Matthew F. X. Fitzgerald’s morning erection hovered over the sink as he leaned against the vanity. A pair of brown eyes stared blankly back at him from the mirror. Blink. He popped the toothbrush into the brass holder and wandered down the hallway, trying to tuck his stiff joint back into the fly of his pajamas. Damn annoyance, he thought, a waste of good wood.
He wondered what his wife had gotten into so early on a Sunday. This was the one day of the week he could sleep late. Yet, somewhere in his slumber, he must have missed the warm body that normally snuggled against him. Upon awakening in his present condition, he liked to press against her bottom, draw back her hair, and kiss the sensitive little place behind her ear. When skillfully executed, this maneuver could win him that rarest of prizes: morning sex.
Crossing the kitchen, he glanced at brass pots and black skillets hanging above the stove. He licked his lips and thought about the warm and greasy luncheonette near his office downtown.
Each weekday morning he slid into a booth before most New Yorkers were out of bed. Wearing a thousand dollar suit, he breakfasted among dock workers, drivers, cops, and sanitation men. Some were just beginning their workdays; others were ending theirs. White-uniformed waitresses hustled pots of strong coffee through the heavenly aroma of fried eggs, spattering bacon, and sizzling hamburgers topped with gobs of thick ketchup. Christ, I’m starved, he thought, got to find Dee and get some breakfast.
Fitz stepped out to the wide terrace and shivered. April mornings in New York could be as cold as shit. Deirdre was there. She was moving steadily through yoga poses, heat rising visibly from her Lycra-clad body. She looked like she’d been at this awhile. He stepped around her and poured a glass of orange juice from a pitcher she’d left on the patio table. Fitz pushed two fists in the air and stretched out a long, elaborate yawn.
Deirdre set her hands and feet upon the stone surface and pushed up her hips, bare belly arcing to the sky. As she dropped back her head in the wheel position, a long pony tail brushed the floor. She gave her husband a toothy, upside-down grin. A bead of perspiration traveled down her neck and over her cheek. A quick flick of her tongue finally caught it at the corner of her mouth. Fitz cocked an eyebrow at that, and she giggled. It hurts just watching her, he thought.
Deirdre wound her limber body from one improbable position to another. When God created the universe, Fitz wondered, did He plan to make something as beautiful as Twisting Triangle Pose?
Fitz’s left shoulder was stiff and he absently rolled it forward and back. Drinking his juice, he recalled the reedy, twenty year old math major he’d met about fifteen years earlier at a loud, steamy party in Washington, DC.
With fair skin, thick black hair, smoldering dark eyes, and full lips, he’d found her striking. Fitz wouldn’t tell her that; not that night, anyway. Friends would later recall him inquiring about the identity of “the vampire by the keg”. Wearing a black tee shirt and tight black jeans, she swayed alone to a Marvin Gaye song. He pushed his way through the crowd of writhing bodies while Motown blared through massive speakers, bass thumping in his chest cavity.
Finally reaching her side, Fitz held up a half-smoked joint, grinned, and yelled over the din.
She looked startled but took it between her thumb and middle finger and gave it a respectable tug from her lips. Obsidian eyes locked cautiously on his while she held the smoke in her lungs. Handing it back, she got up on the tips of her toes.
“Thanks!” she yelled in his ear.
She lost her balance and grabbed his forearm to keep from falling into him, spilling a little of her beer. That’s when they noticed the uncomfortable looking grad student who had appeared alongside them.
“Oh, Carl! Did you find the bathroom?” Deirdre could hardly hear herself.
“Uh, yeah… There was a line,” Carl looked at Fitz uneasily and seemed embarrassed at having to disclose this information at the top of his lungs.
“Carl, this is… What’s your naaaame?” She turned to Fitz, laughing.
“Matthew Fitzgerald,” he answered. “FITZ.”
“I’m Deirdre, Dee,” she nodded. “This is Caaarl.”
“So… are you guys on a date?” yelled Fitz, holding the joint out to Carl, who declined with a tight smile and shake of his head.
“NO,” Deirdre answered a tick too quickly, “Carl is my advisor’s graduate assistant. We’re great buddies!”
Carl tried gamely to suppress the wince of humiliation on his face but Fitz had caught it. He looked at the bespectacled, frizzy-haired doctoral candidate and felt badly for him. For an instant he thought about withdrawing. Just for an instant. Something inside told him that it wouldn’t matter. Carl would never have Deirdre. She took the roach from Fitz’s hand, uninvited this time, and bopped her head to the music.
They’d dated, played, and fought until Deirdre left for grad school and Fitz for Army Officers Candidate School. Time went by and they drifted apart, occasionally hearing news of each other through common friends. Years later they found themselves in the same wedding party at the nuptials of two college friends. One night of shameless dancing and reckless screwing (they had both invited dates) turned into another and, eventually, well… this.
Back on the terrace, a triangle of sweat darkened Deirdre’s powder blue top and Fitz allowed a moment of appraisal. Her buttocks and thighs were firm but more substantial now. She had more curves than the college girl he met in DC. Still thin, her arms and legs were sculpted from years of strenuous exercise, something she approached with religious fervor. Deirdre had a small bump of a tummy now. Of course, any mention of this could provoke cold stares. But Fitz loved it. He loved to kiss the soft, smooth skin below her belly button and get lost in the dark tangle of hair to the south.
She moved onto all fours now. The Cat Stretch pose pushed her rear end high in the air as she inhaled deeply. Deirdre broke from form to peek over her shoulder, blow him an extravagant kiss, and give her tail a lusty wiggle. It did not require a great leap of imagination for Fitz to recall the couple’s nocturnal adventures.
Deirdre Jane Girard
watched the inverted form of her husband float sleepily past her. He stopped at the railing to look down at West 57 th Street . Apparently satisfied that buildings, trees, and cars were just as he had left them the night before, he turned around and drained a tumbler of orange juice.
Deirdre’s shoulders and thighs trembled with strain as she pushed her pelvis up, in what she figured Fitz would construe as an elaborate sexual invitation. Fitz drew a deep breath and drove his hands into the sky, stretching his 6’5” frame. He bent at the waist and pulled at his ankles. Six years of marriage and she could still entertain herself just watching him move. Sometimes, that is. At other times she wanted to kill him.
His faded Grateful Dead tee shirt rode up to reveal a few inches of flat abdomen. The frayed waistband of his old pajama bottoms drooped low on narrow hips. She felt a familiar flutter down deep in her tummy. How does he do that, she asked herself. The big dope just ambles out here and yawns; and I start to get turned on.
She slowly turned over and began another Vinyasa sequence. Trails of sweat rolled down her arms to the deck. She looked up. Fitz was working his shoulder again.
“Morning, Babe. Your shoulder okay?”
“Yeah, probably just the change of season,” he said, waiving off the concern. “Hey, are you hungry? That place on Amsterdam … the one with the funny menus? They make omelets.”
“Omelets,” she paused. “Aren’t you even going to tell your wife you love her before you plan your meals for the day?”
“Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. Might wanna hang around my place all the time, cramp my style.”
He was squatting in front of her, smiling face-to-face with Upward Dog.
“That wasn’t your story last night,” she dead-panned.
They’d had sex the previous evening. It had been more than a week since the last time, but Deirdre no longer worried when they went a while without fucking. Besides, the man had earned his keep last night.
She had been especially horny all day at work. She thought it probably had something to do with the boner he kept poking her with when she woke up that morning. Deirdre got home from work before Fitz and stripped down to her panties and bra. She jumped him when he walked through the door, backing him against a wall, and pulling at his clothes. He had given her a good hard fucking; just the kind she needed.
Deirdre had woken up sore - sore in that good way. She always liked it when the residue of intercourse lingered for a while. She smiled to herself, thinking about the sore parts Fitz must have this morning.
was still crouched in front of Deirdre, smirk frozen on his lips. She gave him two playful, if not gentle, smacks on the side of his face and stood up with a look of satisfaction. He tilted his head and watched her round buns bound across the terrace toward the kitchen. Still a hot piece of tail, he thought.
Fitz wanted to get laid again tonight, plain and simple. His wife was a great lay. That wasn’t being disrespectful; that was just a happy fact of his life. What’s more, she knew it. To Deirdre, sex was about satisfying animal drives. One day she might service Fitz with the devotion of a Roman slave girl. Another time she would ride him like a stallion. It just depended on the moment.
For all the carnal benefits life with Deirdre afforded, Fitz also had intimate knowledge of her tempers. She could turn from frisky, to irritated, to downright scary with breathtaking speed. Things could go south fast if he wasn’t on his game.
Just three days ago he had found himself caught in a maelstrom of female fury that he should have seen coming a mile away. It started at the watering hole where the couple sometimes met after work. Deirdre apparently had a major issue with a female co-worker of some unspecified nature. Actually, the nature of it was specified quite clearly and forcefully. However, two Irish whiskeys into the proceedings, Fitz failed to recognize the storm warnings when the first winds blew upon his peaceful, unsheltered shore.
Fitz had listened politely, but unsatisfactorily. He had allowed his mind to wander to such affairs as the game on the big screen television and the sizzling shrimp appetizer being delivered to a bond trader at the other end of the bar. He attempted to engage in the conversation which, of course, wasn’t really meant to be a conversation at all. It was more a declaration of war.
By the time their cab pulled away from the curb, Fitz was offering spectacularly unhelpful advice about the importance of getting along with one’s superiors. The bitch was not her superior. Walking past the doorman, he mentioned an article he had read about the benefits of divergent opinions in a large organization. It was in the elevator that he realized his wife hadn’t spoken in some time. Deirdre stared at the elevator door. Only then could he hear desperate, urgent screams from the caverns of his subconscious, imploring him to shut the fuck up. Oh… shit.
The apartment door closed behind them and Deirdre wheeled around to grab Fitz by his favorite Tommy Bahama tie. She looked up at him with her jaw set for battle.
It was on. Over the course of the next hour, she hit him with a devastating frontal assault. She hammered him about his failure to support her, his listening skills, his depraved friends, his clueless parents (both deceased), and basically anything else she could think of when she looked at his stupid, fucking face.
Fitz was famously slow to anger but felt compelled to put up at least a token defense which, apart from its futility, served only to escalate hostilities. He was a scum bag, an asshole. And he could find somebody else to suck his dick for him, for all she cared.
But today, on this bright Sunday morning, she merrily gulped down twelve ounces of water. She even managed a wink and a smile, with her lips still clamped around the bottle opening.
Fitz reflected on this remarkable transformation and contemplated the folly of hoping to ever truly comprehend this creature. He was reminded of a passage from a Saul Bellow novel. How did it go? Men will never understand what women want. What do they want? They eat green salad and drink human blood.
leaned back against the counter, balled up the plastic bottle in her fist, and flicked her wrist. Two points. Deirdre drew a hand across the sticky-slimy perspiration in the hollow of her throat. She inspected it on her fingertips.
“So… you’re telling me you’re hungry?”
She grinned and turned one knee invitingly outward. Men are so easy to screw with, she thought.
Fitz stepped toward her with big chocolate eyes. She had a fleeting notion that he actually might devour her. Her gaze dropped to the threadbare cotton pajama bottoms he refused to discard. She caught the amorphously tumid, swaying outline of his ‘thaaang’.
That’s what she liked to call it whenever Fitz walked naked around the bedroom. She thought it was cute that her teasing embarrassed him.
At the moment, he wasn’t hard; not nearly. But there was definitely something going on beneath the flimsy fabric. Deirdre was never shy about looking him over and she didn’t care that he noticed. After all, he belonged to her, right? He had a great body. He was tall, muscular, and athletic. Why not enjoy it?
“Hangin’ kinda low there, cowboy,” Deirdre drawled in a faux low voice.
Before she could react, Fitz moved in. He took her left wrist and folded it into the small of her back. He pulled her to him with ease. She actually felt some air escape her lungs as her chest slammed into his solid body. Hold on now; she was supposed to be in control here.
“Whoa. I’m disgusting, sweaty…” she protested. “I’m getting your clothes all wet.”
She pressed her free hand against his chest without effect.
“Mmmmmmm. I like you like this.”
Fitz took another step, forcing her against the counter. Deirdre stiffened.
“Fitz, stop. We have to be at Abby’s by one. There’s gonna be bridge traffic.”
A strong arm pulled her even closer, forcing her back to arch, pushing her breasts upward. His smokey eyes asked a silent question. Deirdre twisted her shoulders. If he thinks he’s gonna fuck me right here in the kitchen …
One hand pulled on her pony tail just hard enough to lift her chin. Fitz leaned in and inhaled lightly along the side of her neck and planted tiny kisses.
Oh shit, this feels good, she thought. Deirdre reflexively tilted her head for him in spite of herself.
“We don’t have time for this,” she croaked. She was squirming, still feeling a fading need to put up a fight.
It was no use. Fitz could keep her in this position indefinitely. Experience told her he could do much more than that. Short of kneeing him in the balls, she wasn’t getting out of his grasp until he let her.
Why I am fighting this? Deirdre relaxed her shoulders and exhaled. The warm breath on her neck and throat sent a shiver through her body. Rugged, day-old whiskers brushed against her jaw. Deirdre inhaled the male smells of his skin, yesterday’s aftershave, and his freshly washed cotton shirt.
His lips trailed back and forth along the ridge of her collarbone now and she let her head fall back, inviting soft, wet kisses on her throat. Her free right hand slid under his shirt, stroking his muscled back.
She trembled softly when Fitz wedged a hand between their bodies to cup her fleshy mound. Deirdre’s folded arm ached but she moved her head to find his mouth with hers. Fitz’s fingers traced the outline of his wife’s labia and pressed the flat of a finger into the cleft. The day’s busy schedule was fading from Deirdre’s consciousness now.
Deirdre instinctively rocked her pelvis to the rhythmic motion of her husband’s hand. The friction of his fingers against the synthetic fibers heated up her pussy and she felt a faintly electrical sensation in her nipples as their bodies moved against each other. Pressed against him this way, she could tell he had gotten hard. Oh well… this will be nice, she told herself.
Sensing her surrender, Fitz let go of her arm and ran both hands up her back. He squeezed the muscles of his wife’s shoulders and neck, knowing just how hard she liked it. She rested her forehead on his chest, while strong fingers moved down her back, slowly kneading each of her vertebrae. Reaching the roundness of her ass, he pulled her into him again. His turgid cock had again escaped his bottoms and pressed urgently against his wife’s belly.
“You feel so good, Dee.”
As if on cue, the two started tearing off their clothes. Fitz’s tee shirt flew across the room as he let the baggy pajama bottoms drop to the floor. He was naked in seconds. Deirdre had yanked off her tank top and was pulling at the skin tight compression shorts when Fitz joined in to help. Her glistening, sylph-like body hopped into her husband’s arms as soon as she stripped down to her panties.
Fitz carried his wife across the kitchen to the center island, preceded by the head of his throbbing penis. She wrapped one slender arm around his neck and dropped the other to wrap her fingers around his cock. He looked down at the lovely, tiny boobs that bounced with each of his steps. He felt a strong urge to stop and play with the soft treasures but his aim right now was to penetrate his hot little wife.
The high granite countertop was cold against the back of Deirdre’s lightly muscled thighs as he set her down. The helmet-shaped head of Fitz’s elongated column pointed directly at her crotch. From deep in her abdomen came a flutter and she felt a warm release between her legs. She wanted him to bury his cock inside her right now and fuck for all he was worth.
“Let’s get these off.”
Fitz had hooked his fingers under the elastic of Deirdre’s cotton panties. He noticed faded old period stains in the crotch as she pushed her hands against the surface and lifted her hips in the air. Something about that really turned him on but he didn’t stop to think about it. Easing the underwear over her long legs, his eyes were fixed on Deirdre’s dark, damp, matted muff. He slid the three fingers beneath her slippery cunt and smiled inside. Fitz had never known a girl to leak like Deirdre when she was ready to go.
“You think you can fuck me now, Babe?” purred Deirdre. “Do you have any cum left from last night?”
“I don’t know, Dee. I’m thinking of making you suck me off to find out,” he teased, pulling her by the hips towards him.
She folded up her legs and spread them as her ass slid to the edge of the polished stone surface. Deirdre leaned back on her elbows to watch her husband take control of her body. With his smoothly ripped core, narrow waist, and muscled buttocks, Deirdre thought Fitz was built to fuck. He reached down to strum her hardened, fat nipples with his thumbs while rocking his pelvis to work his shaft up and down her glistening channel. Oh, he knows how to kill me, she thought. A warm charge pulsed from Deirdre’s nipples to her vagina. She hooked her legs around him and let her head drop back. She wanted him inside her now
Fitz watched his girl writhe beneath him as she laid flat out on the cold countertop. Pale pink areolas puckered with tiny goose bumps and her nipples popped like tiny cherries. He was ready to explode but he wanted to prolong Dee’s delicious agony.
Fitz took Deirdre’s leg and leaned it on his shoulder while he folded her opposite knee out to the side. He held his heavy cock near the base with one hand and began to lightly drum it on her already tingling clit. Deirdre’s groans accompanied the little splashy sounds of Fitz’s lubricated erection tapping her soaked pussy. She arched her back and threw out her arms, sending a bowl of oranges crashing to the floor.
Fitz intermittently varied his assault by slipping the ridge of his meaty head a few inches into her vagina. Two fingers pressed above the hood of her clit and the fat protuberance came into view. Deirdre cursed and squirmed as Fitz again and again resumed the rhythmic beating of cock to cunt. He ran his glans up and down, and teased her with a few inches of his penis. Then, again, it was drum, drum, drum… splish, splish, splish. The sensations resounded deep in Deirdre’s belly and chest.
Finally, she could take no more. Deirdre reached for the slimy phallus, held it to her opening, and tried to scoot forward. For his part, Fitz felt like the skin of his penis was about to split from his straining erection. He impaled her with a thrust to her cervix and dragged her off the counter and into his arms.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh…” Deirdre softly sighed.
Fitz always loved the sound his wife made when he entered her. Maybe it was partly ego, but he truly got off by pleasing her. Her arms and legs gripped him madly as her slippery, sweaty body rubbed against him. Their tongues found each other and wrestled. Deirdre rode up and down his pole, reveling in its mass and hardness. Her tight, soft pussy radiated pure pleasure through Fitz’s penis and into his body.
Fitz’s large hands held and squeezed her ass as they fucked. She felt a finger play with the rim of her anus, soaked with secretions. Do it, she thought. A finger pushed slowly inside her ass while a hard penis pumped and stretched her vagina. She felt another warm release and began to come.
The orgasm crashed through her entire body and she momentarily lost track of her surroundings. She couldn’t really hear or see anything… or properly think. Slowly, the waves subsided and she ran her hands through Fitz’s hair.
She realized Fitz was still fucking her. Deirdre felt his body tighten. He gasped and shook as he pumped his hot seed into his wife. He felt an animal need to empty himself into her, bucking involuntarily as the last drops exited his body.
She smiled and kissed him softly. They relaxed their grips and breathing slowly returned to normal. They stayed this way for some time, enjoying the intimate contact of their bodies. Neither spoke while they nuzzled and caressed. There was no need.
Fitz gently lifted Deirdre off his cock and lowered her to the floor. She took him by the hand, and the naked couple returned to their bedroom and shut the door.
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