loving wives novella

Jean put on the pearl earrings becoming more aroused as she finished dressing. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. As her youngest told her, “Mama still had it going on.” She didn’t look 46, but 10 to 15 years younger. And she didn’t feel her age. All those hours in the gym and pool, the lifting, running, and cycling, had slowed Father Time, but not stopped it. What depressed her about getting old was menopause? She hadn’t hit it yet, but how much longer did she have? She liked ovulating and she loved making babies. She wondered if her orgasms would be less intense, harder to reach, a big cock uncomfortable as she got less wet, her vagina smaller. She smiled thinking that menopause might be the only time C’s penis would be a good fit.

Thinking about C and the prospect of climaxing with him when they fucked made her nipples hard. She knew it was a long shot, but perhaps a good fucking from her husband would prove life changing. She would no longer be on the prowl for other men and his submissive cuckold desires would vanish.

They would be like most of the married couples they knew, boring, preferring TV. or sleep to lovemaking. She dreaded that kind of marriage. She and C were Adam and Eve. As to the serpent, el diablo assumed the body of a man, a strong, muscular, arrogant, even cruel member of the opposite sex. And the apple, too tempting to pass up, a cock, but only if it were long, thick, possessed stamina, attached to big balls capable of producing lots of ejaculate again and again.

She had been fortunate too lucky she thought for it to be chance. She attracted serpents offering the ripest tastiest apples for her to partake. She doubted it was chance but the devil. She saw herself as devoted to God, but weak allowing herself to be a conduit for evil. Not just a conduit, but a vessel for his spawns.

C was her Adam, always there to comfort her, sharing in her guilt.

She said a little prayer and made the sign of the cross thanking God for being so kind, hoping he would extend his grace into the afterlife and forgive her for being so weak. She was who she was because of him. All those powerful orgasms were his blessing as were the four children she bore. With all those blessings why did she stray and eat the apple each time offered? Why did he bless her with such great children? They behaved like angels, not devils.

She studied her chest. She adored the open cupped bra C had bought her. She rarely wore it for his benefit, but her lover’s. Tonight however was a special occasion. Her nipples were clearly visible against the dress. She knew a few tweaks and she would orgasm. Chewed, twisted, pulled, she liked it best when her nipples were treated rough. Hickies, bites, and bruises to her breasts she wore like a badge of courage proudly displaying them to her sweetheart of a husband.

She was looking forward to dinner. The restaurant she chose was her favorite as it offered private booths. It was over a delicious meal and several bottles of wine she and C had their deepest and best conversations. They were a prelude to physical intimacy and she intended to be very intimate with her cuckold. She was already picturing the two of them in their hotel room she and he still dressed, but her dress hiked up, he flat on his back, and she straddling his face and riding his magical tongue. She didn’t know who designed crotch less panties, but she considered him a genius.

She went downstairs. C’s eyes had trouble looking into hers as they focused on her two pert nipples. She smiled glad he noticed. She didn’t move for a good 30 seconds letting him enjoy the sight. When she did she asked him, “Never seen a woman’s nipples before?”

He laughed, “Was my gawking that obvious?”

She had a delicious smile he thought.

“Like a virgin’s,” the pause just long enough, “Then again your poor penis must think it is. How long has it been?”

He smiled sheepishly, “15 years this month.”

“Has it really been that long?”

He nodded yes.

“Do you remember the date?”

He answered, “Yes. June 5th 1995.”

She coyly asked, “What was so special about June 5th?”

He stumbled over his words, “June 5th was the day we gave each other our virginity, when we first made love.”

She smiled proud of him for remembering, “That’s right. When you made me a woman and I made you a man.”

She paused before continuing, “You might have been a virgin, but you were already a man. I was so much more immature than you. You were so patient, such a good teacher. I still remember how much that first time hurt. I should have listened to you and waited until after I was wet. A dry vagina and rubber are not a good mix.”

He laughed, “I remember you screaming for me to pull out just as I had gotten all the way in. I think I came from being scared.”

She looked wistful, “It wasn’t very good. Actually it was horrible, but I wouldn’t have wanted anyone but you to take my virginity. I can’t believe back then I thought you were huge. I felt like you had ripped my vagina.”

His eyes were soft, “I felt bad. I thought I had hurt you too. That was the first time sex was tied to pain. I should have insisted on eating you first, getting you wet, relaxing you. You were so nervous.”

She agreed, “You were right, but I’ve always been stubborn wanting to do it my way. I had convinced myself that it was going to be a flash of pain immediately followed by the best pleasure ever.”

He looked sad, “I let you down.”

She smiled, “You didn’t let me down. We are compatible in so many ways, a perfect match, just not when it comes to….”

He finished her thought, “Fucking.”

She thought he was right, not having intercourse, not making love, but fucking. They made lots of love; his tongue served as the substitute for the cock she needed.

She didn’t want their conversation to be so deep or melancholic. “Fucking,” she smiled as she said it hating the sadness in his eyes, “but because you care about me I’ve been able to experience its beauty. Look what your generosity made possible, four wonderful children who adore their dad and a happy wife who falls deeper in love with her husband every day.”

He brightened at her words knowing she was right. He was selfless, completely devoted to her and the children. In spite of those times when despair knocked at his door drowning him in its darkness he loved his marriage and Jean. Their marriage was normal in so many ways and in comparison to many couples they knew significantly better than most. As to their reversed roles and their sexual practices it certainly hadn’t stunted their children all of whom seemed well adjusted and happy.

Besides his generosity wasn’t one sided; He got as much satisfaction, maybe more, from Jean’s lovers. And because of their therapist, that saint of a man, Dr. Cleason Frost, he was able to witness firsthand the beauty Jean described. He felt a stirring in his loins.

Jean noticed the happy look on his face and made a note to ask what he was thinking about, but it could wait until later. She wanted their evening to start, but not before they performed a ritual started years ago at the suggestion of Dr. Frost.

She snapped him out of his reverie, “C, it’s time.”

He looked confused.

“Time for you to kiss it.”

He dropped to his knees. She moved forward lifting her dress and he buried his face in her pubis, what they jokingly referred to as the Black Forest because it was so wild, untrimmed, untamed, like her. She was dripping. He inhaled her scent, pulled away and softly kissed her mound. She moaned. While she very much wanted the feel of his tongue it wasn’t part of the ritual. He kept raining those soft kisses all over. She opened her thighs and as he kissed her swollen labia she rubbed herself against his face marking him with her juices and scent.

She forced herself to pull away, to break free from the hands kneading her buttocks and the mouth giving her pleasure. The ritual had been Dr. Frost’s idea. It was both good luck charm and commitment. He told her in those kisses he supported her, he wanted her experience to be wonderful, he understood it was a prelude to the lovemaking they would have later, and he would remain true and patiently await her return where he promised to use his mouth and provide her even more pleasure.

She let her dress drop, smoothed out its wrinkles. C stood up; there was a sheen on his nose, around his lips, and on his chin. He didn’t reach for a towel, but let it air dry. Her scent would be on him the entire night. Whenever she put her face close to his she would smell her on him. The ritual was also about ownership. Wearing her mark he let the world know she owed him. Other women detected his scent and steered clear knowing he was her property.

The ritual had two parts. He would perform the same ritual on her return but his tongue was at her disposal and she wouldn’t smell the way she did when she left. Her lover’s odor would be mixed with hers. Her C would use his tongue and erase her lover’s scent, marking her as his again, until the next time she left.

Pulling away from him hadn’t been easy as his kisses were so pleasing. When she grabbed the back of his head and pressed her furrow against the bridge of his nose the feel of his hard flesh against her soft wetness was delicious, especially as she moved her pelvis down feeling his lips kissing hers knowing he wanted to thrust his tongue into her, to French kiss her love canal.

She looked down at him enjoying the lust visible on his face, but especially in his eyes. He looked crazed and disappointed. He thought he had worn her down but she turned the tables. Now he was the one left wanting. His penis throbbed in his pants. Her taste was in his mouth.

She willed herself to be in control, “C, get up. We need to go.”

He reluctantly did so. She looked down. Although small his arousal was evident in the lump in his pants. She knew it wouldn’t take much and was half tempted to reach out, lovingly caress the lump and bring on the climax he so eagerly wanted, but she didn’t. Satisfied he was less docile, less attentive, and more interested in his needs than hers. She needed him to be just the opposite. Even though she knew by the end of the night he would pleasure her numerous times before having one or two of his own orgasms his mouth on her sex just felt better knowing he hadn’t cum.

She also had something big to share with him, an idea she wanted to run by him. She needed him to feel less of a husband and more of a cuck. It was always easier to make him psychologically submissive when she demonstrated physical superiority over him.

She smiled at him motioning to the counter, “My purse.”

He reached into it, extracted the car keys, and handed them to her. She took them and headed for the door to the garage. He followed carrying her purse. She knew it was humiliating for him to carry her purse. He might as well have stamped on his forehead wimp, or pussy whipped. She did it for several reasons. She liked to see him uncomfortable behaving in ways noncuckolded men didn’t. Even though they had been practicing this for years he still squirmed every time she made him carry her purse. There was still a man inside her cuckold trying to break free, to have the upper hand, to rule the roost. Like a domesticated animal she had broken him driving out his self centeredness, his independence, his selfishness. His world now revolved around her needs. She was the master.

At the car she stopped and waited for him to open it. He did. She got in. He closed it and hustled around to the passenger side. She started the car and after reminding him to buckle up, backed out the garage and drove to the restaurant.

Her juices on his face evaporated but her scent would stay with him all night. She believed humans were more evolved than other animals, but animals nonetheless. She believed in the power of pheromones and noted how women avoided her cuck after marking his face with her scent. She was positive their olfactory senses were able to detect her odor hours later and interpreted it as a warning to stay away, private property. She had always been both possessive and jealous; time had made it worse. She rejoiced at his being a homebody. She knew she shouldn’t worry but she couldn’t help but worry one day he would give her a taste of her own medicine. The thought of him with another woman sickened her. She knew it was hypocritical but didn’t care. Sharing her self, even going so far as devoting her self, to others was her right. As for him, her cuck had few rights and sexual equality wasn’t one of them.

She chuckled aloud hearing inside her head the word equality. It was an alien concept to her marriage, akin to asking a supremacist to consider a black man his equal. She thought, “Does not compute”, and laughed again prompting her cuck to ask what was so funny.

She smiled at him and made up a story she found amusing. He thought it was funny too. She liked the way he laughed. He was approaching the half century mark but she thought he was as handsome as the day they met. Thinner on top, his eyesight worse, still no wrinkles, still lean and an infectious smile. He was very easy going, but being married to her he had to be. And judging from the way he looked at and responded to her still crazy about her. Being loco for her after all their years together trumped everything else. She would never tell him, but she adored him for his worship of her. No matter the cost he willingly paid the price to get her what she wanted. He gladly made her desires his.

She looked at him and smiled. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, turned his head, and smiled back. He was glad to see her so happy. He thought George must have really worked some magic, black magic, on Jean. His erection had not gone away but it had lost much of its firmness; then he thought about George fucking Jean and the ache in his loins returned. He wondered why he hadn’t called. Jean was still basking in the glow weeks later. He appreciated whatever George did to fill Jean with such contentment. He liked seeing her this way. She was he knew very infatuated, if not in love, with George.

She asked, “What are you thinking?”

He answered fidgeting as his penis strained, binding in his underwear, “How much I like the glow on your face.”

She smiled stopping herself from extending her hand and caressing that lump in his pants. She didn’t want him climaxing before dinner, but his words were so sweet and his voice sounded so sincere she felt she owed him a reward.

“I’m glad you noticed. I feel the change too. I have George to thank for snapping me out of my funk.”

C commented, “I owe George big time.”

Jean smiled, “Yes, you do. We both do. I’m sure we’ll figure out how to repay his kindness, making love to an old woman.”

C knew she was joking but felt he should further boost her self confidence, “You’re not old and you still turn heads. Lots of men would like to have sex with you.”

If she was a cat she would have been purring. Everything C was saying was music to her ears.

“That is so sweet of you C, but I don’t want every man, just a select few, and I want it to be about more than just sex. I’m looking for a boyfriend.”

He didn’t want to spoil the mood so he thought it best to keep quiet. She was referring to her previous lover. They had been a couple for several years. He was they both thought comfortable in what had become less of a bull, queen, cuck relationship and more of a polyamorous one. Jean still treated C as her cuck but without active involvement of her boyfriend. It had been a great time in her life, if not the greatest. She felt as though she had two husbands and two households. C had made it easy for her to maintain a healthy balance and was she knew a reason the relationship lasted as long as it did. Jean suspected it ended because her boyfriend wanted what she couldn’t deliver, marriage. Jean knew C would have supported whatever decision she made because divorcing him and marrying another man would have been the ultimate humiliation and psychologically the best orgasm. She imagined he would spend years masturbating to the news of being dumped. If they didn’t have children she might have considered it, but a part of her needed what C brought to their marriage.

She liked having a boyfriend and for a short term submitting to him, but long term it held zero appeal. She was proud to wear the label female supremacist. She liked being in charge.

They arrived at the restaurant. The valet took her keys and opened the door for her. Jean got out and C exited the passenger door. When bench seats were the norm in cars C entered and exited through the driver’s side, getting in before Jean and exiting after her. Jean took C’s hand and led them into the restaurant.

September 2018
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