Shy Young Wife free porn video

Call me paranoid, or whatever you please, but my wife’s
“volunteer work” was really about sex all along, and I
knew it from the beginning. She went on about self-
actualization and needing to “discover herself” and to
do something about society’s problems. And I went
along, reluctantly – unhappily. I knew this was really
all about us. It was about sex. I knew my marriage was
in trouble.

Problem is, what do you do about it? My brother and my
best friend had both warned me. They told me Pamela was
a brainy, sexy, spoiled rotten bitch (“just like Gail,”
my brother warned – a reference to his wife’s sister,
who had left her husband for a professor soon after she
started as a part-time grad student).

Lately, they said, she’d been showing all the signs of
“turning hippy.” What they meant was that she had begun
sheepishly defending the antiwar protesters, had
expressed curiosity about pot, and had taken to wearing
less makeup and letting her hair fall loose and full.

Moreover, they said, she seemed to be bored at family
gatherings, which my Dad regarded as the very most
disturbing sign. Unlike my brother, who had never liked
Pamela (although he’d made it clear he found her sex-
ually desirable) Dad had a genuine affection for her,
and seemed to think of her as the daughter he never
had. She returned his warm feelings, too – even when
she started to get strange.

Naturally, I told them they were crazy. She had a right
to her own opinions, didn’t she? (Well? Didn’t she?)
And, I added, I happened to really like her new look.
What’s more, I lied, our sex life was better than ever.

Why did I say that? It was completely out of character
for me to even mention our sex life, for one thing. And
for another, our sex life was a source of total con-
fusion to me. My wife had never, to my knowledge,
anyway, had an orgasm, and she had steadfastly refused
to discuss it, brushing the topic aside on the two
occasions when I’d asked her about it.

“What difference does it make?” she’d said on our
honeymoon. “You were great and I think you’re probably
the sexiest man alive.”

And later, once when we were tipsy following a New
Year’s party, we made love for much longer than usual.
Probably due to the alcohol I’d consumed, I’d been able
to continue without climaxing for probably twice the
time of our usual brief couplings.

“Did you…?” I asked as we lay there afterward, the
room spinning just slightly.

“Did I what?” she answered, her tongue as thick with
booze as mine.

“You know … did you have an orgasm?”

She gave a long sigh… “How the hell am I supposed to
know?”

With that she rolled over and almost immediately
started snoring softly.

So that was that.

And lately, things had just gotten stranger. She always
– repeat: ALWAYS refused when I made the first move.
Always. But occasionally, just lately, she would
initiate the first contact and each time, it was some-
thing strange.

The first time, she came to bed late and snuggled up
behind me, her chest against my back. I woke up about
halfway and thought little of it. After all, she was
wearing the chin-to-floor flannel nighty that usually
signaled a chaste bedding.

But as I drifted back to sleep, I felt her lips pressed
to the back of my neck, and her hand slid down into my
pajamas. She is a lot shorter than me, so she had to
scoot down for her hand to reach my penis. As she did
so, she pressed her cheek against my back. I could feel
her heat through the material of my pajama top.

I tried to turn to face her, but she held my slack
penis and resisted with a murmured “No…”

I lay there blinking as she pressed up against me, her
hand on my penis for a while. I just listened to our
breathing, wondering if she’d gone to sleep.

Eventually, her hand began to squeeze and stroke me.
Ineptly, at first. Not really sure what to do with a
soft penis, I guess. But as I began to swell in her
hand, her breathing began to grow rougher, along with
mine. And soon she was masturbating me… stroking my
cock rhythmically – a slow, maddening slide of her
fingertips along the underide of my cock, with her
thumb pressed to the upper side. The loose skin slid
over my shaft under her fingers and she milked me
insistently.

Soon I was nearing orgasm, and I was frankly embar-
rassed. Did she really mean to make me do this?
Shouldn’t I at least get a tissue or a towel or some-
thing? My years of masturbation with a wash cloth and
soap came back to me… was she going to make me squirt
on the sheets?

“Honey, I’m going to…”

“Shh!! I’ll stop,” she whispered harshly, resisting my
second attempt to roll over to face her.”

She squeezed me harder and I felt her taut body strain-
ing against me as she held onto my shoulder with her
free hand. We were both rocking with her effort. I was
both aroused to the point of fever, and deeply humili-
ated.

I came hard. When she felt the first spurt, she
loosened her grip, but continued to stroke me even
faster.

What I would have wanted, I couldn’t ask for. I would
have wanted her to stop stroking altogether and just
hold onto the base of my cock, pulling back as hard as
possible, so hard that the skin sheath would distort
the shape of my cockhead, and hold me like that, very
still. I had done it many times, aroused myself nearly
to orgasm, then just pulled back on my cock and held
still to wait for the explosion.

But this, although physically not what I’d have re-
quested had I been less uptight, was in all other ways
an extraordinary sexual experience.

Several heavy spurts soaked the sheets on my side of
the bed as my wife’s hand flew over my cock. I thought
I heard her chuckle to herself against my back as I
came … and whisper something.

Not sure, I whispered hoarsely “what…?” but she never
answered. I tried one more time to turn to her, but she
silently resisted. Wouldn’t have it.

A while later, I felt her climb out of bed. Looking
back, I think she probably went somewhere in the house
to satisfy herself. Also looking back, I suppose she
was thinking of “him” the whole time.

Another time, as she came to bed after a night of her
“volunteer work,” she turned off the nightlight in the
hall that we usually kept on for our daughter. She
quietly closed our bedroom door, as I continued to
feign sleep. I heard her tiptoe to the windows and
carefully, almost silently, pull the shades and
curtains shut. She paused by the dresser to turn the
alarm clock to the wall, the final source of light in
the room. Total darkness.

She found her way over to my side of the bed and knelt
down. I felt her hand go up under the covers, and
directly to the waist of my pajamas. Faintly, I could
smell beer and cigarette smoke … she’d gone out for
a beer with the other volunteers, as she often did.
But had she been smoking? Totally out of character.

Her hand found me and I pretended to be coming out of
sleep as she began to fondle me, her fingers cool and
dry. I reached down to touch her in the dark, but her
free hand found mine and she pushed me away silently.

Before I was completely hard, she pulled down the
sheets and fished my cock out through the fly of my
pajamas. I inhaled deeply – smell of her perfume,
mixed with the smell of whatever pub she’d gone to
actually excited me, and by the time she got me freed,
I was hard.

Then, to my complete surprise, I felt her lips and
tongue on the head of my cock, at first tentative, but
almost immediately her tongue began to swirl over my
flesh and her full lips opened to take me in.

She had occasionally teased my cock with a kiss or a
lick when we were dating, but had never actually taken
me into her mouth. I’d subtly hinted that I would like
more, but nothing doing.

But now, my wife was kneeling by our bed in the dark-
ness tonguing me with real urgency and, from the sound
of her breathing and her occasional, involuntary
sounds, she was hungry for me.

When I reached down with both hands to touch her hair,
she batted me away again, but continued to suck,
actually moving her head over me as she took more of
my length into her mouth.

Never, never, ever had she done this, or anything even
close. Each time she plunged downward to take in more
of me, she moaned deeply – was it effort, or satis-
faction?

Inevitably, I began to moan. Usually, I wasn’t at all
verbal in bed, but THIS – well, I began to babble I
suppose.

“Oh, Pammy, yesssss … oh, god … please, yes … oh,
god, Pammy…”

Almost roughly, her hand flew to my mouth and covered
it! I was reduced to stifled moans as her hand left my
face.

Soon after, and just as I began to feel my orgasm
approaching, she pulled away from my cock and there
was a pause of what felt like forever, but was probably
about thirty seconds, before I heard her make a sound
I’d never heard. It was somewhere between a moan and a
squeal and her breathing was ragged and loud as she
keened from her spot on the floor by our bed.

“Are you alright? Honey? Sweetie…”

As I began to fumble for the bedside light switch, I
heard her softly leave the room and close the door
behind her.

My cock hard and my balls aching, I fantasized going
after her, demanding – well – demanding SOMETHING! An
explanation? An orgasm? What? I briefly fantasized just
going after her and raping her, but I put the thought
out of my mind. Surely she must know what she was doing
to me … surely she knew how unfair this was, and how
strange it all was too.

*****

Hindsight can be comforting or sickening. As I look
back on those days, it is indeed a comfort to be able
to make sense of what was going on. At the time, I was
mostly just confused and angry.

Pamela was struggling with something, though – some-
thing she couldn’t possibly have explained to me,
because she didn’t even come close to understanding it
herself. Looking back, I now know that she was as
tormented in some ways as I was – at least at first.

Pamela continued for some months to be completely un-
predictable. Distant, quiet, and unaffectionate for
days at a time, then all of a sudden, she’d do some-
thing so sexually exciting that I couldn’t believe it
was the same woman.

One night when I came home from a poker game, I found
my wife in our bed, lying on her tummy, with several
quite new copies of a popular sex magazine on the
pillow beside her. Only her reading lamp was on, and
the soft, long curves of her slender body was the very
picture of feminine beauty. She had only her panties
on, and she had one hand under her body, obviously hard
at work in her panties.

In her free hand, she held one of the pocket-sized
magazines, with one finger apparently holding her
place. I thought she must not have heard me come in,
but she almost immediately proved me wrong.

With a deep, anguished moan, she let go of the maga-
zine, and pulled her hand free of her panties. She
kept her face turned away, gripping a pillow in one
hand and reaching back to pull the crotch of her
panties aside with the other. There was a light sheen
of sweat on her skin, and she seemed to glow in the
relatively dim light of the little lamp.

“Do me, Danny. Do it to me.”

It took a moment for me to find my voice. I was feeling
mellow from a few beers – for a brief moment I felt
vaguely ill, then sort of dizzy.

“Pam, I’m sorry, I just…”

“Don’t talk! Please, Danny … please just do it. Do
it Now! Don’t talk.”

By this time, I had already realized that nearly every
time she presented one of these “episodes”, she asked
me to be silent. And I had begun to understand why: my
voice would spoil whatever fantasy she was having.
Again she said it, still in the harsh, urgent whisper
I’d come to associate with these encounters:

“Now. Do it now or go away.”

I dropped my jacket, kicked off my shoes and undid my
slacks as I approached the bed. I got on my knees be-
tween her thighs and began to caress her ass … god,
that ass. Still makes my heart beat faster just think-
ing about it, and it’s been years!

I slid my hands up her thighs to the firm, smooth fruit
of her ass and began to massage her, but she reached
back – still without looking back, her face turned
away from me – and pushed my hands away.

“No! Just do it, you bastard. Just do it … please.
Oh god, please.”

I probably knelt there blinking for a few seconds …
hurt, but so aroused I could have passed out. My hands
shook and my heart pounded. I looked down and saw her
sex open and wet from what she had been doing when I
came in… and then I just plunged my fingers into her,
two or three of them, screwing them into her as I
pressed down on the small of her back.

She made a deep, raspy noise as she pressed a pillow
to her face and I felt her pussy gripping my fingers.
I roughly withdrew them, and her ass rose as if to
snatch them back.

My cock was in position already, and when her ass rose,
I pushed into her. She pressed both hands against the
mattress as if to do a push-up, and her upper body
began to rise. I astonished myself by roughly pushing
her back down with the flat of my hand between her
shoulder blades.

She gave a little yelp of surprise, and when I took
her small hips in my hands and yanked her up to me,
she seemed to briefly struggle before beginning to
writhe against me.

I pressed into her as deep as I could and when I was
all the way in, her hands came up and back, and she
crossed her wrists over the small of her back.

It seems silly, I suppose, but when she did that, I
immediately began to come. One of her hands whipped
around to her clit and in a matter of seconds, her
muscles were gripping me again in what I now know was
her orgasm.

She fell forward and began to sob. So did I – releasing
only a small bit of the tension and confusion of those
months. She didn’t say a word as we drifted off to
sleep.

When I awoke a little while later, with my trousers
still around my knees, she wasn’t in the bed. As usual,
she’d gone off somewhere else in the house. I went back
to sleep.

I believe it was about a week after that night that she
came into the library where I was going over the mail
and asked softly if we could talk. She dimmed the
lights, asking me to sit in my “favorite” chair, a
leather wingback. She stood behind me.

“Danny, I owe you an explanation. I know I do. I’ve
been a terrible wife to you lately and you deserve
some kind of explanation…”

I got up to go to her, to hold her, to tell her it was
alright, but she turned away.

“Danny, I can’t do this if you’re looking at me – I
just can’t. Please. Sit down. Let me do this my way.”

Suddenly I knew what I was about to hear. She was going
to leave me. I felt like the whole room was coming down
on me. God, I loved her so! This beautiful, warm, sweet
person that I had married – who had chosen me over so
many others that had pursued her. I was losing her.
This was the night.

I sat on the edge of my chair and held my head in my
hands, staring down at the carpet as the lump in my
throat spread and numbed my body. Anger and grief
washed over me and mixed somewhere in my stomach …
but I kept control.

“I’ve been changing. You know I have. I … we … it’s
not us. I mean, it isn’t you. It’s me. It’s not some-
thing I can really …” she slammed the back of my
chair with her small fist. “Damn! This is so stupid …
Now do I …”

She must have heard my heavy breathing … or maybe I
was crying. I really don’t know. I was still sitting
there with my head down and she came around the chair
and stood in front of me and took my head in her hands,
pressing my face to her tummy. My arms went around her
and held her tight around her hips and again we cried.
I still hadn’t seen her face since she came into the
room. I held her to me tightly and I heard her say:

“You just have to be patient with me, Danny. Please.
Please, Danny, try and understand. There’s something
happening that I can’t explain – something inside of
me. Please give me time, Danny. Please…”

Her hands held my head to her tightly, her fingers in
my hair and on my neck, my ears. Perversely, I suppose,
I became aroused. I began to press my face down into
the front of her dress, into her mons. She held my head
there for a moment, and then pressed forward as I
pressed my face to her.

Now, in all our married life, oral sex had been
entirely out of the question. I’ve already described
her minimal oral flirtations before we were married.
But cunnilingus was particularly taboo.

And I must admit that it was as much my problem as
hers. The thought of going down on a woman seemed
somehow less than masculine to me – sort of demeaning.
And actually, I felt the same about her going down on
me.

I mean, I wanted it, but it seemed wrong to me. And
the one time I had playfully moved to kiss her “down
there” during our first year of marriage, she was
genuinely shocked, crying out my name, and pushing me
away. It was, as I recall, the abrupt end of what had
been a rather promising foreplay session.

But just then, in the half dark of the study, my face
hot with tears, I wanted to bury my face – my *self*
– in her sex. I breathed in sharply, and imagined I
could smell her through the material of her panties
and skirt.

With my hands on her ass, I pressed harder against her,
and I felt her press back, a small circular motion of
her hips that ground her mons against my nose.

“No … no…” she whispered, and I recognized that it
was *that* whisper – the strange, troubled, urgent
whisper I had lately come to associate with the strange
intense sex she’d been initiating.

“No … please…” she kept whispering as she pulled
her pelvis back and pushed me away, her small hands on
my shoulders.

Again, I briefly imagined forcing myself on her, making
her give herself to me on MY terms, but I didn’t.

Maybe I should have, I really don’t know. After all,
in those days, no one had ever even *heard* the phrase
“no means no.”

In fact, it wasn’t at all clear that it was even
legally *possible* for a man to rape his own wife. But
I let her push me back, at least partly because – get
this – I wanted to see her face, I wanted to kiss her
softly and make her smile as I had done so often over
the years, and hold her and tell her everything would
be ok. For a moment I imagined that would happen.

But she kept her face down and as I lay back in my
chair, she knelt down, her loose hair hiding her face.
Her hands slid over my thighs as she settled down
between my spread knees, and although it had never
happened before, I knew what would happen next.

Gripping my spread thighs, she pressed her face into
the front of my trousers, and her mouth slid over the
shape of my stiff cock. I actually tried to gently push
her away, but she persisted and began to hurriedly open
my pants.

Almost painfully, she extracted my cock from my half-
opened pants, and immediately took me into her mouth.
She began to bob up and down over me in the time-
honored fashion, slowing occasionally to take me deep
into her throat.

I gently stroked her neck and shoulders as she did this
but soon enough, she took my wrists in her hands and
pinned them to my thighs, all the while continuing to
suck me and to fuck me with her mouth.

I could easily have overcome her, but I didn’t. And in
a few more moments, she firmly put my hands on her own
head and *made* me push her head down onto my cock. I
started to say something, but again she pressed my
hands to the back of her head, and moaned as she slid
down over my erect cock.

I began to feel my orgasm building and I tried to
squirm away.

“Oh, god, baby, I’m almost … I’m gonna … Pammy,
please, I can’t hold it … please, I’m gonna…”

Right up to the end, I was trying to pull out of her
mouth, but she held me fast. For so long we had
colluded in making oral sex taboo – now she was
*making* me demean her, use her like some kind of
whore.

She released my hands and I found myself pushing her
down on my own, pushing myself even further into her
as I felt my balls tighten. At the last minute, though,
I just couldn’t do it – I believed so deeply that it
was a gesture of disrespect that I finally pulled free,
pushing her away from me as I did so.

She fell back and caught herself on her hands and I saw
her eyes wide and excited as my ejaculate came shooting
forth into the space between us arcing up and out onto
the carpet, her bare leg and thigh, and even her dress.

She just looked up at me from the floor, breathless as
I was, not exactly smiling, but with a look of deep,
raw excitement on her tear-streaked face. Our eyes met
for only a moment before I put my hand over my eyes and
when I opened them, she was gone.

*******

It went that way for a long while. She refused every
sexual overture from me, but every now and then, she’d
initiate something – always something that put her in
control.

Fact is, it was the most sexually intense time I had
experienced in my life. She was so exciting, so un-
believably hot. And when she felt safe, when she had
in mind exactly what she wanted to do – she was
shockingly inventive and hungry – demanding.

A few things were always the same. She wanted me quiet.
She wanted no eye contact (even blindfolded me once)
and no conversation. Usually, she was behind me, or I
was behind her. And she never repeated herself. It was
always explosive sexually, and totally baffling
emotionally.

Twice during that time, she came up, as if casually,
and hugged me, her face turned to the side and down,
and whispered “It’s going to be ok … it’s all going
to be ok, Danny.” Then she’d be gone.

Then one night she stopped into the library before
going out to her volunteer work. She seemed thoughtful
as she entered. She walked slowly around the room
making a show of looking up at the shelves.

“Help you find something?”

“Hmm? No … oh. No, I was just thinking…”

Soon she’d come around behind my chair. I was pretty
sure she was initiating one of her “episodes” as she
slid her hands down over my shoulders to my chest and
leaned down to whisper in my ear from behind. Her voice
pure warmth, pure love.

“Danny, darling, I love you. I love you more than any-
thing … you are so good to me. You’ve been so patient
… so good. Just a little longer, honey. Please. Just
a while longer. And whatever happens, baby, I love you.
I do.”

With that, she left, and I watched her ass swinging as
she made her way out the door and down the hall.

It was later than usual when she came home.

She wasn’t alone. She introduced her “friend” as
“Mick.”

*******

I suppose it was him who used the knocker. Usually,
Pamela would just let herself in – and most others
pressed the doorbell. I was passing by the entry foyer
when there were three loud raps of the old brass
knocker.

I was concerned something might be wrong as I opened
the door – and puzzled when I saw it was Pamela and
some guy – bearded, hair tied back loosely into a
ponytail. The whole deal: leather jacket, jeans, cowboy
boots. Now what…

Pamela didn’t make eye contact. Usually spunky, her
naturally spritely posture engrained from years of
dance lessons, sports, and generally being a princess.
But that night she slunk in as if she wanted to hide.

“Hi, honey … this is…” she mumbled.

Her introduction seemed to stick in her throat, and
was directed mainly to the floor, as she was still
looking mostly down or away. I could barely make it
out: “Mick.”

As she came past me, I caught a whiff of a scent I’d
come to know – her own, familiar, sweet, clean scent,
mingled with a faint smell of cigarettes and beer.

And there was something else … night air (a motor-
cycle ride?) and still something else. No time to
ponder it, but now I know it was the smell of him
– leather, smoke, and godknowswhat.

He was of average or better height, lean but his
shoulders were wide. Looked to be about 25. I could
take him. Maybe.

Don’t ask me why I thought about that, but I did. Had
an inch or two on me, but our weights were pretty well
matched… There’s no doubt that I felt threatened by
him – he was, after all, the first bit of my wife’s
life “out there” that I’d ever met up with face to
face.

“Out there” was standing here, in my foyer. Our foyer.
I immediately tagged him: “asshole,” I thought to
myself. “So this is the kind of asshole she hangs
around with down at the agency.” It didn’t make me feel
any better. I found myself standing a little taller,
planting my feet a little more deliberately.

The three of us stood there in a triangle for one odd
moment before Mick leaned forward easily and extended
his hand, introducing himself.

Guess he figured Pammy’s introduction hadn’t sunk in,
since I was just standing there, not offering my hand
or anything else. I also guess most people with any
manners would take the hint, say “pleased to meet you”
make a polite excuse and leave. Not this guy.

His eyes twinkled as he took my hand, pumped it a bit,
and repeated his name. “Mick, Danny – it’s a pleasure
to finally meet you.”

Finally? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Was
that supposed to let me know how much he and my wife
had been hanging out together? What an asshole!

I had a flash of sympathy for Pammy. Here she finally
brings home one of the other volunteers, and he turns
out to be a total asshole … she was clearly flustered
… I noticed her face was red and she seemed not to
know what to do with her hands – unusual for a gal who
was usually the picture of girlish poise.

I was flustered too, but decided to be a man about it.
No reason I should forget my manners just because this
dipstick was ill-bred. I asked if he’d like to stay
for a drink, thinking it would give him the opportunity
to exit with a polite “Oh, thanks, but I’ve got to
run.” But I should have known better.

As I took his order (“scotch would be fine, Danny –
straight up”), I realized that in the process of
shaking my hands, Mick-the-asshole had ended up
standing beside my wife. Subtle – but it nagged at me
as I turned to leave.

She was still looking down at the floor, but I managed
to catch her eye when I asked if she wanted something.
With my eyes I asked if she was OK, and she was …
stressed, but OK.

I could have just moved us into the library, where
there was a dry bar and a little fridge, but I wanted
to get away and collect myself. As I headed down the
hall, and realized I was shaking slightly. Adrenaline?
Definitely.

“Steady now,” I told myself, “just keep cool.” I began
to muse over how I would tease Pamela after he left.
In a few minutes, I’d show this guy for the boob he
probably was. I could hardly wait.

When I got to the library, I thought I heard whispering
as I went in, and if Pamela had looked rattled before,
she was beside herself now – her chest rising and
falling visibly and her face thoroughly flushed.

When I handed her drink over, she remained beside me,
clearly agitated. She squared her shoulders and tossed
her hair back and looked across Mick with what seemed
like defiance for just a moment. “Atta girl,” I thought
“stand over here by me where you belong…”

Standing next to her, I was again inhaling Pamela’s
aroma … subtly aroused by it. My mood had shifted
from one of suspicion to one of lurking arousal. I was
beginning to plot my attack – to get the upper hand
and show this cocky bastard who’s who.

Our guest didn’t miss a beat. In fact, he looked
amused. With a quick glance at me, he nearly drained
his glass before setting it carefully on my desk
blotter. Then he crossed the distance between us, his
eyes fixed on my wife. He walked slowly, with an
exaggerated nonchalance. The hair stood up on the back
of my neck.

By the time I could shift gears internally, he had
taken her hand and drawn her away from me. She didn’t
resist, and he didn’t pull … he just *drew* her to
him, holding her fingers in his like some courtier
about to kiss her hand. His other hand slid to the
small of her back as she buried her head against his
chest, her small fists clenched at her sides.

I started to move toward him, but he made a gesture
with his hand – a warning? – and his eyebrows rose as
he looked me in the eye.

“Pamela and I have had such a fine evening, Danny …
in fact, your name came up, didn’t it, Pam?”

She didn’t respond.

“It was so fine out tonight, we just took a ride up to
F________ Hill – a little spot I know up there that’s
really nice on clear nights. Maybe you know it? But we
weren’t there to look at the stars, were we, Pam?”

I sputtered something … I really don’t know what.

He took my wife’s chin in his hand – with real tender-
ness – and kept eye contact with me as he bent to kiss
her. She did not resist. Her face turned up easily to
him, and I heard her breathe out long and deep.

I moved. I have no idea what I said but it was loud.
But I felt like I had lead in my limbs. He broke their
kiss. I remember clearly what he said because at first
it made no sense.

“Danny, you don’t want to dance with me. Sit down and
shut the fuck up, or leave. But I think you’ll want to
stay.”

With that he resumed kissing her. Or should I say, he
made himself available for HER to kiss HIM. He glanced
up once – either to be sure I was at a distance, or
just to see if I was watching, I don’t know which –
and then he closed his eyes as my wife’s hands went to
his ass and she strained up against him, noisily, wetly
kissing another man for what I now know was not the
first time that night.

I was rooted to the floor, it was odd what I remember.
I remember that she went up on her toes, straining
against him, and that his hands seemed light as he
held her, as if to prove that he didn’t “have” to hold
her, while her hands clutched at him, sliding from his
ass up to his neck, pulling him down to her, the fine,
small muscles of her arms straining as she pressed
herself to him. His hands were calm, and slid over her
body as if casually.

And I remember how strange their kissing seemed to me.
It should have been familiar: this was my woman. We had
kissed for years – sweetly, playfully, even chastely –
but also passionately, hungrily.

She had always loved kissing – and had always said how
good I was at it. But what I was seeing and hearing
seemed foreign. Their kissing was so different from
ours. It was the same woman, but different. Their
mouths were not sealed together as ours would be, but
were open, moving, obscenely licking and stroking,
noisily and wetly devouring each other.

Pam was breathing hard, through her mouth and nose,
and groaning as she slurped at his mouth and tongue
before finally locking her mouth to his roughly, almost
violently.

When I was able to look away from them, I saw that he
was working his hand into the front of her jeans. As
she stretched upward against him, the concavity of her
tummy bared her midriff and his hand slipped easily
toward her crotch, then disappeared to the wrist as she
twisted against him.

Somehow, I found myself sitting in my usual chair a
few feet from where she sat, now on my desk with her
knees splayed wide. He stood between her knees and
slowly began to remove her blouse and released her
sweet, full breasts.

He bent to tongue her neck and she gasped as his hands
pulled slowly at her breasts, lingeringly stroking
outward, stretching her nipples as he nuzzled and
licked her.

With her fingers in his hair, her eyes fluttered open
and in a stunning moment, her eyes met mine. Her hips
were bucking now and she was breathing raggedly as she
stared into my eyes as if lost, as if helpless, but
also as if driven by demons.

Her eyes remained locked to mine for a long, perverse
moment. In those few seconds, my love for her – my
lust for her – was matched by the months of anger and
confusion.

I realized all at once that she was looking out at me
with real love, with lust that seemed as much for me
as for this intruder. But it seemed that she loved me
from a million miles away at that moment, that she was
on a distant peak where I could not go, but her heart
reached out to mine. And I realized one thing more:
that I had an erection and that I was full of desire
and frustration.

Her eyes closed again as he began to undo her belt with
one hand. Her hand went to help, but he gently pushed
it aside. He bent further to tongue her breasts and her
hands pressed his head closer, as the belt and the
button of her jeans yielded to his fingers.

They moved together now, rocking, her frantic movements
giving way to his slower, more fluid ones.

When her jeans and panties were down and off, he gave
her one more long, deep kiss as he held her chin in one
hand, while the fingers of his other hand worked slowly
between her legs.

Breaking their kiss, he pressed gently on her breast-
bone and she leaned back on her elbows on the desk,
her eyes gazing into his, her lips slightly swollen
from their kissing, her mouth soft and open. His
fingers still stroked into her as she settled back on
her elbows and he slowly went to his knees before her
spread legs.

She threw her head back as his nose ranged through her
soft, sparse nest of hair.

I had thought up until then that she was completely
lost to me – that I had ceased to exist, she was so
swallowed up in lust. But as his tongue stroked into
her, she lay fully back and held onto the back of his
head, stroking the soles of her feet against his back
as she began to babble:

“Oh god, Danny, oh god … he’s doing it … oh, god,
he’s doing it … oh, Danny … no … no … he’s
kissing me … licking me *there* … he’s licking me
… ohhhhh, Danny, oooohhhh, Danny…”

He rose up as she seemed on the verge of an orgasm and
she gave forth a little shriek at the lost contact. He
pulled her roughly up, and hungrily mouthed her breasts
again, his fingers at work again between her twisting
thighs. He straightened up and held her face in his
hands.

“Take out my cock, Pam.”

Simple as that. His hands went to her breasts as his
eyes held hers and her hands, trembling frantically
worked at his belt and the buttons of his jeans. She
never broke his gaze, but she continued murmuring to
me – to *me* – as she opened his pants:

“Oh, Danny, I’m so sorry … I’m so sorry, oh god, what
are we doing … I have to … I have to…”

It was alarming and strange, of course, but my hand
had gone to my straining cock as I watched my wife open
this stranger’s pants as he gazed into her eyes and
pulled at her breasts, stroking and twisting her
nipples.

“Danny!” she squealed, “Danny, he’s big … god, he’s
as big as you … god, baby, he’s so fucking big…”

He silenced her with his lips and tongue as I saw her
hands holding him in the dark space between their
bodies.

Abruptly, her hands were empty and clawing at his
shoulders, pulling his shirt away as he slid down
again, burying his face in her crotch. His fingers
and his tongue made sloshing noises as she began to
come almost immediately, grinding herself up to his
face as he moaned and slurped at her.

Her orgasm racked her body – a sheen of sweat made her
glow in the soft light of the study, and her firm,
strong little limbs were taut with the effort of her
satisfaction.

But before she could be stilled, he lifted her – it
seemed as if he did it with one hand and the small of
her back and she came up to him, her legs around him,
her sex seeking his. He turned around though, and
deftly swung her around and placed her face down over
the rounded arm of the leather couch directly in front
of my chair.

Her flawless ass was high and she made a move as if to
rise up, but a firm hand pressed between her shoulder
blades kept her down. Instead, her ass rose up a bit
as she tried to look backwards over her shoulder at
him.

He looked down at her exposed behind with a soft smile
and made a sound that was almost a growl. He spread her
ass open and she lurched, but did not protest … his
fingers probed below, into her wet pussy slid up over
anus.

Soon he had both hands stroking her above, at her anus,
and below, at her pussy and her clitoris. Her eyes and
her fists were clenched now, as her ass bounced up and
down.

Every now and then he would slowly slide one hand free
of her crotch and smack her ass, which brought a yelp
from her each time, but it was clear that she was
quickly rising to another orgasm. All at once he
plunged his thick cock into her, and I swear I heard a
loud, wet, slopping sound as he slid into her all the
way.

Her lovely head jerked up.

“Oh my god!! Oh my god!! Oh my god!!” she kept saying
over and over, as if it were a true prayer, in a harsh
whisper, deeper with each repetition as she stroked
back and forth. He smacked her ass sharply and her
mantra gave way to a wail as she began to cum again.

He was grunting and panting now, his eyes glazed as he
forcefully fucked in and out of her. Suddenly he
lurched forward and I heard him snarl into her ear:

“Look at him, Pam … look at what he’s doing while we
fuck…”

Her eyes flew open and fixed on my crotch, where I was
stroking my dripping cock, which had somehow freed
itself from my slacks.

My humiliation was intense, but this was all so com-
pletely psychotic that nothing was going to slow my
hand on my cock. Nothing. I was *that* close to cumming
and when I heard her gasp, “Danny how? How could
you…?” I nearly lost it.

He had resumed humping her now, and apparently some-
thing he was doing with his hand distracted her,
because she clenched her eyes shut and started saying
“fuck me … do it … do it … fuck me … give it
to me…” over and over, faster and faster.

He suddenly stood up, pulled his shining cock out of
her with a loud sucking noise and flipped her onto her
back. He straddled her chest and reached back to fondle
her clit as she bucked beneath him, her orgasm literal-
ly ripping a scream from her.

He pressed his cockhead into her mouth, at first deep
enough that I heard her gag, then with just the head
in her mouth.

“Suck,” he said, and her lips closed over him. I think
she was still cumming under the assault of his fingers
on her clitoris.

“Drink it, baby … drink it,” he said softly and then
all the muscles of his body tensed and his buttocks
jerked as he let out a long, low animal wail and began
to cum in my wife’s sucking mouth.

I, of course, was cumming, too. All over my hand and
my trouser leg. The base of my cock was rubbed raw, I
later discovered, by the teeth of my zipper.

He looked over at me. I expected him to smirk, but he
did not. He seemed breathless. Even overwhelmed, for
the moment.

Pam avoided eye contact completely, turning her face
to the back of the couch as she lay whimpering. Her
breath caught in little sobs, although she wasn’t
crying.

I don’t remember much else. They dressed haphazardly
as he led her to the door. He said something as she
looked back at me over her shoulder and followed him
out.

My heart ached with the thought that I had lost her
forever…