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I wasn’t entirely sure what category to post this under. “Loving Wives”, “Erotic Couplings”, “Romance” and, if the story develops as planned even “Novella” would work. The story does involve a husband fulfilling a bet with his wife. There may be some hesitation but there is no real domination. There may be some soft restraints and teasing, but I don’t feel it would meet what is expected if I put it under “BDSM”. In the end I decided on “Erotic Couplings”. Let me know if that was a dumb idea but nicely please. Thanks.
I appreciate LarryInSeattle’s attempts to save me from my errors. It is not his fault if any remain.
Like most of the shit that happens to me, this started with me thinking I was being clever.
“I can’t believe that after almost ten years of marriage you tell me you don’t like my blow jobs.”
My wife doesn’t raise her voice when she’s angry. The softer the tone, the more pissed she is. She doesn’t flush. I think it’s something about the way she opens her eyes when she’s pissed but her eyes seem to glow. She doesn’t wave her hands. She doesn’t throw things.
At the moment her tone is very soft. Her eyes glow. Those glowing eyes are glued to me. I need to be very careful here, the wrong move and she’ll pounce. She’ll play with me a bit before eviscerating me, but in the end gutted, intellectually at least, is what I will be. Personally, I think that’s why women tend to be cat people. Cats also like to play with their food before dispatching it.
Now, let me be clear right from the start. My wife is not a bitch, she’s not a ball-buster, and she’s not a nag. She is not any of those things. She is big-hearted, always kind, and far more tolerant of my more than average male stupidity. Even so, it is possible to piss her off.
I think I’ve pissed her off.
I weigh my options. Do I skip the preliminaries and jump right to admitting I was wrong and grovel or do I try a little offense first, then cave if need be? I elect to act as if I have a chance of winning this one.
“Hey, be fair. That’s not what I said and you know it. I said, right from the beginning, that I love the way you suck my cock. All I said was, all I asked was, if you’d be okay trying to deep-throat me. I mean, come on, I’m hardly John Holmes.”
Now, in retrospect, saying anything at all was not very bright. Women always say they want more communication. To me anyway, even exceptionally wonderful women such as my wife tend to define communication more narrowly than I do. It strikes me, what they mean is not so much that we should open up to them, as they do for us to be open to what they want to tell us.
It’s perfectly okay for a gal to communicate to her husband or lover that he can’t make her cum with his dick, or that she’d love to try anal but she knows it’s not for her. But let a guy pull out a pair of leather wrist cuffs or a pair of crotch-less panties, or heaven forbid wonder what it would be like to have more than just the head of his cock in her mouth and you’re nothing but a patriarchal throwback. At best, you’re unappreciative of the undeserved societal superiority possessing a cock has bestowed upon you. At worst, you’re a misogynistic douche bag who better take up yoga because if you ever want your dick sucked again you’ll need to do it yourself.
Her voice was still soft as a moonlit whisper.
“Fine. You aren’t John Holmes, who by the way was not very attractive and no normal woman would want to fuck, but as you have told me on occasions, too numerous to count…” – At this point she rolled her eyes heavenward. She doesn’t raise her voice or throw things but my God is she a master of sarcasm. It’s part of why I love her. – “…that you are above average, for a white guy. Why would I want to gag myself trying to get your precious dick all the way into my throat?”
Ouch. It pains me that she’s already resorted to accusing me of being overly fond of my dick. What women will never ever understand is that it is IMPOSSIBLE for a man to be overly fond of his dick. It would violate one of the fundamental laws of the universe. Existence would be snuffed out if any guy, anywhere, at any time and under any circumstance failed to love his dick. True, most of us wish it were a little bigger, a little thicker, a little harder but deep down we love our dicks.
“How do you know you would gag? You’ve never tried. Above average means if I really strain I can get to six and a half inches. It’s not like I’m asking you to swallow a sword. Christ. Let’s drop it. Like I said, I love your blow jobs.”
That’s true. I do love her blow jobs. But who among us is perfect? That’s all I was trying to get at. I’ll give her major points for swallowing. She always hops up to rinse her mouth but she’s never been one of those don’t-cum-in-my-mouth-whatever-you-do-that’s-gross-ew-I hate-that-makes-me-want-to-throw-up-ew women. News flash ladies, we all leak a little, you’re already tasting us, and sometimes you do such a bang up job we, bursa escort literally, lose control. Sorry.
Now, I really want to say something like, “Besides, I don’t bitch about eating your pussy and it’s not like that’s munching on dry toast,” but the truth is I love eating pussy. I like the taste of pussy. I like the feel of pussy. I like getting my tongue as far as I can into my sweet wife’s pussy without breaking something. And she knows it. I can’t, with any honesty, pretend like it is a chore for me to go down on her.
I’m always amused when I hear a woman say that the idea of performing cunnilingus makes them ill, or a man say the thought of performing fellatio makes him gag. Really? A mouth is a mouth. A cock is a cock and a pussy is a pussy. Agreed? If the idea of a mouth touching a cock is revolting, no man could ask a woman to do so without being an ass. Likewise, if the idea of a mouth on a pussy is intrinsically wrong and nauseous, then no women could ask a man to do so.
“How do I know I’d gag? Of course I’d gag. I gag when I brush my teeth. You think I’ve never given head to anyone but you?”
[Note: the future me will know that this is the point when the present me will think he’s being clever. He will know that what I say and do next will lead to him being in the position he is currently in. He will desperately wish time travel is an option, so he could go back to just before breakfast, just before I started the above conversation, and punch me in the mouth.]
We were sitting at the breakfast table. I had started this discussion, this exercise in communication, while we were dressing upstairs. The bagel we will split had popped up a few minutes ago. Bagels are always too hot when they first pop up. Have you noticed that? Even when they aren’t toasted yet they’re hot. Bagels should be studied for their ability to retain heat. Maybe they have a high water content compared to bread. Maybe that adds to their thermal mass. Maybe I should forget the fucking bagels and get back to the job of defending myself. Her eyes are still glowing.
“Oh for Pete’s sake. It’s fine sweetheart. I said let’s drop it. I’m sorry for saying anything but for the record how hard can it be?”
I pick up a banana, longer than my cock, but maybe not as thick, peeled it, tilt my head back, and insert the whole thing into my mouth, all the way down to where the ass end of the thing still clings to the peel. I pull it out, forcing myself not to wipe my eyes, which have started to tear up, hold it in front of her face, and say, “See, no gagging. Christ. Forget it.”
I stand up from the table and walked toward the toaster, confident I had made my point. I smear salmon cream cheese on my half, regular on her half, kissed the top of her head, and sit down, handing my wife her half of the bagel.
Her eyes give me pause and I mean major pause. They have gone to whatever stage exists past “glowing”. She takes the bagel and regards it with for more intent than a bagel deserves. Did she imagine I had poisoned it? Over a blow job?
“So,” she says, speaking to her bagel and not to me, at least as far as her eyes are concerned. “You think because you can stick a banana in your mouth without gagging it means deep-throating must be easy. Is that it?”
I choose, probably too late, to exercise my right to remain silent.
“You have experience as a sucker of cocks you’ve not shared with me? Has a banana ever grabbed the back of your head and shoved your head down on it?”
“No and no. And by the way, have I ever shoved your head onto my cock? Or, or, have I ever even shoved my cock into your mouth? Or do I let you take care of things at your own pace and at your own speed?”
She nods. “No, you haven’t and yes you do. I withdraw that part of my argument. But seriously, you think a banana and a cock are the same thing.”
“No, but again let’s drop it.” But of course I don’t drop it. “No, a banana is not a cock but it is a long round object very similar to a cock that one might reasonably argue can be used as a stand-in for a cock in order to make the point that deep-throating doesn’t seem impossible, or even particularly difficult.”
She sits her bagel down on the paper towel in front of her and disappears upstairs. I hear the sounds of rummaging. I sigh and take a bite of my bagel. I nearly choke when I see her coming downstairs carrying one of her dildos. It was her favorite, a dong modeled after James Deen.
“Stick that down your throat.”
I glance around the kitchen, even though I know the kids are gone already.
“What the hell are you doing? I said drop it. I’m sorry I brought it up. Besides, that’s a model of a porn star’s dick, not mine. I never said anything about you deep-throating James Deen for fuck sake. All I wonder was if we, emphasis on the ‘we’, if you and I could try that. That’s all. I don’t see why you’re getting in such a snit about it. Christ. Eat your breakfast so we can go, or you’ll have to drive to work on your own. I’ll be late.”
“Fine,” bursa escort bayan she snaps. I realize then I’ve really hit a nerve. She proceeds to drop the latex version of James Deen on the table, where it bounces, quivering in a strangely obscene way, and holds up a second dong that she has kept by her side. This one is more realistic and very close to my size. In fact, it is exactly my size. It’s my dick.
Let me explain. When I was in the Navy, before a deployment, one of Kendra’s friends gave her a “make your own dildo” kit. You get a boner, stick in this goo, let it set up, pull it out and fill the cavity with silicone, I think. Then you let it set, peel off the cast and voila, a dildo model of your own cock. Kendra’s friend intended it as a joke. We used it. Kendra held the proof in her hand.
I groan an almost silent “fuck me” and await my fate.
“Fine. Show me how you can deep-throat your own cock smart ass.”
It is not entirely clear to me how I’m the smart ass in this mess and that pisses me off.
“No problem.” I snap and reach for the dildo.
Kendra yanks it away. “Not so fast. If you can do it, without gagging, I’ll try to deep-throat you. If you can’t then I get to pick something for you to do.”
I shook my head. “No way, too open ended. I’m not shaving my head, or painting my balls purple or something dumb.”
“You think I’d be that childish? Fine. You do it and you can pick something you want me to do, doesn’t have to be sexual. If you can’t do it without gagging, same goes for me. I get to pick something for you to do. Nothing illegal and let’s be real, neither of us is going to do something we really don’t want to do over a silly bet like this. I’m not going to gang-bang a football team or something.”
I consider the offer. The future me will know that what I should have considered was the fact that silicone is not as slippery as a banana and that, while not in James Deen’s league, my cock is bigger around than a banana but future me had no way to tell the me sitting at the breakfast table that morning that I ought to fold and walk away from the table.
“Deal,” I reply, not too worried. It can’t be that hard. We shake and she hands me the dildo. I look at it. It seems depressingly small, which is why we rarely use it.
“I don’t have to shove it straight in, right? I can work at it a little?”
“Of course, the bet is you can’t deep throat it without gagging. You don’t have all morning but no, you don’t have to ‘shove it straight in’.”
I go to the sink and rinse it off. I study it a moment and suddenly I realize sticking a cock, even a fake cock in my mouth, is a helluva lot different than a goddamn banana. I’d ask to back out but Kendra was a stickler when it came to bets.
I put the thing in my mouth and pull it out.
“I’d like to point out that my dick doesn’t taste like rubber and I could gag from the taste not the smell.”
Kendra shrugged. “That’s true baby. Your real dick doesn’t taste bad but what can I do about that? Unless you can suck your own dick? A bet’s a bet. That’s your cock and it’s made out of rubber. Sorry.”
I consider asking if I can have a year or two to study yoga so I can suck my own dick but decide to skip it. It would take more than two years.
I put the damn thing back in my mouth. I move it in and out, getting it wet, trying not to imagine how much it probably looks like I’m sucking a cock, which I am, just not a real one. I’m startled to realize I have half a woody. Kendra is watching very closely. Her eyes are smoldering now. Don’t ask me the difference between “glowing” and “smoldering”. Glowing is what they do when she’s pissed. Smoldering is what they do when she’s turned on. I don’t know how but I can tell the difference. The fact that this is turning her on is a plus, albeit a kind of weird one. The idea makes my half woody go three-quarters woody.
Trying to impress her, trying to show off, trying to be clever, I start to work the dildo faster. And then of course, I gag. Fuck, I almost toss my bagel back onto the table. I gag, my eyes stream and when they clear, I see Kendra’s eyes now shine with triumph.
The drive to work is silent except for her humming. She does that when she’s thinking. She’s a marketing director. She has an excellent imagination, which is what worries me.
The kiss she gives me before hopping out of the car is unremarkable. “Don’t worry Dan. You know I can’t be mean to you. I have some ideas. You’ll love ’em.”
I watch her walk into the building. Damn her ass is fine. My cock rouses itself long enough to realize it’s not need, unless I intend to jerk off in the car in the ten minutes it takes me to get to my office. I don’t intend to do so and the little fella goes back to sleep. On the positive side of the asset sheet, I have my own company, it’s doing well, better than I had hoped or dreamed. It’s growing and may be getting large enough for some other bigger company to start noticing and escort bursa get ideas. The only negative being, all those positives mean more work for me. I promised Kendra when I left the Navy I’d always be home for dinner. So far, I have always made it. Sometimes, that means working late at home, but I’m home. I remind myself a dozen times a day that I’ve nothing to beef about. I’m a lucky man. I work hard, I’ll give myself that but there are a lot of people who work hard and have good ideas but that can only take them so far. Kendra says I sell myself short. I don’t think I do. I think it helps keep a guy honest, to keep in mind that if the first deal had gone sour, or the first customer didn’t come knocking until it was a week too late, I might be busting my ass in someone else’s office.
There are several projects that need, so I’m told repeatedly, my immediate attention. That keeps me working through lunch but even that isn’t enough to keep my mind from wandering to the definite smolder I had seen in Kendra’s eyes. I pack up on time and I’m waiting at the curb when she walks out of her building. We stop for a loaf of sourdough on the way home. She says nothing beyond what is required as we dance around each other in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.
The kids are in their rooms, doing homework, or they are supposed to be doing homework. We cook, they study and clean up, that’s the deal. It works for the most part. It’s amazing how much noise two kids can make thundering down the stairs for dinner. The usual chit-chat ensues. We probe for information, they, even the youngest in second-grade, dodge and parry and try to avoid saying anything of any significance. While they clean up, I disappear into the office to check a few things. Kendra sits curled up in the one of the chairs, absent-mindedly chewing her lower lip as she flips through a portfolio of potential ads for an upcoming product roll out.
When the kids come tromping into the living room, I shut down my computer. Kendra closes the portfolio and we spend one hour watching TV, kids’ choice but parental veto power remains in effect. The next hour is spent in bathing, brushing of teeth, ritualistic “did you get all your homework done”, tucking and re-tucking, reading (even the eldest, nearly grown up in her mind by virtue of being in the fourth grade, clings to being read to), lights out and finally, if it all goes smoothly, an hour or so for ourselves.
Still, as we brush and floss, Kendra has not dropped a clue regarding her plans. I love the sway of her breasts when she brushes. Both of us grew up in houses where the sight of a boob or penis would result in panic. We did not flaunt or bodies, neither did we shriek if one of the kids saw us naked. We sleep naked. I dread getting old enough that I would climb into bed without half a hardon.
Tonight it’s a full blown, no pun intended, boner. Between wondering what her devilish mind is working on and watching her ass and breasts while she’s bent over the sink, I’m hard, hard and dripping when we climb in bed. And Kendra knows it. And Kendra loves the power it gives her.
That’s okay. I had happily ceded that power to her long ago and I’ve never regretted it.
I know she’s waiting for me to ask so I do. “So, what did you come up with?”
She flips onto her side, props her head on one hand and smiles. “I’m glad you asked. I’ve come up with ten things I want you to do.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa sweetheart. Ten? You said ‘something’ not ‘somethings’.”
She grins. “That’s the something I want: ten wishes.” She tilts her head and kisses my shoulder. When she looks at me I see worry in her eyes, hear it in her voice. “Come on Dan. It’ll be fun. I promise.”
My mind leaps back to the night before. We had been lying in bed, spooning as we always do before falling asleep. Her back had been to my front. My hand rested on her hip. I reached further and cupped her sex. My erection was pressed flat against the smooth skin of her bottom. I started to grind myself against her. For most of our lives together, she would have rolled over and either climbed on top of me or pulled me on top of her. I know all couples exaggerate the amount of sex they had at the beginning of their relationship but I honestly think we fell asleep atop each other, thighs slick, five nights out of seven.
Last night her response had been…a soft snore. At first I thought she was joking. Nope. She was asleep. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling wondering if this was what it would be like from here on out. I knew life would change with two kids, two careers. Two weeks earlier, Kendra had started on the downhill run into forty, turning thirty-five. I would join her on the back-side of our thirties in a month and a day. A month after that would make ten years of marriage. We’ve known each other for fourteen, been sleeping together for thirteen and living together for twelve. How had that happened? When had that happened?
Wasn’t it that which had started me thinking we needed a change? Isn’t that how my mind turned to images of women deep-throating cocks? Yes to both. So, why am I hesitating? It’s clear from her voice that Kendra has some of the same concerns. She wants to do something about it. Right? Right.
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