tagLoving WivesSuzanne Comes Again

Suzanne Comes Again


First of a seven part series. The characters and situation will make vastly more sense if you first read the original Suzanne's Supreme Night of Poker Series, but this is not absolutely necessary.

For those who find the ideal Loving Wives story to be one which is law-abiding, strictly monogamous, involving only the highest moral standards, church-sanctioned plain vanilla sex and pristine "Little House on the Prairie" partners, this tale will not be your cup of tea. Please do us all a favor and skip on to something else, you won't enjoy this item.

If however, you appreciate the sensual ambiguities of married life, the ways that illicit fantasies and sexual tension can linger just beneath the surface of an apparently placid domestic relationship, sometimes begging to be let out for some fresh air, pray read on.

This is a "sharing" story of friendship not a "cuckold" story of power, coercion or humiliation. That said, there are plenty times, especially later in the series, when spouses find themselves watching their own partners not with them.


It wasn't until I actually saw Rob mount Sharon, on her back in the bed just next to ours, that I knew we all had taken that irrevocable plunge into uncharted waters. It was exciting and unnerving at the same time. I inhaled sharply.

Jim's keen blue-eyed gaze had been riveted on our friends, he had watched Rob's erection intently as it stiffly bobbed about during their preliminaries. In fact I had stared too, Rob's penis looked so nice and hard and smooth and ready for action while Sharon played with it, pulling and fondling, and when he plowed its ardent under-shaft over the surface of her soft, splayed-out chest.

When Rob finally pushed the big rounded head of his cock home between Sharon's fleshy, wide-spread legs, I could feel Jim's own penis twitch in my hand with involuntary, sympathetic arousal.

It was early evening. Although the big french doors to the balcony were wide open, our rustic, wood-paneled resort room here in the Kentucky hills was still warm from the June day's heat. Our clothes had all been shed now for some time. The light was dimming, but we had a perfect view of their coupling, which grew vigorous fairly quickly.

Of course they were both big folks, I would not describe their actions as graceful.

I had never witnessed two people copulate before - well, except for Jim and Sharon that time but then I had been involved too - otherwise this was a first.

Rob's broad construction-worker body pretty much covered Sharon, wide and soft as she was, and one of her pale, floppy boobs stuck out to the side, squashed out really, while Rob humped his hips into her.

Indentations formed in the sides of his well-furred ass-cheeks as he clenched and drove, clenched and drove. Sharon's straight dark hair was spread out over the pillows, the rough wooden bed-frame shaking increasingly as they continued.

They had agreed to go first, we had talked about it. Jim and I would be second, a fact I had not quite digested. And this was just Friday, our first night of the long weekend. I had no idea of how everything was going to play out. It turned out none of us did.

It had been almost a year since the infamous poker game, that nearly-out-of-control orgiastic event grown legendary in my head. My memories of that night were almost like some rewind of a warped Fellini film from long ago.

I had been thinking about it ever since. Jim hadn't said anything naturally - provincial but lovable Jim - my man. I was the one to finally bring it up. We had opened a can of worms that night of poker - what am I saying? - it was I alone who had done the opening, and the top wasn't going back on.

It is never easy to sit with thoughts that you can't reveal to others. Anyone who ever has lived in a small town - yearning to leave it or not - with a tight-knit, in-grown community, knows the kind of oppression that closely held thoughts can bring.

Our town, Friendship, a tiny piece of the American Midwest here in southern Indiana, midway between Cincinnati and Louisville, is plenty quiet. Cornfields, soybeans, hogs, lots of open space, not many people. After the poker party, the guys had become unnaturally circumspect around me. Even Rob's traditional teasing "Hey good looking" greeting had morphed into a polite, neutral, "Hello Suzanne." Anyone from outside would never, ever, guess about our hand of poker that night. But none of us could forget.

I thought Jim might have brought it up, one time or another. We tiptoed around the events of that hot July night for weeks and weeks, but of course the household and work and the busy events of a family with two restless, sports-obsessed, pre-teen boys kept us occupied, and the summer turned into fall, and the tree leaves turned color and dropped. Pretty soon the first snow had fallen, only to disappear, but more followed a week later.

Jim and I had made love that evening, it must have been just before Thanksgiving. Our sex life had been electric that summer after that night of poker - intense, highly-charged, renewed - but gradually we had slipped back into our more normal routine - once, maybe twice, a week. Sometimes it was even longer between couplings, and I found my thoughts drifting to places I did not entirely want them to go.

The memory of Rob's penis pulsing semen into my mouth, for example. How nice it had felt to have my lips around his cock-head while his sperm gushed forth. It had only been that once but the event was seared into my mind.

His smell. His thick forearms holding me tightly later that night when he fucked me. How different it all was from Jim. The flavor, the texture, the width of his penis, the firmness of his balls. What exquisite balls.

And that he was Jim's best friend. That was perhaps the best, but also the most complicated part. I had sucked Jim's best friend, then later in the bedroom that night Rob had penetrated me for a roller-coaster ride of transgressive pleasure.

Every time I thought of it, my body would give a little shiver. I couldn't help it.

Jim was settled in behind me that November night in bed, his rangy arms around me, his breath soft and warm on my neck, which felt nice with the cooling weather. We had turned the light out, in that happily exhausted, post-climax stage just before sleep overtook us, my insides warm and soggy with Jim's sperm.


"Yes babe?" He stirred behind me.


A little sigh from him. "Remember what, babe? My memory is plenty good but you know my mind-reading skills are not first-rate."

"Poker night?"

Naturally he knew. His voice didn't betray anything, but I thought his body tightened just a bit.

"Sure. Long time ago. Nice but over. I think we talked about that."

"Yes, we did," I murmured.

"But remember what got it started?" I asked.

It wasn't quite a snort, it was quieter than that.

"I do," he said dryly. "You got yourself interested in someone else besides your devoted husband." His phrasing was deliberate, measured. Not an edge to his words exactly but neither entirely neutral.

"No, that's not quite right." I had to make sure I didn't sound like I was correcting him. "You are my main and only love interest, forever. That night was just a little extra variation, something different."

Jim laughed this time. "An 'extra variation'? And we know how that went. Four impossibly excited pricks that you took some pains to arouse? All attached to me and my best friends? Enough sperm shed to start a new colony somewhere? Nope. Nope."

I let this thought sit for a moment.

"No, that's not what I meant. You were right, we can't do that again, and I respect that. But perhaps you remember what else we had talked about?"

He hesitated.

"About Rob?" He did remember.

"Yes," I exhaled.

A long silence.

"What do you think?" I asked tentatively, trying to keep my voice level.

"I said maybe." His voice was even, controlled.

"You did. Well? You've had a chance to think."

"Alright," he said carefully, "let's go back to beginnings. We talked about what got this thing going?"

I never liked this tone of voice, not quite talking down to me but patronizing nonetheless. Not exactly loving.

"Right. And you said my extra-curricular interest."

"No. There was something before that."

I was considering.

"You mean your own idea?"

It suddenly occurred to me that that night in bed a week before the poker game, what had started our little discussion wasn't about me. It was my asking him about his vague but long-nurtured fantasy of two girls at the same time.

And then, that evening while we talked in bed, I had gone and reversed the fantasy, turned it inside-out and upside-down - not him with more than one girl but me with more than one guy. Then on my own I engineered the whole poker deal with him and his band of buddies, for my own pleasure, with a much greater dent on our lives than I imagined.

"Another woman?" I sighed. "What do you really want, Jim?"

I was annoyed at this turn of the conversation and had no real right to be, but I was.

"I just think, in the interests of fairness, there ought to be both sides of this business, if we are going to think about pushing boundaries and 'little extra variations' and all that."

It was not unreasonable. It was perfect Jim - calm, even-keeled, matter of fact.

"And the boundaries have already been pushed." He didn't need to remind me.

We were silent. His arms were around me loosely. I didn't quite want him drifting off to sleep yet.

"So, do you have someone in mind?" I ventured.

This was a harder question to ask then I thought it would be, although I had posed it before. I braced myself for an answer.

"Well, I think you mentioned Rob," he said.

"Well, yes. I did." I laughed. "But that was for me. This is about you now. Who would you like to have next to us here in bed? Assuming it is here."

I faltered a bit, maybe it wasn't here, maybe he had other ideas I couldn't divine. I realized then how little I knew about any sort of thinking he might have done on this. And of course we hadn't talked. But we were now.


An uneasy pause.

"But my fantasy, the one you keep poking at and pulling out of me, was just another woman, not a particular woman. I don't really want to sleep with anyone but you. It was just, I don't know, a bit exciting to think about two girls at once.

"I guess that was one of my adolescent dreams, when you thought about all kinds of things as a horny teenaged boy but knew damn well that the odds of them ever happening were just about zero. Two girls and just me. I don't think I am the only guy who has ever had that little dream in his head."

"You just thought it would be fun to have two girls in bed with you?" I felt stupid for more or less repeating him. There was a little relief, but I didn't know where he was going with this.

"Sure. You liked more than one guy, right?"

"Okay," I laughed softly. "You got me there. Yes. Yes."

But I was irritated at his vagueness, his evasiveness.

"So what are you proposing, Jim? You gonna put an ad on Craigslist or something? 'Married man seeks cute young frisky girl for a threesome with his attractive but middle-aged wife'? Isn't that the way these sorts of things get handled these days? That ought to work out real well in this town. Or bring in someone from somewhere else who we don't know? I still don't get it. You want 'fair' but don't have an idea?"

"No, I didn't say that. You haven't let me spin this out enough."

I sighed. "Okay then. What do you have in mind?"

A silence just long enough to be a little uncomfortable.


My breathing stopped for a moment. Sharon? My best friend among the other wives in town? Rob's Sharon? Big girl, big hips, taller than Jim? Somewhat saggy breasts, a good deal overweight? Nowhere near as handsome as me? The woman who had harbored Rob's penis at least twice, judging by the kid count anyway? I couldn't quite believe it.

We didn't finish talking things out that night, it turned out to be the beginning of a long drawn-out discussion. Once I got over my shock, it got a bit easier, and it did make some sort of symmetrical sense. I'd had Rob, now he wanted Sharon.

We talked in bursts, here and there, over a few weeks. He was serious. It was "his" turn. It was clear that the road to Rob for me was going to have to go through Sharon first. I was stumped.

It was jarring to think about Jim with someone else. It helped to know that I was also going to be present. I could not countenance him coupling with Sharon on his own, somewhere else, behind my back. The idea gradually got more comfortable, although that is not quite the right word, in my head.

And of course, he had already seen me with someone - someones - else, it was only fair. But jealousy - and it wasn't quite that, more possession or worry about exclusive rights or various other vague fears I had - is an odd beast, not linear in how it works.

It had felt fine for me to be interested in another guy, or rather the sexual excitement that would come from another guy, but that was because I had been in control. It wasn't a matter of heart, it was a matter of desire. Lust. I knew that Jim was not threatened, I knew where my heart was, and where it would stay.

But this would be different. His lust, not mine. It was almost like being nervous when someone else is driving the car on a steep, winding mountain road in the rain - not such a big deal when you are behind the wheel, controlling things - but a bit anxious if someone else is driving, even if you trust them.

So I found myself in an unusual position then as the plan unspooled. I had to remind myself that I wasn't "procuring" for Jim, the task was on one level a lot more complicated, but potentially also more than just coaxing Sharon into our bed. I kept telling myself I would just be "testing the waters," trying to gauge what was possible. Exploratory. Things might not work the way I wanted. But I couldn't know until I tried.

I was very careful not to make it an equation in my head: IF Sharon, THEN Rob. It was going to be a more tortuous if perhaps pleasurable route. We'd see what might happen, try one step at a time.

Jim let me stew. He didn't make any suggestions. Didn't push, didn't direct. Didn't even bring it up again. Just let the idea sit there for me to mull it over. He knows me pretty well.

So finally, on my initiative, Sharon and I started making more time together for our friendship. We had done this to some extent anyway, over the years, as a natural part of our own husbands' connection. Sharon and I had watched our kids grow from babies to active boys, helped each other out innumerable times, but we had never grown close the way I had been with some of my college friends back East.

But this was a totally different scene, small town Indiana, our roles were mothers first, everything else second. Sharon was pragmatic, down to earth, not an idea person.

By the beginning of the new year, Sharon and I were doing stuff together at least twice a week. We went shopping at the mall, out for lunch when kids were at school, visited each other's kitchens for coffee and talk. I had even gotten her into an exercise routine. After six weeks she had lost ten pounds and enjoyed shopping with me for new, smaller-sized clothes.

She is a big girl, almost six feet tall. Long thin dark hair, well past her shoulders, hint of a widow's peak on her high forehead. Big chest, big wide hips. She has real long meaty legs, but her waist is short, one of the things she complains about.

But she has a handsome, round, full-moon type face and a cute little dimple on one cheek that is appealing when she is smiling and laughing, which she does fairly easily. She is a practical girl, no great wit, but someone you would want on your side if anything ever went wrong.

So her body was of increased interest to both of us, and I was happy to see her confidence rise as she worked some neglected muscles, and her waist and hip size began to diminish.

It wasn't that hard then to turn conversation towards what I most wanted to discuss - marriage and desire and latent longings.

I asked Sharon more about her personal history, growing up in Friendship, what high school had been like, early boyfriends, her courtship with Rob (too short, although she saw it coming from way off), her wedding (too simple, too frugal, she would do it all different now, but of course their current finances were in a position she never could have dreamed about when they were twenty.)

We were sitting in her kitchen over a cup of coffee one January morning, kids off at school, husbands at work, the snow on her lawn and the bare tree limbs off the street visible out the window. Our talk had ranged widely.

I took a stab.

"So, how often do you and Rob make love?"

She gave me an odd look. Her dark eyebrows arched, her full-moon face was puzzled, surprised. This wasn't normal Indiana talk. I knew well enough that if you are going to ask personal questions of someone, you need to be able to reveal the same answers about yourself that you want from them.

"For Jim and me it is maybe just once a week. Sometimes longer apart. I wish it was more often." I said this a bit wistfully, but matter of fact, like I was talking about washing the windows.

Sharon laughed. "Just the opposite for me. Well not the opposite, it is about the same interval, but Rob is the one who wants it more often. If I were up for it, I think he would take me every other night." She looked at me evenly.

"Maybe it's more than once a week. It depends. Work, who is sick in the house, how tired we are, stuff like that. It's okay but it was more exciting when we were first married and no kids. Like forty pounds ago," she laughed.

I felt my way along. It was interesting. I ended up telling her what kinds of things I enjoyed doing to Jim, what I liked him to do to me. Her eyes got wide. I had to keep the descriptions all tamer than real life. Once I asked her if she had ever used a feather or some animal fur to tease Rob's penis. The look of amazement on her face told me that our marriages inhabited vastly different erotic domains. But I could tell I had captured her interest.

I didn't let the talk go on too far that time, turning the conversation to other things.

And then I waited. It wasn't too long, maybe a week or two, when she brought up the topic again.

"So is sex for you guys good? When you do it?"

It was my kitchen this time, at our wooden breakfast table by the window. She had put her coffee cup down, looked at me evenly.

Her wide brown eyes met mine, questioning, curious. "I know for us it was much better in the beginning, maybe the first couple years. 'Course we were younger then and plenty eager for loving. But both you and Jim are so fit and handsome."

It seemed like she thought looks might be the key to good sex, and I knew she was self-conscious about being big and overweight.

She regarded me closely. "You still look good in a swimsuit, Suzanne. Most of the rest of us can't say that. Jim's a lucky guy."

On one level I was pleased with this. I didn't fit the Midwestern body-type at all and while there was more of my body now than since my college days, my waist was relatively trim, unfortunately my legs less so. I am on the small side and that was fine. I knew that me and Jim, with his blue eyes, patchy beard and thin woodsman's build, made a decent looking couple, and that was gratifying.

And it was true that I still could get a thrill by just looking at Jim sometimes. His shy smile, sharp eyes, narrow build, the way he moved - any of those could remind me of just how much I was glad to be with him, and I would get a little rush of pleasure.

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