My Wife's Compulsion Ch. 12

It was three weeks before I gathered enough courage to put on one of her little temporary tattoos. When the URGE is on her she puts the tattoo high on her breast so it would show just above the line of her bra or, more often, where her bra would have been if she wore one. I put it high on my arm, right where the roundness of my deltoid muscle made a little dent.

I didn't say anything, just followed the instructions, cleaning my skin with alcohol, dampening the tattoo, kind of like a decal when I used to build model airplanes, and then peeling off the backing paper. It wouldn't show, even with a short-sleeved shirt, but she would see it as we got ready for bed.

I went to work and did something boring. I was pretty keyed up and, if I'm being honest, I don't remember what I was working on, I suppose it was a plan or a grant application or something. I know that day took about 127 hours.

I called her about noon and told her I was taking her to dinner. When I got home she looked absolutely terrific. She had chosen one of her sheer blouses, white, worn over a black bra that showed clearly, and a short, wrap-around skirt that showed off her pretty legs and, when she spun in our dance, would show the black panties so sheer you could read a newspaper through them. Her makeup showed her 50-something years rather than trying to hide them, and I was proud to have her on my arm.

"So," she said, as we placed our orders, "What's the occasion? We don't usually go out on Wednesday night."

And I was suddenly awkward. I didn't know how to proceed with this conversation.

"Oh," she said, smiling that motherly smile that always got to me, "You think you're getting an URGE."

"Well, yes," I said

She giggled and said, "I don't think so."

"What?!" I asked, louder than I should have.

She laughed then, softly.

"Honey," she said, reaching across the table and laying her hand on mine, "When you're ready there won't be a 'well' before your 'yes.'"

I could feel the way my face fell and I hated it.

She giggled and patted my hand. "Don't worry, baby," she said, "Mama will make it all better later."

I was still out of sorts as we ate and about halfway through dinner she reached across the table and used her palm to lift my chin, making me meet her eyes.

"You know what happens to pouty boys," she said and I felt a sudden rush, deep in my belly.

The age difference between us was too obvious to ever ignore. We had played "mommy games" from time to time, and we both found them satisfying.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't a fetish with us, but something that occasionally spiced up our lovemaking. It was an odd combination of kinky and tender to, for example, lay with my head in her lap, nursing at her small breast, while I relaxed so completely I needed the diaper she had put on me after carefully powdering my bottom.

When she called me a "pouty boy," I knew the threat there. Three times in our four years together Millie had spanked me. There was something liberating about surrendering like that and I discovered, that first time, what was meant by that trite phrase we've all seen in one form or another - "pleasure and pain are closely related."

She is much more experienced than I am, as that first spanking illustrated.

It was my own fault, of course. We were at the banquet of the local chapter of the American Society of Interior Designers (who knew such a thing even existed). Millie had been attending breakout sessions and seminars for four days and this was the big finale. I had been bored out of my skull.

In the event, I felt like I was the meat at a meat market. There were 200 or so decorators of which, by my rough estimate, 175 were women and most of them were Millie's age, I guessed between 45 and 55. These weren't the staff artists or the people who "staged" houses. These were the people who had made it to the top of their very competitive career ladders.

And it was a God-DAMN attractive group of women. I suppose it makes sense if you think about it. At that level, jobs are landed through personal contacts, and attractive people are usually the ones who are best at that.

Oh, there were a few outliers. Interestingly, those are the ones who stick in my mind after the fifty or so names that were thrown at me. There was Mags, something I assumed was a shortening of Margaret, who was five-foot nuthin', about 250 pounds, and so perfectly dyke you expected her to have a five o'clock shadow. There was Leigh, essentially the opposite of Mags. Leigh was easily two inches taller than me, weighed maybe a hundred pounds, and was so heavily, and ridiculously, made up that she looked like a 70-year-old caricature of a woman. As I say, it was the outliers who stick in mind. As a group, they were attractive, some pretty, a few beautiful, and all were bright and witty.

What got me in trouble was this -

The dinner part of the final banquet to close out the convention was over and the sort of general party was in full swing. I had retrieved Millie's third Screwdriver from the open bar, along with my third beer, some microbrew concoction of which I had never heard, and was kind of hanging around the fringe of a circle of women. Millie accepted the drink with a distracted air, not even a "Thank you," and went back to the discussion of the "Rule of Threes" and primary colors versus pastels and other things that I suppose were important to them. For me, I was just about as bored as a human being can be and still remain conscious.

There was a band playing at the other end of the big hall, a little four-piece combo that seemed to be doing mostly oldies. I'm more of a blues guy myself, but the lead guitar player had an interesting-looking Gibson ES-335, a Marshall stack, and he was sounding pretty good. I waited for a lull in the conversation, touched Millie's arm and when she turned to me I said, "I'm going to see if I can steal some licks. That guy's pretty good."

She smiled distractedly, said, "Go right ahead, Baby," and turned back to the conversation that was, obviously, more important than me right then.

I didn't mind. She had attended enough meetings and events with me as I presented reports and plans to the Committee In Charge Of Something Boring I understood how she felt. This was something she was interested in.

I wandered over as the band started to do Harlem Nocturne, and watched, interested, as the lead player added little licks to the jazz standard. He was really good, but I could follow most of what he was doing.

From that, they went into a medley of early 60s schlock. Bobby Vinton's Blue Velvet, Brian Hyland's Sealed With A Kiss, and the Beatles And I Love Her done back to back with no breaks.

"So," the woman's voice said, softly, her lips close enough to my ear that I could feel little puffs of warm breath, "Are you as bored as I am?" Her hands were on my hips and I could feel her breasts pressed against my back.

I chuckled, leaned back, and said, sotto voce, "I don't know how bored you are, but I'm giving you exactly 47 minutes to stop that," as I moved my shoulders against her breasts.

Her answering chuckle was soft and breathy. "Only 47 minutes?" she asked.

"My wife gets suspicious at the 48-minute mark," I said, laughing softly and finally turning to see just who the hell I was flirting with.

She was, it turned out, the perfect, mathematical opposite of my bride. She was tall for a woman, looking me straight in the eye on the moderately high-heeled shoes she wore. She was strikingly pretty with blue eyes so pale they were almost silver, blonde hair that matched her eyebrows and the very light down of sideburns that I associate with natural blondes, a straight thin nose, something you'd see on one of those statues the Romans seem to leave laying around, thin lips, small ears, and an unexpected sprinkle of freckles. She was big in every dimension. I estimated those breasts that she had pressed against my back as about a 42EE. A wide belt gave the impression of a wasp-waisted figure, but the bulges above and below the belt suggested a thick chick rather than a true hourglass. Her hips matched her boobs, and her calves were thick, tapering to surprisingly small ankles.

Yes, I looked her up and down, deliberately, and she smiled as I did.

"Do I pass muster?" she asked when, at last, I met her eyes again.

I grinned and offered my hand.

The band was into Unchained Melody now, and the frontman was doing a passable Bill Medley imitation.

She smiled and followed me onto the floor. A few couples were dancing and I stopped, assuming the classic slow dance pose, my left-hand palm up, my right lower, and waited for her to close the distance. She did and my initial impression was confirmed. My right hand fell naturally to that bulge below her belt and there was a lot of softness there. Her right hand took my left, I held still for a second, picking up the beat and then with a slight pressure on that delightful waist fat, guided her as we stepped off. She was a good dancer too and soon the simple box step progressed into a pretty good waltz. When the band broke into Twist and Shout I spun her into a passable jive and liked, very much, the way her black skirt flared showing that she had on real nylons, not some pantyhose.

She guided me to the edge of the floor after that, theatrically reached into her cleavage, and brought out a business card. It contained a name and phone number.

"If you decide you want to try a woman with boobs rather than a girl who looks like a boy like Millie, give me a call," she said.

Okay, I was surprised.

It turned out her name was Tricia, at least that's what was on her card. I assumed it was a shortened version of Patricia.

"But for now, I have to get back to my husband," she said.

Then she surprised me, waved energetically to someone across the room, and waited while a VERY tall redhead crossed the room to us.

"Leigh," she said, "this is David," and I was surprised that she knew my name. "David is the youngster that Millie the Cougar bagged and he's bored, but I need to get back to Greg before he blows a gasket, so entertain him please."

Leigh offered another opposite. She was taller than either Millie or Tricia. The phrase "long and lean" came to mind. She had that distance runner's look to her, thin, muscular arms and thin muscular legs. But she was also heavy-chested, hurting that image. She also liked to lead as I discovered as soon as we stepped onto the dance floor.

That evening was the first time I actually enjoyed one of Millie's events. I was kind of passed around from wife to wife. They seemed happy to have a man in the group. And I enjoyed the attention, I won't deny it.

I would check on Millie from time to time but she would just give me a distracted, "I'm fine."

On the way home she seemed distant.

"What's wrong?" I asked as the Uber made its way across town.

"Nothing," she said and I knew, as husbands have known since Oog the caveman asked Oogla, his mate, "Unhhh, unhhh," which meant "what's wrong?" and she replied, "Aunnh," meaning, "nothing," that something was definitely wrong.

But I also knew better than to press. She'd get to it in her own time.

At home, as we cleared the front door, she, well, she "wheeled" on me. That's the only word that describes it. She was first through the door and as soon as I closed it behind me she spun to face me, her face a mask of anger.

"You embarrassed me, David," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked, honestly not understanding what the problem was.

"Goddamit," she said, and she looked about five right then as she stamped her foot, "You left me standing there while you flirted with everything with tits. Jesus Christ, I thought you were going fuck Marie right there on the goddam dance floor."

It was so ridiculous I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face, and that was a mistake.

"You think it's fucking FUNNY?!" she yelled.

"Millie," I started, reaching for her, but she slapped my hand away.

"David," she said after several deep breaths, obviously struggling to get herself under control, "You were flirting," she said, "don't deny it and I'm betting, because I know those sluts, that you have at least two phone numbers in your pocket."

I couldn't stop the blush that spread across my face.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, you DO!" she said and I saw a change in her face. Hurt had replaced anger but the anger suddenly returned.

"Go stand in the fucking corner, boy," she said.

"Millie," I said, hating the whine in my voice.

"God DAMN it, DAVID," and she was yelling again, "GO STAND IN THE FUCKING CORNER."

So I did. I know it's ridiculous, but the tone of her voice and the difference in our ages worked a compulsion on me way below the level of thought. I stood in the corner, like a little boy being punished, and listened as she moved around behind me.

"David," she said, her voice still cold but at least he wasn't yelling at me, "Come here."

I turned and saw her sitting on the couch with one of the throw pillows in her lap. I felt a wave of relief. She used a pillow on her lap when I nursed. Maybe she was over being mad.

But then I realized she was in the middle of the couch and when I nursed she would be sitting at the end.

It hit me what she was going to do and my knees got weak with the rush of adrenaline.

"Unbutton, unzip, and push your pants down to your knees," she said in that cold voice.

"Millie," I said and there was that damn whine in my voice again.

"Don't make me repeat myself, David," she said, glaring at me.

And again, I felt like I was a little boy.

I unbuckled my belt, my eyes on the floor, unbuttoned my pants, unzipped, and pushed them down to my knees.

"Do you think this is a fucking JOKE?!" she snapped, her voice raising with each word.

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my shorts and pushed them down.

"Now put THAT," she said, pointing at my erection, "right fucking HERE," she finished, pointing at the middle the of pillow on her lap.

"Millie," I started. I was whining and I knew it and I couldn't help it. I was mortified. I knew what was coming and I knew I couldn't say "no," and I was frightened.

"DO. AS. YOU. WERE. TOLD!" she said, each word a separate sentence. Her face was hard now, her mouth turned down into an unfamiliar frown.

I moaned. I sniffled. My nose was starting to run as I crawled up onto the couch, my knees beside her right thigh, and then slowly settled. I jumped when my erection, so hard it was throbbing, touched the cold, slick, nylon cover of the pillow on her lap.

I felt her hands then. She put her left hand between my shoulder blades and her right cupped my ass.

In that position, I didn't have much leverage. Oh, I could have broken free, but to do so I would have had to be violent and I didn't want to do that.

Suddenly she shifted her left hand and dug her fingers into my hair and pulled, forcing my head up into an awkward and painful position.

"I," she said and her hand landed right where I sit with a loud SMACK. I flinched and squirmed but the way she had my hair caught, if I moved it just hurt more so I stopped.

"WILL," she said and the second blow landed precisely where the first had hit. Another loud SMACK. My body jumped and she twisted my hair making me cry out.

"Millie," I cried, "Please."

"NOT," the third blow, with that terrible SMACK sound, in the same spot, started my tears. I felt my adulthood, my manhood slipping as I cried and pleaded.

"Please," I wailed, "Millie."

She finished with BE TREATED LIKE THAT, with each word punctuated by a stroke to my ass.

I was crying by the 10th stroke. My ass was on fire.

Between strokes, I was reduced to sobs and begging.

"Please, I'm sorry, Millie, please, no more," I would wail, and then, SMACK.

She wasn't saying anything at that point. It was like she was counting silently. Something like - SMACK - one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five - SMACK.

And I realized something. I could smell her excitement. The pheromone-laden womanscent of her womanneed was thick and that made me even harder, something I didn't think was possible.

She wasn't counting and she wasn't making me count but I guess it was about fifty when I broke.

"Please, MOMMY, PLEASE, no more," I wailed.

And that seemed to placate her.

"Okay, Baby," she said and her caress on my ass was almost as bad as the spanking had been, "Finish undressing and go stand in the corner."

I was surprised, when I stood, a little shaky, that I was still so hard I was throbbing.

I pushed my pants down and stepped out of them, took my shirt off, did the awkward one-foot dance while I pulled my socks off, and went to stand in the corner. I didn't even try to wipe my nose which was running with my crying.

I heard her stirring around and wondered what was next.

"Come here, Baby," she said.

I turned and saw that she had moved to the edge of the couch and still had that pillow on her lap.

And she had taken off her blouse and bra although she still was dressed from the waist down.

"Come here, Baby," she said again.

I went.

"Head here," she said, patting the pillow.

I crawled up on the couch and laid my head on the pillow. God, her womanscent was thick.

"Here, Baby," she said, supporting my head with her arm and offering her nipple.

I latched on, nursing, suckling like a hungry baby.

"You hurt my feelings, David," she said, gently stroking my hair, "and you deserved that."

I managed "mmhmmm" but didn't release her nipple. It was soothing and I felt a lassitude slowly taking over my body.

"Harder, Baby," she said, using her hand to jiggle her tit, "Give Mommy what she needs."

So I sucked harder and began bobbing my head, working her nipple and her tit with my mouth.

"That's good, Baby," she said and I could feel her hips under my head starting to rock.

I started to reach for her but she slapped my hand away.

"No, Baby, just your mouth," she said.

I suckled, hard, feeling her small nipple swelling, and feeling her hips moving harder and faster.

She suddenly gasped and I felt tension in her body.

She was swollen now, the nipple hard, the areola puffy, and I moved slightly so that all of the suction I was applying, and I was sucking as hard as I could then, was on that sensitive area, none was on the more mundane skin of her breast to ease the sensation.

Her fingers in my hair twisted, hurting a little now, as she pulled me harder against her breast and she came again.

She came twice more, doing that strange combination of laugh/moan/cry that made me know she was achieving her release, before her fingers twisted again, trying to pull me off.

But I was latched on and when I bit down her entire body went rigid.

She exploded. Every muscle was suddenly tense, almost cramped. The way her back arched almost threw me off of her lap but when I didn't release the way I had her, swollen and puffy, my teeth locked on, biting hard enough that she couldn't get free her sound was a high-pitched "eeeEEEEEEEEEEEEE" that rose in pitch and volume until I expected the neighborhood dogs to start barking.

And she collapsed. She was spent. She was gasping for breath.

"Please, Baby," she gasped, her voice a breathy sound almost inaudible, "No more."

I released her nipple and areola then, and all the tension left her body.

"Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus," she was breathing softly.

I stood, my ass sore, my cock so damn hard it felt like it might explode, and took her hand, pulling her gently to her feet.

God, she looked so good. Her hair was a mess. Her nose was running. Her mouth was open slightly and she was still panting a little.