Permission Ch. 01

Ch. 1 -- Rarely, one simply has to say yes

"Honey, do you remember the time we were shopping in that cute little town on the north shore, and we saw Nicole and Tom shopping for a party they were throwing?"

When my delicious little wife Angelina asked me this out of the blue, she happened to be mounted upright on my well oiled cock, pressing down astride my pelvis as I lay flat on my back in bed. And she had flat out stopped moving. The old up and down had come and gone, and all I felt was her pussy's tight grip as I lightly fingered er oh-so-velvety outer thighs. I wanted to now what she was referring to, but I was, you might say, a bit distracted. And then came her special trick. Still pressed down hard, impaled as it were on her husband's most urgent need, her inner muscles began to tighten and relax, tighten and relax, like an inverted milking machine invented by Aphrodite herself. Omigod, Omigod. And while she was doing that, I was looking up at the peppiest, firmest pair of breasts in creation.

"Did you hear what I asked, Hon?:" She was talking again. I didn't dare admit that I couldn't care less what she had said. I was fixing a kind of zen concentration about two feet south of that mouth of hers. My cock wanted to tell her to shut up, but my cock wouldn't have to deal with her later.

Then, suddenly, she said, "OK, we need to finish this, don;t we, or I'll never get an answer." Oh no, don't finish. I'm on the backstretch. But no, before I knew it, Angelina's slippery slot was sliding rapidly upward. I didn't think fast enough and bang! there was a breeze on my juice coated organ.

No, No, sweetheart, not yet. I know I meant to say it out loud, but it came out more like "Nrmphlswat!" But before I could sink in despair, this wonderful little creature had slid down, nestled between my weakened knees and said, "Time to make short work of you. Let me get a taste of that girl juice." And her mouth slid warmly over the head of my cock. I could feel her tongue sliding around the shaft as she moved her head up and down. Slow, fast; stop for a beat and just pump with her hand; Then she backed her mouth off long enough to say, "Mmm, I'd forgotten how sweet my pussy juices can taste after fruit salad for lunch." Then she plunged down one more time till the whole damn thing disappeared and the real sucking/licking began. It wasn't long.

With that skillful manipulator on me, I soon felt myself hardening and swelling inside her mouth. But she knew the signs, too, and just in time replaced her mouth with her hand, and said, "This one's on me." With her eyes and mouth wide open, and her hands pumping, she made me buck upward as I spurted a huge, thick load that shot up, right into her right eye and hair, trickling down the side of her nose. I know the cum in her eye must've stung, but she kept 0n staring at my cock, just letting it start to drip out. The second and third squirts, not as powerful, landed on her upper cheeks and inside her mouth. then she just stuck out her tongue, and let all of it drip down into her mouth, where it disappeared, never to ne seen again.

"Now, back to my question..." she said, sitting up on her haunches, absentmindedly wiping stray cum into the corners of her mouth with her fingers.

" But what about you. You stopped in mid screw. Let me at least suck you off."

" Oh, forget about that, I'll break out he old rabbit vibrator and do myself later. You can watch, if you want. But for now, I want to know if you remember what happened with Nicole and Tom, and what we said about certain stars." She was already slipping on one of my tee shirts, so I knew the sex was at least on hold.

"Of course I remember sweetheart." I'd re-told that story God knows how many times to friends, relatives, hell, whoever would listen for several years. Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise had long since split up, and I'd declared that that settled it for me. The man is definitely gay.

My wife, Angelina, and I had trailed along behind the couple at a discreet distance, as did a few other summer shoppers. This was a "cool" town, and one simply didn't walk up to the occasional passing celebrity and shove a piece of paper in his or her face and ask for an autograph. It was accepted that celebs came here to live like real people, at least for a while.

But we couldn't help gawking at them, her gorgeous, tall figure towering over him, as they picked up a few things, apparently for a garden party (based on what they were purchasing).

This event became kind of iconic for us. My wife agreed that Nicole Kidman was, indeed, stunning, and that she wouldn't blame any man, even a married man, for wanting to "be with her." So Nicole became my symbol of the impossible: spouse approved infidelity.

"If you could have sex with Nicole Kidman," she'd say on appropriate occasions, "I'd understand." Wow, what a concession. That was as likely to happen as a win on the $150,ooo,ooo Mega Million Lottery run in our state. In fact, it was less likely, because if I won the lottery, the check was highly unlikely to take one look at me and run away screaming.

My sweet wife made a few more "concessions" along similar lines, allowing me my best shot with Halle Berry, Cameron Diaz and a few assorted other impossibilities. She was SO accepting, my wife.

Of course, in return, similar concessions spilled freely from my love besotted lips. My wife is many years younger than I, but she likes more mature men, so I granted her her best shot at Tom Selleck, Sean Connery, etc. This was, of course, not really any more likely for her than for me. We live in humdrum circles in a middle income town, and we talked often of our little brush with fame that day on the north shore because it was such a rare event.

Still, unlike me, Angelina is at least distinctly a "catch." She's thirty-three, but petite at five one and a half, a hundred twelve pounds, she really does still look twenty-three or -four. She devotes herself to looking young and beautiful and succeeds enormously. Her skin is flawless, she has shoulder length auburn hair and is all leg. I kid her about her legs, because it leaves her with a tiny, flat belly that emphasizes her breast size. She's a full C cup, and I kid her that she has no need for a bra because when she has none on, her little, hard nipples "point at the sky." She loves to hear that, because she was raised with a low opinion of her own looks, and every bit of praise goes straight to her heart. And as far as her face is concerned, let's just say, "adorable," and you can fill in your own image.

I hope I don't have to say how lucky I am to have Angelina. She needed a more stable, mature man in her life, and it took me years, literally, to get her to wear outfits that showed her legs, which she used to think were skinny (believe me, they're smooth, curvy and wonderful). And she's never given me any reason to doubt her faithfulness. Every time a man has come on to her, and there have been many, she's told me about it, and she's pretty good at handling it.

Angelina doesn't go out gallivanting "with the girls." We prefer to do things together, and, anyway, she's terrible at finding her way anywhere that she hasn't been to before, so she's very timid about going out without her "honey."

We started a family pretty early. I married her when she was nineteen, just out of high school, and a couple of years later, we had a girl, Daniela. Another, Rose, came two years after that. Now, they're both old enough to be in school and Angelina has returned to work after staying home to raise them. She needed to go to work once they were in school, because the house became lonely for her. Of course I supported her decisions, and I've been able to rearrange my own schedule to be there when the girls are home, most of the time. So we rarely have to use a baby-sitter.

So life has been pretty straightforward for us. Angelina and I (my name is Paul, by the way) live a normal middle class American life. We love our kids, we love each other and the sex, though not as frequent as it once was, is still full of passion and affection.

* * * * *

But life throws you a curve every once in a while and it's how you react to that curve that can determine the course of your days.

It started with Angelina's job. She works not far from home for an organization that provides rehabilitative care to disabled children. She doesn't work directly with the clients, but instead helps see to it that therapists and other care givers are properly assigned and that their work time is tracked and properly compensated. Basically, Angelina is office staff at a place that does very good things, relying almost exclusively on private and government gifts and grants to pay for it. It makes us both feel good that she's involved with an organization like CoBRA (Community Based Rehabilitation and Assistance).

But it's still a job, and she comes home tired each day, often with complaints about workplace pettiness. So it's actually with pleasure that Angelina, once a year, volunteers for the big organizational fund-raising night, known as Celebrity/Community Gala (CCG). It's held each spring. and the well connected heads of CoBRA reach out through mailings and phone contacts to a huge list of local donors, past and hoped for - people with loads of money from the affluent communities in our area.

To attract these hoped for donations, celebrities are contacted. We live near a large eastern city, so there are plenty of famous types living or visiting nearby, some of whom have made the CCG and Cobra an annual cause, others who have to be solicited each year. Baseball and football players, past and present, authors, show business types. More often than not, they just get their names in the program as "supporters," but some come regularly. And each year, a dinner is held at which these celebs and potential donors are feted generously (the donors paying a high per plate fee, and guests hope to rub elbows with the famous).

Each year, "lowly" CoBRA staff is asked to volunteer as hosts/hostesses, whose main duties are seeing to it that everyone finds his or her seat, and then going about photographing guests with the celebrities. Staff are asked not to chat with the famous, ask for autographs, or otherwise "forget their place." And, of course, I get to enjoy quality time with my daughters.

* * * * *

Which brings us back to the reason for Angelina's reminding me of our old agreement about bedding certain stars.

This most recent sex session took place the day after CCG, and I hadn't really heard much about the event yet. Angelina had returned rather late the night before, a Wednesday, and all I'd heard before leaving for work the next morning as Angelina slept late, allowed a late arrival following fund-raising night, was a murmured, "Hon, it was the best CCG ever. Wait'll I tell you later."

So here we were in bed on Thursday night, and I was feeling happy too, and Angelina said, "You'll never guess who was at CCG last night, and he talked to ME!"

Like I was about to start guessing the name of every famous person who might conceivably be in town, from second string rockers to radio talk jocks. "That's right, Sweetie, I'll never guess. So why don't you just cut right through all this tension and tell me."

Now, you've got to remember where this story began. Angelina had just managed to pull on a pair of tiny white cotton bikini panties, but otherwise, she was still nude and flushed with her recent exertions, a glow of perspiration making her skin shine like some kind of ethereal being except for the stray spots of semen still hanging from her left eyebrow and ear. And she was staring into my eyes with a new kind of excitement, one I couldn't quite read. She was definitely on some kind of high, but she was also searching my face, as if unsure of me.

"Speak, woman," I said. "Obviously this was more than the usual crew of nonentities and almost-famouses. So who was there?'

At this point, I have to cut in, because if I tell you the name she actually spoke, you'd definitely recognize it, and for reasons that will soon be clear, that can't be. Let's just say that this year, there'd been several noteworthy show business types, for a variety of reasons, but one in particular, who, for the sake of our story will from here on be referred to as:

" SEAN Faulkner!" After saying his name, my wife's face turned rose red, and the color spread rapidly down her upper torso, until her nipples could no longer be distinguished from her breasts. " Sean Faulkner, Paul, THE Sean Faulkner TALKED TO ME!"

Now, I didn't need any reminding. Sean Faulkner was right at the top of my wife's okay-to-sleep-with-another-man list. He was the strong, quiet, somewhat older type that made her toe knuckles curl under by just appearing on the screen. I knew that this must have been the ultimate thrill. But I know my wife, and I also knew that she probably couldn't put three words together within fifty feet of the great man. So my heart went out to her.

"So, tell me all about it, Sweetheart." As if I had to prompt her. Angelina was sure to tell everyone she met all about it for the rest of her life. So I sat up in bed and prepared for a word-for-word recap. Instead, Angelina cut right to the chase.

"Paul, I want Sean Faulkner to make love to me, and I need you to say it's OK. No, he hasn't asked me, and he probably never will, but please, please, please, if it happens, can I let him? it would only be the one time, but you know how I've always dreamed of him. Oh, please, Paul. You'll never be sorry you let me. I'll make sure of that."

She said all, of this, I swear, in two seconds. She must have rehearsed it all afternoon at work, while she planned what we'd be doing when she popped the question, the sneaky little vixen. I had to replay the tape in my mind about three times before I was reasonably sure of what I had heard, all the time with her staring deep into my eyes from, like, five inches away.

"Whoa, whoa, wait up, Babe. I know we always said that'd be OK, but we never thought there was a chance in hell you'd ever be in the same building with Sean Faulkner, much less have him want you. What the hell happened last night?"

"Honey, you know I've always fantasized about Sean Faulkner fucking me." So what else is new? Her and half the other women in the Western World. "Oh, Hon, I don't really think anything could happen, but if I don't know I gave it my best shot, I'd go to my grave wondering if I could have. And you wouldn't want me to blame you for my life's biggest disappointment, would you?"

"Slow down, Honeypot. Back up to where you were going to tell me what happened to make you think you should ask me that question. I ask you again, calmly and without anger, what happened at that dinner last night?"

* * * * *

"OK, Paul, here goes. But I can't claim to remember everything, because at first I didn't even realize anything special was going on. Just the usual ushering to seats, photo taking and standing around listening to boring speeches.

"I'd seen Sean's name on the program, but I assumed it was just one of the usual 'sponsors,' there in name only. At least I assumed that until Ginnie slipped up beside me, and whispered in my ear, 'Lina, your lover's here.' I thought she meant you, until I saw that she was looking toward the table nearest the dais, and I saw him. I swear, my knees nearly gave way. Of course, Ginnie knows about our deal with Sean. I tell that story to all my friends, so it must have been a kick for her to point him out to me.

"Seems his son by his first wife has some rare handicap, and he's always doing fund-raiser spots out on the Coast. Now he's here shooting locations for his latest action movie, and someone from CoBRA knew enough to give him a call. And there he is." I could see that even Ginnie had a crush on him by the way she was talking.

"Through the early evening, I'd glance across the room at him, but it never seemed to work out that anyone was assigned to me to be brought to him for a picture. I think the boss did that on purpose. But after a while, a guy from one of my tables was going to get a picture with some boxer named Lee or Leo something-or-other, who was at a table right next to Sean. I escorted this guy over, and it was the hostess's job to wait about a minute, then gently escort guests away from the celebrities, so the celebs wouldn't be swamped. While I stood waiting, I thought I felt a bug or something on my leg. I HAD to be cool, but I looked down behind me and saw that the 'bug' was the tips of some drunk's fingers. I bent my leg away, and whispered to him, 'Watch it, Mister.' But instead of stopping, this idiot put his whole hand on the back of my leg and started to slide it under my skirt. I didn't want to make a scene, but I couldn't just let him.

"Then, suddenly, a hand appeared on the drunk's forearm and a familiar voice said, very forcefully, 'You didn't come here to cause this little lady any trouble, now did you?' It was Sean. I looked in his eyes and my knees buckled. I had to grab the back of a chair or I would have been on the floor. The guy immediately apologized, not to me, but to 'Mr. Faulkner' and got up and headed for the bathrooms.

"All I could get out was, 'Thank you so much.' And I rushed back to my post. I thought that was it.

"More than an hour later, I took an old lady over to Sean for a photograph. But she wasn't leaving, and at first I couldn't coax her. I could see she was being very annoying, but Sean was the complete gentleman. Then I had an idea. 'Mr. Faulkner,' I said, 'I can't let you spend so much time with this charming guest. I understand they've been holding an important call for you.' With this, the lady backed off, and as I left with her, I glanced back. Sean winked at me. He had taken the hint and was talking into his cell phone."

Frankly, by this point I was getting bored. And I hadn't forgotten that my little ones were in their room, presumably doing homework that I should check on. Meanwhile, it didn't much sound to me like Sean Faulkner was hot for my wife. So, "OK, Ange, when does this get interesting?"

"It got interesting about fifteen minutes later when I heard that same deep, gravely voice in my ear saying, 'How about a dance, beautiful?' Yes, it was Sean, and he did call me that, and when I turned and saw his face maybe three inches away, I did one of my famous blushes.

"Wow, that's some blush, Angelina [he knew my name, somehow!]. Looks like it's spreading down toward your feet."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Faulkner. It's just...It's...How do you know my name? What did you call me before that? We can't dance with guests. How...Dance? Anyway, it's a slow dance. I don't usually slow dance with strange men. Dance? How...?" I was talking 'way too fast. He just smiled. I melted.

"After you saved me back there, I asked about you, and I got permission to dance. If you'd look over at your boss, you'd see." I did and she smiled and nodded to me. "And I know it's a slow dance. I was waiting for the band to change pace. I stopped doing the wild stuff years ago. Anyway, we can talk better in a slow dance, and I think we should talk. Oh, and what I called you before, Angelina, was 'Beautiful,' because you most certainly are. Now, shall we dance?"

"I'll collapse."

"I assure you that I will not let that happen. If you feel weak, just lean on my shoulder and I'll hold you up.

"Now, how could any woman say no to that?"

"No, Sweetheart, I wouldn't expect you to. So, this is where it begins, huh? He dances you out to his limo and takes you in the back seat. Did you at least enjoy it?"

Angelina gave me a stunned look. "Honey, this whole thing started with me asking permission. Do you think I'd ask after doing it? I owe you better than that.