by Ben Boswell
I felt my mouth sag as I watched her move the dildo to her pussy. She rubbed the tip against her twat. Her wet lips seemed to swell and begin to grip the smooth surface of the fake cock. Her pussy seemed almost hungry for it, desperate for that thick phallus. Up and down, up and down, the toy gradually entering her, and now moving in and out, in and out, deeper and deeper.
Terri let out a low, guttural moan. Suddenly the buzzing resumed. I tore my eyes away from my wife’s stretched cunt to see her holding the egg. She brought it down to her crotch. No playing this time. She pressed the vibrator to her clit even as she continued to ram herself with the dildo.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Brian, that’s so good,” she moaned. “Oh God, you’re sooo big.”
There was a sheen of perspiration on her body, and her hips were pumping lewdly. Her big tits shook with excitement. Her gasps and sighs melded with the obscene squishing of her pussy and the buzzing of the vibrator in a pornographic symphony.
Then she grunted and nearly doubled over, her whole body twitching as she was wracked with waves of passion. I felt heat and wetness bloom in my pants. It took me a moment to realize that in my excitement I’d been rubbing myself as well.
She flicked off the egg and slowly withdrew the phallus from her pussy. She looked up at me, wild-eyed, through a disheveled mass of hair. Bringing the dildo to her lips, she licked around the tip. My cock twitched.
“See, no man necessary.”
“Huh?”
“If you’re not around, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Some day I’ll show you what I can do with a massaging showerhead and a bar of soap.”
“Oh God,” I groaned. “Okay. You win.”
Terri laughed. “Alright, I think you need to get cleaned up. I’ll be waiting in bed.”
She deposited the toys in her bedside table, grabbed the covers and pulled them up. I couldn’t help but notice that she was still naked underneath. I took a hurried shower, and pulled on some PJ bottoms. She’d turned out the lights and I climbed into bed with her.
I edged closer, wrapping my arms around her naked body, spooning her. God, she felt delicious. Her body was warm, her ass hard against my crotch, my hand wedged between her full, soft breasts.
“So, are you convinced,” she asked, “that just because I like to flirt sometimes, it doesn’t mean I have to act on it?”
“I guess.”
“To tell you the truth, dick is overrated. Nice. But not the be all and end all.”
She was in a bit of a weird mood. She sometimes got that way post-orgasm. Chatty and vaguely philosophical.
“Oh, is that why you keep a toy around to remind you of the biggest one you’ve ever had?”
“That’s my point. That part of it is easily replaceable. It’s not even the most exciting part of being with a man.”
“And what would that be?”
“Strength. With Brian, it was the way he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me against him. The way he sort of shoved me into the storeroom. How he picked me up, light as a feather, and sat me on that stack of boxes. The way he forced my legs apart with his body.”
“Sounds a little rapey,” I suggested.
“I was more than willing,” she giggled. “But, yeah, I guess, a little. But still hot. Just that sense that he couldn’t wait. There is something sexy about being taken by someone you’d have given it to anyway.”
Baddies and daddies. It hit me what those kinds of men had in common. A dominant sexuality. Would any of the men who got Terri going have been willing to be just a spectator when she played with herself? Chucky who’d dragged her into a club bathroom and fucked her within hours of meeting her? Jean-Pierre who’d stripped her naked on a Paris balcony while screwing her from behind? Mike Coates who’d shamelessly flirted with a married woman in front of a roomful of her colleagues? Brian, who’d seduced her right in front of me and taken her away and banged her in a storeroom?
None of those men would have watched her, enthralled, and blown a load in their pants. They’d have had her flat on her back, ankles pinned by her ears, and fucked her until she screamed in passion.
Maybe Terri didn’t need a dick, but she craved that kind of dominant male. The kind of man who wouldn’t just hold her as she drifted off to sleep. And cravings like that don’t just hibernate until a convenient moment.
CHAPTER SIX
Terri kept telling me she didn’t need more. I knew better. That seems arrogant. It smacks of “mansplaining.” Listen here, little lady, what you really want is…. And maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. But millions of years of evolution have honed our instincts about certain things, and what is more evolutionarily relevant than the threat of losing one’s woman?
Okay, so that is a crazy thought. Surely, I was trying to justify my obsessions, to explain them away. Terri kept hinting that was the case; that it was all in my head. She had a point. I was weirdly obsessed with the thought of her and other men.
Still, she’d given me reasons to be suspicious. There was so much that she’d apparently been keeping to herself about her sexuality. Forget about the fire that blazed when we’d brought other men into the mix; the revelations about getting aroused from flirting and her use of sex toys was enough to get any man thinking.
“Seriously, Terri, you don’t think there is anything weird about keeping and using a dildo that you picked specifically to remind you of another man?”
She scrunched up her nose. “I hate that word. Dildo. It sounds so crude.”
“What’s a better word for an oversized piece of plastic you put in your pussy?”
“Phallus. And it’s rubber. And, at least, it isn’t a realistic one with balls and veins and stuff. So, it could, you know, be cruder.”
“Uh huh,” I replied skeptically.
“What do you think of that one?”
She pointed out a beige sofa with large, rounded armrests.
“Seems a little bulky.”
“We do have the space in the living room,” she noted. “Plus, think how nice I’d look bent over the cushions.”
“I thought we were shopping for furniture.”
“We are, but you’re the one who brought up my toys.”
“I still don’t feel like I’m getting the whole story.”
“No, you’re not getting the story you want to hear.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but she sashayed away and was looking at a different couch. This one was cut in sharp, straight lines, with a dark, geometric pattern.
“How about this one?” she asked.
“It’s nothing like the other one.”
She shrugged. “Why is that an issue? If we’re redoing the room, we can build around any style we want.”
“You’re very flexible.”
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know,” she replied. “When did you lose your sense of humor?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just –“
“That you think I’m holding out on you.”
“Something like that,” I said.
“You know, I wouldn’t have messed around with Brian if I’d known it would throw you for such a loop.”
“See, that my point. You keep making it sound like you’re doing it just for me.”
“No. I’m just saying that I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think you liked it.”
Around and around. It was beginning to feel pointless. I threw up my hands. She looked at me, hands on hips.
“Well?” she asked.
“I hate the sofa,” I replied.
She hesitated then laughed. “Is that code for, you want a divorce?”
“Yes. Precisely.”
She swatted my arm. “Idiot.”
I gave her a light spank on the ass. “Slut.”
“Okay, so, what about a sectional?”
***
So, one challenge in all of this is that there really isn’t any
one to talk to when things get a little weird. Terri could tease me about seducing Herb, but I couldn’t go to Herb myself and get his advice. Hard to even imagine how that conversation would go.
So, Herb, can I ask you a question? Terri and I are sort of into swinging. Well, not really, it’s just that she periodically has sex with other men, and it’s lots of fun, but it’s raised a few issues….
There are an impressively large number of online sites devoted to discussing this sort of lifestyle, but I didn’t feel comfortable going there either. Part of it was that I had trouble identifying myself as being into the whole cuckold thing. Another part of it is that everyone online just seemed so damn happy about the whole thing, so completely unconflicted. The only guys who seemed dissatisfied were the ones who couldn’t get their wives to fulfill the fantasy for them.
Boo hoo. I totally want my wife to fuck other dudes, but she won’t.
That wasn’t me…. Or was it? What was I most troubled about? Was it that Terri was into other men? Was it that she had indulged those desires? Or was it that I felt, if she were honest, she’d want to do it more? And if so, so what? I still couldn’t quite put my finger on what was getting under my skin.
In the meantime it was getting between Terri and me. There was nothing overt. We got along fine. But she was clearly a little anxious about my emotional state, and that manifested itself in a reticence to tease me in bed.
We were still having regular sex, and as they say, even mediocre sex is good, an insight which is particularly true when your partner is beautiful and very sensual. But after the past year, it left me wanting more. Even when I prompted her, the most she would do was revisit, in increasingly vague terms, stories she’d already told me.
Somehow, we were drifting back into pre-Chucky territory, and it was all my fault. Me and my stupid overactive mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
If it were up to me, we’d have held the line, and not traveled on Thanksgiving. But Terri is a peacemaker, and faced with my mom’s guilt-tripping – who knows how many more Thanksgivings I’ll be able to host? – Terri agreed for us to go.
It was, as expected, a miserable drive. The traffic was awful. It rained. Except, once we got off the highway and wound our way through the back roads, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and we got to admire the last of the fall leaves.
My folks live in New Hampshire. Dad used to teach at Dartmouth. They actually have a lovely house. Old fashioned, white painted wood, big windows, a huge porch, surrounded by trees, most of them now bare, but still impressive. It’s even more lovely at Christmas, with snow on the ground, and an ever-present plume of white smoke coming from the chimney.
Yes, I was raised in a Norman Rockwell painting. And my family fit right in, with my beautiful blond wife, angelic daughter, and rough and tumble little boy. My older sister, Brenda, was there with her husband, Pete, and her kids, two surly teenage boys so constantly involved with their phones that they seemed almost autistic. Even still, Braden was enthralled with them and happy to just watch them play video games. Various other aunts and uncles, and a couple of cousins, drifted in over the course of the day, as well.
Even though my folks are liberals – they love Elizabeth Warren – Thanksgiving in our family has very clear gender roles. The women -- my mom, Terri, Brenda, and my mom’s sisters, Aunt Mary and Aunt Lacy -- go into the kitchen and cook. The men sit in front of the TV and watch football.
Dad has always had a fraught relationship with his brothers-in-law. Dad deals with that by acting as if he’s absolutely engrossed with football, so much so that he can’t be bothered to make conversation. Mary’s husband Greg was there and just as happy to stare at the TV while making methodical trips into the kitchen to refresh his beer. With the older generation grumpily staring at the TV, and the younger generation engrossed in their phones, I was happy to have Pete around. I like Pete well enough, although since his interests seem to revolve wholly around TV, we quickly ran out of topics. Still, listening to him drone on about Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, and Homeland was a relatively low-stress form of interaction. It passed the time until dinner was served.
My mom has this triangle that she breaks out only at Thanksgiving to chime us to the dining room. It’s the kind of thing that should be charming, but isn’t quite.
As I approached the table, Terri sidled over to me. “Okay, you were right, we don’t need to do this anymore.”
“What happened?”
She rolled her eyes. “Pies.”
I knew exactly what she was talking about. My mom had previously pulled the same stunt at Thanksgiving, talking up the pie-making skills of my ex-girlfriend, Melanie.
“Again?”
“Yup. Billy used to date this lovely girl, Melanie, who made the most amazing pies,” she replied in my mom’s thin, papery voice.
I laughed at her dead-on impression. “You’re good at that.”
“Too bad, I can’t bake, huh?”
I reach down and tweaked her ass. “You have other skills.”
She chuckled. “Should we tell your mom that? About my mad skills with the cock?”
“Um, no, that’s probably not such a good idea.”
“Terri, can you help with the broccoli?” my mom called impatiently from the kitchen.
My wife shook her head. “I’m going to need more wine.”
***
I probably should have said something to my mom, except I knew it would only make things worse. Mom wouldn’t understand why mentioning an ex-girlfriend should matter, and at best she’d be sullen about it. At worst, she’d want to discuss it with Terri.
But not talking about it meant that, sure enough, when the pies came out at dessert, Melanie came back up.
As she handed me a slice of strawberry/rhubarb pie, my mom noted, “Not as good as Melanie’s, but I think it came out well.”
I glanced over at Terri, who just rolled her eyes.
My dad, who’d spend most of dinner scowling at Greg because his brother-in-law had had the temerity to take the second drumstick, suddenly perked up.
“How is Melanie?” he asked the table vaguely before turning his attention to me. “She was such a nice girl.”
“How would I know?” I replied.
“You don’t stay in touch? You were together a long time,” my mom suggested.
I looked over at Terri, who proceeding to drain her glass. “Please pass the wine,” she said softly.
“Um, no,” I replied to my mom, even as I passed the wine to my wife.
She clicked her tongue in response. “Well, I’m sure she’s doing great, a girl like her.”
Terri filled her glass to the brim.
I’m sorry, I mouthed in her direction. She took a gulp and gave me a thin smile.
“You gonna eat all of that?” It was my dad, suddenly angry, snapping at Greg for taking too much pie.
“Oh, take it easy, Honey,” my mom said. “We have more.”
My dad grumbled unhappily, and then Pete jumped in to ask what people thought of Gotham, which didn’t go very far, but which at least got us away from Melanie and the fucking pies.
***
Aside from pies and traffic, the biggest problem with going to my folks’ was the sleeping accommodations. There were plenty of bedrooms, as long as the kids were young enough to stack like cordwood, but at some point, older folks stop updating the mattresses in their homes. For my folks, this had occurred sometime in the mid-1990s. Though they had cleared out most of my stuff from high school, there remained the now-lumpy, always-squeaky, full-size bed I’d slept in as a teen.
Terri had followed through on her stated intention, and had drunk enough wine to be a little silly. She’s a delightful drunk. Goofy, just a little clumsy, her breath moist and boozy, her smile a little crooked.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said once we were in my old bedroom.
“I told you she hated me.”
“She doesn’t.”
; Terri giggled. “No, but she does think I’m the kind of girl you bang, not the kind you marry. And maybe she’s right.”
“She’s not.”
“Your mom, Bill, is probably the only person in the world who wouldn’t be surprised if we told her what we’ve been up to. Told you so, Billy,” she added in my mom’s voice.
“That’s not sexy, you know.”
She smirked and continued imitating my mom, “Oh Billy, fuck me, fuck me hard Billy.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Good.”
She grabbed a hand towel and went out into the hallway bathroom to brush her teeth.
When she returned, she changed into a flannel nightgown – not exactly the sexiest sleepwear in the world, but appropriate, I guess, for a chilly New Hampshire evening. I was waiting for her under the covers as she climbed into bed. It squeaked. Loudly.
“So much for fooling around,” she noted. Thankfully, she was now speaking in her normal voice again.
“We could do it on the floor.”
“Too hard.”
“Standing up?”
“Is that how you did it with Melanie?” she asked.
“What?”
“You slept with her in this bed when you two visited during college, right?”
“Um, yeah.”
“So you two were young and horny. Surely, you must have….”
“I don’t remember.”
She laughed. “Really Bill?”
“I… I….”
“Oh, so my sexual exploits are grist for the mill, but yours are too private to share?”
“What the hell is grist?” I asked.
“No way, mister. No changing the subject. Tell me, did you bang that little pie-baking whore in this very bed?”
“Maybe?”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Terri said. “So tell me more. What was she like in the sack? No, no, no, wait. First, tell me what she looked like.”
“You’ve seen her picture,” I protested.
“Yes, how could I not? Your mom had it on display until Braden was born.”