A Gift for the Wife

A Gift for the Wife.

Why couldn't I have been born thin with a racing metabolism like my brother? I wondered as I completed my ninth set of 110 kg bench presses. Instead, if I drink one beer without exercising, I gain 5 kg. Well, I might be exaggerating, but not by much!

Ten sets of ten repetitions at 110 kg. I could do more, but then I'd need a spotter in case the last three or four went bad. I'd already done an hour on the road running, then another hour on the bike, followed by thirty minutes on the rower and another thirty minutes of stretching and core strength work.

'Used to be so much easier when I was playing,' I thought. At the club's gym, with at least seven or eight other players training with me. The gym pounding to Sam Thaiday's latest mix tape. Pretty WAGs (Wives And Girlfriends) and wannabe WAGs exercising around us. The wannabes, especially, trying to look good, hoping a player would notice and want them.

I looked around the gym. It was midmorning. Most single girls would be at work, and all I saw were young mothers trying to get their pre-baby shape back or older women, probably retired, all busily exercising, keeping their bodies in as best shape as possible. Hubby, probably, at home, drinking beer and watching porn. They'd be dead ten years at least before their wives even considered joining them beyond the veil.

As I exercised, I considered what I should buy the wife for her birthday, less than a week away now. 'What to buy someone who has anything and everything she could possibly need?' I wondered. Last year, I bought the red-headed, lead-footed hoon that is my wife, a Targa-ready vintage MGBGT Roadster. Light blue and race-certified, the car was an immediate favourite despite its ride being like sitting on a marble benchtop as it rode over cobblestones. Every slight irregularity in the road was mercilessly fed through the car's race suspension into your bottom.

I smiled, recalling how her CAMS (Confederation of Australian Motor Sports) instructor and licensor got out of the car at the end of her accreditation ride white and shaky, saying although she'd proven she was completely safe, she scared the pants off him with her aggressive entry into the turns.

She won the first Targa race she entered, but after that, she'd been given so much extra weight as a handicap that our mechanic worried the suspension would break under heavy turning G-force. Vicky only took the car out during open track days at Willowbank Raceway.

Vicky drove the boy racers insane as she casually, dressed in nothing more than a tank top and shorty shorts, her magnificent 36D breasts unfettered and bouncing with the bumps, out braked, out turned and out accelerated them, leaving them eating her dust as she blew them away along the straights.

I didn't drive the car. I didn't fit. The seat was bolted and welded to the floor, perfectly positioned for my wife's petite frame, all 158 cm of her. Plus, I sure as hell wasn't sitting beside her as she fearlessly, recklessly, launched her car at a blind crest, believing her reflexes would save her if there was a sharp turn over the crest. They had --so far.

Glancing around the gym again, I pictured my love in my mind. Tiny, as I described, but lush. Short, muscular legs, a big rounded badonkadonk butt, a toned but curvaceous tummy, and huge tits. Vicky has a weightlifter's body. Not surprising because she regularly accompanied me to the gym. Vicky has natural brown hair augmented with dark red highlights. Yeah, closing in on forty, she had some help from the dye bottle, but only to clear up a few grey hairs at her temples.

Bright hazel green eyes under high eyebrows, with wide, white-on-white corneas. A thin nose in the middle of high cheekbones and an almost pointy chin. Full, pouting lips barely concealing bright white, even teeth and a long neck. Have you figured out that I both adore and desire my wife immensely?

But, back to the problem. What do I get her for her birthday? Another overseas trip? Where to this time? Where haven't we gone that might still hold some appeal, or where for a re-visit?

I completed the final rep of my last set and sat up. All that was left was to cool down on the treadmill, shower and go home. Vicky would be out. Silly woman still worked, even though we had more money than our kids' great-grandkids could spend in their lifetimes. Unlike most, I'd saved virtually every cent during my thirteen-year NRL career. Using the skills and knowledge given to me by the various sponsors I'd schmoozed with, I'd invested my contracts, choosing to push kids back until I retired and living frugally off of Vicky's nursing wage.

"Finished?" A delightfully sexy voice asked as I sat up.

"Yes," I acknowledged, surreptitiously checking the speaker out. I kept my eyes firmly on hers and used my peripheral vision to admire the woman's figure. 'Not as muscular as Vicky,' I thought. 'But still short and stacked! Tits probably even bigger than the wife's.'

"Get a spot then, Mr Murray?" She asked.

"Sure," I responded, unsurprised that people still recognised me even five years after I retired. "How much are you pressing?"

"The most I've done is 70 kg," the woman replied. "But, with a spotter, I'd like to try more. What do you think?"

"It depends on whether you're trying to add or tone muscle," I answered. "If you're trying to replace fat with lean muscle, then a lower weight with more repetitions is better. If you want to add muscle, then more weight and lower reps."

"Is that why you were only doing 110 kg, Mr Murray?" She asked. "How much can you press if you go all out?"

"150 kg," I replied. "I could probably do more, but I need a pair of spotters in case I dropped it.

"Wow!" She said. "That's a lot."

I smiled at her as I took off and replaced the weights, bringing the total weight down to 75 kg. I didn't say anything about it being 5 kg more than she'd suggested. "Let's try a few warm-up reps at about what you're used to," I said, settling the bar into its stays.

The staunchly built woman lay on the bench and reached up to grab the bar. I noticed her large, firm breasts didn't sag to her rib cage when she lay down and briefly wondered if they were surgically enhanced.

As if reading my mind or perhaps seeing the direction of my eyes, she smiled and said, "All me, Mr Murray. All me, nothing else."

I grinned and answered, "John. If you're going to lie beneath me with most of your generous assets on display, the least I can do is let you use my name."

The woman wore a clinging bright orange sports bra with a matching pair of lycra shorts. Lying down, her big, thick, clearly erect nipples were blatantly displayed, as was her well-defined cameltoe.

Letting go of the bar momentarily, the woman held her hand out, "Misty Beethoven," she said.

I laughed, "Surely you can't be serious? Or is Misty and Beethoven hyphenated, and your first names are The Opening of?"

"I am serious," 'Misty' retorted, using the infamous line from the 'Airplane' movie. "And don't call me Shirley!" Then she laughed and added, "Janice Mooney, John. Jan or Yannie is fine."

"Yannie?" I asked.

"Dutch," Janice explained. "Spelt with a 'J' but pronounced with a 'Y'.

Janice retook her grip and easily lifted the bar above the stays and lowered it. "One," she puffed as she pressed it above her head.

"How many?" I queried.

"Five for the warm-up."

I nodded and waited, prepared to step in if Janice struggled. However, she completed the five reps without any apparent discomfort. "How much extra do you want to try?" I asked, undoing the holding clamps.

"Two more?" Janice suggested, showing a clear understanding of the risks of trying for too much too soon.

I nodded and added a 1 kg disc to each end. "Ready?" I asked, settling into a position above the bar, prepared to help if required.

Jannie ripped through another five reps without any struggle. "Two more, again?" She said. "That went easier than I thought."

"Three," I countered. "That brings you up to 5 kg more than you typically do."

Janice nodded her acceptance, and I adjusted the bar until it carried 80 kg. Ten more than Janice said she usually did. "All set," I told her.

Janice lifted the bar and let it slowly drop to her chest. "Wow!" She puffed as she fought to raise the bar. "Whoodathunk an extra 5 kg would make that much difference?"

I watched as she lowered and lifted the bar again, her upper arm muscles trembling under the strain.

"Don't think about it," I advised. "Pretend it's no heavier than it normally is, and just go through your routine." Jan completed a third lift, the strain apparent in her flushed face and panting breath. "Two more," I advised. "You're doing it easily. Piece of cake, in fact."

The bar lowered, but it was slightly off-balanced this time. Jannie's weaker left arm struggled to keep control of the bar's descent. Janice grunted, but the bar slowly raised until she'd locked her elbows and held it above her.

"Fuck!" She exclaimed. "That'll do, I think. Help me to lower it onto the rests."

"Well, okay," I doubtfully answered. "If you're going to wimp out at four..." I went to grab the bar.

"Fuck you!" Janice spat. The bar lowered and almost effortlessly came back up. She settled it onto the stays with little apparent effort. She sat and swung her legs off the bench. Jan glanced at the bar, and her eyes widened, "That was 80 kg!" She exclaimed.

"Oops," I grinned. "Math wasn't one of my strong points."

"You did it on purpose," she accused.

"Maybe," I admitted. "But now you know you're capable of much more."

"But I barely managed to lift the fourth rep," Jannie protested.

"Yeah, but when you got mad, the fifth went down and up effortlessly. So, get angry more often."

"I've seen your wife interviewed, Mister Murray," Jannie stated. "She says you're an asshole. A loveable one, but an asshole all the same."

"Do you have a point?" I teased. "Or are you just making observations?"

"Only that I agree with her," Jan answered.

"So you think I'm loveable?" I joked. "Nice to know."

"Your wife is so gorgeous and sexy," Janice stated.

She wasn't going to get an argument from me! "Yes, she is," I confirmed.

"Shame she isn't at least bisexual," Jannie said, looking directly at me.

Vicky was, but I had no intention of admitting that right now. "Why does it matter?" I asked. "Unless you're a lesbian and want to take her off me."

Jan shook her head, "Not a lesbian. Bisexual with a strong preference for women."

"I'm unsure why you're telling me this?"

Janice sighed and muttered something about men being dense. I tuned it out because Vicky accused me of that so often.

"I'd like to get to know you and your wife, John," Jannie stated. "I've been a massive fan since your playing days and have desired your wife since she first graced the red carpet on Brownlow night in 2002."

Nonplussed, I asked, "And?"

"Jaysus!" Jan exclaimed. "I want to fuck you both! There. Can I be any more blunt?"

"You just said, 'Shame your wife isn't at least bisexual'," I pointed out.

"Yes," Janice grinned. "But a girl can hope."

I thought about it. Vicky and I had had the occasional threesome. Vicky sometimes longed for the soft touch of a woman. She loved me with all her heart, but before we met and dated, Vicky's affections were almost equally shared between men and women. But Vicky, as I'd once suggested she should, didn't want a full-time girlfriend. She thought it would be too difficult to explain to her parents or our young children when they were old enough to understand.

'Could I give Janice to my wife as her birthday present,' I wondered. I also wondered about the morality of giving someone to another as it reeked too much of forced servitude or even slavery.

"With girls, do you prefer to top or bottom?" I asked, almost disbelieving that I asked.

"Top," Janice confirmed.

"With men?"

"Bottom, if they're strong enough. Very few are, though."

Other than when we shared a woman, I'd remained faithful to my wife despite the many offers that had come my way. However, Janice had the size and body shape I liked. Although I'm tall at 193 cm and weigh around 95 kg, I prefer short, muscular women. Women that are stacked, know how to fill out whatever they're wearing, and wear it proudly with a regal, arrogant strut. My wife fitted that description perfectly. So did the young woman before me. My libido quickly imagined what it would be like watching these two women going at it together.

"Coffee?" I offered.

"Wine Gum Café over the road," Jannie suggested. "Ten minutes to shower and meet there?"

"Works for me," I answered, helping her to her feet.

Ten minutes later, I sat opposite the strongly muscled woman. At the gym, I thought Janice to be not much more than twenty. However, in the daylight, I guessed her to be closer to thirty-five than twenty-five. She wore a grey long-sleeved middie top over lycra exercise shorts. The shorts clung to her muscular ass and emphasised her powerful legs. The top revealed a six-pack the average man could only dream of having. Her long, black hair hung down her back from a top knot, emphasising her strong, almost elvish face. Even her face had muscles, or so it seemed.

She was HAWT, with a capital H! I was awe-struck and hoped she'd agree to my rapidly developing plan. We ordered coffee, and to my amusement, Janice insisted on paying. Before long, we were involved in a conversation about seemingly everything. Jannie was bright and articulate, but her mind flitted all over the place. One minute, she was gushing about buying sideline tickets to see me play. Next, she was talking about watching the Dally M presentation, hoping to see what my wife, Vicky, was wearing. Then, she started about her work as a primary school teacher. Today was a pupil-free day, and she'd taken a TOIL day (Time off In Lieu of overtime).

I smiled in the right places, oohed and aahed at others, and generally waited until the adrenaline rush she was feeling settled down. After around thirty minutes and another cup of coffee, Jan took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Sorry," she said, "As you can tell, I'm just a wee tad excited to meet you."

"You said that you're bisexual with a strong preference for women," I dropped in casually, hoping Jannie would take the bait. Janice looked quizzically at me before nodding and agreeing she was. "My wife's birthday is this coming Friday," I said.

"Oh?" Jan said.

I smiled, "How would you like to be my wife's present?"

"What?" She gasped.

"What do you give a woman that has everything?" I rhetorically asked. Janice looked quizzically at me. "What she always desires but doesn't often follow through with."

"Vicky is bisexual?" Jannie asked excitedly.

"Yes," I confirmed. "But because of our profile, she keeps it very low-key. But we have indulged in a few threesomes when her need becomes too urgent."

"I'm amazed you've been able to keep it out of the scandal magazines," Jan stated.

"By being very careful and discreet about who we invite to our bed," I explained. "Nobody equally famous and in the public eye as we were."

"You'd trust me not to blab," Janice asked.

"I've cultivated many contacts in the media, politics and business, Jannie," I pointed out. "Try to expose us, and I'll make your life a living hell. Besides, having a scandalous lesbian affair with a former sports star's wife --is that the kind of attention you want or need on yourself and your career?"

"They say you're Michael Jordan like rich because you invested every cent you earned playing. Is that correct?"

"I wouldn't go that far. But, yes, I did alright," I confirmed.

"Then why does your wife continue to work?" Jannie asked.

"Because she feels called to be a nurse," I explained. "She likes helping people. Would I prefer for her to stay home and be with me? Of course. But who am I to deny her what she wants?"

"So this 'present' for her isn't actually a present for you?" Jan queried.

"The only time I've ever taken another woman is when Vicky decided she couldn't last another day without enjoying the female touch again. Five times in our twenty-year marriage, Janice. That is all."

"And if I decide I want only her? If your wife decides to play with only me?"

"You're her present," I explained. "If that's what either of you want, then that's how it will be. However, when I give you to her, if you won't let me be involved, Vicky will, more than likely, send you home."

"You know this, how?" Janice asked.

"Five years ago, we picked up a woman who assured us she was wholly bisexual. However, it turned out to be a ruse to fuck Vicky because she wouldn't let me touch her when we got into bed together, and Vicky bodily threw her out of the bed and sent her home."

"Okay, so if I agree, how do we do this?"

I smiled, "Let me worry about the details. Give me your number, and I'll text you my address and when and where. Just ensure you turn up on time. If you decide to chicken out, then that's okay. But please don't leave me hanging. Send me a text saying you're not coming so I can do something special for my wife."

"I'll be there, big boy," Jannie sultrily said. "I'm hoping you have a nice big present for me, too."

"Vicky has never complained," I said modestly. I'm probably a little over average. According to the self-reported figures, the average length of a penis is about five and three-quarter inches. I'm a little under seven and quite thick to go with it.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries as we finished our second cup of coffee, but I refused to answer with any more detail about Friday evening. All I'd tell her was to be ready to drive to the address I'd texted her around 10.00 pm Friday.

I walked Janice to her car, and she turned and said, "May I have a kiss before I leave?"

I smiled and shook my head. "Save it for Friday," I told her. "If anyone sees me kissing you here and tells Vicky, I'll wake up with my dick being served to me on a platter."

Janice laughed and said, "Sounds like a woman after my own heart." She waved as she drove away.

I had five days before Vicky's birthday and introducing her to her present. Vicky knew me better than anyone, so it would be difficult to hide I had something special planned. However, she'd never before guessed her present, and I was sure this one would be a more than welcome surprise. I purchased several small gifts to ensure I put her off the scent --a pearl necklace with matching earrings and an opal pendant with matching earrings, belly button ring, bracelet and anklet. I 'accidentally' left the opal pendant on my dresser and hurriedly shoved it into a drawer when Vicky noticed it.

Friday dawned. Excited, I was up early. Vicky had a day off, so I slipped out of bed and made breakfast and coffee. Returning with bacon and eggs on toast, I placed the tray beside her on the bed and then held the coffee to her nose. Her nose wrinkled, and she opened her eyes. "Morning, gorgeous," I told her. "Happy birthday. One more year before the big four-o!"

"Don't remind me," Vicky protested, stretching and yawning.

"What's wrong with being forty?" I teasingly protested. "I'm forty."

"You're forty-one," Vicky pointed out. "An old man. I'm only thirty-nine and still a red-hot chicky babe!"

Laughing, I replied, "Yes, you are. Now sit up so I can stare at those red-hot titties of yours!"

"Pervert," Vicky exclaimed, sitting and unabashedly dropping the quilt, displaying her gorgeously firm 36D breasts. She cupped them and squeezed them together. "Like what you see, big boy?" She asked coquettishly.

"Yes, I do," I replied, lowering my head and flicking my tongue over the nipple closest to me.