We were at a large party out in the countryside with several dozen people, and midnight was gone. Music blasted from loudspeakers, and waiters moved everywhere with generous varieties of booze. We had escaped across the lawn from the noise (booze in hand) to chat with a few friends. My wife and I don’t often stay out late together, but if we make it past midnight everything is possible. Also, if my wife has more than three cocktails, everything is probable.
Sex talk is inevitable, and she was entertaining our little circle with a girlishly enthusiastic ode to anal sex (“Sometimes I love it!”). Our friends have learned never to be surprised by her, and even her sex talk is so full of sunshine that somehow she makes the kinkiest statements sound natural. Also, because she’s so quick to laugh at it all, the threat or promise of actual sex seems even more distant than when she brought the subject up. My wife’s like a nude beach. Even if you’re surrounded by beautiful bodies, your shared nudity somehow makes desire more easily manageable (maybe). You may go home that evening and have the most erotic fantasies you’ve even had in your life about those bodies, you might kill to have one you saw on the beach transported magically into your bed, but in the first moment you saw them, naked yourself, they were just another of the elements, like the sand or the sun (maybe). That’s my wife, if you know what I mean. She’s healthy in a way that sexual obsession probably isn’t. She’s sunlight. She’s talk of anal sex with a genuinely innocent smile.
Of course ever since she had her photos taken in the last experiment, the body I’ve been obsessing over (if she’s sunlight, I’m shadows and obsessions) is hers. She had wanted to fuck the photographer. I’m dying to see the photos he took of her, and I like to think of her dancing happily through his studio. And I want her to go back, too. I’m dizzy with the thought of her spreading the lips of her pussy for his lens. I spent a day (an hour?) wondering whether I was jealous, pretending to think the thoughts I was supposed to think, but then I’ve never been one for the required thoughts. Her sexual excitement excites me. It’s that simple. Her sexual confidence excites me. Confidence is always enticing. And a lascivious woman excites me. A challenge excites me. I imagine her masturbating in front of him and am instantly hard myself. Let her be enthralled by a cock or a fabulous pair of tits, and then let her pant for my touch even more. Let her be free. Anything else would be a failure.
Enough. Ideas are boring next to bodies, so to the fucking…. We’re at this party, I’ve been anonymously giving her experiments for months, I expect she knows her correspondent is me, she’s most recently written about a desire for another man (knowing her correspondent is me?), she’s talking about anal sex to friends, she’s got on a short green sundress buttoned diagonally across the front, she’s kicked off her shoes to wiggle her bare feet through the grass, and I happen to know she’s not wearing a bra or underwear. Got it? You’d want to fuck her, and I don’t care who you are. I’m dying to fuck her, but then I’ve got days of excitement on the brain.
We go for more drinks, and as I follow behind her I whisper that I want my cock between her legs. She lets her arm swing back until her hand openly touches my crotch. Again, she’s had a few drinks, which are enough not to blur, but to completely erase her limits. More gin and tonics for both of us, and then she wants to show me this wonderful painting in the guestroom. Why she’s been to the guestroom to see this painting I have no idea, but then she has a talent for ingratiating herself into a household immediately, and also the thought of my wife in a relative stranger’s guestroom, for whatever reason, makes me instantly hard(er).
Turns out there’s no painting in the guestroom. There’s a nice big bed, however (which we won’t use).
As soon as my wife had locked the door behind us, there was also her dress on the floor. I leapt for her, but she growled in a completely unfamiliar, commanding voice: “Stay right there, and I’m going to suck your cock on my knees.” And then she was down on her knees, crawling at me across the thick pile carpet like a panther fixed on its prey as I glanced towards the open window and realized that anyone walking around the back of the house would be able to see us. But if you let it breathe, panic transforms into desire, and desire, if you do it right, doesn’t care about consequences.
My pants were down, my underwear was at my knees, my cock was at the back of her throat. She’s practiced it over the years and takes pleasure in taking me deep. I let myself go, I feel as if I’m in the depths of her, feeling my way into her pussy, her ass, from distant angles. I am at the heart of her, the throbbing head of my cock. She moaned as she sucked, and then she would pull it out to see. It was dark and swollen, a creature of its own. If we had stopped for a moment, we could have watched it beat, but her lips were sliding back out and over it again, and then she was purring like a cat, one paw stroking furiously between her legs. She was so concentrated on the sucking that she wasn’t even bothering to properly finger herself. Her whole body was a sexual mind, and it was as if her hand had drifted to her pussy on its own initiative. She raked the edge of her hand up and down between her dripping lips as if she was sawing through sweet butter.
The groaning got louder, and in some subtle way she must have felt me disconnect for a moment to reconsider that open window, that sex window. “I don’t care if anyone sees or hears,” she purred. “They can all fuck me if they like.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” I hissed, forgetting about the window, stabbing my cock towards her again for her mouth to greedily gobble. “Yes!” she sobbed around it with the intensity of the truth.
“A man taking you from behind while you suck my cock. Many men to do your bidding.”
“Yes!” she sobbed again. “I’d like to watch you groaning then,” I said, oblivious to the window now. For all I knew there were legions watching us through a sex window, but we were drunk on each other and drunk on our words and I didn’t care. Her hand was frantic at her cunt, and her ass was bucking back towards the window as if she was being fucked from there.
She pulled back and said to my clenched thighs: “There’s a man I’d like to fuck.” She made it sound as if it was meant to wound, which of course was actually meant to excite me. “What’s his name?” I murmured, as she licked and licked. She moved to my balls, and then her tongue quickly darted up into the tight crevice between my legs. “Mister. Fucking. X,” I heard her say. Mister. Fucking. X. Mysterious stranger. Alter ego. Our tour guide to the dark side of the sexual moon. She knew, of course, but somehow the mystery was still intact.
I smiled briefly and was about to say something clever, but her mouth immediately leapt over and around my flesh and had me spinning again. “What would you do this man?” I moaned, thinking of me, thinking of me as X, thinking of her photographer. “How would you fuck him?”
“Well first I would take his cock in my mouth just like this,” she said, back to the licking, moaning louder, loving the feel of that cock – mine or his. “And I would suck it until he was about to burst. I’d want you watching, I think.” Lick, lick, and a quick pull to the soft flesh at the back of her throat. “And then I’d just be dying for that strong body on top of me, that dick spreading the dripping lips of my pussy!” She was almost shrieking now, gasping around my cock as it slid deeper into her. I was just about to explode into her mouth, which was exciting me as much with its words as with its soft, slick suck, when she pushed me away at the hips and fell back onto the carpet with her back arched to manipulate her vagina with both hands, one spreading the flesh, the other with two fingers hooked up into her hot madness. She writhed around on the floor beneath me, naked and drunk on her own body, and thoughts of other bodies. She wanted me to watch, and I did, looking down on her in marvel as the lust rose up uncontrollably through my coiled legs. She was exploding, writhing under me as if she’d been hooked to electricity. My hand was clamped fast to my cock. I was as rigid as a statue. The stroking came from within me, crashing up into my groin like a wave, and she saw it coming and cried through her own crashing: “On me! On me! Yes!” Animal sounds out an open window. Cum exploding across her body. The hitch, hitch, hitch of her pelvis as she shook off the last clutches of ecstasy. “Have them all,” I said with a smile. “Have every single fucking one of them you like. God I want you to fuck them all.”
And exhausted, I dizzily fell to the carpet beside her and ran a hand up and down her arm and her leg. We kissed, and then we laughed at ourselves. Did the guest room have a shower? We’d figure it out. And then I glanced up, and at that moment, at least, there was nobody looking in at the window.
Need to catch up? Read the Sex Experiment from the beginning: Table of Contents