The two weeks following Nancy’s erotic video session were pretty uneventful. Nick (the large-dicked male model she posed with – see “My Wife’s Night Class,” chapters 1-8) called once, long distance and a little drunk, asking for date. She turned him down. In class the following two Wednesday nights, her handsome classmate John was overly attentive, so Nancy made it clear to him that she didn’t want to take things much further (than fingerfucking?) with a married man. There were too many potential difficulties with his wife, she explained.
Nancy said that John seemed to take the rebuff in stride, especially when she told him she found him so exciting that she sometimes masturbated thinking about him. I asked her if this was true. She said no, that she was just trying to let him down easily. Also, that she hadn’t masturbated since the video session but usually didn’t fantasize about anyone in particular when doing herself. I guess women are different from us men in this regard.
Jerry, the balding guy in her class, had been almost shy around my wife. He’d gotten to watch the video shoot where Nick had eaten her cunt, fingerfucked her, and made her cum by rubbing the head of his cock against her cunt lips. He’d watched his more handsome classmate John fingerfuck her and Wendell, the photographer, stick a finger up her asshole. All this had made him cum in his pants. But, suddenly, he was shy. Go figure.
The most unchanged in his attitude toward Nancy was Dean, the stocky guy who (Nancy confirmed) had once been a college wrestler. He remained jocularly forward toward her. He complained about not getting to chaperone her video shoot, which John and Jerry told him was “great.” (Both Nancy and I wondered what words they’d actually used to describe what she’d let various guys do to her.) And his tall friend Arthur felt left out, too, he said, though Arthur probably wouldn’t admit it.
Nancy told Dean that if another video shoot happened, she’d invite him to supervise. Also Arthur. Teasingly, she asked Dean if his wife would like to come, too. He assured her that she would not and that she’d castrate him if she ever found out about him doing such a thing.
After the most recent Wednesday night class, Dean invited Nancy to again join John and him for drinks, but she told him that she’d found another ride home that would be leaving right after class.
What she didn’t tell Dean was that the ride was with Arthur. During the class break, Arthur had taken Nancy aside and confided several things to her. First (and he had a very hard time, apparently, admitting this) he was having trouble with women. They didn’t seem to find him attractive. And, when he dated women, they didn’t respond to him as he wished they would. Maybe he wasn’t attractive enough. Maybe he was too tall, too gawky. Second, he was very interested in her and wanted to talk to her alone, without the other guys in the class around. Maybe, since she was a sexually liberated woman, she could give him some tips on what he could do to make himself more appealing to women. Sort of like counseling. Could he drive her home so they could chat? But the others couldn’t know, he insisted. They’d just make fun of him.
When she finished talking with Arthur, Nancy called me at a bar, where I was waiting as usual to see what might develop after class, and told me I may as well go home and wait there since he would be driving her home. She told me about their chat and said she was pretty skeptical about his plea for help. She suspected he was probably just playing her. But, so what? It might be fun. When they arrived, she’d invite Arthur in for a bit of “counseling” that might be worth watching and listening in on from my secret vantage point. (As the readers of my earlier reports know, I’ve drilled a peephole in the wall between the hall closet and the living room that allows me to see and hear nearly everything that occurs there.)
So I finished my drink and drove the twenty miles from the university campus to our house in the next town.
As I waited, I gave some thought to Arthur. He looked about six-foot-six and maybe 180 pounds. But he wasn’t skinny; he had very powerful arms for his build. He was obviously a very physical guy. He didn’t have a handsome face. His features were too sharp, too birdlike. But he was passably attractive. Then I remembered his hands, how large they were. I wondered if what they said about hand-size correlating with cock-size was true.
Then, after snacking and getting the closet ready with a piss-jar and some paper towels, I turned off all the lights in the house and sat down to wait. I didn’t dare turn on the television set or the sound system. I needed to be able to hear Arthur and my wife arrive. It wouldn’t do to have an erstwhile sexual partner stumble in on the reportedly estranged husband who was supposed to be living elsewhere.
Nervous jitters were building up inside me, and I couldn’t help pacing around the house in the dark trying my best to discharge them. I decided there was no need to remain clothed, so I removed my shoes, dress shirt, trousers, underpants, and socks and put them in our bedroom. Then, wearing only my undershirt, I paced around nervously, occasionally peering out the front window to look for approaching headlights. Looking at the couch and carpeted area in front of it, dimly visible from the porch light shining through the curtains, I reconstructed in my mind what various guys had done there recently to my beautiful wife. Damn, my cock was already getting hard! Nancy’s was the gift that just kept giving.
At about 10:30 the phone rang. It was Nancy, calling from a bar about a mile from our house. She said that she and Arthur had stopped for a couple of drinks and that they’d be at the house in about twenty minutes. She laughed and said something about “having to loosen up the big guy.”
When I hung up I tried to find something to do to pass the time. I did some last- minute rearranging of throw pillows on and in front of the couch. I took another piss. I got a wet paper towel from the kitchen and, very unnecessarily, wiped off the top of the coffee table that stands in front of the couch. Finally, at about 11:00 o’clock, I heard Arthur’s truck pull up in front of the house.
I walked quickly to the closet and shut myself in. A minute or so later, I listened as Nancy’s key turned in the lock and she pushed the front door open. Then the lamps on either side of the couch came on (they’re connected to a switch by the front door) and bathed what Nancy and I call the “action area” of the living room in a warm light. Arthur followed her inside and shut the door behind him. I was struck by how much he towered over my wife, who is five-foot-four and about 110 pounds, as she knelt on the carpet removing her boots.
“There’s some pink Chablis in the refrigerator,” said Nancy. “Why don’t you bring it in here while I get out of these.” By “these” she obviously meant the clothes she’d worn to class, a short jacket over a V-neck sweater and tight blue ski pants. While Arthur headed for the kitchen, she walked over to the sound system and put in several CDs. The first to play was a favorite of hers she’d been listening to for the past several days, some female blues singer. She turned the volume way down.
As she leaned over to put in the CDs, my wife’s tight little ass looked good enough to eat in those ski pants of hers. I’d seen her put them on that afternoon and knew she wasn’t wearing panties under them. The guys in her class, earlier in the evening, must have enjoyed looking at that gorgeous ass as much as I was enjoying it now.
“Wine glasses are in the cupboard over the dishwasher,” she said loud enough for Arthur to hear in the kitchen. Then she discreetly smiled and waved in the direction of the peephole and, boots in hand, walked down the hall to our bedroom. A minute later Arthur emerged from the kitchen carrying a nearly full bottle of wine and two long-stemmed glasses. He set them on the coffee table and sat down on the couch.
As I watched him through the peephole, it seemed to me Arthur was ill at ease. His eyes darted around the room, he tapped his foot on the floor, and he shifted his weight on the couch as though unable to get comfortable. Since he’s probably a normal heterosexual man, he had to be thinking about my beautiful wife down the hall in our bedroom pulling her sweater over her head and sitting down on the bed to remove those skin-tight ski pants. What was she going to put on? Maybe nothing. He’d heard from the others how sexually uninhibited she’d been at the video shoot, and he’d already seen her nipples and up her skirt several times. Would she come walking up the hall toward him stark naked?
It’s a strain leaning forward to peer through the peephole unless there’s something worth watching, so I stopped watching Arthur for a few minutes. I sat down on the closet floor and relaxed, barely able to hear the soulful CD. Finally, I heard Nancy padding up the hall, past the closet entrance, and into the living room.
Looking through the peephole again, I saw that she had put on my Stanford jersey (no, I didn’t go there). It came to her upper thighs, which were bare, of course. She said, “How do you like this? It was my husband’s.” She gave a little twirl to model it for her classmate.
Arthur said he liked it a lot. Nancy then bent over the coffee table to pour wine into the glasses. As she did, she took her time and made sure to aim her ass right at my peephole. The jersey rode up enough for me to see that she had put on a pair of her sheerest white panties. I could just make out the crack of her ass through them.
Then she walked around the coffee table and sat down next to Arthur. They began talking quietly to each other, but I couldn’t make out all the words. Once I heard Nancy use the phrase “psychological bullshit.” This and other words I overheard told me that she (whom, after all, he had approached as a “liberated woman”) was trying to coax Arthur away from buying into the various clichés about sexuality. She doesn’t mind at all being a sexual object. And like me, Nancy is a great believer in casual, emotionally uninvolved sex. She resents all the popular literature about how women aren’t supposed to like it.
This conversation went on for fifteen or twenty minutes. As I watched, I was most interested in watching how Nancy was sitting. For much of the time, she was facing Arthur with her back against the (facing me) right armrest of the couch. Her legs were crossed and her feet were drawn up under her thighs. The bottom front of her jersey had gathered at her waist, which meant that her tight little cunt, with its fringes of wispy light-brown hair, had to be semi-visible to him through the crotch of her panties. I watched Arthur’s eyes go repeatedly to the area between her legs, and I wondered if the panties were sheer enough for him to notice how the way she was sitting was pulling her cunt lips to apart.
Tiring of the conversation, I suspect, Nancy set her second glass of wine down on the table, and slid over next to Arthur. She leaned her head against Arthur’s left shoulder. They said a few more things to each other, but nothing I could hear. He then put his left arm around her so that his hand fell just below her left breast. They talked a little more, and then Nancy put her face up to his to be kissed. Awkwardly, Arthur brought his mouth down to hers. It was a short smooch. Then he leaned down and kissed her again with more enthusiasm. When they broke the kiss, I heard Nancy say, “Oh, yes, like that. There’s nothing wrong with that.” (Apparently, he’d been worried about whether or not he was a good kisser.)
Encouraged, he turned his body more toward hers and kissed her yet again. His left hand, I noticed, had moved up to her shoulder, but he had been bold enough to bring his right hand across his body so that it now touched her left breast. Still kissing her, he began squeezing Nancy’s breast.
“Not too hard,” she said, breaking the kiss. Arthur took his hand away, then placed it back on her breast and began kneading it again. “Yes, do it gently like that. I love to have them played with gently.” Hearing this, Arthur moved his large right hand back and forth across the front of the Stanford jersey manipulating first one then the other of Nancy’s braless breasts. As he did, she stopped kissing him and, closing her eyes, pressed her head against the back of the couch. Still caressing my wife’s breasts, somewhat more roughly I thought, he began kissing her neck. Nancy brought her right hand up to his head and ran her fingers through his dark brown hair. She began making a low moaning sound.
Then she pushed his head gently away from her neck. “Not too hard, please. I don’t want a mark on my neck. That’s for teenagers.” Poor Arthur looked a little crestfallen at the suggestion that he was immature, but when she eagerly kissed him on the mouth he seemed to get over it.
Then she abruptly pulled away from him and said, “Let’s go down there,” indicating the floor in front of the couch. “It’s more comfortable.” She tossed the two throw pillows that were on the couch on the floor where earlier I’d placed two others.
He left off caressing Nancy’s perfect little breasts, and she stood up and walked around in front of the coffee table. Her faced seemed flushed, a sure sign that she was enjoying herself so far. She picked up her wine glass and quickly drained it. “Bottoms up,” she said. At that, she turned her back to Arthur, bent over, and flipped the back of the Stanford jersey up to show him her butt.
She laughed at her little joke and sat down on the carpet. Arthur’s expression remained serious for maybe two seconds. Then he grinned and said something about her having a very nice bottom. He reached forward to finish his glass of wine, too, then (rather self-consciously because there was no hiding his erection) he stood up to join Nancy on the floor.
She looked at his crotch as he walked toward her and said, “That’s quite a bulge you’ve got there, Arthur. I hope it’s not too uncomfortable in those jeans. You can take them off if you like. We can just sit around in our undies.”
“It is pretty uncomfortable,” said Arthur. He kicked off his sneakers, which must have been loosely tied. Then he unbuckled his belt and popped the buttons of his jeans open. As he removed his jeans, I noticed that the head of his cock had somehow become pinned beneath the elastic waistband at the top of his briefs. With a quick motion of his hand, he freed it from the waistband and it fell forward to about a sixty-degree angle, severely stressing the front panel of his briefs. Thin Arthur was obviously very well endowed.
Arthur sat down on the carpet with his back resting against the coffee table. Nancy turned her back to him, and then slowly reclined on his sinewy thighs with her head just inches from his very prominent erection. Her legs were sideways to me, but it looked like her feet were about a foot apart. With his left hand, Arthur reached down to her naked thighs and began stroking them gently, almost but not quite making contact with the delicious looking crotch he’d been feasting his eyes on a few minutes earlier. Then he resumed caressing her breasts with his right hand. He was playing her like a musical instrument.
Since the two of them were now about five feet closer to me than they’d been, it was easier for me to hear what they said over the music.
“That feels so good, Arthur. Oh, yes, that’s nice,” I heard Nancy say. Then she moved her head a few inches toward his crotch and rolled her face toward him. It looked to me like her nose and mouth were quite close to, maybe actually touching his cock through the briefs.
“Oh, God, I can feel your breath on it,” said Arthur.
“Do you like that?” she asked.
He just grunted in response. Her head was blocking my view, but from the way her head was moving I assumed (rightly, as she later confessed) that she was nuzzling and kissing his balls and the lower shaft of his cock through his briefs.
Emboldened or maybe just very turned on, Arthur stopped stroking my wife’s thighs and abruptly pulled the bottom of her jersey up to her rib cage. Then, just as abruptly, he jammed his left hand down the front of her panties until it fully covered her cunt. Nancy gasped as he did this and said, “Arthur! Oh, yes! Oh, that feels very good. But don’t put your fingers in yet. Just hold it like that and let me push against your hand.”
She had spread her legs now and bent her left knee. And she had lifted her head up slightly to watch Arthur’s hand under her panties. I could see pretty well, too. When she rolled her body slightly toward me I could see even better. After a minute or so of pressing her cunt against his hand with little fuck motions, she threw her head back against Arthur’s left thigh and began stage-whispering repeatedly, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
In the closet I was stroking my cock furiously now and when I saw that Arthur’s hand had become more active in my wife’s panties, that he was now fingerfucking her with at least one digit, it was too much for me. I had to cum. I spurted a huge amount, knowing that I’d caught only part of the ejaculate on the paper towel I’d brought into the closet with me. But I didn’t care. In the living room, my wife was getting louder and louder as Arthur kept up what he was doing to her.
“Oh, shit, Arthur. You’re going to make me cum,” she announced. But it had the urgency of a shout. For almost thirty seconds she seemed to have trouble breathing and she trembled from head to toe. Then she held her breath and stiffened her spine for a few seconds as though having a seizure of some kind. Finally, as Arthur kept up his relentless fingerfucking, she thrashed her head from side to side on his thigh and shouted, “Yes! Oh, God, yes! I’m cumming!”
I’d never heard my beautiful wife orgasm quite this loudly before. Fortunately, our neighbors’ houses weren’t too close. I wouldn’t want them to suspect domestic abuse.
When Nancy recovered — and it took her nearly a minute to do this – she removed Arthur’s hand from her panties and sat up. Two, maybe three, of his fingers were sopping wet. I heard her tell him it was time to return the favor.
She had him lie face up on the carpet. Stretching a great length across our living room floor, Arthur was wearing only white socks, his briefs (with the purplish head of his big stiff cock sticking out slightly above the waistband) and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. Then, resting on her knees near his feet, Nancy pulled the Stanford jersey over her head and threw it on the floor. Wearing only her panties now, with her perfect little breasts jutting out and her pink nipples at full attention, my wife was so beautiful she could, as the song says, make a blind man see.
She reached forward next and, using both hands, pulled Arthur’s briefs down his legs and all the way off. His cock, free at last and hovering over his belly, was truly immense. It was longer than Nick’s but perhaps not quite as thick. “That’s really a nice cock you’ve got, Arthur,” she said. “If I were going to fuck anyone, it would definitely be you. Any girl would love to have that big cock inside her.”
Then she straightened up on her knees again and, turning her body slightly in my direction, she pulled off her panties. I think she was trying to show me how wet Arthur had made her. Bare-naked now and straddling his legs, Nancy then began crawling up his body. She stopped at his balls and began giving them a thorough licking. As she did, he raised up his head in what looked like disbelief. Then he reached down with his right hand and began stroking his cock. “Ah, that feels great!” he said. “I love it. Please keep doing that to my balls.”