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Message-ID: <43795asstr$1060290605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: walt9899@hotmail.com (walt9899)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 7 Aug 2003 18:52:01 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} TEN (MF, mast)
Date: Thu,  7 Aug 2003 17:10:05 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

STANDARD DISCLAIMER:
This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting
adults.  If you are under eighteen years of age you must stop reading
now.  Stop, I said.  Stop!

Now that I am addressing an audience consisting of only mature,
responsible persons over eighteen years of age:

This story and all its characters are a work of adult fantasy.  They
live in a world where sex is free of disease and unwanted pregnancies,
and, when convenient, free of the deeper emotional complications that
accompany it.  The characters happily invite you into their world
while you read the story but ask also that you please remember to
return to your own world when you are finished, and that you treat
that world with benevolence and generosity.

RESPONSIBLE USE POLICY:
Please enjoy this story responsibly.  Share it with someone if it will
make that person happy.  Don't use it to do anything hurtful.

FEEDBACK:
Did you like this story?  Was it worth the time you spent reading it? 
Did it stink?  The author appreciates any feedback you may have to
share about this story.  Send e-mail to walt9899@hotmail.com.

************************************

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a trifle.  I wrote it for my wife in
honor of our tenth anniversary.  If you believe that it is impossible
to write hot fiction about a loving couple doing loving things, you
should not waste your time on this story.  However, if you believe, as
I do, that sometimes a loving couple doing loving things can be a
recipe for very hot fiction, then I hope you find something enjoyable
here.  And, oh yes: this is a sex story.  It doesn't even attempt to
capture the many and indescribable blessings that have graced my life
as a result of our relationship.  It is merely a lighthearted and
playful expression of some things we find entertaining and that, yes,
do spice up our sex life.  Read on at your own peril.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME

************************************



TEN (MF, mast)
By: Walt9899

I'm at the computer, tapping out a few idle words, when my wife, fresh
from her bath, comes and curls up on my lap, inserting herself
conspicuously between me and my keyboard.

"What'cha doing?" she asks, snuggling up against me.  She smells of
Dove soap and ginger body cream.  When she brushes her damp hair
against my face I also catch the faint clean honey traces of her
conditioner.

"Nothing," I say, mostly honestly.  "Thought I might write a little,
but mostly I'm just typing."  I'm happy to have her here, to feel her
weight in my lap.  I run my hands across her flouncy silk nightgown,
enjoying its texture underneath my palms, a tactile skin hugging her
curves.  It's her favorite sexy nightgown, black and mid-thigh, with
spaghetti straps at the shoulders, and slightly fitted around the
torso to give her breasts a little support.

She knows that when it's a Friday evening and I say writing I mean
erotica.  "Do you have a new story for me?" she asks, grazing my cheek
with a fluttering kiss.

"I'm afraid not," I say, rather more hopelessly than the situation
warrants, and she knows it, too, chuckling at my gravitas.

"You don't have to have a new story for us to have fun," she reminds
me.

"I know, but still..."

She leans in to flick my ear with her tongue.  "You looking for
inspiration?"

"Always," I say, shifting a little in the leather office chair,
because the hint of her tongue is all it takes to stir my loins.

She smiles.  She knows exactly the effect she's had on me.  "How about
the fact that next week we'll celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary
and it still only takes the smallest thing for me to turn you on?" she
says.  "I think that's a nice story."

"Did you think it would be any different after ten years of marriage?"
I ask her.

She thinks for a moment, her lip caught between her teeth in a way
that makes me want to catch her lip between my teeth.  "Well," she
says slowly, "ten years is long enough to begin talking things for
granted.  My body has borne two children.  I'm not some tight young
thing anymore.  After ten years, some people are probably looking
outside their marriage for the excitement they feel like they've
lost."

"We do have our ups and downs," I remind her.

"Of course, and we argue and we fight and we spend sometimes too many
days where getting through the day with jobs and kids doesn't leave us
with much energy for each other."

"Yeah, but we always manage to find something to bring the old
excitement back."  Thinking about some of the ways we've done that, I
flick my thumb across the silk covering her breast and am immediately
rewarded with the hardening of the nipple underneath.

"So there you go," my wife says.

"What?" I say, having been lost in my reverie.  "There I go where?"

"There's your story," she says.  "A couple doing something a little
crazy to refresh the excitement factor."

"Two old married people keeping the love alive?" I say.  My face has
found its way to her neck, my lips on her skin feeling their way
toward that nipple I've teased out.  At the same time my hands slide
down the back of her satin gown to cup her most round and luscious
bottom.

She allows me to continue for a moment, stopping me long before my
mouth has found its way to her breast.  She pushes me back and gives
me a quick peck on the lips.  "Just like us," she says.

"OK," I say, the wheels turning.  "I can do a story like that. 
However, there's the small matter of you blocking me from my keyboard,
which, if I'm going to do this will unfortunately require you to
move."

"Oh," she says, kissing me a little more passionately.  "I'll move." 
She stands up and begins clearing a space on the desk beside my
keyboard.

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

"Something that should refresh the excitement meter," she says,
stacking some loose papers.  "You wanted inspiration, remember?"

"You've served as inspiration for lots of my stories," I tell her.

"But never like this," she says, and climbs onto the desk.

The desk is a big oak affair, too big and too ornate for my small
office, but it is a wonderful old desk that came to us for free and
I've shoehorned it in the space in hopes of one day having a larger
office to move it into.  It's easily large enough to hold her and give
me room to work.  She scoots to the back of the desk and places her
back against the wall, facing me, her legs crossed Indian-style.  She
smoothes her nightgown's short hemline over her thighs.

I look at her, bemused and puzzled.

"Did you check on the kids?" she asks me.

"While you were in the shower," I answer.  "They're sleeping like
angels."  I reach out to stroke her leg but she moves my hand away.

"There are rules," she says.  "You're going to write.  I'm going to
help you with your ideas.  You'll know when I approve."

"Yeah?" I ask, grinning.  "I like this already."

"The other rule is, you can look at me, but you can't touch me.  Not
until you're finished with your story."

"What are you going to do?" I ask, fairly burning with curiosity.

She gives her hair a little flip.  "Inspire you," she smiles sweetly,
but there's naughtiness in her eyes.  "Tell me the story so far," she
begins.

"It's more idea that story," I say.  "About a couple."

"How old?" she interrupts?

"Let's call it mid-forties," I say.

"Older than us," she observes.

"A few years, yes.  Anyway, things have been a little, er, stale, in
their sex life recently and he wants to surprise her and dare her all
at the same time to spice things up a little bit."

"Not a bad idea, especially since it was mine," my wife observes, and
she reaches up and slides a finger under one of the nightgown's
spaghetti shoulder straps and leisurely eases it along the fine slope
of her shoulder.  When she reaches the edge she flicks it idly down
her arm.

I draw a steadying breath.  That was one of the hottest things I've
seen her do in a long time.  Not just the hint at disrobing, which was
very well done, but also the implication behind it, that she's going
to reward me with a little more of herself.  I wonder how far she'll
take it.  I've always wanted to watch her do things to herself, to
pleasure herself, to make herself come, but she's never indulged me on
that score.  Then I realize how far ahead of myself I've gotten, how
much I've read into that one small movement of fabric.  I draw another
breath and continue my story.  "So, anyway, he's bought her a dress."

"Something slinky and sexy?" my wife asks.

"Not exactly.  More of a peasant-type dress.  A heavy cotton weave. 
Nearly ankle length, with wood buttons the size of quarters all the
way down the front."

My wife frowns.  "That's not sexy at all."

"It reminds him of a dress she used to own when they first began
dating."

"Oh," she says.  "That's better, then.  Memories can be very sexy." 
She slides the strap off her other shoulder.  Her nightgown is still
held in place by the shelf bra, but she looks oh-so-disheveled with
both straps akimbo.  She leans her head back against the wall and
closes her eyes as she strokes her neck lightly with her fingertips.

After a minute she says, "Are you going to continue?"

"I'm sorry," I say.  "I was watching you."

"I'm supposed to be an inspiration, not a distraction."

"I think you might be a little bit of both," I tell her, and then I go
on with my story.  "He's got a plan for the dress," I say.  "He wants
to take her to the movies and he thought of the dress because she gets
cold in theatres."

"She sounds a little like me," my wife observes.

"She's more or less like you.  The man's plan is to do things to her
while the movie's playing.  The buttons on the dress will make it
easier."

"Clever man," says my wife.  "Just like you."  She shimmies her
shoulders and despite the elastic in the nightgown's torso, it slips a
bit, revealing the softening at the tops of her breasts and the tip of
her cleavage.

I'm clicking away on the keyboard, trying to bang out the story's
set-up, wanting to get it all down as quickly as possible.  When I
pause to think, my wife asks, "Does the woman know anything's up?"

"He plans to surprise her."

"It might make it even spicier if he tells her he has something in
store for her, but he doesn't tell her what it is."

"You mean, make her wonder."

"If she was anything like me," says my wife with a distant smile
playing at the edges of her lips, "the knowing and not knowing, the
wondering, might be positively titillating."

"I'll write that in," I say, going back to the keyboard.

"I was hoping you'd say that," she breathes, and the hand that had
been toying at her neck slides slowly down until her fingers have
disappeared inside the fabric at the top of her nightgown.  I can't
see her precise movements, but when she withdraws her hand again, I
can plainly see the effect.  Her left nipple is proudly outlined
against the dark fabric.  She hooks her thumbs inside the top of the
nightgown and peels it down to her stomach, and her breasts spring
into view.  The left nipple she has just been teasing is obviously
already hard, but some combination of excitement at what she's doing
and the cool fresh air causes her right nipple to begin to stand out,
as well.

My wife's breasts are smaller and less buoyant than they once were. 
They are the breasts of a woman who has given of herself to nourish
two infants and has paid the price in the way gravity now pulls at her
body, but they are nonetheless perfect complements to the figure she
has earned both through childbearing and through hard work after
childbearing to prove that she is still a woman worthy of desire and
attention.  And through it all her nipples have remained as sprightly
as ever, happy to announce themselves at the least provocation.  Right
now, it's all I can do to keep from bending forward to take the right
nipple into my mouth and suck and pull and nibble and lick at it until
it is even more rapt than the one my wife toyed with a minute ago.

"You've gotten distracted again," she says, crossing her arms, palms
open across her breasts, hiding them from me.  With her arms and legs
crossed as they are, she looks almost like she's meditating.  Her eyes
are still closed.

"Right," I say, getting back to it.  For a few minutes there's nothing
but the sound of my typing.  At some point my wife removes her hands
from her breasts and resumes idly tracing her body, this time along
her stomach and all across her ribcage.

"What's happening now?" she asks a minute later.

"They're in the movie," I tell her.  "The man has been teasing her
with kisses on her face and neck.  The woman likes it, but her mind is
racing ahead, wondering what is coming next."

"Uh huh," my wife says.  "What movie are they at?"

"Oh, well, I hadn't thought to get specific, but if it matters, I'm
open to suggestions."

"Anything with Tom Cruise," says my wife dreamily.  "He could probably
do just about anything to her if he took her to a Tom Cruise movie."

"Tom Cruise, it is," I agree.

"Yeah," says my wife, and now her exploration has gotten more bold,
circling her breasts, and I wonder why she has been so reticent to
show this to me before.  She is touching herself with great tenderness
but an increasing sense of purpose.  I have to remind myself to get
back to the story before she admonishes me again.

"He's about ready to make his move," I announce a few minutes later.

"Is he going for the buttons on the dress?" asks my wife in a tone
betraying some eagerness.

"Not yet," I say with a grin.  "He's just whispered in her ear."

"What did he say?" she asks when I don't immediately continue.

"He's just told her we wants her to go to the bathroom, and when she
returns, she is to give her underwear to him."

"Oooh," my wife breathes.  "That's so devilishly clever of him."

"It rachets up the blood that she can already hear beating in her
ear."

"I'll say it does," my wife says as she uses her tongue to moisten her
bottom lip.  She begins flicking one nipple beneath her fingertip,
playing absently with the way it springs resolutely back into place
each time she lets go of it.

"Whew," I say, biting my own lip now.  "OK.  So, she's back."

"Not so fast.  She should linger a little while.  She needs to mess
with him a little bit like he's messing with her."

"As if she's trying to make up her mind what she should do," I say. 
"Yes.  Let me add that bit."  I type a little and say, "He's got his
own problems anyway, because he's got himself all turned on after so
much thinking and planning."

"Poor thing.  Is he feeling constrained in his britches?"

"I'll say."

For the first time since she mounted the desk, my wife uncrosses her
legs.  She reaches out with one foot and puts it straightaway on my
crotch.  "I see he's not the only one who got himself all turned on,"
she remarks with a smile as her foot moves slowly up and down the
outside of my pants, following the length of my already very erect
cock.

"I think you're breaking the rules," I say, although I don't want her
to stop.

She applies a little bit of painful pressure with her foot.  "The rule
is you can't touch me.  I can do what I like."  But then she withdraws
her foot anyway.  "Too bad you get distracted so easily."

"OK," I say, typing furiously.  "Just for that, she's back.  She's
handed him her panties and he's discreetly unfastened two of her dress
buttons and slipped his hand in between her legs."

"What's she doing?"

"She's curious and nervous and aroused.  She's looking around to see
if any of the other few people in the theater notice anything's
happening.  She's holding her breath as she feels his fingers tickling
their way up her thighs, and she forces herself to look at the sexy
actor on the screen just to keep herself from screaming when he
finally makes contact with her aching sex."

"Is that what you wrote?  'Aching sex?'"

"Do you have a better description?"

After her foot tease, my wife found a new position.  Now her legs form
a diamond, the soles of her feet placed against one another, knees
laid flat against the solid wooden surface of the desk.  She raises
the hem of her nightgown--now it is gathered completely around her
stomach--and one of her hands rests against her thigh and begins the
same kind of feathery exploration she started with up top a few
minutes ago.  "Keep writing," she says, "and I'll let you know if
'aching sex' works for me or not."  The way her legs have fallen apart
has left only the intricate lace pattern of her underwear to conceal
her sex, aching or not.

"He's there," I say, resuming my work.  "He's touching her pussy right
there in the theater, in public, and he knew she would be wet, and she
is, maybe even more so than he expected."  I pause to follow my wife's
hand's journey up toward the outline of her underwear.  "Her lips open
almost of their own accord," I say, "and when he makes an exploratory
shot up to her clit, he's surprised at how engorged it already is."

"She's ripe," my wife says.

"Yeah," I say, typing.  "Succulent."

"Succulent," my wife repeats, and then her hands skip across the lace
fabric and come to rest directly on her pussy.  Her fingers begin
moving again, this time up and down the front of her underwear,
lightly at first, then, I can see her applying a little more pressure,
the fabric creasing a little bit as she drags a path between her own
labia.  A pink flush of excitement has begun to creep across her
torso, coloring her shoulders and neck her rising and falling breasts.
 Even though her hands have gone away, her nipples continue to betray
her state.  "OK," she says at last, her fingers continuing to push and
pull across the lacy fabric at her crotch, "aching sex.  I concur. 
Now type."

"OK," I say, wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs.  "The woman spreads
her legs a little more as he presses a finger inside her, and he can
hear the ragged sound of her breath when he adds a second finger to
the first.  And even though she's aware that other people are around,
she moans audibly when he strokes her clit with his thumb as he's
finger fucking her."

"You're making that all one word, right that word, right? 
Fingerfucking.  Not: Finger.  Fucking.  Fingerfucking."  She has
zeroed in on one area that I can only guess is where the lace meets
her clit.  She is dancing all around that area.

"Fingerfucking," I say, backspacing and retyping.  Then I type some
more and say, "But he's afraid she'll come too soon, and that will
ruin the real surprise, so he pulls out of her."

"That is a disappointment," my wife observes, but I notice she does
not slow her diddling.

"She is disappointed," I say.  "But a moment later his hand is back in
between her legs.  She's excited but then she's alarmed all over
again, because the thing he's pressing into her isn't his fingers."

"Not a dildo," my wife groans.  "That is totally lame in this story."

"Not a dildo," I reassure her.  "Something round."

"Oh," my wife gasps, and her other had falls to her crotch.

"She squirms," I say, watching my wife squirm a little, probably
unaware she matched my action.  "But then it pops past her entrance
and she feels her cunt forming a welcome around it."

"What is it?" my wife asks, her second hand poised at the edge of her
underwear.

"A ball.  But not just one ball."

"Two balls," she says.

"Two balls," I confirm.  "He pops the second one in with less trouble
that the first."

Slowly, my wife begins to draw the fabric of her underwear aside,
revealing the lustrous pink sweetness of her own arousal.  "So she's
let him strip her panties, feel her up, and now get sex balls inside
her, all in a public place," he says as she pulls the curtain aside. 
"That should spice up a love life in a rut."

"They're just like our sex balls," I say.

"Which ones?" she asks as one hand holds her underwear aside while the
other begins traipsing along the pouty lips of her gloriously exposed
pussy.

I begin typing again.  "She's very excited by all of this," I say as I
write.  "She hopes he'll play with her clit and let her come with the
big balls inside her."

"Every girl likes to have something big and hard to clamp down around
when she comes," my wife says with a sigh.  Her head is listing to one
side, her eyes still closed.

"It will be just a little bit better than that."

"Really?  How?"

"Because he flicks the control on the other end of the line that
connects the balls and suddenly they buzz into life, vibrating wildly
against her inner walls."

"Oh, shit!" My wife exclaims.  "You mean *those* balls!"

"She squeals so loudly a few heads turn, but apparently they just
think she's into the movie."

"Is it a hot sex scene?" she asks, and I see that she's gotten bolder
in her strokes.  One of her fingertips has now disappeared between the
enfolding wings of her cunt.

"Of course," I say.  "He's timed it out just right.  So now she's
practically squirming in her seat with the happy balls working inside,
even though he's not even touching her with his fingers right now."

"Is he trying to torture her?" my wife gasps, trying to compensate for
the man's withheld attention by adding a second eager finger to her
exploration.

"It's torture on him, too," I remind her.  "He's afraid just the
contact of his pants against his erection will be enough to make him
come."

"Is that the author being too close to his story?" she asks.

"I'm afraid so."

"Then maybe you'd better take your clothes off," she suggests.  "You
should be naked to finish your story."

It takes only a few seconds for me to whip my pants and shirt off. 
While I do she shimmies free of her underwear, leaving only the
forgotten nightgown loose around her middle.

"That's sooo much better," she coos, eyeing my erection with hunger. 
She reaches out again, this time with both feet, one on either side of
my cock.  I buck and moan as she slides her feet from base to head and
back again.

"Do you want me to come?" I ask her, already feeling the sharp pang of
orgasm gathering in my balls.

She takes her feet away and bounces my testicles lightly with her
toes.  "I want you to *want* to come like anything," she says,
enjoying the way my balls move under her toe commands, and the way it
makes me dance with pleasure and pain.

"I'm already at that point," I assure her, eyeing with hunger her now
naked cunt.

She removes her feet altogether, placing them sole to sole again in
front of her.  "Then you'd better sit back down and get to the end of
the damn story before we both have meltdowns."

I sit, my skin tingling to the touch of the leather chair along my
ass.  I spread my legs a little so my balls will hang down and touch
the leather, as well.  I am hungry for just about any touch at this
point.

"OK," I say, swallowing to moisten my parched throat.  "He just teases
her for a while, letting the balls hum inside her, varying the tempo,
then cutting them off for minutes at a time."

"Minutes?" my wife asks, aghast.

"She's so confused with sensation that her head is swimming.  He's
drawn her out like a fine bowstring over a violin.  But he's drawn
himself out, too, and finally he can't resist anymore, so he finds his
way in between her legs with busy fingers, plunging into her to prod
the balls around in her electrifying warm wetness, then quickly making
his way to her clit, and, oh my God, it is so fucking round and
swollen."

"Like this?" my wife asks, and pulls two fingers up in an A shape on
either side of her clitoral hood, peeling the skin back and revealing
the swelling of her own engorged clit.

"Exactly like that," I say, and it's all I can do to refrain from
diving forward on the deck to gobble that luscious opalescent bud into
my mouth and feast on its juiciness until it makes my wife burst in a
wild shower of orgasm.

"Then it won't take long," she says in a low moan, and without any
further exploratory teasing, she dives in with both hands, holding
herself open with one and strumming furiously at her clit.  I watch it
quiver and dance beneath her expert ministrations, and I wonder again
why someone who could be so passionate about herself had always been
so reluctant to show that to me.

I don't have time to ponder very long, though, and I resume my work,
typing now towards the end of the story, describing to my wife how the
man's fingers jitterbug on her clitoris and how the balls have gone
crazy inside her and she feels like all her secret places are alight
with a million buzzing honeybees mad for her nectar, blind lust drunk
in service to the clit queen, who finally orchestrates the entire
swarming cacophony into a drenching climax that washes through her
body in waves of delight.

And as I'm typing and telling how she comes, I'm not looking at my
keyboard or at my computer screen.  My eyes are fixed on my wife,
who's ecstasy has linked up with the woman I'm describing, and my wife
gasps quick breaths and I see all of her muscles form into sculpted
bunches and her fingers tremble on her clit and her throat closes her
moans down into desperate sobs, and she remains for a moment so frozen
that she is like an exquisite sculpture of bliss as she shows me what
it's like when she makes herself come.  She's coming, her body taut
with orgasm, and I know from all our years together that what I'm
seeing on the outside is only an echo of what's happening inside,
because I love the indescribable feeling of her pussy clamping down
around my fingers or my cock in desperate spasms when she comes.

"Ah, God," she gasps at last, and goes limp against the wall, her
hands fallen limply against her thighs.  When she opens her eyes after
a moment I expect to see her drowsy with denouement, but instead her
eyes are clear and shining with accomplishment, her mouth turned up in
triumph, and it is only at that moment that I realize how much
inhibition she had to overcome to do what she's just done.

She releases a long breath and says, "Happy tenth anniversary.  I'm
sorry I came before the end of the story."

"It was an awesome anniversary gift, and no, you didn't jump the gun. 
That was the end of the story."

"But there's nothing about what happens afterward."

"I guess that's left up to the reader to infer."

She doesn't say anything.  She just slides forward across the desk and
climbs back into my lap, this time facing me, positioning herself
above my erection, using one hand to guide me to her entrance and
settling herself slowly down until I am fully encompassed in her
welcoming inside, my penis snug in its faithful home.  She puts her
arms around my neck and nestles her face against me.

I embrace her, loving the slick sheen of sweat that slickens her skin
after her exertion.  Shivering aftershocks of her orgasm still cause
her inner muscles to twitch, and each one is like a bright spark
pinging my cock.

We rest together quietly for a moment before I have to ask her the
question that's been bugging me all evening.  "How come you've
resisted doing that for so long?  I mean, I was watching you and it
was so obvious that you know how to please yourself.  It was one of
the most awesome things I've ever seen."

"We've only been married ten years," she says in a chiding tone. 
"That's only just getting started.  Who knows how many more secrets
I'll choose to reveal over time?"

"Wow," I say, thrusting once up into her.  "I can't wait for twenty
years, or even thirty or forty."

She begins to move slowly along the length of my cock.  "How about
let's not look so far ahead we lose sight of right now?"

"You're right," I say, loving what she's doing, the way she's moving,
the way she loves and pleases me, even ten years into it.  And
thinking about that, I grip her tightly against me so that there's no
space between us as I arch my back and come inside her, filling her
with my semen as she holds herself sweetly against me.

Afterwards, neither of us wants to move for a while, and it is only
when we both begin to cramp up from our position in the chair that we
finally disentangle and move to the bed.  I spoon against her and hold
her.  Her breathing becomes regular and I think she is asleep, but a
minute later she speaks drowsily, saying, "The ending to your story
was too abrupt."

"I didn't really know what would happen after that," I confess.

"You need to find out."

"What do you mean?"

"Buy me a long dress with buttons down the front," she says, her voice
losing the battle with sleep.  "Take me to a movie.  Then write the
rest."

Her body gives one last twitch of relaxation and she is gone into
sleep, but suddenly I am wide awake with anticipation of things to
come.  And isn't it nice, I think to myself as I hold her while she
sleeps.  Isn't it lovely to be so lucky, ten years in, to be filled
with wonder and excitement at all the delightful things to come?

THE END

Walt9899
August 7, 2003

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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