index


Message-ID: <47928asstr$1085109004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Teasing by Vickie Tern 2/9 TG femdom
Lines: 445
Date: Thu, 20 May 2004 23:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Teasing by Vickie Tern 2/9 TG femdom hum



Two


It went like that for weeks, months.  Tara was different.  Somehow
much more self-confident, less inclined to ask my advice about
household or business matters, less inclined to tell me about her
day, more inclined to expect that I'd agree with her whenever she
uttered an opinion on anything.  Our sex was never better.  It was
sweet, furious, intense, extended, and exhausting.  Now that she'd
found a switch that invariably turned me on, now that she knew how
to harden me up for whenever she wanted more, she wanted more
repeatedly.  

She'd cry out different men's names, sometimes while urging me to
shift position sliding inside her, always at the height of her
climaxes.  Often furiously, as if she resented that person and her
own need the very moment he was providing her the greatest
satisfaction.  Never tenderly, that was reserved for me, for
Patrick, her husband, afterward.  Her ride on my cock was more
frenzied than ever, and my plunging into her got more rampant, more
desperate.  But we always ended with the same face-sitting, when
she'd appreciate me lovingly by my own name, even stroke my
cum-streaked cheeks as I nibbled and nursed and licked my own cum
-- by different men's names -- out of her pussy.  

She loved these new things we were doing, and I got used to them. 
I even began to enjoy eating her after we'd made love, and more
than just because she loved to see me do it.  Licking her soft,
warm, salty wet, puffy creases and folds was sweet, delicious.  My
own cum wasn't at all bad tasting after a while.  It was pleasant. 
I got to enjoy the slick-coating it left on my mouth and tongue,
even the crust tugging on my eyebrows when I woke up the next
morning.  It was the last thing I tasted before going to sleep, and
the first thing on waking up.  It was the taste of the day.

She changed the scenario subtly one night.  We were both sated,
settling in and snuggling, and I was almost asleep when she said
drowsily, "You are just great, lover.  My husband could never have
done that."

This was a cue of some kind.  I waited.  "Oh?" I said finally.

"No way.  One fuck and he's down and gone.  But you just don't
quit!  And you know something else I found out recently about my
husband?  My so-called husband, that so-called man who can't ever
really satisfy me the way you do?"

"No, what?"

"He's not really a man.  He's a weak-willed wimp.  He submits to
anything I ask.  I've begun wondering whether deep down under he's
really gay.  Maybe a repressed homosexual."

What was she up to?  "Why do you say that?"

"Well, I tell him I'm sleeping with other men, and he never says
anything about it.  He wants me to sleep with other men, I think. 
He likes the idea.  It excites him!"

"Oh?"  

Tara turned to face me, looking straight at me with that faint
smile of hers.  "Yes, his cock loves it.  His cock knows that my
other men are much better than he is.  That they can do all sorts
of things he can't.  Stiffen up and stand tall and ram into me till
we both keep cumming, bring me to such ecstasy I can't stop
shrieking for joy!  Then do it again, and then again!  He doesn't
mind.  He isn't the least bit jealous!"

She was up to something I didn't understand.  I had to play along. 


"He isn't jealous?  It doesn't make him unhappy?"

A quick amused gleam came into Tara's eyes.  

"Well, of course, in a way.  But he's never mentioned it.  He knows
it makes me happy to go to bed with better men, I think, and that's
why he lets me.  He loves me, he wants me to be happy, how else can
I explain it?  He does, you know."  She paused, and waited for a
response.  And waited.  Finally I realized I had to say something.

"I suppose so," I said.  "I suppose he does love you and want you
to be happy."

"Yes," she affirmed, satisfied.  "And you know something else?"

"What?"    

"I don't think it's jealousy he feels.  I think it's envy.  When he
sees how I am with those other men, I'm sure he'd like to feel that
way too."

"Feel the way your men feel when they're making love to you?"

"No, silly!  Feel what I feel!  Enjoy a man's rapturous embrace,
feel that strong, swollen thing pulsing inside his own body, feel
it spreading that slippery warmth that's just too lovely for words.
Just too lovely!  Think about it!"

Talk about twisted?  I felt a touch offended.  Did she believe it? 
Plainly, she wanted me to try the idea on for size.  "Why do you
think that?"

"Well, first of all, he never knows what I'm really up to during
the day, when he thinks I'm working.  He never asks and I never
tell him.  I think he's afraid to ask.  He thinks maybe I'm
spending day after day going from man to man, getting my pussy
filled up by one after the other.  But he doesn't want to know for
sure.  Maybe because he feels jealousy and envy both, and can't
handle it.  But at night it's different."

"How?  What about at night?"  

"At night he watches me make love to other men, he's right there
the whole time.  When I get into bed with my lovers and I embrace
them, he can't bear to stay downstairs and just imagine that it's
happening, or to go out for a newspaper or something and stay away
until we're finished.  He has to come into my room with us, even
into my bed!  He'll watch me make love two, three times a night. 
He gets off on it.  I know that.  He even puts them into me, and
when each of the men I'm with cums, he cums too!  While watching
us!  Every time!"

I was silent.  There was an odd truth inside this improvised
version of our lovemaking, one I wasn't sure I wanted to
acknowledge, though I couldn't deny it.  I had to play along.

"So?  You're telling me that he gets voyeuristic kicks from
watching you make love?  No big deal, lots of people do, that's why
lots of loving couples put mirrors on their ceilings, on wardrobes
across the way, on walls surrounding their beds, all over.  Maybe
when you're making it with someone he's imagining that he's really
your lover, that he's the man who's enjoying you, vicariously
maybe."   

"No!  How could that be?  What sort of man would make love to his
own wife as if he were some other man.  Make himself into his own
cuckold, humiliate himself?  No, it has to be that he's imagining
he's me with those men!  He's gay.  Maybe even one of those
transsexuals, men who want to be women."

I didn't want to argue.  I wanted to drift off to sleep, and this
whole topic was uncomfortable.  "Maybe," I murmured, to end the
discussion.

Tara paused, as if surprised that I'd said that.  I opened my eyes
and saw her looking at me intently, genuinely curious.  And I saw
what had happened.  She'd been testing out one more way to tease
me, maybe, not really expecting me to pick up on it.  But I hadn't
foreclosed it.  Maybe she'd struck a glint of gold, another vein of
perversity in me, something I could never acknowledge even to
myself, certainly never to her?   She inclined her head ever so
slightly, lovingly, as if grateful to me for revealing a terribly
intimate confidence of some sort.  Then she resumed, playing with
the notion luxuriously..

"Of course!  I don't even need to ask him.  My husband the pansy
girl!  My dear little swish!  I've never understood why men don't
feel about each other the way women feel about them!  But I can
understand how he feels!  Maybe he married me in full flight from
his own homosexual yearnings and now he can't resist them any
longer!  That must be it!  Because you know something?"

"No, what?"

"Afterward, when my lovers have gone and I'm back in bed with my
little faggoty husband Patrick, you won't believe this!  He drinks
their leavings!  He loves it!  He slurps up and licks and swallows
all their semen."  She closed her eyes and smiled to herself, now
in a relaxed, post-coital glow.  "He adores sperm!  Its taste in
his mouth, its feel on his face and in his belly!  Because when I'm
done with whoever I'm with, I always sit on Patrick's face and feed
him everything that's been pumped into my pussy.  And he licks and
slurps and sucks it all down like a good little boy licking a
melting ice cream cone, trying to swallow every drop.  His face
gets all covered with it, and he doesn't even notice!  He's in
seventh heaven, on another planet!  What do you think of that?"  

I had nothing to say.  For some reason that pleased her.

"My poor Patrick!  He can't face the fact that he's gay, that he
wants a man of his very own, he wants to fall to his knees and suck
on a hot cock with his own mouth, and feel one sliding in and out
of his own bum.  So he uses my men indirectly.  He has sex with my
lovers at one remove.  Isn't that likely?"

How could I deprive her of this riff she was riding?  "Maybe," I
said.  

She smiled at my complicity.  "Maybe?  No maybe!  It's such a
thrill for him to know how a real man makes me happy, that
afterward he brings me off two or three times more with his tongue. 
He can't have those men, so he enjoys them though me!  He's
satisfied that I'm satisfied.  Don't you think that's true?"

I couldn't deny the substantial truth in that last.  "Yes, that
much is likely," I replied.

She was pleased by that.  "Yes.  He loves me.  He's such a dear
little man, even though it's harder each day for me to think of him
as a man.  He's something else, we'll have to find out what else,
give him every opportunity to come out of himself.  But I do love
him.  Very very much!"

She paused.  Then asked in a quiet voice, "How do you feel, honey?"

This wasn't playful.  She wanted honesty.  

"That you love me?  Happy.  Very happy."  But my voice sounded
troubled.

"No, I mean about the rest."

"Uneasy.  A little frightened.  Helpless, even.  Demeaned.  And
that's not right, I shouldn't feel demeaned because I'm your lover. 
Nor demeaned by being gay, even if I were, which I'm not.  Should
I?"

"No, sweetheart."  I couldn't read her voice.  Did she think I was
confessing something?  "Not if I enjoy having a lover.  Not if you
enjoy being gay.  Do you find what we're doing now exciting, too?"

"Yes."  I couldn't deny it.

She kissed me gently, satisfied.  "Good!  G'night now, baby, let's
sleep."

Well, I couldn't.  Not for a long while, after that.  Because I
couldn't be sure any more if this was still play acting, something
we did together.  Had she really been fucking different men in her
own mind, using my body as a handy facsimile of each?  Or worse,
each time we made love, was she reliving the day's actual
lovemaking with another man?  The fact was, now I didn't feel like
her game-playing partner any more.  I felt instead like a husband
helplessly watching her enjoy her real lovers and then because I
love her, because I want her to be happy, helplessly cleaning up
after them.  Why wasn't I jealous?  Did she really think I like sex
with men?  Was she testing me for that idea?  That what I really
wanted was to be her?  The idea wasn't at all pleasant, except for
the fact that it pleased her.  Maybe.  

She'd mindfucked me all right.  From then on, whenever she seemed
to be using my body to pleasure herself, I'd feel it was really
someone else's body.  I couldn't help it.  I witnessed her
infidelities night after night and said nothing.  That was how she
wanted it.  I shared a bed with Tara and Steve and Tara and Brian
and Tara and Scott, all of her other lovers, and at the height of
their passion, when she was writhing on me or under me in the most
racking of orgasms, I sometimes actually found myself wishing I'd
been the one who'd brought her off!

She sensed how I now felt separated from her, and she began to
explore those possibilities in our relationship.  She took charge
of our sessions altogether.  She gave her cuntsucking, cumsucking,
submissive, maybe gay husband an additional duty.  When she got
home from work, sometimes she'd walk into the living room and call
me from my alcove.  Then when I'd arrive and was standing there,
waiting, she'd pull off her panties and sit bare-bottomed on the
couch, and spread her knees, and tell me, "Clean me up!"   Clean up
what?  And then she'd lean back and close her eyes, confident that
I'd follow her orders.  

And I would.  I'd kneel devotedly between her legs and do just
that.  Because she wanted it.  And now -- I just couldn't help it,
each time I found I was tasting her delicately for evidence of ...
someone else.  Some other man in her life.  I'd accepted that she
just might well be unfaithful to me.  It drove me wild.

She knew.  She'd watch me lick her labia and dip my tongue into her
snatch, feeling for something viscous that was never there, and
she'd be amused.  Sometimes she'd even console me, "Nothing this
time?  Maybe it all dripped out before I got here?  Maybe I
douched?  Don't be impatient, maybe soon, sweetie!  I know what you
want!"  

It was much worse on days when she'd arrive home and then not ask
me to lick her pussy.  Then I really could believe that some man
had squirted spunk into her and that she didn't want me to know for
certain, not just yet.  I'd stare at her crotch, wondering if her
panties were sticky, or if she even wore any.  I'd pull them out of
the laundry hamper and inspect them, and I'd feel desolated when
she'd strip them off and hand-wash them before I could see for
myself what had leaked into the crotch.  I'd try to read some kind
of meaning in the satisfied way she'd look at me every time I
looked at her.  Some evenings I couldn't look away!  She'd notice
and smile in deep satisfaction.  Once she asked me in a soft voice
as I studied her, "Happy, love?"  I suppose she thought I was. 
Maybe I was?

There was something else too.  She'd almost never previously given
me blow jobs, only maybe as a special treat on an anniversary or a
birthday.  There was nothing at all in it for her, she'd tell me. 
She knew how devotedly I kissed her quim, but she felt nothing like
that whenever my penis was in her mouth.  

But now she loved it!  When teasing failed to reawaken my ardor for
a second or third round she'd solve the problem by taking her
lover's cock into her mouth and then sliding it in and out of that
warm, moist place until it hardened and she could sink it into her
pussy. "I never do this with my husband's cock," she'd sometimes
say. "But yours is so beautiful I can't keep from kissing it!" And
whenever she said that I'd go ramrod stiff.  

When she was mounted on my face afterward, my lips buried in hers,
or when we were both drifting to sleep, she'd talk on and on about
the pleasures of giving head.  As if trying to persuade me to try
it.  As if she felt challenged to bring out my supposed homosexual
yearnings, or if none emerged, to mock me.  "It's really lovely,
honey, making love to a man's cock, " she said.  "That purple head
feels so silky smooth on your lips, you can't possibly keep
yourself from licking it and sucking on it.  The liquor that seeps
out of that little eye in the tip?  You must try it!  Are you sure
you haven't?  Not even once?  Oh, my poor baby, you want to but
you're too frightened?" 

It was yet one more kinky tease.  Now and then she'd blow a
supposed lover to orgasm while I lay there watching them, because
there I was, waiting to taste his jism directly from her mouth,
still hot.  She'd tell me just that.  When I was nearing a climax,
rising and tensing, about to pump into her mouth, she'd cry out,
"Now comes the best part, for Patrick!"

Spurting was the best part for me, so at first I assumed that was
what she meant.  But when she'd transferred my sperm from her mouth
to mine, she'd murmur it again.  "Here you are, the best part!  A
man's sperm!  Sucking down sperm!  You'll be getting all you want
soon enough, all by yourself, just be patient sweetie.  I'm making
all the arrangements!"  

I told her I didn't understand what she meant by "the best part." 
She was surprised, or she pretended to be surprised.  "Why, you
know, baby!  Being so loving that your man just can't help it, he
goes rigid and swells up and then cums in your mouth!  Tasting each
fresh spurt is the best part!  Swallowing it down!  Licking that
last drop!  Soon enough you won't need my help!  Just be patient!" 


Soon enough I'd be sucking someone's cock on my own?  That gay
thing again?  I decided to let it alone.  She had her fantasies.

Her vocabulary widened.  She'd always been embarrassed to use
four-letter words, always maintained a prim decorum when discussing
sex.  But now she'd tell me how she adored being a "loving cunt" to
her endless stream of lovers, how she wanted me to become the same
"sweet cock sucker" that she was, to share in her pleasure.  I
tried to feel gratified, since all her lovers were of course me and
all of their cocks were mine.  But could I ever be perfectly sure? 
My jealousy grew.  I couldn't help it!  She explained to me once
how she was proud of her husband, that he accepted his limitations,
his inadequate and undeserving prick, and was content just to lick
her "snatch" after another man had filled it.  Writhing blissfully
on my soaked face while I was slurping up blended cum, she cried
out in orgasmic joy, "Ahhh, sweetie, you do love cream pie, don't
you?  You love it!  Ahhhhh!"  Cream pie?  What had she been
reading?  Who'd been talking to her?

Afterward I asked her.  She just smiled and told me "You think
different men tell me those words?  Maybe.  Maybe it's only the
computer?  There're lots of stories on the Net about men just like
you, wannabe cuckolds and real ones too, men like you who get off
on their wives' supposed infidelities.  Married gay men who'd
rather be eating cock than pussy.  All sorts.  They eat cream pie
too, just like you!  I do wish I'd known about you years ago! 
Think of the fun we could have been having together!"   

Could I believe her?  I checked her laptop the next day while she
was out shopping, and sure enough, there was "alt.sex.cuckolds"
prominently  bookmarked.  That was reassuring, at least she wasn't
enlarging her vocabulary from actual experience!  I looked at the
"cuckolds" newsgroup to see what it was like.  Sure enough, there
were lots of women chatting about how they deceive their husbands
and then undeceive them, how to make them into helpless infants who
lie in their cribs sucking their thumbs while watching mommie get
fucked by a stud.  Lots of husbands were eating "cream pie" nightly
without even knowing it.  Was it all shared fantasy?  Were there
really such women?  Such self-betrayed men?  I scrolled back to the
top.

And there I saw it!  She'd posted a note to me with the subject
line "Tara to her Sweet Hubbie."  I opened it immediately.  

"Hi, Patrick sweetheart, I just knew you'd look here!  You see how
many husbands share your dreams?  Read and enjoy!  Oh yes, don't
expect me home too soon tonight.  This is so exciting!  I need to
see a man about this yearning I have to ... well, never mind.  Love
ya!"  

When she got home -- an hour late -- she went immediately to her
laptop and checked her log, and she was positively gleeful when she
saw I'd been there and that her message was marked "already read." 
She sashayed around the house for the next hour humming to herself
and looking at me delightedly.  I was tempted several times to ask
her to let me lick her pussy, please.  Please!  I had to know if
what I feared had actually happened.  

But did I want to know?  She knew I'd be indecisive, so she hummed
all the more loudly, but never once did she sit down where I could
fling myself at her snatch!  Finally, she started up the stairs,
commenting "Baby, I'm going to take a shower before dinner, I do
feel so very sticky down below!"  And she was gone.  And with her
my chance of knowing for certain.

When she came down she seemed dreamy,  She was wearing a sexy
negligee, and I thought to myself, tonight she'll use me as one of
her lovers for sure.

But I was disappointed.  After dinner an actual client called.  She
was instantly all business as she talked to him and reluctantly, I
was sure it was reluctantly, she told him she'd come out and look
at the site, at whatever was on his mind.  She changed quickly to
one of her "power" business suits.  These days I always noticed how
she dressed for work, whether prim or provocative.  This time it
was prim, all perfectly proper.  As she went out the door she
paused, looked over her shoulder at me, and then suddenly kicked up
a heel and tossed her head at me saucily, elated by the intent
uncertainty she saw in my face.  "I'm off to meet my man, now,
honey!" she said.  Then she was gone.  

When she returned she took my hand and led me directly to bed and
we fucked like goats for hours.  Me, Patrick, the two of us, not
Tara and one of her well-hung lovers.  That was so unusual it
disturbed me.  Had she actually done it this time with someone
else, so she was making it up to me?  With that thought I was near
despair!  I was sure of it!  Yet when I licked her, she tasted no
different, the same as always, just my cum inside her.  But a lot
of it.  Maybe not only mine?

A month more of this whipsaw treatment and I was helpless, trapped
inside layers of agonized doubts and suspicions, unable to conclude
anything at all.  I lived with agonized uncertainty and yet also a
hard-on that returned every time I wondered what she was doing.  I
told her that one evening, hoping she'd relieve my anxiety.  But
all she did was nod, smiling delightedly.  "Oh, good!  That's so
nice!  You do love it, don't you!  Look how hot it makes you!  The
more you think I fuck, the more we fuck! "  

That was true enough.  I think.

end 2/9
VickieTern@AOL.COM

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+