My name is Rick Wells. I'm forty-one years old. I'm married to a woman of the same age and have been for the past eighteen years—that is married to her; she hasn't always been forty-one. They have been mostly happy and fulfilling of my years. We've had some mundane and pretty much meaningless disagreements of course over that period of time who among us would not have. At least, I hasten to add, I have long been of the opinion that they were mundane and meaningless disagreements. My opinion has now changed, and my marriage and my formerly settled life are now under siege and in danger of suffering total ruin. And, you might guess, and you would be right, that the problem stems from sexual differences as is often the case with forty-somethings.
Anyway, I suppose I should tell you a little bit about our backgrounds.
I graduated from state college with B.A. in Psychology nineteen years ago. Now, you might think that a degree in Psyche would have led to me making $100 an hour listening to people's personal problems. Well, you'd be half right; I do listen to people's problems. And, I hear it all depression, cheating spouses, problems with the kids or the boss or the governor. I mean I hear it all; I'm a bartender. I do not make a $100 an hour; I make maybe fifty grand a year base. But! and it's a big but, I'm content.
My wife's a nurse. She graduated from a local community college with her A.S. degree and passed the NCLEX soon after, and that with flying colors. That was ten years ago. My wife, by the way, is a very smart cookie. Oh, and with all of the overtime she works, she makes more than I do. She keeps telling me I should do the doctoral program and go into practice. By "practice" she means clinical Psychology. I have resisted that however. I love my job. I meet a better class of people than the ones who can and do pay $100 an hour to be told what they can get from me for the price of a highball—actually, come to think of it, a lot of my people are the same as those other people!
Cali, that's my wife, gets out of sorts with me when I tell her I'm not interested in making more money, and in spite of what I said before, it has led to some pretty raucous arguments between us. In fact, it is at least part of the cause of the sword of Damocles that is currently hanging over our marriage.
Cali is pretty, not runway beautiful, but pretty. Maybe five-six and around 120. Auburn hair, freckles, and the greenest eyes this side of an orchard. Her tits run out at about 34Bs. Her butt is a little more spread out than some, but that's how I like 'em; a broad butt is so female. For me she's perfect.
Oh yeah, me. Well, I'm five-seven and a half, 162, with sandy hair and blue eyes—why would anyone care right. I'm okay looking, but I would be far less likely to ever be runway material than my wife. I do have a seven-inch johnson though that seems to be more than enough for Cali, and for that I am more than grateful to whatever fertility goddess took care of me in that department.
I bought the house we currently live in with money my dad left me just before I met Cali, so it's free and clear; that was in my senior year at state. Now, except for the payment on the new car I bought Cali for her 41st birthday, that was three weeks ago, we owe nobody nuthin'. I know money is a matter of status to her, but I ain't having any of that; chasin' the green ain't livin'.
While I have been under pressure from her to change careers, I have to admit that I have put a lot of pressure on her to cut back on her long hours at the clinic. We don't need the damn money; we need more time together. Now is the time in our lives, you'd think, that Cali and I would be doing things together. But oh no, we've got to make more money!
Our sex life hasn't been that great for some time. Something has to give. She's always too tired on my off days, and since I work till 11:00PM five days a week—I do have weekends off—I get home too late for her to be interested. We maybe get it on twice a month, if I'm lucky. Frankly, it has been getting to me.
We met when I was admitted to her clinic with injuries sustained in an auto accident. I was twenty-two at the time and just about to head off to basic training. I'd done the ROTC thing in college, and I was about to be given my second lieutenant's bars. The fucking accident would delay me for several weeks.
At any rate, Cali was my triage nurse and it was clear to me, when we met, that she wanted to talk. I, not being the shy type, asked her if she would be interested in having a cup of coffee with me when they released me. She didn't say anything, but she nodded in the affirmative. Three days later, with a cast on my leg, they released me. She met me in the lobby and wheeled me down to the cafeteria.
Cali learned, during our little coffee break, that first time in the clinic's cafeteria, that after basic I would likely be posted overseas, and for some reason she seemed panicky. I did my best to allay her unexplained concerns. We made a date for the following Saturday. Since my leg was in the stupid cast, there was no question of us going dancing. So we went dining and drinking.
During the few weeks that it took for my leg to mend, I fell hopelessly in love with her. I was gratified to learn that she had felt the same way about me from virtually the first moment we had met in the examination room at the clinic. This was a major boost to the ego of a man whose prospects had never been better than average with the girls.
I was in good shape physically, except for my damnable broken leg; and I still am, in good shape that is. I'd been a golden gloves boxer and had made regional semis before being killed by a guy whose hands were so fast that I don't think scientists had yet developed tools capable of clocking them, at any rate so it seemed to me. My habit of training, then and now, were clandestine; I trained and continue to train just for me—I did not do any fighting in the Army. My habits did and do, however, keep me in top condition. And for some reason, or maybe no reason, I have never let Cali know very much about my prize fighting days. At any rate, as to my physical condition, I can still run three miles in 25 minutes no problem and skip rope at 120per for twenty minutes non-stop. These, along with a couple of hundred reps with the iron each day, are enough.
Our first real date was the Saturday after that first cup of coffee. I picked her up and we went to Faricelli's, a small Italian bistro just outside of town. Faricelli's had the distinction of serving an imported wine, Falernus, which, so local wisdom avers, has an ancient Roman pedigree. At any rate it was great. We danced a little and left. Here was the moment of truth.
"Wanna take a drive," I asked. She smiled, knowing exactly what I had in mind, if she didn't, my leer would have been a dead giveaway.
"Okay," she said. "Do you have a condom?" She had taken the initiative away from me with that one.
"No," I said, a sheepish look on my face.
"Well anyway, don't break any traffic laws getting us there," she said.
If my face hadn't been red before, it sure as hell was now. "I won't," I said.
We made it to the park four miles distant in about fifteen minutes. She had slid over next to me, and was running her hands up and down my body as we drove. She avoided touching me in the place where at that moment I most needed to be touched. But, I had hopes that things would improve once we parked. They did.
We'd gotten in the back seat and I had pulled her gently to me. She was so pretty and so hot and so soft; she was the whole package; I was one lucky fella.
My hands lightly caressed her breasts. Her hand, also lightly traced the outline of my cock through my dockers.
"Let's get undressed," she said.
"Just what I was thinking," I said. We were naked in less than two minutes.
We continued our caressing of each other. It was a truly intimate time for us. I swore that if the gods ever gave me an opportunity to relive a moment of my life, this would be the moment I would choose; it was that wonderful.
She turned and presented me with her behind. "Take me doggy style, okay. I want you to control me; it's best for me that way," she said. I didn't argue.
I took hold of her arms, probably holding her too tightly, but she didn't complain. I pressed myself inside of her and then pulled out a little. Then I pushed in a little farther and repeated the process. Soon I was screwing her steadily, and she was making little mooing sounds that told me she was okay.
I stiffened. I could see she was nearing completion as well. I began ramming her hard. Her noises were staccato now. She stiffened, shook, and grunted. "Fuck! Fuck! Oh fuck, I'm cumming," She screamed. I blew my load inside of her.
Shrinking, I slid off to the side and looked at her, her head resting for a moment on the back of the seat, her butt still high in the air, cum running down from her slit and down her leg. "Thank you," she said. "I needed that."
"Fucking-A," I said. "Me too."
We cuddled for a little while, pulled on our clothes, and drove home. The kissing goodnight was tender and promised much.
After that first magnificent night in the backseat of my car, we dated four and five nights a week, and before I left for basic two months later; I proposed and she accepted. The ring I bought her wasn't much; I'd spent everything I had on the house I'd bought. But, it was a quarter carat diamond, and I thought it had character. Oh, and as to the house, even though we hadn't married as yet, I had Cali move in as soon as I left for basic; well, we were engaged.
.... There is more of this story ...