Teasing
                         



One


"Patrick, I'm tired of running around!  From now I'm going to
conduct my affairs with different men here at home, even if it does
disturb you.  I'm tired of sneaking into all sorts of places so
people won't know I'm there, driving all over the city to all sorts
of hidden retreats for get togethers.  Some nights I get home so
heavily used I can barely walk!  I do try to satisfy all their
whims and desires, and they do appreciate it.  They certainly pay
me well enough.  Even so, the more I do for them the more they
crave, the more they want me to do!  It's never enough!  It's
exhausting!  When they get really hot and bothered they tie me up
all day.  So from now on I service all those men right here at
home."
 
"Mmmmph?" I asked her?  I wasn't really listening.  Score tied two
all, the pitcher maybe coming apart, man on third, that had my
complete attention.  But then came a commercial, and some of her
words broke through.  "I don't mind if you watch," she was saying. 
"You might even enjoy seeing how I satisfy the different needs of
different men."

What!?  This had a disturbing sound. I replayed her recollected
words in my head.   What was she telling me?  She's been having
affairs?  She satisfies men by letting them tie her up?  She gets
them all hot and bothered?  Now she wants to bring them home to
fuck them, with me watching?  Tara?  My own wife?

"What?" I said.  I tried to focus these incredible revelations with
a delicately phrased question.  "You satisfy other men?  Give them
what they need?"

"Well, I should hope so!" she said a little indignantly. 

I looked at her, baffled.  

She looked back, equally baffled.  Then she must have replayed in
her own head what I'd heard, how she'd said it, because realization
dawned.  She broke into a slightly mocking grin.  

"Oooh, sweetie, look at you!  You just heard me confess something
really naughty, didn't you?"  

I was paralyzed, feeling for a response.  Hurt?  Anger? 
Bewilderment?  The bottom had just fallen out of my life!

She looked across at me, amused.  "Just look at you!  You're
thinking 'My wife has just told me she's having sex with men all
over town, and now she wants to bring them all home, and she's
inviting me to watch!'  Is that what just came into your little
mind, honey?"

Was it?  I shook my head and swallowed and tried again to speak. 
Nothing came out.  

She saw.  "Why, I'm right!  You're blushing!  You actually DO think
that's what I do when I go out to see my different clients!  Betray
our marriage vows!  Carry on affairs!  A man calls me for a
consultation, ring ring, and I'm out the door in my laciest
lingerie, ready to spread my legs wide and drip all my earlier
clients all over him?  Is that what you imagine?"    

"No, of course not, Tara!"  I tried to sound hurt that she should
think so.  But I was hurt!  I did think so!  That's what I'd heard!

My head knew that Tara was scrupulously faithful, that she'd never
do such a thing.  Not ever!  She was playfully flirtatious whenever
she was with other men, and they all responded, I'd seen that often
enough.  But she knew it distressed me, so she suppressed it, at
least in my presence.  Somewhat.  She sensed how insecure I always
felt about her love for me, whether I deserved it.  How incredibly
lucky I felt that she was mine.  She thought it was cute that when
I asked her to marry me, I didn't dream she'd actually agree to do
it.  She knew that the mere appearance of infidelity on her part
could devastate me, maybe even destroy me.  So for the five years
we'd been married she'd remained more openly above suspicion than
even Caesar's wife.  As far as I could tell, that is.  We provided
each other with ample sex, whatever was needed.  We loved each
other.  That was that.  

So I was quite sure of Tara.  So sure that I'd sometimes indulge a
small, shameful, secret fantasy about her, that behind my back she
actually was a wild women, sexually abandoned, nymphomaniacal with
other men.  That notion was always arousing for me, and useful now
and then when Tara wanted a second round of lovemaking from me when
I'd been exhausted by the first.  It did seem that Tara could be
both provocative and sometimes -- it seemed -- insatiable.  But
with that very thought I was able to oblige her.

She was looking at me more closely now.  Did she sense what was
going on in my mind?  Very little ever got past her.

She sensed it.  "You're thinking that I sleep with other men,
aren't you?  You've toyed with that notion before, too, haven't
you?" Then bluntly, "It turns you on, doesn't it?"

I had nothing to say.  I stared at her, a deer in headlights.

She suddenly smiled.  "You know, sweetie, after all this time I can
read you like a book with no cover.  How odd!  It does turn you on,
that idea, doesn't it?  Thinking that I'm unfaithful to you, that
I'm pussycatting my pussy all around town!  Getting it from other
men."  She spoke in a gentle, matter of fact voice, quiet,
reassuring.  "It's exciting, isn't it, sweetheart?  Be honest!"

She had me fixed in her steady gaze, and I knew there was no
escaping.  "I ...  yes, that's right, sometimes," I confessed
slowly.  "Not that I believe it.  And no way do I really want it,
Tara.  No, not at all.  No!  Please, believe me!"

Why did I sound as if I were pleading?  Why protest too much?  Did
I fear that she might actually get into bed with her customers just
to please me?  If she thought that it would turn me on?  That I had
to discourage her, or else ring ring, and there she was humping
away like a bunny in a cage full of rabbits?

"No," she said thoughtfully.  "I don't suppose you do want it.  But
you do in another way, don't you!"

"Tara, no!" I said helplessly.

She paid no attention.  "You want to imagine it.  Maybe even think
it's true.  But you don't want to know for certain that it's true,
because that would change everything between us, wouldn't it,
knowing for certain."  She paused, then added.  "If I hinted that
maybe I seduce and sleep with my clients, you'd want to believe me,
wouldn't you.  And the idea would excite you, wouldn't it?  Doesn't
it?  True or not doesn't matter?"

What was she doing?  

"You love the possibility, don't you?  You find it exciting!  Yes
or no?  Be honest!"

What could I say?  "Yes," I said.

She sat back again, comfortable with my confession.  "Well, don't
fret about it, honey, I've read that lots of men do."  She smiled
sweetly, then went on.  "But now that I know that about you, my
poor darling, now that you've confessed it, something's already
different between us, isn't it?  Because now I know that you want
to think your wife's unfaithful, promiscuous.  That the idea turns
you on.  And now you know I know it.  Isn't that in itself
exciting?"  

I stared at her, glum and worried.  She got into playful moods like
this one now and then.  There was nothing to do but wait them out.

She beamed a wide smile at me.  "It sort of gives me permission,
doesn't it!"

O, God, no!  I mouthed "No" but no sound came out.  Where was she
going with this?

"In fact now you're free to imagine that because I love you, I'll
screw other men all the time just to please you.  Whether or not
it's true.  Now I can tease you about how much better hung they all
are, how much more powerful my orgasms are when they stuff
themselves into me and fit so tight I can't move."  She looked
smug, and her gaze turned inward for a moment, as if she were
reminiscing.  Then she glanced slyly at me to see if I saw.

Oh, God, despite my confusion and misery I was starting to get
hard!  I shifted my position so she wouldn't notice.  She noticed.

"Or maybe I shouldn't tease you, leave you wondering whether or not
it's true.  Maybe I should just tell you up front that I'm getting
laid hard and often by better men than you.  That would clear your
mind of all the uncertainty, all those nagging doubts and
tormenting suspicions.  All the questions you'd love to ask me
right now, wouldn't you, if you weren't so afraid of the answers. 
Because then you'd know!  No more questions, no more ambivalence
whether you really want it to be true or you don't, whether you
want to believe it or you don't.  If you knew for sure, you'd have
no choice.  Except maybe to leave me, or else to give in and
whenever I go out, to sit here imagining what I'm doing.  Night
after night, sit here imagining me gripping another man with my
arms and legs both.  Imagining how another prick is stretching my
hole wide as he strokes himself in and out of me, how I can't help
but pull him deeper into me each time I squeeze my legs."  

I couldn't say a word.

She paused, and looked closely at me, then said in a soft voice,
"My goodness, baby, just look at you.  So ashamed!  So embarrassed! 
And so excited, just look at that bulge in your pants!  You really
do like the idea, don't you?  So now maybe I really should do it,
not just to please me but to please you too?"  

I shook my head, helplessly terrified.  

She saw and went on relentlessly.  "Let's explore this thing of
yours a little further," she said.  And she sat straight up in her
chair as if she were about to deliver a report.  "Let's say I
really do wrap my legs around all the men I do business with, just
for fun.  All those men who call me at all hours insisting that I
come meet them right away.  Let's say maybe that's why they give me
their business.  Let's say that's why in just a few short years my
customers have expanded from a couple of local contractors to some
major corporate clients."

I said nothing.  Then, "No, that's not why," I croaked.  I was
trying to tell her I didn't believe she was unfaithful to me, that
she was good at her job and that's why people wanted her, why they
hired her.  But that didn't say it!

She noticed.  "I do bring in a nice income, you've got to admit
that, honey, don't you?  We live well on it, very well with what
you make too of course.  And my clients do keep coming back and
asking for more. They know I'm on call and that I give
satisfaction."

She smiled smugly.  Was she confessing everything while seeming not
to confess anything?  I finally found my voice.  

"Yes," I said.  "I'm sure you do!  Enough now, please!  Don't tease
me any more now, Tara.  Please."  My discomfort was obvious. I felt
all twisted inside.  Excited yet distressed.

Her eyebrows rose.  "Teasing.  Yes, that's what I'm doing, teasing
you.  I'm not telling you anything, only teasing.  All right,
honey, if that's how you want to think of it."  She paused.  One
more jab.  "If you can't cope with reality, then that's what we'll
call it.  Teasing."

Then as if the entire previous conversation had never occurred, she
sat back, and while I tried to recover from my confusion and
embarrassment she laid out what she'd meant to say earlier.  

It was simple enough.  Tara started up an office design and
equipment business a couple of years ago, combining her talent for
interior decoration with her talent for getting things done, and it
had taken off.  Now she could walk into a bare, newly rented office
or sales space with some company manager, listen to his confused
ideas about where desks and counters belonged and what sorts of
computer networks were needed, make some sketches, then settle down
with a phone in her hand and an address book in her lap.  

Many phone calls, many visits to many shops and offices and work
rooms later, but in a remarkably short time, the stores were
serving customers and walls were up in those offices and there were
pictures on them, and secretaries were answering phones and
technicians were clacking away on computers in cubicles, and
representatives were genially advising clients in adjacent private
offices.  In half the time required by her competition, because
with everyone, whether he was a suave corporate CEO or a plumber
with a pipe wrench, she was both tireless and persuasive.  She got
her way.  Her competition shuddered whenever they heard she was
bidding on a project, because she was famous for her zeal -- some
called it ruthlessness -- to win no matter what, no matter how odd
or far out the demands.  So her projects and clients and customers
and contractors multiplied.

She was out all the time, visiting sites, in and out of offices of
all sorts.  She made calls and took callbacks at all hours,
ordering from wholesalers, wheedling carpenters, re-scheduling
carpet installations.  She used borrowed conference rooms and desks
in friends' offices downtown when she had to, but out or not, the
phone stayed busy.  I could hear the answerer clicking on and off
all the time as I sat in my little alcove off the front hall doing
my own work.  As her clients and projects multiplied I lost track
of them.  

Now she was worried that she might too.  Her paperwork was
scattered all over.  The town's most scrupulous office designer
hadn't paused to design her own office.  She didn't even have an
assistant or secretary, someone to move around with her and take
notes or else stay in one place and answer the phone and reassure
clients and deal with routine matters while she dashed all over the
city.  She had no place for such a person to work.  When she needed
office space for a conference she'd borrow it from a friend or a
former customer.

So what she was telling me now was, she'd decided to settle in and
centralize her activities here at home.  "I mean to move all my
scattered stuff here," she told me.  "Use some of last year's
proceeds to build an addition onto the house, alongside and behind
the kitchen where it won't interfere with our privacy, with a
separate entrance.  Make myself a proper office for interviewing
clients and maintaining files.  And get myself a proper secretary
to look after details.  Do this job right."

I could hardly object.  I'd taken over what little house space I
needed for my own one-man consulting business.  Now she needed
space too.

"OK," I said.  "Fair enough.  But is the expense of a whole
addition necessary?  Maybe just use the spare bedroom?"

She just looked at me.  Of course.  A foolish question.  Figuring
out costs and budgets and spaces and arranging financing was what
she did!  Tell her what you think you need, and Tara would see that
you got exactly what you really did need, and that you could pay
the price.  That you'd pay willingly, and love whatever you ended
up with.

"No, honey, sooner or later we'll want to use the spare bedroom as
a bedroom," she said patiently.  "You remember, kids?  And anyhow,
I'll need maybe four or five such rooms, all off a reception area,
much more space than that.  We'll try not to disturb you, but you
will have to get used to a lot of construction noise for a while. 
Then there'll have to be a secretary or somebody back there during
the day, and people coming and going.  Can you handle that?"

I just nodded, as reassuringly as I could.

"I'll make it up to you, baby," she said reassuringly.  "I'll see
to it that you enjoy everything about it.  I know just how.  It's
all worked out.  Don't you worry one little bit!"  

I tried to smile.  I hadn't yet recovered from my earlier
misconception of her, nor from accidentally revealing to her my
most shameful private fantasy.

She grinned wickedly. She hadn't forgotten any of it.  "Now that
things are a bit different between us, we can both be a lot more
open with each other, can't we, honey?  About what we think we want
and what we really want.  Are you coming to bed?"   

It didn't sound like a question.  She stood up suddenly and started
upstairs without a moment's hesitation.  Her hips weaved
confidently, and she didn't look back even once.  

I turned off the TV.  She was right.  There was something different
between us now.  Somehow, without anything said or implied, she'd
taken charge.  She felt it and I felt it.  I followed her upstairs
uneasily, and sighed as I put on my pajamas.  Finally I told myself
that if that's what she wants, that's what she should have.  

And that was what she wanted.  Almost immediately, I took off my
pajama bottoms again.  We made love three times that night, the
first time I've managed to do that since our honeymoon.  The first
was gentle and considerate, as usual.  Then as I was slipping out
of her and kissing her neck, preparing to drift off to sleep, she
whispered, "Now you can be one of my clients getting it up again,
say that insurance executive I spent the day with yesterday.  The
ex-Tennis pro?  I never told you about him, did I?  He was so
handsome and persuasive, and when he showed me his assets I was
eager to take him on, and he really wanted me, so when I finally
said yes, yes, let me have it, give it to me, all of it, there was
no stopping him!  Ahhh, that's it!"

Yes, I'm ashamed to say that as she spoke my cock reversed
direction and got hard again, there was no disguising the fact.  We
rolled over and she mounted me.  I was iron-stiff, fat, swollen,
pointing straight up.  She impaled herself and then fucked me
furiously, with a concentrated intensity, eyes tight shut.  Her
climax was powerful, emphatic, and drowned out my own.  Just as I
was spurting helplessly into her that second time and my hips were
crammed tight up against hers, I realized that she was screaming,
crying out "YES, YES, THAT'S IT STEVE!  MORE!  DEEPER!  YES!  OH,
YES!"   Then she collapsed onto me.

My name is Patrick.

I lay there with her body flat on mine, her breasts pressed against
my chest, unable to see her face.  I wondered what I'd see if I
could.  I wondered what she'd meant.  Was it unintended? 
Deliberate?  Did it reveal a truth?  Was she teasing me again, now
that she knew my secret perversity?  Of course!  Had she been
teasing me earlier downstairs the whole time?  Maybe not?

"Now eat me, Patrick," she said suddenly.  "From now on I want you
to eat my men out of me and learn to love it."  Without waiting for
me to respond, she slid forward on her knees and covered the lower
part of my face with her crotch and pressed her pussy against my
mouth, her dark eyes looking down into mine as I looked helplessly
up at hers, her long dark hair shadowy against her beautiful white
face, a face framed between her beautifully heavy, hanging breasts. 
My mouth was filled with her soaked quim.

This had never happened before.  Oh, I'd eaten her a few times when
we were tipsy.  Playfully, bending reverently between her legs to
lick her clit.  But always before we made love, never afterward. 
And never with me pinned down helplessly under her pussy while she
sat on my face and looked down at me expectantly.  This was somehow
serious.

"Does Steve taste good, Patrick?" she asked gently as she squeezed
a muscle in her groin and a glop of my own cum disgorged into my
mouth.  Slick, salty, a little like a raw egg.  "Swallow, Patrick. 
Swallow my lover down.  You're helpless now.  You have no choice!"

I did just that.  I felt relieved, in a way.  She was play-acting. 
It's my semen, not someone named Steve's.  But then she added,
"Isn't it delicious?  He tasted just like that the last time I
kissed his penis, honey!  Something like that.  Now lick me clean! 
Take all of that man-juice into your tummy as if you wanted it to
make you pregnant!" 

I tried.  There was no room to move my tongue toward her clit, so
I began to force it between her pussy lips.

"Ahhh," she said.  "You can't get enough of him either, can you?"

I couldn't reply at all, of course.  All I could do was try to
swallow, and try to bring her off as rapidly as I could, try to end
this strange session in a way that would please her.  So I
stiffened my tongue and pushed it into her cunt even more
vigorously, in and out.  She began to writhe, and soon she came
again in a frenzy!  She squeezed out even more.  I swallowed again,
and my face was now covered with her juices and my own cum.  

As she caught her breath she felt behind her.  "Ah!  I thought as
much," she said.  "You sweet, dear pervert!"

She reached back and took a firm hold on my penis.  It had gotten
hard yet again!  That almost never happened!  Because seeing her
turned on had turned me on yet again?  Because we were pretending
that I was eating out her lover's spunk?  Because she'd dominated
and humiliated me, and I loved it?  I had no idea!

As she slid down and slipped me into her body yet again and began
to rotate her hips on me, she began to chant in a sweet, sing-song
voice, "I know what you want, I want what you want," and smiled to
herself.

I thought this had gone far enough.  "I want you!" I said hoarsely, 
and I rolled her over roughly and lunged myself into her
repeatedly, marveling that I was still hard enough to move way in
and way out again and again, over and over.  I did want her, too!

"I know you do, Steve," she replied as she wrapped her long legs
around my waist, and crossed them behind my back, and squeezed me
deeper into her with each lunge.  "And I want you too!  And that's
what my husband wants, for us to fuck each other's brains out!  I
found that out just tonight!  So push deeper!  Deeper!  Cum into
me!"   

And with that I came again, I couldn't help it. When she felt me
throb she came too.  The idea excited her too, obviously.  

"Yessss!" she said as if she'd reached some kind of conclusion as
well as a climax.  Then she stared up at my face wordlessly,
impassively.  "Now let's go to sleep, Pattie honey.  You can eat me
again in the morning.  In fact, whenever I've been out working late
with a client, this is what I'll want you to do when I get home. 
Clean me.  Whoever I'm with, I want to remember when I'm with him
what a wonderful lover I have at home too.  It'll be wonderfully
exciting.  I'll like that."

And she was sound asleep.  

In the morning I felt a choking pressure on my face and opened my
eyes to see that Tara was again sitting on my mouth, again looking
down at me.  My cum from the night before was dried stiff on my
nose and cheeks, and it clotted my hair.  But there was still more
in her pussy, still sticky.  She slid her groin back and forth on
my slick mouth.  My nose slid up between her pussy lips and then
between her cheeks, pausing against her rose bud, and then slid
forward again.  Each time it passed her clit she groaned.  

"Lovely," she said when she'd tensed up into orgasm and then
released herself yet again.  "Our best time together ever!  Isn't
this a delicious depravity?  So very exciting, and no harm done! 
Now let's take our showers.  I have lots of things to tell lots of
people today about my plans for them when I've got my new office. 
You already know what my plans are for you, I think.  Some of them,
anyhow." 

She smiled again and climbed off me, and without a backward glance
she headed for the bathroom.  She'd used me and no longer needed
me.  But she knew I'd be there when she next wanted to use me. 
She'd just given me more of herself than ever before in our
marriage, and I'd given her more too.  It was true.  I could tell
by her languorous stroll toward the bedroom door, her thighs
rolling slowly, that she'd never felt more satisfied either.  At
least I'd never seen her looking more satisfied.  So I guessed that
I should be satisfied too.  She loved me.  She was doing everything
she could think of to please me.  Just as she did with her clients,
though differently of course.  

I hoped differently.  With that thought I started to get hard yet
again.  So instead I rolled over and got out of bed.