We were having an early cocktail. It was a Friday in the late
summer, still sunny and warm at 6:30, and it was our traditional
“Thank God it’s Friday, only two more working days until
Monday” celebration.
“Hans made an email pass at me today.”
“Hans, the guy in from Denmark?” Betty had mentioned him
before.
“Yeah, that Hans.”
“He knows you’re married, doesn’t he?”
“Uh, no. No, he doesn’t. We haven’t even had a real
conversation. And what happened today is that we started
talking in the corridor when I got paged. When I got back to my
office there was this email, that’s all.”
Hmm.
“When’s he going back home?”
“Oh, in a week or two.”
“Didn’t you tell me he was pretty young?”
“Yeah, late 20’s, according to the gossip at lunch.”
“He’s pretty young to be asking out a woman who’s. . .”
“Don’t say that word! I’m 39 years and 24 months old, and that
rounds down to, oh, about 35 by my math. Maybe even less.”
“I keep forgetting you accountants can make numbers add up to
anything.”
“You must have been pleased he asked.”
“I was, kind of. He is cute.”
“Dinner, huh?”
“That’s what he suggested, yeah.”
“Did you accept his invitation?”
“What? Of course not! What a silly question.”
Our conversation drifted to other subjects: my work day, Martha,
who was on vacation and who’s house we were keeping an eye
on, some projects we wanted to do at our house — those sorts of
things.
“You know,” Betty pointed out, “we really should check out
Martha’s place tonight.”
“You’re right. Let’s do that on the way to dinner.”
Martha was a lawyer who hit it big. She was on a couple of week
vacation — her second in four months — and she’s been Betty’s
friend since high school.
Martha’s house was isolated, on a large heavily treed and
shrubbed lot. The grounds looked in good order. We disabled
the alarm system, and began our patrol of the house itself.
“Let’s sit here for awhile,” Betty lead by example, as she settled
onto the living room’s sofa and pressed the remote control to
light the gas fired fireplace.
I sat beside her.
Holding hands there lead to kisses, to caresses, to making out
like teenagers with hands under blouses and into unzipped
slacks.
“Wow, what got into you?” If whatever exited my wife could be
bottled I’d make a fortune!
“I was thinking about Martha living here, wondering how often
she did that on this sofa, wondering what it was like to be single
and successful and dating at her age, that’s all, and it turned me
on.”
“Well, she’s — she’s — uh, the same age as you, right, uh, thirty
something? That’s not to old to date or anything.”
“You’re catching on to the age thing, fella, good for you. I was
just thinking about that stuff, that’s all.”
The pawing at each other continued. “Let’s go to her bed room.”
Betty put into words what I was thinking.
My Lord, she was trashy in the bedroom! Our clothes were not
neatly folded, they were scattered everywhere, and there was
zero foreplay in there. It was “fuck me now, and hard!”
I did.
Towards the end of all of that fucking, I lay beside her, my
fingers caressing her as I often did before. This time, her own
hand reached down, and covered mine. I took one of her fingers,
and moved it in her, too, forcing it to touch her as I so often did.
It lead to a final small shudder for her. I was too spent to have
any more outwardly obvious orgasms, but the inner one
happened again, when she put her fingers, wet with us, on my
lips. “Taste us!”
I did, and fed her my fingers, too.
Afterwards, I had to know: “What got into you?”
“Oh, being in Martha’s place, in her bed, thinking about what
she does, and the variety of men she does it with, that kind of
stuff. It made me hot.”
“I’ll have to figure out how to make you feel that way more often,
you were terrific.”
“Yeah, that would be great.” She cuddled against me, getting
ready to sleep. It was an unspoken agreement, we’d be
spending the night there.
It was a restless night for me, not for her. Being in a different
woman’s bed, having a wife who responded like Betty did to
those circumstances, all of that left me uneasy. Uneasy, but
aroused.
It was early — still dark — when what little sleep I was getting
was interrupted by a hand probing a sensitive part of me, a part
that had begun responding to being touched while I was still
asleep.
Betty obviously had awakened without waking me. She had
found what had to be the sexiest Baby Jane shortie nightgown
kind of thing — she and Martha were pretty much the same size –
– and lit some of the thick candles that were scattered around
the bedroom. She wanted more! I was on my back, and her
hand turned my penis into a club. When she climbed on top of
me, I did my duty as a husband as best I could. “You’ve turned
into a nympho!” I grunted, part way through encore, totally
excited by this candle lit, scantily clad woman, her garment
concealing nothing, rising and falling over me, using me. I was
nothing more than a device to be used to pleasure herself, that
what she was doing pleasured me was incidental..
“Good stuff,” was the praise I earned when the dirty deed was
over.
“Thinking about Martha really excites you, huh? We’ll have to
come here every night.”
“Um hum.”
“Hey… ”
“Huh?”
“Are you a little jealous of her?”
“No, of course not. I like my life, I like being with you.”
I was confronting a thought that surfaced after lurking just below
awareness. “Well, would you like to sample what her social life
is like some time, maybe?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m thinking, acting single once or twice. Like, it might be fun for
you to accept Han’s dinner invitation.”
I heard a bit of a gasp. “Are you a mind-reader of some kind? I
was kind of fantasizing about that.”
I went on, the thought becoming a plan as I spoke. “Sure, accept
his invitation. Give him this address, and have him pick you up
here.
“And, at the end of the evening, make him bring you back here,
too. It’s a single woman’s house, it would fit the role you’d be
playing perfectly.
“And if he was nice to you, and attractive, and you wanted to
reward him for taking him out, you could invite him in.
“And sit on the sofa with him.”
I could feel Betty twitching, making little involuntary movements
as I talked.
“And maybe, if the mood was right, what would happen with the
two of you is what happened to us tonight.”
She pulled me onto her, spread her legs so I’d fit between them,
and reached down toward my penis, found it hardening, and
lead it to where it belonged.
“And he’d be doing this to you. It could happen tomorrow night,
or the next day. It could happen that soon!”
“You’re a bad man with a dirty mind!”
Talking gave way to action.
“You’d let me do that, you’d let me date him?”
“I’m thinking, it’s not a case of ‘let’, it’s a case of ‘want’. I want
you to date him, I want you to let him think you live here, I want
him to bring you back here, and I want you to do this,” — I
demonstrated, and had a last, feeble, ejaculation — “to him.”
Betty’s response was all I could have hoped for. Her “Unnnghh”
grunt, the characteristic sound I’ve come to realize meant I
satisfied her completely, came just as I did. It was another
successful sexual encounter.
We rested, recovering from an evening that had more sex than
we’ve had in years.
Betty, snuggling against me again, whispered: “That was so
sexy, talking to me like that. You say the sexiest things in the
heat of passion.”
“Got you off, didn’t it? It worked for me, too.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, “it did. People don’t do things like that,
though, pretending to be single, and all that stuff.”
I let a heart beat or two go by, then responded. “They do
sometimes. Sometimes people do things like that.
“And, if you want to, you could be one of those people, one time,
if you wanted to. If you wanted to, with Hans. I think I’d enjoy
seeing you do that.”
I could feel her go tense against me. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I
wouldn’t know how to do that, how to act. I wouldn’t feel safe. I
mean, it’s one thing to joke about it, but to do it is something
else. I’d feel like I was sneaking behind your back, having an
affair or something.”
“It’s not sneaking if I know about it.”
“I wouldn’t feel safe. . .”
“How about if I was nearby?” The thought of being a voyeur
sprang fully developed into the fantasy.
“Nearby?”
I confessed. “I just realized how much I’d want to be nearby if
you did that. How much I’d want to be a fly on the wall, and
watch you and Hans, if you ever did that with him, how horny it
would make me.”
“You mean, you’d want to see me do that with him. Is that like
being cuckolded — is that the word?”
“I think the word describing me watching is ‘voyeur’, but you’re
right, the other word to describe a guy who’s wife does that is
‘cuckold’.”
“You want to be, uh, “cuckolded”, if that’s the right tense, but I’m
not worried about grammar, I want to know what you’re thinking
about.”
“I was thinking about what you were thinking about — what it
would be like if you and Hans ‘bumped uglies’, like we used to
say, and I’m finding out the idea gets me right in the libido.”
“What would you do, where would you be, I mean, what are you
thinking about?”
“There are probably a thousand ways to be a voyeur here. I
think I’d make sure the draperies were open a little, here in the
bed room and in the living room, and I’d hang around outside
while you, uh, uh, messed around in here.”
My wife rolled so her back was to me, and we assumed our
‘spoon’ position, me holding her, her arms over mine, holding me
to her.
“You’re a naughty man, husband, thinking thoughts like that.
Naughty, but very sexy.”
We slept.
It was a little after daybreak when we awoke, and sort of
embarrassed by the night’s activities and confessions, avoided
taking about sex, and agreed we looked presentable enough to
go to IHOP for breakfast.
As set the alarm and locked the house. “We’ll have to come
back and wash the bedding and stuff before Martha comes
home,” Betty needlessly reminded me. “Let’s walk around the
house before we leave.”
As we finished most of the circuit, I took Betty’s hand and pulled
her into the shrubbery that helps provide the house with privacy.
“Look,” I told her. “Here’s the patio that’s outside the living room,
and that window is to the bedroom. If you were here with Hans,
here’s where I’d be. You’d be safe with me nearby, and you
could do anything you wanted.”
“I wasn’t sure,” Betty said, ” you’d still be thinking about that in
the light of the day.”
“I am,” I assured her. “Are you?”
“I am, too. We’re both weird, aren’t we?”
“I think sexy is the right word. You’re pretty sexy, for a thirty nine
and a few dozen month old woman.”
“You are, too, for an even older guy.”
We left for breakfast.
“You gonna do it?” I wanted to know.
“You’ve given me some things to think about. I don’t know, and I
don’t want to talk about it now, OK?”