Watch This, Honey!

Sexually, I was always a bit of an animal. I love sex, and I love to be toyed with. With my husband, I would do anything he proposed, knowing that it would be done in a safe and healthy manner with a person I trust completely. Unfortunately, he had never been one to make a whole lot of suggestions, fearing that I would become insulted, jealous (if another party were involved), or otherwise think him a sicko.

Communication on this matter was always minimal, and though we led a satisfying sex life, I often found myself fantasizing about things that I could never imagine telling him. One of those things was being watched in the act.

The act of what? Anything. Sex, masturbation, oral sex, you name it. And when I say this, I don't mean someone across the street with binoculars, I mean someone in the same room, watching and getting pleasure from it.

Naturally shy, I told myself that I only thought this because no one was ever watching me masturbate. Indeed, masturbation for me was always one of those things I did when no one was home, the bedroom door locked, and the stereo on, just in case I got loud about it. Even so, during masturbation, nothing made me cum faster than picturing one or more people standing around me, encouraging me through words or actions of their own.

Then, one night, something happened.

My husband and I were up late, a little off our rockers with a few too many beers, and looking up porn sites on the web in order to download movies. There was no intent there where sex was concerned. He had just had /too/ much to drink. We were just having fun. I was seated on the guest room bed and he at the desk, where he had found some great Peter North clips. I love Peter North. He's so sexy, and I don't generally find porn guys sexy. I couldn't help but mention to my husband that these movies were getting me hotter than I expected.

"So masturbate," he suggested rather casually.

I told him that I wasn't going to leave the room to go masturbate, and that his company was more welcome than ten minutes of self love in the bathroom.

"Do it here while I watch," he grinned, almost knowingly, as though he had read into my heart and mind for all these years and fished out that fantasy.

At first, I told him flat out that I wouldn't do it. As soon as I told him, though, I thought that it was stupid of me not to. After all, what an ice breaker this would be in regards further communication in this matter.

Without another word, I let my hands drift over the top of my shirt, feeling on my breasts, playing with them as my husband might have. He had not yet noticed what I was doing, and it was only after my shirt landed in his lap that he looked over at me, sitting up straight, fingers playing over the 34DD's he loves so much. Perhaps in an effort to keep me going without shame, he did not speak. Instead, he let one of the movies run and sat back in his chair.

His eyes never left me as the bra came off, and I let my hands drift to the waistband of the sweatpants I wore. I lowered the pants around my ankles, doing my best to look seductive while doing it. I must have done something right because even though alcohol kept him from performing, his own hand hand slipped between his legs and he was stroking himself over his shorts.

Watching him watch me was more stimulation than my own hand, even as I leaned back against the wall, legs bent, my neatly trimmed puss facing him. My fingers were met with sopping wetness, and with a sucking in of my breath, I spread the juice on my inner thighs, moaning as our eyes met. There was little inhibition left in me now, and I began to rub at my clit shamelessly, pushing my fingers in and out of my warm passage with the other hand. Those wet fingers came up to my mouth, sucking the wet off them in a move that made his eyes widen.

Breaths quickening, the notion of doing this before an audience barely keeping up with my hand, I furiously rubbed at my clit, and each time my legs pulled together reflexively, he leaned forward to pull them apart, telling me in a quiet voice that he wanted me spread. He wanted to watch me cum. I found my voice then, the last shred of inhibition going straight out the window.

"Tell me you like watching me. How it turns you on," I begged, voice cracking.

He told me. He told me that he wanted to see me cum all over my fingers and that he wanted me to lick them clean when I was done. He wanted to see me pleasure myself over and over again. He could never get enough, and if he weren't so drunk, he would fuck me like a beast. Then, the words were lost, the build up in my gut giving way and a powerful orgasm throbbing around my fingers, which had by now, left my clit and were wiggling deep inside me. I screamed, vaguely aware that the dogs in the next room were barking, vaguely aware of anything but the intense pleasure that rippled violently through my body. I think I called out his name, as though his own hands had caused this.

Then, I collapsed quietly on the bed, smiling to my husband through a strand of dark hair that had fallen across my eyes. I knew from that moment forward that there were no limits between us, and that there were other things, better even, to come.