Marissa didn’t seem to be in any rush. But while we didn’t discuss it, she would keep on teasing me, telling me things like how she occasionally had lunch with him, something she’d never done before this whole possibility of being with him had come up.
She’d drop in little details, like how his new office would still be close enough for them to see each other for lunch whenever they felt like it. Or, how thanks to his new job, he’d managed to get an apartment a couple blocks from West North Ave that was on her way home from work, and not actually very far from our place.
In bed, we might not have sex, but she’d wind me up as we were settling down ready for sleep by reading her little quotes from Cosmo or Vogue or whatever else adorned her bedside.
“It says this comprehensive new study proves the assumption that women are biologically programmed to be monogamous is a myth…”
“Is that right?”
“…and women’s sexual desires are actually a lot more wild than men’s.”
Or:
“So apparently for a woman to have regular sex with more than one man actually makes her likely to live longer…”
“Seriously?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Is that regular sex with more than one man separately, or more than one man at the same time?”
“I’m not sure, actually. It doesn’t really say. Maybe they need more research on that. I wonder where I could sign up…”
The teasing got so regular, though, I think I adjusted. I was able to relax, let the feverish excitement sink in over the possibility of my Marissa actually crossing the line to toy with the idea of liberating her sweet sexuality with her intern. That buzz was ever-present, I just managed to cope so it did not actively disrupt my life.
Even by Daryl’s last day at Marissa’s firm, I was wondering what her strategy might be — firstly, if she would really go for this, or if she’d been merely teasing me about it, and secondly whether she would pursue a long, slow seduction or go for a quick explosive fling.
That day, I knew she’d be home late, that they were all going out to dinner to celebrate Daryl’s final day and his new job.
Getting home from my own office as usual, around 7pm, I found myself knocking around our townhouse hoping that Marissa might be flirting with him, and that she’d have some quiet moment during dinner to arrange a first date with him, or whichever way she was going to continue to see him once he was no longer bound by the firm’s sexual harassment policy.
At 9pm, she sent me a text to let me know they were all hitting a bar after dinner, and that she’d probably be home later than she’d thought.
That was fine. I felt my heart rate picking up a little, hoping that a little alcohol in her system would definitely spur on the coquette inside her, that it would make the prospect of her arranging something with Daryl more likely.
Then at 11pm, she sent me a text saying:
>Everyone else has gone home because they’re all worried it’s a weeknight, but I think Daryl should get a proper send-off. Staying out for a few more drinks.
My heart thumping against my chest, I sent a text back saying:
>Stay out as long as you want, honey. Have fun, you know I approve xxx
I paused before I hit the “send” button — it was one thing to talk about this fantasy amongst ourselves, and maybe tease her about allowing her to sleep with other guys, but quite another to be giving her a clear signal while she was actually out in a bar alone with someone she couldn’t stop thinking about — and affected by alcohol, too.
But I was all ablaze, adrenalin flooding my system, and I was even semi-hard as I finally pressed that button, giving her the go-ahead.
I assumed she would have a little fun flirting with the guy, and when they were ready to go, they might even swap phone numbers so they could talk about meeting up again.
An hour later, after some considerable palpitations for myself, I received her next text message:
>Are you sure you’re really okay with this, sweetie?
It gave me quite a shock. At that point I’d been lying up in bed, watching CNN, but not really being able to focus on many of the stories. Yet despite feeling the cold tendrils of fear now snaking their way around my chest, I was also fizzing with excitement — and as soon as that text came in, I was hard once again.
What did she mean? Was she asking me if it was okay that she was out late at night alone with her handsome ex-intern? Or was she hinting that they were already doing something, asking whether I was okay that things were beginning to happen between them?
Oh, but the thought of her being unable to hold her sexual cravings back, of her pupils dilating, her cheeks flushing, her nipples stiffening, her pussy dripping at the inappropriate attention of a man who was not her husband… it was irresistible.
I replied:
>Of course I’m really okay with it, honey, I love that you’re having a little naughty fun. Just wish I could be there to see it. Did anything happen already?
I sat and waited for her come-back. I was in two minds as to what I hoped had actually happened: part of me seriously wished that she’d already done something — maybe she’d snuck out with him for a quickie in a nearby park, or the stall of the restroom or something. The other part of me wanted desperately to witness any real crossing of the line, to be there with her to see how turned on she was by the whole thing.
>He kissed me, and I told him again I’m married. He asked if I talked to you about this, that he thought maybe I had, which was why I was allowed to stay out this late with him.
I prompted her with a text asking what she’d said to that.
>I said I’d told you everything, and you like the idea of me being naughty with him or whoever. I guess I’m just not absolutely certain this is what you really want.
I felt like if I didn’t calm down just then, I might have a stroke or something. Deep breaths, that was the key, deep breaths.
I replied:
>If it’s what YOU really want, then it’s what I really want. Just make sure if anything happens, you use protection.
Jesus. Had I really just advised my wife to use a condom when she fucked another man?
It was electrifying.
Then she responded:
>If anything happens, I want you to be with me
Well, that both calmed me down and yet also fired up the thrill factor in a new way. She really did seem to be serious about this — but from what she said, if she took that step over the boundary from fantasy into reality, she wanted me there.
I think that reassured me about just how important I was to her, and our marriage.
It was a little unlike her to be even going this far, I had to admit, but I liked it.
I sent something back to her along the lines of great, sounds good to me, have fun my darling. Then I was actually able, thanks to her promise not to leave me out, to settle down and slip off to sleep.
It was much later — I’m not entirely sure what time — that I was shaken from my sleep to find Marissa there, still in her business clothes, an urgent expression on her face.
“Hey, honey…” I said, sleepy as hell, “you have fun?”
She looked at me, her eyes sharp, sober. “He’s here,” she said, holding up a box of condoms they must have purchased on the way home.
Jesus.
5
I was quite suddenly fully awake at that. I heard the sound of the shower running in our en suite — and it appeared that someone was in there, it wasn’t just an empty shower stall with the water pattering down on the tiles.
I felt butterflies stirred up in my stomach, my heart begin to shiver.
My cock rock hard underneath the bedsheets.
“You brought him home?” I asked, my conservative brain instantly reaching for explanations, that they were both too drunk to drive, but it would be way too expensive for Daryl to take a taxi all the way out to his home.
“I want him,” she said, fire
in her eyes.
“And I get to see?”
I didn’t question her want, I shared it. Even though it was the middle of the night, the middle of the week. God, how many chances did a guy get for this to happen?
She looked gorgeous in her business attire, her pupils enlarged by alcohol, her pale cheeks flushed gentle pink. I wanted to see her excited, I wanted to see her aroused, I wanted to see her fulfilling her desires, using a guy for sex. I wanted to see it all from a different perspective to anything I’d ever experienced before.
But at the same time, I was suddenly terrified about what might happen.
“He’s okay with it,” she said.
“He’s in the shower?”
“He is,” she smiled, a mischievous, hesitant yet lust-filled smile that turned me on like nothing else.
She took off her jacket, and I couldn’t help but gape at how she’d unfastened the top few buttons of her white shirt to reveal her cleavage to her new admirer and even a hint of her white lace bra.
“You’re really ready for this?” I asked.
She nodded. “The question should be, are you really ready for this?”
I had to smile, and conceal the raging storm inside my chest. “Totally ready.”
She smiled back, stroked her hair back behind her ear, pointing out to me that she’d taken it down at some point in the evening, no doubt as she got more comfortable with her suitor.
She moved her legs, the soft sound of nylon rubbing against nylon as she stirred, leading my eyes to her shapely thighs and that skirt, which seemed shorter than I remembered her even owning. Chosen specially for Daryl’s last day, perhaps.
“You know, you can stop this at any point.”
“I know.”
“Should we choose a safe word?”
“Sure.”
“Whistle,” she said. “Say the word ‘whistle’, and everything stops.”
“Okay.”
“Then maybe Daryl goes home, or maybe we keep playing, only not going so far.”
“Sounds good.”
I heard the shower being turned off, and had to consciously keep myself from getting too shaken up.
The thing was, I wanted this, and yet it caused me jealousy, and some discomfort therein. I flipped between the two sides of my dichotomy, one moment desperate for this to happen, the next scared stiff at just what might take place, and what would happen once it was all over.
I had never quite been able to explain to Marissa the fact that I somehow enjoyed those feelings of jealousy, insecurity — that it made me feel alive like some kind of extreme sport. So I had to hide those particular symptoms as this was finally unfolding.
“Where do you want me to be?” I asked her.
“Where?”
“Well, you guys need some time alone to get… acquainted…? Do you want me to hide in the bathroom, to sit on the chair, to be on the floor in the corner?”
She heard the quiet click and grind as the bathroom doorknob began to turn, and suddenly sent me an alarmed look: this was really happening.
“Where would you feel most comfortable?” she asked me, and I could tell she was trying to downplay her emotions, her feelings, just like me.
“On the chair, I guess,” I said.
The door opened, and out stepped a young man with short dark blond hair, handsome face and powerful frame, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs and a boyish, even triumphant grin.
He was handsome, and I could get that a woman with a thing for Zack Gilbert might go for a guy like this. He was certainly younger than Marissa, just out of college in fact. Taller than me, larger than me, and much more athletic. The bulges of his muscles, the lines of his washboard stomach, to me he seemed straight from the pages of a superhero comic book. Marissa’s very own Aqualad.
He was so strikingly fit that I could easily see that in day-to-day life, he might be cocky. And yet here, now, he was clearly confident but certainly not unpleasant.
And to top it all, his briefs suggested something sizable lurking between his legs.
I caught Marissa’s sapphire eyes running over his contours, and checking out his package — and I caught the little awkward blush response that gave the game away about how she felt about it all.
“Uh… Daryl, this is Alec.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said, and leaned forward to shake my hand.
Jesus.
“You have a beautiful wife.”
“Thank you. She’s very taken with you.”
“You’re still up for this?” I asked Marissa. She had a broad grin plastered all over her face, which was still a little disbelieving, delighted and shocked and horny and scared all at once.
“You guys never did this before?” Daryl asked us, sounding incredulous, as though having a wife as hot as Marisa made it inevitable that I would want this kind of thing to happen.
“Nope,” she said.
I pulled myself up from the bed, heart pounding in my chest, grabbing a bathrobe from the floor by my bedside table, to sling around me and perhaps cover up the fact that my 40-year-old frame was not nearly so trim as this twenty-something Adonis who was about to play with my wife.
I crossed over to the chair in the corner of the room, made myself comfortable. The clock on Marissa’s bedside table read 3am. I guess when this was all over, if it went badly, we could almost dismiss this as some kind of drunken dream. It didn’t quite seem real.
Marissa was over the other side of the bed, smiling so broadly I wondered if it would hurt her mouth after a while.
Daryl slowly padded over to her, allowing her to feast her eyes on his body. She placed her hands flat on his pectorals, and leaned up to kiss his mouth.
I felt the burn inside my chest at seeing her kiss him. And yet I was tingling all over, my manhood stiffening as I watched there from my chair. I could see her hands slip down his body, feeling out his muscles, then checking out what he had to offer between his legs.
She moaned appreciatively as she cupped his package.
I wished I’d had some alcohol myself. Not to be drunk out of my skull, but just something to cushion the feelings as she now ushered him to sit down on the edge of the bed — my side of the bed — before kneeling between his thighs, brushing her hair back behind her ears with her hands.
Then she was hooking her fingers in the waistband of his briefs, hauling them down over his thighs, his hardness springing up as she liberated it. He was gifted, she’d certainly selected well. On first seeing it, his length, his thickness, my wife just looked completely astonished. It really got me going — I guess in my fantasy, I’d always wanted to give her the most amazing experience.
I couldn’t conceal my little gasp as I saw her duck her head down, taking his tip inside her lips, sinking down on his shaft.
“Big enough for you?” I heard Daryl murmuring.
Marissa merely moaned her affirmation.
I craned my neck to see her sinking down on him, her hand aiding her mouth in pumping him, loving her new toy. She was letting out little contented noises, clearly enjoying handling a new cock, the first she’d had since we’d met what, eight or nine years previously.
I saw her brushing her dark hair back out of her face, but only on one side — obviously to make sure that I could see everything she was doing to this other man. It was hot, to know she was getting off on me watching.
He might not be touching her yet, but she was getting seriously turned on by this situation, by having a new cock to play with, and a husband who didn’t just approve of her doing it, but found it exciting himself to watch.
Daryl seemed somewhat amazed by her, and that fed into my needs, too. To have Marissa desired by other men, recognized as the goddess she was.
She pulled off him, and her eyes were immediately on me, adoring her distant husband, seeking out my continuing approval.
“Everything okay?” she asked with that sexy, mischievous, half-guilty grin while she p
umped him with her hand.
“Absolutely,” I said, hands firmly gripping my thighs, not quite comfortable enough to feel like I could tend to my own arousal. “You look unbelievably beautiful, sweetheart.”
She gave an extra broad smile at that.
“He’s so big,” she said, “hard to get inside my mouth.”
“You love it,” Daryl chuckled as she resumed sucking on him, licking his tip or his shaft, even just running her nose along his length to inhale that scent of maleness that was not her husband.
Keeping her hair back out of her face so that I could see it all.
When her jaw got tired of his monumental size, she licked him like an ice-cream — looking at me with those naughty, teasing eyes as she did so, smiling at the affect she knew she was having on me.
Yet also checking that I was really all right with this.
Jesus, I think that if she’d been sucking on me, by now I would have been coming powerfully in her mouth. I guess I wasn’t 23 years old any more.
6
I remembered one of those Cosmo articles Marissa had quoted to me at bedtime, that the male libido peaks at 18 or 19, but that the female libido peaks in her thirties. The theory being that the male needs to get his seed out there as quickly as possible while he’s young and he hasn’t yet succumbed to nature’s dangers, while the female needs her peak just at the end of her fertility period to ensure she can breed as much as possible before her body shuts up shop.
Her assertion at the time was that the optimum pairing for explosive sex would be a 19-year-old man and a 35-year-old woman. Kind of hot when she’d said it.
And here was a 32-year-old woman standing up, shoving a 23-year-old man back onto the bed so she could strip for him.
Such a sexy sight, pulling off her shirt, tossing it impishly over toward me, removing her skirt and her hose, then her white lacy bra was gone, leaving her beautiful breasts and those impossibly hard little points of hers exposed to the air and the gaze of her besotted suitor.
Again brushing her cocoa hair out of her face, then peeling her little white lace panties off down her legs to reveal the tidy triangle of down covering her mound, throwing her underwear so it hit me gently in the face.
Wives with Benefits: Volume One Page 9
