Message-ID: <2788eli$9708100049@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: taria29c@aol.com (Taria29c) Subject: RP Ancient Taria: Art Appreciation Part Three (#2/3) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19970810015801.VAA04796@ladder02.news.aol.com> (Continued from #1/3) Slowly I turned my gaze toward Mark's slumbering form. Could it be...? No, I thought resolutely, there is no way that my husband, Mister Straight and Narrow, could ever even contemplate...After all, just to get him into oral sex had taken months. But then, hadn't it been worth it? And he'd been so...enthusiastic...ever since. But Andres? Christiaan and Rose? How well did I know my husband, anyway? What was he not telling me? Then again, what had I not told him? I was chilled by his discovery of what I had hidden away, not only because he was keeping it to himself, but also because I had kept secrets from him. And now he knew. But why hadn't he waited up to tell me, to confront me? What was he thinking? How was he feeling? I was confused, my mind awhirl with thoughts and counterthoughts, worries and fears, guilt and curiosity. I didn't eat or even shower. I just got undressed and slipped under the covers, watching my husband sleep beside me for a long time. Eventually I fell asleep. But I tossed and turned restlessly, and by the time my alarm buzzed at me the next morning it was almost a relief to get out of bed. Slowly I arose and stretched, bending over a little to straighten out my back. As I half-turned I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. What was that, peeking out from under Mark's clothes on top of his nighttable? Wasn't that the corner of a magazine or something? It was--and sticking out on top of it was a slim leather strap and a buckle. A-HA! I wanted to shout. Caught you, you little devil! You've been looking at my dirty pictures and playing with my toys! I left the bedroom with a grin on my face, used the bathroom, and poked my head back out to peer into the room before I showered. Watching carefully, I saw Mark turn over from his side onto his back and reach a hand out to push the telltale corner further underneath his clothes. You faker! You're not even asleep! Making more noise than I really needed to I yawned elaborately and walked back into the room, pretending not to notice the sudden stillness of the figure on the bed, not to mention the obviously fake snores. Moving to the foot of the bed, just at the right angle for him to see me under his half-closed lids, I turned around to fiddle with the drawers of our bedroom chest. I bent lower at the waist, knowing as I did so that my night teddy was riding up and my underwear peeking out. After a little aimless rooting around I stood up, my back still to him but facing the mirror that stood atop the chest. Quite deliberately I reached down to pull down my panties, pulling them gradually lower until they dropped onto the floor. I stepped out of them and began to pull my teddy over my head in a slow, sinuous motion, knowing that as it rose more and more of my ass was exposed, then my back. As it rose over my head I arched my back and held my arms high above my head, as if I was simply engaging in a morning muscle-stretch. As I watched him sidewise through the mirror, I could see that my "innocent" morning posturing had Mark's full attention. Not wanting him to know that I was aware of his wakefulness, I turned around slowly until I was facing him and faked a yawn. Then I made another big stretch right in front of him with my eyes closed and my head back. My motions thrust my chest forward and I made no move to cover anything, letting him feast his hooded eyes on my breasts and belly for a few moments. Then with a sigh--of regret? longing? I hoped he thought I was wishing he was awake so we could make love--I turned toward the bathroom again, grabbing some clothes to don after my shower. I like a good, long, hot shower, especially in the morning, but that day I took no chances. I finished my ablutions in record time, exiting the bathroom as quickly as possible to forestall any hasty activities on his part. As I swept back into the bedroom I saw that my precautions were well-founded; he was still on his back, but from the hall I could see that he had been lying with his knees bent and spread apart, his hands probably busy under the covers. When he saw, or heard my return, though, he quickly lowered his knees and tried to place his hands in some casually arranged position on top of the covers. I tried hard to suppress my smile as I noticed that he could not hide *everything* he had been up to--just below his midsection *something* was poking the blanket upward. I finished dressing and turned back to face him while I bent my head to put on my earrings. I chuckled quietly in my throat and looked directly at him as he "slept." "Oh well," I murmured, "what a waste of a good morning hard-on. Too bad..." Before he could react I zipped out of the room and marched down the hall. I picked up my overcoat and shook it so he could hear the keys in my pocket jingling. As I neared the front door I silently kicked off my shoes, then opened the door, held it a second, and slammed it, with me still inside. Then I stood stock-still for a moment, straining my hearing to find out if my ruse had worked. It had, because a moment later I could hear the blankets fall to the floor in a heap, and I heard the rustle of book pages being turned. As quietly as I could, I crept back toward the door of my bedroom, inching along the wall, until I could carefully peek at what was transpiring. I saw my husband, still lying on his back, but now fully exposed. The bedclothes were gone; so were any shorts or pajama pants he might've been wearing when he came to bed the previous night. With his legs bent and spread apart, I had a clear view of Mark's rigid cock standing tall and proud. Mark's right hand was wrapped around his shaft, tugging the skin up and down as it pumped in slow strokes. His head (the one on his shoulders) was facing away from me, thank goodness, and was tilted to the left. He was looking at the Andres photo catalogue he had commandeered from my closet, grasping it in his left hand, which was resting on his nighttable. I had seen Mark masturbate before, but only when we were having some kind of sex together and then only for a moment or two. I remembered mutually masturbating once, long ago, when we were young and daring and still dating. But I had never had the chance to watch him when he thought he was unobserved, when he was at his most natural. I watched in fascination as his hand moved up and down, pumping his cock in a rhythm that I knew matched the throbbings he felt. It was marvelous, seeing the way his body built its way toward a rising pleasure even as his mind was occupied elsewhere, focused not on his own body but on the erotic photographs that held his attention. My mouth was dry as I watched his hand speed up its tempo a little, quickening its pace as he built to a climax. So soon? I groaned inwardly, feeling cheated by the quick conclusion I foresaw. But I was more than a little pleased as well. So, you can't hold it in after weeks without making love? Good! And I hope that my little peep show this morning made things worse! I grinned as I contemplated the torture he must have experienced as I exhibited my naked body to him, and then yanked it away untouched by his horny little hands. Suddenly his pace slowed again, and I looked on in wonderment as he let the book slide out of his fingers and reached out with his left hand. After a brief moment his hand closed around the erstwhile contents of my lavender sack--my cock, still attached to the leather harness I had worn the last time, with Kathy. I was dumbstruck as I watched my husband Mark bring the cock closer to his body, rubbing his chest, his nipples, with the tip. I was thunderstruck when he held it up for a moment, looked at it...and then slowly inserted it into his mouth! His lips closed around the cockhead, sucking, moistening, and I looked on as he slowly, softly pushed it and pulled it in and out of his mouth, a little deeper each time. Mark knew how to give a blow job?!? Where the hell did he pick THAT up? I almost smacked myself on the forehead. Of COURSE he has a pretty good idea of blow job techniques. He's had 'em, hasn't he?!? Maybe he even learned this from ME, I thought, and I continued to stare as he extended his tongue and gave the cockhead a good, sloppy licking, wetting it down thoroughly. I was tingling as I began to think about that. If he was moistening the cock, lubricating it, that must mean... And he did not disappoint me. With his eyes closed, his right hand still gripping his now-straining cock, my husband guided the latex penis down between his spread knees, under his balls, to his dark anal opening. I held my breath as he pushed a little, changed the angle of the penis in his hand, pushed more, and gasped loudly. "Errrrrrr," he grunted, and I felt rather than saw as the cockhead pushed into him, penetrating him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle at his entrance until the head was just inside him, the rest of the cock hanging down. Mark moaned, and suddenly his right hand was pumping furiously, jerking with hard, fast strokes. He was panting and moaning now, quick sharp moans as his climax neared, the cockhead in his anal aperture driving him into a frenzy. His hips were bucking wildly now, his left hand just barely keeping the head of the cock inside him as he stroked himself with abandon, and I heard a loud "Aaaaah!" as the building tension met its sudden release and his body went rigid for a moment, and then I could see the spurts as he ejaculated into his hand and over the top of it, his cum soaking the hand clenched around his cock and spilling onto his stomach, which was heaving with his deep, ragged breaths. I watched as his body slowly relaxed, the latex cock softly emerging from the opening it had barely entered, his legs straightening as he unbent his knees, and suddenly I realized how vulnerable I was to discovery. As Mark began to recover I tiptoed back down the hallway with mincing little quicksteps, making it to the front door and picking up my shoes. I waited with baited breath until I heard him get up and head to the bathroom to clean up. As he turned the faucets and started running a shower, I exited the front door, the sounds of my escape camouflaged, I hoped, by the running water. All the way to work the image of my husband naked, writhing, uninhibited, danced before my eyes. After a while on the Parkway I started to worry I might plow into a Jeep or something, and so I stabbed at the radio button, searching for something to distract me. No such luck, because the first words I heard were "...welcome back to Dr. Joy, here to discuss love, intimacy, and relationships. We've been speaking to Dina, who has been feeling a distance growing between her and her husband. Now tell me, Dina...how has this been affecting your intimate relationship?" "Ummmm....what?" "Your sex life, dear, your sex life. If it were a casserole, for example..." In the car I snorted once, loudly. "...if it were a casserole, would it be piping hot? room temperature? yesterday's refrigerated leftovers?" "Oh, DEF-initely leftovers. He almost NEVER wants to have sex any more..." Dina was getting positively chatty. "And just the other day I found a stack of adult magazines! In his desk, downstairs! He says that he just buys them to, you know, look at the pictures..." I snorted again, even louder. Dr. Joy apparently concurred, because she said, in a flat no-nonsense voice, "He's *not* just looking at the pictures, Dina." "But he saaaaaays..." Dr. Joy cut her off immediately. "Dina, that's what he would tell his mother if she found them. Are you his mother?" "Noooo," came the uncertain reply. "Dina, he is masturbating. He uses those magazines to look at while he is masturbating." "But...howcome he isn't...I mean, why isn't he satisfied with meeeeee?" she whined, and I tuned out mentally, catching only the words "masturbate, masturbate, masturbate" somewhere in Dr. Joy's response. But Dense Dina had clarified something for me: why should I be concerned or upset about Mark's behavior this morning? After all, he was just putting the photo book and sex toy to the same use I had! And I had enjoyed both of them very much. So had he, I recalled with a grin. As I squeezed the Toyota into a miniscule parking spot and climbed out of the car, I was struck by a sudden thought. Instead of worrying about why Mark was masturbating, instead of wondering about what he got out of it, wouldn't it be better to capitalize on it? This morning my husband had unknowingly told me what he enjoyed, what turned him on. I stood there, holding the door open, rooted to the spot next to my car. Wouldn't it be great if I could find a way to bring that freedom, that lack of inhibitions out of him? A thoughtful expression must have crossed my face as I flashed back to our lovemaking, and his tendency toward silence, especially when he was having one of those "stealth orgasms," the ones where he barely made any noise and his whole body just went rigid all of a sudden as he came. He was moaning this morning, I realized, twisting around and really getting into it. Could I still bring that out of him? I thought. I had, once upon a time, but after being married for so long... I smiled, a faint, small smile, and licked my lips, my tongue moving slowly across them. So *that's* what he likes, hmmmm? Well maybe it was time to find out what we could do together to improve on that. And Kathy DID ask me what I had in mind when I bought it...The wheels in my head began to spin a little faster, and I absently stepped back and slammed the car door shut. That day, during my lunch break, I went out to do a little shopping. I got home late that night, by intention this time, rather than carelessness. I didn't open the front door much before eleven o'clock, having whiled away the evening playing Tetris on my work computer, ordering in Chinese food, and thoroughly enjoying the sensation of working late while my husband might be waiting up, instead of the other way around. When I finally did get in, I was pleased to notice that yesterday's mess had not recreated itself; Mark must''ve gotten bored with TV really quickly and found something else to occupy his day. I smirked at the thought, wondering if the "something else" had anything to do with his activities that morning. By the time I reached the bedroom I had assumed a weary air, plodding slowly down the hallway and emitting tired little sighs. Mark was in the bedroom already. In fact, he was in bed with the lights out, but not asleep. Behind my tired pose I smiled to myself. All was exactly as I had planned it, and hopefully my husband did not suspect a thing. I entered the room humming "Try a Little Tenderness"--"women do get weary..."--as sort of an early warning. Turning my back to Mark, who was propped up on one arm as he lay in wait for me, I began to climb out my clothes, slowly, wearily. "Awwww," I heard him say in what little "bedroom voice" he possessed. "Rough day, honey?" Still facing away from him I grinned, and, trying to keep the grin out of my voice, I let my breath out raggedly and grated, "you have NO idea." From there I launched into a lengthy diatribe about the horrible day I had, how exhausted I was, how rotten my boss was, how lousy I felt, and how, on top of everything else, I was probably getting PMS. None of which was true, of course, except for possibly the lousy boss part. But then, today he had been out sick, and how much better can a boss be? As I undressed I dropped my clothes in a heap on the floor, every gesture indicating my tired, cranky attitude. At least I hoped so. I showed practically no flesh at all, the polar opposite of the little exhibition I had put on that morning. After slipping out of my blouse I grabbed hold of the most unsexy t-shirt I owned, a big ratty thing with a faded picture of "Hello Kitty" on the front; to add insult to injury, I even slipped out of my bra after I was already in the shirt, yanking it unceremoniously out of my sleeve ("ta-daa! look, Mark, no boobs!"). I pulled down my skirt in one quick motion, tugged down my pantyhose, and without even changing my panties (oh, I wanted to--but sacrifices had to be made) I climbed into a thick, bulky pair of sweat pants. Snug-waistband, cover-everything, unattractive, no-access sweat pants. I didn't brush my teeth. I didn't go to pee. I just wrapped myself like a mummy in my blanket and turned over, facing away from Mark. My husband was completely flummoxed. My performance had so deflated him that he hadn't tried a single one of the seductive moves he had planned. After hours of waiting for me--I was five hours late--he had been ready, primed, posed naked under his thin bedsheet (I had noticed, but then, I had already foreseen this maneuver), anxious to renew our intimate relationship. Or at least anxious to get some, which sort of amounted to the same thing. But he had been throttled. He had been hoodwinked. Bamboozled. My preemptive strike had reduced him to a meek whimper: "well...can I give you a backrub, Honey?" I responded with a short series of negative grunts, and burrowed deeper into my cocoon. He gave a deep, theatrical sigh that was probably pretty sincere and turned over to face away from me, hurt and angry. Perfect! The next morning, Thursday, I awoke early for work and hopped out of bed. Today I got dressed as hastily as possible, skipping my shower, jumping into my clothes, hustling for all I was worth. Again my husband feigned sleep, this time due to his wounded ego and not his voyeuristic tendencies. I pretended not to notice until I reached the "earrings-and-accessories" stage, when I turned toward him and walked around to his side of the bed. Sitting down beside him--he scrunched his hips over a little to avoid contact with me, the poor hurt sweetie--I murmured "Oh, darling...I'm sooooo sorry about last night...I was just sooo tired, and it had been such a looooong day..." No response. But when I reached down and caressed his left hip, he made no movement to pull it away. Gotcha! I injected a little more TLC into my voice, a more soothing quality. "Let me make it up to you, Honey. How about dinner tonight? Come meet me at work, and we'll go out to a nice restaurant," (I rubbed up and down, softly, pleadingly) "and then afterwards...well, we'll see about afterwards. Whaddaya say, Big Boy? OK?" He emitted a slightly whiny-sounding noise, sort of an "nn-nnnn," like a big puppy. "It's a date, then," I said, kissing the back of his head. "I'll see you at five." I rubbed his back reassuringly, got up, and left the apartment, silently cackling to myself all the while. In the middle of the day, about noon, I called home and got the answering machine. "Hi-- we're not here right now, but...BEEEEEEEEP." "Sweetie, it's me," I opened. "I'm sorry--I'm going to be a little late. So could you please get here at five-thirty instead of five o'clock? Oh, and one more thing...don't wear any underwear tonight, Sweetie. Bye! See you soon!" Of course I wouldn't be able to meet him at five. My work schedule was eight-thirty to five-thirty, always had been. But this way I had an excuse to call and slip in my real message about his attire. I spent the remainder of the afternoon assembling reports and ignoring my phone, letting the voice-mail get everything. Mark called five times. I didn't call him back. By four-thirty I had abandoned all pretense of getting any more work done, and panic set in. Had I pushed him too hard? Would everything work out the way I hoped tonight? What if he was angry with me? Was this really a good idea? But I had passed the point of no return already, and I steeled my resolve. Dammit, it had been months since we had made love at one-hundred-percent capacity. He had been so busy, so wrapped up in his work that I had been lonely, frustrated, and aching with need for months. Would my little tryst with Kathy have occurred if Mark had been tending the home fires properly? I wondered. Well, maybe--but I wouldn't have...then again, maybe that line of reasoning had its flaws. Still, I deserved to be in the driver's seat for a while. And deep down I *knew* that he would enjoy this. He absolutely positively would. I hoped. By 5:25 I was sitting at my desk looking busy, despite the fact that the office had cleared out a half-hour earlier when all the nine-to-fivers departed in a cloud of dust. Not even a single secretary remained to buzz Mark in, so when he called my intercom to let me know he was there I had Security open the door for him. After a few wrong turns my husband eventually navigated his way to my desk, where I sat with a pencil stuck behind one ear, a stray tendril of hair trailing down in front of my face, and my lower lip sexily pouting as I "concentrated" on some piece of paper or other. Mark drew closer. "So...you ready to go?" he asked, a little testily. "Ummm...one sec," I responded absently, watching carefully out of the corner of my eye as he walked right up to me, his body language conveying his cranky hostility. "Look," he said as he reached me. "I--" His words trailed off as I turned toward him suddenly, my eyes ablaze, my hands making a beeline for his crotch. With no fumbling at all--and I was mighty proud of that--one hand held his pants material straight while the other unzipped his fly in one swift tug. ZZZZZZZPPP. Without hesitating, or speaking, I sent my hand diving into his open fly, and I made a pleased noise in my throat when I noted his compliance with my "no underwear" instructions. I wrapped my fingers around his cock, which was still flaccid--perhaps out of shock--but began to respond immediately to the attention. I carefully maneuvered it out of the opening, taking special care as the crown emerged from between the zipper tracks, and lowered my mouth to it. There is nothing--NOTHING--quite like the sensation of a hardening, thickening cock in my mouth. With my eyes closed I enclosed his penis in my wet lips, enjoying the texture of the soft, rubbery flesh, the small, thin droopiness. But the attraction for me is the way a soft cock begins to almost jump in my mouth, warm and pulsing, and then begins to grow, filling out inside me as I pull back my teeth and let it expand between my lips. His penis grew hot, the pulsations faster, the small softness giving way to immensity, to hardness. I love that feeling of ballooning, the ecstasy on my lover's face and in his groans as his cock becomes erect inside my mouth, the rise in tension and excitement that always seems to me to be akin to the onset of an orgasm. By the time he is fully hard I have always pulled my head back a little, my throat unable to accommodate the size of the monster I have brought to life. But it's always fun to try. Mark looked like he was in shock. For weeks we had had practically no intercourse of any kind. For days I had been torturing him in his unbearable horniness. For hours I had ignored his very existence. But now he stood there, his knees buckling slightly, as I commenced a leisurely licking of his erect dick with the broad, flattened surface of his tongue, punctuated by extended moments of taking only his cockhead between my lips and sucking it in and out, like a child would a popsicle. And then I pulled away from his wet, glistening penis, turned my head up to face him, gave him a wide, dazzling smile, and pulled at his pants so that his cock was once again encased. Very cautiously, I zipped his fly back up. I had dumbfounded him yet again, as the stricken expression on his face so clearly showed. "I can't do this *here*," I murmured. "There's so many other people around." Mark obviously did not agree with my assessment of the situation, but he was too much in shock to articulate his views coherently. "But....I.....I mean....You--" I stood up next to where he was still standing--in more ways than one--and patted him on the cheek. "Come on, sailor," I grinned, slipping my hand into his. "Let's go out and begin our evening. I *promise* you that it will be one to remember." He looked at me, puzzled and more than a little suspicious. I returned his look with a smoldering smile that expressed all the deviltry I had been containing for the past two days. A moment later we entered the elevator for the short ride down from my second-floor office. As soon as the doors closed I attacked him, mashing his lips with my own, my hands rubbing his back, snaking under his suit jacket, caressing his unfettered ass through his pants, which were just tight enough to cop a good feel. As the bell dinged for the Ground Floor I snapped off the kiss and straightened myself up, gleefully staring at the hard-on that still raged at his crotch, threatening to burst its bonds at any moment. As we left the building I could see that his eyes were a little glassy, and contained just a hint of fear. I chuckled low in my throat, insinuated my arm through his, and snuggled up to him as we walked three blocks to the restaurant. As we neared the familiar green awning with "Phillipe's" in gilt lettering, Mark grunted once, a little noise of disapproval. Following his gaze, I saw two teenagers sauntering ahead of us, a boy and a girl who were obviously in love, or at least thought they were. Both were in jeans, and as the girl awkwardly shuffled forward with her head resting on the boy's shoulder, I noticed that his hand was planted firmly in her back jeans pocket, plastered against her backside. "Oh, please," my husband muttered, "just get a car and climb into the back seat like everybody else." "Oh I don't know," I murmured. "Actually, that looks like it probably feels really nice." And, without further ado, I leaned my head on his shoulder and slipped my arm around him, moving my flattened palm down until it was circling his ass, under his suit jacket. "I'd stick it in your back pocket," I whispered in Mark's ear, "but that wallet you have there is in the way." He jumped forward, and looked back at me, his cheeks flaming. I smiled mysteriously and swept past him into the restaurant. "What has gotten into you?!?" he demanded, once we had been seated. I looked back at him appraisingly over the top of my menu and replied, "you're blushing, dear." As his fading blush brightened again I surreptitiously slipped one foot out of my shoe and extended my stockinged foot until it touched his. Then, slowly and deliberately, I ran my toes up his leg and to his crotch, where I lingered for a moment, flexing the toes experimentally. For a second, his legs opened wider and I felt him push his crotch slightly forward against my foot. Then, as he realized what he was doing, his eyes widened and he stared at me, goggle-eyes. "Really," he asked. "What *has* gotten into you?" I smirked at him and jabbed my toes forward so that they poked him right dead center. He closed his eyes briefly, and by the time he opened them a mischevious gleam was apparent. He reached down one hand and grabbed my foot at the ankle; with the other he started tickling my instep. I am horribly ticklish, so the effect was instantaneous. I burst out giggling, gasping for him to stop. He just tickled harder, staring right back at me. Then we both heard a loud cough right next to us, and looked up to see a rather uncomfortable waiter standing patiently beside us. Mark blushed. I blushed. Somehow we managed to stumble through placing an order with only a modicum of stuttering. But as soon as the waiter left, I stuck my foot out again and caressed Mark's calf with it. "You're incorrigible," Mark grinned at me. "You ain't seen nothing yet, buster," I responded. Once again my husband stared at me, but he no longer looked apprehensive. Now his expression was one of a man intrigued. Pretending to be busy with the wine list I titled my head a little and sat still, letting Mark's gaze linger on me, drinking me in. Finally I raised one eyebrow and looked back at him, a slightly challenging look on my face, full of promise of things to come. His eyes went a little glassy again and the color returned to his cheeks. I smiled and returned to my wine list. Dinner was lovely, the food delicious, the atmosphere romantic, the erotic tension between Mark and I rising with each bite. I alternated between looks of smoldering passion and feigned innattentiveness. He began to look like his head was going to explode, as he switched back and forth from staring at me in awe to smoldering a little himself. Finally we were done and Mark was going to order dessert. "Let's not, honey," I said to him, searing him with a look of pure heat. "We can get dessert....later." Mark gulped, swallowing hard; I was really getting to him now. "Uh, OK," he said to the hovering waiter. "Why don't we just...um...get the check." "That's a good idea," I murmured, my foot beneath the table returning to its exploration of my husband's thighs. "I think maybe we should go home now. It's getting late." Mark's eyes bulged--that wasn't all that bulged, either, since my toes were massaging his crotch--and after straightening himself carefully he got up from his chair and we left. As he reached out to open the door, I snuck up behind him and caressed his derriere once again. Again he jumped, and I let out a quietly devilish laugh as he stepped to the curb to hail a cab. (Continued in #3/3) -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /