My Wife, Her Boss, His Desk

"Yes, sweet."

I breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short . . .

"But you need to know something. Every single thing in that story is something I have now fantasized about . . . first just to please you with these stories that I know you love. But sweet-you can't imagine that I can spend so much time thinking about this with you that the thoughts won't stay there, playing in my mind. You can't imagine that you aren't almost training me to want them."

This was a shock, but I also had to accept the truth of what she was saying. What did I expect? How could she spend all of this time articulating these fantasies for me without beginning to think that I desired them in reality, and, more to the point, without beginning to desire them herself?

"So I want you to do something tonight. I want you to think of everything I've said. Of every part of my story. Of each threshold. Of him kissing me. Of me kissing him. Of him touching my breasts. Of me taking his cock in my mouth. Of him entering me. Of him owning me. Of him leaving his essence inside of me. And--you need to take this seriously--of me not wanting to leave him.

"I need to you to go over these things and to figure out where YOU want the line to be. I need you to be clearer than you've been. Up til now this hasn't been a problem, because I haven't been tempted to bring these fantasies into the real world. But, darling, you have to know that I am now tempted. So so tempted. A large part of me wants these things. And I have less and less control over this part of me. So if you want to preserve the line between fact and fiction, you need to tell me where it should be."

I swallowed hard and asked, "so what exactly do you want me to do, and when do you want me to tell you?"

"Like I said, I'm going to bed. But I want you to think on this. Think through these thresholds and boundaries and try to figure out where we should draw the line. Touch yourself if you need to, because I think your sexual desires are a part of this too. But don't fantasize. Try to ask yourself, of each piece of my story, 'Is this something I want to be real?' . . . then, in the morning, you can tell me."

With this she smiled a knowing smile, stood up, and walked alone to our bedroom. Leaving me with my thoughts.

I began by thinking of just how turned on this all had made me, and how much it made me desire Amanda. Setting aside for a moment just how far things had gone or should go, I asked myself whether it even made sense to encourage this relationship with Eric. It had already drawn us closer . . . could her relationship with this man really be that bad if it led to us consummating our marriage in profoundly new, and deeply satisfying ways?

Of course not.

But I also had fears. Fears that my more unnatural desires, my desires for this all to go just a bit further, we getting too close to realizing themselves in the real world.

Now that even her true stories of the day would contain elements of sensuality and intimacy, would I still be able to recognize the line between her simple tales of the day and our improvised erotica in bed? Would I be able to tell fact from fiction? Reality from fantasy? Did I want to?

And as they got closer and closer, reality and fiction, would Amanda even know the difference between what I wanted in the real world, and what I said or moaned or cried while on the verge of cumming at her touch? Would I even know?

I began to cycle through the list of specific acts, touches, transgressions that Amanda asked me to think through. And I questioned whether I could handle them in the light of day.

If, while she was seated on the desk, he really had reached out to put his hand on her thigh (which now seemed probable), could I handle it? If (as again, seems to have happened) she let her hair fall into her face until he lost control and kissed her, did this change the way I thought of her? And if he had touched her breasts (which seemed not to have happened yet, but how could I know?) would this have crossed a line for me?

Almost involuntarily I found myself reaching to stroke my cock through the fabric of my pants, then unbuckling to find release. I moved through Amanda's list of acts and modes of intimacy in search of my true feelings, trying to determine what I was OK with, and where I wanted it all to stop.

But could not find a stop.

I would get to something, that kiss, an embrace, one I didn't see but heard of from Claire . . . initially thinking that this-this was the line . . . but I only became more aroused, my desire pushing me further, over the cliff, driving me deeper and deeper. I couldn't find a stop.

Amanda unbuckling his belt-did I want that? Could I handle that? Was my rock hard cock a sign that I did? Or would it be too much? Even there I couldn't find a stop.

Amanda taking his cock in her mouth, reveling in its size and power. Eric spinning her around, tearing open her blouse and bra. Amanda begging him to penetrate her. Eric complying. Still no stop.

I stroked my cock harder and harder, still trying to find where I wanted it all to end . . . what I wanted in reality . . . what I wanted to remain fantasy . . .

Eric fucking her in long, powerful strokes . . . Amanda reaching to finger herself . . . Eric grabbing her arms and fucking her til she comes on his cock . . . Eric finishing inside of her. Still I could find no stop.

I came. Hard. And as I lay there, my chest covered with semen, I thought of the scene Amanda had painted. Of my wife, half-clothed, half-naked. Filled with another man's seed. Feeling the stickiness of her body against his desk. Not wanting to get up. Not wanting to leave. Belonging to him.

Still-I could find no stop.

I felt my eyes tear up.

I wanted this.