It's Only a Test

This is a test, it is only a test. I want to test my story writing ability. That the story is true isn't the issue, what is important is that I can make you feel as if you were there. Let me know if I succeeded.

Marsha.

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My husband and I read this forum, so you know we're already a little bent. Some of the stories enhance our bedtime even if they detract from our sleep.

"But we'd never do that stuff – fantasize about it, yes, but actually do it? Not a chance," we told each other. That changed over time. We finally agreed that "Maybe, if circumstances were exactly right, something might happen."

My husband was at a meeting at the Washington Duke Hotel in Durham, and I went there to collect my reward for waiting for him: dinner at Nana's. The Washington Duke is where Duke University sends its important guests. I found myself talking to a charming man who might have been a dozen years younger than me (he looked like he was in his mid 30s, you can do the math). He had been there to give a seminar and maybe be recruited to the faculty – I won't tell you his specific field, that would make it too easy to identify him. He was interesting: bright, seemingly very fit, attractive. The phrase 'eye candy' comes to mind: so does 'hunk'. "But it won't work out for me at Duke – my research interests and the department head's are too different. I was supposed to go back to Cambridge tomorrow, but I'm going to stay an extra day, and play this wonderful golf course instead. Want to join me? My hosts don't play golf, my tee time is 8:30, and it appears I'm the only one playing at that time. It should be a fast game." I declined the offer, we talked a little more about the Research Triangle area and then one of his hosts came by to pick him up. "I hope to see you again, Marsha," he said as he was led away.

My husband came over – I had noticed him standing near the door when I was talking to Brian. "That looked interesting, who was he?" I told him about the conversation, who he was, all of the details. "Hmm. Did you mention you were married?"

I told him there really wasn't an opportunity to do that, and the omission brought a leer to Hank's face. "Playing hot wife games?"

"Well, no," I assured him, "but if your meeting was going to run a few hours longer, maybe something would have happened. Men shouldn't leave their wives alone in places like this."

Our conversation continued when we left, and Nana's was forgotten: Durham dwellers will understand just how distracting something must be to forget a dinner there.

"That was more fun than reading the Literotica Stories," Hank said much later when we finally had our evening meal, a Papa John's pizza. "Next time I promise my meeting will be longer."

"Next time? He's leaving the day after tomorrow, going back to England."

"Well, there's always tomorrow," Hank whispered. The intensity of the silence changed. I found myself staring at my husband.

"What exactly does that mean?" I finally asked.

It meant, he said, that maybe I should spend more time in the lounge at the Washington Duke.

"And?" I asked.

"And, be your usual charming self. I've always wondered what the rooms were like at the Washington Duke, maybe you could find out."

I was still in the afterglow of a good fucking and I thought he was all used up. I didn't expect our game was still on. "Come on, Hank, you can't be serious. I mean, we like to play the pretend game, but you can't be horny now, not after two hours in the bedroom."

"Wouldn't you say," Hank asked, "that circumstances were almost perfect?"

Now my body was tingling a little: "You are serious, aren't you?"

"At this very minute, I'm very serious. Are you? Want to play being a sexy woman with someone else, instead of pretending with me?"

Oh my. How many of you wives had your husband offer you the opportunity to take a sexy nighttime game to this level? I thought of Brian, this handsome hunky man, of this being a one night stand, of there being almost no chance of ever seeing him again. . .

"He'd be ideal, you'll never see him again," my mind reading husband said. "Maybe you should take a personal day tomorrow. You have a lot of comp days coming to you, don't you?"

This was interesting -- he was thinking tactics, not of deeper meanings.

"Yes, I could do that. He's playing golf; I could go there around the time he'd be finishing and just happen to meet him. He was fun to talk to, we could at least do that, I guess, and see if there's any sexual energy between us, if it's something I want to do. Do you think that would get you excited? Is it sexy enough?"

Hank didn't answer in words. Instead he took my hand, and held it against his penis. His erect penis. We just had sex, he hadn't rebounded that fast in years!

"I guess that answers that – you're really hot, aren't you?"

He rolled onto me.

He was excited! "Close you eyes," he said. "Just for now, think about what we're talking about; think about what could happen tomorrow." He was moving differently, slowly, a totally different tempo than usual. "Go on, close your eyes."

I did.

"Think about going to his room."

I thought about that, too, of kissing that man, of touching him, of having him undress me.

I thought about it, and felt my body responding, my legs opening, wrapping around my husband, pulling him into me, as deep as I could, and there it was, an orgasm. Just like that, an orgasm, and not my first of the night.

We fell asleep in each other's arms that night, as close as a couple could be.

Hank was sound asleep when I awoke a little before six. I just lay there and looked at him, watching him, wondering.

It was a bizarre thing he had suggested, but my body felt so alive, so sensual. My hand obeyed some inner instinct, and my fingers were gliding over my vagina, feeling its heat.

"Being touched like that is job," I thought and cuddled next to him, he began stirring. He awoke holding me tight, kissed me, and I held my breath.

"Are you going to work today?" he asked.

"Do you think I should?" It would be easy for him to pull back. Instead he said "Touch me."

He was hard again. Hank is usually a gentle and caring lover, but this time he was an urgent fucker. And I, I'm ashamed to say, needed to be urgently fucked. He touched me, too, and found me moist.

"When you touched me," he said, "did you think about what it would be like to touch Brian's penis, and know that in a little while it would be in you, like mine is, right now?"

Hank does read my mind, I was thinking that. I bit my lip a little and nodded. That did it for him, he was harder, moving faster, and much sooner than usual, he erupted much sooner than usual, and so did I.

When we recovered I said "I had better go and call Thomas (that's my boss) and tell him I'm taking a personal day today."

My heavens -- I touched Hank and could feel him getting hard again!

"Yes, go call Thomas."

I dialed the number all the while thinking that this game was having an effect on my husband that would obsolete Viagra, especially if other couples were as bent as we were.

It was a little after 8 when Hank left for work. He did say he didn't have to have an especially effective work day, and would probably be on the edge of exploding all afternoon. "Call me, please, call me no matter what."

I told him I would.

I spent the next 30 minutes in the shower. Brian was going to play golf around 8:30. The Duke course plays quickly; he should be done before 1. I'd do it: I'd be there at the time he was finishing his round, and just see what happened.

I dressed for the heat that was forecast. Yes, the weatherman said it would be hot outside, too. 'Southern Style', I decided: an ankle length light cotton skirt, sandals, short-sleeved blouse, and underneath a very skimpy bra and throng.

I called Hank.

"What's your plan?" he asked.

I told him.

"It'll be easy for him to not see you," he said.

"I know, but we'll still have fun with the idea anyway."

"That's true."

"Hank, this is all a game," I reminded him. "If I have any hint it's not going well, I'll be out of there in a flash. Chances are, I'll see – let's call it a red light – and quit. That will be all right with you, won't it?"

"Of course. But if there's a green light, that'll be OK, too."

"OK," I agreed. "We're on the same page. Even if nothing happens we'll still have fun with the whole idea, won't we?"

"Of course. Tell me, what are you wearing? Knowing that will help my imagination."

I told him.

"Oh, that's hot. Stand backlit by the sun and that skirt shows off your legs! That'll heat things up for sure."

"You're a bad man," I told him, then hung up.

"And maybe I'm a bad lady," I whispered to myself.

I spent some time quietly thinking, imagining things, and was surprised that the right and wrong of it weren't part of the thought process. Thinking about being with a new man after so many years was.

I picked up a big woven handbag that went well with my outfit, put some lotion and perfume in with other essentials, and went to my car.

It was a long, long drive to the Washington Duke, and an even longer walk over to the pro shop. Not long in distance or in time, but long in a different way, a life style changing way. I wondered as I walked into the pro shop if most affairs start out as taking advantage of an opportunity, or if they are as considered and condoned as this possible encounter was.

I talked with the pro: "not too many people are out today," he told me, "and the ranger told me those who were out are playing fast."

When they were done with their round players drop off their carts if they were riding, then just walk to their cars. I expected Brian would do something like that too, and just walk to his room. I reminded myself that he probably rented golf clubs, so he'd have to return to the pro shop. I could wait in there.

No, that would be too obvious. Where should I position myself where he'd see me? Maybe that would be the omen: if he saw me, that would be the start of a green light. If he didn't, I'd just go home and wait for Hank. That wasn't a bad alternative, after all.

I had an inspiration. I'd wait in the bar. It was hot. If he came in for a beer or something he'd see me. If not, well, that was the game, wasn't it?

"White wine, please – the house wine will be fine," I told the server. It was a few minutes before noon, very early for a drink. Well, a Bloody Mary at a late breakfast isn't considered bad, why should wine be at an early lunch?

I paid for it, sipped a little, then told the server I'd be back in a few minutes, and walked back to where I could see the 18th green. I'm glad I was in a dark place; Brian was walking from the green towards his golf cart! He was through with his round.

I hurried back to the lounge, noticed there were now a few people there, and went to my table. I was scared! I turned my back to the door, pretended to be looking at the TV showing the weather forecast, and speed dialed Hank.

"I'm in the bar, I saw him leaving the 18th green, and I'm scared," I said.

"Don't do anything you don't want to," my husband said. "Maybe he won't even see you."

"Maybe not," I agreed. "He probably won't even come in here."

"That would be OK, this is going to give us a lot to play with when I see you at home, I can hardly wait," Hank told me. "Let me tell you what I'm going to do to you. First. . ." and he started with another one of our games, phone sex. I smiled at the images he was creating, it was so erotic to be sitting here and hearing your husband lust after you.

I was about to start playing my role, I'd whisper what I'd do to him, when. . .

"Marsha?"

Brian was standing beside my table.

"Marsha, that is you, isn't it? You are Marsha, the lady I met here yesterday?"

Some actions are reflexive. "Bill, I'll be on time for that meeting. Someone I know just stopped by, I'll talk to you later."

There was a silence from the phone – Hank went speechless.

It was I who said the next words. "OK, goodbye," and pressed disconnect.

"Hi, Brian. Yes, I'm Marsha."

"Wonderful. May I join you?"

"Sure," I said. "I was supposed to meet a friend here for lunch, but we'll be meeting later on instead."

"Oh. Well, good. Will you have lunch with me, instead?"

Oh, this was going like it was scripted. "That would be nice," I told him, and he sat down, waving for the server.

"Have you beer that's not freezing cold?" he asked her, and then when told the answer decided a draft Sam Adams was better than nothing.

"I had a sense I'd see you again, isn't that funny?" he asked, sipping at his beer. We talked about how coincidence brought us together the first time, and he thought at least, the second. "Maybe it was fate that made me stay an extra day."

"More like coincidence," I assured him.

Our short conversation proved he was still a charming man. "Would you like to have lunch here, or do you have some other favorite place," he asked.

"Here is nice."

"It was hot on the golf course, and I'm feeling really unkempt. If you have the time, I'd like to take a fast shower, and then we could have our meal. Would that be all right?"

"Yes, sure," I agreed. Besides, instead of waiting for him, I could escape. I'd just finish my wine and leave. Hank and I would have plenty to fantasize about with me going just this far.

"Good," Brian said. We each sipped at our drink, and then Brian said "I'll go up now. Do you want to wait here, or will you come up with me?"

"or come up with me?" It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Quite polite, quite proper, and it would preempt any escape plot I had. Or, I could tell him I'd wait here. That would be the thing to do, to wait here, or to at least have him think I was waiting.

That would be the thing to do.

"I suppose I'd rather wait in your room than stay here," I said. Where did that answer come from?

"Good."

We very properly left the lounge, went to the elevator, went to his room, and he offered me a seat at his desk. "I'll be but a minute," he told me as he went to the bath room.

I took my phone from my purse. "Hank, I'm in his room. I don't think anything will happen, he's taking an after golf shower and than we're going to lunch," I whispered.

"Maybe wash his back," my husband said. I heard the water stop running, and put the phone away. A moment or two went by, then I heard Brian say "Marsha, I didn't plan ahead. I have to come out to get some clothes."

The bathroom door opened, and he came out with a towel wrapped around his waist. "I apologize," he said, going to his suitcase, looking through it for something – briefs, I guessed. Then he came past me toward some shirts folded on the dresser. But he didn't walk past me, he stopped, put his briefs on the dresser, and turned to me, holding out his hand. "Marsha?" It was a one word question that didn't need a spoken answer.

I took his hand.

He pulled, just a little, and I stood. There was another pull, and I was next to him. His other arm went around my back, and drew me in, then there was an embrace, my head tilted back just a little, his tilted down, and lips met, very softly.

I could feel his mouth open, his tongue touched my lips, then my mouth opened too, and my arms were around him, too, and my hand was on the back of his head, holding him to me.

I could feel the heat of his body against mine, his skin against my arm and hand.

Oh my, it was happening. His back felt so nice, I found my hand stoking it as the kiss continued.

His hand became busy too, it was tugging at the back of my blouse, I could feel the material moving, then it became free of the waistband of my skirt, and his hand was stoking my back, too, touching my skin.

I pulled back a little from the kiss, looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine.

My hand rose on his back, his mirrored the motion.

Oh?

I smiled, moved my hand to his side, his moved to my waist.

This was fun!

I caressed his stomach, he did the same to mine.

I tilted my head upward, keeping space between us, but we could kiss, and as our lips met I stroked upward to his chest, hand his moved up too, cupping my bra.

"Not fair,' he whispered into the kiss. "You're fully dressed, and I'm not."

"That may change," I whispered back, and kissed him harder, my hand abandoning his chest, dropping past his belly, onto the towel. Our kiss became hotter, he had moved his hand to my back again, used both of them to pull me tighter against him.

I found where he had the towel tucked into itself, slipped my fingers between that place and his skin, felt the heat coming from his hip, and then,

and then,

and then I pulled at the towel, felt it open, felt it fall open, held up only because our bodies were pressed together, and I stroked his hip again, then behind him, felt his cheeks, curled my fingers just a little and let them move there, down that crevasse, and heard him moan a little into the kiss.

I broke the kiss again, looked at him again, continued to hold him against me with one arm, and stroked at his hip and flank with the other, then up the flank, and watched him ever so carefully, I wanted to see his reaction, I needed to memorize his reaction, I lessened the pressure between us, opened a little gap, felt his towel fall away.

And my hand moved from flank to front, and his pupils dilated as I cupped his scrotum, his irises almost disappeared when my fingers closed on his penis.

"Oh yes, that's so nice, your touch is magic," he said, and touching him was magical, too. I felt so sexy, so in control, so good, so hot.

And so needing to be kissed again. He read my mind, or my body language, at least, and complied.

One part of me left my body, became an observer, saw a fully clothed woman holding a nude man's penis and kissing him. I'll remember that image the rest of my life.

I'll remember what happened next, too.

He broke the kiss this time. He, nude and erect, led me to the bed, led me to its middle, and had me lie there. He straddled me, his knees at my thighs, and reached for the buttons on my blouse. We both did. Four hands made short work of the task, then it was open, pushed to either side, and my bra was exposed.

He bent forward, kissed at my throat, kissed at my cleavage.

My bra clasp was in the front, I reached under his face, his lips kissed at the back of my hands as my fingers found the fastener. Why was it so hard to unhook, my remote observer was asking, until she saw that it wasn't difficult at all. Nor was pushing the material to the side, either, then reaching under my left breast, and lifting it, while guiding his mouth there.

Then he was kissing at my belly, and over my skirt, at my groin.

"Wait," I told him.

He moved off of me, kneeling to the side. I sat up, shed my blouse and bra, then lay back again, unhooked my skirt, bridged again, and pushed it and my throng down my legs.

My other self watched as I relaxed against the bed and he slid my skirt and panties down my legs, pushed off my sandals, moved the bunched material the rest of the way off, and then I was nude, too.

"That's better," that alter ego said. "Tell him what you want."

"Now you can go ahead," I said. The alter ego, the remote spectator, made a quiet joke '- yeah, go ahead and give me head.'

He leaned over from the side, his lips found my belly again, and somehow my legs opened a little.

I could feel a moist track as he moved to the side, around my center, to my inner thigh, I rolled my legs open, giving him all the access he might want.

"You make me feel sexy," I said, encouraging him.

"And you make me feel wicked, make me want to be perverted," he responded, his tongue moving slowly to where I wanted it.