Those words almost made me spontaneously came in my pants.
I moved her away from me and stared into her soul as she returned the stare. “What gives?” I asked.
“I want you back; I’m done playing the field; I want the only man that I’ve ever loved,” she replied with as serious a tone as I had ever heard from her.
Twenty minutes later we were in Room 1812 at the Westin; and it was like Tchaikovsky’s overture of the same name was encouraging me on as I simultaneously licked Sharon’s pussy, stimulated her G-spot, and twisted one of her pencil-eraser hard nipples. After her volcano-simulating orgasm when I reached for a condom she stopped me.
“I need to feel you completely inside and to flush out my womb,” she snarled before planting a kiss on me hot enough to liquefy lead.
My titanium-hard cock was in desperate need of attention and had stolen most of my blood from my brain so I didn’t argue. Instead I buried myself in her hot, wet, pussy in one frantic stroke, eliciting spontaneous guttural sounds from both of us. Sharon wrapped her muscular thighs around my waist as I simultaneously sucked her left tit while my hips mimicked a jack-hammer. Our synchronized orgasms were debilitating putting me — and from her sudden limpness Sharon too — in a twilight zone so euphoric that I never wanted to regain full cognizance again.
As we bleary-eyed, with aching genitals, ate breakfast at the Westin dining room the next morning between mouthfuls of omelet Sharon nonchalantly informed me “By the way I got a job in the same city as yours. I know that you haven’t gotten accommodations yet but I have an apartment about two miles from your office. I thought that we could save money by cohabitating it.”
While she looked at her plate, or the surroundings I stared at her. “Would cohabitation include sleeping together?”
Then Sharon looked up and gave me a laser stare. “It’s only a one-bedroom apartment with no fold-out couch. However I’m sure that I can count on you to be a gentleman and not try to fuck me one day a week.”
After a pause we both burst out laughing.
Cohabitation with Sharon resulted in sex so much better than any other in my life that it was in a different solar system, and led to us getting married one year after our night in Room 1812, much to the joy of both of our families.
Most engaged couples register for presents. Since Bill and Debby ran a department store and were well off we didn’t do that — they provided all of the household things that we needed. Instead, we asked guest to contribute to one of three different charities, although some still give us presents. The most unusual presents that we got were an old-time ice cream maker from Sharon’s maid of honor, an anthology of college basketball from Naismith through the present from one of my groomsmen, and a Civil War pistol from Sharon’s paternal grandfather.
The Civil War pistol deserves further mention because it is the most unusual gift either of us ever received. I remember seeing it at Sharon’s house one time when her grandfather was visiting when we were juniors in High School. For some reason Sharon was always fascinated by it even though she had little to no interest in other guns.
The pistol was a third generation Colt Dragoon Revolver, one of only 10,000 produced somewhere between 1851 and 1860, and one of only a handful in the entire world still operable at the time that we got married. It was not a replica. It used paper cartridges and conical lead bullets; her grandfather gave us about a dozen of the cartridges and bullets too as part of the present. Sharon had shot the pistol twice in her life, both times when she was in High School, a total of about ten bullets. Her grandfather shot it about twenty times, a total of about 100 bullets. We initially kept the gun in a glass display case in our bedroom, but rarely showed it to friends. It became even more precious to Sharon when her grandfather died 18 months after our wedding.
When Sharon had the Colt appraised after her grandfather’s death the estimate was that it was worth between $35,000 – $40,000, flooring both of us. After that we stashed it away in a bank safe deposit box; we thought that was a better option than paying a significant premium for getting insurance on it, especially since it was so rare and had sentimental value for Sharon. Fortuitously, as it turned out later, almost no one except Sharon’s parents knew that we had the gun.
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Our first four years of marriage were in one word “great!”
Both of our careers were progressing nicely even though Sharon’s was somewhat mysterious to me since even after she explained things I didn’t understand it, and I only met a couple of her female co-workers. We had a good cadre of friends, we often worked out or played pickup basketball together, enjoyed local theater and community events, and we went to parties or clubbing without ever getting drunk.
Since we were both bringing in more money than we thought that we would at that age — twenty eight years old — we bought a small fixer-upper house and had fun planning what improvements we would make and worked together about eight hours a week on various projects that spruced it up and/or enhanced its livability.
Sharon did not have a mercurial personality but there was about a month before a cataclysmic event occurred when she was exceptionally amorous. I think that during that time we fucked at least once every day.
The cataclysmic event I previously alluded to occurred when we had been married four years, three months, and six days. Sharon was out of town on business that day not to arrive home until about 8:00 p. m. so I arranged to meet a client for dinner and Sharon actually got 7:00 p. m. reservations for my client and me at a country French restaurant where she knew the proprietor well and that we often patronized.
Unfortunately, my client cancelled at the last minute because of a problem with one of her kids so I called the restaurant and begged off — it was no hardship for them because they always had a high volume of walk-ins who they often had to turn away — and left my office for my ten minute drive home about 6:00 p. m.
I was surprised as I was within a block of my house to see a Cadillac backing out of our driveway and then moving toward me. I thought that it probably was just someone who was turning around since our driveway was wider than most on our street; however, I made it a point to look at the driver of the car as we passed by each other. Although I didn’t get a real good look, the driver appeared to be a good-looking though greasy guy in his forties with slicked back black hair and a black suit jacket, black shirt, and yellow tie.
When I pulled into the driveway — we only had a one car detached garage — I was surprised to see Sharon’s car in the garage since she told me that the earliest she would be home was eight o’clock and according to my watch it was only 6:18. When I entered the house I heard the shower in our master bathroom running — even though it was on the second floor our sound insulation wasn’t that great and it was one of our projects to remedy in the next year. When I entered the master bedroom the bed was in disarray and there were noticeable — and readily identified — discharges on the sheets.