There was a time when our mornings nearly always started this way, but it had been nearly a year since that had happened. She moaned and pushed her hips toward the presence of my finger and it slid deeper into my wife’s vagina. As she had so many times before, although it had been quite a few months since the last, she reached for my erection and began massaging its hardness in her soft hand, exclaiming in a throaty voice how hard it was.
Our sex that morning was reminiscent of the way we so often had in the early years of our marriage, slow and deliberate, savoring the intimacy and warmth that routine and the business of life had nearly wrung from our lives. It had been a while, I’m not sure how long, but we both responded to a renewed sexual energy. That was four months ago, but it made me think of what first attracted me to Claire.
What drew me to her was not only the fact that she was the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the room by far, but the moment I saw my future wife I knew I wanted to become good friends, intimate friends, very intimate friends. We were married to other people at the time, but that didn’t stop us. We had sex in the classroom after school, in the car during lunch breaks, in a deserted park below a stand of trees, and anywhere else we could literally “squeeze” it in. She would do anything I asked, willingly try new things in bed, and seemed to be able to read my mind at times, offering variations I hadn’t even mentioned yet. Her sexual imagination was incredible.
Claire had a killer body in those days, still does for her age; had marble-sized nipples that absolutely begged to be sucked, which I obliged as often as I could; a flat, firm stomach that reached into well-trimmed pubic curls; a scrumptiously round, lovely, heart-shaped ass; and the sweetest tasting and best looking pussy these eyes have ever gazed longingly at between to open and yielding thighs. She stands five three and at that time weighed around 110 pounds. Long straight blond hair hung to the middle of her back, making her the consummate California Girl; her adorable rear drew admiring looks from both genders; but it was that sweet and engaging face was what set her even more apart from other beautiful women.
Her body in those days, tight sexy, and petite. Those smallish breasts that craved to be sucked, even were offered to me shortly after the birth of her son, when her milk flowed continuously. I sucked down that sweet nectar like a hungry baby, never quite getting enough.
Claire cheerfully exchanged sexual fantasies with me in bed, role playing sexual scenarios if I wanted, and she’d gladly tell me about former partners and what they did she liked. “None of them,” she’d say, “could hold a candle to you,” but all that was sexual play and she happily indulged me..
Claire was the only woman I was ever with who swallowed my ejaculate, and she did it eagerly, during oral sex. She swallowed it with flare, with love, and with enthusiasm. Her pussy actually tasted good, which was rare from my experience with previous partners, and she would devotedly open her legs for my mouth and tongue anywhere I wanted it, anytime, often in the most unusual places. I literally sucked, licked, and dined on her pussy lips and fluids for as much as an hour at a time, with her moaning with her head back as I did, moving it from side to side.
I literally had it as good as it gets. She was the best lover a man could ask for. We were never alone together in the early years when we didn’t fuck. Before we were wed, even when we were married to other people, Claire and I had sex at least twice a day.
The first time we had sex in her classroom after school I had come over after putting my class in order and I turned out the lights. We began to kiss and I snaked a hand up under the back of her skirt and cupped my hand on her bottom, waiting for her to protest that “we shouldn’t” at school. The janitor didn’t get to our wing until nearly seven at night, so we knew we had time, although the schedule could have been changed at any time. We kept kissing and when she didn’t protest the first gambit, I put the other hand up under the front of her skirt and slid my fingers up her thighs to her panties. Her breathing began more rapid and her tongue reached for mine.
The front of her panties were soaked and I lifted the edge of her undies and ran my finger along her wet labia, then into the slit between her lips. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
I lifted her skirt up and pulled her panties down, then knelt to where my face was close to her naked and slick cunt. She lifted a leg, to give me access, then after eating and licking her for a few minutes, I carried her to the soft, carpeted floor, set her down, and when she opened her legs for me I unbuckled my pants and in one motion released my erection and inserted it into her.
I came inside her and she didn’t protest, then we laid there and kissed, my shriveling cock still inside her, as much as it could be. “Maybe I should have stopped,” I said.
“No you shouldn’t have,” she whispered. “If you had, I would have pulled you back on top of me.”
We laughed when I said, “What if your students knew their teacher got fucked on the rug where they assemble each morning? “What if the other teachers found out?”
“I’ll bet some of them have themselves,” I said, “especially Miss Carter.”
After that we had sex in that room nearly every day, until the janitor changed the schedule, then we used the storeroom, a friend’s apartment, and when her husband was out of town on business, in her own bed. It was the hottest affair possible, with the best sex, and with the most frequency.
However, all things diminish and as the passion faded and life got in the way, I began to rely more and more on my fantasies. At first it was once a day, then maybe every other night, which went to once a week, and finally hit a pretty routine one time a month. Even those, I began to realize, were pretty unemotional and unexceptional. Our sex became the exact opposite of what it had once been.
Rather than imagining myself with another woman, however, I would fantasize about her doing with other guys the things we’d done. I began to have fantasies about her doing with other guys what we had together early in our relationship. I’d imagine her surreptitiously offering her pussy with open legs to the mouth of man I imagined as a stranger, or a coworker. I pictured her humping her hips against those of someone in a motel bed, saw his erection inserted (close up) into her, perhaps in a dark storeroom somewhere off in my imagination. I envisioned her gleefully swallowing the cum of a lover spewing his seed down her throat, then dreamed of her licking his oozing semen off his shaft during a lunch-time tryst in the front seat of his huge SUV.
I gloried and entertained myself with the memory of all those exciting sexual times we’d had before, but this time I conjured mental images of her having hot sex with others. I thought of her getting fucked in her classroom, as we had years before, and pictured her sucking the post-climax cum off his shrinking erection after his cock had been plowing into her.
After one of the more memorable recent sexual sessions on a uncharacteristic Saturday afternoon, I revealed the truth about my sexual fantasies quite by accident. Like we once had, we were luxuriating in the afterglow, talking about our sexual past and sex partners: what turned us on and the most memorable. In a sudden burst of candor, Claire began telling me about a guy she loved to suck, who had the biggest cock she’d ever seen, before or since. “That really turns me on,” I said.
“I can see.”
“What do you think of me getting turned on by stories of you fucking other guys?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve known it did for years.” I turned to look down at her face. “Why else would you ask me about my former lovers, then have sex again right after I told you the details about one of them? You think I haven’t noticed that your Penthouse Letters is full of stories of men watching other men fuck their wives?” She laughed. “I guess I haven’t been very responsive lately.”
Claire leaned over and kissed me. “Sorry, sweetheart.” We hugged and as I held her she said, “I’ve hoped you wanted me to fuck someone so you could hear about it. I don’t think I could let you watch, though.” I told her it didn’t matter, that I loved her, and I wanted her to feel the passion again we had had so intensely before. “That would be nice.”
“Think about fucking other guys?”
“Constantly,” she sighed.
“Had any since me?”
She began to laugh. “This little pussy has been touched, tasted, or entered only by you, my love, but it gets restless at times for other excitement.”
“Like the old days?”
“Like when you used to eat me in the truck at lunchtime back at Seventh Street School.”
“We don’t even work together anymore.”
“That’s part of the problem.” she replied.
“Remember when we used to study the janitor’s schedule so we could have sex in one of our classrooms with the lights out?”
“We were crazy,” she said.
“Miss some of that crazy?”
“I do,” she answered with a soft kiss.
“Let’s get someone to spark that old fire,” I said.
“I’m willing.”
We had sex that night, going at it with more intensity than we had for nearly two years. I ate her to at least two orgasms, she swallowed my cum (licking the excess off my dick, then my stomach like a cat), and we fucked to a screaming/magnificent simultaneous orgasm to end it, after which we both collapsed in a satisfied heap of flesh and went to sleep almost immediately.