Sarah's Story Ch. 02

When I recovered enough to close my mouth, I looked at him. "This is, ah, a. . ."

"Yeah, its a fucking license. But you have to tell me, no sneaking around. It means, woman, if someone makes a move on you, you can respond. And get away with it scot free. no repercussions. That's what it means."

"I'll never do that, I'll never use this," I told him. "I mean, I know what you want, I thought about it, but I don't think I could ever do that."

"Maybe you won't," he agreed, "maybe you can't, but now you know that if the opportunity presents itself, you can present yourself. Or make a present of yourself, or something like that. Anyhow, there it is. I hope you use it. And now, get those pajamas off. I want to pretend you just used it, and I want to show you how very much I appreciate that."

I wasn't quite in the mood, but I would never refuse my husband sex.

He changed my mood quickly, moving into his fantasy "This is what would happen if you came home after seducing someone. I'd say 'I like that the guy you were with tonight saw you naked, too'," he told me as he pulled the sheet off me. "I like that he did this to you." He began teasing my nipple with his finger. I closed my eyes, letting myself think that someone else HAD done that, touched me like that. Oh, my mind and body were begining to like that idea.

Then his mouth covered my other breast, sucking it in, his tongue touched me, and it was so delicate, that touch, delicate and sexy.

"I like that he kissed your tits," he said, "like I'm doing now."

He reached down to my knee, pulled a little, encouraging me to open my legs, and when I did, expecting him to move on me, move in me, his mouth began moving down my body instead.

My mind was filling in the blanks, thinking what he wanted me to think.

He began nibbling at the inside of my thigh, teasing me with his mouth, with his tongue.

Somehow my legs parted even more, my hips rolled up, making myself even more available. He was getting to me, this man who wanted me to do this with someone else was really getting to me.

I turned my head, his penis was so close and he was as big as he could get, he was getting to himself, too.

"I would be able to smell him here, I could smell that his cock was here," he told me, pretending, acting out the game.

I moved, took his shaft in my hand, took his head in my mouth, wet him, wet it, tongued it, just as he spread me open, and I felt his mouth on me, his tongue in me.

"And I'd be able to taste him here! I could taste that man who came in you!"

"Wait!" my mind shouted. What Sam is saying, what he's doing, is more than being a voyeur. What he's doing is showing me that he wants to have sex with me right after I have sex with someone else --he's telling me, showing me, that he'd go down on me! He wants to go down on me, do oral sex on me, lick me, where someone else's penis would have been only an hour or two earlier. My own hips began moving, my legs rolled open wider, he went deeper, his tongue went deeper, as though searching for traces of semen -- someone else's semen!

His cock was throbbing, I could feel that motion in his shaft as he started to pump, then I tasted him as he released into my mouth, as I masturbated him, and as I let my own voyeuristic images take hold, of the sight of my husband, my strong, proud husband, licking me clean after some other man emptied himself into me. Right then I could hardly wait.

But wait a minute. Before any of that, before my husband gets to do those lovely erotic things to me, he wanted me to fuck someone else! That was the key, don't forget that before he'd be tonguing me some one else's erect cock would have been there, moving in me, spurting into me! He wanted someone else to do that, and then he's saying he'll do what he's doing, go down on me!

After some other guy kissed me, touched me, fucked me, he wanted to go down on me, and kiss me, and fuck me.

It was enough, the images, what he was doing, what I was thinking, all of that was enough. Orgasm city!

Whoever says oral sex isn't really sex needs his head examined!

Later, as we calmed down, Sam said "that's sort of what it would be like, only better." I didn't argue this time.

We just held each other, and fell asleep.

"About last night," he said as we had coffee in the morning -- I expected him to retreat, the light of day makes some erotic ideas just seem crude -- "about last night?"

"Yeah?"

"Honey, don't make me wait too long, OK?"

He was serious: serious first thing in the morning means really REALLY serious. He meant for that whole erotic idea to really happen.

I felt some tingling in my body as I looked at this malfunctioning sex machine I had married. Somehow, some way, during the night I must have come to some conclusions, it had to have been while I was asleep, because even while my mind was trying to frame some sort of denial or at least a non-committal answer, my mouth opened, and I heard myself say

"I won't."

"Good. Thank you. I love you, babe!" And he was gone.

"I won't make him wait?" I was having trouble believing I actually said that, but I did. And deep down, I knew it was true. Somewhere there was a man who was going to get to know me, know my body, probably in the next month, and right now he has absolutely no idea what was in store for him.

That was a pretty erotic idea, all by itself, thinking of some man somewhere, maybe he was dreaming of meeting a woman, maybe right now he was masturbating in the shower, thinking of a woman -- and that woman would turn out to be ME!

I was dressed for work, but I knew if I were to reach inside my pants I'd find myself hot, moist, and ready for sex.

The mind is our most erotic sex organ, isn't it?

Who?

How?

Go to bars, to hotels? No, none of that. That wouldn't work.

Who?

How?

That day I started looked at men differently. "He's a possible," I'd tell myself. Or, "Not him, not in a million years."

It changes the way you look at things, it changes the way you think, when your husband asks you to be seductive. Suddenly thoughts, ideas, things that would have been dismissed right away are allowed to form, to mature, . . . smolder.

Sam joked about my 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card that night, and we played -- oh, how we played -- at what he'd do when I did do a seduction, and what he'd feel, what he'd do when he could be a voyeur. We read stories on Literotica, thought about trying out some of the ideas, some of the themes, but you know, they just didn't work for us -- I mean, on an emotional level. I wanted, in fact WE wanted, anything we did to be a natural progression, not forced.

No script: all improv.

Then there was real life. Sam's work, for example. "Gotta go to Fermilab, I'll go out Tuesday morning, be back Wednesday pretty late. Sorry about that." It was a timing problem, the great room was going to be painted Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Well, hell, we both knew if Sam could have taken time off to supervise the painting, he'd have done the painting himself. I arranged to telecommute to work those days .

Frank the painter turned out to be a college kid, painting was just his summer job. He showed up on schedule Monday, and spent the day doing prep work, moving things, applying masking tape and drop cloths.

"The painting's easy," he told me, "it's the getting ready and finishing that takes the time, ma'am."

Sam came home late, loaded with stuff to take to Chicago, and looked at the organized chaos in the great room. "Looks like the kid knows what he's doing, huh?"

"Yeah, he does. Nice kid, hurt himself last spring. He wants to play football for Penn State, but he's gonna miss this season. Can't train with his pulled muscle. They get some seriously good health care, he showed me a report that said he was OK in all ways, but contact sports too soon could do some serious injury. You'd be surprised at how hard it is for these kids to get part time work, if it's not 'real', whatever that means, the NCAA comes down like a bomb on them."

"Nice kid?"

"Polite, yeah, and you know, he's really big. For sure as tall as you, probably 50 pounds heavier, and I don't think any of it's fat."

"Hey," Steve asked, "is he a possible?"

"Oh, come on, he's 21, that's 10 years younger than me."

Steve smirked. "I'll bet his equipment works, though. Mine sure did at 21. And you said you saw his health report, he's young and healthy. Anyhow, I have to pack this stuff." He left the room.

That night -- no surprise -- Sam wanted sex. You know, so did I, I was going to miss having him in my bed tomorrow night.

We were in the touching/teasing phase of things, Mr. Big Horn was poking at me, Sam was all hands, touching, squeezing. "Sam, you're behaving like a teenager!"

"I'm thinking about how much Frank is going to like doing this to you honey."

"I don't think Frank is going to be doing anything, Sam, he's not going to be interested in a woman that much older than him."

"Oh honey, there's so much you don't understand about men," Sam told me, while he moved over me, and into me, showing me something I did understand about this particular man.

"Oh, You mean, if it has ever worn a skirt, they'll fuck it?"

"No, I mean if a beautiful woman like you just hints she's available to a guy like Frank, he's gonna become the most ardent man you'll ever know -- next to me, that is -- and he'll remember you fondly for the rest of his life."

"Hey Sam, he's a college jock, I'm sure he's not hurting for girls."

"Not for girls, honey, but I'll bet he's never had a real woman like you."

My mind went there, then, thinking thoughts that shouldn't be thought, while my husband was moving inside me. We missed a mutual lift-off by about 15 seconds. You know, I think that I came first made Sam come even harder.

And I started missing him the minute he went out the door Tuesday morning, loaded with papers and laptops and a change of clothes.

Frank showed up right on time, started right in on his job. He was the neatest painter I ever did see. I mean, he was wearing a dark tee shirt and shorts while using light colored paints, and not getting a drop on himself!

"How do you do that?" I asked him during a mutual coffee break. "Ma'am, I used to be really sloppy, so I started a game to see how neat I could be. It works."

I spent a minute or two (ok, maybe 20) that morning watching him paint. He was fast, and he was careful. And he was cute, and big, and full of muscles. Big, hard bulging muscles.

Hmmm.

You know, he IS a possible!

"I should finish by tomorrow late afternoon, Mrs B," Frank said as he was leaving. "I really like doing this kind of work."

"And I really like the job you're doing, Frank," I told him, and watched as he drove away.

Frank was being so correct, so straight, not a single incorrect move. And he was cute. No, not cute, handsome would be a better word. And that body -- that hard young body. He was sexy, too.

So how do you seduce a young man, anyhow? Yeah, I know, a beer and naked is enough, but that would not be enough for me. I like -- I need -- the romance, the tenderness, all of that stuff. And I'm basically shy, almost submissive. For sure, not very assertive

Well, I AM..

Sam called that evening. The good news is, his trip was going well. He would be leaving O'Hare at noon, should be home by 5 tomorrow. "How's the paint job going?" he asked.

I told him, and he asked the next question, the obvious one, given what we were playing at.

"Seems I have no idea at all how to seduce a young man like Frank," I confessed.

"Hasn't he made a move on you by now?"

"If he has it's been so subtle I missed it, honey."

"Look, wear something sexy, he'll get the idea."

"I'm not going to strut around in a babydoll, honey."

In the end, we both concluded that if nothing happened, that's all right, but Sam sounded disappointed.

Hmm.

I got up at 5:30, 90 minutes earlier than usual, two hours before Frank was to arrive.

I considered showering, but instead spent 45 minutes in our whirlpool tub, all warm, steamy, bubbly, leaning back, letting my mind drift, drift to when I was younger, when I dated Jim, another jock, of what sex was like with him.

Jim's face faded from my dream, it morphed into Frank.

I was getting into trouble, thinking like that.

I dried myself, walked very nude to my closet. What to choose?

A semitransparent blouse without a bra? I tried that on, feeling wicked.

No, not that.

A scoop neck cotton blouse, a full skirt, so that when I bent down, he could see. . .?

No, not that, either.

None of those, those weren't me.

I chose a comfortable summer dress, with the appropriate undergarments. I was, after all, a married woman who was only pretending, with her husband, about. . . but we really weren't pretending, were we? We were practicing.

Frank came, dressed in his tee shirt and shorts, and started the finishing touches. . Late afternoon came, and when I checked on his progress he was rolling up tarps. "I have to put the furniture back, then I'll be all done," he told me. I went back to our home office, only to hear a "damn!"

"What happened, Frank?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ms Brown," he said, sitting on the floor. "I pulled my back again, it really hurts. This is what's stopping me from playing football this year. I'm going to have to stop and replace the furniture maybe tomorrow, I have to go home and get a heat pad on this right now, or I won't be able to move."

"Don't worry about the furniture, we can do that," I told him. "I have a heat pad, just lay down there, I'll get it right now, I know you have to treat something like that right away, or it'll get worse."

I got the pad, microwaved it the two minutes it specified, and went in to see Frank on the floor, trying hard to stretch his back, curling over.

"Get flat, I'll help."

He got on his belly, arms stretched over his head, and I just reached over and pulled the tee shirt out of his shorts, pushed it up to his shoulders, and applied the heat pad, with lots of pressure from my hands, over his lower back.

"Oh, that's good, you're doing it just right," he said, "that's really helping."

It may have been helping and calming him, but I was kneeling at his side, pushing down on that wonderful, strong, youthful back. It wasn't calming me in the least. Though I have to agree, it did feel good.

After a minute or two he said "that feels wonderful, but you don't have to keep doing it."

"Oh, I will, I want to, for a while," I told him.

I stopped applying pressure on the pad, let my hands move up his back, and began massaging those lats and shoulders.

"That's good, too, that's what the trainers do at school, when we have a sprain," he said.

I was pretty sure the trainers weren't thinking what I was, bent over this fine young specimen.

"Pull off that tee shirt, I'll do it properly," I ordered, while thinking anything but proper thoughts.

I was thinking of my 'Get Out Of Jail' card.

He hesitated a moment, then pulled the shirt off.

I straddled his legs, began working my hands along that back, those sides, on that smooth, strong skin. Pushed harder, then softer softly, shoulders, upper back, lower back, while he stretched out under my touch.

"That's so nice. . ."

I saw that his hips were flexing a little as I touched him. I was getting to him, too, he was getting excited.

I was already there.

Every other man I knew took the lead.

If I wanted this, this time I'd have to.

I took a deep breath. Am I sexy enough? Woman enough? Could I be assertive enough, would I dare?

"Roll over, Frank, I'll do your chest, too."

"Uh, Ms Brown, I don't think you should do that, I don't think I should roll over, I mean."

What did Steve say about Frank? That he may have plenty of girl friends, but never a woman? I was a woman.

I moved off him, knelt at his side. "Frank, don't be embarrassed about being on your back, I wouldn't be the least surprised or shocked if you had an erection, that would be a natural thing to happen. . ."

And I pulled at his hip, so he could roll towards me.

I looked at his chest, his flat belly, the start of pubic hair above his shorts, and further down. Oh yeah, there was lots of evidence he was getting excited.

I moved on him again, kneeling at his knees, rubbing his sides, his chest, seeing that his eyes were closed, his hands balled into fists at his side, as tense as could be.

I caressed his chest, his nipples, fascinated at how his body reacted to me, to my touch.

He was quivering-- this big strong young man was quivering at my touch. I never felt so powerful, so in control.

Hands on chest, moving down to his sides, meeting at his belly, back up to his chest, down again, to his hips over his shorts, and up. His skin seemed to turn red, marking where my hands touched him, it was as if his body was blushing, his face already had.

"Mrs B, please stop, that feels like teasing, don't tease me like that," he said.

I didn't stop. Instead, I leaned over him, saw his eyes open as he felt me move, felt my hair touch his face, I saw them widen when he saw my face right over his, leaning down towards his lips. When I was an inch above him I looked at him, right in his eyes.

"Frank, real women don't call this teasing."

I bent down a little more, pushed at his chin, turning his head, exposing his ear, moved my lips right over it.

This wasn't me, what I was doing. It wasn't my nature, but still . . .

"We call it foreplay." I let my tongue touch his ear.

He went rigid!

I moved down a few inches, let my mouth touch his throat.

Felt his arms move, felt his hands on my head, no longer fisted, holding my head to his chest.

"I read about things like this, dreamed about it," he said, as I kissed at his nipples. "I never thought it would ever happen. . ."

"It makes you forget about your back hurting, doesn't it?" I said, as I nuzzled at his navel, not believing I was being as assertive, as controlling, as I was.

He was reaching between us, pulling at his belt.

I sat up beside his legs, helped him release it, unbuttoned his waistband, unzipped his fly.

"Lift up, Frank."

He did, bridging.

And I pulled at his shorts, pulling them down, pulling down his white briefs, too, seeing that dark hair exposed, seeing a tan line, the white skin of his hips, his groin, the start of his shaft, then all of it as it sprang free, and I moved his shorts up his now raised legs, as he kicked off his shoes, as he settled his hips back on the floor, lifted his feet, and just like that this young man was naked before me, erect before me, ready for me, for what ever I wanted to do to him.

His penis -- his cock, his boner, whatever he wanted to call it, was right there, right in front of me!

I knew what Sam would want to see if he was watching.

I knew what Frank would want.

I knew what I wanted.

I bent toward him. "You look so lovely, so strong, Frank," I told him, as I bent toward him, toward it. My hair fell forward, creating a veil, occluding his view of me, as I let my lips touch that tip.

"Mrs B, please," he said -- I stopped, worried that he wanted me to stop, worried that this wasn't what he wanted ---

"Mrs Brown, please, move your hair, I want to watch you do that."

Oh, yes, I'd do that, I pushed my hair over my neck, looked along his torso at him, looked at him doing a half curl, his head up, staring at me.

"Can you see me now?"

He nodded.

Sounding too much like a cell phone commercial, I said "Good," and bent down again, letting my lips touch him.

He shivered!

I moved so that I was facing the underside of his penis, able to look at him, as I let my tongue touch its tip.

"Can you still see me now?"

I opened my mouth, moved over him, down on him.