Side Effect

When they arrived at home, Helen made sure that they went about the usual business of shutting down the house for the night: starting the dishwasher, getting the cat food and fresh water, locking doors. While Tom went through his usual nightly routine behind the bathroom's closed door, Helen practiced her new nightly routine. She removed the wig from her head and placed it carefully on the Styrofoam stand then carelessly tossed the wig cap on the dresser. She snuggled down in bed, shivering. Not only did the pillow case feel odd against her tender skin, but she discovered the truth of Kat's warning: without hair on her head, she'd feel chilly at night. Helen pulled the covers over her head. She heard Tom come in and snap the light out then crawl under the sheets beside her.

Her back to him, she lifted her head to say, "Kat's right. It gets cold at night when you're bald. I'm picking up a night cap tomorrow."

"Sounds good. Meanwhile, I'll snuggle with you to keep you warm." He put his arm around her in the familiar embrace, pulling himself close, spooning. He stroked her right breast. Then he tickled the back of her neck with his lips, sending a shiver down her spine. In their 20+ years of marriage, he'd never kissed her there, but, then, for 20+ years, hair always covered that spot. Instantly, she felt a poke in her backside, and she smiled, satisfied. She'd made his manhood steel hard—again. Either pleased by this further evidence of the effectiveness of the treatment or entranced by the novelty of being kissed on the back of her bald head, she moaned involuntarily with pleasure as he nuzzled her.

"That feels good," she purred.

"What? My penis poking you, my fondling your breast, my kissing the back of your head?"

"All of it," she replied vaguely, unwilling to give away too much. Got to keep him guessing. She smiled an evil little smirk that, thankfully, the darkness hid.

Behind her, Tom tugged up his night shirt then grasped her night gown.

"Tommy!" she hissed in mock horror. "I thought you were tired."

"May I put my penis between your thighs?" he pleaded.

I ought to make him beg, she thought but relented. Already wet between her thighs, she felt powerless to stop herself from lifting her right leg. Immediately her husband's swollen manhood pressed with a questing urgency into the space between her thighs. Gently, Helen lowered her leg, and Tom began rhythmically pushing forward and back. With the barest of preambles, he entered her.

"Am I inside you already?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," Helen moaned with delight. "You got me very excited."

"How? I just climbed in bed."

Her passion overwhelmed her determination to play coy. "This afternoon—with Kat," she admitted.

"Really?" Tom's voice—and his male member—rose together. In fact, he slipped out of her. "What excited you? Shaving your head? "

"No, silly," Helen hissed. How would that excite me? "Watching you get so excited."

"I couldn't help it. You look great!"

"Bald as a peanut?" Helen gasped in disbelief.

"Yes." Tom lean forward and begin systematically kissing the back of her freshly tonsured head, smooth as a baby's bottom. The pressure of his hand disappeared from her breast; instead, he tenderly stroked the top of her head. She felt the pressure of Tom rocking his pelvis back and forth. Then suddenly, without warning, she felt him spewing wildly between her thighs. The gush felt endless, but eventually, he stopped, rolling onto his back with a moan.

"It was wonderful for me," he panted, "but I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to lose control like that."

Helen laughed indulgently as she rolled over to face him. "It's okay," she kissed him on the lips. "I'm surprised you held out as long as you did. You were very excited."

"I'm out of practice," he admitted with a sheepish laugh, "but now that we know the treatment's working, we can get lots more practice, and I promise to do better next time." He yawned, "But I'm afraid it won't be tonight. I'm totally spent. Can you put your head on my shoulder?" he asked.

In reply, Helen cradled her head in the hollow of Tom's left shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned down to kiss her chrome dome. Yes, Helen admitted to herself, she wanted him to climax inside her and take her over the edge, but she thrilled to the fact that he'd gotten so excited that he lost control, still more proof of the treatment's effectiveness. There'd be plenty of opportunity for them to make love again now he'd been cured. It is worth the unpleasant side effect, Helen decided, and, as Tom kissed the crown of her bald head an unexpected and involuntary moan of contentment escaped her.

#

The next night, true to her word, Helen went to bed wearing a tasseled night cap, looking like an illustration from The Night Before Christmas. Tom asked Helen to hold her from behind. She agreed, and he grabbed her right breast, nuzzling the back of her neck below the night cap. He put his penis between her thighs, but before he went too far, she stopped him.

"I want to ride the pony," she announced.

"Okay," he agreed enthusiastically and flopped onto his back, pulling up his night shirt.

She peeled back the covers to reveal her husband's manhood standing at proud right angles to his horizontal body.

"Oh, you do look ready for a ride," she commented then pulled off her nightie. She noted with approval—and a quickening between her own legs—how he feasted his eyes on her moonlit breasts. Carefully, she straddled him and, reaching down the red-tipped fingers of her right hand, guided him into her. Simultaneously, they both sighed profoundly. Helen started to lift up on her knees then drop. Tom reached around to push on the back of her pelvis, driving himself deeper into her.

He leaned forward and, stretching out his tongue, tickled her right nipple preparatory to sealing his lips around it and sucking. Helen paused in her rhythmic gyrations to enjoy this attention, running her fingers through his hair. As she did so, she envied—even resented—his full head of locks when she possessed absolutely none, but, she reminded herself, the treatment and this single side effect made these bedroom gymnastics possible. Tom distracted her from these reflections by switching to her left breast and sucking. After what felt to Helen like endless ecstasy, Tom fell back on the pillows with a satisfied sigh. He reached around her hips yet again to press her pelvis into him and encouraged her to start "riding" once more. She responded, and when he closed his eyes, she stopped. His eyes popped open. "Do you need a break?" he teased her.

"No," she shook her head, making the tassel on top of her night cap flop from side-to-side, then pulled it off altogether, tossing it away lightly, revealing the parabolic curve of her shorn scalp. While she preferred to reveal a flowing mane in the moonlight, she loved the way the sight of her mesmerized Tom as she reached up her left hand to rub her glabrous cranium. Not surprisingly, newly sprouted stubble bristled against her fingers. She admitted, provocatively, "I've been a bad girl."

Tom grinned lasciviously up at her. "Not as bad as you're going to be."

"That's not what I mean," Helen shook her head, the sensation still strange because locks no longer caressed either cheek as she made the otherwise familiar gesture. "I skipped shaving today." She leaned to her right. As she did so, she smiled with satisfaction as she watched the way her movement sent a shock of pleasure over Tom's features. Without looking, she reached out with her right hand to grip the small, cordless electric razor secreted on the nightstand on her side of the bed. Winking, she flicked it on and began languidly running it over her head. She paused after a second to run her other hand over the freshly shaved patch. "Just checking," she smirked, eyeing her husband stretched out below, panting as he watched her depilate her scalp. "I want to do a good job for you."

"Yes," Tom rasped, ready to burst.

Thus it continued—Tom's manhood buried deep in his wife while she straddled him, slowly running the humming razor over the crest of her scalp, down the sides, around the back. Determined to draw out their pleasure and enjoying her power to mercilessly tease her helpless husband, she paused frequently to inspect her work with her hands. She gazed down at her husband. "You're being very good tonight, not impatient at all—just waiting."

"Yes, dear," he hissed, the desperation in his voice betraying his struggle to contain himself.

Finally, on the verge of spontaneously combusting into orgasm herself—not because of any pleasure intrinsic to shaving her head but from the titillation reflected in her husband's eyes which, in turn, got her hot—she leaned to her right again and, putting the razor down, she centered herself, her bare cranium, the light silvering her delicate skin, just inches above Tom's face. "Do you want to inspect?" she asked.

"Yes," Tom husked then began stroking her greedily.

Their moans merged, and, after a second, Helen sat bolt upright and resumed her riding, but not with the methodical rhythm from before her shave, but with a wild fierceness, a desperate abandon, determined to bring herself and her husband to the brink then push them over—together.

It didn't take long. She froze, sitting even more upright. In that endless moment, Tom pumped, and, together, they shattered with delight.