I wait. My wife is alone in our bedroom with the door locked. I can hear her sounds, both her voice and her pussy sloshing, and I can hear her toy buzzing. I've never seen it, in our years of marriage, or any of the other toys she's kept. I don't know how many there have been, or what kind they've been, and her lips are ever-sealed. She's too stubbornly shy to let me see what she uses on herself, and she keeps it in a metal box with a code lock. "Masturbation is too private, to me, honey," she says, blushing no matter how many million times she's said it.
This all started because way back in college I had once overheard my girlfriend at the time talking to her friends about me, telling them, "He's such a sweetheart, I just wish he could fuck." and I've not gotten over it one bit. Crushed! That emasculating blow to my sexual ego was a factor in our breakup. So, to protect myself, I told my next girlfriend, my future wife, early in our relationship that I was "bad at sex." I hoped that disclosure would be received as a brave admission; she'd insist on communication and experimentation and encourage me to see that I was wrong about that... she'd insist that I could be a good lover. Instead, she took my words at face value, matter-of-fact, lowered her expectations, and informed me, "That's OK, I don't need you for my climax, as long as you're cool with me playing with myself."
I was cool with that, I thought. It took the pressure off me to perform, I admit. She was flexible about it, too. She agreed she wouldn't use a toy by herself unless I wasn't available during her craving, and when I'm available she'd only use it on the condition we'd have sex right afterward. And she's kept to that promise, I think. But... I've become uneasy. Is it unfair? Is it disrespectful? Even now, as I wait outside our bedroom, as I stand with my ear against the door and slowly jack my cock, I'm not feeling too nice about it. And yet I continue to stroke myself, dying to hear as much going on in our bedroom as I can. Sometimes she gets so quiet that all I can hear is the toy whizzing and winding. I hear the wet, slippery, squishing sound of an orifice getting it, getting something very good. And then her little moans, and then longer, deeper moans. Her toy changes tempo, like a motorcycle changing gears.
She takes her time in there; sometimes I cum in my palm! How can she take so long? Probably because it's such carnal ecstasy for her that she wants to draw it out, minutes on top of minutes. Why rush perfect pleasure? She must forget about me standing out here. I sometimes think of bursting through the door, busting through with a kick, and seizing her in the middle of her masturbation, yanking whatever she has shoved between her legs away and displacing it with my own meat! On second thought, that might piss her off. Worse, I might finally get a load of the opening show and be awestruck, too awestruck. Who can guess its dimensions and functions, its settings and angles, its curves and features? I would see it plunged deep inside her, putting pressure on her spots in a rhythm that sets her body writhing, her pussy lips taut and stretched around its synthetic girth, her juices all over it, her cream coating it! Fucking god! Vrr-bzzz!! VRRR-BZZZ!!
The visualization of that sets my groin pulsating, my balls beg to empty, but I resist going off over the edge; I go stiff as a board not to ejaculate. I'm relieved not to have spilled yet. Then, as if on cue, she lets out her signature shuddering, whimpering sighs and goes flat quiet. A moment passes, and per routine, the handle jiggles as she unlocks it and returns to bed. I turn the knob and enter. This time she's lying nude, flat across the bed, ass up, legs partly spread. I can't resist her body when she presents herself like that, and though I give the formal quick glance around, I see no sign of her toy or the box she keeps it locked in... she's already tucked it away out of sight.
As I position behind her and squeeze her buns, I take in the look and smell of her pink, glistening, just-serviced pussy. The reality of the state her hole is in, well-worn, wet and finished, overwhelms me. I enter and fuck her, acutely aware the device was in here just a moment ago doing unspeakably great things to her I can't, sensations I will never be able to give her, and she lies still, face in the comforter, politely waiting for me to get mine and be done. She feels so lax, no grip. She gives her pelvic floor muscles a quick couple of Kegel squeezes, gently catching and constricting my glans as I thrust. It doesn't take but a minute; I squirt inside her and pull out. She took it without a flinch. I collapse beside her, physically feeling wonderful, but my jealousy is silently playing havoc inside my dome. Jealousy over a toy!
Lying beside her, I dare to ask, "Maybe next time, without the toy... at least at first."
She puffs her cheeks, letting out a little expression of air, flicking her hair from her face, "No, no, I don't think so."
I run my hand up between her legs and massage her inner thighs, her pubic hair brushing against my thumb. "Please."
She takes hold of my wrist and pulls my hand from between her thighs. "You know how I am. You know what I need. To get started, I need time with my dildo." She turns over, pulling the comforter over her butt and up to her waist. "I need time with my dildo to finish. Goodnight." And she gives me a quick, cute pat on my hand as I rest my fingers on her hip.
