Magic, in a Marriage

Jimmy's story

She isn't even pretty. Of course, I would never say that aloud; I may not be the smartest, but at least I'm that smart. She's skinny, plain face, very small breasts, although when she gets aroused, or even just excited, her nipples pop up from tiny little nubs to pencil eraser tips. And they are incredibly sensitive. I've seen her a few times, I think when she didn't know I was watching, running her fingers across one nipple and then the other, and then flicking them with her fingernails. I don't think that could make her come, but it might.

Her hair - really just brown, although she likes to call it dirty blonde. Maybe she's right. She says she has never colored it or sprayed it or used any kind of chemical on it; she only washes it with baby shampoo. That may explain why her hair - she keeps it shoulder length -is thick and shiny. I love to hold her head with my hands in that lustrous hair, especially when we're .... But that's for later.

Her ass - not much to it, not one of those fine curvy asses some women have. Except ... except she does have curves in her ass. The cheeks of her ass curve away from the cleft like a new moon, not the full moon cheeks of a big assed woman but small cheeks shaped like a new moon. The result: when she is naked and bends over just a bit, her puckery little rosebud is visible, and I can see just a bit of her pussy lips. Of course, as she bends over further, more of those pussy lips come into view.

Ahh, that pussy! I've said she -- Geraldine is her name, and who names a little girl Geraldine anyway? She does go by Gerri now and that's a little better. I'm totally conflicted about Gerri. I said she's not pretty and she really isn't, but I am totally in love with her. How can that be?

Her pussy is the answer. Before you think I'm - my name is James, but I'm Jimmy to the whole world, since I was born. Even to myself, I'm Jimmy. Before you think I'm a plain looking guy lucky to have anybody, even a plain looking girl like Gerri, let me describe myself. As a teenager I was a male model. Of course, that doesn't say anything about me as a person. I mean, I had no control over the looks I was born with. I did work out a lot as a pretty good, not great at all, football player in the fall and baseball player in the spring. I did look pretty buff, and I did have model features. The result: I did swimsuit modelling the summer I was 16. Nothing risqué at all; I appeared in mass mailing catalogues and a few magazine ads. A great summer job, which I repeated a few times, but not a career path. I did go to college, but only for a few semesters; too boring and, I confess, I wasn't smart enough to do well in college. Today I sell cars, but not just any cars. I sell high-end Mercedes cars and SUVs, and make a damn good living doing it.

That's how I met Gerri. I sold her a nice, almost new BMW that someone had traded in for a newer, nicer Mercedes-Benz. I had dated a lot, usually girls and women who looked really good on my arm, which meant we looked incredible as a couple. But no real vibes with a woman until ... until the vibes from Gerri just about knocked me out. I can remember asking myself what there was about this plain looking chick that totally hooked me.

Answer: her pussy. My experience had always been: Finger, lick her, fuck her, and pay attention to how she's responding. It makes me, and I think most guys, feel good to bring pleasure to a woman, and that makes my own pleasure even better. With Gerri, pleasure doesn't even begin to describe the experience. Yes, the first time we had sex, I did my usual finger, lick her, fuck her. But when my cock slid inside her pussy, she tensed up and told me to stop. At first, I thought she was telling me to stop having sex with her. I was on top, traditional missionary position, and she rubbed my back a little and told me to relax and hold still. Then ... then I'm trying hard, I mean really hard, to hold still because her pussy started massaging me. Her pussy muscles, I swear, were rippling against my cock.

"Ahh, ahh, I can't." I tried to tell her I couldn't hold still, not against those waves of pussy walls pushing and pulling against my cock. I admit, I didn't last long. I'm embarrassed to say I don't even know if she came. Later, she said she hadn't.

"But that's okay," she said. "I was trying to get you so excited that you would lose control. I promise, if you will practice with me, we can get both of us even more excited, and even more out of control." And that's what we did.

By the time we married a few months later, our sex life was - no brag, just fact - maybe the best in the whole world. Okay, okay, I don't really know that, and it does sound like I'm bragging. But you be the judge. We couldn't make love every day because the sex was too exhausting for both of us. Guys, and girls, who work out seriously, know you must give your muscles time to recover. That's the only way to get better. Same with our sex life. We needed recovery days.

After a recovery day, we might start fooling around in the evening after we both got home from work and had dinner. Kissing, fondling, sixty-nine sometimes, but not often. I liked to concentrate on enjoying her rhythms of sucking and licking my cock - selfish I know. But Gerri liked to be selfish also. She enjoyed concentrating on my licking and nibbling on her pussy, but only after I had brought her little nipples to stand-up attention. When I moved down to her pussy, she would sometimes take over the nipple play - pinching and pulling on them while I was attending to her pussy.

I loved liking and nibbling that pussy, fucking it sometimes with my tongue. I did have to be careful with Gerri's clit. It was almost too sensitive. If I flicked my tongue across it, Gerri would twitch and thrust toward my face, but that often resulted in too much pressure on her clit, and she would back off. We sometimes did what we called the 'clit dance.' I would flick it with my tongue and then back off. She would thrust her hips to try to connect her clit with my tongue. Sometimes successful and sometimes not - a dance between clit and tongue. We both loved it.

We also loved intercourse, doing it our own special way. After months, and now years, of having sex with Gerri, she had trained me well. Usually missionary or cowgirl position; if cowgirl, usually with her facing me, but sometimes reverse with Gerri facing away from me and leaning a bit toward my feet, so I could enjoy the visual of watching her rosebud clenching and unclenching and my cock spreading the lips of her pussy. When we did doggy, we ... but wait, back to our usual progression. Cock inside pussy, check. Not pushing too hard inside, check. Flex my cock a couple of times, check. Try to relax a bit, check (but not easy to do). Then Gerri's pussy would start its magic - rippling the muscles of her pussy walls against my cock, massaging my cock with the wet silkiness of that magic pussy. I would try to remain still. I might recite, not out loud of course, the names of the apostles: Peter, Andrew, James .... This was, after all, a religious experience. Then I might recite the starting line-up of the 1968 St. Louis Cardinals: Bob Gibson pitching, of course, Tim McCarver catching, Dal Maxvill .... I was a kid then and the Cardinals were my team. But ... my attempts at distractions, at prolonging what Gerri's pussy was doing to me, never lasted. I would start making unintelligible noises.

"Uggh, ahh," like that, and then praying, "Oh god, oh god." My cock was so hard it was hurting. All the muscles of my body were tensed, trying to delay the inevitable. Then Gerri would do one of two things. She might stop, hold herself perfectly still, not even breathing I think. I would remain still too, not able to breathe, knowing what was coming. After an eternity or two, both of us poised on the brink, Gerri would twitch her pussy, just a tiny twitch, just enough pressure on my cock that I would erupt. Pushing into her pussy as hard as I could, I would come with everything I had. No sliding back and forth, just pushing into that pussy, coming so hard I would lose my mind for a while. Gerri would come too, sometimes so hard I would have scratches on my back from her fingernails clawing me. And, I think, sometimes losing her mind for a while also. We might recover enough to have another round, or we might roll on our sides, still connected, and go to sleep.

That, I said, was one of the things Gerri might do. The other, ah, that other thing! After her pussy had been massaging my cock to the point of incoherence on my part, she would stop moving. Then she would tell me, "Pound me." Old fashioned, pound in and out of her as hard as I could. This was always in missionary, so I had plenty of leverage. When I was pounding, Gerri would move back and forth, just a little, until she got the angle right: until my cock was rubbing across her clit, sometimes on the in-stroke, sometimes on the out, and sometimes both. Then she would go crazy - yelling, calling me names: "Fucker, fucker, fuck me, fuck me," until she collapsed, often in tears.

Gerri tried to explain her tears once. She said the connection between us was so intense that it was beyond pleasure, into some space or time that she couldn't define or even describe. I was content to hold her, and let sleep restore us to our own space and time.

So life was grand, right? Yes, except for my own insecurity. I was a car salesman, a handsome guy who sold high-end cars, but still just a car salesman, not much college, certainly not a degree. Gerri had a Ph.D. in mathematics, from MIT of all places. She worked as an actuary, actually teaching other actuaries. I can't even describe exactly what an actuary does. I know Gerri loves me, but I live in fear that some smart guy - I mean really smart; it would take a really smart guy to impress Gerri - will take her away. And then what would I do?

Gerri's story

Jimmy and I missed each other this afternoon. I got home just after he left for work. I'm envious sometimes - he can work a few hours and make more money than I make in a week. When I got home today, I saw he had left our home computer running, so I decided to use it for a little browsing. When the screen lit up, I saw the - I don't know what to call it - story, diary, cathartic meanderings of an insecure husband? Jimmy doesn't need to feel so insecure. I love him, with all my heart, and I hope we are together for the rest of our lives.

Yes, I'm super smart, and yes, I am pretty plain looking, and yes, I do have some attractive bits -- I love that Jimmy loves my nipples. I admit I love them too. I also admit, and Jimmy should know this, that I'm a nerd an absolute, calculus-loving nerd. Jimmy is the best-looking man I have ever dated. If anyone should feel insecure, I should. Except ... except I do have that pussy.

I'll share a story. Jimmy and I were attending a fancy dinner party in a hotel ballroom. Mercedes-Benz was hosting a celebration for salespeople who had achieved certain sales levels. Jimmy was a star salesman, and he was getting a prize, so we attended.

We were seated at a big table of ten people, five couples. Everyone introduced themselves, but I could not tell any of the other names two minutes after the introductions. After the dinner, the awards presentations and some dancing, all ten people happened to be seated again at the table at the same time. Then Jimmy left to refresh our drinks and I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when a woman across the table from me, obviously drunk, spoke to me.

"You're Jimmy's wife, aren't you?" she said loudly, through the noise of the band and people celebrating throughout the big room.

"Why yes, I am," I replied, "and happy to be." Then I realized: this lady had chatted with Jimmy earlier, actually tried to flirt with him: touching his arm, leaning in close to him, probably bating her eyes at him. He had spoken to her, but her flirting had bounced off him like a pinecone off a boulder. My Jimmy, I thought.

"I don't get it," the lady said. "Jimmy looks like a movie star, he's a great salesman, and he's married to you? You're a frump, in a frumpy dress, probably work at Wal-Mart. What could he possibly see in you?" I had to think for a moment to come up with the right response. The woman's husband, or date or whatever, was pulling at her arm, trying to get her to shut up. I held up my hand, to make sure I had her attention. Everyone else at the table was also looking at me.

"I have a magic pussy," I said, and got up from the table to go find Jimmy. We went home and had a delightful time in bed before falling asleep holding each other.

What I told that woman was true; I do have a magic pussy and I used it to attract Jimmy and now I use it to keep him. So where does a magic pussy come from? From lots and lots of practice. Someone once said you need 10,000 hours of practice to get really good at something. When I graduated from MIT with a Ph.D., I immediately got a great job as an actuary. At that point in my life, I had never heard of the 10,000-hour rule, but even without knowing the rule I had spent at least that much time learning and practicing the skills of actuarial science. Result: I was great at it. But being an actuary comes with a downside: actuaries tend to be the ultimate nerds, so I couldn't expect to find a satisfying mate in that arena. Luckily for me I did find a teacher, a Japanese gentleman who introduced me to the 10,000-hour rule. He also introduced me to pussy exercise.

Based on Kegel exercises, most women, certainly this one, can learn to control their vaginal muscles if they put in enough hours and hours of practice with a knowledgeable teacher. Sensei Matusa taught me, and practiced with me, for more than five years, six hours a day, almost every day of the year. It cost a fortune, but I learned to control my pussy. Sensei taught me how to orgasm and how to bring my partner to orgasm. Not just any orgasm, but a level of orgasm that would sometimes result in actually losing consciousness. Sometimes our time together was fun, with orgasms like that for both of us. Often, though, it was plain, hard, repetitive work, learning how to exercise my vaginal muscles and practicing those exercises over and over and over again. When I tired and wanted to quit, Sensei would remind me: this is how you get a mate of finest kind. And back I would go to work. Eventually, Sensei Matusa told me it was time: time to put all my work into real practice.

Looking back, my meeting Jimmy was serendipitous. Having an extra two hours a day on my hands and no longer paying Sensei Matusa to teach me to be a sex goddess, I decided I would get a new car. I met Jimmy at the car dealership, and he was my first and, I'm happy to say, only success story. Since Jimmy and I have been together, I no longer need Sensei Matusa, except for occasional fine tuning. My mission in life is to keep Jimmy happy, and exhausted in bed. Once a month or so I will spend a couple of hours with Sensei Matusa. I tell him how things are going in bed with jimmy and me. He may suggest a few tweaks. We may practice a bit and I go home to Jimmy, refreshed and looking for more great times in bed.

Jimmy and Gerri talk

"What do you mean, you 'may practice a bit'?" Gerri had gone to bed that night and, like Jimmy, had left their computer on. When Jimmy got home, he remembered that he had left the computer on, so he sat down to finish his work and log off. Unfortunately for their relationship, Jimmy saw what Gerri had added to his work. Little sleep for him that night, and what sleep he did get was in the spare bedroom, the first time ever he slept in that bedroom.

The next morning Gerri found Jimmy drinking coffee in their kitchen, looking haggard and exhausted.

"Jimmy, what's wrong? You look terrible. Are you sick?"

"Gerri, tell me about Sensei Matusa."

"What? Why are you ...? Oh ... oh, you read what I added to your incredibly sweet note. Listen," and she reached out to hold Jimmy's hand, "but wait a minute." She got up, got Jimmy a fresh cup of coffee and poured herself one.

"Thanks," Jimmy said.

"Sweetheart," Gerri began, "I should have told you about Sensei Matusa years ago. Writing my little add to your note last night made me think about Sensei, and my history with him, in ways I hadn't thought about in years. Like I wrote, I started lessons with Sensei Matusa years before you and I met. He's ...."

"Gerri, 'practice a bit'? Does that mean you're having sex with this guy? I mean, you're married, you know that's cheating."

"Jimmy, please listen to me. Yes, technically, I guess, Sensei Matusa and I have had sex. But it's not sex like you and I have. It's practice, it's me learning how to be the best lover for you, Jimmy, for you. Sensei is, is ... a, a tool. He's just a tool that I have paid to use. Yes, I should have told you about him, about how I got this magic pussy that I am so proud of, this magic pussy you love so much. But, but please listen to me, because I'm insecure too, just like you're insecure, but in a different way. You said in your note that I'm plain. No, don't say anything," as Jimmy started to protest. "You're right. I am plain looking, and I'm also smart enough to know I needed an extra weapon in the fight every woman engages in: the fight to get the best mate possible. After all the effort, the years of effort, Jimmy, that I went through to get this magic pussy, I wanted you to think it was me, that this pussy you love so much was not because of all the work I did, but that it was me, just like your good looks are you. Does that make sense? To you, your good looks are just part of you; you never worked for them. I wanted you to think my pussy was just like that: a part of me that I never had to work for. "

"But why, Gerri? Why would you want to hide that you worked, worked incredibly hard, to get what we both love?"

"To make me more equal to you. You have your movie-star good looks, that you never worked for. And I have, or I guess I should say I had, my magic pussy that, you thought, I never worked for. It was just a natural part of me. And you're right. I was cheating, but the cheating wasn't the sex practice I did with Sensei Matusa, but that I kept it a secret from you."

"Gerri, I think you have this all backward. You spent your 10,000 hours training your pussy to be what I will call the best pussy in the world. You should be prouder of that than of something, like good looks, that some people just happen to be born with. But I think we're way off track here. We can both be proud of all your hard work, but that doesn't excuse your still having sex with Matusa years into our marriage. If we have issues, in bed or out of bed, we should be talking, or maybe getting counseling, but we definitely shouldn't be going to get sex training outside of our marriage. That's just wrong, Gerri."

"Umm, Jimmy, I don't think we're having any issues, at least in bed. You totally rock my world and I think I do the same for you, right?"

"Okay, yes, you're right, and I shouldn't sound so begrudging. YES, we do have a marvelous sex life, and I am proud of you and everything you do to contribute to it. Uh, that is, everything except having sex with another man."

"Sweetheart, let me try a metaphor on you. You're a big baseball fan. In a way a home run in baseball is like an orgasm in sex. Both are ...."

Jimmy interrupted. "Gerri, that's a simile, not a metaphor." Gerri just looked at him for a moment and then smiled.

"Jimmy, you're a lot smarter than you think you are, and I need to stay on my toes around you. Anyway, a homerun is the ultimate thing a batter can do. After he hits it, running the bases is sort of anticlimactic, post-orgasmic if you will. But hitting a homer is not easy, it takes some skill and lots of practice. Just like ...."