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.

I opened the chest of drawers to find a top and shorts. I dug to the bottom of each stack of folded clothes to find items I had purchased, but never (as the pastor’s wife) felt comfortable wearing. I found an off-white strapless crop top and a pair of bleached cutoffs. I selected neither bra nor panties.

I stood before the mirror. I almost didn’t recognize myself. In the platforms, I was now 5’ 10”. The calf musculature of my long runner’s legs was accentuated. The cutoffs were so short that all four pockets were visible; as were my ass cheeks. The crutch seam savagely separated my camel toes.

I rotated ninety degrees. My ample tits and erect nipples caused the bottom of the crop top to stand outward from my lower ribs and upper belly by at least three inches. My navel was visible.

Carla Dipretoro from high school came to mind, Yes, I looked skanky and yes, I was ready to suck some cock.

I locked the house from the garage and got into my Chrysler minivan before opening the overhead door. I was paranoid the neighbors would see me in my Carla clothes. My plan was to drive to the other side of town. I knew there were multiple restaurants and bars just off the highway by the airport.

I sat in the parking lot of the Branding Iron restaurant and nightclub. The lot was surprisingly full despite the time. I could see couples and a few singles of both genders leaving their pickups and walking in. Maybe early diners, I figured. Each time the door opened, the melodies of Keith or Brad or Miranda filtered out.

I told myself it was too early in the evening to drink and try for a hookup. Maybe I’d just go in for forty-five minutes, have one margarita and eat a burger. Who was I kidding?

I stepped out of the minivan, hid behind the door and adjusted my cutoffs out of my slit. Here goes, I thought.

The Branding Iron was huge: a third bar, a third sit-down restaurant and a third dance floor. I bypassed the high-school-aged hostess and found a stool at the short end of the L-shaped bar. I felt minimally more protected there and it afforded a view of the dance floor.

Within seconds a barmaid spied me and came over. “Evening, Babe. What’ll you have?”

I ordered my usual, a margarita on the rocks, no salt. She added, “It’s Happy Hour. Same price for a fishbowl as a standard.” How could I turn that down?

She returned with a frosted pee-the-bed-sized schooner that looked big enough to share at a table for four. She read my mind. “The ladies’ room is at the end of the hall.” She stuck her hand out. “My name’s Karla, with a K.” Huh, how ‘bout that, I thought. Carla.

I was about halfway into my margarita, when a handsome cowboy type sauntered over and sat down around the corner of the bar. To his credit, he left three stools (one on my side and two on his) between us. I know it’s crazy, but that simple act made me feel more comfortable.

Karla-with-a-K approached and queried, “What’s your pleasure, Big Boy?”

Kurt (as I would learn in five minutes) replied, “I’ll have what she’s drinking” and pointed toward me.

I could feel my cheeks flush. I couldn’t help, but wonder whether KwaK would point out the men’s restroom when she returned.

Kurt took two big gulps of his drink, set the glass down and looked over. “I’m Kurt. I’d shake your hand, but my arm’s not that long.”

That had to be the stupidest pickup line ever; but I smiled and responded, “Would it help if you sat here?” I patted the adjacent stool.”

We made light conversation and sipped our drinks. Kurt asked me to dance when Waylon’s “Good Hearted Woman” was played. He put his hands around my torso and onto the bare skin of my back. I put mine around his neck. We were a good match. Me at 5’ 10” in my CFMs and he at around 6’ 2” in his Tecovas. Kurt shifted to the side slightly, so that his right thigh was between mine. I instinctively moved my pelvis closer, effectively with my bony pubis riding his upper leg. I knew he was aroused. He took in a deep breath when I initially ground my pussy against his leg and his neck was getting sweaty. The real telltale was an immense erection straining the buttons of his 501s.

We remained in a clinch, despite the music having stopped. I was looking up into his ice blue eyes and he down to my green. We were both breathing deeply. I broke the spell. “I’ve got to pee.”

I washed my hands, fluffed my hair and exited the ladies’ room. There he was, standing opposite the door and leaning back against the wall. He was in an Old West pose: one boot up and against the reclaimed barn boards.

I took the bull by the horns. I walked the two steps to him, leaned up on my tiptoes and planted an open mouth kiss on his lips. He responded by slipping his hands behind me, squeezing my ass cheeks. His tongue met mine. I bit his lower lip. He pulled back and whispered, “My F-150 has a crew cab.”

Kurt grabbed my hand and hustled us out of the bar and to his truck. He opened the crew door and gave me a boost up and into the truck. We immediately resumed kissing. I couldn’t get enough of his tongue and imagined it was a cock sliding over my lower lip and teeth, deep into my mouth.

Kurt slipped a hand beneath my crop top and cupped my right breast. He broke our passionate kiss and lowered his hungry mouth to my titty. He tentatively licked my erect nipple, then lightly bit it. I pushed on the back of his head and growled, “Harder. Suck it.”

I was in heaven, but didn’t want to remain a passive participant. I reached down to Kurt’s crotch and tried to extricate the large cock from his Levi’s. I was fumbling with his rodeo belt, the stiffness of new denim and buttons. Damn, those buttons. I pushed Kurt’s head away from my tits. “Help me!”

While Kurt undid and pulled his pants down around his knees; I unsnapped and unzipped my cutoffs. I shimmied them down to my ankles and kicked them into the front seat. Before he could resume gobbling on my knockers, I leaned to the left and grabbed his cock. Even in the muted light of the parking lot illumination, I could see it was both beautiful and big, really big.

I began slowly pumping my fist up and down the shaft. My fingertips could just barely approximate. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this long and thick monster would fit in my mouth and two love holes. I tested its length. I was able to stack my left fist above the right with room to spare.

I increased both the speed and pressure of my jacking. Kurt began moaning, “Suck it, suck my dick.”

I wanted him to control me. I rotated and looked up into his eyes. I smiled. “Make me.”

My lover simply nodded and gently guided my head and mouth toward his throbbing meat. The very tip of his penis touched my lips. I felt a wetness. I explored it with the tip of my tongue. His precum (as I would learn to call it) lubricated my opening lips and allowed his manhood to slide into my hungry mouth.

I became an automaton, functioning purely by instinct. As I jacked Kurt off, I made circles on the underside of his cock head with my tongue. I could taste more of his lubricating precum. I loved the umami taste and it made me almost dizzy. I was beginning to understand why Carla knelt before those boys so many years ago. I was jealous.

I slipped my left hand off his jackhammer and began to explore his scrotum and shaved testicles. His ball size was commensurate with his cock; namely, extra large and just short of Sunkist lemons.

My fingertips teased his nuts. My index and long fingers then drifted to his taint. Within seconds he moaned, “Suck me, Baby, I’m cumming,”

I made the mistake of holding his massive meat loosely and with only one hand. As he announced his ejaculation, he bucked upward, gagging me. On the backstroke, I recovered quickly; firmly fisting his spewing cock an inch or so below the head. This allowed Kurt to face fuck me without the gagging. I loved it. He shot rope after rope of hot jizz into my mouth.

As he pulled out, I loosed my grip slightly; but tightened my lips. I milked every last drop of his semen onto my tongue.

I sat up and leaned back against the door. My right foot was on the floorboard and my left on the seat. I was spread-eagled with my pussy open for business. I locked my eyes once again on his, as I wiped my index and long finger across my damp chin and lips. I sucked the last of his cum from my digits and smiled.