Detached

We were on the couch last night, Amy and me,¹ and it was getting on the later side (so what's new). This was how I put it:

"I'm not sure if you were thinking we were having sex tonight. Do you wanna do anything?"

A note to ladies reading this: I understand if my powers of seduction, exhibited in this steamy proposition to my wife, overwhelm you with moist desire. Please, take as much time as you need to "take care of bidness" before continuing with this entry.

"I mean ..." I continue, my libido twisting in the wind, "... I don't want to do anything you're not in the mood for. It's not that big a deal." This is sort of true. But even so: What the hell am I thinking when I say this?

There are two opposite forces at work here.

The first force is a simple, testosterone-based need. It's been a week since I've had any sex that didn't feature my hand in the starring role. Now we stand on the precipice of another work week. The odds of sex before next Saturday are slim to none. Some part of my brain screams: You have to try!

The counterforce is the knowledge that Amy hasn't responded to my overtures all day. These gestures have spanned the gamut, from simple (a caress of the ass, a kiss in the hollow of her neck) to heavy-handed (After repairing a child's toy that Amy [inadvertently] broke, thus silencing a 15-minute tantrum/pouting session, I whisper in Amy's ear: "You owe me an amazing blowjob tonight for this one!").

We had a stupid-busy weekend which included a to-do list that proved size does matter. The only way to gain ground was to split forces. Amy and one kid get a haircut while I take the other kid with me grocery shopping. I take one kid to a birthday party while Amy does yard work. We were detached for the whole weekend. And even when we were together, one or the other of us worked on different chores or dealt with different kids. We weren't spouses these last few days, we were co-workers.

And then there are the examples of the sexual disconnect:

- While watching Rome, I comment: "Man, do Atia's breasts get larger with every episode?" Amy's reply is a question: "Does your mind always have to be on that one track?" She kind-of-apologizes when I point out that such observations about women's bodies on TV usually come from her.

- We hear an ad for a Viagra-style product on the radio, and Amy muses: "How come they don't make a drug that lessens a man's sex drive?" Me: "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Her: (defensive) "It was a joke." Me: "Um, so was mine." This is one of those cases, I think, where that maxim about some truth in every joke might be applicable.

And still — after all this evidence! — "Don Juan" here barreled ahead with a proposition for sex.

Anyroad² ... If you think my come-on was sexy, just wait 'til you get a load of Amy's response:

"I could probably be talked into something."

I'm not sure that she physically shrugged, but I swear I could hear it.

+++
And the red flags just kept popping up.

I got ready for bed while Amy stayed in front of the television, watching cake decorating. Friends, this never happens.

I was in bed when Amy came into the bedroom, and she asked if we could work on a crossword for awhile. It was almost 1:00 a.m. Any sane man would take the hint; any sane husband would gracefully bow out, letting his wife off the hook.

I hate to give away the ending to my story, but you all know where this is going, don't you?

+++
Lights off, we started kissing. And everything felt a little ... off. Like we'd been away from each other, lost our groove. I commented on this.

"I've felt so disconnected from you." I wasn't sure where this was going, but I hoped she could help me get there. But it was a dead end: Amy acknowledged that we've been really busy recently. End of discussion.

My hands worked around her body. My tongue traveled from neck to ear. I was gettin' ... nothin'.

As she stroked my chest, she said: "My hand is hurting a lot from this eczema thing tonight. I'm sorry, but I can't really touch you a lot." I told her that's fine. But the thought that it hurt to touch me dug deeper than I let on. I crave Amy's touch. Often, when she slips a hand under my shirt and strokes my back, there is a physical release of stress. I'm sure she thinks I'm overdramatizing when I react. It's as if I discovered a delicious treat I had no idea I was hungry for.

I slipped a hand inside her panties, and she giggled. "You're tickling me!" she said between laughs.

"I'm not doing anything! I'm not even being that gentle!"

"I'm sorry," she said. "You just went in soft and swiftly."

"Then let me try it again. This time I'll go in hard and clumsily," I joked.

"Well, that definitely won't tickle."

I try again, and again, she writhed in ticklish laughter. "I'm sorry, but your hand is just doing that to me tonight!"

I sit up and roughly start to pull off her panties. "Let's see what my tongue does to you, then."

I stayed knelt by her side, my head lowered to her pussy. A typical "69" position, except that my cock is off to the side. Usually she manually plays with me, but not tonight. My tongue went to work, but momentarily she bucked me off in another fit of laughter. One more try: This time her legs squeezed my face as she laughed into the pillow.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said, a little irked now.

She collected herself and finally allowed me in. I was all business. I had something to prove! What, exactly, I'm not sure. She had a pretty good orgasm. And then I did something slightly passive-aggressive: Instead of backing off after her orgasm, I locked my mouth over her cunt and continued to go at her like she still had somewhere to go. I guess I was trying to give her a second one, show her how good this could be. Whatever I was thinking (and calling it "thinking" is charitable), she finally had to force me off. I fell back on the bed panting.

Amy sat up and pulled off my boxer-briefs. With no preface, she came right down on my cock and went to work. It was really nice at first — some variation up and down the sides and underside of the shaft, combined with taking me deep. I slipped my hand into her hair and did some mild guiding. She winced.

"Gentler," she whispered in between sucks.

"Sorry," I said, and decided not to chance hurting her.

Instead, I slipped a hand between her legs, let a thumb stray into her ass crack. Immediately, she clinched and moved away. "Okay," I whispered, getting the message.

My hand slinked up her sides to her tank-covered breasts. I gently teased one, stimulating a nipples. Again, she flinched.

"I can't do that either?" The words came out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I think I was whining.

"I'm really sorry," she said. She repositioned herself between my legs, putting her bits out of reach. I sighed and put my hands over my head, grabbing the footboard of the bed.

I stared at the ceiling, realizing there was no way I was coming now. I was completely out of the mood. What's more, Amy, was totally overblowing me at this point. She was going up and down at breakneck pace on my dick, and the teeth were slowly creeping into play, more than they should. It was getting uncomfortable. (Perhaps she was just returning my passive aggression!) When she came up for air, I slipped a hand onto my cock and started jacking, encouraging her to work my balls instead.

But it was already over. Shortly, she came up beside me. She started licking my nipples as I continued to jack myself.

"Tell me something dirty," I suggested. With a good spate of slutchat from Amy, I could probably come off quickly.

"I was thinking about Cleopatra's small tits," she said, another reference to Rome. "What it would be like to have small tits like those. The kind that are barely there. Where you would just be able to suck on my nipples and really nothing else...."

This was the oddest direction she'd ever gone with such talk. She must have known that, because she abandoned it.

"It's just not my night," she sighed.

"No, I guess it's not," I acknowledged, though lovingly. I kissed her head. "You should just go to sleep."

With little hesitation, she flipped around, putting her head back at the top of the bed. "Are you going to finish?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe. Yes." But ten strokes later, my erection was gone. I turned around too.

I tried to talk a little more about the disconnection. I commented on feeling far away from her.

"Well, you stay up late, and I get up early," she said. And all I could think was, I'm not the one falling asleep at 9:00 every night! But saying that out loud would have definitely started a fight, and it would have been unfair anyway. Instead, I redirected my frustration, putting the burden on the child who hasn't been sleeping well. Amy didn't respond. She was falling asleep.

I looked at the clock. It was 1:45 a.m. I stared into darkness. I thought about the fact that there are going to be nights like these; we just hadn't had one in a long, long time. I thought about how borderline-petulant I was acting about all of this. I thought about masturbating again. But all masturbatory fantasies lead back to Amy, and any "fantasy Amy" would morph into tonight's Amy. The only possibility was a raunchy porn video to drown out my overactive head. But I didn't move. I just lay there and stewed.

I looked at the clock again. It was 3:02 a.m.

+++
"It's 6:51," said Amy, cuing me to get out of bed. I showered, the previous evening's events slowly coming back to me. Back in the bedroom, I stood at my dresser, pulling on underwear.

"It's a miracle," Amy said behind me, "that none of the kids have woken up."

"Yeah, that's cool," I said. I reached for an undershirt.

"So," she said, "you want to try again?"

I froze. Laughed. Shook my head. Walked over to the bed. "Bless you for that," I said. "But I have a hard time believing we won't be interrupted."

"But we could try," she said.

"You don't have to do this," I said.

"I want to do this," she said. Convincingly.

So, how cool is that?

I tossed the undershirt on the bed, stepped out of my underwear. Before I could say, "Alright, we can try," she had my flaccid cock in her mouth.

Three sucks later, it was rock-hard. I stood next to the bed as she lay down, encouraging me to fuck her mouth. I kept it gentle. This morning felt like it needed gentle.

"You keep yourself good and hard," she said after a moment, "and I'll be right back." She peed while I stretched on the bed, lazily jacking. She returned with a wicked grin and attacked my dick with gusto. It took just a few minutes before I quietly came. It was the thought that counted.

"Wow," she commented, "they're still not awake."

"Yeah," I said, slipping my underwear back on.

"So you could get me off again."

I turned around, and now she was stretched out, her hand already warming things up. I fell between her legs.

After several minutes of bringing her to the edge, she would fall away again. Finally, she pounded the mattress with a fist. "I don't know what's wrong! I get close, and then I lose it. I feel like I'm a long way away!"

"For what it's worth," I offered, "I'm having a hell of a time finding the pocket and getting a rhythm."

She pulled me up beside her. "Thanks anyway."

"No, thank you," I said. "This was a nice surprise."

She kissed me. "Gotta get moving." She headed to the shower.

"Breakfast?" I asked.

"Oh ... oatmeal or smoothie. Whichever you want."

I headed down the hall to the kitchen. We had managed to delay the start of the week by some twenty minutes, but now it was officially here.


--
¹ Sometimes I think I could rename this blog "A Marriage Held on the Couch." [Return]

² My new favorite word. I picked it up from Rome. Which, sadly, ended its run on HBO last night. Damn, I'm gonna miss that series. Even if there wasn't much of a series left, as all but three of the main characters were dead by the final credits. [Return]

TMI Tuesday #7: "Linger" Lost

I almost bailed on the TMI Tuesday meme in favor of Wet Wednesday. I've been disappointed in TMI Tuesday's quality of questions. But they got a reprieve this week ... I was actually able to work with these questions. So, thanks, TMI, for stepping it up a little bit.

1. Commando: Sexy or disgusting? Do you have a "best" commando story?

I love the way going commando feels. No true commando story, but occasionally on a weekend, Amy would discovered much to her surprise (why was she always surprised?) that I wasn't wearing underwear. (I've also occasionally discovered that she had no underwear on, but it's rare and usually only happens when, say, the panties load is in the washer.) There's a whole "porn star" aspect to going commando: So many male porn stars prove when they disrobe that they have dispensed with the totally unnecessary underwear. Their cocks pop right out, waiting to be serviced.

Sometimes I do it because I like the way it feels, but sometimes I don't wear underwear in hopes that the discovery will start something. The truth is, that never happens. Since I do this on the weekends, that's a time of the week usually fraught with pressure of trying to accomplish everything in our home life that we were too busy or tired to handle during the week. This was hard before we had kids. Now, with weekly classes or activities scheduled on Saturdays, the idea of sexual spontaneity is almost impossible to imagine.

There's a deep-seeded fear I have of going commando, courtesy an old episode of The Rockford Files. Jim is attending (or, more likely, crashing) a high-class suarée when masked gunmen break in and rob the guests of their money and valuable jewelry. Rather than demanding the male party-goers hand over their wallets, the robbers tell them to remove their pants. All trousers are collected, accomplishing two goals: The wallets are stolen, and any party-goer who is feeling heroic is less likely to pursue the robbers when he is pantsless.

Of course, every single male at the party is wearing underwear. In fact, every one of them is wearing boxers. Much less revealing, pretty much just like wearing a thin pair of shorts. (Remember those ten minutes or so in the 1980s, when some women wore men's boxers as their outerwear?) Even when I was 13, this seemed odd to me. Not one pair of BVDs in the group? Was this a status thing?

Anyway, whenever I pull my jeans up over my bare ass, carefully zipping up to make sure not to catch skin, this Rockford Files ep pops into my head. And I wonder: Is today the day that someone walks up to me on the street, pushes a muzzle into my ribcage, and demands my pants? Not that it stops me. But it does give me pause for thought.


2. Foreplay: Is there such a thing as too much?

Considering I was in a relationship (in college) in which there was nothing but foreplay for two years — and I loved it — I'd have to say: Never enough. Though I think Amy feels differently. She gets edgy after we start down the road to Orgasmville. She's totally impatient. She wants me to cut to the chase — or even the end of the chase — a.s.a.p.

Nothing would make me happier than Amy and I having a day where, from the moment we woke up, she told me, "You are spending the day with your face in my cunt." I wouldn't need more than that for quite some time.


3. Oral sex: Good if you are getting? Good is you are giving? Equally ewwwww?

Good if it is happening. And happening slowly. Luxuriously. With a sense that the giver is savoring the moment. When Amy gave me the coupon for a "mind-blowing blowjob," this is what I envisioned. One where she really makes a big-ass deal out of how great it is to suck my cock. Where she makes lots of eye contact. Moans. Whispers. Drools on it. Where her tongue plays with my balls ... endlessly. No goal of orgasm for some time ... Just letting arousal build and build.

This would be truly special. Most times — due to time constraints, or exhaustion, or a desire on her part to get to the fucking, or just other things on her mind — the blowjobs can be rushed. And the truth is, her mindset has invaded mine to some extent such that more often than not, my own time spent going down on her is similarly rushed. The concept of the lingering, unrushed orgasm, sadly, has slipped out of our grasp. Maybe a day will come when it can be found again.


4. Orgasm: Is one per night enough, or does the first one just get your motor running?

I don't get to find out very often. Amy is usually sleepy or moving on to something else after one. Not since the early days of our relationship has she been interested in having several sessions / orgasms in a row. I think this speaks to the level of interest she has in sex in general. She got hers, and now she either wants to get to sleep (if it's late) or get back to doing something around the house (in the middle of the day).

Amy rarely relaxes. I consider it one of my major goals in this marriage to help her find more ways for her to let go and kick back.


5. Morning sex: "Oh hell yes!", "Well if I have, too." or "Just get in the shower and go to work."

It's another time of the day when, from the moment she wakes up, Amy's head is not in the sex game. The times that we've had morning sex are the (all too rare) times when she has woken up without a child already present or without the pressure of a mental pages-long to-do list. I suppose one person in the relationship needs to be responsible, right? Probably an okay trade-off for not having morning sex.

I know, I know: Who the hell am I kidding?


Bonus (as in optional): Have you ever had anonymous sex? Have you ever had an orgasm without at least knowing your partner's last name?

I've never done either of these things. Not that it wouldn't be fun to try someday. Actually, what would really interest me is watching some anonymous stranger having sex with Amy. That would be most enjoyable.

Interlude

Last night. We're on the couch. Amy says, "Could you get me some ice cream?"

"Only if you let me go down on you later," I reply.

She smirks. I don't move.

"It'll be good for you," says Dr. Denis.

She gives me a pleading look. I don't move.

"You won't regret it." I say this in a you-know-this-from-personal-experience-so-stop-fucking-with-me sort of way.

She offers: "How about I give you a 'distinct possibility?'"

I lock eyes on her. I give her the impression that I'm studying her, trying to ascertain if her "distinct possibility" is a smokescreen to keep me out of her pants. Of course, this is utter bullshit. I'd take "distinct possibility" any day of the week. She got her ice cream lickety-split ... and I set my sights on my lickety-split later.

Cut to bedtime. It's later than we both wanted, but we had work to do. I'm already in bed, and she comes to me and starts like this:

"It's not like I don't want to...."

Here we go, I think. My eyes think it too, and she reads them. Which gives her explanation more of an edge. It got late ... we have an extra-early day tomorrow ... we've been up really, really late the last few nights, and she'd like to feel rested going into the week. And she really wants to do this, she just wants to be smart about it.

And none of this can I argue with. So I don't.

"I just want to be into it," she says, almost pleadingly, now almost making me feel guilty.

"I want you to be into it too," I tell her. "I'm not interested if you aren't going to be into it." It's hard for me not to get huffy about this.

"Don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at the six million things we had to do tonight that are now keeping this from happening."

"How about if I sleep naked tonight?" she offers. Amy, The Great Compromiser. Naked is almost as good as sex.

And all of this over eating pussy! Really, I just want to get her off, down and dirty. I hadn't gotten the chance to do it when we'd had sex over the weekend. All day long, I had imagined a scenario where I unexpectedly yanked down her jeans, pushed her down on the nearest furniture, and ate to my heart's (and her orgasm's) content. No talk. Well, no coherent talk, anyway.

We're miles away from that now.

In the dark, spooned against her, a breast filling one palm, I realize the dichotomy of this situation: I live to have our naked bodies pressed together, but the whole thing has become such a tease now. I whisper, "I'm getting you in the morning."

She giggles. "Okay. Sounds good."

***
It's seven this morning. One child ensconced in front of the television. The other blissfully asleep -- hopefully for awhile, still. I've already showered and breakfast is in the works. I take a break to sit on the side of the bed, gently wake her up.

"I don't wanna get up," she says sleepily.

"Then let me wake you up slowly." Clearly, I really, really want to eat this woman.

"You can do that," she says, even sounding like she thinks it's a good idea.

And it is. It's a glorious, deep, warm, wet, sweet, raw, impassioned, quivering, juicy, session of gobble. She starts by pulling the covers over me, up to her chest, on the off-chance that a child would stroll in. (It hasn't happened yet, knock wood.) But by the end, she's tossed them away, and she's writhing as quietly as she can, and not too successfully. I watch her nipples grow as my tongue and lips bring her up and over the mountain.

It's a quick descent, by necessity. Only ten minutes have passed, but every minute in the mornings is valuable. She embraces me, kisses me deeply.

"Thank you," I say as I head back to the kitchen.

"The pleasure was all mine," she responds on her way to the bathroom.

"That's what you think."

But she's out of earshot.

Black Tie Optional; Cleavage Required.

"How are the contacts?" I asked Amy as we drove to the birthday party last Saturday night. She doesn't wear them very often -- they're often more bother to her eyes than they're worth.

"Fine. Of course, I can't see very well at night...."

"Then, you're not driving tonight," I ordered. "Which means you get to drink all you want tonight. Go for it."

Though she was looking out her window, I could tell she was smiling when she commented, "You just want me to get loose."

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," I insisted in mock shock.

Many impure thoughts had been crossing my mind for much of that afternoon. We had gone dress shopping for this event. Specifically, it was a friend's fortieth birthday, and the invitation said, very prominently: "Black Tie Optional." While it's rare that we go to grown-ups-only parties at all at this point in our lives, it's unheard of that we find ourselves at a party this formal. So Amy and I had spent a few hours at an upscale department store. We had narrowed it down to two dresses, both of which showed off her cleavage beautifully. It had been so long since she'd worn something like this, I had to keep checking in and making sure she was really comfortable with appearing in public looking this ... well, sexy.

"Well," I said, talking to Amy but raising my eyebrows at the saleswoman who had been helping us all afternoon, "you can bet I have no problem with it." The sales associate laughed, only slightly embarrassed. I'm sure she'd heard worse.

She decided on a flashy teal-and-brown number, with some sharkskin-like shimmery material highlighting in places, and some colorful beading. Her final touch, added just before we left for the party, was a necklace I had given her a couple of Christmases ago: a silver chain, with a second silver strand attached, and a black pearl dangling from the end. It worked beautifully, though Amy pointed out that the necklace essentially pointed to "the obvious" below. I noted that it wasn't likely that people were going to miss that cleavage, necklace or not. She didn't dispute me. I'm sure she also knew that I was going to enjoy the view all night. She had even assigned me the responsibility of letting me know if the dress had shifted, showing the strapless bra during the night.

"We should have a code phrase," I suggested.

"Just tell me, if it's alright, that you just checked in and 'the girls are fine.'" Perfect!

I dropped Amy off at the party and went to park the car. The first person to greet her was the birthday boy's wife, who instantly said: "Wow, you've got great cleavage. I'm so envious. I could never pull that off." When Amy told me this upon my arrival, I mentioned: "You have to figure, if the women are commenting on it...." She just smiled, but with an underlying boldness. She was gonna be fine.

As it turned out, cleavage was in no short supply at the party. One woman had been so daring as to wear a very nice navy pant suit with the coat buttoned up to only partially hide a red push-up bra. It sounds more slutty than it actually was ... she pulled it off nicely. Another woman, most definitely falling under the category of BBW, was working her benefits to the best of her advantage as well. But -- and this is a completely unbiased opinion here -- no one had pulled off the "revelation of the bosom" with as much class and flair as my wife.

The party was a low-key affair, held in a space inspired by 1920s France, with wall-to-wall red velvet, period fixtures, and Folies Bergere posters galore. It felt opulent, decadent. Though we knew hardly anyone there, Amy's outgoing personality attracted a couple, Adam and Maria, to our table, and we spent most of the night getting to know each other. They were about four years our junior, and really quite the gorgeous couple.

An astrologer had been hired as part of the entertainment, and Amy and I signed up for readings, as did our new friends. Amy got her reading first while I looked on. She was accurate on all the insanely general things ("You're feeling some stress in your life right now") and pretty wrong every time she tried to narrow in on more specific information. But at least she had a lovely British accent.

She asked Amy if she had any specific questions, which caught us by surprise. ("I didn't know we had to study for this test," I commented.) That gave me time to figure out my questions, and when it was my turn, I was prepared. My question about the health of a family member flustered the astrologer a little bit. (She wisely disclaimed everything she said by saying, "Of course, I'm not a medical doctor.") But then I really did a number on her when I looked over at Amy and said, "What I really want to know about is how my sex life is going to be in the future." Everyone at the table laughed, the astrologer most nervously.

"I want to know that too!" exclaimed Amy.

This emboldened me. "Okay! That's what I want to know!"

The astrologer, with a silly grin, couldn't stop giggling. All she could do was shake her head. She wasn't gonna go there. What a wuss! I asked some vague question about my job, and of course I was assured that everything was going swimmingly but that "there would be some change" coming. (Ya think?) We wrapped things up.

Later, as songs from the celebrated gentleman's birth year played over the P.A., we compared notes with Adam and Maria about our silly astrology readings. Conversation moved on to culture, work life, parenting. It was hard for my mind (helped along by two glasses of wine, a Tom Collins, and probably too little food) not to wander away to thoughts of us with this couple. Maria had these girl-next-door good looks, a natural beauty that looked slightly uncomfortable in this more formal setting. (I surmised she would have been happy to get out of her dress, and I was betting that Adam and I would be only too happy to oblige.) Adam had those chiseled features that reminded me of someone, and at some point during the night, I figured it out, bent to Amy's ear and whispered: "Sting!" She nodded agreement without breaking her conversation. I wondered if Adam's thoughts had wandered at all, courtesy Amy's, um, necklace.

In the car on the way home, Amy was feeling hungry. "Cheese fries sound decadent and amazing," she suggested. "Don't they?"

I slowed down -- we were just about to pass the exit we would need to take to get the best cheese fries in town. "That's a possibility," I said. "Another option would be a big bowl of buttered pasta after I'm done having my way with you tonight."

Amy half-smirked; she knew that overture was coming sometime in the evening. "That sounds good too. I can't decide. It all sounds good. Fries, pasta ... Either is fine. Regardless of your having your way with me." My zooming past the exit made the decision for us: Pasta it would be.

We arrived home after midnight, and I ran the babysitter back to her place. By the time I returned, I passed through the kitchen and saw a pot of water already heating on the stove. Amy was on the couch, still wearing her dress. "I thought we shouldn't delay getting the water going." I turned the burner down to simmer and proceeded to the living room, kneeling next to her. "I left my dress on. I figured you wanted to remove it."

"How astute."

She stood up and I turned her hips so that she faced away from me. Zipper down. Straps off shoulders. Dress sliding past the waist. Legs stepping out. I pressed my cheek against the small of her back as I reached up and cupped her tits, still clad in her strapless. I felt this internal release. Almost as if it was a relief to be here again. A hunger about to be sated ... finally. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Years?

And what the hell was that bra doing still on? Away it went.

Amy was feeling tired from the long day and asked to lie back down on the couch. We continued kissing as I rubbed her nylon-clad legs. Her neck was deliciously warm, and tucking my face in there, I felt like it was a favorite secret place. I noticed that as we kissed, Amy was doing something she doesn't normally do at this stage in the evening.

"You're really playing with your tits a lot tonight," I whispered. She was kneading them with both hands, rubbing them with flat palms. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about these tits rubbing against you...." she moaned. "Your chest ... Your cock...."

"Show me."

She sat up. "Lie down."

Once I was on my back, my wife kissed quickly down my chest while undoing my belt. Soon the pants were history, and she rubbed her face against my cock and balls. Somewhere in there, as if by magic, my cock was deep in her mouth -- and then, just as suddenly, feeling the air again. And then quickly enveloped by her tits. It wasn't a tit-fuck so much as it was a breast attack ... rubbing all over, with intermittent cock-sucking to keep things lubricated. When she didn't have her mouth full of cock, it was full of words.

"I'm thinking about another man fucking me," she hissed, "while I suck this cock."

"God, yes," I encouraged. "I'd love to see him drilling you back there."

"He's filling me with his hard dick," she moaned.

I had to hand it to her, she was giving it her all. Maybe too much for her, in fact: She seemed almost restless, rushed. She stopped after only a short while, insisting: "I need to really get fucked." She stood up long enough to inside-out the pantyhose, and then she was straddling me. Without further "ado," she shoved my cock into her cunt. No lube, no other prep.

I'm losing count of how many times recently she has become the aggressor. And for the first time -- just for a moment -- I was a little bothered by it. In my version of how things would go tonight, I had imagined that I would be the one in control. Yet, here we were again, with her fucking me. Not that it was difficult to adjust my expectations! But just for a moment, I wondered if she was using the control as a way of keeping something else from happening, something she didn't want. For the life of me, I can't imagine what that would be.

Was this a case of getting what I had asked for? I had wanted her to be a little more aggressive in bed, to tell me what she wanted, to take it rather than always waiting for it to be handed to her. On the grand scheme of things, this is an extremely minor issue, not even rising to the level of "complaint." More an observation, something to be aware of.

Meanwhile, the fucking continued, hard and fast, but again, not for long: She popped off of my dick and moved up the couch until her pussy was pressing against my face. I caught her oh-so-subtle hint and went to town on her with my tongue and teeth. Her pussy was delightfully soft, tenderized by the frantic fucking. She ground hard against my mouth as I worked her pussy to an orgasm that temporarily tensed every muscle in her body. The tension was followed by a sigh, a balloon slowly, soundlessly releasing all of its air.

Aware that I hadn't gotten mine yet, Amy laid down in the opposite direction on the couch, sort of curling herself around my dick and beginning some serious oral with intent. I encouraged her: "That's right ... nice and sloppy. Let me hear you sucking my cock. Suck your husband's cock 'til he shoots his come all over." I tried playing with her pussy a bit as she blew me, but she nudged my hand away.

When I got close, I told her I wanted to come on her tits, and her approval came in the form of a moan that moved me quickly to the goal. Soon she was pushing my cock between her breasts as I squeezed out a few shudder-accompanied spurts. "Sorry the angle wasn't better for getting it all over my tits," she said.

"No need to apologize." I pressed her against me, feeling my cum on her chest, now on mine as well. "It's not like I was going to take the time to reposition us just for a money shot." At least not this time.

She snuggled up against me. "So how about that pasta?" she asked.

"I'm on it," I said. But I didn't move, and shortly we had both fallen into a light slumber.

Some time later, we roused, and Amy asked, "Do you still want the pasta?"

"Not really," I said. "I'm feeling pretty fulfilled at the moment." She still wanted something, so we settled on a grilled cheese sandwich, which I prepared in the nude. It's not the safest thing in the world, but if I'm not, say, cooking bacon, I love cooking in the nude. And it's not something I get to do too often anymore.

Amy was sore the next day -- not using lube turned out to be a slight mistake. But it did lead to her making a comment as we drove to work Monday morning: "I'm sorry we're not having sex more often ... But you have to admit that it's pretty amazing when we do."

Yes, I guess I do have to admit that. And hardly begrudgingly.

When in Rome....

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A Saturday, and A Sunday

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