It Began with a Need Ch. 01

It began with a need, a hunger for something new, a reckless desire to control the world I inhabited and to mould those around me as I wished.

Life was dull. I owned and ran a string of launderettes around the city which I had begun setting up 20 years ago, though these days they pretty much ran themselves leaving me with far too much time to think, something which my husband always said would lead me to trouble.

He is an interesting subject that I find my thoughts returning to time and again. We married just as I was starting out and somehow we managed to raise three bright, wonderful kids while both running our own businesses.

To be fair he did most of the parenting given the nascent state of my enterprise. I often had to work late into the evening in those early years, relishing the many challenges: from fending off competition and researching the market to finding, acquiring and refurbishing old commercial units to house my expanding portfolio of shops.

Now, at 40, I had achieved my business goals and had some modest millions put aside for new ventures, investments and eventual retirement. I was feted by the city's business community and often ran workshops to promote women in business and seminars to help entrepreneurs take the first steps towards realising their dreams.

To the outside world I was a spectacular success but there was no doubt that, in achieving my success, my marriage had been neglected and now, with our children away at college, my husband was committing himself more to improving his business the way I had mine when he sacrificed his ambitions for me.

For 20 years I had him at my beck and call to do all the domestic jobs I didn't care to and now that I only needed to work 3 hours a day he was the one working late into the night: worst of all, he expected me to pick up the domestic slack which had, until recently, been his domain.

Needless to say I didn't like it one little bit; in fact I'll admit that I resented it extremely. Here I was a multi-millionaire reduced to doing household chores that I felt were still his responsibility.

We're a bit old-fashioned in that we had never taken on any staff because we didn't feel the need to advertise our financial success by living in a mansion. We still lived in the same apartment, in the same neighbourhood where we first bought; though we did buy and extend into the apartment above us as our family grew.

Still, the apartment is not so large as to require the services of a cleaner or maid, at least not when I had had my husband to do that work for me. Now, however, I was finding out that I wasn't really cut out to do the cleaning, ironing and cooking and so my thoughts drifted again to the interesting subject of my husband.

I reflected on his business which was moderately successful and could not help but compare it unfavourably to my own. It didn't bother me that my success was only made possible by his sacrifice. All I saw was his unnecessary pursuit of success at my expense and I admit that I resented his expectation that I would now support his ambitions the way he had mine.

It couldn't happen: it wouldn't happen!

Having had him on a psychological domestic chain for 20 years I was not now willing to set him free to be his own man again. I was used to being the one in control and now I would have to find a way to keep that control.

I was the major breadwinner, I was the businesswoman, I gave the orders and expected them to be obeyed and, to be honest, I was in control in the bedroom too. I was used to deciding when we would have sex, what kind of sex that would be and regularly ignoring his sexual needs to ensure the improved quality of my own.

I received and he gave, in every aspect of our marriage, and I did not intend to lose that resource to his professional ambitions. I would have to put a stop to it; but how?

Standing at 5'8" in my heels I don't ever need to wear make-up, and with my curvy figure, that I take good care of, I enthrall him sexually. He is always eager to please me and to make me look and feel my best.

Before this recent relentless obsession with his business I could be sure that, whenever I had an engagement, he would bathe me, shave me and dress me for the occasion but now I had nobody to do that for me.

I resented his business.

At 43 and, 5'7" he cuts a slight figure in his business suit. Running around after three kids and a demanding wife for the past 20 years has kept him fit with a toned rather than muscular build. His gentle, heart-shaped face, is pretty rather than handsome and his sparkling eyes framed by laughter lines (the only lines on his face) reflect his wonderful personality. In private he is flirtatious, gentle and honest.

Yes I love him; if anything I adore him. I cannot imagine my life without him - which is why I resent his absence. I feel like I'm in competition with his business and worse, I'm losing!

I thought and thought for most of the day and well into the evening until he arrived home at 9pm:

"You're looking tired Honey", I advanced.

"Shattered Babe!" He collapsed into an armchair.

"I'm thinking of taking a lover!" I just dropped it into the space between us.

His eyes widened, a troubled look ghosted over his face before he composed it.

"Why?" he asked.

"I'm lonely Honey, I never see you and when I do you're too tired to spend the time I want pleasing me!"

"You'll have to find another woman then," I watched as his laughter lines crinkled, preparing myself for the inevitable follow up, "the amount of time my face spends between your legs!" He chortled.

I joined in and the rest of the evening was spent chatting about the day and engaging in light-hearted banter before he eventually fell into a deep sleep right there, in the armchair.

As I watched him I thought back to that short conversation and found myself agreeing with him - if I were to take a lover it would have to be a woman!

The idea excited me and I went to bed and touched myself while picturing a feminine presence caressing my skin: the taste of her lipstick against my mouth; the smell of her perfume; smooth, moisturised skin rubbing against smooth moisturised skin; the gentle touch of her fingers against my inner thigh, rising towards my wet pussy; her mouth descending...

...and as I shuddered towards orgasm I put a face to my fantasy female lover:

it was the face of my husband!

I pressed my fingers deep within me as she came sharply into focus, as my climax crystallised, I pictured her/him between my legs, her long hair flowing along my thighs as his tongue lapped eloquently along my labia, a pretty nightie ruched up around her midriff exposing his pretty, Brazilian-cut panties which bounced against the sheets as he desperately rubbed her hard little clitty against the satin gusset, his smooth legs accentuated by opaque black hold-ups and capped off by a pair of high, high heels that wavered in frantic patterns as my orgasm peaked.

Panting heavily in the aftermath, chest heaving, sweat cooling as it ran along my skin, I looked frantically around, almost expecting to see him there, dressed just as I had imagined!

I couldn't shake the visceral vision of my husband as my female lover.

No, I mentally corrected myself, less than female but also less than male.

I couldn't help but remember my thoughts as I watched her bouncing her pantied ass against the sheets. It wasn't his cock he was stimulating, my mind had described it as "her little clitty". The memory triggered a small aftershock orgasm as I involuntarily squeezed my thighs together at my recent mental vocabulary.

Why had I thought those words? His cock wasn't huge or thick, but, at 7 inches long and of reasonable girth it couldn't be considered "little".

I curled myself into a tight foetal position and, pondering on this unexpected event, fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

He woke me the next morning - warm from the shower: dripping.

The sight of his face brought my fantasy back into sharp focus and all I could see was how pretty his face would look in make-up.

"Gotta get to work Baby" he said, as his mouth descended towards mine. I closed my eyes as we kissed imagining once again the taste of her lipstick. I pressed against him needing to have her back again:

"Sweetie, stay and play a little, I missed you last night!"

He laughed: "it looks like I'm the one that missed out Hon, don't forget to change the sheets! Bye."

And with that he was gone.

I had obviously had numerous vaginal orgasms during my experience; looking down, his side of the bed was soaked through. I shared an embarrassed giggle with the empty apartment.

The image of my feminine husband would not leave me.

Over breakfast I wondered if perhaps I had always considered him in the feminine without ever having admitted it to myself. He had been father and mother to our children while I pursued my dreams. He had been my maid (a delicious shiver ran along my spine as I thought the word!), my cook, my chauffeur, my personal assistant and my secretary (in the early years). He had taken on, for me, all those roles normally associated with women in order to allow me the opportunity to thrive in a man's world.

I was the one playing the selfish, egotistical male role in our lives. Even in bed I pursued my orgasms with vigour, not caring whether he was satisfied. He never complained. These days our sex life mostly revolved around his tongue and a massive 9 inch dildo, with little use for his "little clitty" (my pussy pulsed again at my deliberate use of the term).

I had had a wife for the last 20 years and never even knew it!