Speak to Me Ch. 02

So I listened in complete shock and waited for the revelation. I experienced in that one minute or so a thrill like no other in my whole life – I had always counted cocaine as the single most thrilling thing I'd ever done, and this was better than cocaine. Her breath poured from her body in a constant, repetitive cycle of desperation; I pictured her fingers mashing the button of her clitoris mercilessly, rubbing it back and forth in her panties in a blur of movement and trying hard to keep quiet as she was overpowered by the need to come and the desire to lose control to it for a moment. I marveled at how much my cock wanted to blow when it hadn't even been touched.

All at once the regularity of her chugging breath turned irregular, grew ragged, and then broke entirely into a single long exhalation that seemed to be wrung from the very bottom of her lungs. In that long breath I could hear that she was trembling and overcome by the way it pulsed at the very end.

Then a sudden, silent pause.

Then a deep, thirsty inhalation that trembled as well, and lasted unbroken for several seconds as she quietly filled her lungs to capacity.

And a silence pause at the top.

Then another exhalation, long, steady, and relieved.

I listened to her gulping air as quietly as she could, and heard the loud clicking noise every time I swallowed the painful lump in my throat. Whatever had been happening, she was done and catching her breath; if she were asleep then the nightmare had let her go; if she were awake, she was coming discreetly beside me, and she must have been able to hear my nervous swallowing – she must have realized then, if no sooner, that I was awake with her. I wouldn't have disrupted the glow of her climax for anything in the world – not even the chance to confirm that it really had happened. I tried to pretend I was still asleep, and even if she knew better, I thought that she would appreciate my effort. There was no way I could have spoken aloud anyway: I was breathless myself.

For several minutes she drank the air, still through her nostrils, and I lay swallowing audibly, unable to calm myself down. Was she basking in the after-fog of a nice orgasm, or was she waiting for the memory of some ghastly nightmare to fade so that she could dare to fall asleep again, while my own body had become a weakened bundle of nerves and cock?

Then she was breathing with the calm, deeply regular rhythm she breathed when she had just fallen asleep, and I continued to lay trembling, dumbstruck and aroused, trying to figure out what had just happened. I didn't fall asleep after it. I don't know how much time passed: it felt like half an hour, but may have been only five minutes.

The nasty screech of the alarm clock tore through the silence, and as one, Amanda and I were startled bodily into the early morning world of much more ordinary things.

3.

I watched everything she said and did that morning for a hint that she was hiding anything, or that she knew I knew of something she had been trying to hide. It seemed to me that there was more of a smile lurking in the depths of her brown eyes than usual; it seemed she was pretending not to know that I knew every time we made eye contact. I may or may not have been fooling myself, just by wanting to see it there; I have always had a strong propensity to be carried away by my own expectations to the point that I see what I want to see. I am leery of this, and I try to factor it in when I examine things.

Just before Seth woke up for the morning, she perked up my ears with this: "Oh my God, the alarm scared the hell out of me this morning."

"Oh yeah?"

"I think that I had just fallen asleep. I woke up and looked at the clock about twenty minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off, and I thought, 'I'll just doze off for a few more minutes and then I'll get out of bed.' I remember rolling over onto my back, and I clasped my hands on my belly, and it seemed like I just fell asleep – like not even all the way asleep – and then the alarm went off and scared the living hell out of me."

I strongly considered the possibility that she was testing my reaction, to see if I had been awake at that time. I was careful not to let anything show on my face – particularly my excitement when she mentioned "clasping her hands on her belly" – but I was positively elated. Her story sounded innocuous enough, but it left room for me to keep believing what I wanted to believe.

All day at work I felt high. I worked faster than ever before, and managed to blast half again as much paint as I typically blasted in a day's time. My partner even remarked that I must have gotten laid – I grinned and let him think so.

For hours I relived the previous night, starting with her sighs and her confession that she had been masturbating to erotic literature at our computer desk as recently as last Thursday. It was a tantalizing glimpse of that hidden Amanda I longed to coax out into the open; an image of her that I had never suspected. As readily as I had always taken it for granted that she must masturbate sometimes, I had never imagined it to happen very frequently, nor in any place so defenseless as our computer room in broad daylight. Was there a woman in there who could do such things? I had never suspected it – how many other such beautiful surprises might there be buried inside her?

I was blown away merely by the fact that sometimes she put down her murder and suspense novels long enough to read erotica; I was more blown away that she did it with the intentions of having an orgasm. The Amanda I have known for ten years has never denied the pleasure of an orgasm, but has neither dwelt upon it much outside our bedroom, as if it were something a proper lady like herself never thought of except at the most appropriate moment, and it had no power to distract her during the course of the day. Seeing just this tiny hint that sometimes my affectionate wife felt a simple, animal urge to come, and with a bit of privacy made a rousing little sport of it while she read sex stories, made me want every part of her all the more.

Every time I replayed the events of the early morning, reliving the physical shock and the emotional exhilaration of waking to the sounds of her in the last furious seconds of giving herself an orgasm, it was as though I grew wings. I would start blasting rows through the paint before me at approximately the speed of light, trying to ignore the faint stirrings of my cock deep inside my coveralls.

But just after lunch, things started to appear different to me, and I found myself almost ashamed. Looking back on it, considering Amanda's sexually guarded personality and the very shyness of her nature, and considering my own flightiness at times, it began to appear almost ludicrous that she might have done such a thing as opposed to my having mistranslated what I heard. I had a hard enough time really believing that she would waste twenty precious minutes that might have been spent sleeping (her favorite of all creature luxuries) on an activity like masturbating, knowing that after those twenty minutes she would be quite secure in the bathroom for as long as she needed.

I also could not conceive, regardless of how lusty that inner Amanda might have been, that she would do it so close to me, so openly, and so noisily that I could hear it, if she were going to go about her day keeping it a secret. At most, I might have believed she would do it to wake me up, and then surprise me with sex first thing in the morning – and even that was quite a stretch. If it were something she hadn't intended for me to know about, she would not have given me the chance to know it; she would never have been secure in the belief that I would not wake up to catch her.

Which meant, I realized with a bit of guilt, that while I lay there with a hard cock picturing my wife in a cloud of pleasure, she was probably falling to her death or something equally unpleasant in her dreams, she probably woke up terrified, and then she fell asleep only to be jarred awake by the alarm clock at the worst possible moment.

There were things that still seemed odd to me, but they were little things. The possible smile hiding in her eyes, the way she had mentioned those twenty minutes before the alarm went off from out of nowhere, a dozen little glances she shot me that morning, only to avert her eyes as soon as they met mine...

That evening I continued to survey her behavior. I wanted to believe that I had witnessed one of her sexy little secrets myself, but having come down from the initial high it seemed almost stupid now. There was nothing at all unusual about the way she talked or acted. I wondered how I could have fooled myself so completely – so eagerly, even. Imagine: my affectionate wife doing something like that.

But whether it had happened or not, I must say it was a thrill to beat all thrills in my own mind, and if the truth didn't hold up to the fantasy in the end, then at least for the one day that thrill was no less real, and no less thrilling. I can honestly say it's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me – even if it never happened to me.

4.

Ordinary life prevailed until Friday night.

Friday night in bed, it was Amanda who brought up the conversation I was still determined to hold. We lay in each other's arms, quite comfortable together. After talking about a number of things of no interest here, our conversation faltered and we were silent for a time.

The she said, from out of nowhere, "So are you going to write me a story?"

"You're serious about that?"

"I like them – when they're good. You want to be a writer don't you?"

"Sure, but I don't know about that kind-"

"-and you want to have lots of hot, steamy sex with me, right?"

"You know it."

"I'll make you a deal. Write a story for me, and when you're done let me read it on a Saturday night with you. If you do that, I promise you the best sex you've ever had that night."

"How do you know it will even be good?"

"The story or the sex?"

"Ha ha."

"I know it will be good because you did it."

"...the story or the sex?"

"Both," she said, kissing my neck.

"You've been talking about these stories a lot lately. Just how often do you read them?"

"Write me one and I'll tell you."

"Tell me and I'll write you one."

"I bet you want your answer more than I need your story. There's thousands of them for free on Literotica."

"Then why do you want one from me?"

"Because I think it would be super-sexy to snuggle up with you and read one, knowing it was my husband who wrote it. I would get all worked up and then I'd jump your bones. In fact, you could put it on Literotica and then maybe the next time you're upstairs with Seth... I'd be down here making myself happy with your words."

"So? You wouldn't tell me."

"Maybe I would."

"You wouldn't."

"I might. Write one and find out."

"I might be willing to do that for you. I never knew it was such a big thing for you."

"That's because I didn't want you to know. But since you're so determined to know all these things I didn't want you to know, I'm giving you a little bit. I can be a good sport."

"If I write you a story, you'll tell me more?"

"Maybe."

"No maybes. I'll write one if you'll talk to me."

"I said I'd give you the hottest sex of your life and you're still trying to get more out of me?"

"It's easy for you to give me hot sex. I want to challenge you like you're challenging me."

"You just want to talk about fucking me on the kitchen table."

"Why would you keep making this a big joke? You know I'm serious-"

"-I know, honey, I know. I'm not making it a joke."

"Do you understand that this actually means something to me? It's not just about cheap thrills-"

"-honey! I know. Don't be mad."

"I just keep thinking you're either humoring me, or assuming this is only a sexual thing."

"I know what it is. I told you I understand."

"Then don't make jokes and treat me like an idiot."

"I wasn't."

We were silent for a few minutes, letting it go before it turned into an argument. When a safe buffer had been created between that conversation and the next, Amanda spoke.

"Maybe tomorrow night we could do a little 'research'?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it would be easier to write a good story if you read a few good ones by someone else first. We could sit and read some together. You know you'd enjoy reading sex stories with a woman all aroused in your lap."

"...that makes sense."

"You don't sound very excited about it."

"Ha... No, it sounds fun. I think I was getting a little distracted by the visual."

She giggled and squeezed my arm affectionately. "Don't get all excited right now. You need to perform tomorrow night."

"I could still do just fine – twenty-four hours is more than enough time in between. I did okay Sunday morning, didn't I?"

Then, with a smile that was audible in her voice, she asked me, "Has it been twenty-four hours since your last one?"

"If I answer, will you?"

"That's fair."

"Yes, it's been well over twenty-four hours," I answered her honestly.

"It has for me, too," she said simply.

I waited to see where she was intending to go with this. She didn't say anything; she didn't reach out for me; she didn't kiss me and tell me goodnight. There was nothing but stillness and silence.

I let it go on for perhaps thirty seconds.

"So... was there anywhere in particular you were going with that?" I finally asked her.

"Maybe," she said.

Again, I waited a bit, and again she volunteered nothing further.

"Are you planning to explain?"

"In a second," she answered. "Be patient."

"...okay then."

A few more seconds passed in silence. Then, with no warning, her fingertips brushed across my lips and I smelled the unmistakable, sweet, pungent scent of her body's intimate depths on them.

"It takes a minute to make it wet when I'm starting with nothing," she explained in a dreamy whisper.

Taking her fingers in my mouth, I was treated to the glorious taste of her juices, and I lost my mind at once.

"Oh my God! Are you going to masturbate right now?"

"Mmm hmm," she affirmed. "I can't stop now... it feels so good."

I sucked her fingers until the taste of her nectar was gone. "I can't believe it. Let me taste it on you again," I begged.

"Make my fingers really wet," she said. "It feels better."

I let my mouth fill with saliva and coated her fingertips with it. She removed them wet, and a few seconds later she let out a passionate moan, squirming next to me like a silkworm.

"Ohhhhh... God!" she breathed. "I love this feeling! I love touching myself right when I first get wet, and I just want it... so... BAD...! Ohhhhh! I always want it to last... so long!"

I had clutched myself as well. My cock was only just starting to catch on and grow stiff, but with a few light shakes inside the loose confines of my boxers, I turned it into a long, hard rod in my hand. I gripped it in my fist and choked up its length, then gave it several hard jerks up and down. The bed shook with the motion.

"You're touching yours too?" she wondered dreamily.

"Yeah."

I could already feel the liquid feeling of come leaking up through my shaft, and when it squeezed out the tip, I lotioned my head and glans with it, using the ring of my finger and thumb to massage and twist the end. The sensation was strong and tantalizing – as always when I jerk off, I could have been done almost immediately, if I chose.

"How does it feel?" she wondered. "Is it good?"

"Yes."

"Is it all the way hard in your hand?"

"...yeah," I grunted, feeling the pleasure intensify when another droplet of come drizzled out and I spread it around again.

"Does it feel big... and thick... and hard?"

"Yes."

"Every time I do this, I think about how nice it would be to have a big... hard... man inside me. I put my finger inside..." I felt her shuddering as she said this, and she moaned, "Aahhhhh- oh God. That feels good. But it never fills me up enough inside."

"Is your finger inside right now?" I asked her, taking great pleasure in the mystique of knowing, of hearing her, but not touching her myself. I wanted to – I wanted nothing more than to plunge my swollen cock all the way into her at once – and I knew that she would allow it. But I also understood the game she was playing, and it was amazing in its own right.

"It's going in and out," she answered me. "I'm rubbing myself on the outside, and then sticking my finger inside... over and over again. But I think I might need to use two fingers... or maybe... three."

"Do you do it like that?"

"Mmm hmm. Sometimes I need to feel more inside."

I was jerking myself slowly now, letting some of the urgency decline. I kept my fist down close to the base of my cock, making my balls rock lightly up and down. As the pleasure began to grow down low, I guided it back up my length until I felt the head become engorged and sensitive again, then I squeezed it and twisted it some more.

"More than three?"

"I meant three..." she whispered. "But sometimes... more."

I could hear in her voice that this was beyond her comfort zone for the moment, and I left it alone, but I would have died to know if she was telling me she sometimes put her whole hand in. I could hardly imagine it of her... but I think she would have had an equally hard time imagining some of the things I had done myself in the heat of the moment. Privacy, comfort, and an approaching orgasm make us all a little crazy, I suppose.

"Now I can feel the bed shaking," I told her. "You're rubbing fast."

"Yes, oh God yes!" she agreed.

"Are you close?"

"I'm very close," she assured me with a soft laugh. "But I'm not ready to be done yet. If I let myself go right now, it won't be as good." I could hear the constant shiver in her voice as she spoke.

"Is it usually quick for you?"

"It always can be," she said. "I don't like it to be. It depends... it depends."

"On how much time alone you can get," I said. It wasn't a question – I knew exactly what she meant.

"Yeah."

I couldn't see much, but my eyes were well enough accustomed to the moonlight that I could see her white little face on her pillow, eyes closed, mouth hanging open. I heard her moan and breathe; occasionally I could hear the wet smack of her fingers going in and wiggling. Sometimes I felt her body arch and buck lightly beside me, and she would cry, "Ohhh!" Then I would feel her really going at it; the bed would vibrate with her quick, firm strokes, and I would start jerking off so hard I could hear my balls slapping inside my thighs.

"It feels so good!" she told me. "I get so wet inside I'm just gushing! I want to rub myself forever!"

"Let me taste you again," I whispered. "You taste so good."

Her fingers were suddenly at my mouth – in my mouth – and then she was also kissing me for all she was worth, her body folding around mine like another skin. Her tongue tangled with mine around her fingers, and I was absolutely blown away: we tasted the unique taste of her gushing pussy together, and she seemed to enjoy it no less than I.

I was jerking my cock frantically where it was pinned between our bodies, and she locked her legs around my hips and forced me over onto my back. "You have what I want inside me," she whispered fiercely.

She sat atop me with her hands on my chest, smiling faintly in the dim light of the moon, her hips slowly rocking back and forth as she rubbed herself on my cock. I let go of myself and stared at her with lust and insanity, wanting her as hard as I could get her. She was wearing one of her tattered old night shirts, white with some red lettering, and I could see the stark imprints of her hard nipples in the fabric.