tagLoving WivesSpicing Up the Brew

Spicing Up the Brew


"And I've received a notice that I'm to be burned as a witch next Tuesday."

"Umm, that's nice, babe. Is there any more coffee in the pot?"

"Because, silly me, I thought that living in Salem, Virginia, would be different than living in Salem, Massachusetts, where I lived the last time I was burned at the stake. But, of course, it's not at all different—except that here we have unicorns."

Mary Lou leaned over Doug's chair at the breakfast table and rubbed her chest against his cheek as she poured him another cup of coffee. He murmured a pleasantry, but he didn't take his eyes off the newspaper he was reading. She'd worn a skimpy teddy, with nearly transparent material, to breakfast, but it wasn't doing any more good than it did last night when Doug had begun to snore while she was still brushing her teeth.

"Did you see what the Salem city council wants to do now, babe? They raise the reservoir two feet and those walking trails will be covered."

"I painted my nipples purple last night? Like them?"

"Ummm. Wouldn't ya think dredging would be cheaper in the long run?"

"Or I could just burn the house down around me before you come home tonight and save the vigilante's the trouble." Mary Lou returned the empty coffee pot to kitchen counter—she'd been saving the last cup for herself later; she'd have brew more now—and returned to her seat. She let out a long, drawn-out sigh as she sat down, which Doug didn't notice. Nor did he notice when she then acted like she had to stretch and let an ample tit pop out of her nightie.

The nipple wasn't purple, of course. It was pinkish brown, but she had thought about painting it purple last night. Before they had married Doug had said that purple was his "turn on" color. Just as well she hadn't made the effort.

"Ah, yes, coming home tonight," Doug said as he, too, let out a long sigh, folded his paper, placed it on the table beside the breakfast plate Mary Lou has lovingly spent more than a half hour preparing for him and that he hardly acknowledged—and had just brushed the garnishes off to the side—and stood up from the table. He vaguely smiled in Mary Lou's direction, but his focus was on getting his arm in the sleeve of the jacket, the lining of which Mary Lou had just resewn last evening because he had a habit of thrusting his hand at the sleeve opening and missing.

That had been Mary Lou's only moments of arousal last evening. When he'd been attentive—whenever in the past that had been—he'd had a vigorous thrust of something else. Thinking of what he did to his jackets had been what had prompted Mary Lou to make the bedroom effort—the totally unsuccessful effort—the previous night.

"About coming home," he continued. "Stan's bowling team is down one again. He asked if I could fill in."

"Again?" Mary Lou asked. She had frozen at the first mention of Stan's name. "Seems like that guy you substitute for is out more than he's there."

"Yeah, seems that way. Anyway, I'll be pretty late. I'll catch something at the alley."

"Yeah, I am half-way afraid of that," Mary Lou said under breath. "Better stock up on penicillin."

"Eh, what was that?" Doug almost . . . oh, happy day . . . almost looked directly at Mary Lou now. But not quite.

"I said I doubt they fix a very nutritious meal at the bowling alley. I can leave something in the fridge for you to warm up, if you—"

"Don't bother," he said to the kitchen wall as he opened the door to the garage. "I'll just catch something at the alley."

And then he was gone.

"Oh, it's no bother. No bother at all," Mary Lou said in a low, pouty voice. But of course it had become a bother. One of the hairdressers at the salon, a perky little blonde with practically no meat on her bones and unnaturally big bazooms—Samantha was her name; nice girl, really, if you managed to look beyond the cleavage . . . Sam, she liked to be called—had let the shyster out of the bag.

"I didn't know that the Doug I see at the Go Go Lounge was your Doug, Mrs. T," she'd said over the noise of the hairdryer. "Sorry I even mentioned it. Tuesday nights, regular now, though."

Mary Lou had already known that Samantha was also an exotic dancer—at least that's what they were called now in Salem, which loved to speak in euphemisms. Of course, she hadn't learned that until after she'd already grown fond of the batty little thing and included her in an eclectic little kaffee-klatsch that provided nearly the only rush that Mary Lou got at all these days.

Mary Lou pulled the cup of coffee across the table from where Doug had been sitting and took a sip. He'd barely taken a drink from the cup himself. He'd suddenly become interested in letting Mary Lou know he'd be late tonight—Tuesday night—and then was hot to trot out of there.

"Reality time," Mary Lou muttered to the empty breakfast room. "Time to decide whether you're better with him than without him, girl."

She looked around the breakfast room and through to the kitchen. She'd just gotten the place the way she liked it. Doug's last promotion at the LeeHunt pharmaceutical lab over in Roanoke had made life suddenly easier for them. It was even time to start making that family they'd promised to have as soon as they were on solid financial ground. Doug loved kids. Mary Lou couldn't help but worry that he was putting off having a family more because he was putting Mary Lou off. She'd done everything she could think of to be a loving wife to him.

Now, when starting a family had become the next thing on the agenda, Doug was acting this way. Had they waited too long? Did midlife crises come in your early thirties now?

So, the house wasn't the issue. She'd get that anyway. The better of the two cars, of course. But the family? She wouldn't be getting that. She'd have to start out at "Go" again on that. And she wasn't getting any younger.

"Whoa, girl," she hissed. "This problem ain't you." She felt around her body, weighing her melon-shaped breasts in the palms of her hands. "Maybe I should have painted the nubs purple," she murmured. Then she let her hand drift. Her fingers went down between her thighs, and she began to sway and moan. No it wasn't her who had a problem.

But before she could drift off in total self-pleasure, she pulled herself back from the brink.

"The question, lady, was 'do you fight for him or do you dump him?'"

She'd finished most of the coffee before it hit her that she didn't give a fuck for the house and the car. She wanted Doug. Doug was a hunk. Doug was a stud. She'd walk a mile barefoot on broken glass to get it from Doug.

"OK, lady, then it's fight. And, in that case, it means getting some different ammunition than we were using this morning."

She stood and went to the kitchen phone. The call rang several times and no one picked up on the other end. That wouldn't stop her, though. There were two other calls to make.

The task was daunting. So far the only good thing that had happened today had been that she didn't need to make another pot of coffee. But she'd just go on making those three calls until they were all completed. This wasn't spur of the moment; she'd been thinking about this for some time.

* * * *

The little blonde trick hadn't paid much attention to him at all the last couple of times Doug had been in the Go Go Lounge. It was sort of strange. She'd come on to him like gangbusters the first few Tuesday nights he and Stan had been in here, and then it all Alaska with her—it was like she froze whenever he appeared the last couple of times. But suddenly, tonight, she was all unfrozen again.

"Sure, I'd like a lap dance, baby," he answered her when she saddled up to the bar and gave him a wet one, with tongue, in his ear right before asking him in a husky, low voice if he wanted a private dance.

"Over there, honey," she whispered, gesturing to one of several small, screened-off sitting areas in the shadows. "More private like."

He gulped his beer—he didn't want that waltzing off on him and being wasted—and turned and gave a big grin to Stan, who grinned back and gave Doug a double thumbs up.

They were in the shadows, Doug slouched down in the middle of an armless sofa, his hands on the blonde's waist as she straddled his thighs with her legs and begin to grind to the beat of the loud music blasting through the bar and making a low babble out of all of propositioning and dirty talk going on out on the dance floor.

She leaned down into him and gave him a big, sloppy kiss, while she unbuttoned his shirt with her hands and ran her fingers maddeningly through his chest hair.

"It's hardly unfair that I'm—" he started to say in a deep, guttural voice, thick with lust, as they came out of the smooch.

"I'm way ahead of you, hon," she whispered. Then she laughed a low, throaty laugh as she unbuttoned the three buttons keeping her halter top closed over her ample breasts and pushed her tits into Doug's face. He moaned, and as he fed on her breasts, cupping them in his hands to hold them in place, she lowered her crotch on his and began to grind into his basket.

"Oh, god; oh, god," he muttered with a groan.

"You're huge," she murmured. "Momma's gotta have some of that, hon. I got a room across the alley. I gotta have you inside me. You come with me, won't you? Sam's gonna polish that totem pole of yours."

"Yes; oh, god, yes," mumbled, his throat so clogged with want that he could hardly get the words out.

"There's a bottle of whiskey there, hon," Samantha said when they got into the dump of a room he took him to. "You can start without me; I'll just be in the bathroom for a few minutes. Ya'all be down to just a condom when I come out, do ya hear? I can't wait for any of that foreplay stuff."

Doug gulped hard, stripped down, and fought, with shaky hands, to get the condom on. Then he padded across the room and poured himself a drink in one of two thumb-printed glasses that were sitting by the whiskey bottle on the top of the bureau. He quickly tossed the first drink off, willing his hands to stop shaking. He didn't want her to think he was nervous, even though he was. He'd been going to the Go Go Lounge for the fantasy of just this, but he hadn't thought in his wildest dreams that he'd actually hit pay dirt. He had a brief moment of guilt mixed with panic and looked at the closed door out onto the motel balcony with a thought that he'd leave with just the memory of what could have happened. But the second drink of the whiskey along with the thought that he'd have to put his clothes back on to withdraw, which would really have been awkward if she'd reappeared while he was hopping around pulling his trousers on, knocked that notion out of his head. He was beginning to feel groggy. He could usually manage his liquor . . . but then he thought of the two beers he'd already had at the lounge and the one earlier when he and Stan ate at the bowling alley just so he wouldn't make the mistake of saying he was there if they read in the paper the next day that it had burned down.

The room was beginning to revolve as he moved over to the bed and sat down at the foot of the mattress. The room began to spin in front of him, and he laid back on the mattress and closed his eyes. He heard the bathroom door open and felt soft, cool hands on his thighs and then strands of hair, long a silky on his belly and his upper thighs.

Doug sighed as a warm mouth closed over his saluting hard cock, and he reached down and ran his hands through her hair and touched her head through the silky strands, swept with pleasure at the feel of her head rising and falling and of her lips and teeth and the warmth of her inner mouth cavity on his cock as she sucked.

He looked down, trying to focus on her head, wanting to see it move as well as feel it. He barely could focus and then only briefly, with his only thought being the idiotic one of thinking she must have worn a blonde wig in the bar, because her hair was auburn now. He was fading fast. The last sensation he was aware of was of her rising up over him and straddling his hips with her knees and the warm closeness of her impaling herself on his cock and slowly rising, then enveloping, rising, then encasing, rising, and . . . rockets going off from the force his ejaculation deep inside her.

She whispered, "It's OK, lover, there will be more," and then he blacked out.

His next sensation was of his face baking in the sunlight streaming through the window by the motel room door in the slit where the drapes didn't meet. It took him several moments to realize he wasn't in his bedroom. The feel of the woman's arms draped over him while she nuzzled close to his side in the bed had an air of familiarity that fooled him for several seconds on location.

But the décor of the room within his slit-eyed, blurred vision was just too ghastly and tacky for him to be fooled for long. The woman was slowly working his cock with her hand. He was hard, and the rise of arousal was bringing him back into awareness. His headache was actually helping to bring him out of his stupor.

"This was such a good idea, Doug," Mary Lou murmured in his ear. "You were a stallion last night. And I think we can—"

"Mary Lou!" Doug exclaimed in shock as his face turned and his eyes focused on the woman in the bed at his side—more like plastered on his side and half draped over his body.

"What? How?" But further questioning was choked off when Mary Lou rolled on top of him and possessed his lips with hers as she straddled his hips and positioned his cock at her slit.

He groaned with pleasure as she slid down his cock, realizing that there was no sheath, receiving full skin-on-skin attention for the first time for some time. He remembered that this had been a bone of contention. Mary Lou had wanted to stop the protection—had wanted to start a family—and he had been holding back. There was no holding back now. Natural instinct was taking over now.

He became lost in the fuck. His mind moved from guilt and confusion to questioning what had been real and what hadn't. Mary Lou was riding him hard, and his hips began to move with hers, and by the time he ejaculated, he didn't care in the least how this had come to pass. He just knew he wanted to be hard again as soon as possible and take another trip over the moon.

If Mary Lou thought that this special little encounter was going to turn Doug around, she was very much mistaken. But she hadn't really counted on it. They had some good loving in the bed in their house for about a week and a half and then Doug became bored with it all and began his routine of treating Mary Lou in nearly the same way as he regarded the plate glass in their living room window.

He had decided that his encounter at the Go Go Lounge had all been a delusion. He even went back there with Stan one Tuesday night, and the little blonde trick, Sam, treated him again like he wasn't there. So, he decided that his interlude with Mary Lou had all been an hallucination from his dissatisfaction enveloping him.

He could have gone a couple of ways after this experience, but, as Mary Lou surmised he would, he decided that he had enjoyed the fantasy part so much that he'd just turn that on and see if he could develop it.

A chance to do that nearly fell into his lap, when Maeve, another chemist at the pharmaceutical lab in Roanoke began to give him the eye. He'd worked with Maeve for five years and she had never given him so much as the time of day before. But now she unmistakenly was beginning to come on to him. She seemed to be using every opportunity she could to brush up to him and to give him those "needy" eyes. And to eye him up and down, her gaze lingering on his crotch.

He had quite a lot to look at at his crotch, and he knew it.

He was in great shape and he was a horse and knew it. Maeve was quite a looker herself, so he decided to give her what she so obviously wanted.

He began stopping on the way to work and changing in a gas station men's room into tight trousers and no undershirt and gauzy shirts that let more than a hint of his dark body hair, fine musculature set up with a deep tan, and his large-nubbed nipples show through. Maeve's attire became more alluring too, and her gazes at him—and his crotch—became bolder. But these lustful exchanges were always when they were alone together in the lab or his office.

Doug knew he was having a melting effect on Maeve. He saw that she had to use two hands in working with the test tubes in the drug trials they were working on. Doug had control of the work schedules, and he reduced those on his shift slowly and the hours they worked ever later so that eventually he and Maeve were there after everyone else in the section had gone home for the night.

She wanted him. Doug knew that. The fantasy of it all and anticipation of it was almost as good on making his engine rev, though, as the thought of getting his dick inside her. But he wanted that too, eventually. He wanted to know it wasn't a fantasy.

He knew the evening it was going to happen, because she was moving around the lab in a lab coat with nothing on underneath it. And she was making sure that the flap accidentally parted now and again and gave Doug a flashing glimpse of her trimmed bush and her snatch.

"Here, some Irish courage," she whispered in his ear as she stole up behind him, almost making him drop the test tube he had in his hand from the shock of her sudden rush to close the gap of the teasing and the anticipation. She wrapped one arm around him from behind and clutched his raging hard on through the material of his trousers. She was holding a tumbler with a golden-colored liquid in it with the other.

"You may not need it, but I do," she murmured. "And I don't like to drink alone. I'll be in your office—splayed on your desk, my creamy thighs open to you. Come for me. But don't take too long."

And then she was gone, leaving Doug gasping and shaking. He tossed off the liquor to quell the shakes. It burned all the way down, but it seemed to help in reducing his trembling.

It was strong stuff, though. He was weaving and blinking his eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to clear the cob webs as he moved toward his office.

The light in his office was off and it was only dimly illuminated by the glow of the lab lights filtering through the opaque glass wall between the two spaces.

She was there, though, on her back, spread on his polished desk top, her legs open to him, the close-cropped bush and slit a beckoning target for his sword.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him into her as he staggered between her legs. He was stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, piercing her every more deeply with every thrust. And she was meeting him with thrusts of her own, making almost animalist sounds of lust and want and need.

Doug quickly fell into the rhythm of the fuck, the noises they were making and the clutching and clawing and guttural laughter and moans ever more familiar, as his head slowly began to clear. Even before he had ejaculated deep inside her—only now remembering that he hadn't worn protection—he realized that it was Mary Lou, not Maeve, he was fucking. By then he didn't care.

But when they were done and she was fiddling with her clothes, neatly folded beside her on the desk, and remarking on how nice that was and that he'd had such a good idea and they should do this more often, he was shrinking from her. Confused and bewildered again, but now much more than that. Now he was beginning to be a little scared.

His mother had called Mary Lou a witch once and Doug had laughed that off, knowing that his mother couldn't bring herself to use the "bitch" word, but when he'd laughed, his mother had given him the strangest look and all she'd said was, "You'll see. One day you'll see." And then she had turned and walked away. A chill had gone down Doug's spine, and he couldn't, for the life of him, understand way. He remembered that now, because the same chills were traveling up and down his spine.

Report Story

bysr71plt© 14 comments/ 91611 views/ 11 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

2 Pages:12

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: