Loving Husband/Loving Wife Ch. 03

No more Roger. No more other man anything. For the next two years, roughly speaking, Jill went through the mystifying and ruthless curse of menopause. The hormonal changes were gradual, but with unpredictable effect, like some Gremlin had entered her body and taken charge. Life for her was a battle to salvage some semblance of normalcy, get through as many days of accustomed activity as she could. She was brave and determined, but there were periods of wild mood swings, tears, depression. Needless to say, our sex life was erratic. I gave her all the loving support I knew how to give.

And one day before she turned forty nine, it was all over. No more hot flashes. Done. She had defeated the Gremlin and given it the boot. She was all mine again. But something had changed in her I couldn't exactly pin point. She was a new mysterious woman, and the same old sexy one. Menopause didn't seem to have any effect on her lubricating reservoirs at all. She flowed just as quickly and fully as before. Our fucking was slick and prolonged and sweetly loving. But in some subtle ways she became more independent and assertive.

She began a furious exercise program at our spa. "My goal is to lose 30 pounds and by God I will," she said. "You go girl," I said. "Do I look slimmer?" "Sweetheart, it's only been two weeks. Keep working." "How in the hell do you never change, always look like a Greek God? It has to be genes. I just have too many Italian Mama Mia genes in me."

One night I lay naked on our bed waiting for her to finish her suds-soak bath. She came in, drying with a towel as large as a blanket. She dropped the towel and examined herself in the large mirror on our bedroom wall, twisting about, straining her neck to get a look. "It's hopeless, Jack. My big fat ass is here to stay." She moaned.

I studied her big fat ass. My woman. My Goddess of love and sexual desire. My wife. My lover, my soul mate. She still retained much of her summer tan, and her Italian-Latina genes gave a light mahogany patina to the full, incredibly erotic globes of her ass. And I flipped, into a psychic state of old.

"Lucky me," I said. "How long has it been since you held the bar?"

Her eyes locked with mine in the mirror. There was a flashing glint in hers, part mischief, part something deeper and far reaching. "Ages," she said. "Do we even know where the bar is?"

"I do."

I got up to search it out from our closet where it had been hidden for several years. "The bar" was just that, a device I made to hook by ropes to eye screws in the canopy frame of our bed. A sort of short trapeze. Because our first sixty nine with her on top soon after we married, had segued into her abandoning her blow job, and concentrating entirely on sitting on my face. A new, totally in control, ravaging thrill for her. A new, totally submissive and ravaging thrill for me. She said it would be much better for both if she had something to hold on to, to have complete control of leverage and contact, pressure and force, demanding and taking. Complete control of me in sitting on my face. Voilà! The bar.

Her holding the bar to sit on my face became a special thing for us. So special we seldom did it. For her it was inner need that had a genesis outside of conscious thought, that gradually surfaced into consciousness. It was exactly the same for me. The problem was those inner needs surfacing at the same time. They did, on very special occasions, via intuition, telepathy, the refined intimacy and knowledge that united us. The special occasion had arrived again, after years of neglect.

Jill lay on her back, idly fingering her clit as she watched me step over her to attach the ropes. Her body was placid in repose, but her lips formed a decidedly smug smile. Her eyes glittered in anticipation. I anticipated too, but my cock didn't rise like a roaring lion. It was only a quarter hard, swaying, bobbing, lumbering along with the rest of me.

When the bar was in place, she grasped it and positioned her knees at either side of me, facing my feet. She very slowly, ritualistically, lowered her mass of flesh and sex to my face. I watched it come down to me. The complete spread of female sexual treasure, as rich as any banquet spread for a king in a fairy tale, come to my face, for me to feed on. The gleam of mahogany tint on twin hemispheres that caught the ambient light of the room. The streaked skin of her pelvic joinery, a tiny red pimple, otherwise unknown, proclaiming itself, the curls of jet black pubic hair, the glisten of her pussy lips opening to pink nestled folds within, the nubby, purplish anus that peeked at me like a cyclopean eye from the dark recess.

I went under, literally and emotionally. I gave myself up to her and this special privilege. My woman. My wife. Her tastes and textures, the rich abundance of her sexual spread. The dark side of sex that pulls all of us, whether or not we ever go there. She sat on my face, and used it to fulfill her need. All my face. My chin, my mouth, my nose and forehead, slipping and sliding, squirming and seeking all contact points to fuel the orgasmic flame ignited in her. I got my first faint whiff of rectal moisture ever there to prevent drying out, a spicy smell of erotic pungency that pushed me deeper into my underworld of total submission to the totality of my woman

.

I feasted on her, with hunger and overflowing spittle. She teased, lifting up and holding, making me lift my head up in a strain with my tonger out reaching, begging. Then she came back down, the hot, rich totality of her sexual center smothering my face, taking it, using it. The totality in all its parts, the loose labia lips, her rush of juices, pubic hair sawing my face, all given to me but all taking me with movement and pressures entirely of her volition for her own concentrated need in each isolated moment. She made all sorts of vocal noises, deep and guttural, high and keening. She talked dirty. "Oh, baby, yes, suck my clit... Oh yes, do it, lick my ass hole, stick that tongue in as far as you can!"

Her orgasm was truly a full body orgasm, on my face, full force, and it was almost too long, with my nose buried in the dark chasm of her ass, unable to breathe. She got off me and collapsed, her gasps less than my desperate sucking air back into my lungs. I finally settled back down. Visions flickered behind my closed lids. All the details of her lavish bottom. All the tastes and scents of her pussy and ass, the feast of sex, still had a blanketing presence in my mouth and nose. She had ravished me, the only word for it, and I lay as inert as a slab of custard, transformed by submission and reception without boundaries. The bedroom air settled on my head and made me aware my entire face from chin to forehead was still painted with a light coat of bodily, sexual essences from her hot bottom. My entire face was still in heat. She stretched beside me, purring like a cat and watching me like a cat. She had also taken her trip down the dark side. Her orgasm was convulsive. How many years since we had done that?

"And now the finale," she finally said, with voice inflection making a tiny question mark.

"Yes. The finale." I said.

I followed her into the bathroom, and lay back on the shower floor. She straddled me, positioning her feet. She tensed, and her urine gushed.

Ceremony. She initiated that ceremony the first time I put the bar in place. All her own doing, no discussion. She had issued an order that I follow her and lie in the shower. I understood instantly she was going to piss on me, and I felt myself coming apart. I wanted her to.

All those times I had listened to her as she sat on the commode, a sound as common as a sneeze, no full vision had ever formed. I looked up at her as she towered over me. The columns of her thighs in a very slight bend, her pussy, her stomach, her hands on her hips, her eyes staring down at me with mesmerizing intensity. Her pee gushed out in a stream, splattering on my soft cock and then my chest. In the few seconds before I had to close my eyes, I saw that a standing woman pees just like a standing man, a strong stream gushing out, but not gushing out of a tube held in fingers. The sight had a miraculous quality. Her pee jetting out of her pussy gash. Something no man ever sees until he lies beneath, looking up. She guided the stream by body movement. The hot stream hit my face. I went under. Deep under.

That first time I showered and returned to bed on wobbly legs. "I love you more than words can express," Jill said.

"What led you to that?" I said.

"I have no clear answer," she said. "No more than why the extreme intensity of feeling demanded I talk dirty. So many impulses firing away at once. Remember the first time I sat on your face and had to go pee?"

"Vividly."

"I joked about the timing. Lucky for you I didn't let go on your face. You said you were so into me you wouldn't have cared at all if I did. I guess that sort of stuck in my head. I don't know. The main question is, what did it do for you?"

"A lot. More than I can sort out right now. Submission. Receiving. You. Your body. Your person. Your piss. You. Very out of this world. It might have even been for me what religious people describe as a religious experience."

"You did look utterly serene lying there, your eyes closed, my pee drenching you. Like you were in another world... How was the taste?"

"Sharp. Something like foul water out of a rusty pipe."

She burst out laughter. "So much for romance!"

"Not something I want to drink by the cup full. But the tiny taste I had was... a part of the experience. Even necessary. And so fitting. Because it was you. It came from you. And what did it do for you? Standing over the man you love and pissing on him?"

"It made me feel like a Goddess. Really and truly. Your Goddess of love and sexual desire. I felt like a sex Goddess. You looked so peaceful and relaxed with your eyes closed as my pee splashed on you. You had a glow, a kind of aura. It was so symbolic, you lying there totally submissive to my power over you, my pee stream splattering on your body and face, in a ceremony of marking you, claiming you, possessing you. I knew the boundless power of being your woman and your Goddess."

"You knew from the beginning. You repeated to me, 'Jack, we have absolute freedom to do anything we both want to do. Other's don't write rule books for us.' That is so true."

Only once did I piss on her. There was no association beyond our usual passion for sex and love that began on a Sunday afternoon and continued into the night. Though she did suck me off with an enriched air of adoration and worship. Got a bit wild and forceful riding me on top. Kept my wine glass full. Knelt with her ass high and her forehead on the sheets, demanding I fuck her harder. When I went to empty all that wine she said, "My turn." She lay in the shower, silently asking me to anoint her. I directed my powerful stream to her nipples with surprising accuracy. Over her pussy, her face, all over her. She glowed with submission and reception, her pee soaked hair lying close on her skull.

"Now I know," she said, when she came to bed clean and needing to snuggle. "I know what it means for you. How hot piss from the one you love can be cleansing and purifying. It really does have something of the religious experience."

Never the less, she never asked for it again. Her religious experience was far stronger in being my Goddess of love and sexual desire, emptying her bladder onto me. I was fine with that.

My Goddess bathed me with her urine after her menopause, after too many years, and the ceremony was completed, and just as emotionally powerful as it ever was. I cleaned up and rejoined her in bed. My cock was limp, and irrelevant. Her sitting on my face and the finale ceremony was all about my soul getting off, not my cock.

"Alright," I said with authority. "Listen up. I never want to hear another word from you hating your big fat ass. That big fat ass is mine. Mine to lick and tongue and relish and savor. In all it's magnificent glory it is mine. To sit on my face any time I want it there. Got that?"

"Yes sir," she said in a soft meek voice. Later she said, in sinking drowsiness, "A good thing I have been been working out on those muscle machines. To use the bar."

*****

Jill's birthday approached. The big five O. A time for reflection and review. I could write a thousand pages of non-sexual details why I was the luckiest man on earth to be married to Jill, but this tale is primarily subject specific, about a wife who had the uncommon luxury of sometimes wanting and having a different man, a different cock, a different style and rhythm fuck her. After each event, we had always done a de-briefing, what was most exciting, how the man was perfectly suited to the intent (or not), to what degree the goal of complete liberation was attained, and with the best of the men her endless clutch of orgasms from her first taking his cock into her eager mouth till he dressed and left. But after the de-briefing, the explosion of sexual pleasure enjoyed settled down, and we gave little or no thought to it.

My sharing my wife with another man was much like taking a special vacation, the Alaska cruise to Glacier Bay, a week in Paris, any place that excited us both and beckoned for a change of scenery, color and culture. But those vacations are not something anyone does once a month. They occur on managed timing, are greatly enjoyed, and then more or less forgotten unless a reminder crops up. Daily life goes on, and with Jill and I daily life, and marital sex was a procession of mutual delight and joy.

This was maintained by a resource Jill possessed, and which I quickly absorbed and made my own. When it came to matters of sex, Jill had no sense of shame or guilt. She discovered that in herself in her teen-age years, took control of her life and destiny, and simply ignored all rules and prohibitions laid down by religions and society. She really, really liked sucking cock, and she really, really liked a hard cock inside her, and she pursued her liking and wanting with no attending shame or guilt whatever. That resource transferred to my sharing her with other men after we married, and she never looked back with regret. Nor did I.

But, as her fiftieth birthday approached, we did some looking back. I wondered of all the men I had given her, which was the most memorable? She smiled that deep happy smile rich with many memories, and thought. Her answer was most surprising. "Roger," she said.

"Roger?"

"Yes. Roger."

I was disconcerted. "Roger? That one night stand that didn't come off as planned?"

"You asked. I answered."

"I'm just surprised, that's all. We had some mind blowing threesomes that stick in my mind."

"And in mine as well. And it is far past time for another one."

"I must do some serious searching. Suitable men in our age bracket are hard to spot. And by suitable I mean a man capable of being what you need him to be." I paused and looked at her in the eyes, letting "need him to be" take shape. "You always did it for me, first and foremost, but you also embraced the opportunity of variety, of fucking a man not your husband for all the new and exciting differences he brought to you and gave to you, and your liberation to let go and enjoy him with no reservations."

"Yes. With no shame or guilt. To fuck another man with you there to see and share my pleasures. That is a gift you gave to me, and it is hard to imagine a husband giving his wife a more distinctive gift."

"I will do some serious searching."

"I could assist. Assess possibilities on my own."

"They might turn out the same way Roger did."

"Maybe. Neither you nor I have a crystal ball."

"Your romance with him was very exhilarating wasn't it."

"You know it was. I explained why it was. But never think my goal wasn't for the three of us. It just didn't work out as we hoped. But the chase, the seduction, all the intricate dance of courtship was a level of excitement different from our threesomes."

"Because I was out of the picture."

"Yes. That can't be ignored, my darling husband. I wanted him for the both of us, but there was intense thrill in pursuing him on my own."

"And if you go out again to select a man for us, you will surely experience that intense thrill again."

"I certainly hope so."

"Would you fuck him all for yourself?"

"If I thought it beneficial for us, yes."

"And if you have grave doubts he has the mental wiring to fuck you with me on the same bed, would you want to fuck him anyway?"

"If the man I select and cultivate for a threesome gives me that same flood of thrill Roger gave me, I would want to fuck him, whether or not he is suitable to join us. But I would do so only with your permission. What I did with Roger went outside our usual boundaries. I am very much aware of that. But the thrilling excitement was utterly delicious. I am fifty years old. You give me all any woman could ask for. But my fling with Roger was a bonus I did not seek or ever think about. You gave me the gift of enjoying another man in a context the threesome doesn't provide. It was different, and very thrilling for me. I wish it could be as thrilling for you as watching another man take me."

"That's just it. I didn't watch."

"I told you every detail of the courtship. You fucked me like a stallion when I returned to you. You smelling his odors still on my body."

"That's true." I said.

We let the subject drop. For the time being.

I privately thought of little else for several days. Her selecting the best of her single days fuck buddies to join us was highly successful. But they got older and fat and unattractive. I was never entirely comfortable with her going solo to find us a man, as she did with Roger. And I was not surprised to find that he disdained even the hint of a threesome. It takes a unique sort of man to share his wife, to make a colossal understatement. And the man qualified to partake of the sharing is, in his own way, just as unique. There has to be a meeting of minds as well as genitals. Far more difficult to find than you might imagine. Every man that shared my wife was fully aware I could beat him severely in a fight, and there was never any competitive-dominate bullshit to deal with. The word "cuckold" was so silly in describing me that we could only laugh at the idea once, and never think of it again. The men that joined us had the intelligence to know that "cuckold" was not a thought they dared to entertain either. Men of that type are not simple to find.

I also began to wonder if we had outgrown the excitement of threesomes. Had simply gotten to old for them. I could rummage in the memories of them and get a hard on, but I could not imagine what was left to see in my wife with another man. Nor what new thing I could do to enhance the experience. And I was certainly not old at forty seven. I was not the unchanged Adonis Jill still saw in me, but I was still trim and muscular and energetic. I had thick hair on my head, a ready cock between my legs. I did not need Viagra. My exercise routine was mostly down to aerobics and yoga. And Jill was certainly not old. Her being three years older than me meant nothing. In fact, in so many ways she was more beautiful to me than when I first saw her.

Her body had changed, of course. Her ass larger and more glorious for the change. Her breasts had the expected sag, which made them for me even more desirable. The suckling was highly erotic. Her nerve endings very responsive. There was a fat roll here and there. Her pregnancy stretch marks were barely distinguishable.

We lay in bed one night and she suddenly said, "How's the search going?"

"Search? Oh, that search."

"Yes, that search."