tagErotic CouplingsThe Love You Make

The Love You Make


My co-worker Jim stopped by my desk one afternoon. "Hey, Chuck," he began, "I know how big a Beatles fan you are. I scored four tickets to the McCartney concert next month. You and Amy want to join us?"

"Oh, man, Jim -- absolutely! Wow! I really appreciate you thinking of us!"

"Hey, no problem! Pay me when you can, and we'll see you there!"

"Great! Man. . . thanks a lot!"


That was just like Jim, thinking about me while he was scoring some choice tickets for himself. He was a really good guy. But also a bit of a wild man. He and I are about the same age, and we came to work for the company at about the same time. I got married to my wife Amy pretty quickly after starting work, but Jim remained single -- he enjoyed his status as a 'swinging bachelor' too much to 'settle down'.

In the early days, Jim and I used to go on business trips together fairly often -- a few times a year, at any rate -- and traveling with Jim was always an adventure. One time, after we had dinner together, Jim invited me to go bar-hopping with him, but homebody that I was, I passed. A couple hours later, a knock came on my door. It was Jim, with two women -- two very well-endowed and provocatively-clad women -- inviting me to join them for some extra-curriculars in his room. "Come on, man," he urged, with a grin. "I promise I won't tell Amy." Tempting as it was, I still declined. And then I got to listen to Jim's threesome through the wall, punctuated with shrieks and groans and orgasmic wails, for the rest of the night.

But I sure appreciated him offering me the tickets, and I looked forward to being at the concert with him.


When I got home from work that evening, I told Amy about Jim's generosity, but she was less excited by it than I was.

"Oh," she said, "you know I'm not a huge Beatles fan like you are. I'll go with you if you want, but you'd probably have more fun with someone else. Why don't you ask Rob?"

Now, Rob is my best friend in all the world. We met each other as randomly-assigned dorm roommates when we were both college freshmen. Things just clicked between us, and we've been great friends ever since. When Amy and I got married, Rob was my best man. When Rob married his wife Stacy a year later, I returned the favor. And ever since, our families have been close. We even ended up living on the same block, and had our kids about the same time, too.

Rob, though, wasn't much more interested in the concert than Amy was. "You know who'd love to go with you, though?"


"Stacy. She actually saw the Beatles in concert when she 14."

I paused. Had I really heard my best friend suggest that I take his wife on a date to a McCartney concert?

"Really, Rob? You want me to take Stacy?"

"Sure! She'd love it! And the two of you would have a great time together. It's not like I'm gonna be jealous of you. I just look at it as my wife and my best friend having a good time together."

"OK!" I said. "But I should probably clear it with Amy first."

When I asked Amy, she was even more enthusiastic than Rob had been. "What a great idea!" she enthused. "The two of you will both love the concert, and you'll get to share it with someone who loves it, too! Go ahead -- take Stacy to the concert, and the two of you have fun!"

Okay, then; that was easy. When I finally offered the ticket to Stacy, asking her to accompany me to the concert, she was overjoyed. Instantly, she was jumping up and down and shrieking with joy. She jumped into my arms, even wrapping her legs around me as she thanked me, which put me in the slightly awkward position of holding my best friend's wife by her ass, while she pressed her groin against mine, with her husband and my wife standing there watching, and laughing at her reaction.


Stacy is a really neat lady, outgoing and bubbly. She's a perfect complement to Rob's more conservative ways. I knew as soon as she and Rob started dating, that they were a good match, and she'd do a good job of keeping him from getting too uptight.

At their wedding, Stacy wore a low-cut dress that displayed her décolletage very admirably. And, allow me to say, Stacy has magnificent tits. Not so huge as to be cartoonish, but they are big. Really big. I have often teased Rob (out of earshot of our wives) over his good fortune in marrying such a well-endowed woman. And he only ever grins in response. So I spent much of their wedding gazing appreciatively at the tops of her breasts as they bulged out of her dress, while Stacy smiled coyly at my attentiveness. I almost felt bad for the poor clergyman, who had to stammer out the vows and the ceremony, with Stacy's half-moons staring him full in the face. Perhaps he and his wife had some fun later that evening.

Just about every year since we've been married, we've gone on vacation together. They've got a cabin in the woods, on a lake, and we'll take the kids up -- we've got three, they've got four -- and just all cram into the cabin together. The kids sleep in an open loft, and there are two bedrooms on the main floor, for the parents. It's a lovely setting, serene and relaxing, and we always come home refreshed.

Of course, there was always the question of what to do with the kids, vis-à-vis the sex lives of their parents, especially once the kids got old enough to stay up late. The four of us worked out a system -- every day, one of the couples would take the kids on a 'nature walk' for an hour or so, so the other couple could have some 'conjugal time'. That way, in the course of a week, each couple could have sex together at least three times. Amy and I would always make a joke of cutting our walks just a little bit short, to try to catch Rob and Stacy still 'in the throes', and listen in on their final orgasmic groans. It was really just harmless fun, and we only 'caught' them a few times. But it always turned Amy and me on a little extra, when we did. I don't know if they ever did the same to us. . .


The day of the concert finally arrived. Amy went with me to Rob and Stacy's house, to see us off, then she and Rob were going to grill out for dinner, with the kids, who by that time were all teenagers. It was about an hour's drive to the arena, and we aimed to get there pretty much when the doors opened, so we wouldn't have to rush around trying to find our seats at the last minute. We waved to Rob and Amy and the kids as we pulled the minivan out of the driveway, and we were on our way (I chuckled to myself at the idea of going to a rock concert in a minivan, but whatcha gonna do?)

During the drive down, we talked excitedly about the concert, and what we anticipated it would be like -- which songs would he play? What would the crowd be like? Stacy regaled me with stories from the time she saw the Beatles, when she was 14, and I told her about seeing Wings when I was in college.

Stacy was looking good -- she wore a pale yellow scoop-neck T-shirt that brought back memories of her wedding dress, at least in terms of the view of her cleavage it afforded me; and it was tight enough to give a really nice presentation of her biggest and best assets. She also wore some jean shorts that showed her legs and ass to nice advantage, without being overly provocative (but just provocative enough). Being very happily married to Amy, I wasn't in the habit of checking out other women in very great detail, but I had to admit -- for a 40-something woman, Stacy still looked really good.

When we got to the arena, I parked the minivan in a far corner of the parking lot, shaded by some trees. Then we walked across the parking lot, handed our tickets to the usher at the door, and went in to find our seats. The atmosphere in the arena was like Stacy and me, times 20,000 -- everyone in the building was buzzing with excited energy. When we found our seats, Jim and his date Debbie were already there. We had great seats -- on the floor, maybe fifteen rows from the stage. Leave it to Jim to get the best seats I'd ever had for a concert. It was still nearly two hours before the concert was to start, so we settled into our seats and just relaxed into the pre-concert ambience.

Jim looked at me strangely, and I realized that it must look odd to him for me to have a date who wasn't Amy, so I explained the whole scenario to him. "Cool," he said. Then, he introduced himself to Stacy, saying, "This is gonna be a great concert."

Stacy nodded eagerly in reply. "Thanks for getting the tickets," she said.

Jim's date Debbie was short, blond and vivacious, and at least ten years younger than the rest of us. In short, she was Jim's 'type'. She had a nice pair of tits all by herself, which were only restrained by a thin T-shirt, through which I could make out the shadows of her areolae. Her tight, round ass was wrapped in a pair of jogging shorts, from which her lithe, firm legs stretched down to the floor. I figured I was going to enjoy sharing the concert with her, too.

Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag with four joints in it. He looked questioningly at Stacy and me.

It had been a long time since I'd last gotten high -- certainly since before I had kids, probably even before Amy and I got married. But it was a McCartney concert, after all, and nostalgia -- especially 60s nostalgia -- was a big part of the fun of it. I turned to Stacy and raised a questioning eyebrow.

She was grinning. "Thanks!" she said, as she accepted the proffered joints. "I haven't toked up in years," she said. "This'll really take me back, I'm sure! I was quite the pot-smoker in my college days, you know."

I grinned at Jim and shrugged. "Thanks," I said.

"This is some pretty strong stuff," he said. "Enjoy!"

As we lit our joints and began to savor the sweet, aromatic smoke, I almost immediately settled into a mellow, happy buzz. I hadn't been stoned in many a year, so maybe I was more of a lightweight than I used to be, but as far as I was concerned, Jim's appraisal of the quality of the weed was absolutely accurate.

Stacy agreed. "Oh, man, this is good stuff," she enthused. "Rob would throw a fit if he knew I was smoking weed, but I remember this feeling. . . You won't tell him, will you?"

"Your secret's safe with me," I assured her. "Although," I chuckled, "I don't know that he'd be any happier with me, knowing that I was toking up with you." We both lapsed into a momentary fit of giggling. Once our joints were burned down to tiny roaches, we settled into our seats to savor the mellow buzz.

Stacy stood abruptly. Grabbing her purse, she headed up the aisle stairs. "I'll be right back," she called over her shoulder. "I've got to use the bathroom."

"Hurry back," I called after her.

When Stacy returned, my eyes nearly fell out of my head. I don't know what else she may have done while she was in the bathroom, but she had clearly removed her bra. Her large, full tits bounced and jiggled freely, and her nipples raised little bumps in the fabric. She giggled as she showed me her purse, with the bra tucked inside, as confirmation. "If Debbie can go without her bra tonight, so can I! Besides," she chuckled, "If we're gonna go back to the 60s tonight, I want to go ALL the way back, and FEEL like we're in the 60s. You don't mind, do you?

"Uh, no -- not at all," I responded, trying to be just a little bit subtle about enjoying the view of her bounteous tits. "I'm glad you're having a good time."

"The night is young, Chuck. We're just getting started."

I had never seen Stacy like this -- she was bouncing like a giddy schoolgirl, and her tits were bouncing along with her. As far as I'd ever known her, she was every bit the proper wife and mother. Perhaps her youth had been a bit wilder than I'd known.

Jim shot me a quizzical glance, like 'this is your buddy's wife?' Or, 'are you the same guy who turned down an orgy back in the day?' I just shrugged and smiled.


Finally, Paul and the band took the stage. They began with 'Hello, Goodbye' -- "You say goodbye, and I say hello" -- which, I thought, was just about the perfect opening number. And after that, the show was on, and all the old familiar tunes that I'd grown up singing, filled the arena. With one ear, I heard the band; with the other, I heard the crowd singing along. Between the music and the mellow buzz of the weed, I was being transported back in time.

"Close your eyes and I'll kiss you. . ." McCartney sang, and the audience shrieked with recognition. I turned to look at Stacy, and she had turned toward me, her head leaned back and her eyes closed, her lips pursed, asking to be kissed. I smiled; she really was getting into this. So, playing along, I bent down to kiss her.

"I'll pretend that I'm kissing the lips I am missing. . ." I thought of Amy, back home with the kids. Maybe if I just pretend that I'm kissing Amy. . .

But once my lips touched hers, Stacy threw her arms around my neck and kissed me passionately, her tongue probing inside my mouth, searching for my tongue, intertwining with it. For a second, I was taken aback, but then, in my own buzz, I gave in and returned her kiss in kind. For the rest of the song, we kissed and held each other passionately.

"Thank you," Stacy breathed, once the song had finished.

"Uh, no. . . thank YOU!" I replied.

"Helter skelter! . . ."

When the band jumped into the frenzied opening chords, the crowd went wild, jumping to its feet, bouncing up and down. Both Debbie and Stacy were happily bouncing in place, their tits flopping up and down as they did.

Suddenly, Debbie reached down, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and raised it over her head, flashing her tits to the band, swaying back and forth as her fully-tanned breasts, tipped with reddish-brown nipples, leapt and bounced. For an instant, Paul seemed to make eye contact with her from the stage, and shoot her a wink.

When Debbie had replaced her shirt, she turned to Stacy. "Come on, Stacy!" she urged the older woman. "Show him your tits!" Stacy demurred, but Debbie persisted. "Come on, you can do it! It's fun! And the guys will love it!"

Stacy flushed red, then grinned to herself. "Oh, what the hell. . ." she said, and raised the hem of her shirt over her head as Debbie had done. For several seconds, I watched the most amazing tits I'd ever seen bouncing and jiggling in time to the beat, swaying now in one direction, now in another, dancing and jumping crazily. When she finally put her shirt back down, I could swear that Paul, from the stage, winked at her, and gave her a thumbs-up.

"Oh my god!" Stacy shrieked. "He gave me a thumbs-up! Paul McCartney likes my tits!" She turned and kissed me deeply, grinding her pelvis against mine. This was turning into a VERY memorable night. . .

"Only my love does it good to me. . ."

For the quieter love ballads, we sat back down in our seats. The whole ambience of the concert (and maybe the marijuana fog that was now filling the arena almost as much as our own heads; evidently Jim wasn't the only one who'd had that idea) was carrying us back to the days of our youth, and the days of our sexual awakening, when everything was happening to us for the first time. In the mellow, romantic mood, I slipped my arm around Stacy's shoulder. But it wasn't there long before Stacy took hold of it and dragged it down to her breast.

Holy shit! For years and years, I had admired Stacy's tits from afar, since I had a wife, and she had a husband. But suddenly, lost in the time warp of the concert, she was letting me, no wanting me to feel them, and savor their full richness, and the firm heft of them. I leaned in to whisper in her ear.

"You know, I have always admired your breasts."

"I know," she said, with a shy, but knowing smile. "Thank you. I think they like you, too."

So I abandoned myself to savoring the magnificence of Stacy's tits. I kneaded, I caressed, I fondled her wonderful fleshy globes. And they were wonderful. I reached under the hem of her shirt, to feel them directly, and I nearly passed out from the sensation of her soft, smooth skin. I played with her nipples, which caused her to moan softly. And we kissed again.

"Only my love holds the other key. . ."

My cock was rapidly stiffening in my shorts as I luxuriated in Stacy's incredible breasts. My breathing became heavier as my arousal grew. I had now completely passed from the realms of rational thought, and any concern for real life. There was only this moment, transported back in time, and Stacy, and our mutual, forbidden explorations of each other's bodies. As we continued making out, Stacy rested her hand on the bulge in my shorts, causing me to groan with excitement. Slowly, I rocked my groin against her hand, and soon she was softly stroking me, tracing my length and thickness through my shorts.

"Mmmmmm," she purred. "It seems you've got my other key right here. . ."

I could only groan in response.

"And," she continued, in a husky whisper, "I've got your keyhole."

"So let it out and let it in. . ."

Stacy and I were standing, along with everybody else, for the climactic sing-along to 'Hey Jude'. As we broke into the endless string of 'na-na's', and the various permutations that Paul had us in -- one side of the arena and then the other, first the men and then the women -- I suddenly became aware that Jim and Debbie weren't standing along with the rest of us. I looked over, and there they were -- Jim was in his seat, his head rolled back and his shorts around his ankles, while Debbie sat astride his lap fucking him, riding his cock for all she was worth. Up and down, back and forth, in and out, she rode him furiously, crying out her ecstasy completely without abandon. The audience immediately around them began cheering and encouraging the two of them, while the rest of the arena continued singing, "nah-nah-nah-nah-nanana-nahhhh", and they even managed to sync their mutual climax to the band bringing the song to a swirling, soaring climax of its own. As the crowd cheered the band, Jim and Debbie sat, gasping and panting in recovery from their orgasms, giving a thumbs-up to the cheering crowd around them as they hurriedly put their shorts back on.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. . ."

The final words of the final song found Stacy in my arms with her back to me, both of us facing the stage. I had one hand under her shirt, feeling and stroking her tits, and tweaking her nipples. The other hand was down the front of her shorts as we dreamily swayed to the music. I ran my fingers through her thick, curly pubic hair, and reached further down, to trace along her slit, while my knuckle rubbed against her clit. Probing inside her vagina with my fingertip, I found her dripping wet with arousal, and I began to grind my hips against her backside.

"I want you, Chuck," she panted. "I want to feel your cock inside me. Will you fuck me tonight?"

"Oh, god yes, Stacy; I would love to. . ."

"I'm gonna do it to ya, sweet banana, like you've never been done. . ."

The words of the final encore were still fresh in our ears, as we left the arena, waving and saying our goodbyes to Jim and Debbie. We were already breathing heavily as we hurried across the parking lot to where the minivan was parked. I tore open the sliding door, and we jumped inside. As it happened, I had taken the rear seats out earlier in the day, to haul some items for a project, so the entire rear floor was available to Stacy and me. I closed the slider, and instantly we were tearing each other's clothes off, our minds still swirling in the dope-fogged, time-warped alternate universe of the concert.

When we were both naked, I flipped around and got us into a 69 position, with Stacy on top of me. Hungrily, she took my cock in her mouth, licking and slurping on it, caressing my balls with her free hand, while I ravished her pussy with my tongue, relishing the savory spices of her dripping cunt. Eagerly, I slurped along her pussy-lips, probing inside her with my tongue, while she sucked my cock. Soon, she pulled her face off my cock and sat up on my face as I rummaged her clit with broad strokes of my tongue. She gasped and panted in her approaching orgasm, squirming and writhing on my face, which was becoming soaked with her pussy-juice.

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