Entree

January 2013

It was Sunday afternoon. There was football on the telly and once again Arsenal was showing signs of a trophy-less season, which was annoying. I only half-watched the bore-draw as I flipped through the local free newspaper that had dropped through the letterbox earlier in the day. You know the ones—ten per cent is of it uninteresting local ‘news’, there’s a massive property section in the middle as estate agents try desperately to kick-start the housing market, and the rest is adverts for second-hand car dealers, jobs and, usually most interestingly, the small ads.

I always find the ‘Lonely Hearts’ very amusing. I guess I shouldn’t admit this, but as a happily married man and father of two, I find reading the pleas of the sad and lonely to be ... how can I put this? They just make me feel better about my life. Okay? Is that such a crime?

Anyway, as I flipped through the small ads, looking for bargains the old fashioned way instead of relying on eBay like Ruth, I came across this in the ‘Personal Services’ Section.

Bored in the bedroom? Need a little spice? Indulge in the ultimate fantasy.

Three BBCs. 27” of Prime British Beef.

Satisfaction Guaranteed.

“Hmmm,” I thought as I chuckled to myself, “Big Black Cocks. I bet Ruth would love that.”

Sure, she’d love it, but did anyone seriously do things like that? No, they couldn’t. Could they? Not in Britain, they couldn’t—it just wasn’t very ... I don’t know ... British. Far too ... Continental.

Ruth and I had been married for seven years and had two toddlers running around the place annoying the hell out of us the way toddlers do. Okay, so they didn’t annoy us that much, but you ask any parent with young kids and they’ll tell life was quieter before the little blighters arrived on the scene. They’ll also tell you that they had a lot more sex before the kids arrived too. Mostly, that’s because you’re too tired from running around after the little devils, but lack of opportunity plays a part too. And then there’s the simple fact that after fucking the same person for any length of time, it gets a bit ... boring. Is that the right word? Repetitive is maybe a better description. Look, there’s a reason they talk about the seven-year itch, you know.

That’s why fantasies are so important to a strong marriage. It spices things up if you share your fantasies. Spices things up even more if you indulge in them, I suppose.

We had been sharing our fantasies for a few years—ever since she ‘recovered’ (if you know what I mean) from the birth of our second sprog. They were pretty mild at first—dressing up, light bondage, that sort of thing. And we tried a few out. I do like her naughty nurse’s uniform, for example. And Ruth really gets off on having her hands tied to the bedposts while I eat her pussy, although I always untie her shortly after I start fucking her.

We’ve tried toys as well. I bought Ruth a vibrator a couple of years ago and use it on her from time to time (I have no idea how often she uses it on herself, mind you).

We’ve also shared unusual places we’d like to make love—although in the bushes at the local park is the only one we’ve managed to make a reality.

Recently though, Ruth admitted two things to me that should perhaps have shocked me, but for some reason didn’t. I think it’s because we both knew the chances of either of these fantasies coming true were so remote.

First up, she fantasises about getting fucked by more than one bloke at the same time. We’re not talking about ‘making love’ here. Her fantasy is to get fucked. To be taken. I have a feeling that stems from the fact that one of my fantasies was to watch porn with Ruth as a ... stimulant. I thought she might be appalled at the idea, but she embraced it with gusto. And she did seem to get even more frisky than usual the first time I showed her a gangbang movie.

The second fantasy involved doing it with a black guy. Although, to be honest, I think her fantasy was less to do with skin colour and more to cock size. After all, you know what they say about black men in that department. I think Ruth just wanted to find out if it was true.

And from that ad in the paper, it certainly sounded like it could be true. Twenty-seven inches? Between three men? That’s nine inches each! Of course, it could also be two guys with six inches and one with fifteen, but I didn’t think that was likely.

“Hey, Ruth!” I called. She was in the kitchen, baking. She baked. It was her way of unwinding at the end of the working week. She baked and I sat on my arse watching the footy for as long as the kids would let me, then ate what she baked. “Come look at this.”

She entered the lounge, drying her hands on a towel. “What?”

“This.” I held up the paper.

“The small ads? What have you found this time? I’ve told you before, it’s all tat. Name me one thing you’ve bought out of the paper that was any good.”

“No.” I tapped the ad. “This.”

Her face went on an interesting journey of expressions as she read it.

“What’s a BB—Oh, right. I get it. That’s disgusting.” The look on her face said it was anything but. The look on her face was one of interest hiding behind feigned indifference. Trust me, I could read her like a book. Most of the time. Well, some of the time. Okay, sometimes I could read her like a book and this was definitely one of those times. She was interested but didn’t want to show it.

“Disgusting? Really? This is both your big fantasies rolled into one, isn’t it?”

“Dave! Shush!” She slapped my arm and looked around.

“What? Like someone’s going to hear.” The kids were at Ruth’s parents for the weekend, something they did about once a month. They spent one weekend a month at my parents too. I guess we were lucky to have so much time to ourselves.

“I know, but...” She trailed off and I noticed she was surreptitiously rubbing her thighs together.

“Ruth! You little minx! You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you?”

She gave me a sly, embarrassed look.

“You’re thinking about fucking three black dudes with nine-inch cocks, aren’t you?”

“Dave! Stop!”

“You are, aren’t you? You’re thinking about one of those big-dicked bastards bending you over and taking you doggie style while another feeds you his cock from the other end. What’s the third one doing? Standing to the side watching? Or have you got his cock in your hand?”

A highly aroused moan escaped her lips as she continued to rub her thighs together, much more obviously now.

“You want me to give them a call?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. It was the least convincing ‘no’ in the history of everything, ever. “Oh, Dave.”

“What time are the kids due back?”

She shrugged. “Three or four hours?”

Our eyes met and the flame of desire inside Ruth’s ignited my own simmering lust. I threw the paper onto the sofa next to me and jumped up as she turned to race out of the room. I caught her just as she got to the bed and tackled her onto it.

She might be pushing forty and me just the wrong side of it, but we were a couple of teenagers at heart.

“Fuck me,” she whispered in my ear, her voice barely more than a breath lost on the spring breeze coming in through the open window. “Fuck me.”

The thing about having sex in a house with kids was that you learn to do it quietly. We lived in a big, modern house with paper-thin walls and even though the kids were on the other side of the large landing they’d still be able to hear if either of us got too vocal. Sure, they wouldn’t understand what the noises were (probably), but we still didn’t want them wandering into our room to ask.

“Fuck me.” Her voice was just a little louder now, but still nothing more than a whisper. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh...” And then she went silent. Yes, even our orgasms have to be quiet.

I sped up and thrust through her climax to reach mine on the other side, filling her pussy to overflowing when I got there.

She hugged me tightly to her, rubbing my back and mewing contentedly. “Hmm, that was a good one.”

“Yeah,” I said, breathlessly. “It was.”

“Not bad for a couple of old fogies.”

“You’re not old.”

She huffed. “I will be next month. Forty! Forty! It’s all downhill from there you know.”

I pushed myself up so I could look down on her. “Maybe. Maybe not. But even when you’re twice that age, I’ll still love you.”

She smiled and craned her neck to peck my lips. “Love you too.”

Even though my erection was rapidly waning following my ejaculation, I could feel her squeezing her pussy around me, trying to keep me from going down.

Her smile turned into a playful grin. “Think you can go again?”

“You’re joking, right? I’m not as young as I used to be.”

She giggled. “See, this is why I need more than one man.”

“More than one? Or twenty-seven inches of Prime British Beef?” It had been nearly three months since I’d first shown her the advert in the paper but I reminded her about it every so often.

She blushed. Which was all the answer I needed.

On impulse, I’d actually cut out the advert and hidden it away, but I never really thought I’d use it. Now, howevErr...

Nah, I’d never use it.

“So, Dave, what are you getting the missus for her birthday? It’s a big one this year ain’t it?”

“How do you know Ruth’s birthday is coming up?”

“‘Cause it’s the first of July. And every July for the past ten years you’ve whined like a bitch about not knowing what to get her. Plus, well, Sue mentioned it. It is a big one this year, right?”

I nodded. “Forty.”

Jack sucked in air through his teeth, a technique I’d never mastered. But then, he fixed the cars and I only sold them. We were best friends—as were our wives— and ours was a joint business venture that had worked well over the years.

“Forty’s a tough one. I remember last year when Sue turned forty. You’ve got to be careful. Can’t be something that makes her feel old, but also not something that insults her by treating her like she’s still in her twenties or something. I don’t envy you this year mate, I really don’t.”

“Thanks. That’s ... that’s helpful.”

“That’s me. Helpful ‘til the end.” He smirked and walked off to check on one of the cars in the workshop.

The thing was, Jack was right. It was going to be incredibly hard to buy the right gift for Ruth’s fortieth birthday. It had to be something special to mark the milestone, but she’d also made it very clear that she wasn’t looking forward to hitting said milestone. I got the distinct impression that she felt like her life would suddenly be over when the clock struck midnight and the date ticked over to Saturday, July 27th 2013.

I didn’t understand it. I hadn’t made this much of a fuss last October.

She had this crazy idea that women in their forties ceased to be attractive. Which is obviously nonsense. Just look at the long, long list of pop stars and actresses who still looked great at that age. Not to mention some of the women we got in the garage looking to get their car fixed or replaced. But Ruth wouldn’t have it. Forty was over the hill. Period.

Case in point. This coming weekend we had been invited to a barbeque at her boss’ house and last night she’d been looking through her wardrobe for something to wear.

“This is crazy, there’s nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll have to go shopping one night this week.”

“Your wardrobe is already stuffed full.”

“Yes, but half of this will have to go to the charity shop. Look at it. I don’t know why I bought most of it. It’s either for work—which would make me look old and frumpy if I wore it on Saturday—or for someone half my age and everyone would think I was mutton dressed as lamb! Look at it!” She pulled one of the offending garments out and held it up for my inspection. A pale yellow, knee-length summer dress.

“I love that dress on you. It’s sexy, but not too sexy.”

“Exactly! It’s sexy. It’s for young sexy women, not old hags like me.”

I got up off the bed, where I’d been lying reading a book on my iPad. “Listen, Sweetheart, you’re not old and you’re not a hag. You’re beautiful and smart and sexy as hell. And that dress looks fabulous on you.”

“It used to! When I was younger!”

“It still does,” I said, as calmly as I could. “It still looks fabulous, because you look fabulous.”

She smiled. “Liar,” she said softly.

“I’m not lying.”

“I know. But just because you believe what you say doesn’t make you right. Just because you think I’m sexy, doesn’t mean I am. You’re supposed to think that way. It’s your job as a husband.”

“And it’s an easy job because you are beautiful and sexy. And if you wear that dress right there then every man at the barbeque will be jealous because you’re with me not them.”

She looked down at the floor. “I’m too old to be sexy. I’m going to be forty. Forty!”

So there was my problem, how to celebrate the milestone of turning forty in a way that told her she was still sexy and desirable (and not just to me) but didn’t patronise her by treating her like someone ten or twenty years younger.

For a split second, my mind went to that advert I’d cut from the newspaper. But only for a split second.

“Ohhh, it’s so big! So big. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck.” She was a little louder than usual, but still not exactly what you’d call loud. The kids were staying with their grandparents for the weekend again and we’d taken the opportunity to get a little more adventurous than usual in the bedroom. Presently I was hammering her from behind with my big cock. My big black cock.

Yep, we were in fantasy mode and I was playing the role of her black stud. I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all. I loved fucking her doggie-style, it was one of my favourite positions. I loved to see my cock disappearing into her moist snatch. But we did it that way so rarely these days because it’s one thing to tell the kids Mommy and Daddy were just having a cuddle when I’m lying on top of her under the covers (and so they can’t see the ins and outs of what’s going on), but it would be a bit harder to explain why I’m banging away at her like a bitch and slapping her arse.

Of course, another reason I enjoyed this particular role-play was—

“Are you going to stick your big dick in my arse, you bastard? My husband always wants to fuck me in the arse, but I never let him. Only you. Only you, you big black stud.”

Yep, I enjoyed this role-play a lot.

Twenty minutes later, sweaty and exhausted, we lay on the bed in post-coital afterglow. I was on my back and she was on her side next to me with one arm and one leg draped over me as spunk dribbled out of her abused anus.

“You know,” she said, “we need to make the most of the next couple of weeks.”

“Why?”

“Well, we can’t keep doing this after my birthday, can we?”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’ll be forty!” she said with a tone that told me I was stupid for not knowing that.

“Oh, come off it,” I said. “Turning forty doesn’t mean you can’t have sex.”

“No. But you can’t have wild sex the way we just did—even when the kids are out of the house.”

“Why not? Don’t they say that women truly reach their sexual peak at around the age of forty? You telling me you can’t have wild sex when you’re at your sexual peak?”

“That’s rubbish. That whole sexual peak thing. It’s made up by middle-aged women desperate to hold on to their youth instead of growing old gracefully.”

“Even though all the studies that say that were done by men?”

“Then it’s just middle-aged men trying to get their wives to give it up a bit more and be a bit more adventurous in the bedroom.”

We went quiet for a while. She traced her fingernail around one of my nipples and I gently ran a finger up and down her spine.

“Ruth?”

“Yeah?”

“You really get off on this whole black-cock fantasy, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “You never complain.”

“No, I’m not complaining. Just ... I mean ... Would you ever consider it? For real I mean?”

“No!”

“Because of the race thing?”