Forbidden, Unrequited
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2004 by Susurrus

Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Our love life had become rather predictable, until one unusual day...

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Heterosexual   Oral Sex   Masturbation  

I pushed the eggs around my plate, while my mind raced. Across from me sat my wife, deep in a book, slowly scooping the food from her plate to her mouth, barely glancing away from the page she was on.

In the twenty years of our marriage, this is what we'd come to. We were high school sweethearts, so there was very little of ourselves we hadn't shared with each other. Thus, our lives had become excruciatingly routine. We each had our interests that we ran to when necessary, but time together had gotten rather predictable. We still loved each other, of that I was certain - I couldn't imagine myself with anyone but her - but the spark had mostly gone out.

Sexually, we got together about once a month, usually right after her period, when the hormones still flowed, but the blood didn't. Those times were fleeting, but wonderful. She still knew what worked best on me, and I, her, so even though I thought we could go at it a little more often, I wouldn't trade those times we did get together.

And I don't place all the blame on her, either. My activities outside home usually had me gone for several hours two or three times a week. Therefore, even when she did get the urge, at times away from that time of month I mentioned earlier, I was often unavailable to take advantage of the fact.

So, for the most part, when she got horny during the week, she was forced to take matters into her own hands, and so for me, unfortunately. I won't say that her vibrator got a big workout, or that I was wearing myself raw, but except for certain special occasions, our sex life had become pretty predictable, too.

So... there we were, victims of long familiarity, and sex drives that seemed to mesh only sporadically.

"Rhonda?" She looked up from her book, a forkful of pancake suspended halfway to her mouth. Even in that awkward pose, I still felt a flush of love toward her. "What's on for today?"

Setting her fork back on her plate and turning the book face down beside it, she put her elbows on the table and folded her arms in front of her before speaking. "Well, as you already know, my breakfast date with Heidi was cancelled today, since she and Roger are out of town, so I thought I'd have breakfast with my handsome husband for a change..." At that, she smiled, reached out and touched my hand. "Then, in a little bit I'm meeting the girls to try and finish that quilt for the charity auction, so I probably won't be home till around six or so. Why? What's on your agenda?"

I sat back, my hand slipping from beneath hers, and stretched. I wasn't used to being up this early on a Saturday morning. "Not much. I got my running done during the week, so I don't really have anything to do that I don't want to, except maybe mow the yard." I figured I'd mention that before I got the "The lawn's getting shaggy," bit. You know the one, where the observation is made, implying that you're supposed to do the job, rather than just coming out and saying, "Would you do the mowing?"

Realizing I'd just headed her off at the pass on the yard, nothing more was said about it. "Okay. Donna's got practice for the game Monday, so she probably will be out the door and won't get home till after I do. She's got that party this evening, too, and I think she's planning on changing at a friend's."

It sounded like I had the house to myself for most of the day. Suddenly options started popping up, and none of them involved mowing grass.

Rhonda then looked at the clock. "Oops, I've got to get going. There are a couple stops I have to make before getting to Lisa's. Can you take care of the dishes for me?" Without waiting for a response, she got up, gave me a peck on the cheek and was out the door.

Great. A table full of dirty dishes. Not the way I was expecting my morning to end up. With a sigh, I started gathering up the plates and silverware and put them in the washer, then gulped down the last of my orange juice and put the glass in, too. I put all the syrup and condiments away, wiped down the table and stretched again.

Glancing at the clock myself, I marveled at how early it still was, and decided to crawl back in bed for an hour or so.

On the way to the bedroom, I started stripping off clothes, removing my shirt and opening my pants.

I hadn't given a thought to my daughter. When Rhonda had mentioned she had to be somewhere, for some reason, my brain assumed Donna was already there. This could hardly have been farther from the truth.

Just as I approached the bathroom, the door opened, and my daughter and I collided.

Taking a step back to apologize, I was stopped dead in my tracks. My mind raced, and my eyes drank in the sight before me.

Many, many times over the years, I'd seen Donna emerging from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her young, developing body, and in the last few years, I'd noticed how that development had come out. That doesn't mean I had any particular designs on my daughter, it just means I'd made the observation on how my little girl had grown.

This morning, though, there was something about the way she stood, the way her damp hair fell around her shoulders, the way the towel clung to her chest, and - I was to find out momentarily - her bottom, that struck an unusual chord for me. There was something about the way she looked that morning that caused my body to react to the sight of what my daughter had become, and what she was that morning was a beautiful young woman.

This conclusion made, I felt a twitch in a place where no father should feel for his offspring. And there I stood, naked from the waist up and my pants open. I must have looked quite the sight, too.

I stood there for what seemed hours, even though it couldn't have been more than a heartbeat, feeling myself get harder while my face got hotter. For some reason, even though I was embarrassed witless, I couldn't help staring at the beautiful, well-shaped young woman standing before me.

Was I really becoming this depraved, that I could get so quickly turned on by the near-naked sight of my own daughter?

While my mind spun and my face grew redder and my cock harder, Donna looked up into my face and said innocently, "Oops. Sorry, Daddy. Excuse me." I couldn't speak, but the look on my face caused her to ask, "Are you okay? You look kind of funny."

I managed to croak out some sort of response, then Donna swept around me and my eyes followed her to her room, where I noticed what a perfectly formed butt she had.

'STOP IT!' my appalled mind screamed. 'JUST KNOCK IT OFF!' Shaking my head in a desperate attempt to clear it, I stumbled to my room, hoping Donna hadn't noticed the bulge straining the front of my underwear through the parted fly of my jeans.

Once I got to my and my wife's bedroom, sleep was impossible. All I could do was sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what had just happened. There had been no false modesty about the house, in that it wasn't unusual to see someone emerge from a shower clad only in a towel, or trotting to the laundry room in only their underwear, but this was the first time I'd reacted in any kind of sexual manner, seeing my daughter dressed so. God, was I a pervert? Well, of course, we're all perverts of some form or another, but was I that kind of pervert, that I'd get turned on by my own daughter? Would I now be trying to see her naked, something I hadn't really seen since before she'd started growing breasts? I was tearing myself apart. I couldn't be thinking of THAT, surely! That idea was just plain sick and wrong. I think I'd chop my dick off before I'd resort to anything so horrible.

And speaking of my dick, it hadn't gone down since it began stiffening. Shit, I had to do something, but masturbating so shortly after reacting so intensely toward my own daughter seemed akin to admitting that I was the kind that would try to have sex with his little girl, who wasn't so little anymore.

Flopping back on the bed, I plaintively asked the room, "What do I do? What's happening to me?" I felt and sounded pathetic.


The sound of that voice sat me straight upright in surprise. Donna stood peeking around the doorway with a concerned look on her angelic face. My hard-on still hadn't softened, and I felt extremely self-conscious sitting there all aroused with her looking on.

"Are you alright, Daddy? I heard you say something. You sounded like you were in some sort of pain."

Still flustered by her sudden presence, I stammered, "I... uh... I'm okay, Honey. I just... thought of something and was... um... kicking myself for forgetting."

The look in Donna's eyes told me she didn't entirely buy my story, which only furthered my realization she wasn't a little girl anymore, that she no longer took everything I said as gospel, and as such, profound... but I certainly wasn't about to tell her the truth. Her mouth twisted in dissatisfaction, but she didn't say anything more about it, just shrugged and said, "If you say so. Well, I have to get dressed and get going." She then came in to give me a quick kiss before she left.

God, she was only dressed in panties and bra, and although they were of the most utilitarian sort, the sight was almost too much for my heightened sensibilities. I felt my cock throb painfully, and a quiet, brief moan escaped my lips when Donna placed her hand lightly on my shoulder when she leaned in to kiss me.

I wished to god it was her mother who was doing this to me. My body had never betrayed me so severely. Now, more than earlier, I hoped Donna wouldn't see my erection, and I hoped the burn in my cheeks wasn't obvious.

Had my sex life gotten so sporadic and predictable that I was reacting this way? And if so, what could I do about it? I had no intention of doing anything with the woman who stood at my side that immediate moment. So... what? My conflicted emotions became even more confused.

I've read some incest stories on the web. Some are well written, many are not, but just like anything of that subject matter, as long as you're in the proper frame of mind, the quality of the work doesn't necessarily matter. IFf you're thinking right (or wrong, however you look at it) it'll have the desired effect. I'd taken matters into my own hands a few times while reading such things, but it didn't mean I was ready to take part in the practices described in the stories. In the abstract, with people who couldn't possibly exist, it could be something of a turn-on, maybe. In the concrete, with the object of so many stories standing right next to me, I was repulsed, even if my body said otherwise.

Donna straightened, gave me another strange look, then unintentionally jiggled out of the room. My cock was near-bursting, my head more so, for entirely different reasons, but having the same cause.

Sleep was completely out of the question. I wanted to relieve my tension in the worst way, but for the same reason as earlier, I just couldn't.

Even though it'd never worked in the past, I decided to take a cold shower to try and calm my raging body down.

Still dressed as I was, I plodded to the bathroom. Once there, I sat on the edge of the tub and pulled off my socks, then stood and dropped my pants to the floor. When I finally removed my underwear, the head of my hard-on caught the waistband of my shorts, and I was so hard, it didn't even bounce once when it slid free. No, just like it had when I was a teenager, my stiff cock broke free of my underwear, popped up and slapped against my belly, then stood out proud and harder than I'd been for years.

Now freed, my aching cock throbbed for relief. Almost like a magnet, I felt my hand pulled toward the pulsing hot shaft. Just a couple strokes and I'd be fine.

But, no, dammit, I wouldn't be fine. I still felt a flash of guilt at the thought of the cause of my present condition, and wasn't about to give in to the implications running through my mind.

This was horrible... The hardest I'd been in years, and my wife wasn't around to take advantage of it, and my guilty mind unable to let me take care of matters myself. I didn't know how long it'd been since I'd run into Donna, probably minutes, though it seemed like hours. Hopefully the shower would calm certain parts of my body down a little, in spite of previous experience to the contrary.

Stepping into the shower, I directed the head at the wall so I'd have time to prepare myself for the shock of the cold water on my overheated body.

While I turned on the water, my mind strayed, then latched onto the thought of who'd been standing in this very shower only a little while previously. Shit. A low moan escaped my lips and my head bumped the shower wall as I slumped against it in defeat. There was no way in hell even being dipped in the Arctic Ocean was going to bring me any relief now. Nevertheless, I straightened and stuck my hand in the icy stream coming from the showerhead.

While a shiver passed through me at the feel of the cold water, my brain was admonishing, 'It's not going to help.' Desperate for any kind of potential relief aside from what I was pretty sure would work, I redirected the shower stream, and braced myself.

I let out a surprised gasp when the water hit my body. It chilled me almost immediately. My nipples became hard as rocks; seeking warmth, my balls crept up into my body, but if anything, my cock got even harder.

I felt like crying.

I stood there in the freezing water, uncomfortable as I could remember ever being, the shower - as I suspected - not doing for me what I'd hoped.

Miserable, I decided to actually take a shower then, and was too upset to even turn on any hot water to make things more tolerable. Feeling like an incredibly horrible person and a martyr at the same time, I shampooed myself and rinsed, then grabbed the soap and started on the rest of me.

I was a little shocked at how sensitive my nipples were when I scrubbed my chest, and the shudder that streaked through me when I touched my steel-hard cock told me I wasn't trying that again.

Quickly as I could, I got the heck out of the shower, for fear of hypothermia, and started toweling off, being meticulous about avoiding any contact with my erection when possible.

When I was as dry as I could get myself with minimal contact with my privates, it occurred to me that I was going to have to leave the bathroom. The question was: "How?" Meaning, what to wear? I could just wrap the towel around my waist like usual, the only problem was, then there'd be no hiding my hard-on at all. If I did that, and Donna was still in the house, our paths were bound to cross, and my luck, it'd be just as I stepped out into the hall, my hard cock poking out the front of the towel.

So, I slipped my briefs and jeans on again and was about to leave the bathroom when I realized I had to pee. How the hell was I supposed to do that, as stiff as I was? I certainly wasn't going to accomplish the task standing at the toilet. Even if I could get myself to where I could relieve the building pressure in my bladder, it'd end up going everywhere but where I wanted it to.

The only solution was... back in the shower. I dropped my pants and underwear again and got back in. Now the big trick... relaxing enough that I could let go. Usually it isn't so hard to clear my mind, but this morning, it was pretty nigh on impossible.

For several minutes I stood, leaning forward against the wall, my cock pointing straight at the tile. The longer I stood, the greater the pressure became. God, did I have that disease where your hard-on just won't go down? I didn't think so, I'd never had trouble getting it up before and it usually got soft just as quickly.

It became more and more uncomfortable standing there, waiting for my body to decide what was more important, urinating or maintaining an erection. Eventually, evacuation won out. A small trickle started at the swollen tip of my cock, but it never became a steady stream. I stayed hard enough that all I could get was that little dribble. This was a painful process. I'd released the tension that held the flood back, and typically it only took a few seconds to relieve the pressure. This way though, it was about two minutes of sheer agony. My bladder strained, but the pressure would only ease at a snail's pace.

Finally, it was over, and I was only marginally softer than when I'd started. Now, though, I needed to clean up again. Doing so, I found my mind drifting back to the occupant of the shower stall before me. Soon I was clad in my old clothes and ready to get the heck out of there.

As fate would have it, I did meet Donna just outside the bathroom door, so I was relieved I'd opted to put my pants back on. Once again, I hoped she didn't notice my erection, which by now had begun to ache a little. I forgot what we said to each other that time, but she excused herself to her activities that day, leaving me with another peck on the cheek and a hard-on that refused to go away.

When I heard the front door close, I breathed a sigh of relief. I now truly had the house to myself.

In moments I had my jeans and underwear back off again, and any other time, I'd probably have had a video on or the computer running, with my hard-on in hand. However, as I've repeated before: this time, for reasons I've already mentioned, I wasn't about to do that.

Originally, one of the things I'd planned on doing was reading the book I'd just bought. 'Great, ' I thought, 'that should take my mind off things.' I quit reading when I realized I'd read the same paragraph over and over, my cock still stiff.

Putting the book down, I decided I needed to get out of the house for a while, maybe that'd help. I got dressed and started down the hallway, but stopped at Donna's bedroom door.

Inside, there were remnants of the little girl she'd once been in the decoration of the room, but most of those were small things. The majority of the room had been usurped by the trappings of the young woman she'd grown into, including a small poster of the college she'd be attending the next year.

And there on the floor, her cleaning habits still what they were when she was little, were her clothes from the night before. On top of the pile was her underwear. Now when had she started wearing such skimpy stuff? This was the kind of panties and bra her mother wore only when she feeling particularly playful, the kind of underthings that I encouraged her to buy more of. The nosy parent part of me wanted to see just how many thongs and see-through bras she had, but the part that was still protesting my arousal at the whole scenario this morning was slapping me upside the head screaming, "What the hell are you thinking?" When I felt my hard-on throb yet again, I hung my head and dashed out the door.

Once I got on the road, I realized I had no idea where I was going, if I was going anywhere. As I drove, I looked out at the people on the street, and checked out other drivers. Bad idea. The only people my heightened awareness homed in on were the young women, about my daughter's age. Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking into the local shopping mall.

My god, it was overwhelming! It seemed like the only people at the mall that day were young women, dressed in the tightest, skimpiest outfits imaginable. Surely these girls couldn't all have breasts that prominent, could they? Had I been in a different mood, I'm sure I'd have silently reveled in the eye candy arrayed before me. Even though I know such displays aren't meant for "old guys" like me, I'm sure there are plenty of us out there who regularly get a thrill, drinking in the sight of the young women in their revealing attire, while their wives rail against the clothes kids wear nowadays.

As it was, rather than enjoying the view, I was in almost real agony. My cock still hadn't gotten soft, so I was very careful to try and hide the fact from the general public. I'm sure there were probably a few savvy folks who knew just what was going on, by my posture and the way I moved.

Though I'm sure the show wasn't meant for me, I saw at least two girls drop things then bend to pick them up, knowing just how to fetch the item to show things to best advantage. I managed to catch glimpses of thong tops over the waist of their tight hip-huggers, and one really nice (!?) panty-covered crotch beneath a short skirt. I felt the young female energy teasing me through the air, and everywhere I looked it seemed there was another display of young female flesh to be devoured by my over-stimulated, scrubbed-raw, mind.

Finally, I'd had enough and tore my eyes from the tight, blue-jean-clad ass of some anonymous young thing and dashed into the men's room. Closing myself in a stall, I sat down for a minute to regain my breath and decide if I was really going to do what I thought I was going to do. After only a few minutes of agonizing, I stood and dropped my drawers for the umpteenth time that day, then sat down and got to work.

I was so damn hard and had been for so long, there was a huge wet spot in my underwear, so there was going to be plenty of lubrication for the task at hand. The whole affair would have been much easier if this'd been a private restroom, instead of a public one, but I couldn't wait to find a more secluded place.

It took a Herculean effort not to moan out loud when I finally wrapped my fingers around my aching shaft. For a minute, I just sat there holding myself, knowing if I just started stroking, I'd lose control and make a spectacle of myself, yelling out loud right there in the mall men's room. Normally it would have been too harrying an idea, jerking off while all those men and boys came and went just outside the flimsy stall door. At that moment, though, it was no hindrance.

Instead of just letting my hand fly, I had to take it slow, for the same reason I didn't just start as soon as I got my pants down. The last thing I needed was for somebody to call security on the pervert in the restroom.

Fortunately, even though I was taking it slow, so I could maintain some degree of control, my orgasm came quickly. When it did finally start to rise, it took a lot of willpower not to yell at the top of my lungs at the release of my pent-up frustration.

There was a part of me that wanted to know just how far I'd be shooting. I was so worked up, I figured it'd be a couple feet at least. But, I didn't have the luxury. I didn't feel like having to mop up after myself when I'd finished. Then it'd be real obvious what the pervert in the third stall had been up to. Grabbing some paper and folding it up to catch my cum, I bit my tongue and let it go.

The spasms of my orgasm actually hurt. My cock had been so hard for so long, I'd developed blue balls like I'd never had before. And when you get that frustrated, the actual pain of release is nearly as great as the relief.

One note of curiosity. You know how I mentioned earlier about the amount I thought I'd cum? It's not a direct corollary. In this case, it turned out being an inverse. Instead of cumming a quart, it turns out that apparently there were enough muscles wound tight enough that not much fluid could get through. Therefore, instead of cumming a lot, there were only a few dribbles that just kind of oozed instead of firing out with any kind of force. The relief I felt was palpable, though. In fact, I found myself getting light-headed and grabbed the toilet paper dispenser to steady myself. Regardless of whether anybody knew what I'd been up to, I really didn't want to faint in a men's room stall, with my pants down. After a minute or so, the feeling passed and I quickly cleaned myself up and got out of there.

As I left the mall, I discovered that I'd mostly lost my hard-on, and it was replaced by an ache at the base of my cock and on either side of my balls. That would go away in a little while, though.

On the way to the car, I saw more well-formed women, but I noticed the mother-types, too, a good sign that the majority of my sensitivity to the young ones had mostly passed, or was at least closer to normal. Once in the car, it set in what I'd just done. I reasoned that it at least was all those other barely-dressed young women I'd jerked off to, and not just my own daughter. It was splitting hairs, but at that point, I was searching for rationalizations wherever I could find them.

Of course, rationalization aside, with relief from my agony came guilt. I now felt like I'd betrayed my wife in a manner that I hadn't done before in any of my other masturbation sessions. Even though I'd waited and received more stimulation than had originally begun my ordeal, the fact remained that I'd gotten hard looking at, and thinking about, my daughter, then acting on that reaction, regardless of timing.

I figured my best bet was just to head back home. I didn't want to end up somewhere that might trigger another episode like the one I'd just undergone. Though, with my daughter gone, at least I wouldn't have that factor to complicate matters. Nevertheless, I was still feeling pretty guilty about the whole ordeal. I wondered if I'd be able to talk about all this with my wife. A big part of me was scared what her reaction might be. All misgivings aside, I knew I'd be telling her. After all these years there were very few secrets we kept from the other. I also knew my conscience wouldn't allow me to keep it inside.

The immediate pressure off, I figured I'd try to get some of that reading done that I'd hoped to do earlier.

In the house, I headed for the bedroom. I figured on just propping some pillows on the bed and reading in the comfort of the air conditioning.

Grabbing my wife's pillow, I stacked it on top of mine and proceeded to lean against it. Unfortunately, this wasn't enough padding to be very comfortable, but I quickly latched on to the idea of piling a blanket or two behind everything to make the whole thing more like a lounge.

Rummaging around in the closet, I found a couple of blankets I thought would work great. I grabbed them both with one hand, and with the other steadied the stack of stuff on top of them and gave a quick tug. Well, suffice it to say that my steadying hand wasn't doing its job. Everything in that pile came tumbling down on top of me. Fortunately, it was just sheets and old sweaters, but it still meant I had a lot of stuff to pick up.

In getting things all straightened back up to put back on the shelf, I came across my senior yearbook, which had apparently been somewhere in that stack.

I put all the stuff I didn't want back in the closet, then carried my yearbook and the blankets I'd been after to the bed. I arrayed the folded blankets and pillows the way I wanted, then tried them out. Oh, yeah, that was going to be a lot more comfortable.

My new book lay forgotten on the side table when I sat back, and I grabbed the yearbook and started leafing through it.

Memories flooded back to me as I turned the pages. I found my picture and my wife's, then looked for a few friends I hadn't seen since the last reunion. A niggling little itch at the back of my mind made me flip back to my wife's picture.

For a long minute, I stared at the face in the photo, the face of the girl I'd fallen in love with, trying to think what the little whine in my head was trying to tell me.

Suddenly, a memory of that morning flashed across my inner eye, and set my curiosity a-tingling.

Carrying the yearbook along, I went to the living room and stood in front of Donna's senior picture. I held the yearbook up to that photo and compared the two young women.

Damned if they didn't look almost exactly alike! There were differences in hairstyle and dress, my wife's nose a little longer, her cheekbones a touch higher, but aside from that, they could have been the same person.

Was that why I'd reacted so when I bumped into my daughter that morning? Was it some adolescent recollection? Then I remembered something else. I paged through quickly to pictures from the annual variety show.

There it was. Rhonda and three of her friends had done a little routine to the song "Splish Splash" or something like that. They sang and danced, and their costumes were simply towels wrapped around their bodies, with their hair wrapped in towels on top of their heads like turbans. And standing right in the center of the picture, her mouth open in song, was my Rhonda.

It was as if a switch had been thrown. I watched them from the wings while I worked stage crew for the show. When they came off stage, I was looking at a couple of the girls, when Rhonda bumped into me while I gawked.

As clear as it had been that night, I could still see the look on Rhonda's face, the set of her shoulders, the position of her head. Just like the cops checking fingerprints against a database in a TV show, my mind laid that image over the memory of my experience that morning. Though the words said were different, though there was over twenty years between one and the other, the situations were nearly identical, right down to the look of the lady.

I remembered my reaction that evening, and how similar it was to the reaction I'd had that morning. Was that why I'd gotten hard? Was I remembering seeing Donna's mother all those years ago dressed almost identically and standing almost the same? For one thing, I know it sounds cliché, but they could almost have been sisters, the prime difference was that there was a generation's difference between them.

Was it the youth I'd reacted to? Obviously, the animal part of me was remembering that incident from high school and drawing a similarity to what I'd experienced that morning and reacted accordingly. Maybe I was rationalizing again, but it made sense. Why my brain had made the connection now instead of years ago, I couldn't say. I'd watched my wife age with me, and to me she hadn't changed, but that's because I was seeing it all gradually, and I hadn't looked at that yearbook since Donna was about nine, so the connection was slow in coming together.

Of course, all this rationalization didn't change the fact that I was still feeling guilty over the occurrences of the day. The fact remained that I'd gotten turned on by my daughter's body, whether it was my wife some fragment of my brain was seeing or not. Did that mean I was tired of Rhonda, a woman I had shared more of my life with than I hadn't? I didn't think so. I wasn't ready to drop her for some cute little youngster. As frustrating as comfort could be sometimes, I realized that when she wasn't there, I looked forward to seeing her walk through the door. Although she had some habits that set my teeth on edge (and vice versa) I knew that they were what made her the woman I loved. And when I compared the picture of her in the yearbook to the one of our daughter, then compared both of those to the woman in the two-year-old family Christmas picture, I realized that it was still the same woman in the picture... the woman I loved and who made me complete.

I only hoped I could convince her of that when I confessed what happened earlier that day.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty uneventful. I got some reading done (the new book wasn't as good as the dust jacket blurb made it sound) and I even found the time and inclination to mow the yard.

In fact, just as I was putting the mower away in the garage, my wife pulled up. I felt my face breaking out into a smile as she got out of the car and I saw her smiling, too.

Walking toward her, I said, "I'd give you a hug, but I'm all dirty and sweaty."

Rhonda put her quilting bag on top of the car while she unloaded a couple other things. "Well, Lisa's air was out, and the fans kept blowing all the squares all over the place, so we had to do everything in the stuffy kitchen. So I'm not as fresh as a daisy either. C'mere."

Sometimes familiarity isn't such a horrible thing. We'd been through enough together that a hot, sweaty hug was nothing. When I drew her in close, I could see the hair clinging to her neck, and feel the stickiness of her skin. It may sound odd, but at that moment, I even thought she smelled good. There was something in the musk of her odor that really turned me on. I broke the hug and Rhonda made to pull away, thinking I was done, but I grabbed her tighter and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

Our tongues danced together in that familiar way we'd developed over long, interested experimentation. The whole while, I was inhaling those intoxicating pheromones. My cock swiftly got hard, and I could feel Rhonda's nipples boring into my chest through both our T-shirts and her bra. We'd never gone on quite like this before. I wondered what was making Rhonda so excited, I could only partially explain my arousal. Part of mine was still guilt. I was trying to drown it in my wife's body. Beyond that, I simply was really turned on by the woman I married.

Eventually, we moved apart, and I said, "Gee, did ya miss me?"

Rhonda smirked and brushed her hand "innocently" against my crotch. "I think I could ask you the same thing." It doesn't happen often, but that made me blush like it had the first time she'd been obvious in noting my arousal.

When I'd gotten over my sheepishness, I replied, "You're one to talk." I didn't touch her nipples, since we were standing in the middle of the driveway, with our neighbors and their kids out in the yards all around us.

Rhonda knew what I was talking about. "You're the one who did this to me." She briefly glanced down at the little protrusions poking from her thin T-shirt. Suddenly, I hoped none of the neighbors could see.

Once in a while, we'd get into these little conversations, and while they were great, as I said, the neighbors were all around, and I didn't want to let them in on our little game.

"So, no air aside, how did the quilting go?"

Immediately, Rhonda got excited. "You ought to see. It turned out better than we expected. I volunteered to bring it home and wash it before the auction." She ducked down into the car and brought out a bulging garbage bag. She proceeded to peel the bag off its contents and when she'd accomplished that, she grabbed hold of an edge and let the whole thing open up before me.

I must say, it was impressive. Anyone who's never given any thought to what it takes to make a quilt hasn't the slightest idea what a huge undertaking it is. There are six ladies in my wife's little quilting group, and they all pitched in time and money to create this. For months, they'd been meeting and sewing at least twice a week. Early on, it was mostly social, but as things progressed, it became more and more serious. They'd been at our house a couple times, and I was really impressed with all the planning it took to get things just right. The hardest, most time-consuming part was the last bit, when they were doing all the actual quilting by hand. The component pieces were sewn by individuals' machines, but they opted not to have the final quilting done on a machine and did it all by hand.

From behind the enormous piece of cloth, I heard, "So what do you think?"

I couldn't think of anything to say but, "Amazing."

"But do you like it?"

"Of course I do. You ladies do fantastic work."

Rhonda started to fold it back up again. "Thank you. We're hoping they'll be able to get about five hundred for it."

The prices people paid for these things always astonished me. It was a further reason the ladies had decided to do the finish work by hand. Machine sewn quilts were expensive, but hand done ones are rarer nowadays.

While my wife folded the quilt and stuffed it back into the garbage bag, I decided to see if I could take advantage of the apparently playful mood she seemed to be in. I went over to the car and asked, "Need any help?" hoping she'd catch the lame double entendre in my little statement.

Having just finished re-bagging the quilt, she shoved it into my arms and replied, "Here. Thanks." She then grabbed the stuff on top of the car and started into the house.

Inside, I tossed the huge bundle on the couch and looked around for Rhonda. I didn't realize it'd taken me so long to get inside. From down the hall I heard, "Yoo hoo."

Yes, she said that. It's silly, I know, but it told me she was still in a playful mood. "I'm taking a shower." When I didn't follow immediately, her head poked around the door frame. "You coming?"

Now that I knew her intention, I got a little corny myself. Starting toward the bathroom, I shot back, "Not yet, but hopefully you can help with that."

I know, you're wondering, "What the... ?" I said our lives had become rather routine, and our love life sporadic. I didn't say we didn't have the occasional spontaneous romp now and then. Of course, as I said before, I think part of it for me was an attempt to prove to myself that I still was attracted to my wife, and that the episode this morning was just an anomaly. So far, I was proving that theory correct.

When I reached the bathroom, just as I turned the corner, I found my wife bending over, removing her socks. This of course, stretched her jeans across her rear, giving me a great view of her lovely butt.

"Now, there aren't too many sights more sexy than that." I knew there was a smile on Rhonda's face at that little comment, because she wiggled her ass at me. She was in a mood, and I was glad for it.

She then quickly straightened and whipped of her jeans and panties, staying bent at the waist to remove them. "That better?"

I drooled at the sight of her bare, perfect ass, with the pussy lips just peeking out from beneath her tight little puckered asshole. "Oh yes. Much better."

She stood and turned around, giving me a view, naked from the waist down. Striking a pose she asked, "How's this?"

My cock was starting to ache again, but this time, in a good way. "Better yet." I started getting undressed myself.

Last, Rhonda reached behind her and fiddled for a second, then stripped off her shirt and bra in the same motion. Striking yet another pose, she just smiled, not saying anything.

What clothes I had left came off almost immediately. I stepped up to her and gathered her up in my arms, reveling in the feel of our bodies pressing together. Rhonda's breasts felt fabulous, mashing into my chest, and she let out a sigh when I shoved my hard-on against her belly. Gazing down into her upturned face, I whispered, "Best of all," then leaned in and kissed her again.

After a kiss that had to have lasted over a minute, Rhonda took my hand and led me into the shower. For the moment, all my angst from earlier was forgotten, especially when Rhonda bent over again to turn on the water, giving me yet another great view of her shapely ass and beautiful pussy.

My cock hollered, "Go for it!" at the sight before me, but I wanted to play a little first. With one hand, I tickled my shaft, with the other, I reached out and fondled my wife's pretty behind. Every once in a while, I'd caress the soft lips of her pussy, eliciting a soft moan and gentle grind of her hips.

This went on for quite a bit longer than it usually takes to get shower water to a suitable temperature, and eventually, Rhonda straightened and turned to me, her face flushed and full of arousal. Again we kissed, then she stooped, leaned over and pulled the knob that started the shower running.

Rhonda jumped as that first burst of cool water came from the showerhead, as the warm water pushed the cold out. Her little start gave me the chance to pull her in to my body again, and could enjoy the feel of her skin against mine.

For a long while we just stood there, wrapped in each other's arms while the water ran. Reluctantly, I broke our embrace and said, "If either of us is going to take anything other than a cold shower, we better get to it before the water heater runs dry."

My wife responded by reaching behind me, then handing me the shampoo bottle. "Well then, you better get to it then, shouldn't you?" She then closed her eyes and waited for me to wash her hair for her.

That initially being my intention, the ornery part of me decided that, since she was expecting it, I'd do just the opposite. I squeezed some shampoo into my hand and began scrubbing my own head.

After a minute or so, Rhonda, not feeling my fingers in her hair, opened her eyes to see what I was doing. When she saw me washing myself instead of her, she playfully punched me in the arm, saying, "You bum." My eyes opened at that and I met Rhonda's smile with my own.

Laughing, I made sure I wasn't going to end up with soap in my eyes, then started shampooing my wife's hair. A soft purr came from her throat as I scrubbed her hair, digging down with my fingertips to massage her scalp. After two shampoos, then conditioning, her hair was done. I took a quick break to grab the showerhead (thank god for hand-helds) and got my own hair rinsed.

Now it was time to get down to real business. Rhonda handed me one of those poofy-scrubby things she likes using in the shower, but I was having none of that. I wanted to feel her body under my fingers, with nothing in the way but water and soap.

Rhonda's skin felt wonderful, as always, and I lavished attention to her face and neck, enjoying the sounds of satisfaction she made.

As you can imagine, I lingered a long time on her breasts. I'm always amazed when I take them in my hands... how heavy they are, yet how soft. As well, I still find it surprising amid all that softness, how stiff her nipples get, sometimes with little provocation. It's always a wonder to me how sensitive those nipples are, and how aroused my playing with them can get her. A major portion of my fascination with her nipples is the fact that mine aren't very sensitive at all; at least, once other things get worked up, the feelings down there are so intense that I can barely feel anything anywhere else.

At this moment thought, my wife was feeling plenty. I'd managed to caress and knead and pinch her sensitive breasts enough that I'd just added more fuel to the fire of her arousal.

And I wasn't finished yet.

Regretfully leaving her breasts, my hands washed and stroked their way down her body till they came to another favorite of mine. I think you can figure out where that is.

Rhonda gasped, then moaned as I ran soapy fingers up and down the sides of her pussy, all the while digging my thumb into the enflamed nub of her clit. Another advantage to familiarity... I knew just how far I could take her before getting her off, and I did that twice, each time backing off just about the time her orgasm was ready to roar through her.

So, through careful manipulation, I had quite the collection of quivering nerves in my hands when I pushed two fingers into Rhonda's silky-slick pussy. I'll tell you, there was no resistance to my invading fingers, and it wasn't entirely due to the water and soap.

I didn't spend too much time fingering her firey wet hole - I didn't necessarily want her cumming quite yet. Even though I knew Rhonda would happily have let go, since I was presently in control, I wanted things to last.

Next, I pulled her close and rubbed myself against her for a little bit, then started scrubbing her back and shoulders. Ideally, it would have been more efficient to turn her around, but I liked it better like this. While she pressed against me, I ran my soapy hands over her skin, digging in as best I could to give her a slight massage.

Rhonda was beyond words, beyond almost anything but sensation. She was lost in the vibrations running through her body, and the continuing sensation I was causing. When my hands reached her butt, I took each cheek in a hand and squeezed gently, enjoying the round pliability of her ass. Her eyes snapped open and a surprised gasp escaped her lips when I wiggled a finger up her tight little butt hole. The shock was swiftly replaced with a purr of satisfaction as she became used to the penetration. One day, I hoped I'd be able to get something larger up there, but after twenty years... I sighed quietly then continued on.

Next and last were her legs and feet. My wife never believes me when I compliment her on legs. I just wish she could see things from my side once. I simply love the sight of her in one of her little short lounge robes... you know the type, where the hem falls just below the woman's butt? This leaves the entire leg exposed, and I don't know about anybody else, but I think it makes them appear particularly sexy. And that's not even to mention when she wears a garter belt... oh my!

I finished Rhonda's legs, then straightened and guided her back under the water to rinse off, then removed the shower head and finished the job.

That taken care of, it was now my turn. While I hoped Rhonda would reciprocate, a look at her face told me she was too wrapped up in her own body for the moment to give me much help.

I wasn't too put out by that fact. I mean, I hadn't gone soft the whole time I'd been washing her. Previous experience told me that when she came out of her stupor, she'd be a sexual wildcat. I could hardly wait.

Taking up the soap again, I started washing myself, paying close attention to the spots that typically take the most washing. A thrill went through me when I soaped up my cock, but after earlier in the day, when I came this time, I wanted to give it to my wife.

When I bent over to wash my legs, I straightened to find that Rhonda had taken the showerhead out of its holder and had pressed it to her pussy, letting the spray of water stimulate her clit. Watching the look on her face, I felt a flash of envy for at least that one aspect of being a woman.

Rhonda let out a whimper when I reached out and took the showerhead away from her so I could rinse. While I got the soap off, I suddenly felt hands on my cock and balls. Apparently Rhonda had come out of her haze, and I saw in her face an arousal like I hadn't seen in months.

Now was my turn to moan. I deliberately took my time rising off so I could fully enjoy the sensations my wife was causing by her manipulation of my privates. She liked playing with my cock and balls as much as I liked playing with her tits and pussy. And I certainly liked the fact that she liked it.

It was just as well that we were both clean now. The water had started cooling down about halfway through my rinse-off, and by the time I was done, it was verging on downright cold. That being the case, I had Rhonda shut the water off, then proceeded to get us both out of there to get dried off.

We had fun trying to dry each other. I always find that more difficult than the washing bit. Maybe it's the extra instrument you have to try to coordinate, but drying never seems to be as arousing as the wet stuff. Nevertheless, we managed to get each other as dry as possible, then finished up on our own.

After we'd hung up our towels, once more we were in each other's arms. For a moment, I thought about what a perfect fit our bodies were, then abandoned thought for just savoring the moment.

It seemed like we were nineteen again. We couldn't keep our hands off one another then, either. We'd both ended up at the same local college, and Rhonda continued to get into theatrical endeavors, while, just to stay near, I again worked stage crew. The plays were little more than glorified high school productions - the college had no "theater department" - but there were a couple of instructors who thought it good PR for a liberal arts college to have some representation by the fine arts.

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