Passion , Perspective Ch. 22-23
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
This is a novel of twenty-five chapters. I suggest you begin reading at Chapter 1. The novel deals with hotwifeing and cuckoldry. If those are subjects you aren’t interested in, you may reconsider reading this.
Please read my statement regarding anonymous comments in my biography.
A Tuesday night, Amy was off with her husband extending a long Labor Day weekend, I got home from work around my usual time. Molly’s car was in the garage, there was a car I didn’t recognize parked on the opposite side of the street; the neighbors must be having company.
At the kitchen island I picked up the mail, started checking the envelopes when I became aware of a strange, creaking vibration. As I listened for it, I heard from a distance low moans, some of them my wife’s, and unintelligible voices. I investigated, in the hall outside the master bedroom were fragments of clothing scattered: a blouse, a skirt, a shirt, a bra. The vibration was louder now, the creaking of the bed springs, the moans came from Molly’s throat, they were interspersed with a man’s voice, “You like that, don’t you? You want it bad, don’t you?”
The bedroom door was cracked six inches, by standing next to the wall I could make out the pair on the bed, Molly on her back, her knees pointed to the ceiling fan, a gentleman above her, it was more than obvious his penis was prodding her heartland. I didn’t recognize him, he wasn’t Mark, or Nick, or any of our other playmates, grey hair, large pink butt. What was my wife up to? Not that I minded, my own erection grew as I watched the lovers cavort, Molly seemed in the throes, the man was close, and then he let loose, a call that would have been appropriate in a zoo escaping from his gut.
I was in a quandary, should I leave them be, just slink into the office, close the door and wait for them to finish? And yet, the scene seemed to me an invitation, Molly certainly knew that I was coming home, we’d talked about it at breakfast, if she wanted privacy wouldn’t she have made sure the door was shut?
I decided to enter, the man was gasping for air after his come, his face turned from me, Molly gazed at me merrily, a finger raised to her mouth, beckoning me to play along. “Don!” she screamed, “what are you doing home? You were supposed to be working late!”
The man’s head twisted, caught my visage, he cried, “Oh, my god!” his face turned an intense shade of persimmon.He scrambled off my wife and the bed to the point furthest from me and defended, “We can explain!”
Molly covered herself with the sheet, in the process I saw a laugh cover her face only to be replaced with a mock scowl, some sort of game was going on here, I sensed I should collaborate. “Well, go ahead!” I answered the man’s suggestion, “Let me hear what you’ve got to say.”
“Its . . . I mean . . . we . . .” he stammered, trying to put his underpants and trousers on. Of course there was only one explanation, and although I and Molly were quite comfortable with it, he apparently wasn’t. Then she broke in, “Don, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . . listen, could you just go into the office, let Jack get out of here.”
I pasted an insincere frown on, allowed, “Well, there better be a good reason for this!” I turned, headed down the hall, and when the office door was closed, I let myself have a good, if silent, laugh. I heard the voices, his panicked, her’s mercurial and suggesting he leave quickly before a scene erupted. In a few moments I heard the front door open and through the window I saw him scamper across the lawn to his car, fumble with the keys and drive unsafely down our block.
I found Molly in the den, a short, thin robe disguising her recently screwed frame. “Drink?” she asked.
“Sure. Vodka tonic?” She mixed our beverages, and waited for me to ask, “Okay, what the hell was that?”
“You’ve said you wanted to catch me in bed with someone. Now you have. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah, it was fun. Who is he?”
“Jack. I met him at the grocery store, he flirted with me in frozen foods, then invited me out for a drink. It was the old line, his wife doesn’t satisfy him anymore, I’m the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, blah, blah, blah. I let beylikdüzü escort him play his game for a few weeks, since he’s vanilla I didn’t tell him about us. I thought about telling you about him, asking if it was okay, then I remembered how you’ve always wanted to catch me.”
“Was this the first time?”
“No, I didn’t think it would be fair to him, I’m pretty sure he’s never strayed before, so last week I let him get a hotel, we shagged for a couple of hours. Then I told him I could meet him here an hour before you got home, told him you were staying late at the office. He went for it, and you saw the rest. How long did you watch?”
“Five minutes, maybe. I didn’t want to barge in just at the right time, so I waited until you guys were done. That was a pretty good act you went into.”
“I had it planned out,” she admitted.
“Going to see him again?”
“No, I’ll tell him you’re really pissed and that if he ever catches you around in the neighborhood you’re likely to knock his block off. He isn’t that good, this’ll give him something to think about, maybe he’ll treat his wife better.”
We laughed about it for a little while, before dinner I had my ass in exactly the same place Jack had his, it became a private joke with us.
It was late, very late, on a Friday night, Nick and Bobbie and Molly and I were yawning around the coffee table, recent participants in a pleasurable tryst. My alter ego observed the scene, wondering at the lack of zeal. Oh, the four of us had squirmed and prodded, Bobbie had been delighted in the manner of which I’d draped her over the arm of a couch, sticking it to her with confidence and aptitude, she’d orgasmed pleasantly and a few minutes later I’d let myself have the indulgence of oozing, but the whole act had been, for me, a simple movement, no more important than the insipid adaptation of a superb novel we’d seen on the big screen earlier.
I hid my emotions from my partners of course, it wouldn’t do for them to realize my other lover was a level or three above them. Earlier in the week, for example, Amy had brought a tube of extravagant massage oil. We’d slathered it all over each other, and when Amy had realized I was enjoying the attention to my rear end, she’d lingered there, dipping an oiled finger inside to massage my prostrate while she took my manhood into my mouth. I wanted to orgasm into her mouth, but sensing my imminent release, she clamped my testicles, denying me the intensity, and then rolled on her stomach, playing with her own ass, knowing I’d get the idea. Her anus became my playground, I enticed it with finger, and tongue, and then, while she begged, I penetrated her. She screamed as I pelted the alternative wellspring, pushed back to me so I could enter as deeply as I dared, and when I steamed into her, the tightness of her rectum enhanced my orgasm, I was completely drained.
No, this group of four I was in could no more match that mountaintop than a hamster could discover nuclear science. They simply had not a clue.
Amy and I had been seeing each other for a bit over two months, almost weekly, sometimes if the stars aligned properly we’d bump into each other for a hour, two, and those unplanned experiments were, in a fortuitous coincidence, the loveliest of all.
Our ‘regular’ tete-a-tetes normally consisted of a meal, none so heavy as the French feast we’d engorged, then a visit to a local hotel where we’d destroy the bedclothes and each other. After that first planned experience in my home we understood it wasn’t the proper locale for complete abandon – Amy felt it necessary to restrict her bellows, I continually listened for any sign of my wife’s interference, even if I knew she was supportive of my huddle. And Amy felt that any movement towards using her home would cause confusion in her husband, he might misunderstand it to include an invitation to join our play. As a result, we decided a hotel was the optimal berth for our affair, we became practiced at using Priceline.
That isn’t to say that if the stars aligned, beyoğlu escort if a spouse went missing for an afternoon or evening and the other had a way of escaping his or her duties, that we wouldn’t sneak into one home or another and spend a delicious hour in the art, a little voice whispering ‘danger’ in our hearts, making our erotic dance the more lustful.
It was a wonderful affair!
One night it happened that we were lying together on a king-sized mattress in a beige colored room, an amorphous work of ‘art’ on the wall, the pillows decorating the rug, our torsos collapsed and heaving.
“I was thinking,” I began.
“And here I thought it was simple inspiration,” she joked. “Where did you come up with that position?”
“I’m a student of Kama Sutra. Got my black belt a couple years back.”
“They have black belts in those?”
“Maybe it was a merit badge. Well, anyway, I read about this resort on the coast of Central America. There’s only six bungalows, each one has it’s own butler and cook, a beach a mile long, no one gives a damn if you wear clothes or not. We should go there for a week.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely,” she agreed. “We could sun ourselves during the day, make love on the beach, in the ocean, and then at night we’d get our servant to make us our favorite dishes and then we’d listen to the night birds under our net, we’d never have to worry about a thing.”
We discussed the locale, dreamed of it’s possibilities, and in the dream we resurrected our desire.
The next week I met her at the hotel, I had prepared a picnic, wine and cheeses and fruits, and after a spate of rapture, I opened my laptop and showed her the haven. “We could hit the airport for a 7:35 flight, connect in Atlanta, land at noon, we can take a helicopter to the resort, by two we’d be on the beach.” I showed her photo galleries of the resort, complete with cost estimates, itineraries, the travel documents we’d need. “You’ve got a passport, don’t you?” I asked.
She hesitated, seemed to ponder where she kept it, then responded, “You thought this all out, didn’t you? Like there was really a chance it might happen. Oh, I’d love to go away with you, but I can’t leave Luke for a week. He’d never let me go, not for that long. Have you talked to Molly about this? Would she let me take you away?”
“I’m pretty sure she’d be okay with it.”
“Really? If you were my husband, I wouldn’t be. I wish we could make this happen, I really do, but you can see that it’s just impossible, don’t you? Not a week. No. Maybe I could talk him into a night, or even a weekend, maybe. I’d have to get him at just the right moment, even then I’m not absolutely sure of it.”
We dropped the subject then, painfully, and pressed against each other, but the emotion simply didn’t return that evening, we parted forty-five minutes later.
The next week at the Marriott, I was ready with the alternative I’d researched, a luxury B&B, we’d leave on a Friday, I’d have her back by Sunday evening. She listened until I wrapped it up with a summary of the plans and a plea. “Please think about this, I think I need it, a weekend away with you, I’m in love with you!”
Her face dropped in amazement, even fury. “What? Did you say you love me?”
“I do,” I reiterated, “From the first moment I saw you I was in love with you, I know you feel the same way.”
She started to put her clothes on, gather her things. “Don, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t mislead you somehow. You know this was never about that. I mean, you’re a wonderful guy, and you’re the best lover I’ve ever had, but this started out as just sex. I love Luke, I always will. And you love Molly. Think of the years you’ve spent with her, of the commitment you’ve made to her. You need to think about this, very hard.”
As she was walking to the door, I asked, “Does that mean we’re not going away this weekend?”
She called me Monday of the next week, asked to meet at a strip mall coffee shop, and when I arrived she revealed, “Don, I told Luke about what you said, and he wants me to stop seeing you, at least for bizimkent escort awhile, and I agree with him. I’m going to miss what we had, it was great. But we’re not going to see each other anymore.”
“Never?” As she expected, I was devastated.
“Not for a good while at least. I got Luke to agree that maybe, after a few months, we’d see where we are. He understands that you turn me on like nobody else ever has, and he’s fine with that. He just wants to make sure you know it’s just sex.” She rose, gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself. If you want, call me after the holidays. I’ll always remember you.”
I watched her walk out of the cafe, I saw her enter the right side of her sedan. As it pulled away, I could see Luke driving.
I drove around for awhile, looking for vistas of rivers and the bay. After dark, I found myself drinking at the Marriott bar, thinking of what this edifice had meant to me, how it had changed my life, intensified it and then destroyed it.
The next morning, the alarm clock sounded in my bedroom, Molly spun to hit the snooze button. I groaned from the chore of waking, then the shock of my new life without Amy hit, I felt the churning in my stomach, the sharp headache. This couldn’t be a hangover, I’d been fairly good, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, only three beers at the bar over a period of two and a half hours before I finally gave up, headed home to find Molly asleep. Then the churns migrated to something more, I flew to the bathroom and retched.
I couldn’t stop, Molly got me a wet washrag, held my back as I fed the toilet. Twenty minutes later, when I’d apparently hit a resting place, Molly handed me a tumbler of water, asked if I was all right. I waved her away, she headed to the guest bathroom for her morning shower.
“You should stay home today, I hear the bug is going around.”
“This one’s evil,” I sweated.
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
I really didn’t, I wanted to be alone in my misery, physical and mental. “No, I’ll be fine, I’ve had the flu before.”
I spent the day commuting between the bathroom and the bed, where I turned Netflix on and watched a season of a sitcom that didn’t particularly amuse me. When I wasn’t too sick to think, my rumination was of Amy. How could she be so stupid, to throw away this wonderful love we had, how could I possibly live without her? I thought about texting her an evil message, couldn’t find the strength to hit send. A slice of toast I forced myself to swallow became hideous in my stomach, I disgorged it quickly. Molly called twice, ensuring I didn’t need to head for the emergency room.
That evening she made me chicken soup out of a packet, a sick meal I remembered from my childhood, I drank half the broth, it stayed down, I slept as if drugged.
The next morning I felt somewhat better, but I hid my resurgence from my wife, told her I was still too sick to work, the day was spent worrying about how my life was going to continue now that I no longer had the love of my life. I sent her three text messages, apologizing, cajoling, she returned only one, ‘stop it don’t contact me again’. I was showered and somewhat better that evening, Molly made a salad and soup, I wasn’t hungry but managed to keep a cup down.
For a week to ten days I moped, Molly assumed it was a hangover from the malady, I couldn’t tell her that Amy had broken up with me. A couple of times I drove past Amy’s house, looked for any sign of my lover, suggested by text we should meet at the Marriott, my plea was ignored.
A fortnight after Amy’s devilish decision, I picked myself up, took a long walk, decided that if she was going to act that way, I didn’t need her.
I took up jogging, first a half mile a day, eventually making it through a two-mile loop. Molly wondered at the twelve pounds I lost, Bobbie teased that she didn’t have an inner tube to hold on to anymore. By the time of the Superbowl, although every once in awhile an image of Amy’s smile, blond hair or wonderful breasts would flash through my brain, I was over her. I began to appreciate the physical charms of my wife again, I participated with pleasure in a threesome with Mark, when we got together with Bobbie and Nick I gave every bit as good as I got.
I sent Amy an Easter card, funny, and in the enclosed note I apologized for my dereliction, told her how much fun I’d had, admitted that I would miss her charms but understood her points, she had no need to fear I’d bother her in the future.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32