by Blaise Quin
I sucked harder. Andie moaned, pulling my head to her so hard I thought she’d suffocate herself.
“Were you bad tonight?” I whispered.
“No, I was good, I swear.”
I wasn’t sure whether that meant she hadn’t done anything, or had. I went back to her nipple, unbuckling my belt, freeing my already stiff erection.
“Hurry!” she repeated.
I pushed up her dress, but again I was too slow for her. She shoved my shoulder, twisting, flipping me over with a strength that must have been driven by her arousal.
My pants were halfway down my legs, I was practically pinned to the bed. She lifted her skirt, grabbing my cock and guiding it between her legs, lining me up and driving down to me.
“No panties again, I see,” I said.
“Maybe they got taken off me,” she said, her words teasing, yet her voice tight. Totally unlike her pussy, which was so slick I slid all the way in.
Still, she moaned. Perhaps for my benefit, perhaps for her own inner fantasy. Or perhaps simply because I was in her. Me.
“Fuck me,” she demanded.
I drove my hips upward, yet by the third stroke she’d taken over, riding up and down on my cock. My eagerness faltered, was she using me, getting off with my cock, because whatever man who was in her mind was not there?
I expected her eyes to close, for her to lose herself in her fantasy. Instead, she was staring at me intently, that same realization I’d seen earlier even more evident. She hardly blinked, she had to be thinking of me, it was impossible to believe any other thought could be in her mind, it was impossible to imagine she could be picturing any other man.
“I love you,” she said, her fingers tightening on my chest, and she came, her pussy clasping on my cock, pulsating, her tremors swarming over me.
She collapsed on me, her hot breath filling my ears, her hair sweeping over my eyes.
“Your turn,” she said. “And now there’s no need to hurry. Take all the time you want.”
Andie
I would have been perfectly content if Peter had just concentrated on his own release, if he had just fucked me until he came, not saying a word. I’d taken what I wanted, what I needed, and he’d willingly gone along. My husband knew me even better than I thought. He was, perhaps, way ahead of me, not only knowing who I was, but who I was becoming.
Yet instead of just getting himself off, Peter said, “You were a little aroused there.”
“That’s an understatement.” I shifted on the bed. Without letting him out of me I pushed his pants down the rest of the way with my legs, turning so that he could be on top if he wanted.
He did. Once free of his pants he was able to fuck me with long, slow strokes. My dress was twisted around my stomach, one of my breasts still hanging out over the top. I didn’t care, I felt wonderful.
“You have someone on your mind?” he asked.
His voice was light, dirty talk, and yet I sensed that hint of worry, of confusion, of fear. He was worried I had been thinking of another man.
“Just you,” I said. “Really.” It was the truth. While I had always loved and appreciated him, it had suddenly dawned on me how truly lucky I was to have him.
As if I didn’t have enough proof, he didn’t stop talking, because he really did know what I craved, and he was doing his best to give it to me. To make me happy.
“But earlier? Another man, perhaps?” Peter’s strokes slowed as he waited for my reply.
“I’ll answer that, but first tell me that you believe me. That just now, I was thinking only of you.”
Peter lifted himself up off the bed until only the tip of his cock was inside me. His eyes searched my face. “Say it again,” he said.
“I was thinking only of you. I wanted only you. You excite me. I love what we do together.”
He held my eyes for the longest time. His cock fell away, or perhaps he had lost his erection. I didn’t look down, because I wanted him to see the truth in my eyes.
“I believe you,” he said.
I melted into the sheets. “I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.”
“Now you have to answer my other question. Were you thinking about another man before you got home?”
I didn’t know how best to respond. What did he want me to say?
“The truth,” said Peter, as if he had read my mind.
If I lied now, he would know. If I even looked away he’d also know. I gave in to my trust, to my love, to his love, and told him the truth. “Yes.”
“But you came home to me.”
“Always. I’ll always come home to you.”
“Thank you,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if he was thanking me for saying I’d always come back to him, or that I had told the truth about my fantasy. I was deciding whether to ask when he drove down on me, filling me, his erection harder than ever.
His excitement, his acceptance, rekindled my own desire. Soon my thrusts were matching his, and now it wasn’t a matter of me using his cock, or him getting himself off. We were in unison, moving as one.
I wasn’t at all surprised when we came at exactly the same time.
Peter
I’d punched in the number on my phone, but I hesitated a long time before hitting the call key. I’d rehearsed over and over what I was going to say, but suddenly my mind went blank. It wasn’t like this was the type of call I made every day.
I wondered if any other man ever had to make a call like this.
Somehow that made me feel a little more confident. After all, if no one had done it before, that meant there was no standard. It wasn’t like I could really screw it up, right?
I hit the call button.
“Yeah.” The voice was deep. He didn’t sound like he gave a shit one way or another who was on the other end of the line.
“Is this Rodney?”
I pictured him looking at his caller ID. “I know you?”
“I’m—Rick gave me your number.”
“So?”
Rodney wasn’t making it any easier for me. “It’s about a video.”
Rodney’s voice changed, more interested. “So you’re the guy. Rick told me you’d be calling.”
“Then you know why.” So far, so good, he hadn’t hung up.
“You want me to fuck your wife again?”
Maybe not so good. I plowed ahead. “Rick told me you don’t have a copy of the video.”
“He did, did he?”
Maybe I should have done this in person; I couldn’t tell if Rodney was jerking me around. A sudden panicking thought: he and Rick and concocted this, and there was another copy of the video. “That’s what he said.”
“Well, if he said so.”
I could hear the gloating in Rodney’s voice. “Come on, man, cut me a break.”
“Why should I? I don’t know you.”
This is where my carefully planned argument fell apart. I had no real good answer for him. Rodney could have a video or not, he could post it, and I wouldn’t know where it was, out on the internet. Until someone, somewhere, who knew Andie found it. Her face was totally visible in the video with Rodney, she’d be recognized for sure.
I panicked. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d do anything for that not to happen. “I’ll pay you,” I offered.
“What’s it worth to you?”
I squeezed my phone, trying to keep the tenseness out of my voice. “What do you think?”
There was a long pause, maybe Rodney figuring out how much he could extort out of me. Then he said, “Why should you care if I have a video? You obviously know what me and your wife did. What’s it matter if it was recorded?” He paused again, then said, “Shit, I get it. You’re afraid I’ll show it around. People finding out about your little woman begging for it from some black man.”
Rodney obviously didn’t know Andie if he thought of her as my little woman. On the other hand, he knew her in far more personal ways.
“I just want
to know if you have a video,” I repeated.
“You mean a video of your wife having all those orgasms? Shit, you wouldn’t believe how desperate she was for it. Or maybe you would. You not giving her what she needs, right? That’s why she was out trolling for Rick? That why she let us both fuck her?”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Bullshit. How did you even know about the videos? Rick wouldn’t tell you. . . Damn, she told you, didn’t she? What was her name again? I forget. She’s the one who told you, she must have shoved it in your face, showing you what a real man could do for her.”
Rodney was hitting too close to the truth. All my doubts came rushing back, doubts about my ability to please Andie. I had believed her when she told me I was enough for her, and yet I could not deny Rodney’s accusations. I tried deflecting. “She didn’t show me.” She had, however, shoved something in my face. Only it hadn’t been the video.
There was no way I was going to admit to Rodney that I’d been hunting online to find videos of wives having sex with other men.
Rodney laughed. “This is good. Can’t wait to talk to Rick about this.”
“What’s it going to cost?” I gritted.
“You’re an asshole,” said Rodney. “You think I’d show a video around with my face on it? You think I got any less reputation to hide than your wife? What if I was some kind of big shot lawyer or doctor?”
He had me there. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
Rodney’s laugh cut me short. “Man, you are pathetic. I wouldn’t care who saw it. It’s not like I was banging some hooker or two bagger. That wife of yours is hot. Any guy seeing that video would want to be in my shoes.” He laughed again. “No, they’d want to be in your wife. Get it? In your wife.”
“I get it,” I said. “Okay, fun time is over, what’s it going to cost?”
Another long pause, my stomach turning over. All my business negotiating skills failed me. “Rodney?”
“I don’t want your money,” he said.
I almost fell down in relief. He was going to give me the video. “No?”
“Nope. I want a trade.”
“A trade? What do I have that you’d want?” As soon as I said the words it hit me. No, not that. “I couldn’t,” I said.
“Not your decision, is it?” he said.
“Sure it is. She’s my wife.”
“That didn’t stop her from spreading her legs for me already,” said Rodney. “Pass along the offer. I’m sure she wants to hear it.”
Before I could reply the line went dead.
Andie
I crossed and uncrossed my legs, fidgeting in the soft side chair. I eyed the couch; wasn’t I supposed to be sitting there for therapy?
“We can wait a while to begin if you aren’t ready,” said the woman in the matching chair. She was blonde, her hair pulled back in a professional style, mid forties, just a hint of makeup. She wore a tailed pantsuit and had a small notebook in her lap, which she hadn’t opened. She looked more like an business executive than a sex therapist. Her name was Helga Artin.
“I’m just a little nervous, Dr. Artin,” I admitted. “I’ve never been to a therapist before.”
“And yet here you are.” She gave a little smile. “That’s a great first step. And you can call me Helga, if that makes you feel more comfortable.”
She seemed genuine enough. I had chosen her on line; I was too embarrassed to ask my friends if they had ever been to a therapist, at least this kind of therapist. I laughed uncomfortably. “Let’s figure out if this is a medical issue first. If not, then I’ll switch to Helga.”
She nodded, sitting there relaxed, waiting for me. Now that I was here, I wasn’t exactly sure what to say. In fact I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here at all. Yet I felt I needed to be. “I don’t even know if I have a problem,” I began.
“You mentioned a possible medical issue?” Dr. Artin prompted. “Were you referred to me by a physician?”
“No, nothing like that. Everything—works. Physically.” I wasn’t sure why I was so embarrassed. I’d certainly had enough sex in my life, I’d certainly talked enough about sex with men, with my girlfriends. Yet talking to this not at all threatening woman had me tongue tied.
Dr. Artin waited some more, but when it was clear that I was stuck, she said, “Why don’t I ask you about a few of the more common issues women who come to me have. You can stop me any time you want if I hit on the right topic.”
That sounded easy enough. “Okay.”
She paused, giving me a very thorough once over, as if my mere appearance would give her guidance on where to start. I was wearing a blue wool skirt, a cream colored button down blouse, low comfortable heels. Simple jewelry, a string of pearls, small stud earrings. Exactly what I’d wear going to any other doctor visit.
“Do you have problems with libido? Interest in sex?”
How exactly to answer that? “No, yes, and no,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
Dr. Artin cocked her head. “Complicated is why you are here.” She said it gently, a prod to keep me talking.
“When I was younger—I’m talking in my early twenties—I was . . . very interested in sex. A few years ago, I kind of lost interest. Recently, though, my libido is in overdrive.” Hearing my own words, an obvious answer came to me. It was my biological clock ticking! Why hadn’t I thought of that? I was sure Dr. Artin would point out the obvious. I’d feel a little foolish, but it would mean I was done and could just leave.
The doctor surprised me when she instead asked, “I see you are wearing a wedding ring. You are married, yes?”
“I am.”
“You and your husband are together?”
“Yes. His name is Peter.”
“How do you feel about him?”
“What do you mean?”
She leaned forward. “Just say the first thing you think about.” She opened her notebook, her pen poised.
“He’s a good man. Honest. Supportive. He works hard.”
Dr. Artin shook her head. “You are telling me what you think about him. Tell me how you feel about him.”
“I love him, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t mean anything, either way. This is all about getting to what you mean. How do you love him?”
What kind of question was that? “How many ways are there?”
“For some women, one, for others, many. And for those who have one definition, that definition may differ between women. I want you to tell me yours.”
This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Wasn’t this conversation supposed to be about sex? The therapist must have had a reason for asking, so I replied, “I love Peter for the reasons I told you. He’s a good man. He’s honest, supportive. He loves me.”
“Hmm. Do you think he loves you for the same reasons you love him?”
“I hadn’t really thought of that before. I guess so.”
Dr. Artin looked down at her notes. “Honest. supportive. Hard working. Good. Is that how Peter sees you? Is that why he loves you?”
“I—.” Shit. I hadn’t always been honest with Peter. Not that I lied to him, but I had kept my sexual desires a secret. I guess I was supportive, wasn’t I? As for hard working, I didn’t work a regular job, but I kept up the house, which Peter thought was work enough. Was I good? After what I’d done? “I think men might look at love differently.”
Dr. Artin smiled. “Men are as unique as women in how they view love.” She held my eye. “You didn’t mention anything about physical attraction. Is your husband physically attracted to you?”
“Very much so, I believe.”
“And you to him?”
“He’s a handsome enough man. He’s no male model, but if you are asking me if my sexual—issues—have anything to do with how he looks, I don’t think that is the problem.”
“Is that the reason you’ve come to see me? That you are having sexual issues with your husband that have to do with how you feel, as
opposed to how he looks?”
I shrugged. “I guess that might be part of it. I certainly think it is more about me than about him.”
Dr. Artin tapped her pen gently on the notepad. “As a general rule, I am here to listen, and to help you see things in a new way, so you can come to your own conclusions. I’m not here to just tell you an answer; even if I got it right, it would be much less likely that you’d internalize my solution and accept it. So I also avoid, as much as possible, disagreeing with a patient, unless they have a preconceived notion that is factually incorrect. I will say, however, that I do not believe that your last statement can be entirely true. Once you are in a close relationship, it can’t be just about you, or just about him. It’s always about both of you.”
“You mean he’s responsible?”
“Not necessarily. What I mean is, if there is an issue affecting one of you, by definition it affects the other, via the relationship. If one of the partners is unhappy, it will affect the other. If one of the partners has done something—wrong, unacceptable, however you want to define wrong—then even if the other person had nothing to do with that act, they are still affected.”
I considered. “That makes sense. Although I still can’t help but feel that if my issue went away, it would for us as well.”
“It’s possible.” Dr. Artin put down her pen. “Now perhaps we can get to the heart of the issue. I sense that you are still hesitant to talk about it. You tell me that your desire for sex has changed over time. Did the lessening of your desire coincide with your marriage?”
I looked away. I didn’t want to admit it. “It’s not Peter’s fault,” I whispered.
“This isn’t about blame.” Dr. Artin waited, then asked gently, “What happened?”
“I just—I don’t know.” I felt like anything I said would reflect badly on Peter. My problem wasn’t his fault, and even with the doctor saying we weren’t talking about blame, it certainly felt that way.
“Had you been married before?”
