“I thought about it.” I remembered the slick sound of his hand stroking his cock, how exciting it had been to hear him. “But I was afraid—”
“Of what?” She sat down on the bench.
“I guess I was afraid of scaring him off or something.” I shrugged. “I mean, it’s been three years, and he hasn’t ever told me anything, Kel. Not one little fantasy. He wouldn’t even admit he ever jerked-off! Maybe this way, I can actually find out what he’s thinking.”
Kelly raised her eyebrows. “What are you thinking about doing, Tara?” I remembered the sound of John’s hand on his cock, how excited it made me to listen to him, to hear his fantasies.
“I’m going to wait for him to make a phone call.”
Kelly kept complaining about my pushing our morning gym date back. I couldn’t help it. I stayed up until one or two in the morning and slept in later and later. I knew I was lucky to have the free time I did. John worked hard, and his business was very successful. I was grateful that I could do my freelance work from home and not worry about it being a primary source of income. I should have been incredibly happy.
Instead, I was staying up until the wee hours, feigning sleep and listening to my husband snore, wondering what he was dreaming about. What did he really want? Why couldn’t he tell me what he was thinking, what he was feeling? Were his fantasies so strange? Was he into some bizarre fetish? I was aching to know.
I finally got my first opportunity to hear one of his fantasies, although it came when I least expected it-soon after John and I had finished having sex.
I loved Fridays, because he always came home so much more relaxed. Tired, yes, but ready for and anticipating the weekend break. I always made a good dinner on Fridays, something a little extra special. Even if it had been the busiest week in the world for him-which often happened around tax season-I knew that we would connect on Fridays.
We spent most of the night watching a movie, and then I tugged on his hand, pulling him with me towards the bedroom. We both undressed, crawling beneath the covers. Most other days, I wore a t-shirt to bed, and John wore boxers, but never on Fridays. I snuggled my body next to him, sliding my leg up over his, and reaching my hand down between his legs.
There were minor variations on this theme. Sometimes he would turn to me first, but it was rare. Usually it was me, reaching between his legs for his cock, which was already half-hard in anticipation. Like Pavlov’s dogs, it knew just what to expect on Fridays. I loved feeling him grow harder in my hand, his flesh thickening as I squeezed him, responding to my touch.
I would stroke him, pressing my breasts into his side, rubbing my soft thigh over his, until I felt pre-cum beginning to develop at the tip. Then I usually couldn’t resist tossing off the covers and putting my mouth on his cock to taste it. He loved to play with and lick my pussy while I gave him head, and he would pull my hips and position me over his face while I sucked him.
He knew me well, I admit. His tongue knew just where to find my clit, making me moan and grind against him. He would slip two fingers into me, moving them slowly in and out at first, and then faster. I couldn’t help moaning around his cock, sucking and stroking him eagerly, hearing the wet, sloppy noises my pussy made with his fingers slipping in and out.
We would always do this until I came. It usually didn’t take me too long, since I, too, had been anticipating this all day. My pussy was usually already sopping the minute he walked in the door. I refused to masturbate on Fridays, even with my beloved shower massage, saving the intensity of my orgasm for his sweet, lapping tongue. It always made me shiver and shudder and spread my legs wider as I wiggled against him. He usually grabbed my hips to keep me steady as I came.
I was one of those women whose orgasms came quietly-they kind of snuck up on me, and my response was always more of a sigh than a scream.
“Oh John, yes,” I moaned, feeling it begin, waves of pleasure overtaking me.
“Ohhh.”
After my orgasm, he would roll me off of him, and pull me up to kiss me. I loved to taste my pussy in his mouth, the smell of it between us. Sometimes he would press
me to my back, and enter me that way. I loved him on me, the weight and thrust and shudder of him.
More often, though, he wanted me sitting on him so he could look up and watch me ride him. The look of lust in his eyes turned me to liquid every time, melting my already wet pussy into his flesh as I ground my pelvis against his. I loved his fingers playing over my clit, strumming it, making me move faster on him.
That Friday, though, I did something that surprised him, I think. Remembering what he had said about wanting anal sex, I decided to turn things around a little bit.
Literally. I slid him out of me and turned around, so I was facing his feet. His cock was still slick and wet from my juices, and my hand slid easily over him as I positioned myself over his cock. I slid back down, feeling the length of him slide into my pussy again.
“What are you doing?” John asked as I started to rock. This position was a little awkward, and took some getting used to. I was finally catching a rhythm, and heard him groan. I looked back over my shoulder and saw his eyes focused on my ass.
I leaned forward a little, balancing myself with my hands on his thighs. “Will you touch it?”
His eyes lifted to mine. “What?”
“Touch my ass,” I whispered. He slid his hands over my hips, cupping my ass in his palms. I moved my hips in little circles, feeling his cock pulsing inside of me. He was close, I could tell from the way he was starting to thrust up into me, the sound of his breath.
I reached my hand back, placing it over his, and then slowly led his hand with mine toward the crack of my ass. When I pressed his finger against my asshole, he groaned, shoving up harder into me, actually lifting me off the bed with his thrust.
“Yes, John,” I whispered, moving my hand away, still feeling his finger pressing against my asshole. “Put it in me.”
He groaned again, slowly working his finger into my ass. It was a strange sensation, entirely new. I never knew it was so sensitive. I moaned and reached a hand between my legs to rub my clit as he started moving just the tip of his finger in and out of my ass. The feeling was driving me crazy and I began to tremble on top of him.
“Oh God, Tara, your little asshole!” I felt his finger slide a little deeper inside of me, making me gasp.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Play with my asshole, baby.”
He growled, thrusting up hard. “You’re gonna make me come!”
“Me, too.” I felt my orgasm starting to crest, shuddering through me, every muscle between my legs a thick, wet pulse, milking his cock. He came hard, the force of it threatening to throw us both off the bed.
When I snuggled up to him, later in the dark, after we’d cleaned up, he stroked my hair and asked, “What was that all about?”
“What?” I knew, of course, but I wanted to hear him say it.
“You.” He cleared his throat. “Asking me to put my finger… there.”
“Did you like it?” I rubbed my thigh over his.
“Did you?”
I smiled. “Yeah. A lot.”
We were quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Me, too.” We settled together, spooned at first, and I thought he had drifted off already when he said, “A lot.”