My Second Best Friend's Wife

My Second Best Friend's Wife

Well, Gentle Reader, it happened again. I woke, and this was there in my mind, full-blown. All I have to do is write it down. I hope you won't be disappointed, but this won't be the start of a longer project. It's a one-off, stand-alone story. Well, it's a one-off, stand-alone autobiographical vignette. So, return with me now to those wonderful days of yesteryear (to paraphrase the way they used to open The Lone Ranger television shows, as I tell you of the first time with my second-best friend's wife.

It was the summer of 1974. My wife was taking summer classes, getting ahead, already ready to be done with school, and see if she could make it as a professional artist. My second-best friend had an amazing opportunity and was spending two weeks at a Rugby Camp, expenses paid by the Club. Yes, he was THAT good. That left me, David, Dave to the world, and Patricia, Trish to the world, my second-best friend's wife, alone together a lot.

It worked out well. I had skills, and my savings weren't endless, so I ran an ad in the paper and was doing handyman projects in the summer. Trish was bored and wanted to learn. So, for eleven dollars an hour, you could get both of us ($6.50 for me, $4.50 for her) and get your walls painted or your porch fixed or your windows working.

Jimmy, my second-best friend, and Trish were younger. They got into our group when Jimmy and Jack, my first best friend, got a summer job delivering furniture the year before. Jimmy was 17 at the time and I made damn sure that Monica, my wife, kept her hands off of THAT jail bait while I just looked at Trish.

On this particular day, I ran by their house to pick Trish up. We were scheduled to put a roof on a garage, and I had an eye on the sky as I drove the old Ford van to their house in the country. As I climbed the three steps to the porch, a clap of thunder loud enough to make me flinch boomed, and the sky just opened up. It was so dark I was sure the automatic street lights in town would be coming on. Hell, as I looked across the dirt road that marked the last quarter mile to their house, I swear I saw a fish drowning.

She opened the door and I went in, laughing.

"I think we're rained out," I said.

"YA THINK?!" she said, wide-eyed and laughing.

And she kissed me.

It was one of those good kisses. It started tentatively, as if she might not be sure how I'd react. But as I kissed her back, she did that thing all women seem to know how to do down at the DNA level, that they know instinctively. She, well, she "molded" herself to me. It's a subtle thing. I've watched it in others and can see how it works. It's mostly in the spine, the way she adjusted herself so the contact between us ran from my chest across my belly to my hips and my thighs.

It was a good kiss. That thinking part of my mind thought, "You have been part of our group, haven't you?" I wondered which of the dozen or so men that formed our, well, our swinging group, got to her first. Not that I could blame them. Trish was cute in the round, freckle-faced way of a girl raised on a farm. She had a button nose and a little cupid bow mouth. From the neck down, though, she had always struck me as almost boyish. She was tallish for a woman, at about five-six or five-seven. She was slender, bordering on skinny. And as everyone in our group could attest after using John's swimming pool, her figure was boyish as well, with broad shoulders, small breasts, and narrow hips. She did have a bit of a bubble butt, the topic of more than one beer-fueled conversation.

Since I had a decade on her, I asserted my control. I tend to be a bit controlling as a lover, and figured she should understand it. I pushed her away, my hands on her shoulders, until I held her at arm's length.

"Tell me you're sure," I said.

"I'm sure," she said, holding my eyes.

I smiled.

"Take off your clothes," I said.

Her eyes got big at that.

"Take. off. your. clothes," I repeated, making each word a separate sentence.

She held my eyes for a few seconds, and then smiled.

I stood over her, yes, establishing control if not all-out dominance, and watched as she sat and unlaced the heavy boots I insisted she buy if she was going to work with me in a construction environment. She smiled up at me as she peeled the heavy white socks off and stuffed them into the tops of the boots before she stood.

She held my eyes again, almost defiant, as she did that arms-crossed-in-front thing and peeled off the T-shirt she wore, this one advertising some bluegrass festival.

I smiled.

She was so small-breasted that her bra made me think of what I've heard called a "training bra," although I never really understood why breasts would need to be trained. I mean, it's not like they're going to run away or something.

She did that double-jointed thing all women seem to learn with that first training bra, reached back, unhooked it, and dropped her bra on the table on top of her T-shirt.

Her breasts were more "breast buds" than true breasts. She almost looked like a boy with slightly overdeveloped breasts but tiny nipples.

I could see that she was getting nervous for all of her forced aura of casualness as she tugged on her belt enough to get the prong free and then unbuttoned and unzipped. She pushed the jeans down. I had discouraged her from wearing tight jeans when we were working, so they almost dropped once past that butt of hers, and she lifted them with her foot, incongruously folded them into a flat quarter, and laid them on top of the T-shirt and bra.

Her panties were white and cotton, something else I had suggested after she complained about "an itch" after our first hot day working.

She hesitated.

I waited.

She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down, putting a little wiggle into her hips, let them fall and, again, lifted them with her foot before she laid them on the pile of clothes on the table.

"Hands behind your head," I said, "fingers laced."

Her eyes got big, but she laced her fingers behind her head.

I held my arm out straight, forefinger pointing at the floor, and twirled it, the universal signal for "turn around."

I knew, from swimming, that she didn't shave her armpits, and now I saw the light dusting of pubic hair on her small mons veneris, that beautiful Mound of Venus that marked her sex. As she turned slowly, I could see that she was one of those blondes with a light dusting of very fine body hair, almost downy.

"Don't move," I said, taking a step and closing the distance between us.

She smiled and then shivered as I began exploring her, claiming her with my hands. I laid my palms flat on her cheeks and then slowly caressed down, across her neck and shoulders, and then up her arms, making her giggle as she struggled to keep her fingers laced behind her head in spite of the way I was tickling her.

I played with her little breast buds and then her waist. I touched her belly button. I touched her, smiling, as she stood, accepting it.

"Leave your hands there," I said, "and lead me to the bedroom. Put some wiggle into that ass."

I thought I detected some hesitation, so I asked, "Are you sure?"

She took a deep breath, nodded, and headed toward the bedroom.

Her cute little bubble butt did wiggle nicely as she walked before me.

Okay, it was a rush, the way she was being so compliant, and I decided to push the issue, to test her limits.

"Crawl up onto the bed, Trish," I said, "on all fours."

As she did, I just stood back and watched. I could see I was getting to her the way she was shiny between her legs.

I stayed where I was, at the foot of the bed, still fully clothed.

She looked over her shoulder, the question in her eyes.

"On your back now," I said.

She rolled onto her back and spread her legs.

"Pull your knees back," I said.

She met my eyes for a second, hesitated, and then pulled her knees back.

"All the way," I said, "until your knees touch your nipples."

She rolled her hips up and pulled her knees back.

"Good girl," I said.

I undressed slowly, while she held that awkward position. Her eyes followed my fingers as I sat on the edge of the bed to untie my boots.

"Hold that position," I said, fingers busy with the laces.

I got the boots off, peeled the socks, and then stood by the bed so she could watch as I worked the T-shirt up and off, unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed my jeans down and then, slowly, pushed the boxers down, showing her my interest in that way a man shows his interest.

I got up on the bed, on my knees, so I could see as I started issuing my final set of instructions.

"Use your fingertips, Trish, and open yourself up, offer yourself to me," I said.

Her eyes got big.

"So, this is new to you," I thought.

When her fingertips parted her labia, I could see, and smell, her arousal. Her natural lubricant, the product primarily of the mucus membranes lining her vagina, was thick and clear, making a spider's web of silvery threads as she gently opened herself.

"Wider," I said.

She opened herself a little more, still being very gentle.

"WIDER," I snapped.

Her eyes got big.

"It won't break," I said, "now OPEN yourself for me."

Her eyes closed, she grunted softly, and her fingertips entered her a little as she started adding pressure, pulling now.

"Come on," I said, putting a little breathiness into my voice now, "wider."

"Oh, God," she moaned, pulled, and now I could see her cervix clearly, swimming in a pool of her water-clear nectar.

I bent forward and blew on her pink inner lips, now so exposed, the way she had herself open.

"Show me your clitoris," I said, pronouncing it "klitoarus" as my cousin's wife had taught me.

"DAVID!" she moaned.

"Show me," I said again, blowing softly.

"Oh God," she whispered and used her index fingers to lift the little pad of her clitoral hood. It was a hard, pink little bud, and I blew on it, making her shudder.

The nectar surrounding her cervix started to change color then, no longer water-clear, it was milky and thinner as her body gave herself the lubrication to make accepting the sex easy. Now her Bartholin's and Skene's glands, deeper in her system, were producing, adding to the love honey that was filling her up. Her womanscent changed subtly too, the pheromones working on me, making my erection even harder so it throbbed.

"Touch it," I said.

I watched her finger move slowly, tentatively, and touch the tip of her clitoris.

She shuddered.

"Harder," I said, "play with it."

I watched as she started making little circles, and her breathing got ragged.

Her cervix was fully covered now, her nectar very thick as her hips rocked slightly.

"Don't stop," I said, blowing softly where she was playing now, masturbating as I watched.

And she overflowed. Her nectar, thick and white, started running down the crack of her ass where it hung in a thick teardrop that got longer until it reached the sheet and started puddling.

"Don't stop," I said again, and I touched her for the first time, my lips touching where she leaked, tasting her nectar.

"OH GOD," she moaned, hips rocking now, fingers moving, masturbating seriously, seeking her climax.

"Go ahead," I said.

She exploded.

She didn't just cum. Hell, she didn't just squirt. She SPRAYED, that hot thick honey covering my face as I covered her with my mouth, drinking her pleasure greedily.

I kept at her with my mouth, feeling her finger against the bridge of my nose as she masturbated furiously until she came a second and then a third time.

When she collapsed I moved forward and slipped inside of her, amazed that she was SO damn tight.

I kissed her, my lips covered with her honey, and she kissed back hungrily.

Her legs locked around mine as I set up a slow rhythm, and we shared soft kisses. She was sated, and I was in no hurry.

I brought her to orgasm once more before my body answered evolution's demands and I ejaculated powerfully into her.

"Oh shit," she breathed, "oh fucking SHIT!"

I laughed and asked, "Do I please you?"

She laughed.

"Tell me we'll do this more often," she said.

We did.