I was almost down the stairs, I saw Aim sitting at the kitchen counter staring at her coffee. She was early, which was a little unusual, but nothing to comment on. I stood there for a moment and watched her; she was absolutely still, now that was way out of character.

"Hmmmm." I said, clearing my throat so I wouldn't startle her by walking in. She didn't jump, but she turned and offered me a wan smile, far less satisfying than the megawatt grin I usually get. Without a word I poured myself a cup and sat next to her at the counter. Maybe you, the reader, think I should say something, but remember, I KNOW this girl. Whatever was troubling her would come out in good time. The best thing I could offer her was space. While we sat there I wracked my brain trying to think what could be wrong. Kids, no way, she wouldn't be sitting here. Dave, doubtful; money, probably not; they weren't wealthy, but Dave earned good money. Thinking about many of our conversations, some extremely personal, nothing came to mind. After a while my coffee got cold, so I got each of us a fresh cup. Hers was practically untouched, another out of character item to add to the list.

Sitting down again, I finally hear her talk. "You have the patience of a saint!"

"Nope, no patience at all, I was wondering when you were going to stop wasting my good coffee." Smiling, I asked, "Do you want to talk about it?”

"I'm not sure." She paused. "I mean you are a guy."

"Last time I checked I was. And also the last time I checked that didn't matter between us," I stated quietly.

She looked at me, reassessing something I couldn't pin down. From her comment the problem had to do with Dave. Dave is a nice guy, who I know loves Amy. He can be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud sometimes, but there isn't a hurtful bone in his body. He is also a touch of a wimp, well that might be harsh, but sometimes I wonder where he keeps his backbone.

Don't get the idea that all we talked about over the months was books and movies and Dave. We touched every topic--including sex. It is also not that we were lusting after each other. I consider Amy an extremely lovely young lady, and have no problem with noticing her charms in the same manner as one appreciates fine art. I just happened to know that she was a bit sheltered as a teen; I also know she was a virgin when she got married, and that Dave is the only guy she's ever known in a biblical sense.

"If we talk about this, you have to promise to be honest with me, even brutally honest," she stated flatly.

If her appeal was less than earnest, I would have been insulted. I have always been honest with her, including the time she added lighter red highlights to her hair and looked like an auburn and pink zebra. Laughing at her hair might have been a little more than honesty required, but you should have seen her.

I looked her right square in the eyes and told her, "I will be as honest as I could be, as honest as I always have been."

She dropped her arms down on the counter and buried her face sobbing.

Immediately I was beside her, holding her shoulders, thinking evil thoughts at Dave if he was the cause of her pain. In the midst of the sobbing I could hear her asking herself, "What's wrong with me?" and "It's my fault."

Stroking her hair, I try and calm her down, hoping I could help her. This went on for quite a while before she finally looked up, her beautiful face all blotchy, eyes red from the crying. Taking a deep breath, she started to apologize. I cut her off, "You have nothing to apologize for. Just talk to me. Tell me how I can help."

She sniffed a couple of times, and out of the blue dropped a bomb, "Dave doesn't want me anymore."

Now I know Dave pretty well and I know he loves Amy. "How do you know this?” I asked.

"I found . . . I found . . . magazines", she said in a low whisper as if she was ashamed of everything.

For a second I thought she was going to tell me she found Dave with another woman. Instantly I knew what she had found -- some pornography. Dave must have stashed some stuff somewhere and she found it.

"What exactly did you find?"

"I found a pile of disgusting magazines in the garage, in his tool cabinet. He hates me, he must hate touching me if he has to read that filth." I didn't know how to respond right away. "And that's not all. There was one of my towels, and it had these yellowish-white stains on it."

Now I was surprised, Dave reading porno and jerking off in the garage. I didn't think he had it in him.

I almost smiled, but that would have hurt Aim. Trying to be sensitive and honest can be a challenge sometimes. "What do you think it means, hon?"

"What do I think, it means he hates me, I repulse him, and he doesn't want to have sex anymore."

I placed my head above her and smiled, knowing she couldn't see me. "When did you discover them?" I asked.

"This morning," she sniffed.

"Up to today, when was the last time you had sex?"

She hemmed about that.

"Listen. If you want me to be brutally honest, you have to do the same," I stated firmly.

"Last night," she said, lowering her eyes again.

"Was there anything different about it, or any changes recently in your sex life?"

"Noooo, the same thing. We cuddle, he gets on top, we each orgasm." She puts her hand to her mouth in embarrassment.

I pull her hand away and tell her, "Look at me!" She looks up and looks away. "Not good enough. Look-At-Me!" I touch her chin and gently lift her face up. "You know me and I know that if you didn't trust me you wouldn't be here. You can tell me anything and you know I won't be judgmental (well not about her, but if Dave hurt her!)."

Several sniffs later she starts talking. "We had sex last night, our usual routine. We have sex quite often, always the same. Until I found the magazines, I thought everything was fine."

"OK, tell me about the magazines."

"I needed the cordless drill to put up those new shelf brackets, you know, the ones I was telling you about."

I nodded.

"When I couldn't find it, I checked his tool cabinet in the garage. I saw one of my good towels, the real soft ones. When I pulled it out, under it was a pile of magazines. I wouldn't have really paid any attention to them if one hadn't fallen out. Right on the cover was this picture of . . ."

I'm not sure if it was anger or disgust the caused her to stop. She was speechless. "Tell me all of it. It's the only way I can understand," I said.

"The picture was this girl . . . and she had it . . . in her . . . mouth."

"What did she have in her mouth?"

Aim looked up at me, pleading with her eyes. I just waited patiently. She took a deep breath and said in a low whisper, "A penis."

"A what? I can't hear you."

"She looked angrily at me and hissed, "A prick!"

"The girl was sucking on a cock", I said.

"You don't have to say it like that."

"Yes I do" She looked puzzled. "Look Amy, if you are going to communicate on this, we have to be clear with each other. I'm not saying like this to be crude or to disgust you, but so we both understand each other."

"Fine, she was sucking his cock . . . she was sucking his fucking cock. See I can talk like that too."

I smiled. To myself I thought an angry Aim is better than a sobbing Aim. To her I said, "I know you do. Remember when you slipped down the deck stairs last winter. Eight steps and you literally bounced down on your ass. I come rushing outside and you were sitting at the bottom cursing up a blue streak. That's how I knew that mostly your pride was hurt."

She laughed and that sounded more like my friend Aim.

"What else did you see?"

"In the magazine I saw more girls sucking cock, girls with sperm on their faces and bodies, girls fucking in every possible ways and a few that looked impossible. He has 17 different magazines under my towel. And you know what he was doing to my towel. He was cumming in it, masturbating while looking at some slut sucking on a cock in a picture."

She looked like she was about to cry again, so I interjected a thought, "How long do you think he's been doing that?"

"I don't know . . . but one of his dirty little magazines was over three years old!"

"So you think he's been buying dirty books and jerking off to them for maybe the past three years?" She nodded.

"And in those three years he has continued to make love with you and never had a hint of any of this."

"Right!"

Knowing this was going to annoy her, I had to ask -- "So what's the problem?"

She almost came off her stool as she turned at me, eyes blazing, "He must hate me, he must hate to touch me. How can he do this and me not know? How can you ask me why this is a problem? I thought you might understand, I thought you were my friend!"

She started to get up and I grabbed her hand. Looking her again right in the eyes, "I am your friend, more your friend than Dave's and you know it." I held her gaze until she calmed down. "Let's approach this from a different angle. What do you want?"

"What I want is for my husband to stop this, to throw those magazines away."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then he is either a sick bastard or he doesn't love me anymore. Either way we are finished! He can find some big-busted slut and jerk-off all over her."

"So you are willing to end your marriage over a few magazines?"

"It's not just the magazines. It's what he is doing with them."

"But the only difference is that you know what he's doing. Last night you didn't know."

"I can't just forget about it?"

"No you can't, and I wouldn't ask you to. But my question still stands. Let's put it another way. Supposed you discovered that he was parking his car a mile from work and walking the rest of the way. Would you be so hurt? Especially knowing that nothing else had changed."

"Well, no. But that's different."

"Supposed you found out he was playing the football pool or leaving work to have a few beers with the guys once a week. Would that matter?"

"No, but . . . You are just confusing me."

"No, I am looking for perspective. Why are you so hurt?"

"Because he doesn't want me anymore!"

"Now you know that isn't true. Up until this morning you had no problem. And you aren't upset about the fact he had a secret. So what is it? Maybe it's because he was using your towel?"

She laughed, "It's not the goddamn towel! It's like he was cheating on me."

"He was cheating on you, with himself? With his hand?"

"No, with those sluts in the magazine."

"No!" I said sharply. "He was fantasizing about the girls in the magazines. He wasn't cheating."

"So he wasn't cheating, what do I do now?"

"The same question remains, what do you want? Deep down, what do you really want?"

She paused for a long time before she just shrugged and looked down.

"Let's take it one step at a time. Are you hurt about him spending time in the garage?"

"That's silly, I hate . . .”

"Wait!” I interrupted, "We'll get there, one thing at a time. So him in the garage isn't a problem. Are you upset because he was masturbating? For a moment, forget the how, just focus on the act of masturbation."

Her face slowly turned red, all the way to the tips of her ears. Slowly, she shook her head. Then she dropped her eyes.

"So the fact the he masturbates isn't a problem?" I ask for confirmation.

She glares at me for a second and turns redder, nodding sharply again.

"OK, and the fact the he was spoiling your towel isn't an issue, right?"

"No." The red receded from her ears.

"So it must be the magazines? Is it because he's reading them, or the fact he is fantasizing about them?"

"Fantasizing," she says as her ears aglow again.

"Alright, we have the problem pinned down. So if it's OK for him to be doing what he is doing, what should he be fantasizing about?"

She shrugs, but her ears are scarlet now.

"Seriously, what would you rather he be thinking about, or maybe who?" She wasn't talking, so I continued. "Maybe some supermodels like Heidi, Naomi, or Kate?" She gave me a dirty look. Amy definitely does not like tall long-legged models. I think being 5'3" herself has something to do with it. "Maybe a movie actress or TV-star, like Jennifer or Julia?"

She shakes her head.

"I know, Martha Stew. . ."

She glares daggers at me.

"So who would you want him to be thinking about?"

She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

"I know who he should fantasize about."

Amy looks at me.

"You!" I state. She jumps startled. Before she could move, I continue. "That's what you were thinking, wasn't it? That you want him to be thinking about you."

Her auburn head looks down again.

"Why is that bad?"

"Because it makes me a slut, a disgusting slut."

"Not only no, but hell no!” I replied with emphasis. "What it makes you is exactly what you were before you discovered Dave's hobby, a woman. A slightly more sexually adventurous woman; but not a slut! You remember Sylvia?"

"Oh yea, now there was a . . ."

". . . a slut for sure." Syl is a former neighbor of ours whose husband finally divorced after learning that all 6 of his kids weren't his and all had different fathers. The number of marriages she damaged should have put her in the record books."

"I know that, I am nothing like her."

"Absolutely! I once came outside on my deck one night and saw Syl and someone other than her husband. She had the nerve to make a pass at me the next day."

"You never told me that. Who was she with?"

"It's not important. What's important is how you feel about yourself. Tell me, is my wife a slut?"

"Brenda, no way. She's a lady through and through . . . don’t tell me she . . ."

My turn to nod, "Oral sex is more than just talking about it. We both like giving and receiving."

"You . . . to her," she said, as her eyes got real big. "Do you like it? Does she?"

"Yes to both. I like it when she sucks on my cock. . ," Aim winced at my language . . ."and I love the taste of her pussy."

Letting her think for a minute, I refresh the coffee and rummage for sandwich fixings. I doubt she's eaten anything all morning, and it's almost lunchtime. She didn't say much, but she was thinking up a storm.

She appeared deep in thought as we munched on lunch. I think her worldview opened a bit and Dave was in for a surprised.

"Rob, can I ask you a question?" She finally broke the silence.

I just looked at her. When I didn't answer, she looked up and saw my expression.

"OK, OK, stupid question. If I can't ask you, I can't ask anyone. So . . . why do you think he was hiding in the garage?"

"That's a tough one. Aside from hiding it from the kids, obviously he was hiding it from you."

"But why?"

"Have you ever heard the expression a husband wants a Lady in public and a slut in the bedroom?"

"Yes, worded a little differently. You mean by slut, more sexually . . ."

"Involved is a good word. Dave obviously wants more, but hasn't figured out to get you involved. I mean it's hard to ask the love of your life, the mother of your children, to suck your cock. Especially if you’re sure she would call you a perverted bastard."

She went back to her thinking.

I paused and watched while we ate. She would hate the fact that she was so transparent. It was easy to see what she was thinking about.

She caught me looking and blushed. "Relax," I said. "You know I won't tell anyone any of this, not even Bren."

"That wasn't what I was thinking."

"In a way it was. You were thinking on how to go on from here and weren't sure how to talk about it. And you weren't sure how you would handle Brenda knowing all this."

"Mind reader too, I see. Well you were close."

"Aim, you and I have trusted each other with stuff that would be embarrassing if our spouses found out we discussed. I trust you totally and nothing of this will get back Brenda!"

"Oh, I know that. I meant you were close on what I was thinking. But you missed one big area."

"And that was . . .?” I asked.

"There was something I didn't tell you."

Putting on my patient-guise again, I waited.

"After I found the magazines . . . I . . . read them. All of them."

I didn't say a word. Her eyes were closed as she made that little confession. I was surprised, but it made more sense given her reaction. She saw something she liked and either hated herself for it, or at least questioned her self-image pretty seriously.

She continued, "I read them and I was disgusted and excited. I mean, in school the other girls talked about all of it, but I was too scared of getting pregnant, or worse. Most of it sounded unpleasant, and the girls who liked were labeled. The girls in the magazine were . . .”

Her eyes stayed closed as I realized what she was saying.

"They looked like they liked it. More than that, they loved it. I sat there on the concrete floor, staring at that first cover, and I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like. I imagined walking in on Dave, his cock sticking out of his pants. The tip all wet. I imagined what it would be like to lick it, to taste it. It was like it was in my mouth. I was almost drooling thinking about it."