My legs ached from the wishbone he had created, pushing them apart with his knees as though to see which side broke off from the body.
He pulled out of me with a grunt. His cum was leaking out of my pussy while the last few drops of it dripped slowly from the head of his cock onto my belly. We both stared at the tip, with its cream pooling and dripping; our minds were a million miles away or maybe just a few feet away. At one time, I would be licking those last drops with my educated tongue, washing the shiny residue from his rock solid shaft. Not lately, though.
"You bastard, I didn't cum; give me my fucking vibrator."
"I'm tired; go get it yourself."
"Eat me then, damn it."
He ignored me.
And they call this 'making love'?
My husband is a good man, a good husband, a good father. He supports me and the children, he does charitable work, he doesn't deduct a penny more than he actually contributes, I'm sure, totally sure that he doesn't cheat on me. They say that the wife is the last one to know, but believe me, I would know. I love him dearly; he's not fucking anyone else.
It's just that in the bedroom he is totally thoughtless and useless. That's why I fuck around at work, almost every day. I work as a stock research analyst for a medium size investment firm. I make an excellent salary which I dutifully bring home to Stephen and which is faithfully reported to Uncle Sam every April 15th. What my limp-dick husband doesn't know is that I make an equal amount, in cash, off the books, putting out on the job. I never cheated on him until recently, and it's all his fault.
I fuck for Michael, the big boss, as well as for three of the married Vice Presidents, Paul, Nate and Sid. In addition, the firm makes my snatch available, on a strictly confidential basis, to any client who brings in at least five million dollars for the firm to manage, and there are a number of these. Not all of them want to fuck me, but enough do to make it worthwhile for the firm to pay me the money. I phrase that incorrectly; they would all love to fuck me, of that I have no doubt, but many of them just don't have the nerve.
Stephen and I met in college, and it didn't take long for us to find out that in bed we were totally 'simpatico'. Whoever taught him how to fuck-I mean how to make love-had done a great job. He never came without making sure that I did so first, or together; we fucked morning, noon and night. He delighted in eating my pussy, cleaning up his sperm when he shot it into me, and I loved to swallow his cum when he delivered it into my mouth. We could have made porn films together, except that we didn't do wet shots for a camera; when Stephen shot his cum, it was always inside me, never on the outside to assure viewers that he actually had an orgasm. I even took Stephen up the ass once in a while, although when he wanted that, he had to give me a little advance notice, so that I could get a little drunk first.
We've been married about thirteen years; the girls are eight and ten, little angels. Stephen started a wholesale grocery business right after college and has done quite well for us. The problem started about two years ago, when his biggest customer teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. If he had gone under, he would have taken us with him; we would have lost everything, cars, house, boat, stocks, and country club membership. My salary would not have helped much. It was touch and go for too long, and during that period Stephen couldn't get it up too often; when he could, he had to cum quickly before he lost his erection.
I understood, and quietly purchased a vibrator so that Stephen wouldn't feel the pressure to make me cum. But until the financial crisis finally passed, my husband had changed in the bedroom. He no longer worried about getting me off and he soon stopped trying. If he hadn't remained such a good person otherwise, I would have just taken off.
One morning, about six months into the crisis, Stephen straddled my head and just shoved his cock into my mouth. Normally I love it, licking it up and down and playing with his nuts, waiting for what felt like a gallon of cum to shoot into my mouth, proud of the fact that I never lost a drop. But I was getting pissed off at his new sexual lack of caring, so I just lay there and let him fuck my mouth. I swallowed it all, still not losing a drop, but it was no fun. And worst of all, I had no time to use the vibrator before I had to leave for work.
At eleven thirty, I sat in my office, staring at financial statements on my computer screen but thinking about my suddenly lousy sex life, when I heard a voice.
Stephen? What the heck was he doing in my office at this hour? I focused on the numbers on the screen and said, "Fuck off, I'm busy."
My head snapped up. It was Michael, my boss, not Stephen. I turned beet red, said "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else," and then I began to cry.
He closed my office door and said, "What's the matter?" I just shook my head and continued to cry. He stared at me for a while, then said, "Wash your face and we'll go have lunch." I nodded, still crying, as he left my office, closing the door again.
Once I was ready, face re-powdered but eyes still red, we went to L'Auberge, the fancy place we took all the good clients. We sat at the company table and Michael just waited for me to speak. "Stephen's best customer is way behind in payments, and if he goes under, we go with him."
"Do you need some money?"
I looked at Michael with new eyes. Working for the firm for three years, I already knew how good looking he was, early forties, nice wife, two nice kids. Yet I had only known his as a tough businessman, had never seen the kindness in his face except when he was talking to a rich client. I shook my head slowly. "Not yet, hopefully never. We're optimistic that he'll make it."
"Do you need anything?
My mind flashed back to early morning, Stephen fucking my face without love, without even lust, just fucking. I began to giggle silently, but Michael could see my body shaking with the internal laughter. My thoughts had been drifting this way for weeks; I closed my eyes, then opened them again, hesitating.
"I can't remember my last orgasm."
A good negotiator knows never to show surprise, but Michael blinked twice, then resumed his straight face.
"Can whatever you're working on wait a couple of hours?"
"Let's go up to the company apartment."
I nodded again. The firm maintains an apartment near the office, for use in transit strikes, blizzards and for the occasional out of town client when the good hotels are filled. Michael held my arm as we walked, sort of like a policeman walking a perp, but not so hard. With each step, my resolve grew, Go fuck yourself, Stephen, it's my turn today. My pussy began to leak as I smelled Michael's aftershave.
Inside the apartment door, we turned to face each other. He held me by the shoulders but didn't bend to kiss me. I couldn't tell if that was because he was afraid to make the first move or because he thought of me as a whore, and guys don't kiss whores. I reached an arm around his neck to pull his face to mine; our lips met, tongues touching slightly but not invading. I broke the kiss and removed my jacket, tossing it on to a chair.
"Would you like some wine, Jamie?"
I had never cheated on Stephen before, but I wanted to keep a clear head. "No thanks."
"Good." He was smiling as his hands reached up to unbutton my blouse. I moved in close to resume the kiss, my hands starting to fumble with his belt. This big strong brute picked me up, one hand under my back, the other under my ass, and carried me into the bedroom, laying me on the still-made bed, the kiss unbroken.
I wanted to tell him how much I still love Stephen, my husband, that being in bed with Michael was just a diversion to obtain the screaming orgasms that I need, that Stephen is not giving me and has not since the financial problems began, that a vibrator will not satisfactorily substitute for, that nothing can replace the exquisite feeling of a pulsing cock stretching my vaginal walls, of fingers or tongue working my clit.
But Michael had his own agenda, and he wasn't interested in my psyche at the moment. And he was after all my boss, the majority owner of the company. Where was this going? Would I be fired, or would I instead become enslaved to him as his personal slut, dependant on his pleasure for my paycheck? With the business teetering, Stephen and I needed that check badly.
As I lay there, Michael continued to unbutton my blouse, his eyes drilling deeply into mine.
"How long has it been?"
"Your last orgasm."
"Not since the financial problems started. Stephen has a lot of trouble now getting an erection, and when he does, he doesn't have the staying power to get me off. He just cums as fast as he can; he's afraid to lose his hard-on."
Michael nodded, but I don't think he really cared. He lifted my back to ease off my blouse, then opened my skirt and lifted my ass to get that off me. Still fully dressed himself, except for his open belt, he ogled me in bra and panties, yet he made me feel that it was not an ogle of lechery but a drinking in of beauty, of even more beauty than I myself possessed. He was seducing me with his eyes and my panties were damp as a result. My bra closed in front, and he unsnapped it, the cups falling to the side to reveal full breasts and hard nipples.
.... There is more of this story ...