Things Her Husband Won't Do

She said we couldn't fuck, but I deserved a release. She beckoned me nearer.

When I came to the table's edge, she reached out and touched me with her foot, running her toes up and down the underside of my shaft.

She told me I was hung like a porn star—unlike her husband, she also noted.

I told her she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen—and, in that moment, I meant it—and that I wanted to ravage her beautiful cunt with my tongue. I'd give her the best head she'd ever had.

She smiled, clearly pleased to have stirred up my lust, but shook her head no. She made a cock-stroking motion with her fist.

At that juncture, masturbation was not my heart's desire, but I was willing to roll with it, if that was my only option. An orgasm in the company of a beautiful woman was nothing to sneeze at, even if I had to do the work myself. And, thanks to her husband's squeamishness, at least I was allowed to make love to her feet.

Gripping her by her ankles, I hoisted one of her feet onto my shoulder, while I buried my face in the other one—the one I'd thus far neglected. I licked all up and down her soft sole and in between her dainty toes. One by one, I took her toes into my mouth and sucked them, imagining they were five wriggling clits. All the while, I watched with great thirst as she finger-fucked her cunt.

Her ring finger joined her middle finger, pumping in and out of her furry chasm, provoking a small shower of feminine dew. Droplets clung to her bush like glimmery ornaments, drizzled down her thighs, oozed onto the sleeping bag, forming an appetizing wet spot under the cleft of her ass.

Before I'd even begun, the lady was already approaching her climax. Her fingers burrowed in deeply. Her palm buffed and bumped her clit. Her breathing grew ragged. Hips writhed. Her anus fluttered. A mottled blush erupted on her pale chest.

The buildup was prolonged and melodramatic. She whimpered as if in pain, her face straining, tears streaming. Her free hand clutched at the pool table, shredding the green felt with her nails. Her legs trembled violently. She damn near kicked me in the teeth. It was like waiting for a birth.

At last, she shouted "No! No!" in an alarming tone of voice, and the pressure broke. A series of spasms wracked her body from head to toe. I backed away to avoid her flailing feet.

She was a squirter. Her hand took most of the blast, but a few stray droplets escaped through her fingers, dotting the sleeping bag and spattering her thighs.

I couldn't control myself. I needed to taste her. I leapt up onto the pool table and grasped her fapping hand, pressing her fingers into my mouth.

She lay limply, just breathing, and let me savor her juices. But I wanted more. I wanted to taste her source.

On hands and knees, I kissed her thigh, lapped up her driblets of squirt. I inched closer and closer, till my cheek was grazing her sodden muff. She squirmed and mumbled, but spread her legs to accommodate me. I buried my face in her cunt, rolling my cheeks in her wetness. I opened my mouth to drink her in.

For a moment, she encouraged me, affectionately stroking my hair. But when I began to explore her bush with my tongue, in search of her clit, she pushed me gently away.

I was heartbroken. I'm sure the disappointment was written all over my face, much like her glistening cum. I felt used. The aristocrat lady was using me as her peasant sex toy, nothing more—her furniture-lugging, toe-sucking serf, someone to feed her narcissism. Right then, she was literally looking down her nose at me. Her face wore the haughtiest of expressions.

But then she gave me the slow come-hither finger.

She said there was something else her husband wouldn't do—something he thought was degrading and misogynist. But she didn't find it degrading, she said. To the contrary, she found it highly arousing. She wanted me to cum on her face, like a porn star.

I had to ponder it. On this matter, I was actually sympathetic to her husband. Whether cum facials were degrading or misogynist, I could not say. But they were a huge pet peeve of mine when it came to porn. I detested them. I mean, they mightn't be so horrible if they weren't so ubiquitous—some things are OK as the exception, but annoying as the rule. But approximately 99.9% of all the porn I'd ever seen had ended with a cum facial, and it got a little monotonous.

Inevitably, just when things were reaching a crescendo, the fucking would screech to a maddening halt. The dude would pull out of a hot, accommodating twat only to jerk his own cock, sometimes for several awkward minutes, while his co-star waited, mouth agape, like a hungry baby birdy. It was all so anticlimactic. Anti-erotic, too—I didn't watch porn to see some dude jerking off. I wasn't that fond of male bodily fluids, either. So, all around, I didn't get the appeal. When I had sex with a woman, I wanted to plant my seed in her, not squander it on her externals.

On the other hand, fucking appeared to be not on the table that evening. Mutual masturbation was the game. And if I was going to fap, there were going to be sperm, and those sperm had to go somewhere. So, why not on the lady's pretty face? It would be better than sperming the floor or the pool table. Anyway, doing it in person would probably be more fun than watching some other dude do it, kind of like golf. So, I told the lady I was game.

She kept on her back, and I moved to the head of the table and knelt above her. She urged me closer and closer, till I could feel her breath tickling the hairs on my balls. She oohed and ahhed over my phallus as if it were made of precious metal.

Women were always gushing over my cock. "It's so big!" they'd say. (I do have an above average-length cock—not a boast; just a fact.) But usually, I assumed women were not being entirely sincere in their penile adulations. I usually assumed they were trying to flatter me because they wanted something else: wanted me to like them, or something like that.

But this lady—she seemed to genuinely adore cock. Cock for its own sake. I sensed no ulterior motive. I wasn't sure whether she even liked me as a person. But she sure seemed to love my cock—and my balls dangling in her face. I got the feeling she was nearly as enthusiastic about cock as I was about pussy. I don't think I'd ever met such a woman.

Her hands fidgeted like she wanted to reach out and touch it. She busied one of them rubbing her pussy, but the other one roamed around looking for something to do. It drew curlicues down her belly, down her thigh. It jumped up and tweaked her nipple. It tugged at her hair. It wavered, cupping the air around my balls, stroking the air around my cock, coming agonizingly close, but never quite touching, like she was trying to masturbate my aura.

It seemed the lady genuinely meant to stay true to her marital vows. However, I felt that her particular interpretation of fidelity, with all its toe-sucking and sperm-facializing loopholes, was perhaps a tad lawyerly. I'd never met her husband, but I imagined if he could see us just then—naked and drunk, and me teabagging his wife's forehead—he might possibly take issue. But I didn't feel too guilty about it, because, like I said, he sounded like a schmuck.

The lady made a mouth like to whistle, but instead she blew a puff of hot air up and down the length of my shaft—a literal blow job. It made me shiver. By that point, I was brimming with lust, and I thought she might make me cum like that—with nothing but air. But she encouraged me to commence stroking.

I told her I could use some lubrication and asked if I could borrow some of her saliva.

She chortled at my obvious ploy. I'd been hoping, of course, that I could get her to lick me. Instead, she tried to spit.

But through drunkenness or merely through lack of practice, she was not an effectual spitter. She'd gather up a quantity of frothy, wine-scented saliva between her lips and huff at it like she was trying to blow a fly from her nose. Most of her spit ended up on her cheeks or rolling down her chin. Only a light drizzle bespattered my cock, not enough to fap with.

I tried to help out. I squatted as low as I could go, placing my cock as close to her mouth as possible without touching. Except, in the process, I accidentally batted her nose with my balls.

She didn't recoil. She didn't react negatively at all. So, I let my balls rest against her drooly cheek, while she continued to spit at my shaft. Once I got low enough, she couldn't miss, and my cock became sloppy wet.

I'm not sure whether it was my fault or hers, but my cock bumped against her mouth. Again, she didn't recoil. So, I left it. Gliding my cock back and forth like a violin bow, I gathered up her wetness. She parted her lips, made a gully for my cock, her tongue slithering along the belly of my shaft, gurgling alcoholic spit bubbles. Her fingers agitated faster against her clit.

Deep in her throat, a growl erupted. Her second orgasm came quickly and with much less difficulty than her first. It slipped out of her, easy as baked goods. A third tremblor followed a moment later.

She muttered something not fully comprehensible, something about the relative size of my penis versus her husband's, I gathered—as if that gave her all the permission she needed.

I couldn't understand her thinking, why she'd needed to go through all that pretense of fidelity, but I wasn't about to call her out.

The lady wanted to suck cock. She wanted to take control. She had us switch positions. I lay on my back in her wet spot. She knelt between my legs and bowed her head.

She didn't so much suck cock as ingurgitate it. She gobbled it like it was the Last Supper, drooling, growling, smacking her lips, humming a sort of monophonic hum, all with complete abandon. She took it down her throat, took it out, and rubbed her face on it. She rubbed her face on my balls, licked my balls, licked behind my balls. I think she forgot about me entirely. She was all-consumed with cock as an elemental phenomenon. She was sucking not to satisfy me, but to satiate herself, like she'd been starving for decades.

The sound of her slurping and smacking was making me hungry. I wanted to engage in some worship, myself. So, I got her attention (with difficulty) and told her to flip around. I needed her cunt in my face.

But she misunderstood, or chose to disobey. Instead, she crawled on top of me, wobbling drunkenly, plunked down heavily, and somehow managed to hit a hole-in-one. My cock plunged directly into her sopping cunt. If she'd missed, it could've been painful.

She whispered wetly into my ear to look what I was making her do. She called me a motherfucker.

I told her she wasn't my mother.

She stuck her tongue into my ear. The sound of her slurping roared through my brain like a tsunami. Then she bit me.

I wanted to be back on top. So, I wrapped her up and flipped her.

She squealed, clasped her limbs about me, dug into me with her nails and heels.

We kissed and fucked. Her needy tongue flickered into my mouth. I thrust into her loins with determination. Her vaginal muscles contracted in rhythm, massaging my throbbing cock. Her body shuddered over and over. She was one continuous orgasm.

I gasped as my own climax became imminent.

The lady cried, "Make me a mommy!"

Was that panic I felt? Or deep arousal? Either way, it was too late to hold back. With one final thrust, deep inside of her, I relinquished my genetic code.

She held me tight till her spasms subsided. And then she let me go.

We lay catching our breaths in silence, the lady's hand lightly stroking my chest.

I managed to convince myself that she hadn't actually said what she'd said, that I'd misunderstood, or that it was only some weird, drunken, meaningless sex-blurt. In any event, she was forty-one years old, so not that likely to conceive.

After a while, she broke the silence. "I felt it!" she said, her voice hushed and reverent.

I asked her what she'd felt.

She told me about her husband, how he believed the human population had exceeded the Earth's carrying capacity, how it was headed for a crash—war, famine, pestilence, the usual—and how he hadn't wanted to contribute to the problem. She and he had had one daughter, she said, after which he'd insisted on no more.

I didn't know how to respond to that. Once again, I found myself not totally unsympathetic to the husband. (I'd been an ecology major before I'd been forced to leave college.) Maybe he wasn't entirely a schmuck.

The lady had always wanted another child, she said. She didn't know the future, and even if her husband was right, people still needed to make babies—especially the right kind of people.

I asked her who were the right kind of people.

She didn't say. But she told me not to worry. I wasn't on the hook.

I lay there not sleeping, disturbed on multiple levels. But eventually my attention was drawn by her pillowy breast. I rolled over, curled at her side, and took her nipple into my mouth. As I suckled, a sense of peace and stillness washed the troubles from my mind.

I must have fallen asleep, because next thing I knew, I found myself awake with a crushing headache. The lady was up, cooking us bacon, eggs, and oatmeal with raisins. The sun shone through the windows.

Over breakfast, we kept to pleasantries. We didn't speak of the night before. I wasn't sure if she'd even remembered the things she'd said.

After eating, we showered. Since there were no drinking glasses, we took turns gulping directly from the shower head. The water would help ease our hangovers. I let her pee on my leg. After I soaped and scrubbed her back, I bent her over and fucked her from behind.

I was due at the auction house in Fallen Oaks at 9 a.m., so, after we dressed, I needed to be on my way. It was already past 8, so I was probably going to be late.

Before I went, the lady wrote me a check for $1000. I thought she'd already paid.

She said it was a tip, for me.

I didn't want to take it.

She said she thought I could use it.

She was right, of course. I needed to get out of my mom's house and get my life back on track. So, I took the check. But as I drove away, I felt like ripping it to pieces and flinging it out the window. I didn't, though.

That all happened three months ago.

The other day, the lady called my cousin and booked another job. This time, she wants to move some things from her house in Orange County. She requested for me to come, specifically.

We don't usually do jobs that far away. If traffic is good, Orange County is a nine-hour drive, one-way. Jeff, my cousin, said it was a long way to go for a booty call.

I told him it was worth it.

Tomorrow, I head to Orange County. I'm nervous about the trip. I'm eager to see the lady again, but I wonder what she wants. Nine hours is a long way to go for a booty call. So, I think there must be something more.