You need to be 18 to read this.
Well actually you don't NEED to be.
You've been reading since you were 8.
And you've probably been jerking off since you were 12.
Come to think of it, I don't understand this rule at all.
It wasn't my fault. I hadn't meant to cheat on my wife. It's just that my dick took over. It does that sometimes.
Mostly I'm in control. I decide what to do and when to do it and who to do it with. I have a firm grip on myself. Uh, perhaps I should rephrase that. But every once in a while it's like my brain gives my penis a four star promotion or something and as it puffs up with pride the rest of my body just does everything my dick says to.
You know the feeling. Like you're sitting in a bar, your wife is two hours late because she's out buying shoes or somefuckingthing, and there's a beautiful girl just two seats away who keeps looking at you. BOING! Your dick tries to take over. You want to meet her, and you'd do almost anything to have your wife never show up. But then she does.
Or say you're shopping with your wife and the salesgirl bends over at the counter to package your purchase and you can see all the way down her blouse and stare at her tits. BOING! Your dick tries to take over. You tell your wife to go wait in the car, you'll meet her there, and anyway you've decided you want to buy the loaf of bread one slice at a time.
I'm sure you have similar stories. We all do. This is the story of once when my dick took over. I couldn't help it. Really.
It started at a party last year at the Wakefield's. I saw June talking with Shelly Shulman over in the corner. In fact I caught them whispering back and forth several times during the course of the evening. June looked guilty when she spotted me staring at the two of them. I just didn't like being left alone at a party. I'm rather shy and I like having my wife's company. That's what a wife is for. Well, to be fair, it's one of several things. It's also nice when they do the laundry. And when they blow you.
Anyway, it looked like they were talking about something important, because Shelly wouldn't leave June alone the whole night. Which meant I got to spend a lot of time drinking beers with the boys. I would have been glad to drink beers with the girls, but I would have been the only guy in the group in the kitchen, and anyway I hadn't read the new Cosmo yet so I really would have been out of it.
It must have been close to 11:30 when I walked over to the powder room to take a piss. The door was locked. I waited a few moments, then realized how badly I had to go and decided to try the john upstairs. When I got there I was surprised to find that it too was occupied. There seemed to be no sense chasing all over the house. I parked myself on the bed and waited.
Soon, bathroom sounds leaked through the door: the toilet flushed, water ran in the sink. When the door opened, it was Shelly. She took only a moment to survey the room, ascertain that we were alone, and then walk over to me. She was just a foot in front of me when she said, "Mike, thanks for June."
Now what the hell does that mean? I mumbled, "Uh, sure."
She continued. "I don't know what I'd do. I don't know what I'm going to do. It's so terrible." She seemed distraught.
"What?" I said, wondering what the hell she was talking about. "What?"
"Oh, I can't talk about it. I've been talking about it with June all night, and I can't talk about it."
"I see," I said, not seeing at all.
"Mike," she said, "Are you happy in your marriage?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean absolutely. Totally. June and I..." I didn't know what to say. And anyway, wasn't that kind of a strange question to ask a neighbor at 11:30 on a Friday night while he was crossing his legs trying not to piss his pants? "Listen, Shelly," I continued, "I don't know what this is about, but let's talk about it later, or some other time, OK? I really have to use the boy's room there."
"Of course, of course. Sorry," she said. "Could we talk about it tomorrow?"
"Sure, sure," I said, my bladder now beginning to float. "Tomorrow's fine. Anytime."
"How about 3 o'clock? At Sadie's?" I didn't have anything planned.
"Sure, sure," I repeated.
"One more thing," she said as I brushed past her into the john. "Don't tell June."
"OK," I said without thinking as I slammed the door. If I weren't standing within two feet of a toilet in two seconds flat, I was going to leave a puddle the size of Lake Xuchaba right there in the bedroom.
As I stood relieving myself, I went over the conversation in my head. Had I missed something? What was going on here? How had I got myself into meeting Shelly at a bar tomorrow afternoon? And why couldn't I tell June? When I finished I cleaned up and walked out. I looked for Shelly, but someone told me she had gone home. It figured.
Now Shelly was not my cup of tea, exactly. She had a regal air about her that I found stand-offish, and a nasal twang in her voice that was annoying. Oh, in the looks department Shelly was fine. Her aristocratic demeanor went perfectly with her high cheekboned face and primly cut hair. She was pretty in an elegant sort of way. Wouldn't need a facelift for 20 years, either, her skin was so soft but firm. And from the neck down, well, wow! She had a terrific body in spite of her 38 years on the planet. Firm high breasts and muscular legs and a thin waist. Shelly played tennis at the club and worked out three times a week and kept herself in shape. But like I said, not my cup of tea.
Anyway, I wasn't looking. I had June, who I adored. Still do. She's my best friend, my companion, my love, my sounding board, my support, and my sex machine. She loves to try new things. She swallows. She's as close to perfect as I'm likely to find. Only a moron would jeopardize all that.
Oh, hi. I'm the moron in the story. I'm Mike.
It was 3:00 on Saturday, and I walked in to Sadie's. It was a neighborhood saloon but it wasn't in my neighborhood. In fact it was a good 40 minutes from my house. I wondered why Shelly had suggested it. I scanned the room and not seeing her, walked over toward the bar. Just then I spotted her in a booth far in the back, waving at me. I changed direction.
As I sat down, a waiter walked by. I flagged him and ordered a beer. I slid into the seat.
"Oh, thanks for coming, Mike," Shelly said. "I really appreciate it."
"Sure, sure," I said. It was the only thing that came into my head. I waited.
"You OK?" she asked. I nodded. "Did you talk to June?" I shook my head. "Because June and I talked and talked last night, and that's what made me want to talk to you. But I don't think she'd appreciate it if she knew, so let's keep this between us, OK?" I nodded. "Did anybody else see you come in here?" I shook my head. I thought I should strap a bowl to my head and mix drinks for the barkeep. This was ridiculous, all this cloak and dagger. For what?
My beer arrived. The waiter slid it on the table and departed.
Shelly looked at me and said "Mike. My marriage is falling apart." I tried to look sympathetic. Actually I thought it figured. Her husband was an investment banker, a slimy little bastard that nobody liked. He was rude and brusque, and made a shitpot full of money. Two shitpots, maybe. And he acted like that made him superior somehow.
"That's why I was talking with June so much. And why I need to talk with you. You guys have such a good relationship in everything, and I don't. And I thought maybe you could help."
I cleared my throat. "Well, Shelly, gee, I'd be glad to help, but, uh, I'm not a therapist or anything. I mean, have you tried a marriage counselor?" If they hadn't I knew it couldn't be because of lack of funds. They were loaded.
"Yes, but I just couldn't confide in him. I tried another, a woman, but there were some things that she couldn't answer. So I talked with June. And now I'm talking with you."
I wondered where the hell this was going. "I don't understand," I said lamely.
"Sex," she said.
The word hung in the thick smoky air of the bar. "Sex." She said it again. "It's the root of all evil. No, I guess that's money, isn't it? Um, anyway, sex is my problem, or one of them, and I was hoping you could help."
BOING! My dick took over. See? It wasn't my fault.
"I'll try," I said. "What's the problem?"
"It's sex," she said. "We don't have any. And when we do, it's lousy. No, it's worse than lousy. It's terrible. Oh it's so humiliating. I'm so bad at it. It's going to destroy my marriage." I didn't think it could be 'love' of her husband that was making her so upset. It had to be the thought of Edward's income suddenly being pulled out from under her. But, I thought she'd get something, right? And then I realized he was such a sleazy puke he would probably figure out a way to leave her broke.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I mean, well..."
"We hardly ever have sex anymore. That's what I was asking June last night. She said you guys still do it three or four times a week. Sometimes twice on Sundays. In different rooms in the house. Heck, she said in the car, on the beach, anywhere the mood strikes you. I think that's so wonderful. And she said your relationship is rock-solid, so I figured I could talk to you, and uh, you know, you wouldn't be threatened."
I had several thoughts: Then why wasn't I supposed to say anything to June? And why are we sitting in the back of a bar? Across town?
"Mike. I need some help with sex."
BOING! You know the feeling.
"I'll do what I can," I said. "Where do we start?"
"Well first, with oral, um, you know," she said, looking me in the eye. I kept the eye contact while I reached for my beer. This was going to be a long afternoon. "I was, um, you know, with Edward a few weeks ago and right in the middle of it he stood up and told me I give the worst, um, you know, one he ever had and stomped out of the room." She looked down into her lap. "Imagine how humiliating."
"Yes, I guess that would be," I said helpfully. "What set him off like that?"
"Well, he was pushing his, um, thing into me, you know, and I guess my teeth scraped on it or something. Just a little, you know? Right on the um, you know, front. And that's when he jumped up..."
"Listen Shelly. If we're going to have this conversation, we can't be saying 'his, um' and 'his you know' all the time. You're going to have to say what happened, and how it happened, and be very explicit. Otherwise our conversation is going to be a mass of 'ums' and 'you knows' and I won't understand a thing you're saying. Let me try to break the ice. Oral sex is called a 'blow job.'" She began to blush. I looked her in the eye. "It's his dick. Or cock, if you prefer. Or penis. Or woodie." She turned red. "You have a cunt. Most people call it a pussy. You have tits." She was crimson. I was enjoying myself.
"They're just words. Say them out loud. Get comfortable with them. They're just words. Go ahead."
She looked at me, her eyes wide with horror. "Say them? Now?" I nodded. "All of them?"
"At least some of them. Go on."
"Dick. um, pussy. OK, that's enough. I get it." She was fairly whispering. The color stayed bright in her cheeks. She wouldn't need rouge for a month.
"Now tell the story," I said to her.
"OK, he was lying on the bed, and in one of our very infrequent sexual encounters, I had my hand around his, um, thing..." I frowned at her. "... all right, I was holding his um, dick, and I started kissing it..." I nodded. "... and then I put it, you know, in my mouth..." She looked away. "... and then all of a sudden the angle was wrong or something and the head of it scraped against my teeth, and he jumped up and ran away. That was over a month ago, and we haven't had sex since. And that was probably the first time we did anything in two months, besides." A tear formed in her eye. "Now he gets mad at every little thing I do, and I just know, our marriage is heading for disaster. I need help."
"Well, biting a guy's cock while you're blowing him is not a good thing, you know?"
I'd provoked a defense reaction. "I did NOT bite his, um, dick. He scraped it himself on my teeth. But now he blames me." She paused as I lifted my beer and finished it. I put two fingers in the air in the "V" sign, asking for two beers. The bartender caught the signal. "But that's not all. I mean, we just don't do it anymore. He never reaches for me anymore. Never."
"Do you ever reach for him?" I asked. She blushed again.
"Well, it's supposed to be the man who's the aggressor," she said firmly. 'Where had this broad been living?' I wondered.
"Shelly, dear. It's a brave new world out there. Men and woman are equal. Haven't you heard? You're allowed to start it too."
"Well, I don't want you to think that I'm totally frigid or anything. Sometimes I take off my clothes right in front of him."
"Whoopee," I thought sarcastically. "Let's talk about that. You say you take off your clothes. Describe that for me."
"Well, when he's getting ready for bed. Or sometimes in the morning, I'll walk around after my shower with nothing on."
I had an answer to this one. "Shelly, just dropping your clothes isn't necessarily a turn on. I mean, it would be for me..." She looked away. "... but I mean after several years of looking at the same thing, it gets, well, boring. The old saying is true."
"I don't understand," she said.
"Shelly. What's one of the world's greatest sexual professions? OK, Other than prostitution? The strip-tease. Shelly, there are two words there. 'Strip' is only one of them. To my mind, the more important word is 'tease.' I'll show you what I mean." I looked at her. "Open the top two buttons on your blouse."
Her eyes burned into me. "What?" She stopped, then continued. "Why?"
"Just do it," I ordered. Her fingers went up to the buttons, and she made a decision. She undid the buttons. I looked at her chest. "Another," I commanded.
"No!" she said. "The next button is lower than my bra."
"Exactly," I said. "If you want me to help, you'll have to trust me."
She didn't, but her fingers went to the button anyway. She toyed with it for a moment, then pushed the button through the button-hole. She sat up straight.
"Now don't sit there like some schoolmarm. Slouch a little. Just a little. Twist to the left a touch. Don't be uptight. Now... watch closely." I saw the waiter picking up our beers at the bar; I knew he would be at the table in a few moments. He approached, and glanced at both of us. He saw her partly open blouse. His eyes burned into her chest, praying for a glimpse of some feminine frill, or even better, a braless breast.
She saw him looking and straightened up. His eyes never left her blouse as he picked up our two empties and set down the two full glasses. He moved in slow motion. I hissed at her "Relax." She slumped, a little. The waiter's eyes were rewarded with a flash of white, the top of a bra cup, probably, or the neckline of a slip. I cleared my throat. There was nothing he could do to stall further, and he turned and walked away.
"You see?" I said to her. "You tease him, and he'll be panting at your door for more." I looked at her. "Go ahead, button up."
She was grateful for the permission. Her hands flew to the buttons and inserted the small plastic disk through the buttonholes. She left the top one undone, however, and I could see the glow of a flush on her upper chest.
I went on. "If you were sitting here with no shirt on, he wouldn't even care, probably."
"Now don't be ridiculous," she said.
"I'm not," I replied. "Ever been to a nudist colony?" She shook her head. "A nude beach?" She slowly nodded.
"Edward dragged me to one once many years ago. It was nothing."
"Exactly. For the first ten minutes you're looking at everything. Then it gets boring, until you finally don't care at all. Now think about a regular beach, with all the nice young bodies bouncing around... girls in bikinis. Boys in tight trunks. Lifeguards in their boxer shorts. Now a girl's top slips and you get to see her chest. It's exciting because it's a tease. Because you're not supposed to see it."
She nodded. I think a light bulb went off. "So, what should I do?"
"I can't tell you what to do, except to do the unexpected. I can tell you what NOT to do." She looked at me, expectantly. "Don't just drop your clothes and think he's going to come running to you and ravish you on the kitchen table. It ain't gonna happen; that's romance novel shit. Don't wait for him to start everything. Don't be so uptight..."
I struck a nerve. "What do you mean, don't be so uptight? I'm not uptight. I'm just not a slut."
"I didn't mean to insult you. I'm sorry," I backpedaled. I thought for a moment. "Are you wearing a skirt?" She had been sitting since I arrived. I had no idea what she had on under the table.
"You heard me. Are you wearing a skirt?"
"Are your knees touching each other?" A pause.
"Then open them. Just a little. Don't be uptight." I looked at her across the table. I couldn't detect any movement at all. "Did you?"
"Yes." She fairly spat the word.
"Did the earth stop turning? Did the building fall down? Did anyone jump on you?"
She replied softly, "No."
"See? Don't be uptight. Loosen up a little more. Do the unexpected. Try another experiment..."
She looked at me, waiting for my instructions. I didn't give any. Instead, I slipped my foot out of my shoe and straightened my leg. I aimed exactly between her knees, but under the table my aim wasn't perfect and I brushed against one of her legs with my stockinged foot. She involuntarily clenched her legs together, trapping my foot between her knees. "Don't be uptight," I repeated. "Relax." Silence. "You think I'm up to something? We already decided that I have a wonderful marriage and a wonderful wife. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that."
You know how it is when your dick is in control. You'll say anything.
She seemed to believe me, and her legs relaxed, just a little. I put my foot on the edge of her bench, in between her knees. We sat in silence for a moment.
"Now this is sexy," I said. She nodded. "Because it's unexpected. It's different. I dare say you've never sat in a restaurant before with a man's foot between your legs." She lowered her eyes demurely. I wiggled my toes.
"Stop it!" she exclaimed.
"OK. Just testing," I asserted. I waited a moment, then wiggled my toes again. She glared at me. "Don't be uptight," I said. "Relax, remember?" She didn't, but I had disarmed her verbal assault. She would neither help nor hinder my attack now. "Massage my foot," I said. She didn't move. "Come on, it won't kill you. Massage my foot."
She reached below the table and took hold of my foot. She began to knead me through my cotton socks, first the heel, then the instep, finally the toes. As she did, I slowly straightened my leg. It had the effect of sliding my foot forward, pushing her skirt up a little and nestling my foot firmly between her thighs.
"That's wonderful," I said. "Do you see?"
"Do I see what?" she asked.
"Doesn't it feel good for you, too? When you give pleasure, you get pleasure. This is delightful. I'm having my foot massaged, which is very nice. Doesn't it feel nice to you, too?" I wiggled my toes, now closer to the fulcrum of her legs, and held tightly well above her knees. "Relax. Remember?"
"Well I don't know..."
"Don't worry. You have to trust me. I'm not going any further. I'm just trying to show you..." I felt her legs unclench. Her knees moved apart maybe an inch. It was a start. "See. You need to retrain yourself in what is sexy, and how to please your man..." That fat fuck, I thought. "... and how to give and get pleasure. Not just fucking. But real erotic, sensuous pleasure." I could hear her breathing deepen; she was pulling in more air on each breath as she sat holding my foot between her legs.
"Would you like to do my other foot?" I asked.
"Actually, yes," she replied. But she quickly followed "But I don't think I better. This is, uh, very instructive, and uh..."
"Sensual." I completed her thought.
"Exactly," I said. I happened to glance at the clock on the wall. It was after 5:00. "Omigod," I said. "Look at the time." Normally I would have stayed in the booth all night, but June had tickets to a show, and we had dinner plans at 6:00. "Holy shit," I said. I'd be dead if I missed dinner. "Where did the afternoon go?"
"Well, yeah, I guess we should be going," Shelly said. She held my foot. "But thanks. This has been, uh, real helpful."
"No prob," I said.
"Maybe we could get together again next week?" she asked.
I agreed, a little too fast. We made the date for 2:00. Right here. Next Saturday. I started talking again. She still held my foot between her legs. I said, "OK, Shelly. MIKE HUNT's rules for the week:
**** Number 1. Don't just walk naked in front of your husband. Not when you're taking a bath, not when you're going to bed. Wear a robe. Wear a lingerie nightgown, but one that covers you up. OK? We need to make you a mystery woman again.
**** Number 2. Wear some sexier clothes. Unbutton a button now and then. Better, unbutton the wrong button. Keep the top one buttoned, open the one that covers your, uh, you know, breasts.
**** Number 3. Relax. Practice out on the street. Wear a skirt that's a little too short. Bend over in front of the supermarket checkout boy. Try to be subtle but sexy. But most important,
**** Number 4. Relax. I know I said that twice. It's important. Got it? Oh. And work on your vocabulary. I guess that's
**** Number 5."
She nodded. I said "I really do have to be going. June will have my head if I'm late. Really." I wiggled my toes again, this time asking for release. She let go of her grip on my foot. I pulled it back from her legs and slid it into the empty loafer on the floor. I took the opportunity to use one hand to push my dick down into a little more camouflaged position, because I knew when I stood up it was going to pop up in my pants. I'd had an erection for an hour.
I was looking forward to the following Saturday. Until Thursday. That's when June reminded me that her sister was visiting that weekend. I don't know how it slipped my mind. Maybe I was distracted. No way could I disappear for three hours while Sis was in town. I called Shelly's home at about noon; I knew Edward would be at work. I explained the situation and could hear the disappointment in her voice. She suggested we try for the following weekend, but frankly, I didn't want to wait that long. I suggested the upcoming Tuesday. An early lunch. At her house. I wasn't surprised when she agreed.
"By the way," she said. "I've been practicing..."
"And?" I said.
"... and I think you'll be proud of me. See you Tuesday." The line went dead.
It took two days for the weekend to arrive. It was a month before it departed. Monday dragged. On Tuesday morning I told June I had a client meeting upstate so I wouldn't be in the office. I didn't want her to call and wonder where I was. I told my secretary the same thing, giving her the name of a consultant we occasionally did business with, but who was never home, and who just had an answering machine on his line. I thought I had covered my tracks adequately.
I drove to the local Denny's, parked my car, and walked to the corner. I flagged a cab, and gave him Shelly's address. I stepped out at precisely 11:00.
"Hi," she said as she answered the doorbell. She was smiling, and I couldn't help but notice a glow about her. I also couldn't help noting her blouse, a frilly yellow number through which I could see her bra and a slip but which was buttoned to her neck, giving a false appearance of modesty. She was wearing a plaid skirt which hung just above her knees. She had on pantyhose and sandals.
I walked in. She motioned me over to the kitchen, and I pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar and sat down. "Can I get you something?" she asked.
"Yeah. A beer would be good." I needed something, for sure.
"Gotcha," she said, and turned to the refrigerator. She bent over to pick up a can off a lower shelf, and the skirt lifted in the rear. Just a little. Maybe 4 or 5 inches.
She turned around and offered me the can. "Glass?" she said. I shook my head. I popped the top and took a swig, then another.
"I've been practicing," she said. "And following MIKE HUNT's pointers for a new improved Shelly." She walked around behind me and brought her mouth up behind my ear. "Cunt," she said softly. She caught me by surprise, and I spit a half-mouthful of beer onto the counter. I choked on the other half. "Oop," she said. "Did I surprise you? MIKE HUNT, shocked?" She leaned away from me, then back again. "Cunt," she repeated. "Cock. Tits. Ass. Dick. Big dick." Now she was laughing. "Big fat dick."
I grabbed at a napkin and tried to clean the countertop. I was making a fool of myself.
She walked away. I guess my surprise still registered, because when I turned to her she was openly laughing at my discomfort. "This is priceless," she said. "I've been saying the words out loud to myself in the bathroom all week. All the dirty words I can think of, just to get comfortable with them. Anus. Penis. Blow job. On Friday I even tried to put them in alphabetical order!"
I was about to take a sip of beer, but I lowered the can, not knowing if I would spit it out again. Luckily (I guess) she didn't recite the list, but a broad smile took over her mouth. I looked at her. She really was transformed. Last week she had looked like an uptight, rich, snooty bitch. Now she looked like a soft, sensual woman, even a female vision of beauty. The hardness of her words conflicted with the image of her femininity, creating an immediate reaction in me.
BOING! Like I hadn't known it was going to happen. I just didn't expect it within two minutes of walking in the door.
She stood about 10 feet in front of me. "Do you like the way I'm dressed?" she asked.
"Lovely," I answered.
"Do you think I should be wearing a bra?"
"Well as a rule, no. I like braless women. I think most men do. But if you were in a business situation, then, yeah, I guess. Of course, you have a slip on, too, so nothing would show. I mean it wouldn't be too blatant."
"Is this a business situation?"
"No," I answered slowly.