Loving Husband/Loving Wife Ch. 05

Marriage is a stack of contracts, not just the one imposed by the government and exchange of vows in the chapel. In successful marriages, most are tacit understandings. Loyalty and devotion. Parental responsibilities and practices. Mutual ego support. Shared house hold labor. Compromises and unselfishness. Budgetary agreements need to be hammered out. A stack of contracts. My giving my wife the man of her choice once, and only once, a year was a new contract. A contract similar to the one we shaped for our first threesome indulgence all those years ago. I was fully aware the contract was over weighted in her favor, but that was not something like two children following mother's orders to equally divide the remaining piece of chocolate cake. That intense scrutiny of division that guaranteed the older child using the knife did not get a single crumb more than the younger sibling. We were not children. We were doing an equal sharing that defied ready recognition of conventional measures.

For three weeks I was hypersensitive to her moods, waiting for her to spring the news on me. She was not forthcoming. She smiled a lot, revamped her wardrobe, was a treasure house of sweet sex for me. She was her every day lovable self. Sunny, charming, gracious, kind and giving. Two months passed, and I often felt an urge to probe, locate hidden urges and arousals stirring from an attractive man that had touched her sensibilities. But I didn't probe. It would have been... hell, it would have been rude to do so. Our contract had that kind of force. And the added value of a new version of erotic atmosphere. She could have joyous, private sex with any man she wanted, once only, once a year. That given fact had a substance of enormous kinetic potential. It gave her beauty and physical desirability three dimensional focus in my eyes. I grappled with an impossibility, that I loved her even more than I ever had before. Because there was an underlying truth of something more. That my gift also contained the concurrent truth of my being her heaven on earth, and that would wrap the two of us forever more.

Spring segued into summer.

"Any man I want?" She said one day, out of the blue.

"One time, once a year. We agreed."

"He has turned up. I want him."

My God. Seven simple words, and I felt like I had been plastered with electrodes and external current turned on. "Erotic" is a very special word. It is far removed from pornographic. Eroticism dwells in our brain circuitry, in the cellular structure of our organs and who knows where else in our bodies. "He has turned up...I want him" sent erotic currents streaking everywhere inside me, and I felt chills and fever and mysterious nerve thrills all at the same time.

"Who is he? Where does he come from? How did you meet him? Where? When?"

"Easy tiger, easy!" She laughed. "You are more excited than I am."

"Well, almost half a year all routine and now suddenly..."

His name was Larry Felts and he was a house builder and did remodeling jobs and - knock me down and kick my gut - he completed some work on our house three weeks or so earlier. The soffit was showing rot in too many places, and I struck a deal with him to replace it and paint it. I saw him only twice, for him to evaluate and price the job, and another time during the work. I was very busy and left the project to Jill to keep tabs on and write him a check. Now she was of a mind to give him a hell of a tip.

"Whoa babe, that is too, too close to home." I said with flat finality.

"Don't be silly," she said. "He has never been inside our home and he never will be. Sometimes I think you believe I have turned into an air head."

"I will never think that... What about him turned you on?"

"Need you really ask? You met him."

Indeed I did. Larry was early forties. Played golf often and was in great shape, as much natural as trained. He had a rough hewn look. Excessive masculinity might describe him. But nothing predatory that I picked up on. Handsome, well, hell yes, he was. Sexy? That was something Jill had exclusive rights to determine. In fact, per our contract, she had exclusive rights to him if she wanted. She made clear she did want.

"So, uh, what have you two established?"

"Some preliminary chemistry was established. Yes, I can definitely say that. His crew did the work, while we sat on the screened porch and drank lemonade. Not every hour of the job. But enough conversation, eye contact, body language to work at will. I've called him a couple of times, making clear he is not to call me, ever."

That was meager information, and all the more erotic because of the paucity.

"Did you touch? Kiss?"

"Of course not! On our porch? His crew nearby?"

"Well, chemistry is a word open on both ends. I'm naturally curious."

"You know how it works, Jack. All those women you had. Years ago, true, but you know. You could be looking at each other and repeating the pledge of allegiance to the flag, and all sorts of undercurrents and subliminal sex signals are flying back and forth. We both had roving eyes. He kept sizing me up. I gave a few glances to his crotch. He has a curvy ass that I bet has a lot of muscle power. He was very agreeable to a glass of lemonade. Never in a hurry to leave and check on his crew. He is married. But so am I," she grinned.

"Chemistry, as I recall, needs a little more mixing than that."

"That last day, they did the painting and he had much leisure time to chat. Again, about nothing much in particular. A light skim over his business career, his life in general, little oddities about his spouse that are amusing if slightly annoying. At first he didn't realize I wasn't wearing panties under my sun dress. Then he knew. Did he ever. It was fun to watch. He couldn't stop looking at the way the dress settled in the V of my legs, the crack of my ass. And not a single suggestive word passed between us."

"I can see it." I said. "Lifting your dress and flashing your twat would have been unspeakably vulgar and tacky. Not wearing panties sent a message one hundred times more powerful. The difference between erotic and pornographic."

"Exactly," she said.

"In effect, you were saying to him this proper upper class housewife could be fucked, if you play your cards right."

"Good way to put it."

"Maybe he thinks you are a neglected housewife in need of repair."

"Maybe he does. Does that matter? He didn't get a boner, but his cock did stir. I saw that, and made sure he saw that I saw. Never talking anything but above board chit chat.

"Establishing chemistry." I laughed. "Now I'm getting a boner."

Her smile was pure witchery. "That's the whole idea, isn't it?"

"I don't want him around here any more."

"Certainly not," she said. "I'll see to that."

"Don't be in a great rush either. Take the time to be certain he poses no risk to us."

"Trust me, Jack."

I called my man at the security company that does background checks for prospective employees, and gave him the particulars I had on Larry Felts. Rush job I made clear. I had a twinge of guilt at keeping this secret from Jill, but the twinge was brief and ineffective, greatly overridden by my duty to protect her. The report came to my main office, and it was detailed and not alarming. Larry Felts was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps. Married to the same woman for sixteen years. No criminal record. Usual debts but no financial binds. No trashy behaviors or inclinations came to light. And most importantly, his medical records - yes, that company can penetrate anywhere to find out anything - gave him a clean bill of health.

During the time I waited for the background report, Jill made her first move.

"I have a rendezvous with Larry this afternoon."

"Where?"

"The Botanical Gardens."

"Fuck on the grass, in broad day light?"

She laughed. "More to feel him out. Establish boundaries."

Rendezvous. Meeting. With a rugged, handsome ex-Marine who was plied with a lot of lemonade and visions of panty free ass under a sun-dress. I couldn't work all day with such thoughts zapping my mind, so I went home early. Much too early. It was five before Jill returned home.

She wore tight jeans, ankle boots, and a sky blue T-shirt of latest style, with a square cut that exposed a lot of bosom, the bottom border about three inches above the nipples. Sexy as hell. The packages she carried explained that she had gone shopping after the rendezvous. She was sunny, sparkly, vivacious, glowing. "Hi darling." She gave me a brief, soft, tender kiss. "Pour us some wine while I put these away." I watched her walk to our bed room, her hips swaying, her ass cheeks in rotational rhythm under the tight denim, residual erotic energy quickening her stride. I filled our wine glasses with Champagne.

She sat in her favorite chair, crossed her legs, a suede ankle boot kicking up and down, and looked at me with warm affection. "So, how was your day?"

Yeah, right. My wife has this innate tendency toward playfulness that is often irrepressible. She was dying to tell me; she knew I was dying to hear; but she had to toy with me a moment.

"I believe your day has priority here."

She laughed. "We met at the gardens. Strolled about. Talked."

"You feeled him out..."

"In due course. He is a good kisser. Quite good..." Her eyes drifted, remembering. "All and all, I think he is essentially a good ole boy type of man. I made clear I didn't have a habit of cheating on my husband, but his attractiveness was overpowering and irresistible. He was greatly flattered. He confessed to a couple of affairs during his marriage. We kissed a lot, well hidden in the rhododendrons...He likes my ass...His hands couldn't stay away...He kissed and licked my breasts, and pulled my T-shirt down so my nipples popped out...His suckling mouth was so very sweet...My pussy got very wet...He has a big one. Big as yours? Probably not. I will make a closer comparison when it is out of his pants, in my hands, in my mouth."

She stared at my crotch, my erection so big and hard, threatening to rip the fabric of my pants. She stood and walked to me, stroked my hard-on with her fingers, arched a brow in judgment, and said, "Probably not as big."

My wife cooked us a delicious dinner, pasta shells stuffed with mozzarella and spinach and basil, smothered with a red pepper sauce. I mostly watched her work; watched her ass cheeks express themselves as she moved about, like they were still feeling Larry Felts' hands there. I kept the glasses full of Champaign. I had a hundred questions to ask her, but restrained myself, not entirely certain why. Going solo seemed to have attached a mood of privacy, in spite of her willingness to provide details she knew would be terrifically exciting to me. I would have to adjust to that. I did ask: "What boundaries did you fix?"

"That I am a horny house wife hopelessly hot for him. No more, no less. Any broader expectations would be out of the question. He was most agreeable with that reality." She paused to consider. "I have this strong sense he is a man who has nothing else in mind except taking me. Because I offer myself for his taking."

"So...When?"

"I will decide. When he can manage to sneak in the private time. He won't be coming here, needless to say, so he has his own logistics to see to. I don't see a Roger like prolonged courtship in the making. A lot of mutual lust is at work here. Do it. One and done. If he is as good as I think he will be, then I will be a happy woman, and anticipate a new man next year."

My chest became a vacuum and I had to fight for a breath. The gift I had given her. The contract. She was now using it. The reality struck home. There was nothing left to discuss.

We were on the right side of Champagne tipsy when we went to bed. It was a potent cocktail of Champagne and ersatz infidelity that made my wife emit, ooze palpable sexuality in every move she made. Even brushing her teeth. Her naked body was full of ripe desirability and accessibility as she took her own sweet time pulling the gown over her head. She kissed me with love when we stretched out.

"Thank you my love, my life, my husband, my precious man. You give me this gift. I want this Larry Felts. I want to open my legs wide for his cock to enter me and fuck me. It's going to happen."

I went into her in one swift lunge.

"Oh God yes! You are huge and hard as iron. This is so good, good, good for both us. Fuck me my husband fuck me fuck me."

The report on Larry came in for my secret reading. A "good ole boy." Jill made the occasional phone call to him in private, keeping the lust heat on high, she reported to me. And suddenly it happened. I was at my office when she called and matter of factly said, "It's set up. I'm going to him now."

"Now? Where?"

"The Comfort Inn on sixth avenue and Patterson Street. Room 1107."

"Now!? This sure is sudden!"

"I know. He couldn't wait any longer. Neither could I. He seems to have found the right time and opportunity for his own situation, and I am more than ready........ Well?"

I was speechless, but did manage to say, "Be careful. Have fun."

Needless to say, I couldn't concentrate on any work the rest of the afternoon. I went home early. It was not exactly the same as waiting for her return from fucking Roger. The suddenness of the event was like a streak of lightening and a clap of thunder before a drenching down pour. Startling. A dash for shelter. Great forces at work beyond my control. My wife and another man in sexual heat. Bam! Just like that.

I had no idea what Jill was wearing, if she did something to her hair. If she gave her pubic bush a quick trim. No clear fantasy image of her knocking on door 1107 of the Comfort Inn on Patterson street. To enjoy the gift I had given her. For some reason, I had never imagined that gift would include an anonymous motel room, like a staple from a country song. I had to imagine it then, and all the banal trappings of common infidelity wove a different tapestry of erotic frisson around what was taking place in room 1107. Stolen hours. Cheating. My wife, the slut. I had seen my wife release her inner slut in a threesome with another man. Legs spread wide, her arms flung back, her neck and jaw taut in orgasmic seizures with her eyes clinched tight, her breasts bobble back and forth in contrapuntal rhythm to the strokes of another man's cock plundering her. My wife the slut. Releasing. And without exception that release, her gift to me to see and know and understand, enveloped her in an awesome glow of radiant beauty. I needed no more than that vision. I jerked off, and my cum shot two feet high.

I thought of driving to the Comfort Inn, find a slot with a view of door 1107, wait and see my wife come out the door. I dismissed that thought. Instead, I thought she might be working up an appetite, and prepared a supper for her, to heat when she returned. Images of her slut release activities played tag in my head, with Larry's body in the pictures, on her, his ass expanding and clinching in furious thrusting, her plump lips sliding up and down his cock. I got an erection again, but didn't jerk off.

It was close to seven when Jill came back home, twilight on that summer day. There are many distinctive looks that attach to people. That well fed look of people leaving a restaurant. That glaze of joy on fans leaving the stadium after the college football team beat a hated rival by five scores. That "justified" look on a diligent employee who got the promotion and a ten grand salary raise. And there is that look on a woman who has been thoroughly and splendidly and monumentally fucked. That was the look my wife had when she stopped still and smiled at me. That was the look she retained all evening. It contained parts of all the examples I cited above, but something deeper and more too. Much more. An uncanny mix of lively vibrancy and utter exhaustion, and a depth-less satisfaction too complicated to itemize.

"Welcome home, my love."

She folded into me. Soft. Loving. Her body humming a depth-less satisfaction too complicated to itemize. "My husband," she said.

She wore a simple sun dress and low cork heel sandals, and nothing else but her wedding rings.

"Did he keep your bra and panties as souvenirs?"

"I didn't wear any," she smiled.

"This dress.... The lemonade serving dress?"

"The very one. I thought it would be a nice touch. The continuity of first chemistry."

She broke our embrace. Casual. A smile echo that refused to leave her face. Relaxed. Deeply satisfied.

"Shall I run you a bath?"

"I showered at the motel. I needed it too." Her eyes that slanted my way, and her smile, spoke volumes.

"That clunk I heard when you dropped your bag on the floor was a hair dryer."

"Yes. A cheating wife couldn't go home reeking of another man's cologne, sweat, and cock and balls, could she?"

"Advisedly not!" I laughed with her. "I fixed a nice supper for you, if you're hungry."

"In fact, I'm starving. Jack, I'm the luckiest woman on earth being married to you. No matter how many times I say that, I can't say it enough."

The meal, the evening, proceeded in a casual manner, like the end of any ordinary day. We chatted about nothing, in that habitual comfort and security of a long marriage at meal time. But our minds had little connection. Jill kept drifting off on the cusp of a dreamy smile, her eyes every changing in light and luster, with an inward focus. Her body seeming to hum like background voices to the song "I Have Been Splendidly Fucked Today." I wanted to hear every detail. I wanted to rip that chemistry sun dress off and rape her. I was patient and polite.

We went to bed, and Jill said, "Do you mind if I tell you all about it later? I'm exhausted. And a little sore too. I just want to sleep."

"Of course, my baby," I said, magnanimous, and achingly disappointed.

"Thank you my love. Good night."

She stretched and purred and nestled in and in a few minutes was softy snoring. I lay awake quite awhile.

My gift to her, to fuck any man she wanted once a year, one time only, was taking a shape I didn't foresee. How could I? Her going solo was a totally new experience for us. Obviously, an element of privacy had entered the scene. I had no doubt she would tell me all, answer any question I asked, not deliberately keep any thing from me. But going solo naturally included her personal feelings and sensations and pleasures and thrills I could not share. Private things she quietly savored and digested during our evening meal. Wanted to contain in her deeply satisfied, perfectly realized, devastatingly well fucked insides all to herself for awhile. Her regular breathing, her snore barely audible, my wife who had fucked another man in privacy that afternoon in motel room 1107, slept as peacefully as a child. What was that she said? "Exhausted... and a little sore too..." The story lurking in those words had such potential it became almost cosmic in scope, and my mind became exhausted and I fell asleep. At some wee hour.

The next morning I hung around the house. My highly paid managers run most of my business, and I am a slave to my office only on occasions of emergency. Jill still had that dreamy cat that got the cream demeanor, which seemed to be stuck on her.

"Still a little sore?" I asked, opening the dialog of our much anticipated play in our very private theater.

"A little." That dreamy smile. "A now and again twinge. That ever so pleasant, sweet reminder."

At that instant the door bell rang.

Jill let in Marsha and her crew of two, three women who spent all day once a week doing comprehensive maid service. I had forgot all about them. Jill would be busy with them all day long. I went to my office.

I couldn't get my mind off the remaining twinge of her pussy soreness. Was his cock as big as mine? Bigger? That would be a first. But I didn't feel particularly threatened by the notion. What I really wondered about was exactly what he did to make her sore? What stallion like activity he performed? The essence of which she would keep private, no matter how much of it she tried to share with me.