Bluebeard’s wife

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.”

I grinned in the darkness, putting my arm around him and kissing his shoulder.

That was the last thing I remembered before waking to find John gone from the bed. That wasn’t unusual. I used to think he got up to go to the bathroom a lot, and I would just drift back off to sleep again. Now, though, I wondered. Was he making a phone call? The thought surprised me, after we’d just had sex-really good sex, for us!

There was a phone next to our bed. He was clearly using the house phone, not the cell phone, at least according to the phone bill. We had a phone in the kitchen, one in the living room, and another in the basement office. My guess was, if he was on any phone, it would be the basement one. There was a couch down there he could lay down on.

If I picked up the receiver, would I hear him? I listened to the house, but didn’t hear anything except the usual night sounds. He wasn’t in the bathroom.