Mating Rituals Ch. 02

You and your husband both run your hands over the barely-clad body of a curvaceous, wide-hipped large-breasted Braziliana as she moves between the both of you...

You excuse yourself by gently nipping his bottom lip and making for the bathroom, checking your text messages as you're washing your hands. Perfect...the guy who hooks you up is waiting outside, and it's with a quick liaison that you slide a tiny foil square into your bra after slipping him some bills.

You've always been game for spicing up your adventures with your man with the assistance of a little...chemical stimulation.

You return to find him talking with that same Brazilian girl at the bar and she has stars in her eyes - you know how it goes when people start to actually talk to him and experience the bonfire glow of his personality. You watch for a bit, observing as is your wont, the casual lean of his arm on the bartop; whatever he's saying has her flushing pink and lightly touching his chest; you can easily see that her nipples are hard against the white tube top covering them.

The momentary flutter of your heart becomes quickly subdued; you both have fun with other people, and you know he likes to be a flirt as much as you enjoy attention but he loves you completely.

You see it when he lays eyes upon you and they light up with excitement; he's still all hot every time he sees you enter a room and it's with a few dismissive words that he leaves Brazilian girl offended and forlorn at the bar. "My love was gone for a whole eight minutes! I was starting to get anxious." He looks anything but, and you can't help but kiss him.

"And he's so patient, which is why I'm rewarding you, my sweet one, with a little surprise," you purr with a light dip forward to show that shining foil secure against your chest. His eyes light up with curiosity as you pull him toward the door with a sultry smirk.

The plan as you both had crafted it was simple, yet left room for delightful complexity - you did, after all, appreciate complex games. The masquerade at the Rutherford House was essentially an orgy, and part of the fun would be in the discovery of the other in the Manor - ignorant of the other's costume this would require a bit of... exploration to find your spouse.

"Does my love think she will be able to recognize me among all the fanciful men?" He queries with a smirk. "All gussied up, there might be only one reliable way to know it's me."

Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek lightly as you drive through Chicago traffic to the Manor. "I'll know it's you...by whichever cock looks, tastes and feels best when it's fucking me." You know that gets his fire going - not the part about you being taken by other men, but...your adventurousness, your willingness to hunt for him and enjoy yourself. "And you, my darling? How are you going to find your wife among all those women eager to stroke your muscles and feel you thrust into them?"

At a stoplight, stuck behind particularly stubborn traffic, you feel his hand slide up your leg. "As if I could somehow forget the way this lovely thigh feels to my hands, my tongue, and my cock sliding along the inside?" he teases you, making your heart thud like no other man or woman has. You offer a plaintive, surprised sound when his fingers slide over your panties, pressing against your lips and drawing forth a plaintive little moan.

"Or...the most perfect...soft...pink pussy in the world, baby? You think I won't recognize it the moment you clench around me?" You grip the steering wheel with an exhalation as his finger slips into you - fuck you're still incredibly turned on, and you lick your juices and his semen off the tip when he graces it along your lower lip.

"You might...encounter a lot of nice pussies and thighs my handsome man, and a lot of hungry mouths eager to service your big, beautiful manhood." You carefully join traffic as your fingers dance up the curve of his cock underneath his slacks. "How are you going to make sure you have enough energy left for me?" you entreat him - you know the answer, and every time he hears it stokes your fires.

You stare intensely ahead, grinning when he leans in to whisper to you: "Because, baby...you're the one who's going to make me cum. I'll save it, just for you - you love when I'm edged on and on."

He's right, you do. In all your sexual trysts and relationships, you'd never enjoyed the sensation of a man's ejaculation as much as your husband's, and even those men who'd been privileged and trusted enough to cum inside of you after you'd met him just didn't compare. Whenever you two did something like this, he saved it specifically for you...marking you and claiming you as his own afterwards.

It's deliciously primal...you remember the way he vigorously thrusts and ruts near his release, climbing up to the plateau of his lust until he unleashes within you. After a long night you can feel it shooting into your deepest places, thick and virile as you curl your fingers in his chest hair, or squeeze his testicles to coax forth every last drop.

"You love me most, yes?" He asks you in a soft voice, barely audible above the purr of the engine, and you respond with a smile that you only ever give him. You stop in front of Harsha's, opening the little foil and placing a single pink pill on his tongue. You take your own, swallowing the ecstasy down and kiss him passionately. Deeply. Like you have kissed no other man or woman before, or ever want to.

"Like nobody else. I love my sweet, sexy, brilliant man like roses love June." You kiss him again, then his cheeks, nose, neck. No matter what, you always came back to each other. It's hard to let him go, and you make out like teenagers for a precious minute before he finally manages to pull himself away. Before he disappears inside, he turns to you and leans seductively against the doorframe...fucking showoff, you can see the impression of his erection, thick and hard and full against his slacks, and he teases you mercilessly by stroking his fingers along its outline.

You respond by pulling your shirt up and flashing your breast at him, nipple and all before squealing away, blushing furiously and laughing.

That man...you'd never have pulled anything like that for any other person you'd been romantic with, but somehow he just kicked down the doors of your inhibitions and it was always fun. He'd never let anything bad happen to you, even when he'd had to risk his own skin to protect you, and you'd always reciprocated with unfaltering adoration; passionately advocating for him to doctors, administrators, even (especially) mentally unstable girls who'd been unable to take 'no' for an answer from him.

You drive for about ten minutes and pull up to your girlfriend Eliza's house. She greets you at the door, dressed to kill; you're honored that she decided to show off to you first of all tonight. Eliza is about as tall as you, somewhat more robust with her firm breasts and broad hips. Her scarlet hair is pinned around her head in French braids that draw attention to her defined, lovely jawline, sparkling blue eyes and a smattering of freckles suggesting her Scots ancestry.

Tonight's outfit is...as if you weren't aroused enough before.

She's wearing a sort of purple, shimmery leotard, replete with suit jacket and a cute pink tie; a black and white pinstripe vest is buttoned over her lovely bust. The leotard's shiny heliotrope material comes down over her smooth belly and her mons, drawing your attention to her pale thighs. Before you can greet her she pulls you into a kiss...so different from your husband's. Her lips are soft, they taste of lavender and her skin is smooth, yielding to the touch. Her breasts against your chest are supple and feel amazing against yours, your tongues lashing together.

"Hey cute stuff," she intones with a saucy wink, pulling you inside and up to her apartment.

You happily accompany her, arm in arm and already chattering animatedly about your plans for tonight. She was going to perform at a magic show down at the Rochester Venue, but wanted you to get the view unblemished by the stage first. "You look good enough to lick from lips to groin...your man rope you into one of his crazy schemes?"

You trail her inside, enchanted as always by the hall of wonders that is her home. Your girlfriend put a lot of effort into anything other people saw, from home to stage - the walls are painted the same indigo-dark as a night sky, constellations outlined in gold and silver ink beneath posters for her past shows. A great fanciful map of some continent you never recognized is pinned across her wall in the kitchen. Eliza's favorite Mozart channel is playing over that little pod-speaker underneath her coffee table (complete with a crystal ball) and on either side you see two slender stemmed wine glasses.

"Oh well you know how he is," you muse, unable to keep the girlish fondness from your voice, "he's always got something up his sleeve. Tonight we're going to Rutherford for a...masquerade ball. Of sorts." You seat yourself at the plush, red-cushioned stool on one side of her coffee table.

"Of sorts?" Her classically trained, lakeshore accented voice lilts curiously as she manifests a bottle of pinot noir with a poof of pink smoke - you clap genteely in appreciation as the deep, crimson liquid splashes along the edge of the glass like an ocean wave against a levy.

"Yes, it's...you know. An exclusive party," you tease, clinking your wineglass gently against hers and letting the acidic bite of the alcohol gently nip your tongue's tip - you were starting to feel the ecstasy, and your gaze could not help but crawl over the swell of her bosom. "Where...certain things will happen when the bell tolls, the drinks are served and the dancing begins."

Her azure eyes sparkle like glass marbles in a clear pond, tongue darting to catch a drop of wine with a skilled flicker that causes your muscles to tighten in pleasant memory of its masterful dance. "You two are so wild," she remarks, a flutter of envy in her voice as she crosses her shapely, glass-sheen legs. "Did he already...you know." Her stare crawls down to your hips underneath the table, and there's no question about what she wants to hear......that he's already marked you before you even take another lover inside of you.

Like an emerald, serpentine mirage in a garden, you smile wordlessly and take another sip of wine. "Of course he did. It's part of the game. We know we're going to have our fun with others, but I also know at the end of the night he'll reassert himself like he always does." Her envious, tantalized face reminds you of a stoat gazing from amidst cool foliage, sharp little fangs clicking for more.

Eliza rises, the hourglass of her figure mesmerizing your rapidly metamorphosing perceptions; she moves her hips and stomach with a belly dancer's skill, swaying to a beat that kicks in time with her heart. You gladly welcome her feminine softness, beckoning her as she kneels on your chair, a sort of half-straddle you know requires steel-tensiled core muscles. "I'm always amazed that he hasn't completely blown his supply by the time you both get back to your bed...or does he just go forever?"

You smile dreamily, absorbed in the violet glitter that dances like a broadway lightshow across her belly; the texture of her leotard actually tickles the tips of your fingers as you drag them down her torso, cresting over her waist and caressing her bare, smooth hip. "It depends on the night and the company involved," you muse...you cannot resist brushing your lips softly against her inner thigh, feeling her fingers ruffle through your dark hair playfully.

Eliza is delightful, and in truth the ecstasy makes her difficult to resist...but first things first. She's kind enough to let you use her place to freshen up and put on your costume - you'd chosen well...it would be simple to pick something outwardly and obviously suited to who you were, but easy recognition wasn't the point of the game. It would have been natural to drape your shapely, slender form in lilies and a transparent, white gown like a Rusalka; or perhaps to paint your eyes like a fox and don seductive silks as a Huli-Jing. His instincts would be attuned to something like that, and even though you really wanted him to find you at the end of the night (after you'd had your fill of the others), you can't help but give him the challenge he craves.

Your pert, firm bust is held in a shimmering orange brazier of feathers, clasped in the middle by a golden sunburst medallion. Shimmering, dangling necklaces hang from your neck to swoop toward your cleavage, and your arms shine with bronze bracers. Eliza watches with fascination, sitting back on her hands, legs crossed on her bed as you pull a skirt of bright rainbow feathers up your hips; it's split up the side to reveal the oil-shine silkiness of your dark, long limbs, like the flexible branches of a cinchona. Lines of elegant definition run from calf to thigh, and you stride with a jungle cat's huntress-movements in your orange heels. A tooled and beaded pane of crimson silk hangs down between your legs tantalizingly, drawing attention to the line of definition that travels to your groin.

A radiant, iridescent sun goddess from pre-Columbian myth; a brilliant, bronze-painted mask of papier mache will hide your identity once inside the Rutherford.

Your husband's semen is already warming the bare seam of fabric covering your sex...Eliza notices, and of course you notice her noticing. "Do you think he'll recognize me immediately?" you wonder aloud to her, sashaying with a flamboyant toss of your colorful hips.

"Mmm it's a risk you take my dear," her songbird voice titters as she tugs you toward where she's seated on her bed; your heels clack elegantly on your way, your lovely hips eye-level with her face. "You have such...uniquely beautiful attributes, unequaled I might even say, sugarplum." Her touch trails up the backs of your legs, finding the lush undercurve of your rear. "Impossibly round," she scoffs at the inside joke...you both chuckle - you giggle, truthfully, the effects of the DMT making everything just that much more amusing - as she kisses your hipbone. "Perfect definition."

You caress her fae-gorgeous face with both hands, like some beneficent solar deity, and Eliza nuzzles loving reverence against your palm. "And of course..." Her eyes flit to your immodestly clad sex, her tongue running slowly under her upper lip...it tantalizes you like pink, gleaming tourmaline tempts a raven. "You said your man..." Vulpine light glinters in her smirk. Your wordless smile of affirmation is lewder than anything you could say - her eyes are so brilliantly bright, like the death of azure stellar twins spilling lake-clear sapphires across a white void; arcana sparkles at the edges of her trickster-leer, her speech laced with Hermetic enticement.

"Can I...?"

You know what your provocative Celtic magician wants...such a sweet deviant. No reason you can't give her what you want, and indulge yourself against her lips. Parting your svelte thighs at eye-level, you tantalize her by pulling aside the solar-bright strip of silk keeping you barely modest. "My stunning enchantress wishes to ensorcel me? To taste my husband's cum?"

Her incantation sparkles at the tip of her tongue, gliding along the seam of your leg and over your trimmed mons, leaving dweomers of pleasure before she paints glowing runes of passion and bliss over your clitoris. You feel your heartbeat pulsing through it, bright like a rosy little ruby, scintillating leylines of sensation illuminated from her slurping, hungry lips to propagate through your pelvis. Your head tilts back, your fingers softly cup the back of her neck, and you roll your hips forward against her mouth.

"Yesss...drink deeply my love..." you encourage her in a shivery voice. Her tongue swirls inside of you, eyes closed to exult in your bouquet of arousal.

Your girlfriend suckles deeply of you, and you find it wonderfully easy to experience a series of petite climaxes that leave your thighs shaky. Your appetite for sex had become voracious since meeting your man, however, and the thought of him waiting for you at the end of the night, after the two of you have sampled the delights of the evening, leaves you eager for more.

Eliza is such a generous woman - you know she gets off on the performance of it all, of showing off her skill and also being dazzled by your beauty, and it's why she so easily manifests in your bed. Her heliotrope kiss is sticky with your need and his release; she settles your long, black coat over your willowy shoulders, a cloak of night to be thrown off when you reveal your sensual solar glow, and you are already giving off soft luminescence. As if her tongue working at your swollen, cum-slicked pussy had initiated some stellar ignition in your pelvis that flowed furnace-bright to the surface.

"You'll be the belle of the ball, mi amor," the magician chirps as she presses a final sweet peck against your lips, flavored with your piquancy, and calls an Uber to take you to the masquerade. On your way downtown, the space above your eyes tingling pleasantly as the Ecstasy twists clockwise the dial of your perceptions, you pop open your photos app, gingerly tapping the first album you'd made of him.

The first picture you ever saw of him...not the only time your jaw had dropped at male eye-candy, but certainly the farthest. You hadn't expected those alluring, crescent-shaped eyes, a face fit for action movies, or that black studded leather jacket with the white wife-beater underneath melding against defined musculature; someone had caught him spray painting 'BURN THE 1%' on the side of Wong-Len Fiduciary, that little grin daring retribution. His was not the body or visage you'd imagined when you stumbled across his fanciful illustrations of bizarre alien landscapes and romantic poetry.

Your third date together, after he'd 'just so happened' to get a job a couple hours away from your house...he'd taken you to a sandy, hidden beach around midnight with a bunch of fireworks and edibles. He's reclining naked on the towel next to you, Adonis-proud and statuesque, after you'd both made love - proof that you'd -actually had- hot sex on the beach under the full moon's light. The cut of his pectoral muscles...the lines of strength that flowed down toward his waist...the photo cut off right at his manhood, but you remember distinctly the sight of it slung along his thigh, drooling his impressive post-coital load.

Your wedding day. The two of you had snuck off from the ceremony with Eliza carrying oversized slices of cake; you in your white, stylish wedding dress with its pencil skirt and silver ornamentation climbing your bust...he, wearing his sleek, classic black suit and the orange silk tie you bought him for the Lunar New Year. Your faces are completely smeared with white cream, chocolate crumbs and colorful food dye as you feed each other by hand; Eliza made a collage of you eating seductively from his palm, while he simply mashes his face into your plate. In the end you're kissing amidst a cakey, chocolatey mess, all over your face, neck, and chest.

"Hah, you super in love." The driver, a squat fellow of indeterminate origin and vaguely Middle Asian accent, looks at you in the rearview. "Sorry, sorry, not my business - "

"No, you're correct," you reply genteely. How could anyone not see it? You're smiling like a clown. "I was looking at pictures of my husband. We're going to meet up at a party and...I was just thinking about how we got here."