Jill & Tim's Story Ch. 01

Which is the long way around of saying I was Ready when Jill picked up the camera again, then coaxed me into a position where my ass was at the edge of the chair, one leg bent up to rest on the arm, my other foot on the floor with that thigh pulled wide.

Cute kid: her next instruction -- sounding just like somebody's mother -- was, "Now, let's make your little soldier stand at attention." I couldn't help blushing again a bit as my fingers carried out her wishes; within seconds, my "soldier" was not only "standing at attention" but was vigorously saluting both her and the camera.

It was at this point that she reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out the little plastic bottle of baby oil. Handing it to me, her only comment was, "Don't be stingy."

Never one to contradict or disobey my darling, I snapped the titty-pink cap on the bottle and, holding it so that Jill's ubiquitous camera could record the label for the information of our as-yet-unspecified audience, I liberally poured the viscous fluid all over my cock and balls, reveling in the cool touch of the oil, even as it ran down the crack of my ass onto the towel she'd placed with such foresight.

It took only seconds to totally inundate my manhood; having done so, I snapped the cap back into place, put the bottle to one side and looked inquiringly at my photographer. Nodding her head in tacit assent, she elaborated: "Fuck your fist, love. Make it long, make it good. Don't hold back on your enjoyment -- and, when you finally pop your rocks, don't mess up the chair or floor. Dig?" I just nodded my head . . . then slowly reached down to take myself in hand.

Jesus! There are very few pleasures in this world that feel better than jerking off with baby oil: a talented, enthusiastic blow-job and an exquisite fuck are the only two things that'll beat it. Slowly, I wrapped my fingers around my hardness and began stroking, quickly losing myself in the self-induced sensations. Aware at all times of Jill's bending, kneeling and snapping of my totally obscene manipulations, I was, nonetheless, able to let my head roll back, close my eyes and fill my mental movie screen with dancing images of things even lewder than what was going on at that moment.

I was in no mood -- or condition -- to drag it out too terribly long: the pressure built up in me by Jill's hands and mouth specifically and the entire situation in general made my left hand slide down so that my fingers could lightly tickle that oh-so-nice area just on the underside of my balls while my right hand, the fingers tightly grasping my slippery shaft, kept up a medium-tempo stroking up and down the full, sensitive length.

I was only dimly aware of small grunts coming from deep in my throat as my hand continued sliding across all my nerve-ends, the rhythm picking up slightly every few seconds, my body sliding a little farther down in my perch, opening my legs even wider.

I began panting, my hand moving ever faster, my other fingers pressing even harder into my scrotum. The pressure was building, my fist fucking firmly and furiously. I rapidly reached a point of total body tension . . almost . . perversely, I tried holding back, although my hands never slowed what they were automatically -- and sensationally -- doing to me. It was like having a battle with myself, one I wanted to lose, but I wanted to go down fighting . . so I stroked . . and exerted all my self-control .. and built .. almost .. it's .. Jill! .. oh! .. OH!! ... ah ... AAHHHH!!

Heralded with a loud whoop from my throat, my feet rose from the carpet but my legs stayed wide open and my body convulsed as my orgasm hit me with all the force of a hammer. My fist plunged down hard, spasmodically, and wordless cries of pleasure/pain poured from my throat as each thick, copious spurt of come shot from the almost purple head of my cock to fly through the air and land on my chest, my shoulders . . one gob even hit my face -- and I couldn't have cared less as blast-after-blast hit me and began sliding a sticky path down my hysterically trembling and jerking body in response to gravity . . . a force that finally got to all of me and, as the last tremendous spasm hit me with monumental force, I uncontrollably slid off the chair to end up in a sprawled, exposed and shaky, sticky heap on the floor, only my head and shoulders still in contact with the chair it'd been on just moments before.

That was all captured on film, too.

* * *

A shower, a 69 that began with little enthusiasm on my part but which Jill cured with her damnably talented tongue and lips, finally led to her lovely body -- still decorated with garterbelt and hose -- covering mine, my cock firmly in her cunt as she slowly, skillfully fucked me from the female-dominant position we both love so well.

As my hands caressed her silky, trembling body, we commented on the excitement each of us had felt on BOTH sides of the camera and quickly came to the conclusion, as twin explosions began building inside each of us, that regardless of what else we might discover we were, there was no doubt we were both exhibitionists -- AND voyeurs. We also agreed that that opened the door to all kinds of fun adventures, a few of which we detailed right up to the point where we clung tightly to each other and shared a marvelous orgasm.

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IN THE BEGINNING - I

Tim

I try hard not to think of Jill when I'm at work or at one of the various community group meetings which we can't seem to avoid. No, it's not that thinking about Jill is unpleasant: in fact, it's just the opposite. That’s the problem -- so pleasant is it, even after a few years of marriage, that a few of the more lurid thoughts of her is liable to set me into a daydream, and then I've got to get my mind organized all over again. You see, I'm one of the few people in the world (one of the few also being, we suspect, the janitor where she works) who sees Jill in erotic terms .. unless she's deliberately chosen to show that side of herself to them. She looks at the world with such wide-eyed innocence that the reaction of most men (and women) to her is one of protectiveness, the kind you exercise over a favorite kid sister.

That's because they haven't seen her as I'VE seen her, and DO see her, in person and in my mind... which is why I try not to think of her when I've got other projects at hand.

For instance, one view of Jill that began in my head before, many, many months later seeing for real (and it's still, as you'll see, one of my favorites, even now) is this: I'm leaning against a cabinet next to the wall to one side of our king-size bed. I'm stark naked, my feet are spread slightly, and I'm non-frantically stroking my shaft as I watch my wife and a friend.

Our friend (male variety) is laying crossways on the bed, a pillow under his head near the edge of the black fake fur spread, his feet pointed away from me.

My near-elfin Jill is dressed (if that's the right word) in a pair of innocent beige thigh-high hose, the built-in supporting elastic at the top of each transparent tube keeping the sleek fabric taut all the way to the beginning of her deliciously full hips. On her feet, a pair of innocent, graceful mid-high heels, with a tiny gold chain around one delicate ankle, a couple of thin bracelets on her wrists, delicate tiny dangling gold earrings on her lobes.

Other than the earrings, her sweet, innocent-looking face is punctuated only by her glasses (someday, maybe I'll figure out why glasses on a nude or near-nude girl turns me on, but I haven't made it yet).

With the adjectives I've used to describe her, I hope I've evoked a picture of demure nudity (don't laugh -- it's quite possible). In point-of-fact, that IS the effect ... which makes doubly startling the rest of the tableau, makes even more exciting: the fact that my Lolita-like love is astride our friend's hips, supporting herself on her knees and her outstretched hands, his cock tucked into her marvelous looking/feeling black-haired cunt, with Jill single-mindedly fucking him to a fare-thee-well. She is unevenly dividing her attention between looking at her temporary lover -- whose hands are doing erotic things to her surprisingly prominent nipples -- looking at me leisurely stroking myself just a few feet in front of her, and closing her eyes to view whatever the wondrous scenes are that take place in the head of a woman who's in the middle of being well-screwed.

As for me, I not only get the view as described, but I can also look across at the other, mirrored wall of our "Love Room," (as we call it) and get a perfect view of me -- the view Jill gets -- plus the bonus of her beautiful ass, her hose-clad thighs, and our friend's salami-like shaft spearing up into my wife's most intimate portal.

Jill is enjoying herself. Except for looking at the two of us once-in-a-while, her mind is concentrated on that thick thing between her legs. Her instinctive skills at screwing in the female-dominant position never fail to amaze and excite me. It is not the uninspired, straight up and down friction of a girl Just anxious to get it over with but, instead, an up and down and around of varying pace, a gut reaction process that tells that her innermost mind has realized that the best way for a woman to give maximum pleasure in this position is to seek maximum sensation for herself .

God!, how! love to watch Jill fuck, whether it's me sampling her skills or someone else. Her yoga and bellydance training, combined with the natural litheness of her petite form, make her movements sinuous and sensual; her abandonment, her dedication to the task at hand, speak exciting volumes about the pleasure she's deriving from what she's doing.

Her voice, too, serves as a warning clarion of impending explosion, her ragged breathing soon punctuated by a soft "oh-oh-oh" in tempo with her ever-more-rapidly rotating hips. Our friend has his fingers around her sides now, his thumbs mashing flat her nipples. Jill's eyes are closed behind her glasses and her "Oh's!" get louder.

I look at the far mirror, at the cock that is bringing her so much pleasure with its hot, hard length; in the dim red light of the Love Room, I can see just a hint of the glistening juices of my wife on its surface. I see the balls at its base begin to draw up, to get tighter, as our friend's hands reach out to grab Jill's full hips and slam her down on the full length of his love muscle. Once, twice ... Jill's monosyllabic sounds in her little-girl voice, get louder ... his balls jerk ... and Jill suspends herself for a moment, her head thrown back in wonder, then wails, "Oh, GOD!" and drops, hard, back down the full length and receives his hot juices, wiggling her cute butt frantically, accompanied by a repeated "Oh ..Oh God! ..Oh God!!" ... and then drops forward on his chest.

*****

It was through writing stories like the one you're reading, stories that I'd authored over the years before our discovery of each other, and my subsequent sharing of them with her, that I expressed my personal values, philosophies and dreams to Jill. It was through these stories that my Beloved came to realize that there could be a beauty to pornography, as there can be in any art form.

A talented authoress (of childrens' books, at that!) herself, Jill joins me in writing this final, seminal book, in the hopes that it might, perhaps, help you understand and accept yourself a little more ... and because, exhibitionists that we are, we want to show off a bit.

* * *

Jill

If I had to pick one word to describe us, it would be unconventional: unconventional courtship, unconventional relationship, unconventional proposal and, definitely, an unconventional marriage. (Oh, dear, I bet my writing teacher -- Tim , of course --- is going to scream “Redundancy!” when he reads that).

My background was not the kind to prepare me for the sort of life we’ve lead together. My mother kept very close control over the boys I was allowed to date -- infrequently -- in the medium-size southern city in which I grew up. By the time I went off to college, the pattern had been set in my mind and, when I finally married another student, Frank, it was to settle down into submissive domesticity with everything centering on him.

Believe it or not, but I was a virgin -- at 23! -- on our honeymoon.

I have, since marrying Tim , come to realize why the European/middle-eastern ethic places such a high premium on men marrying virgins: a virgin has no standard of comparison, and doesn't know when she's getting shorted in the sex department.

That was Frank and me, for ten long years. Frank was vigorous in his lovemaking .. when it occurred, but I always had to start it. He was also very conservative, conventional to the ridiculous extent that he got upset when I tried kissing him with some tongue .. on the mouth!

Nor did graduating from college, moving to a more liberal atmosphere and becoming extremely successful in his chosen profession loosen him up. About all it did was give him an appetite for magazines of the "Playboy," “Penthouse" and "Hust1er" variety, all of which he kept carefully hidden from me, so I wouldn't be shocked by them. (I could never figure out WHEN he read them -- or looked at the pictures: I never once saw him looking through one).

Caution: Fellas, you can't hide things from a woman in her own house, whether that woman is your wife or your mother. However, I was always a Good Girl: I always hid them back exactly as I'd found them, and never, never mentioned them to Frank. After all, why destroy his illusions?

There was nothing in my background, then, to prepare me for Tim .. except, maybe, for having developed, over the years, a pragmatic acceptance of things As They Are, an acknowledgement of reality that didn't carry with it the overwhelming urge to change people into something more in line with my own ideas. But I still wasn't prepared for Tim .

* * *

I've always enjoyed wearing short dresses or skirts, hose, and graceful, high-heeled shoes. Frank, fortunately, liked me in the combination, although he could get kind of schizophrenic at times if my hemline began moving above the mid-thigh level: he loved seeing me like that, but was afraid somebody else might see me, and Frank has always been VERY conscious of his/our "public image."

So, my dress was about mid-thigh, with hose and low, purple anklestrap heels, the night we went to a public function at which Tim was part of the centerpiece. He was introduced to us, made the appropriate responses, and complimented me on how I was dressed. All very conventional and above-board ... except for one thing: as he walked away from us, I thought to myself, "That man has absolutely no right to look at me the way he did!" I said nothing to Frank, but that was the first time in my life I'd ever been .. caressed .. by a pair of eyes!

I ignored the fact that, after the first shock, I'd enjoyed it. Yes, I put THAT thought as far back in my mind as I could.

Circumstances over the next couple of years allowed us to get to know each other better and, somewhere in there, Frank, Tim , Tim 's wife, Dolly, and I all became close friends. During the same period (gossip being the pervasive thing it is in a not-too-large resort city), I "learned" a lot about Tim , things like he'd been separated from Dolly for over a year, having walked out on her to set up housekeeping with a very young girl with whom he'd apparently done some shocking things before moving back in with Dolly. Since then, I'd heard that he'd done some pretty shocking things WITH Dolly -- but was STILL a compulsive womanizer who'd chase anything in skirts, especially if it had big breasts and/or a broad bottom ... neither of which I happen to possess, incidentally.

I have deliberately drawn that word picture to conform to the rumors, because they sketch the portrait of a crude, cold, opportunistic, selfish bastard that only a woman of no taste (and less intelligence) could have anything to do with.

The only flaw in that is that, as the four of us got to know each other better, I discovered Dolly was a cold, self-centered, lazy slob .. and Tim warm, affectionate, extremely sensitive and artistic, good-humored, kind .. and Good, if you know what I mean.

All-in-all, a Nice Person.

I slowly, unrecognizably at first, grew to care for him very much and, I suspected, he for me.

But I still thought there must be some truth to the other things about him, because so many of those who'd known him since before I met him still liked him but, in vague and ambiguous ways, tried to warn me about or shield me from him. That made him fascinating to me, too. You see, while my real life to that point had been fairly dull so far as sex was concerned, I did (do) have one secret vice: masturbation. I'd been making love to my finger since about the time I entered grammar school; my parents thought my "Sunday Afternoon Nap" was always so "cute" and "little-lady-like." What they didn't know was that I was laying in bed riding my finger like it was a racehorse, dreaming dreams for which I didn't even have words. By the time I was in my teens, I regarded fingering myself as normal, acceptable (and, in my case, very, very necessary) ... but, as I grew into my 30s, the images that began to pop into my mind caused me some concern: they were uncharacteristically lurid, even for me.

And then, one day, Tim started populating them.

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RANDOM SHOTS - 1

JILL Is a colorful explosion. She's wearing a bright red, boned, lacy basque that squeezes up her tits, squeezes in her waist, emphasizes her hips. Her legs are in black silk hose, her feet in 4-inch purple spike pumps .. and she's laying on a pale blue sheet. The videotape camera catches her sounds and whoops of delight, plus the visual delight of watching one thick vibrator in her vagina, another being played over her clit .. a third, smaller one sticking out of her asshole, the combination of the three driving her into what seems like a solid half-hour of color comes.

A TEMPORARILY deserted stretch of highway ... Jill at the side of the road, a suitcase next to her. She's looking questioningly up the road, toward the low-level camera, her right hand, thumb extended, raised in the hitch-hiker's time-honored manual request .. her left hand holding her skirt up to her waist, fully exposing her hose-clad legs and wonderfully hairy cunt, the implied reward for any driver smart and brave enough to give her a ride.

TIM in thigh-top hose and 5-inch ankle strap heels, blushing furiously -- and sporting a very nice hard-on, which looks ludicrous, but oddly exciting in conjunction with the feminine trappings.

JILL in nothing but an open blouse and a pair of high ankle-strap heels, her ass at the edge of the chaise lounge on our enclosed patio. Her legs are spread and she's leaning back on her elbows, smiling cheerfully as she watches a stream of urine arch through the air from her dark pubic patch to splatter on the tiles.

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