The Very Good Wife


Devon Strafford

As I wake from my nap, I notice that the afternoon sunlight is already darting past the edges of my window shade. The bedroom wall to the left glows golden from the tint of the yellow curtains. High overhead a plane is droning, and in the park across the street a basketball bounces while clamoring voices follow its progress. I reach down to touch the growing warmth between my legs. The tip of my index finger traces the soft moist lips of my slit. I move my hand up and down, drifting slightly inward with each new caress. My husband is out of town for the weekend, and I’m alone in the house. The front and back doors are locked. The bedroom door is shut. All the shades are drawn.

For the past five years I’ve felt only one cock, my husband’s, down there. But tonight a different one is going to touch me there, penetrate me there. I’ve never felt surges of anticipation like these before; they pass over me again and again in warm tingling waves.

My husband left on his trip yesterday. Last night I didn’t sleep well. I hadn’t slept alone for a long time, but that wasn’t what kept me up and alert through the night. It was the sheer excitement, the longing, the desire. For hours I lay in bed, sleepless, like a little girl waiting impatiently for the day of a long-awaited trip to begin.

I insert my middle finger. Inside my hole it is already very wet. If I take my finger out, if I move it up a fraction of an inch and barely touch myself there -- I know I won’t be able to stop. I draw my hand away. I’ll wait.

I get up and shower. There is plenty of time to work on my hair. I try to be meticulous about my makeup, but as I apply eyeliner I have to slow my pace because of the slight, persistent trembling of my hand.

I select my underwear with care. In college, and later in grad school, I earned a certain notoriety for the lack of attention I paid to my clothes. Obliviousness to fashion was a kind of dogma with me then. I don’t think I ever dressed seductively for a date in my life. Now I reach down into unfamiliar recesses of my underwear drawer. I find the sexy lingerie I ordered on a whim from a catalog a few years ago. There are silken panties and sheer lacy bras, in those colors with outrageous names: Tangerine Frost, Aegean Blue, Peaches and Cream. The Aegean Blue briefs fit tightly around my hips; the smooth silk clings to my mound. The matching bra feels soft and cool as it touches the expectant skin of my breasts. Adjusting the straps before the mirror, I can see the dark shades of my nipples peeking out through the delicate lace. The little tips perk up of their own accord, as if to signal their approval.

The dress is hanging in the closet – a black velvet slip dress with ruffle trim. I decided upon this one last week, right after Adam called me. We had made this solemn promise a few weeks earlier: The next time our respective spouses happened to be away over the same weekend, he and I would meet. This weekend turned out to be particularly favorable. Not only did the requisite absences fall into place, but Adam’s uncle happens to be out of town, too. Adam says his uncle’s apartment in the city is a magically nice place, and we’re going to meet there tonight. Ever since Adam’s call, I’ve felt a warm shiver pass through my body every time I open this closet door and see my special black dress hanging there by its slender straps.

On the commuter train from New Jersey to Penn Station the few passengers in my car are sitting still, their heads bent over books and newspapers. The neat suburban lawns and condo developments soon give way to factories and aging warehouses. Suddenly I see the skyline! The first view never ceases to thrill me. It’s a chilly winter evening, and from the tallest buildings puffs of smoke rise up and are colored by the rosy sunset. Here and there lights are already twinkling in the early dusk.

Later tonight, much later, I’ll be returning home on this same train. When I turn to look back at the skyline, I’ll see it glowing against a darkened sky. Will I feel heavy with guilt then? At first, this prospect terrified me. Now, sitting here on the train, I’m comfortable with the inevitability of what is going to happen. Adam and I will meet like this just once. We’ve agreed that after tonight we’ll revert to our prior status quo, back to our celibate infatuation with each other. As an additional safeguard, he’ll be moving back out west soon, and the distance will ultimately seal our fates.

At twenty-nine, I can tell the difference between an affection built upon long-term compatibility and an attraction driven by pure lust. With Adam, I know which of the two I’m dealing with. I knew it three months ago when he first turned up as a consultant at the research center where I work. I knew it when my breathing would deepen and the blood would surge in my veins every time I felt the blue glint of his eyes upon me. I knew it when I found myself mentally rehearsing conversations I was about to have with him, calculating how to show myself off to my best advantage. Then a strange thing began to happen. As I made love with my husband, erotic thoughts of Adam would suddenly steal into my mind. I would come right away. And not only would I come, but I would come with a staggering, almost violent intensity that left me dazed. That’s when I truly understood the nature of this attraction.

I believe in marriage. I always thought of mine as a good one, too. In five years nothing like this has ever happened to me. I’ve never felt so powerless before the urges of my body. My descent into sin has been surprisingly rapid, but I’ve come to see it in a certain perspective. This may never happen to me again. I want to savor the experience, inhale it deeply, and drink in every sensation it has to offer. I feel as if I’m on my way to purchase a trove of precious jewels. I will keep them hidden with me for the rest of my life. In the future, whenever I wish, I’ll take them out, gaze at them to my heart’s content, and their timeless glow will always warm me.

At Penn Station I change to the uptown subway. Surrounding me in the rumbling MTA car I see all the world’s complexions. A short Indian woman in her bright saffron sari stands pensively at my side, a glittering marriage stone set in the middle of her forehead. Across from me a group of young black men sit dressed like gangster rappers, their demeanors changing from menace to laughter and back again in a flash. Next to them several white men in elegant evening coats gesture wildly with their hands as they debate a point in Russian. If I were not restraining myself, I could break out in a broad smile right now. I wonder if there has ever been a happier passenger on the B train!

When I emerge on Broadway, the crowds, the lights, the noise seem to have organized in open rebellion against the coming of the night. Nestled inside my warmest winter coat, I merge into the bustle, and the tide of pedestrians carries me along until I make a left turn and head toward the river.

I walk past massive old apartment buildings, their facades rising like steep cliffs above the narrow sidewalk. In front of me the lower halves of buildings are already lost in shadows. The street where Adam’s uncle lives is quiet and elegant. I can easily imagine this neighborhood in the late nineteenth century, with carriages rolling up and women in bustle dresses descending from them on to the street. Perhaps one willful young wife will scandalously display a glimpse of her stockinged calf as she steps to the curb. This thought enchants me, and I smile to myself as I walk.

I quickly find the right building. Riding up the elevator, I feel increasingly anxious. Adam has never seen me naked before. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with apprehension over the impression I’ll make. I pause and take a few deep breaths, then I press down on the buzzer at his apartment door.

When Adam opens the door, our eyes immediately meet. The familiar glow is radiating from the sky blue of his irises. He barely has time to say hello before we plunge into a long deep kiss. With the tip of his foot he kicks the door shut, and we are alone.

We’ve never kissed before, and the full effect of his height thrills me. I hang suspended from his shoulders until he leans down to prolong our kiss. His lips are soft and delicate against mine. Kisses rain down upon my hair, my ears, my neck. His lips tickle as they moisten newly discovered erogenous zones on the nape of my neck. Meanwhile I can’t help noticing the solid weight of his erection already pressing unabashedly against my belly.

He breaks off his kisses. “We should eat,” he says.

“Is that just to torment us?” I laugh.

“No, look, I made dinner,” he says, motioning to a candle-lit table set in the small dining area nearby. Gathered around a tall bottle of champagne there are gleaming casserole dishes, a lavish green salad, and a basket filled with breads and rolls. “We’ve waited this long,” I tell him, “I suppose we can hold out a little longer.”

On our way to the table, I take a quick look around the apartment. “You were right,” I comment, “This really is a nice place.” The huge living room is furnished with an eclectic set of antiques, all in polished cherry and similar dark woods. A thick oriental rug covers the floor. Tall mirrors and crystal lamps reflect the sparkling candlelight. My eyes are drawn to the oil paintings hung on the walls all around me. Each picture is set in an ornately carved frame. Within the frame closest to me I see jocular peasants carousing and dancing through the streets of a medieval town.

After two glasses of champagne, my head is swirling. I was giddy even before I stepped in here. Now I feel as if I could walk around the entire apartment, and my feet would never touch the floor.

A half-hour passes. I never take my eyes off Adam. While he speaks, I watch his hands, his eyes. The smell of his cologne adds to my intoxication. His face is freshly shaven; the rugged lines of his jaw look so smooth that I desperately want to run the palms of my hands over his face and and lose my fingertips in his sparkling clean hair. He tells me how happy he is that we can spend these moments together, and I concur. I agree with everything he is saying, although after a while I hear only the earnest sound of his voice, only the vague intonations of his vocal chords. I can sense that he’s making a great effort to control his tension, and this only makes me want him more.

“Would you like some dessert?” he asks.

“No, thank you, I don’t want any dessert,” I reply. I fold my hands demurely in my lap and stare intently into his eyes.

A few minutes later I’m standing in the kitchen, my bare shoulder blades braced against the wall. My dress lies in a heap on the floor. A large wet spot darkens each cup of my bra. Adam’s mouth is busy probing the layer of blue lace that still conceals my right breast. He’s found the jutting nipple underneath, and he pulls it into his mouth, lace and all. His tongue moves in leisurely circles around the stiff little nub. The teasing pull of his lips, the steady rolling of his tongue, make me want to cry out with delight. I desperately want to get rid of this bra, to expose my breasts to every soft caress his mouth can give me. As if reading my mind, he unhooks the clasps behind me, and the cumbersome garment is gone.

His eyes glow warmly as they take in my exposed breasts. My gently rising mounds glisten in the pale light, inviting his mouth to visit again, and he doesn’t hesitate. Soon my breasts are dripping with his saliva, and what had been an incipient tingling in my crotch is now a throbbing ache.

My fingers descend slowly as they unfasten the buttons of his shirt. While my hands work their way downward I am thinking that tonight I will surely do things with a man that I have never done before. As soon as the smooth plane of his bare chest appears I press my cheekbone there against his solid flesh. The sound of his heartbeat startles me -- it pounds inside him like thunder. As I listen, I can’t resist his tiny nipples. I lick and suck on them until his tips point out stiffly, like miniature versions of mine.

When he takes hold of the waistband of my tights, I decide to save him this awkwardness and I peel them off myself. But I insist upon removing his pants. The sound of his zipper excites me as I slide it downward. His pleated twill pants drop onto the growing pile of our clothes on the floor. Now we stand before each other clad only in our briefs: his are of heavy white cotton, mine are a thin layer of silk -- Aegean Blue, of course.

Reaching inside his jockeys, I promptly encounter the first non-husband cock I’ve touched in five years. No thunderbolts burst down from on high to punish me. Instead, my undeterred fingers proceed to encircle his cockshaft as it sprouts up between his legs like a sturdy young branch. Immediately I note with delight how this cock feels harder and stronger than any I have ever held. I quickly slide his underwear down his legs all the way to the floor.

At last, I can embrace my naked lover. His upright cock is squeezed between our bellies. Stretching upward on my toes, I let my silken underwear caress the underside of his captive shaft. My hips begin to sway back and forth in slow undulating motions. Gradually I apply more pressure, driving my mound into his cock and never relenting in my perverse gyrations. Soon the moisture leaking from his swollen cock lines my stomach in warm wet streaks.

As we stand locked in a silent embrace, I look over into the living room. There is a clock on the mantle, and it reminds me of what a brief gift of time we have to share. At the far end of the room I see an elegant Victorian couch. It is huge, perhaps eight feet long, and covered in a dark burgundy fabric. At each end fluffy cushions billow out over the spiraling wooden armrests. Next to the couch is a large picture window. With the candles extinguished, the only light entering the room comes from the diffused city lights outside and from the broad beam of the rising full moon. The sounds of the wintry urban night do not penetrate here. It is as if the two of us have been secreted away from the world and sealed inside a hermetic sphere.

Moments later I’m on my back, stretched out on the decadent couch, my head swooning upon the great soft pillow. Adam is seated beside me, teasing my nipples with swift upward strokes of his hands. “It feels better when you do it like this,” I tell him, taking hold of his hands. I show him the slow downward movement of the forefingers that sets my nipples on fire. Soon his caresses make my tips so hard that they begin to hurt.

When he lowers his hand to stroke the damp blue silk stretched over my pussy, I guide him down there, too. Together we pull on the smooth fabric so it glides down between my slippery lips. Our hands work in unison to slide the taut strip of silk up and down my slit. I cry out in rapture as it brushes over my brazenly tumescent clit. When I’m too aroused to endure this any longer, I make him stop. I raise my hips so he can whisk away these trusty panties that have served me so well tonight.

Bathed in moonlight, I now lie completely exposed before Adam. Still feeling a tinge of apprehension I watch as his gaze passes slowly over the length of my nude body. Then he smiles, delight twinkling in his eyes. Now my confidence truly soars.

Rising up, I scatter a deluge of kisses over his back, upon his shoulders, and down his arms. While my lips are pressed against his hands, I examine his fingers, making sure his nails are rounded and smooth. Then I take his hand and move it down between my legs, where I insert his long middle finger all the way up inside me. Under my expert guidance he learns the quick in and out motion that makes me simmer. He must know all the intimate touches and teasing caresses that I use when I pleasure myself. Parting my folds, I direct his fingers to the core of my heat. I lead his fingertips in a dance of feathery strokes over the hood of my clit. Underneath, the little tip swells and pushes out, distended, and hot as fire. Soon he’s on his own. I lie back and close my eyes. For as long as I can, I just want savor the delectable fruits of my pedagogy.

At first, when I ask Adam to show me how he makes himself come, he’s taken aback. He thinks I’m kidding, and I have to coax him. Eventually he gives in. With my face perched inches from his hand, I watch with rapt attention as he performs his exotic twists and tugs and pulls. I demand to see all the caresses he practices upon himself in his most secret moments. Inevitably his own touches get to be too much for him, but I am adamant in my refusals to let him finish.

For the next hour we play together. I am certain that I get to know his body more intimately than anyone ever has before, and he achieves a complete mastery over mine. We take turns making each other tremble and pant and gasp uncontrollably. But we always stop, leaving the other on the verge, begging for a respite. We do this again and again, repeating the exquisite torments until we are groping about in a shared state of delirium.

I know that I must be disoriented when I look up and see that Adam and I have turned completely white. I slide over to the end of the couch and look out the window. Outside, the moon is shining brilliantly white, motionless, like a beacon over the wide river. Down below, the bare trees in Riverside Park are bathed in the moon’s soft glow. All the objects in the room: the chairs, the lamps, the carpet, the paintings, have been cleansed of their surface tints. Everything has taken on the same warm luminescence. Our bodies, too, are bathed in this radiance. The male and female forms emerge with wondrous clarity. I contemplate my woman’s body -- I run my hands over the graceful slopes of my hips; I trace the contours of my breasts and touch the tangled growth of wet hair between my legs. And I see the male body admiring mine -- his broad shoulders, his rugged angular hips, his muscular thighs. With his protruding cock he looks like an obscene classical statue come alive -- a lewd David, here to claim his courtesan.

In the moonlight, no veins discolor Adam’s cock. It is smooth and white, like a staff of polished ivory. When I squeeze it, I can feel the bone-like hardness beneath the pliant skin. It resists my effort to bend it downward. I want this hardness pressed against my softness. I want it inside my softness. I welcome the primal urge to yield to it. When I lie back, my legs part involuntary, offering him my gaping hole to fill. I must have every inch of him inside me, moving, thrusting, pounding.

I gasp at the feel of the unfamiliar cockhead pressing at my opening. It pushes inside slowly, the firm round tip parting the slippery walls with ease as it moves deeper and deeper inside. When he has inserted himself as far as he can, he pauses. He’s trembling, and I’m afraid he’s about to come. I dare not move as he struggles to gain control of himself. Gradually his helpless shaking ceases.

I’ve spread my legs as far apart as they can go. My left foot is touching the floor and my right ankle is perched on the couch’s low backrest. Adam is above me, and when he starts to move, I don’t feel his hips or his abdomen strike me at all. Only his cockshaft touches me. With slow rhythmic thrusts he moves in and out, invading every hidden recess, touching every crevice, filling me with fire. Each time he withdraws the walls inside me cling beseechingly to him. In the wake of his retreats he leaves behind a throbbing void, but he always comes back, mercifully filling the emptiness.

Bit by bit, he picks up speed. His cock seems to drive him onward and he eagerly follows its lead. The thrusts feel much harder now. His downward plunges rock me, shake me, explode against me. He’s slamming relentlessly against my clit. Every time our bodies collide, I cry out. I scarcely recognize these sounds as my own. Instinctual and raw, they erupt from my throat of their own accord, shattering the silence of the room.

I can’t match his driving fury. Let him be in control, I tell myself. I want nothing more than to lie here beneath the moon and let wave after wave of pleasure roll over me. The waves can lash at me, roar against me, hurl me into the abyss, I don’t care.

When Adam’s lips begin to quiver, I know he’s about to come. A moan resonates from deep within his chest, and he collapses upon me. Like a child trying to stifle his cries, he buries his head in the crook of my neck. I can almost feel the drops of moisture he’s releasing inside me. In my mind I see his thick white cum mingling with the flow of my own clear liquids, forming a warm milky pool deep in my belly.

While he’s still hard I make a few strategically aimed thrusts against the base of his cock, and I begin to come. I dig my heals into his dimpled butt cheeks as I explode in deep crotch-wrenching spasms. From my center the shockwaves surge outward, spiraling up through my torso, shooting straight down to my toes.

The violent throbbing gradually subsides, but the burning inside does not go away. Embers are smoldering down there, eager to flare up again. From the clock I can see that less than an hour remains before I must go. I know I should be more than satisfied, but to my surprise, I crave more.

Adam is on his back, resting, while I wait for him to revive. I reach for his shrunken penis, toy with it, roll it around in its nest of matted hair. What if I were to take his manly instrument into my mouth right now, just as it is, soft and limp, drenched in our most intimate juices? Haven’t I always wanted to try this? I slowly draw him into my mouth, and my tongue dwarfs his dormant little phallus. I slide it from side to side and squeeze it against my teeth. With leisurely pulls I suck it clean, stretching out his limpness like a long elastic chord. He still isn’t getting hard, so I grasp his quivering scrotum and begin to fondle it. I feel around daintily, making sure my fingers press lightly all around each elusive oval. His pouch fits nicely into the cup of my hand. Ever so carefully I squeeze it. I press against his sack, flattening it with my palm, rolling the two balls against his body with slow circular motions. This movement stuns him. Deep in his throat he’s gurgling helplessly while his entire body trembles. Still, I can tell that he likes it. In fact, he’s getting very hard now. I’m pleased by the vastness of the power I exert over him and break out in a sly immodest smile. Soon a contented grin appears on his face as well.

I’m not finished with my dear captive yet. I straddle him and take his hardness back inside me. Then I fuck him. I fuck him at the varied tempos that seem most natural to me. I fuck him so he glides up my hole in slow easy moves. I fuck him with my clit grinding into his pubic bone. And I fuck him until I’m the only one moving, and I continue to fuck him until I’m absolutely certain that I’ve squeezed the last drops of pleasure from our bodies.

Then we lie still. I stroke his hair, and for the short time we have left I enjoy the sight of the blue moonlight reflected in his eyes. I feel as if someone has opened a valve, releasing an intense pressure that had built up inside me over many years. A true calmness finally settles over me, and I’m at peace with the world

The cab gets me to Penn Station in time to catch the last train home. Soon the familiar skyline appears again. In the receding distance it glimmers like a handful of diamonds cast into the jet-black sky. Do I feel overwhelmed by guilt? Far from it! I’m happier now than I was this afternoon on my way into the city. I feel cleansed, purified, as if a toxin had been circulating within me and now I’ve purged it from my body. What was that subtle poison? Perhaps it was a certain rigid belief I had clung to, a belief that had survived untested within me until now – the belief that there was some absolute virtue to be found in forever denying myself the pleasure I felt tonight. Had I allowed that belief to fester in me, I’m sure that sooner or later it would have embittered me. It would have destroyed the one relationship I cherish most.

It’s already Sunday. Today I can sleep late, and on Monday my husband will be home. I’m truly looking forward to seeing him, and now I’m ready to be a very good wife.