A Modern Marriage

Chapter One-2

“You’ve been a good boy,” I said. “If you like we could meet again. Maybe you’ll get a little more next time. But no promises.”

“OK,” he said. “Yes, please.”

I walked out while he was still dressing.

I wasn’t always so self-denying. Sometimes guys got lucky and f****d me, but always on my terms. I met another guy two weeks later, in a bar. His name was Tom. He eyed my wedding ring, which I had made no attempt to hide.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, looking him in the eye, as if to say, what of it?

“And he doesn’t mind, your husband, or are you…” His voice trailed off.

“Cheating on him? No, he doesn’t mind. Not that it’s any of your business,” I added.

He shrugged. “I always think it’s as well to have these things spelt out.”

“Are they spelt out enough for you now?”

He looked a little concerned, anxious no doubt that I might leave at any moment. He had the worried look men get when they have hopes that s*x will happen, but fear that it might be snatched away.

“I note you haven’t told me anything about your marital status, and I haven’t asked,” I said. “So I think this part of the conversation is closed. Though you can tell me how often you do this, I mean meet strange women in bars.”

“Now and again,” he said. “Maybe half a dozen times in all. And you?”

“I’m still feeling my way,” I said, stroking the arm of his suit.

He smiled. It was a nice smile. It was evident he was relieved the atmosphere had lightened. “Would you like another drink, or do you…” His voice trailed off again. He seemed to have a habit of doing that.

“Another drink. Same again. But please don’t think I am delaying things. You’re a nice-looking guy and I’ll be happy to suck your c**k in due course. And other things.”

He was a little thrown by that. Men don’t expect women to say that sort of thing, even women who have met them for the express purpose of s*x. He went to the bar without a word. When he came back we talked of other things. And then I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

I’d booked a room, being reasonably sure this guy would be suitable. He followed me into the lift. I could see him looking me over, doubtless thinking that soon he would see me with my clothes off and get a better look. Inside the room I decided I would lead the way. Sometimes I like to let a guy take control, if he’s that sort of guy. But mostly I prefer to take the initiative. That’s how I came to be where I am, after all.

So I told him I’d like him to take all his clothes off and lie down on the bed. He did as I asked; I could see his c**k was getting big. As he lay there it rose, at right angles to his body, sticking up in the air. It was a nice c**k. He’d sent me a picture of it, even though I hadn’t asked. Usually I don’t care for that, but I was feeling horny and a picture of a c**k at that moment had been in keeping with my mood. He was uncut, which I prefer; something extra to play with. But in the picture he had retracted the foreskin, and you could see the delicate curve of the glans, like a little helmet. He had asked me to send him a picture of my cunt in exchange. But I don’t do that; it’s not very classy, I think, distributing close-ups, even if you like your cunt, which mostly I do.

I gave him a little show, trying to undress as elegantly as possible. I was wearing stockings, because I know men like them, and they do show off my legs. So I slid them off slowly. I took off my bra with my back to him and slowly turned round for him to check out my t**s. I think they’re OK, at least men seem to think so. I’ve been told I have good n*****s, “very suckable”, as one man said. I undressed down to my knickers, which were black silk ones again; I like silk next to my skin. Then I joined him on the bed.

I had a pretty good idea of what I was going to do. I lay on his chest and stroked it for a while, and played with his n*****s, testing if they were sensitive. They were. Then I slid down the bed and without more ado took his c**k in my mouth. As I’ve said, it was a nice one, perhaps a very little above average size, with a slight curve up towards the tip, which I always like.

I sucked his c**k for about ten minutes, doing a good job even though I say so myself. Over the years I’ve made a bit of a study of c**k-sucking, finding out what men really like, learning to tell if they like it soft or hard, slow or fast. He liked it sensuous, which suited me fine. I didn’t want him to come in my mouth, I had other plans, so after a while I slid up the bed again. I straddled him and sat with my knees round his hips and, pulling my knickers aside, slowly lowered myself onto him until his c**k was lodged deep inside me. Then I started to f**k him, not too fast at first. I enjoy f*****g, and I didn’t want it to end too soon.

You may be wondering if I slipped a condom on him before he entered me. The answer is no, for a reason that will become clear. I’d asked him if he was willing to f**k me bareback, and he said “yes, let’s live dangerously.”

He managed to keep himself from coming long enough for me to put my hand between my legs, inside my knickers, and rub my c**t just the way I like it done, and get myself off. I had just about finished my orgasm (though thinking I wouldn’t mind another one), when he came in a rush, ejaculating deep inside me.

I got off him and lay beside him on the bed, pulling my knickers up. Though I had rented the room for the night, I had no intention of staying that long. In fact I planned to leave soon after we had done the deed. I wanted a f**k; I didn’t want a romance.

At this point I should explain things a little. One reason I badly wanted to f**k was because I wasn’t getting f****d by my husband any more. Subsequently, I have found ways of getting him to penetrate me while remaining within the regime of chastity which I have prescribed for him, but at that time he was simply in denial and so, unfortunately, was I. Cutting off my nose to spite my face, perhaps.

Yes, dear readers, I am in a female-led relationship and am what is popularly known as a hotwife, though I don’t like the term. I f**k other men as and when I please, and my husband has no say in it. Anyway, I lay there with Tom for a while, not wishing to leave indecently early, but then I said I must be off. He looked genuinely surprised. I think he thought he had done the deed well enough and that it might be repeated.

I got up and started dressing. He lay on the bed, naked, on his front, looking at me. “You have a lovely ass,” I said. He started to get up. “No, don’t move,” I said. I went across and knelt over him and took his right buttock in my mouth, then I bit it, hard. He squealed. “What the f**k?!” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just couldn’t help it. Such an inviting bottom. You don’t mind really, do you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his ass. I could see the marks clearly. I knew what I wanted now. Next time, that is, if there was to be one. “What made you do it?”

“Lust,” I said.

“You have a taste for that sort of thing? Literally?”

I laughed at the little witticism. “As a matter of fact I do,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll tell you more another time.”

With that I kissed him lightly on the cheek and was out of the door before he could make a protest. I couldn’t help smiling as I walked down the corridor towards the lift.

When I got home, Henry was still up, as I had expected him to be. He was naked, as I had told him, except that he was wearing a pair of my knickers, red satin ones, as it happens. I pulled up my skirt and eased my knickers down over my ankles, then sat on the sofa and lay back, spreading my legs.

“You know what you have to do,” I said.

He knelt between my legs and leaned forward, burying his head in my crotch. He began to lick my cunt, which by this time had Tom’s semen dripping out of it, mixed in with plenty of my own juices. Henry licked it up, as he had been trained to do, then sucked on my cunt to extract the last of it. But he wasn’t told to swallow. Instead, I pulled him up towards me and made him pass the semen into my mouth. I rolled it around; the taste was diluted by Henry’s saliva, but it was still recognisable. I bent over Henry’s face and allowed the semen to dribble out of my mouth onto his face. Finally, I rubbed it in with my hand.

“Dirty little slut” I said. “What are you?”

“A dirty little slut,” he repeated.

“Don’t wash your face till the morning, slutty boy.”

I got up, took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. I laid him on the bed and got on top, then I pulled down my knickers and massaged his c**k until it was hard; he was so aroused this didn’t take long. I climbed on him and positioned myself so that my crotch was pressing down on his c**k, rather the same position as I had taken up with Tom, except that Henry had not for a long time had permission to put his c**k inside me. Instead, I rubbed myself against it until I came. He of course knew better than to come himself. Then, giving him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, I rolled over and fell asleep.

Increasingly I found that the pleasure I got from asserting control was not always a matter of denying orgasm or delaying it. Rather, it was about denying emotion. In my s****l dealings with men I held back from expressions of tenderness or affection. I wanted them to find me hard, careless of their feelings. There was fire in my loins but ice in my heart. Eventually I was to discover that being in charge need not necessarily mean being distant or unfeeling, though that discovery was in the future. I guess we’ll get to it eventually. But for the time being, I relished the way in which I could be indifferent to them and yet they would do exactly as I wished. Poor creatures, I thought; but if they are so ready to be led, I shall take advantage.

At one point I developed a taste for handing out perfunctory hand-jobs. I would take a man into a hotel room, or down an alley, or on one occasion behind a tree in a park. I had to be standing up for it to work properly. I would hitch up my skirt and pull down my knickers. Then I would unzip him and take out his c**k and rub it with my hand, and then rub it against my cunt and my c**t, sometimes even taking it inside me. When the man grew excited and was on the verge of ejaculation I would point his c**k at the gusset of my knickers and make him discharge there. I liked seeing the little puddle of thick, creamy fluid deposited, the more copious the better. Then I would pull my knickers up, feeling the sticky c*m inside them. I’d pull down my skirt and simply leave him, to zip himself up again. There was no farewell, not even a peck on the cheek. It’s hard to explain how exciting this was, though I know I am not alone in experiencing this. I’ve seen a lot of clips of similar things on porn sites; indeed, I think that was what made me think of it.