Loading...I
Mirrors should be banned, I thought, tilting my head slightly to one side. They’re awake, you know, and exist to torment women who appear too fat, too short, too tall, too…anything.
Each should be seized, in on-going raids by some would-be federal agency, a Department of Imagery or something, which if it doesn’t already exist, ought to be mandated by Congress to protect females everywhere.
But there it was and here I was, pausing to review an afternoon’s handiwork, scrutinizing the depraved thing’s reflections.
Still though, I was always a little wary of the delicate kinship I had with my own likeness, knowing even on a good day, a day like this one when I was satisfied with what I saw, it could turn against me in a heartbeat. Such are the ways of reflections.
Surprisingly, and unlike so many other times when I had stood in the shadow of its intimidating gaze, it was being reasonably courteous today; concealing its bullying self and showing a genial side which left me confident that hair, makeup, nails and even apron were in good order – ready.
I ran my hands over the satin of the apron to cup the fullness of my breasts, slightly tender, anticipating the period which I needed deferred another two days. Gently squeezing them together, I thought the reprieve unlikely. Cautiously kneading one against the other, I narrowed the parting cleavage, in effect merging the two objects into one double-nippled boob.
Interesting thought; having one boob might simplify things. Changing my mind, I dropped my hands away and tipped the Chanel bottle, feeling liquid, cool against my thumb which I ran carefully down the reconstituted furrow between my breasts.
The pink nipples become taut with eagerness and I considered how curious it all was; how efficiently he fit into that sensual valley.
My thoughts drew back to the first time he had spilled there, how I had lain nervously on my back, his sperm following the path of gravity, presenting me with my first pearl necklace. So sweet of him.
Messy though. His gift had rained onto my chest and over both shoulders, dripping in seconds onto the crisp sheets.
But it was all right; afterward I mopped the sticky fluid with white cotton panties, presenting them to him as a special gift. He liked that and I smiled as I thought of men and how they loved making messes – which we got to clean up. My mirror image winked at me as if in support.
My eyes wandered, their attention turning to my ear as I carefully fastened the second white-gold jacket, part of a set he had surprised me with a year ago on our sixth anniversary. Watching its twinkle, I whispered to myself, ‘how pretty’. Everything seemed in place.
II
Keys. It was him fumbling about outside the door, escaping Friday’s wrath, a swarming surf which left him covered with barnacles that would cling for hours afterward, dictating his mood. I’d have to intervene.
I didn’t require much for myself mind you; a smile would do and despite the remnants of the day’s ire, his smile tonight was nice; warmer and more inviting than expected. His happiness was so important. I could tell he was glad to be out of the rat race of the vacillating markets that both drove and frustrated him.
“Hi sweetheart,” I said, stepping toward him confidently. We planted two perfectly-timed kisses; first his, with one on my forehead, a second, mine, landing straight on his lips.
The first, his, lingered a moment – not long — and contained something extra, something I liked. Loving him meant enjoying his touch. It had always been so.
“Mmm…that’s a nice greeting, Mr. Wall Street,” I whispered, lifting my apron to display his personal version of MySpace. “Would you like a more detailed tour?”
“I think I just had one.” He smiled as his face brightened and he ran his hand between my legs. His fingers slipped into my wetness.
“There’s more if you care to taste,” I murmured sensuously.
“Yes, about the rest of that…” he ventured, taking my hand in his and whirling me in a leisurely pirouette. Turning my head, I watched as his eyes traced my premeditated nudity.
“Do you like?”
“Now I remember why I missed you so much today,” he said.
“So? Do you?”
“Do I like beautiful women wearing nothing but aprons and heels?”
I was insistent now. “Do you?”
“You’re kidding, of course. Very much so,” he conceded, pulling me close by gently tugging my nipples.
“And you said naked women?” I reminded, mildly scoffing him.
“Woman…is what I meant,” he corrected, retreating behind the singular.
“I see.”
With hair up, makeup in place, and devoid of attire excepting a black faux half-apron and Gladiator sandals, I handed him his cherished gimlet. Then, standing on tiptoes to reach him, I flicked my tongue along the underside of his earlobe, adding, “I’m glad you missed me today.” I touched my finger to his cheek, and reverting to wifeliness, added, “Supper’s in half an hour.”
III
He got a kick out of the setting, which accounted for my tendency to recreate it. It made life interesting and for this man, interesting was good, especially when interesting happened at home, with me.
He had a thing for incongruity, peculiar in a way for a stock analyst and today he unexpectedly found me a cross between elegance, and practical, preparing his dinner complete with diamonds, perhaps interpreting them as if the two parallel wifely roles were seemingly incompatible dramas. Knowing they naturally intersected, I left it alone and observed with interest as his all-consuming eyes swiftly assembled the obvious pieces of the puzzle I had conjured for the evening.
“They’re standing on end tonight,” he observed, sipping his drink before lightly brushing my right nipple with the chilly tumbler. “I like that.”
“Oooo,” I responded, recoiling bashfully, relishing the tingle which instantly registered its signal to my clit.
I silently returned to him, brushing the tips of my breasts against his soft shirt which I unbuttoned after efficiently removing his tie, all the while moving against his crotch with my undulating pelvis. Feeling him respond, before turning away I whispered, “Just making sure everything’s working.”
I had found myself troubled these past months, and wondered whether we might not be approaching a decisive stage in our marriage, the one where he starts looking for something else. Just a feeling really; I had little to go on.
A chilling installment in any married woman’s life, from time to time, I noticed his gaze in search mode, as he stole a glance at the behind of a passing waitress or at that lady cop, whose own roaming eye betrayed her excessively official demeanor. A condition common to all males, it potently displayed the dangers of a wife’s complacency.
Serving him topless, I waited until he had put down his fork down to tell him. With a suggestion of anticipation in my voice, I peered across the table and with interlocking fingers delicately supporting my chin, leaned forward and murmured, “Marcel, pack an overnight bag. Tomorrow we’re taking a trip.”
“And just where are we headed?” he queried, knowing it was only marginally likely he’d receive a straight answer.
“A little mystery is good,” I replied demurely. “Anyway, you don’t have to know everything.” He didn’t argue.
IV
I withheld the secret of our destination even as we left early the following morning, choosing instead to reveal bits of the unknown in the form of directions as we approached a turn here or a highway exit there.
And he was so patient with me, never once pressuring for an exact purpose to it all, but instead trusting I would eventually take him someplace special.
He spotted them even before we left, that much I knew. But since he wasn’t the kind of man to presume things, he didn’t acknowledge them, at least not directly. And it wasn’t the ponytails, you understand, though he did get a kick out of them as well.
“You know, I always liked your hair like that,” he remarked, not taking his eyes from the road.
Suggestively leaning my head, I reached back and tugged first one, then the other. “Oh, you mean these?” I asked, feigning naïveté.
“Yes, those,” he responded firmly, smiling and briefly glancing over at me now. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in tails.”
It had been a while, nearly two years and we both knew it wasn’t the style of my hair that interested him. It was the narrow black velvet ribbons which held it in place.
“I’ve been naughty and negligent, sweetheart, but you know I never forget.”
“I’m glad about that,” he responded, a little doubtingly. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going, Alanna?”
“Not yet hon, but take this next right.”
The sign said the rest: “Harper’s Castle — 7 miles”.
V
Originally built in the 1890’s, the old mansion had been converted to a comfortable resort for New Yorkers seeking escape. Driving slowly down the narrow road leading to the main entrance, we gazed in awe as the imposing stone complex, surrounded by lush, perfectly manicured grounds, came into view.
Renoir’s Oarsmen at Chatou, I thought as I took in the blue lake, its boats silently plying glistening waters while couples wandered hand in hand along the banks; where time slowed, and where I was determined he experience something special, something that would mark this anniversary worthy of remembering.
We spent the afternoon sauntering some, kissing some and at some point, alone in some elevator, he reached from behind me and slipped some hands under some welcoming breasts.
As I felt his fingers squeeze my nipples, I knew he would have taken things further, like that time at the Brooklyn warehouse, but the elevator interrupted, stopping abruptly, its doors opening a little faster than expected and exposing our compromising position to the view of half a dozen agreeably astonished women. Their spontaneous ovation, though more than faintly embarrassing, proved one of the charms of our visit.
It was all a part of a game, one played off and on since we first met. Unfulfilled elevator foreplay always left us hungry, wanting immediate sex. I was positive the ladies, the ones standing outside the elevator door, were a little seasoning thrown in by the Fates to satisfy our exhibitionistic needs.
VI
As evening settled over the lake, we sat together enjoying the view from our private balcony. Holding hands and sipping chardonnay, we watched the shimmering light dancing on the water as the sky’s blue deepened and faded to black.
Admittedly, I found alcohol an erotic trigger as it loosened both mind and body to float beside his, leaving me convinced that being slightly looped was a good thing.
Warmly searching his soft eyes, I asked, “Marcel, can we do a love bath?”
The room had an exquisite tub, observably intended for more than relaxation and surrounded by mirrors. It was large, capable of holding four, but tonight there wouldn’t be four. Just us, I thought, recalling that single occasion when a surprising visitor to our marriage bed had fleetingly shocked the senses.
“A bath, yes, I would like that,” he responded instantly; this from an almost Spartan man who allowed himself few pleasures.
It had started that very first weekend. Not the first night, mind you, as I didn’t have the nerve just then. But by the second, with the barriers dividing our sexualities fast dissolving, we found ourselves together in the big shower where he had taken me from behind with a powerful thrust and from that delicious moment to this, the comfort of water had played a part in our secret world, providing a consoling place to enjoy each other.
There was another, deeper reason I sought after the warmth of the bath. Simply put, it was an effective ploy for getting this uneasy and sometimes edgy man to relax enough to let me in; into that hidden place which, given a careful approach, he derived exceptional pleasure from.
“I’ll start the water,” I said, strolling out of the room, stripping away blouse and bra as I walked. “Be right back.”
I returned with my half-empty wine glass, sporting black satin tap pants which for some mystifying reason he adored, and black Caravaggio pumps whose T-straps never failed to attract. Oh, and of course the black satin ribbons in my hair.
His eyes lovingly wandered my scarcely adorned figure. Slightly self-conscious as wives are apt to be, I had to ask, “Do you still like what you see my darling?”
Allowing his eyes to roam his prey, they eventually refocused like lasers between my legs, and his smile turned sober. “Drop the pants,” he ordered.
“Yes sir!” I responded, snapping to a deferential salute. Carefully, but slowly, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and ran them forward till they met at my navel, where I hesitated.
“Show me,” he commanded.
Still hooking the band, I pulled at the front of my pants, briefly revealing my shaven sex before allowing the elastic to flick back into place.
“She’s pretty,” he observed. “Now pull them down. All the way this time.”
I tugged, allowing the flimsy pants to fall to my ankles and awaited further orders.
“Kick them away. Turn around – slowly,” he dictated. “Show me your ass.”
Our eyes remaining locked. As instructed I lifted first one foot, then the other, at last elevating the pants onto my toe, where I allowed them to linger as if a swinging pendulum, before kicking them away.
“Come here,” he whispered, pointing to the place in front of him. A single forward step left my waiting vagina inches from his face as he sat comfortably in the big leather chair.
“Turn around. I need to see more.”
“How much more?”
“A lot more. Open your legs. Bend all the way. Show me.”
Submissively, I bent forward, slightly at first, my hands on my thighs for support. I felt his sturdy fingers grasp my buttocks, which he spread widely; revealing places that I had promised from the start would always be open to him.
Keeping my legs straight and without a whimper of objection, I lowered my head and with my hands now replacing his, I spread my cheeks for him.
“Bend more,” he insisted. “Your ankles; grab them.” He was even more demanding now.
I couldn’t help being amused; so typically male, wanting every secret aperture in full view. Peeking around my slightly parted legs, I smiled invitingly and moved fingers to my vaginal lips, dipping into myself, wetting the tips before sucking them into my mouth.
“I’m soaking. Is that what you had in mind darling?” I asked. “Does that turn you on?”
“I think you have the idea,” he said in a low but firm whisper. “It’s a hell of a good start, Laney.”
I smiled. “The bath is nearly ready and it’s time you got naked, gorgeous,” I said, bending from the waist to unbuckle my heels.
The mood was in place now, and with candlelight having replaced the fading glow of the setting sun, it was time. Our time.
He slipped out of his clothes and holding out his hand, guided me to the bathroom. A moment later, as he stepped into the big tub, he turned and held out his hand. Relying on his remarkable strength I steadied myself, joining him in the water. With eyes locked together, we lowered ourselves, gradually becoming used to the engaging warmth.
Once assured of his comfort, I commenced what I had brought him here to fulfill; the ritualistic replay of passion, a fetish which held us in sexual place more forcefully than any religious vow or conjugal law. Long an obsession, keeping his peculiar fascinations within our marriage had grown into a mania as I wanted to fully understand why his sexuality involved replays, which inevitably become more and more elaborate, and never went away.
Obsessions. There were two kinds wandering his fertile brain; the ones I knew and the ones I didn’t. Comfortable with the first, the second concerned me. I used the first to expose the second and laughed to myself, thinking back to my friend Valerie, remembering she once remarked, “I know all Gary’s fetishes.”
“No, you don’t,” I had snapped almost off-handedly, watching the self-confidence drain from her face. I should have been more tactful but the possibility had obviously never occurred to her. I couldn’t be that naïve.
VII
The bath was hot at the beginning, and its radiating steam caused sweat to run from our bodies, but we remained perfectly still, watching each other like a mongoose might a cobra, each ready to pounce.
I struck first. “Stand, darling,” I directed, seizing the moment’s titillating high ground.
He stood, water dripping down his long legs and leaned back against the tub’s mirrored surround. Watching his perfect form emerge from the water I couldn’t help thinking that half the women I knew, myself included, would die to own such legs.
Propping myself onto my knees I took a bar of soap and began to lather his body, starting with his feet, slowly working upwards, but deliberately avoiding more sensitive areas.
“Do you like that, sweetheart? Can you feel how close I am to your cock?” I asked, glancing up at him lovingly while raking finely polished nails across his chest.
My words and benign etchings excited him, or at least his swollen shaft made it appear so. And the bath water had had its desired effect as earlier, snug and drawn up close to his body, the heat had caused his testicles to dangle loosely in their sack.
My washcloth found its way there and lingering, I thoroughly rinsed him. Grasping his testicles firmly, I warmed the delicate objects with the cloth. I knew he was pleased, as he moaned softly with delight and I thought back to the first performance of this purifying rite, when Marcel had unexpectedly whispered something to me. “My geisha,” he had said.
A peculiar comment, I had thought then, but with time I came to appreciate the assurance that came with it; that he looked to me for what other men might slink around corners to obtain. In an odd sort of way, the remark had secured our intimacy and I found myself wanting to please him all the more.
Love changes sex. My previous partners hadn’t meant that much to me and I hadn’t cared if they left, but with him it was different. I was in love with him and wanted him to stay, always, so my hands took their business more seriously.
Marcel’s body suited me. I don’t know why, but I liked that he wasn’t circumcised and his thickness and the power of his thrusts took my breath away. When he penetrated me, I enjoyed the feeling of fullness that came with our physical joining. He opened me and at the summit of passion explored my mouth with his tongue, my rectum with his finger and my cunt with his penis.
Looking up at him now, I soaped my hands to a froth. His half-glazed eyes focused on mine as I worked the suds into his scrotum. “Do you want me to play like this?” I asked rhetorically, moving onto his slippery penis. It was a little practice I had grown fond of, in the process almost always bringing him close to ejaculation.
Moving my hands softly under his sack, I continued wryly, “I want to be sure my favorite things are completely clean, you understand.”
I gently kneaded his testicles, carefully drawing them down and away from his body, pleasuring him by lengthening his scrotum. From one to the other, I massaged them, savoring that sustained look of bliss I so enjoyed seeing on his face. Dropping his head back, he moaned, my signal to continue.
Naturally, he knew what was happening, but adding a dicey twist, I searched there, gently slipping a finger into his inviting butt.
He lurched forward, surprised by the unexpected invasion of pleasure’s Grand Central. It had been a while – bad wife, I thought. Yet despite his reaction, he didn’t push me away and having successfully wandered this far, I nudged deeper.
Like most men, Marcel found penetration almost extraterrestrial. Women’s work, I thought, feeling a touch more satisfaction in his erotic twinge than I probably should have.
It only took a moment to find the little troublemaker. Pressing with the tip of my finger, I massaged it, prompting his fully erect penis to jut into my face which I attended to by returning a soapy hand to its care.
“Is that good, baby? Do you like it when I touch you like that?”
He squirmed, but nodded in affirmation and I continued to massage his testicles; feeling them grow in my hands. Shortly after, I slowly withdrew my finger and he relaxed again as I began a careful, full-body rinse. When finished, I put him on notice. “All clean now. It’s time.”
“Finally,” he murmured. I smiled up at him.
Still on my knees and watching him carefully, I reached back and tugged at one of the black bows, releasing the pretty fabric as my hair fell loose over my shoulder and I ran the soft material through my mouth, wetting it from end to end.
Taking a heavy testicle in my hand, I wrapped it several times with the damp ribbon, causing its distention from his body.
“How does that feel, dear one?” I asked.
“You know…I love it, Alanna,” he responded, a little impatiently.
“Mmm, I like that answer. It’s a good answer. Let’s see, there are two of those, isn’t that right?”
Reaching back, I loosed the second bow and licking it, I carefully wrapped the other testicle, completing its detachment from the first.
Grasping a third ribbon along with an unsharpened pencil, conveniently placed next to the tub before the start of the game, I wrapped the ribbon around him several times, just above his testicles, inserting the pencil between layers of material to create a makeshift tourniquet and twisted slightly, constricting the sensitive connection between sperm and semen. He winced again.
With all three strands in place, I asked, “Do you want me to suck your cock now, my Marcel?” More an announcement than a question, we both knew an answer was unnecessary.
He grasped his erection and drawing back its foreskin, placed it into my waiting mouth.
I sucked, slowly at the start, draining a drop of precum from the tip before licking my lips, diffusing the sticky marrow before resuming. Increasing the pace and gently twisting the stick holding his scrotal sack, I relentlessly tightened the ribbon’s grip. So much trust, I always felt when I reached this point.
Holding my head firmly in his hands, he lovingly encouraged my nursing.
I never stopped, never paused, not even for a moment as my total focus was directed to his violet cock, buried deep in my throat, my mouth and tongue urging him to give me what I wanted most, to taste him, to control its expulsion from his body into mine.
Minutes passed as my head bobbed on his erection. Sometimes slowing, sometimes speeding the pace, I was relentless, ceasing only once to look up into his eyes, to ask, “Tell me that you like it when I suck your cock darling, tell me!”
“I do,” he groaned, powerless to embellish the thought.
Sensing he was close, I labored harder, twisting the improvised tourniquet, constricting and strangling his balls, refusing to let up until he begged. More, I sucked him more; deeper, harder, until at last he cried out, “Do it Alanna – take it.”
This was what I had waited for and at that moment I unloosed the tourniquet trussing his scrotum, turned crimson from tension and he exploded into my mouth as jets of thick semen struck the back of my throat, flooding me with sticky warmth.
His sperm was hot, its consistency like nothing else; its taste like nothing else. The definitive aphrodisiac, I could never get enough.
Firmly holding my head in his hands, he quietly finished but with his upper body draped over me and with my mouth filled with his seed, I refused to let go and declined to swallow.
With my chin covered in a glaze of saliva and ejaculate I held his penis firmly in place and reached up to pull at the first bow; releasing one ball, then sucked his penis again. With a firm tug, I released the second and watched as his testicles slowly retreated to their former haven, his body valorously pulling itself back into place.
Mine now, I continued to suck, holding him captive, his cock simmering in its own semen and yet I held back, still unwilling to swallow until certain each unexpended drop was secure.
After I felt him relax and sensing his remaining seed was safely imparted, I released him. His eyes remained closed as I massaged his sore testicles, one in each hand. He steadily returned from the almost private world of the blowjob, back to our life together.
“Poor darling,” I said caringly. “So brave through such an ordeal.”
His bright eyes, appreciably dulled through the disordered minutes just past, gradually refocused and in that fleeting instant of affection and surrender I looked once again into the mirror and caught it; a glimpse of what appears on a man’s face as if a meteorite brilliantly passing through the heavens. It was a sighting distinctive to the moment just after he ejaculates into his woman’s mouth, after which it vanishes.
That picture made it all worthwhile and taking all three ribbons, floating aimlessly in the water; I calmly balled them up, patted the knotted material against my semen-coated chin and stood to face him.
In a gesture of devotion, I lifted my leg onto the side of the tub and with my fingers, separated swollen vaginal lips, opening myself to insert the snarled fabric. Then, searching him for his undivided attention, I swallowed his load with a gulp. His grin was glorious.
Following an open kiss and fleetingly glimpsing the beauty of our blended nakedness in the steamy mirror, I whispered into his ear, “Suppose Marcel, suppose I give you — say – ten minutes to revive this big boy?” Then with a wink, I added, “After that, you can revisit your trusty ribbons. Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
End