She was moaning as she bobbed her head up and down on my shaft as though she was getting off on this as much as I was — again, something she’d never really done before.
"You just can’t stop thinking about him, can you?" I heard the words coming out of my mouth, as though it was someone else talking.
"Thinking about who?"
"Don’t give me that. You know who."
Her lips smacked together as she withdrew me from her mouth. "Why do men always think we’re just like them? You think about Taylor Swift when we’re making love. Or Selena Gomez. Or that other one. Scarlett Johansen."
"No," I said, my tone and my grin mocking her for trying to change the subject, or at least trying to deflect it. "Now Mila Kunis I will admit to. But that’s not the point.
"You want me to stop?" Was that a threat? She didn’t look like she could stop if I paid her to. She shoved my brutally hard cock back into her mouth as though she needed a last taste before I forced her to give it all up.
"No, no," I said letting out a groan as she sucked me hard. "Are you thinking about him now?"
"Jesus."
"There’s nothing wrong with it. I think it’s kinda hot that you’re having a sexual fantasy, that I know you’re having a sexual fantasy. You never revealed any before."
She rolled her eyes at me again.
I felt like it was some kind of challenge. I had to squeeze an admission out of her prim and proper lips.
"You know, he’s probably lying in bed somewhere right now imagining you’re doing this exact same thing to him."
"What are you talking about?"
"He’s got a mega-crush on you, Tessa."
"You don’t know that." The way she said it, seemed like a virtual confirmation that she was quietly wishing Robert Donovan had a crush on her the way she now seemed to be getting one for him. I knew her cheeks were flushed from her fellatio, but there was a glint in her eye that I swore was some kind of lovesickness such that a giddy schoolgirl might feel when someone told her a certain heartthrob might want to take her to prom.
"It’s obvious. How could he not? You were his babysitter."
"You said that already, it’s not proof."
"I saw how he looked at you tonight. That was proof."
She pulled up from me, kissed my mouth so that I could taste the faint saltiness of my own hardness on her lips.
"He was imagining you saying yes to him," I whispered in her ear, and felt the involuntary tremble in her body in response. I could feel her hips jiggling, as though she had a fire burning down between her thighs, which she couldn’t quite cope with.
I turned her over, so that she sat beside me and I could pull her thin sweater off over her head. She wriggled out of her skirt herself.
"You know, I don’t mind you thinking about him. Imagining I’m him, if you like," I said. "I think it’s hot how flustered he’s got you."
"I am not flustered," she said, but the way she kissed me was a dead giveaway.
She sat back and opened her thighs for me, revealing her little pink panties, which were so thin I could see the faint outline of her pussy through them, and the dark patch of hair covering her mound.
I pulled them over her hips, her thighs, down past her knees and ankles, and there was her open sex in all its glory, framed by soft dark down, glistening with her juices.
She must have imagined I’d be eager to slide inside her, to resume the normal pattern of our efficient marital copulation. I did want to be inside her, but I also wanted to prolong this moment, the moment of her imagining another man making love to her.
I’d never felt this way before, I’d never shown signs of a fantasy for someone else sleeping with my wife — and yet it seemed that I was as caught up in this spell, the spell of the reunion of babysitter and ward, as she was.
I dived between her thighs, kissing my way over her hot, hot flesh, inhaling that wicked aroma of her arousal, the signs of her fantasizing about extramarital affairs.
"Oh God…" she moaned in surprise as I slipped my tongue into her slippery groove, tasting her tangy sweetness.
I said: "You know he’s been thinking about doing this to you for years."
Teasing her with my words as well as my mouth. I felt her quiver at one or the other, and suspected it was the thought that young Robert might fantasize about doing this very same thing.
"You love it, don’t you? Inspiring lust in him."
I loved how wet her pussy was, her wetness covering my face, her spice thick in the air. Her sex so beautiful, it almost made me want to weep that I rarely came as close to it as this, that I had overlooked her over so many years with my rushed marital sex.
I loved how she gave in to the sensations, her body remaining relaxed, open, her legs parted, no hint of her rushing me to move up and get back to the schedule.
I loved her gentle hand on my head, encouraging me, thanking me, subtly guiding me to where she needed my mouth.
As though she was teaching a young lover the ways of womanhood.
Imagining that she was showing Robert how it was done.
"You’re so beautiful, Miss Kovac," I whispered with more than a hint of mischief. "You don’t know how long I’ve been dreaming of doing this."
Tessa only moaned, as though the sensations flowing through her were too much for her to react to my teasing.
"Whenever I’m with a girl at college, I’m really only ever thinking about you, Miss Kovac," I said a little louder, even trying to mimic the pitch of Robert’s voice, which was a touch deeper than my own.
We’d never role-played before. I guess neither of us had ever been so bold. It was kind of fun, kind of liberating.
And it took almost no time before Tessa was shuddering under me, both her hands pulling my face firmly into her soaking sex, her clear soprano piercing the night as she writhed and shook and came explosively against my mouth.
Jesus, if all it took to get her to come like this was to make her imagine I was Robbie Donovan or whoever the hell else was inside her womanly fantasies, I would be delighted to take on the role of whoever.
"You know I love you, don’t you? I don’t want anyone else," she said as she pulled away from me, hauled herself up, feeling a touch awkward at how she’d given in to her fantasy of another man.
"You feel guilty," I accused her with a broad grin. "You came while fantasizing about another man, and now you feel guilty about it."
She was blushing beautifully. "You implanted it all in my head," she complained. "I was in a vulnerable state."
I laughed at that, but the way she no longer denied thinking about him made my erection throb.
"Vulnerable state," more laughter. It usefully concealed my own vulnerable state, or the confusion I felt at this strange situation, the way I was so turned on at my wife for imagining sex with another guy. A guy I had invited round to come work on our basement.
"You know, there’s nothing wrong with a little fantasy," I said, attempting to inject a note of seriousness.
"Are you jealous?"
I shook my head. "I don’t think so. Or if I am, it's so hot to know your fantasy, I can’t really feel it."
She gave me a mischievous smile, and now turned, to present me with her delectable rear. Jesus, was she really asking me to take her from behind? We never did it like this. I always suspected she had paranoid thoughts about her beautiful derriere being somehow less than aesthetic. But here she was, offering herself up in this most animalistic of positions.
"We should talk more about guys you have a crush on," I said, shuffling between her thighs, lifting my unbelievably hard cock up to her wetness, stroking my tip against her hot flesh to coat it, and tease her a little. "If it makes you this hot to think about them, I’m all for it."
She said: "There is no ‘them’. It’s never really happened before."
Did it disturb me that Robert was the only man she had ever fantasized about? A little. I felt a slight twinge in my stomach.
But then I eased forward, and felt her tightness grip me, almost pull me in, her heat pressing all around me, so irresistible.
"Oh, Miss Kovac," I grunted, no longer sounding anything like Little Robbie, though the words inferred I was being him.
Inference was enough to get Tessa pushing back against me, moaning as I filled her, as I thrust into her, my body beating against her superbly round behind.
"You’re not… jealous… at all?" she asked during it all.
"Not really."
"Seriously?"
"Uh-uh."
She looked behind at me briefly, her forehead wrinkled as if accusing me of being nuts.
"You really don’t object to me imagining it’s Robert Donovan back there fucking me?"
The sound of the f-word on her conservative lips made me shiver, but it was as nothing to the realization that she’d got me doing her doggy-style so that she could look away from me, and imagine whoever she wanted it to be was here pushing his huge tool inside her over and over and over again while she gripped the bedclothes so tightly her knuckles went white.
"Why should I?" came my answer.
For a moment or two, she just moaned quietly as I glided into her, my passage made easy by the copious wetness of her pussy.
Then she started ramping it up, moaning, "Oh God… oh God… oh fuck…"
It sounded to me almost like Meg Ryan doing her most famous scene from When Harry Met Sally — almost amusing if it wasn’t so damn sexy coming out of Tessa’s pretty mouth.
Gripping her hips firmly, I went with her rhythm, her increasing intensity, piling into her harder and harder, and then she was moaning, screaming.
"Oh fuck me, Robert, fuck me… Fuck, fuck, fuck me Robert…"
Using his name over and over, in defiance of our marriage, in a desperate attempt to win some kind of argument, make me feel jealous — yet all of it only making me harder inside her, my manhood throbbing and pulsing and then exploding deep in her body to fill her with my hot come.
O. M. G., as someone from Little Robbie’s generation might say.
When we finally broke apart, collapsing back on the bed, Tessa was breathless, gasping for oxygen, her body flushed all over. I don’t think I ever saw her like this after making love.
"You came again?" I asked, not really believing she could have, but the outward signs suggested she might have.
"You made me," she said, in awe at my performance apparently. "You were so hard, I’ve never felt it like that before."
"That was your fault."
"That really does turn you on? Me thinking about him like that?"
"I guess so."
"You do realize he’s coming round here on Monday or Tuesday to do our basement."
"I do."
"It’s going to be really awkward," she said, pulling the bedsheets up over her naked body now, though I really wanted to just gaze upon her. "I’m going to have to say ‘hi’ to him, and show him down to the basement with the knowledge that a few days previously, I was screaming his name while my husband fucked me."
I laughed at that. "You’ll probably just end up flirting with him," I said. "You’ll go all weak at the knees, and you’ll love it."
She raised an eyebrow. "And that won’t make you want to fire him immediately?"
"Why should it?" I said, feeling a little flutter in my heart at the thought of Tessa flirting with anyone, particularly someone she’d just imagined fucking her. "I trust you."
Chapter Three
But trust or not, as I drove down the interstate on my daily commute to Baltimore come Monday morning, my heart was beating heavily. To think that I’d given my wife the green light to flirt with someone who had a starring role in her sexual fantasies – someone who I strongly suspected of reciprocating her crush.
If anything did happen, I even had the responsibility for inviting him to the house, knowing how they felt about each other.
My stomach felt as though it had folded in half, and the feeling only got worse with every mile I took away from home.
I kept imagining the divorce judge clutching his gavel — did they even have gavels? — while peering at me sternly over his half-moon spectacles, telling me that of course my wife was going to have an affair if I invited the guy to the house to meet her while I wasn’t home.
Tessa did have my implied approval to flirt with Robert, but would she act on it? The funny thing was, the longer I thought about it, the stronger the hope inside me was that she would. And while my stomach felt all folded up inside, the rest of me was buzzing with elation at this strange turn in my relationship with my beautiful wife.
Oh I was shaking with fear that she would not only flirt with the guy, but go much further, and I’d find myself married to a full-on Mrs Robinson. But part of that fear was that I wanted her to.
I couldn’t understand my feelings, they didn’t align with the feelings of intense jealousy I had had at the start of our relationship when I thought about the boyfriends who came before, or saw her talking to other guys in that final year of our time together at Columbia.
The jealousy was still there, ticking along in the background, yet somehow I was now in a place where I could not only cope with that, but actively enjoy the slow burn, as one enjoyed the burn of the alcohol when sipping a fine whisky. More obvious to me was the elation I felt that someone who caused Tessa to feel so sexual, to get so horny she couldn’t easily contain it, was about to see her again.
It was simple: a little Robert time meant Tessa would be primed for some seriously sizzling sex.
The fear that was there inside me — well, the main reason for that was the paranoia that Robert Donovan would come along and sweep Tessa into his arms, and she’d never want me again. My heart palpitated at that thought, but my head told me firmly that it would never happen. He might feature in her sexual fantasies, but she didn’t love him — couldn’t love him. And she would never stop loving me, would never leave me, would never choose another man over me.
Still, as much as I told that to myself, I was shaking a little all day at the thought of what might be happening at the house.
Robert had said he’d be coming over Monday or Tuesday morning, and the whole thing had been fairly relaxed. But I knew if he still had any feelings for Tessa, he’d be over on that Monday. Sure enough, about nine thirty, Tessa sent me a text to announce that the guy’s car had just pulled into our driveway.
"You okay?"
I looked up. A co-worker of mine, Greg Simons, was hovering next to my cubicle.
"Huh?"
"You look as though you’ve seen a ghost."
"Oh," I smiled, my brain scrabbling for some kind of explanation. I tried to turn my faintly shocked expression into the pretense of something else that would keep Greg from further concern. "I guess you could say that," I said slowly, giving myself further time to think of an explanation. Then the only thing that came to me was: "We just had a pregnancy test — negative, thankfully."
Greg grinned, the explanation clicking into place as the natural fit for my appearance. "I hear you, buddy," he said supportively. "Nice to have another kid, right? But in this economy…"
I nodded and smiled, and he was on his way.
I tried to correct my outward appearance as I awaited any further communication from Tessa. It seemed to take an age to come.
>He’s going to start on the basement tomorrow.
That was it.
It seemed like an anticlimax to me — but then what had I really been hoping for? Some sudden confession that she’d been unable to resist the guy, she’d invited him up to their bedroom to check on something and then found him throwing her onto the bed?
>That’s great, honey. I’m sure we’ll be glad we did it in the long run.
My text was similarly vague to hers, though perhaps there was some slight hint of something naughty from the potential dual meaning in the word "it".
I had to tell myself that at least today had gone well enough th
at Robert would be working on the basement, visiting the house regularly, probably winding Tessa up no end in the process. That stirred up the butterflies in my chest a little.
I didn’t receive any further texts from my wife that afternoon. On my journey home, I felt the clamor of trepidation with every little burst forward that I achieved in the solid traffic heading out of the city. Would Tessa be angry that I’d forced her to accept Robert working at the house this summer?
Or would his presence trigger a different reaction — bringing back the Tessa who had appeared after that visit to the movies?
Then there was the possibility that I would return home to find that Tessa had been tempted by the arrival of her new crush at the house into something beyond flirting. That was a frightening prospect, and yet a dark corner of my soul craved it. My swollen manhood desired it.
Chapter Four
Tessa was feeding Marcus the last of his dinner as I arrived home, gave her a brief peck on the cheek, registering the stronger than normal hint of perfume she was wearing.
Changed into jeans and a t-shirt, it was time for me to give the young man his bath and put him to bed. It always took a little longer than I thought it would.
In the mean time, I silently analyzed what I’d seen of Tessa’s body language on arriving home that evening, and before I’d come up to deal with Marcus. I was somewhat disappointed at the assessment I came to: that Tessa hadn’t really flirted with Robert to any great extent — if she had, I would have noticed the guilt imprinted in her features, and perhaps it would even have pushed her into some kind of confession.
She would have at least looked a little awkward on my return.
Putting our little boy to bed, it felt like some kind of anticlimax, but I had to tell myself that Robert had only come over briefly to assess the job we were offering. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to get Tessa’s juices flowing.
My Wife, the Seductress Page 2