tagLoving WivesMore Than a Haus Frau

More Than a Haus Frau


I needed to confide in someone, so I called on an old family friend to whom I had sometimes turned as a teenager. She now lived in New Hampshire. I hadn’t seen her in years, but we still spoke a few times a year by phone. I asked if she would be my confessor. She agreed.

In my teens and early twenties, I had always been frisky. I found that I enjoyed not only the sex, but also the thrill of the chase. I vowed to put all that behind me when, at 25, I married my husband. We had our first child, Jason, a few years later. Motherhood took its toll, however, and I found as I approached 28 years of age that I was turning fewer heads.

Not that I am ugly: I’m a natural blond, with long legs on a 5’9” frame. Since I’m still breastfeeding Jason, my breasts are large with milk and have soft protruding nipples. I have worked hard to get my figure back. My butt is really starting to tighten up, and my waist is much slimmer than it was, but I am still carrying around a few extra pounds, and I don’t feel great about that.

My husband and I had argued all last spring about when we would have our next child. I wanted to do it right away, before I got too much older, and he wanted to wait a few years. Well, since I was the one who would have to carry another child to term, I felt I should decide when to get pregnant. Without telling him, I stopped taking my birth control pills.

As spring gave way to summer, our arguments grew. When a couple of my old university friends asked me to go out with them, I readily agreed, feeling I needed a break. The Hayloft, a coffeehouse, was located on the university campus. It had once been one of my favorite hangouts.

Years ago, I would have spent hours dressing to kill before going out. My choice in clothes was now more ‘practical’. It was hot that night so I wore an old pair of runners, loose track pants and an oversized sweater. I was still breastfeeding Jason and my nipples were tender, so I went braless. In the mirror, I saw someone who looked dull, lifeless. If my intention had been to attract no attention to myself, I had succeeded.

A popular local artist was playing the Hayloft, so the place was packed. We had to share our table with a group of young guys. At first they were shy, but eventually they began flirting with us. Being older and married, we were all flattered by the attention and happy to play along.

One of my friends, Helen, was soon lost in conversation with a guy called Mike. Sheila, ever bold, had made friends with a fellow called Tony. Halfway through the first set, I noticed his hand had found its way to her knee. By the second set, it had moved to mid-thigh. Although Sheila always protested her innocence, I am sure it had climbed higher by night’s end.

I had paired up with a guy named Bob. I discovered that he was majoring in 19th century English literature, just like I had done years earlier. Between sets, we talked about life in a more romantic, chivalrous era. It had been a long time since I had spoken of such things, and it felt great to have a handsome young man pay such close attention to an old hag like me.

The tease in me came out to play that night. As we talked I would look deep into his eyes. Then, when I wanted to emphasize a point, I would touch him with my fingertips: the first time I did this, he jumped as if he’d been electrocuted. I would also make eye contact when he spoke to me and occasionally, to let him know that his words had reached me, I would touch him: sometimes on the hand, sometimes on the arm, and once on the knee. I enjoyed watching him react. I had forgotten what it felt like to control a man with a few simple touches. They really are primitive creatures.

I suppose I also complained to him about being married and being a mother: the unending obligations, the ever-present expectations. I remember advising him to seize the moment, to live life for all it is worth. Asking what counsel he might have for an old, married woman like me, he took my hand in his, looked into my eyes, and said that I should follow my own advice.

As midnight approach, I realized that my son Jason had been in bed for a long while, and that my husband was probably asleep too. Feeling guilt familiar to wives and mothers through the ages, I told Bob that I had to leave soon. He offered to walk me to my car, some distance away. We walked along a path overlooking the river that runs beside the campus. Scattered clouds hung in the night sky. The moon was full. The air was warm.

After the din of the coffeehouse, the tranquility was overwhelming. Bob asked if I wanted to climb down the bank and walk on the grass by the river’s edge, where it was cooler. I had always enjoyed the wildness of the river’s edge more than the manicured path, so I agreed.

As we climbed down the rocky embankment, he took my hand to steady me. Chivalrous, I thought, remembering our earlier conversation. Halfway down, the gravel gave way beneath my feet and I lost my balance. Bob was there to catch me. We began to make our way along the river’s edge. The dew glistened in the moonlight. It was beautiful, but it also made the footing treacherous. I slipped again. Bob offered me his hand. This time I kept hold of it hand as we walked along.

It had been years since I had walked hand in hand, alone with a man, in the moonlight. We came to a rock outcropping which overlooked the river, accessible through a narrow path. I had often gone there in years past. Wanting to see if it was still as I remembered it, I led him forward. We emerged into a small clearing. There was a picnic table off to the right.

We stood admiring the view: the river spread out before us, sparkling in the reflected light of the moon, the night air soft and warm. I felt his presence close behind me. “It’s beautiful” I said. “As are you, m’lady” he added in a mock English accent. “Right” I said mockingly.

I then felt him rest his hand gently on my shoulder. I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. The fingers of his hand then began to trace their way gently down my back. My heart was pounding, my breath shallow. I tried to tell myself that this was all very innocent, but I no longer felt ‘lifeless’.

Emboldened by my seeming acquiescence, he learned forward and whispered “You really are beautiful.” he said. “I’m also married” I replied. “A woman once told me to seize the moment, to live life for all it is worth,” he said, “and I advised her to do the same.”

He then turned me toward him. We stood inches apart. I couldn’t bring myself to look up at him. “Close your eyes” he whispered. I did as told. We stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Deep inside, I knew I wanted him to touch me. Then I felt his hands tilt my head up and begin caressing my face like it was the most beautiful thing in all of God’s creation. I then felt his lips kiss me tenderly on my forehead, on my cheeks and neck.

“We shouldn’t be doing this” I whispered, even as I let my face be showered with kisses. “We need to stop” I breathed in his ear … but my body sent him a very different message: my arms encircled him; my hands danced their way up his back to caress his neck; my fingers ran through his hair.

He then drew my face toward him until our lips met. It was not long before I was gently returning his kisses. Then his lips parted. I felt his tongue. I responded, and the passion of our kissing grew hot, wet, and intense. I felt like I was back in high school, on one of my first dates. The romance was back. I felt alive for the first time in years.

I quivered when one of his hands moved to the small of my back and drew my body close to his. Betrayed by emotion, I pressed myself against him and felt his growing hardness. A wife and mother, here I was, locked in a passionate embrace with a stranger. I felt a wicked surge of excitement when his left hand slipped under my T-shirt and begin to caress my bare back.

“We should stop.” I said, doing nothing to stop him. “Someone might see.” I added. I realized immediately that I was sending Bob a very mixed message with that last comment. I was no longer thinking straight. I could feel my heart racing. I felt like a confused teenager. I should never have let myself get into this situation. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but when I felt his hand roaming further up my back, I confess I enjoyed it.

Arms still wrapped around his neck, I knew I was silently inviting his exploration. When his fingers found their way to the side of my breast, I registered a weak protest. “My husband, please, I’m married,” I said, but still I made no move to stop him. When at last he touched my nipple, I sighed, and I felt myself tingle down below. Nobody but my husband had touched me there in years. He played with the tip of my breast, stroking it tenderly, rhythmically. In my mind I knew this was wrong. In my heart I felt only passion.

He then turned me around. What was he doing? With my back to him, he began showering my neck, cheek and ears with kisses. I could have drawn away but, like a vixen, I turned my head to kiss him, raising both arms over my head to draw his mouth near. His other hand soon found its way inside my sweater. His fingers floated teasingly on my bare belly for a while, making me tingle down below. His fingers then danced their way up to my breasts, where they began pleasuring my nipples in unison with long slow gentle pulls.

I loved it, but I was also embarrassed: I was still breastfeeding and could feel the mother’s milk beginning to flow. He ignored my pleas to stop and my breasts soon became slippery. The wetter they became, the more he seemed to enjoy squeezing milk out their tips. First, I had let him pick me up, and now I was letting him milk me like his favorite barnyard pet. It was humiliating. It was carnal. It was wildly erotic. I would never have allowed my husband to do such a thing. As I gazed out over the moonlit river, I felt tingling sensations deep inside me.

His right hand then dropped from my breast, drifting back down to my belly button. I have always found the belly button to be an erotic zone for me. He rubbed and probed it softly. It felt great, electrifying, almost orgasmic. My knees weakened. I knew, feared and wanted what was coming next. The fingers of his other hand found their way under the waistband of my track pants and traced their way to the top of my panties. I couldn’t let him to discover how wet I had become. “Bob,” I said, “this has to stop. I’m married. I just can’t.” Emboldened, he whispered “I just want to stroke you a little. I’ll do it from the outside. Part your legs a little.”

I couldn’t think straight. My heart was pounding. We were alone in the moonlight. He was not forcing anything upon me. I was wet with desire. I felt alive. When, the way my life was going, would I ever be in this position again? Perhaps I could let things could go just a little farther.

“Just for a moment, and just from the outside. Don’t try to get inside my panties”, I told him, as firmly as I could. “OK” he agreed. Years ago, I had said similar things to some of my teenage boyfriends, and had been able to draw the line. I thought about that as his fingers moved across the sheen of the material and began stroking the inside of my thigh.

My cunt was no longer wet: now it was liquid. He kept teasing me. When was he going to start touching me through my panties, as I said he could do? Like a slut, I moved my hips about as if searching for his hands. “Touch me.” I breathed. It would have been so easy for him to break his promise to me, to slide a finger under the panty elastic, to slip into me. Part of me wanted him to do just that: to cross the line, and bring me with him.

Then, with the tip of his index finger, he touched my stiffened clit through my panties. “Oh God that feels good” I said. My hips betrayed me by thrusting forward. My legs trembled. I parted them even more. “Touch me inside.” I breathed. “Are you sure?” he asked, finger just teasing the tip of my clit. “Yes,” I growled. “You’re married,” he teased. “But I’m not dead. Now touch me,” I insisted.

For what seemed like an eternity he did nothing, but then I felt his middle and ring fingers slip under my panties, tantalizing me with their presence, and then begin to explore my liquid recesses. His fingers made their way to that little man in the boat, toying with my clit, lightly brushing it, feeling it spring back, making me gasp, hearing me moan, out of control. Taking that as his cue, he slid both my track pants and panties over my hips. They fell to the ground. He then guided me over to the picnic table and laid me down on top of it, legs hanging over the edge. Using my pussy for lubrication, he began sliding his fingers back and forth over my clit, bringing me close to orgasm. I moaned. Wave after wave crashed over me. I wrapped my legs around him, trying to draw his fingers inside me. I came like I had never come before.

As the waves subsided, I released my grip on him and lay on the table, panting, legs apart. “I want you to fuck me,” I said. I had never before, even in my wildest days, said such a thing to a man. “But someone might see us,” he teased. “I don’t care,” I said. Without a word, he slipped off his pants and slid effortlessly into me. Until this moment, I had never been unfaithful to my husband. “Please,” I begged him “don’t come inside me.” Holding my legs, he pistoned in and out. I ran my hand down his sides to his hips, trying to get him to match his rhythm to my own. His pace intensified.

Then he rolled me over and positioned me so that I was bent at the waist, feet on the ground, legs apart, hands holding on to the edge of the table, breasts hanging down like those of a cow. I had never let a man take me in such a position before. “Please don’t,” I said, without really meaning it. Again he slipped into me with obscene ease. I grunted as he began fucking me from behind. To my relief, he took his time: not always easy for a young man. Sometimes he would tease me by sliding the head of his cock over my clit and along my slit. Sometimes he would slip the tip of his cock in and out of my cunt, making me squirm in anticipation of a much-wanted thrust. Sometimes he would cup my breasts as they swayed in rhythm to his strokes, pulling gently on my nipples. I liked it best when he would reach under me to stroke my distended clit while thrusting deep inside. This sent a tingling sensation coursing through me, which grew and grew until my body was wracked with a second orgasm. I was so focused on my own animal passions that I didn’t realize that he had come too, inside me. What had I done? We lay couple in the moonlight, basking in the glow of our dying passion, his seed on its way to places where it shouldn’t have been.

After a while, we got dressed and finished walking to the car in silence. I felt emotionally confused: ashamed yet exhilarated. Taking me in his arms and looking into my eyes, he asked if he could see me again. Without conviction, I said I didn’t think it would be a good idea, and began crying. Holding me, calming me, he began kissing me. I didn’t resist. One thing led to another, and before the night was out, he’d had his way with me once more, this time with me spread out on the hood of our car, urging him on in the shadows of a public parking lot. I felt so wicked when I crept into bed beside my husband later that night, Bob’s seed still at work inside me.

Following my encounter with Bob, things were pretty rough between my husband and me. He had no idea why I was on edge, and all I could do was think of how I felt when I was in Bob’s arms. With my husband I felt like a ‘haus frau’. With Bob, that night, I had felt like a goddess. I liked that feeling. I wanted to feel it again.

He had given me his phone number, just in case I changed his mind. I worked up the courage to call him in August. He seemed glad to hear from me and asked when he could see me. I told him that I was planning to tell my husband that I was going out with Helen on Friday night. I said I planned to sleep over at her place, just like we did when we were teenagers. My husband didn’t care for Helen, so I was sure he wouldn’t call. My plan, of course, was to spend the night a Bob’s place. He quickly agreed.

I wore a loose white sweater with no bra and a black skirt of moderate length. For this occasion I had also bought a pair of white panties and a pair of matching self-supporting stockings which made me look like a tramp. I waited until I was parked outside Bob’s place to put on the stockings.

I knocked on his door, imagining that we would be alone. Instead, I found that he shared an apartment with two roommates, and that they were both there. I already knew Tony. He was the one who had paired off with Sheila the night Bob and I first met. The other was named Roger.

The romance of our first evening together had vanished. I was there to spend the night having sex with him. I knew it. Bob knew it. Apparently Tony and Roger knew it too. Bob offered me a seat on a sofa, fixed me a drink, then sat down beside me. Tony and Roger sat across from us. Bob wasted no time. He turned toward me and began kissing me. I guess the price of admission was going to be a little show.

I returned Bob’s kisses, deciding to play along a little. Things got steamy fast. I felt a hand between my thighs, urging them apart. This was too fast. I moved his hand away. I felt proud that I was able to exercise such control. Then I whispered that I wanted to go to the privacy of his bedroom. “Soon,” he replied “but let’s put on a little show for the boys first”.

I lay there, being smothered in wet kisses, becoming hotter and hotter. One of Bob’s hands found its way inside my sweater, fondling my bare breasts. Seeing that I offered no resistance, I heard Roger say “Come on now. Show us a bit of leg” and I suppose I did part my legs a bit, allowing the hem of my black skirt to ride above mid-thigh, revealing the tops of my white stockings. Encouraged by this, Bob’s hand found its way back to my leg. He whispered “Put on a real show for them. Open wide.”

“Not here,” I replied, but the more hotly he kissed me, and the more he stroked the bare skin above the stockings, the wider I spread my legs. My skirt was soon bunched up and my flimsy panties, wet with excitement, were clearly visible to his friends. I almost died with embarrassment when he began to play with me through the panties, but my hips responded greedily. The situation was out of control. He instructed me to play with my breasts. Reaching under my sweater, I did as I was told. In front of his friends, he then slipped his hand inside my panties. After a weak protest, I gave in and let him play with me.

Just as I was panting my way to the edge of orgasm, he withdrew his hand. “Please don’t stop now,” I said breathlessly, desperate for relief. He had other plans, and proceeded to guide my left hand underneath my panties. With our fingers intertwined, he told me to play with myself. I moaned as together we stroked my clit. He then said “Finger yourself.” As I began to moan, he said “Two fingers.” Humiliating me completely, he then moved my panties to one side so his friends could watch me slide my middle and ring fingers in and out of my wet pussy. I whispered to him that I wanted him to fuck me. He insisted that I do it so that his friends could hear. Only then did he lead me to his bedroom.

He laid me down on the bed. Then he left to get us a drink. When he came back in, he left the door ajar. At first we just kissed, but things quickly started to heat back up. He reached under my sweater and moved his hand to my breast. I let him play with me, enjoying the feeling of him tugging at my nipples. He then guided my hand to his pants. I felt his member grow in response to my touch. He wrestled it out of his pants. I stroked him, liking the way his cock felt in my hand.”

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byStrangetwist© 0 comments/ 59996 views/ 12 favorites

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