The Misadventures of Mrs. Taken Ch. 02

The sun had gone down and the night sky was decked out with stars and silvery moonlight, but it was still nine million degrees outside. The air was close and still, almost stifling and every bug had honed in on our spot beneath the trees. I had thought ahead and doused Claire and myself, covering every inch of us, with mosquito repellant. Claire was a good sport about the whole thing and possibly, just as eager as I was. I beat a path through the field, suffering scrapes from the sharp points of the cornstalks against my forearms. Claire was on my heels, toting the blanket I had snatched off my bed with her index finger hooked through my belt loops as she stumbled in the dark behind me.

I was beginning to think she had put her faith in the wrong guy and I had gotten us lost in the cornfield when I all but fell into the clearing. I didn't dare use a flashlight to guide our path out of fear someone would see it and come to investigate. The last thing I wanted was to get caught with my bare ass in the air by the sheriff or worse, by my buddies.

Mack would probably have sent us home, shamed and embarrassed, with a stern warning. I doubt he would have taken the time to arrest us for public indecency, too much paperwork. My buddies, however, would have never let us live it down and word would've eventually gotten back to Claire's dad. Even if we were consenting adults or not, I didn't think dear old dad would have minded shooting my ass full of buckshot. Sometimes, I still didn't think he'd mind it all that much.

We had both explored each other before, timid touches and brushes of fingertips, and embarrassed peeks at one another. She was shy. I was shy. I had never seen her naked before, but I was quite the connoisseur of Playboy magazine, interesting articles...fine literature...yeah, right. I liked to look, end of story. But, I had never seen a real naked woman before in my life. I knew what I was supposed to do. Insert tab A into slot B and shake things up a bit, but I'd never done IT before. I had a vivid imagination and I was going to do all those things to her that I had imagined in my mind's eye. Well, all those imaginings and carefully thought out plans didn't quite work out as well in practice as they had in theory.

I was a hot mess and I do mean hot. Sweat was dripping off the ends of my hair and into my eyes. Claire's skin was clammy and damp from the humidity. Our bodies stuck together. The ground was hard and the mosquitoes were relentless. I was nervous and excited all at the same time. I didn't dare take all my clothes off. I didn't try to get Claire out of that sundress either. Just in case we did get caught and had to make a run for it.

I really wondered how much planning she had put into things. She wore sleek little panties underneath her dress and between lifting up her skirt and untying the spaghetti straps, I made pretty short and awkward work of getting to all her important parts.

I had no idea what I was doing, absolutely no idea. Like every other teenager I had suffered the indignities of ninth grade sex-ed class. I had a rubber. I swear it took me twenty minutes to get the slippery thing out of the wrapper and another ten minutes to get it on. My hands were trembling and my heart, pounding. I was on the brink of becoming a man. I was about to have sex with the girl I loved. I was almost there and we hadn't even started yet.

I tried to be careful with Claire. I knew her first time would hurt. All the guys said so. I didn't hold much stock in the things my friends had to say about anything, but I believed them about that.

That was the only downside I could see to all of this. I would hurt her, but I was going to take care of my girl. I had a pocketful of napkins I had swiped from the Tastee-Freeze so things didn't get too messy. If her dad found out what we had been doing. If there was one shred of evidence. We were dead. Well, I was dead. Claire would probably be on her way to a convent or to her aunt's house in Paris, as in Paris, Illinois, not Paris, France.

I cupped her cheeks and fumbled my way into the sweet center of her. Claire tensed and gasped beneath me and I was torn between my guilt over hurting her and the shock of it feeling so good, so much better than I ever imagined in my wildest dreams. I tried all the tricks I had heard about from my wiser, more experienced friends. I thought about dead puppies and old women in spandex bikinis. Nothing worked. This locomotive was rolling downhill off the tracks and there was absolutely no stopping it. With a grunt and a shout and on the wings of about a thousand whispered urgent apologies for hurting her, a whole five minutes or less after it had began, I had my very first orgasm with anyone other than myself.

The whole thing seemed to take hours. Claire stared up at me with a bewildered expression on her face. I'd seen her with that same mix of confusion splayed on her features before. As if she were trying to hide her disappointment and biting back the one question no guy ever wants to hear after his first time.

Ok, so it wasn't violins and roses, like all girls think it should be. We were dripping sweat and mosquito repellant, covered in bug bites, and damn close to curfew. But, I was on cloud nine and my feet weren't touching the ground anytime soon. I'd make it up to her next time and I really, really wanted there to be a next time. I'd never tell a girl I loved her if I didn't mean it no matter if it meant I was going to spend the rest of my life masturbating in the shower alone or not. I cupped her cheeks between my sweating palms and planted a big sloppy kiss on her lips and the words came tumbling out. "I love ya', babe," I'd said and I meant it.

Claire surprised me. She smiled up at me and said, "I love you too." Right then and there I knew I was a gone man and I was determined to make her mine forever. At first, there were a lot of fumbling awkward couplings, in the cornfield, in the backseat of my car, and anywhere else we could find to be alone for a few minutes. We were voracious and went at it like bunnies. I'm proud to say. It did get better with practice.

The first time Claire came, I was beaming with pride and practically pounding my chest like Tarzan. I love to watch my wife come. I can count the changing expressions flittering across her face as her orgasm builds. When she gets close, she nibbles her bottom lip. Her cheeks flush bright red and she purses her lips into a tight little O right before the big moment hits. Her walls clench tightly and spasm, squeezing me harder and harder, until she falls apart. The noises she makes when she comes are music to a deaf man's ears. The sighs and gasps, the throaty groans of pleasure, and the rapid intake of breaths are a symphony that only I have the honor of hearing.

I love the way she tastes, the slickness of her juices coating my fingers, and her soft skin bare, warm, and naked against my body. I love her beneath me, on top of me, eye to eye with me, splayed out so ready and willing for me. I love to watch her take me into her mouth. I love to spread her wide and kiss her so deeply. I love marking her with my scent and my come. And I love the calm after the storm, the holding her and the lazy drifting off to sleep arm in arm. But, I can't give in. Even if it kills me, I can't go back on my word now.

If I kiss her on the lips, I'm done. My convictions will fade to dust. Any sex is good sex, but morning sex is the best. There is no better way to face the day than to enjoy a frantic coupling and racing against the clock to get each other off before the start of the daily grind.

I look forward to Sundays. Sundays are the only day of the week we don't have to rush. We can lounge around in the bed all morning and take our time going about reacquainting ourselves with each other's bodies. A random toss in the sheets during the week is nice, but Sundays are something special. We're both early risers, even on our day off together. I usually wake up first with Claire not that far behind me. My job on Sunday mornings is to get the coffee made and the cinnamon rolls in the oven while she showers and has her first cigarette of the day. After breakfast I take my shower and she cleans up the mess I made of her kitchen. And then it's love fest time.

It's not all sex on Sunday mornings, although sex is a big part of what we do. We also talk and cuddle and most importantly, block out the world at least for a few hours. We've had this same routine for years. Coffee. Cinnamon rolls. Sex. The week is still young. It's only Tuesday. I'm already aching for my wife. This weekend seems like a long way off.

I'd love nothing more than to roll over and bury myself deep inside of Claire this morning, just a little quickie to take the edge off and hold us over till Sunday. I can feel my convictions start to waver with the twitching of my too eager cock. But, I can't give in. Not if I want her to take me seriously.

The first step of modifying bad behavior is not to reward it. Realistically, one slip up, one cigarette is not the end of the world. It's not my fault Claire started smoking. When we met, she was already sneaking a puff or two. We were young and dumb and we indulged our habit, that one common ground between the both of us, together. My only part to play in her smoking was my own smoking and that it took me so long to realize the truth.

Back then smoking was the cool thing to do. Oh sure, everyone knew smoking would kill you...eventually. It was the eventually I never worried about until a year ago. Back then a sixteen year old could legally buy a pack of cigarettes and smoking was a way of making your way into the bigger, broader world of adulthood. Now days, I'm sure kids still smoke. But, it's no longer cool and that is something I'm glad for.

I give Claire a peck on the lips and pat her on the ass to rouse her. She spreads her legs wide to welcome me into that sweet spot I so long to be. She knows I know that she snuck out to smoke last night. This is a test. She's testing me to see if I'm as good as my word. My body adamantly says 'no' I'm not, but my mind is made up. I grit my teeth against my burgeoning erection and steel my resolve.

I remind her of the conversation we had last night and toss back the covers to get out of bed before my mind falls under the influence of my cock and all is lost. With a heavy sigh I try like hell not to notice the way Claire's nightgown has gotten twisted around her waist as she tossed and turned in her sleep. She may not be meaning to, but she's flashing me the only place on earth I want to be. Damn, do I want to be between her thighs, but I can't, no, I won't.

Claire is an evil temptress, stretching and yawning herself awake. Her breasts are full and the tips ripe beneath the sheer fabric of her nightgown. Seeing those erect nipples is almost enough to make me forget my vow. It was just one cigarette. Watching her legs part to reveal her pretty pussy has me swallowing hard and my sex drive rearing up like a stallion. I want her. I want her badly.

She wants me too. I can tell by the signals her body sends me. Little nuances she probably isn't even aware of. Like the way she's looking at me beneath the veil of her lashes, the way her back arches and her hips tilt toward me as if I'm a magnet and she is drawn toward me, the way she runs the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, her pert nipples pressing against her nightgown, and the way her thighs part, subtly and somewhat covertly to welcome me home. My own body responds in kind, my cock twitching and balls tightening against my groin, my heart speeding, and my determination dwindling.

I mumble something intelligible that sort of sounds like 'good morning' and shuffle off to the kitchen to get the coffee started. I don't mention the cigarette. I'm testing her too. I don't need her to confess. The deal is twenty-four hours. Even if she hadn't smoked last night, she would only be twelve hours into it. I don't know what time she snuck out, but I'm giving her benefit of the doubt. I'm starting the clock at midnight. It's a little after six.

Any smoker will tell you the first cigarette of the day is the most crucial. It's the first hit of nicotine in your lungs that gets you going and sets the world to rights. I'm wondering what she'll do. If she'll march past me and head out onto the back porch or if she'll try to pull a fast one over on me and wait until I've left for work before she lights up. Maybe, she'll put on a patch and start the awful task of quitting for good. I know it won't be easy for her. It wasn't easy for me and this won't be either. I'll be right there suffering with her.

I know I'm being an ass about the whole smoking thing. I feel guilty about it, but not guilty enough to give in. Claire is an adult and has every right to do whatever she wants. But, I wouldn't let her jump off a plane without a parachute. And in my way of thinking that's what her continuing to smoke is, jumping without a parachute and never knowing when she's going to hit the ground. There is nothing I wouldn't do for Claire. Nothing. And if my demanding her to quit will save her life, which it will, that's what I'm going to do.

We never part ways for the day without an 'I love you' and a goodbye kiss. Claire is clutching her coffee cup like her life depends on it. I plant a kiss on her cheek and head out the door. But, before I go, I give her praise for not stepping out on the back porch for a cigarette this morning and ask her if she's going to try it today. Begrudgingly she glances toward the backdoor and nods.

Maybe, she means it. Maybe, she doesn't. But, I have a feeling it's going to be a very long rest of the week and the days till Sunday are too many to count. I wonder if this Sunday will be the first one in years that we won't be snuggling under the covers. We may be making war instead of love and the thought of that leaves me cold.

Claire:

Foster is an ass. I am absolutely convinced my loving husband of nineteen years is the biggest asshole I have ever met. I skipped my morning cigarette and tried to content myself with just coffee instead. It was hard, almost bordering on hell. It was now noon and the shop was dead. I hadn't given in to my urge to smoke yet. I had snuck onto the back porch about two in the morning and lit up. I couldn't sleep and the tossing, turning, and counting sheep routine was getting a bit old. I thought a middle of the night cigarette would relax me enough to fall asleep. It did, till Foster woke me up at sixish hard, horny, and ready for a little quick loving.

I love it when Foster wakes up like that. I enjoy foreplay as much as the next girl, but sometimes there is nothing like skipping the preamble and having your man drive it home hard and fast. Maybe, it's the thrill of racing against the clock that does it for me. Even though sometimes, I don't get to the finish line in those mad dashes against time. Morning sex is the perfect way to start the day. I love sending Foster to work with a grin on his face and knowing not only did I make his entire damn day, but I rocked his whole world.

I didn't think he'd notice I had slipped out for a cigarette in the middle of the night. I was so careful, sucking on a breath mint afterwards and spritzing my nightgown down with perfume. I even sprayed some air freshener around the house before returning to bed. I should have saved myself the trouble. Foster smelled the stale smoke on me and declared the bedroom a love free zone much as he had deemed the house smoke free the year before.

What was I going to do? The urge to smoke is killing me. I'm twitchy, grouchy, and nothing else is working to take my mind off of the cigarettes buried in the bottom of my massive handbag. Thankfully, in the interest of public safety, the shop is empty today. I'd hate to bite some poor customer's head off because of my bad mood. I stuck a pack of nicotine gum in my pocket before heading out the door this morning. The stuff tastes terrible and it really isn't working. I'm on my millionth piece already and I still want a cigarette.

Right now, I'm tempted to say I hate Foster. I understand what he's trying to do, but I resent being treated like a child. I'm an adult and I can make up my mind about what's right or not right for me.

Our relationship has always been based on honesty. Sure, I've told a few white lies along the way. Sometimes fibbing or stretching the truth a bit is a necessity for a happy home. We aren't rich and on occasion I've had to rob Peter to pay Paul. That's just the way it goes. Sometimes a wife sacrifices for her husband and we could and did live without the new winter coat I had wanted, but had told him I didn't really want to get him the hunting rifle he had wanted instead. It was worth it to see him happy.

Foster has made plenty of sacrifices over the years for me too. My husband is sometimes just too good for his own good. He had quit smoking. He could have pocketed the extra cash for himself, but instead, he had bought me that coat. I think he even lied and said it was on discount. I knew better. Good leather never goes on sale and the coat set him back a pretty penny.

I couldn't lie to him about quitting smoking. First of all, he'd smell it on me. Secondly, it's hard to hide that big of a chunk of change missing from the checking account every week. Thirdly and my biggest reason of all, it's immoral to lie about a thing like that. I would not lie to trick him into bed. In fact, I admired his tenacity on the subject. And in a twisted kind of way that probably only made sense to Foster. He believed he was sacrificing for me yet again.

Standing here at the counter, watching the world pass me by and craving a cigarette so damn bad, I wished I had Foster's strength of will. Unfortunately, I don't. I want to smoke a cigarette, put this day behind me, and go home and fuck my husband into next week. I can't focus on anything. Not even the brain candy contemporary romance I traded in for the Bronte sisters can keep my attention today.

The clock is dragging and the minute hand seems frozen in place. Today, the shop will close at six in the evening. I might call my boss and see if she'll let me close down at five instead. I swept up every loose piece of hair on the floor I can reach with the broom. Dusted and straightened the shampoo bottles and hair products on display. Folded all the bills in the till into little dress shirts out of absolute boredom. And still nothing diverts me from wanting a cigarette.

Cigarette or sex, damn that's a hard choice to make right now. Any smoker will tell you when the craving hits there's almost nothing that puts it out of mind except for giving in and lighting up. A smoker will rationalize, sneak around, pout, and get down right testy if that particular itch remains unscratched for too long. I'm getting desperate. It's been hours, twelve to be exact, since I've smoked a cigarette. I've only got twelve more hours to go until I'm in the clear and released from the sexual sanctions Foster placed on me. Just twelve hours to go and I will have made it a whole day without smoking. Twelve hours isn't so very long. The hell it isn't. Right now Foster can stuff my bic and my pack of Marlboro reds where the sun doesn't shine. And I'd be more than happy to tell him that to his face if he were here.

I've got four hours to go till closing time and I'm not going to survive them without at least a puff or two off a cigarette. It's only one cigarette. One. Foster won't know. I'll perfume myself up good with some of the stinky cheap stuff my boss keeps in the display case. I'll douse my hair with hairspray and brush my teeth to oblivion to hide the smell. He won't know. I won't offer to tell him, if he doesn't ask and if he does ask, I won't deny it, but I don't have to necessarily admit to it either. I'll be cool and noncommittal. Yeah, that's it, exactly what I'll do.