Author’s vanity note: This is a lighthearted quick-and-dirty nonsense tale, an experiment in conversational first-person, to relieve a little pressure from my other, only slightly more plausible (but much trickier to write) stuff. Consequences? You won’t find any in this story. It’s a different pace and a very different mood. Opinions welcome, and remember none of the characters are real people.
Note: the author doesn’t know what quick and dirty means, this is another bloody essay. Oops.
Note 2 to 7: must… stop… editing.
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Dean
Hey, internet. I’m in a difficult situation and think it might be my fault. Do you keep any dirty pictures on your phone? Be honest, now. Votes all in? Okay. Next, did your partner ever find them? No? Well, perhaps I’m just more stupid than most folks. I see one or two of you are still onboard. How about this – were they topless selfies from your wife’s best friend? No-one? You want to know how I got the picture? Look, this isn’t a how-to. No, I wasn’t having an affair, honest! It was unsolicited! I wanted to ask the woman ‘why’ myself, but you think my wife let me out of her sight since then?
To be honest, full disclosure, my wife didn’t react how you’d expect someone in that situation to react, and that’s part of my problem.
Why didn’t I delete the picture? Okay, I agree, that was dumb. Would you delete it? Or hide it? You’re a stronger person than me, then. Maybe you should be in this story instead. It would probably be a shorter one then.
I guess I really should have introduced myself before talking your ear off. Sorry. I’m Dean, I’m 34 years old, and work in construction. Construction… software! Ha, that gets them every time. (I’m under stress, let me make my lame dad jokes.) I still try to keep up with the guys though – no-one will listen to someone who doesn’t look like they’ve spent a day on-site, and it wasn’t a million years ago when I was right where they are, sticking up drywall. I don’t have a six pack or anything, but my wife’s eyes still wander when I go around shirtless (so of course I do that as often as possible). I’m pretty muscular, so I do okay. My cock? Er – ask my wife, she’ll be along a bit later on.
My wife Aimee is French-Japanese. We met ten years ago. She was in college and crashed her car into a truck which was beautifully parked in its own space just outside a building site, minding its own business. I was married to Debbie at the time, which I won’t dignify by explaining, except to say by the time Aimee to crashed into truck number two it was all over but the lawyering. I’m not saying anything about anyone’s driving skills except Aimee’s, and holy hell the number of times we’ve called a mechanic over the years… There’s a reason I’ve pinned their number in my phone. Our usual grease monkey Vinnie – Veronica – could practically run her business off of my custom alone, and… wait, this isn’t the right story, sorry.
So yeah, Aimee is a little spitfire. An athletic, 5 foot 1, 36 year old mother-of-one who still gets ID’d every time she tries to buy alcohol. She insists on it, won’t let me do it, it’s a matter of pride for her. She’s the most opinionated, pushiest, most terrifying woman I’ve ever met, and I love her more than I can say. We’ve been married for eight years now and no-one I’ve met compares to her. I’ve never thought about being with another woman since we’ve been together. I am still cursed with male chauvinist eyes which recklessly scan every eligible female, and I’ve got the scars from Aimee’s justifiable death glares.
Physically she is 32-D with legs and such perfect curves you’d think she was sculpted by an artist. (Thank the lord for pregnancy, she used to be an A-cup. I certainly wasn’t complaining, even though she did). Skin like milk chocolate, eyes like mahogany and tougher than any three other people put together. Our biggest arguments are about her attractiveness. She looks better than before we had our kid. I mean that, genuinely. Perhaps I do have rose-tinted goggles on, but whether it’s real or not, it’s real to me, and that’s what matters. I just wish it were real to her too. The fact I wasn’t able to show her or convince her somehow? My greatest failure.
To me, she’s perfectly imperfect. To herself, her skin is full of imperfections (one pimple!), she’s still too fat (where?) her er – flower – isn’t tight enough (it’s definitely a-ok) – I could go on. She says the bloom of her youth has wilted or some other haiku crap. (Sorry, I never learned to ‘get’ those things. No, don’t try to teach me please, my wife’s tried to educate me to death.)
The one thing which isn’t perfectly imperfect is our sex life. People will tell you there’s no sex after children and it’s so damn true. Our daughter Hanako is six and full of energy, generally keeping us as exhausted as possible or creeping into our bed whenever she can. She’s finally off to school and I miss her like crazy whenever I work from home these days. Aimee’s also off working again which is a godsend as it really reduced the tension at home. Aimee can’t stand being kept locked up. Our sex life improved right up to once or twice a month after that, and it’s stayed there.
In case you haven’t guessed Aimee’s sexy body and sexier personality drives me wild, but she acts like an ice princess whenever I try to get her in bed, so I’ve backed off, for the most part. Every couple has their issues.
Until the day everything changed. The day I caught her masturbating.
It was just before bed. I’d been brushing my teeth, getting ready to sleep when I realized where the flaw was in the code I’d been debugging all day. I dropped everything, ran to my office, and a couple hours later I’d done it. Full of pride and adrenaline, I crept back upstairs. Why so quiet? I didn’t want to risk waking my wife, no sir. That was a mistake I’d only ever needed to make once. She loves her sleep.
When I was a few steps away, I heard an odd silence from our bedroom – not just normal silence, but the sound of someone trying to be very, very quiet. You know the one? So, curious, I approached the door stealthily, and nudged it open slowly. The light was dim, but the glow of the phone she was holding lit her enough to make it obvious what was happening. There she was, laid spread out on our bed, her skin glowing in the slight illumination. My God she was beautiful, and like this she was without parallel. Her panties were around her ankles, her thighs wet, her nightie pulled up, stuffed in her mouth, exposing everything. She was looking at my phone. You already know what she was looking at, but I didn’t.
As I got closer I heard the wet squishing sounds. Shortly after, my eyes caught the only movement in the room. She had three fingers buried in her pussy, sawing furiously in and out of her poor pussy, really pounding away. Her cream oozed liberally around her fingers and a ribbon of moisture them as she pulled them out before plunging them right back in.