A Typical Marriage

I like to watch my wife with the various men we invite over on weekends. In bed, of course, but on the couch as well, when the three of us share drinks and make small talk. Get to know a little about one another.

I cede my place next to my wife to him and sink into an overstuffed chair on the far side of the coffee table, facing them. I wait for him to make a move. Will he be quick about it or slow? Will it be sudden--impulsive--or deliberate? Will he start by placing his left hand on her thickish right thigh, crossed over her left?

After two cocktails (some men prefer beer) will he peck her cheek asking, as it were, for her lips? Does she like him? Will she offer them? Will they neck? Will their bodies twist toward one another while his hand--the same one--force apart her thighs and slide upward underneath the short--very short--skirt of her mini-dress?

Will she or he be the first to suggest they go in the bedroom?

"My husband'll suck you first if you want," she'll offer. "I don't suck cock."

"That's OK," they almost inevitably say. "I'm already hard."

"No shit!"

And often she'll pull him by his erection, through two layers of clothing, to the bedroom down the hall as I discreetly follow. I wait until they're both undressed and in bed to enter. Then, discreetly, I tiptoe past them to my usual viewing spot about ten feet from the near corner of bed's foot.

Only after he enters her, often having lubed up first (we have condoms in the bedside drawer as well, though they go unused), do I pull my panty's vee-front down behind my balls and begin masturbating. I'm a premature ejaculator but I have good self control. By this I mean...

... I can repeatedly bring myself to the brink without ever actually cumming--though a lone drop of clearish semen will eventually come to fill the eye of my penis. I will do this over and over, ad infinitum, depending on the stamina of this particular day's lover. Despite the pleasure (and frustration) I remain silent, however.

I'm like the black-clad figure in a Kabuki play. Though my minimalist attire is much simpler: a women's colorful bikini panty. A second skin of silky microfiber clinging to my penis and smallish balls, bringing them, as it were, into garish relief. I'm there, in other words, silently distant from the bed, but not there.

My wife always has me meet a newcomer at the front door. And his surprised look immediately falls from my post-middle-aged face to my panty. He swallows. Sounds uncertain. "I'm here for...?"

"Claire?" I smile.

He nods though I doubt he remembers from our chain of emails my scant mention of her name. If I mentioned it at all.

He enters, warily, careful to avoid contact with me, my bare chest, as Claire approaches, smiling, from the well-lit kitchen in her skimpy dress. Claire is two years older than me.

All the men who have come over, save one, have been under forty. Several in their twenties. All have seen R-rated boudoir shots I've snapped of Claire on our bed, and I assume her plump, fifty-something body has excited in them, in most of them anyway, a deep, latent desire for mother-love. The surrogate they've fantasized about having sex with since puberty.

"God you're hot!" they'll typically say at this point. Or "God you're sexy!" Or "You look just like your pictures!"

Claire: "I hope that's a good thing."

"It is!"

And Claire will maneuver around to our four-cushion blonde sofa and sit and pat the cushion on her immediate right. And the newcomer will follow.

"Franklin?" addressing me. "Will you make us cocktails please?" To the younger man now seated next to her: "He makes a mean vodka martini. You like martinis?"

"You have, um, beer?"

"Sure. Franklin? Two martinis and a beer for our friend here. Please and thank you."

Question: "Is he your...?"

"Husband?" A nod. "Not much of one, in bed anyway, but..."

From the kitchen: "I heard that."

"Just joking, dear. You're a wonderful husband...," adding, sotto voce, "when not in bed."

Glancing behind the couch: "Does he always... dress like that?"

"Around the house you mean?"

"When... ever. When people come over."

Claire, sitting straight-backed: "It's the arrangement we have. I get to screw other guys and he gets to prance around in women's panties. Simple."

"I don't prance."

"Speaking metaphorically, dear. It's summer now," she might say. "But in winter he also wears stockings. Thigh-highs or pantyhose. He looks cute in pantyhose, don't you dear? When doing the housework? He's my house husband."

By now I've arrived with one martini and one can of cold light beer. I've opened it for him. He usually takes it without thanking me. I then return to the elevated kitchen counter, by the tall stools, for my own martini and then make my way back to the overstuffed chair.

Perhaps, by now, already, the guy's left hand is on my wife's thigh.

"Is it warm in here?" Claire frowns, briefly.

"You're having hot flashes."

"Fuck you!" she rejoins, with a laugh. "Always joking..."

Today's guest is dead serious: "Is he going to be in the bedroom with us when we...?"

"Darling. Are you going to be in the bedroom with us today?"

I look at the guest who steadfastly avoids my eyes. "It was all explained in the emails, remember?"

Answer: "I forget." Or "Remind me."

I quote, almost verbatim, as if written by Claire instead of me, the English professor: "I'm a beyond sexy middle-aged white female who enjoys fucking younger men of any race or ethnicity, though white males are preferred. Please be under forty. I'm married to a fifty-something cuckold voyeur and pantywaist who likes to watch. Must be comfortable with him discreetly in the bedroom with us. He will NOT participate. Please be healthy (no STDs) and send stats as well as a face pic and a dick pic. No pics, no reply.

"Tips appreciated," I add. And the guy sitting next to Claire, who has zoned out during my recitation, finally wakes up.

"Tips? I don't remember that." (Men are hopelessly cheap.)

Claire shifts her plump bottom sunk deep in her blonde cushion. "I'm not a whore. And I'm certainly not a cheap one..."

She goes on: "But vodka and beer and lubricant and condoms... they all cost money."

"I have to wear a condom?" his voice in near panic.

"No. But we have to have them as an option all the same. How's your beer?" she smiles. "Want another one?"

"Please."

"Franklin?" And I'm up again, off to the kitchen. "Another of your wonderful martinis as well, please.

"It says appreciated," Claire goes on to explain, to our guest. "Not mandatory."

"You mean like a ten?"

Claire looks left, probably in fleeting disgust. Then back again. "Or a twenty would be nice."

"Oh. I think I got that on me. Pretty sure..."

And I deliver a second round, a hard-on now slanting visibly off to the left in my panty, threatening to breach the thin waistband. It draws an inevitable, unavoidable glance as I bend toward him with the can of cold beer.

"Is that your, um, panty?"

And Claire laughs. "Oh god no! He buys his own. Or I buy them for him, for Christmas and such." She laughs a second time. "My panties are two sizes too big for him, fortunately."

"Must be weird...," he muses, after taking a swig.

"What?"

"Married to a pantywaist."

And Claire laughs a third time. "Lots of things about marriage are weird. Want him to suck your cock?"

"Him?"

"I don't suck cock. Never have, never will," Claire advises, as previously mentioned.

"No," though sounding ambivalent about it. Can he even admit to himself the idea is a bit of a turn-on? Getting sucked off by the wimpy husband, down on his knees, before climbing in bed and fucking the wife? Can he admit it, now, that he's perhaps bisexual? Heading in that direction? Or will the latent admission have to wait another ten or twenty years, when he's our age? "I'm hard already."

"I know you are, big boy. Finish your beer and let's go in the bedroom."

"Let's go now."

And, discreetly, I follow in their affectionate wake.

After this latest "boyfriend" cums--ejaculates in my wife multiple times, I pull my panty up over my erection and race down the hall to the guest bathroom on the opposite side of our condo. After closing the door and locking it (possibly) I pull the panty back down and masturbate--into the sink or into the toilet, whichever comes first.

Perhaps I cry out. A muted cry. It's a rather big load. It's been a few days--usually a week. I've been torturing myself, dying to release it. Oh!

I wash the thick cum down or flush it down and wipe my penis (and hand) clean and pull my colorful panty back up, damp at the front though the dampness is mostly hidden by the collage of semi-abstract colors, and head to the kitchen.

Where Claire has just arrived, typically, wearing a tightly cinched kimono every bit as colorful as my panty. Though she has a bit of a belly, as well as wide hips, while mine is flat, and narrow.

Today's lover follows. He's dressed again and he's fishing in a pocket (or a wallet). He hands her a twenty. "Will this do?"

"Do just fine," she beams.

"You're a cheap fuck," he might allow.

And Claire's smile vanishes. "It's not about the money. I could get two hundred and fifty a night if I was so inclined."

"I don't... doubt it," he claims, perhaps feeling guilty. Guilty about multiple things.

Claire refreshes her smile: "Want a beer before you go?"

"No. No thanks. Can I, um... come back sometime?"

"Sure. Email my husband."

A glance in my direction. "Oh. He...?" Then, "You have lots of guys over?"

"A few. Sometimes."

"Oh."

It's my job, limp in my panty now, to escort the visitor to the door. I unlock and open if for him and, typically without saying anything to me, though with a glance back, a hesitant one, he departs.

"What was that all about?" Claire asks.

"What?"

"That... look."

"What look? I opened and closed the door."

She's holding the twenty, which she's folded lengthwise in half. It's bent, however, in the middle.

"You wanted to suck his cock didn't you?"

"If he'd wanted it I would have. He has a nice pair of balls."

"Woulda, shoulda, coulda," she says with a contemptuous half turn, away from an empty martini glass. "You're pathetic. We should start inviting men over."

"We already do."

"For you, I mean. Faggots. I'd like to watch that." Then:

"Make me a fresh drink. Then clean up this kitchen. Looks like a bunch of drunks have been... rummaging around."

I suppress the urge, as I did when masturbating in the bedroom, suppress it and say, obediently, submissively, ultimately, "Yes, dear."