Paul ended the call with a “I’ll be back in town late afternoon tomorrow. Roast chicken would be good.” No “I love you” or even “I miss you.” Was I now simply the good reverend’s cook?
Some background:
We met eleven years ago in Cincinnati. Paul was a theology student at Concordia Seminary, hoping to become an Anglican pastor. I was a junior majoring in elementary education and attending St. Catherine’s, just across the street. I was a good Catholic girl and he, holier than thou.
We met on a blind date, had a whirlwind romance, and were married nine months later. No, I was not pregnant. That would have been near impossible since I was a virgin and we both agreed to abstain from premarital sex. To my chagrin, Paul considered French missing and even light petting to be verboten. I should have seen the signals, but I was in love.
My sexual experience prior to marriage was pretty minimal. Both junior and senior high were at an all-girls parochial school. We had sex-ed classes; but since taught by a nun, were pathetic. The emphasis was on abstinence and avoidance of STDs.
At sleepovers and after lights out, my BFF Caroline and I would lie in our respective beds and talk about boys. The discussions were plain vanilla and centered around who was cute in the neighborhood, who had gotten their driver's license, and who was going out with whom. All this changed when the gossipmongers at school spilled the beans.
Every school has “that kinda girl.” In the case of St. Rita’s, it was Carla Dipretoro. She transferred in our senior year. Word was she had been expelled from Kirby Prep; but no one knew why. I was captivated by her from day one (no, not the gay kind of way!). She was a seventeen-year-old version of Amy Winehouse: teased jet-black hair, tons of gummy eyeliner, and an attitude.
The word got around that Carla was a skank when it came to boys. Each day at three-thirty, she’d walk out the front door, roll up the waistband of her plaid skirt to mid-thigh, light up a Marlboro and check out the boys driving by from Chaminade, two blocks south.
It didn’t take long for the rumor mills to get fired up: Carla was dating several boys from Chaminade at once!
Caroline was once again at our house for a sleepover and once again we were in the dark under the sheets. “I know the story,” she offered.
“What story?”
“About what Carla has been doing in the restroom by the soccer field. Guys from Chaminade line up and she gets down on her knees. She kisses the pee slit of their penises.”
I snorted a laugh and pulled the covers over my head. “Why?” I queried.
In between bouts of donkey-like braying, Caroline concluded, “You’ll have to ask her.”
Back to the present:
In retrospect, sex with Paul over the last decade has been boring and unfulfilling. I tried for years to interject spice into the bedroom, but the response from him was lukewarm to non-existent. In a nutshell, we have what he calls “relations” two or three times a month and his technique hasn’t changed since our wedding night. He turns off all lights and joins me in bed. Without a kiss or even a hug, he first cups my left breast with his hand for fifteen seconds, at most. He always just rolls to the left and gets up on his knees to make it presumably easier to remove my pajama bottoms.
Paul has never eaten my pussy and I have never sucked his cock (or anyone else’s). Without a fine howdy-do, he always mounts me in the missionary position and forces his dinky four or five inches into my dry vagina. Paul pumps a couple times, grunts as he ejaculates and falls forward onto my chest. This more intimate body contact is brief and without a single word uttered. Paul just pulls out and hits the shower.
As one might surmise, I have not had a single orgasm during our poor excuse for love-making. That is not to say I don’t have them. It’s just that they occur in the solitude of the shower.
My daily routine is pretty simple. I get out of bed, don an oversized fleecy robe and brush my teeth. I put on a pot of coffee and hand Paul a go-cup as he walks out the door. If I’m lucky, he’ll thank me.
I head back to the bedroom with en suite and usually turn on some soft classical music. Cello pieces are my favorite. I actually OPEN the drapes. I like to watch myself undress in the full-length mirror in the corner. I drop the robe and look at my silky pajama-clad body. My nipples are hard and tent the fabric. It’s impossible to keep my fingers off them. I roll each nip between thumbs and index fingers, using the silk for lubricant.
I shut my eyes. I usually drop my right hand lightly down my chest and belly to that humid area between my thighs. I move my left hand to my face, drifting the fingers gently over my parting lips. The tip of my tongue contacts the tip of my thumb. I suck in and out; fantasizing about a beautiful, thick, and long cock violating my virgin mouth.
This routine typically brings about an earth-shattering orgasm within minutes.
After catching my breath I pry my hand from between my shaking thighs, strip, and head to the shower. I always pause and admire my body. Although Paul doesn’t appreciate it, I know I have a sexy physique. I haven’t gained a single pound during our marriage and I run every day. As I turn to approach the shower, I see my flat belly, my full ginger bush, and half-inch nipples set impossibly high upon moderately pendulous 34 Ds.
I take long showers. It takes several minutes to shampoo, rinse, condition and repeat rinse my medium-length red mop. I Aveeno my face, neck, and shoulders; stalling for time. I want to experience another orgasm, but I know if I try to cum too soon, my clitoris might balk.
What works best is to simply close my eyes, take deep breaths and allow the flowing warm water to relax my body. When fully recovered, I pump a liberal amount of body gel into each hand. I start washing under my armpits, then slip my soapy fingers over my breasts and erect nipples. I lightly circle each nip with my middle “social” fingers. It’s impossible not to tweak, pinch and then pull my sensitive pokies.
I move my hands down my slick belly, bypassing my pubis and then wash my legs; first moving downward, then slowly progressing up my inner thighs to my waiting pouty lips. With my right index, long and ring fingers; I make circles over my clit. With my left index and long digits, I stimulate the thin inner labia. Involuntarily my social finger slips into my moist pussy, curling to stimulate my small, rough G-spot.
As I pick up the pace of my clitoral abuse (adding pressure), I simultaneously finger-fuck my twat. Just as I approach the point of no return, I pull my long finger out of my love canal and forcefully penetrate my puckering anus. My orgasms become nearly incapacitating.
Today:
I sat looking at my cellphone. I was sick of Paul. I yearned for affection and I craved sexual stimulation. I sighed. What came to mind was “Wishing in one hand and pooping in the other, seeing which filled up first.”
I needed a drink. I looked at the clock above the frig: 3:30 pm. I wasn’t usually a day drinker, but it must be five somewhere.
Two Sauvignon Blancs down the hatch and I was feeling melllloooow. I entertained the idea of heading to the shower for a second go-round but hesitated. Did I want to fantasize about a hot man with a stiff cock or did I want the real thing. I opted for the latter.
I did take a quick and cold shower to get freshened up for what I hoped would be a rewarding evening. It took all my willpower to keep my fingers off my pussy.
I toweled off and wrapped my torso in the terrycloth. Sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed, I applied Jergens lotion from my feet, up my legs to just below my labia. I avoided touching myself, but there was no denying the genital tingle that signaled my arousal. I finished by painting my nails a very pale pearly pink to match my fingernails.
I took the half-dozen steps into the bathroom to apply what I consider a minimal amount of makeup. I applied thin eyeliners, plus smoky green eyeshadow. I picked a lipstick to match my nails. I bent over and brushed out my mop. That was it.
I dropped my towel. I liked what I saw. I hoped to find a stud who agreed.
Lastly, I applied a small spray of Gucci Flora to my wrists, neck and carrot-colored landing strip.
What to wear? I surveyed the contents of my walk-in closet. There were mom jeans, boring teacher tops, sack-like shifts and pair after pair of brown or black flats. I selected my one and only pair of CFMs (come fuck me’s): open-toed platforms with four-inch heels.