I was married but was not happy. I had divorced my previous husband to marry again, both of whom I will call Bob, as they both had the same first name, and both were 30 years older than me. Go figure. I still haven’t figured out why. Both of them treated me like crap. Both of them I divorced, and both are now deceased. But that’s not part of this story.
I’d started piecing together that Bob 2 had lied about ninety-nine percent of what he had told me about his life.
Then the sex thing: after less than three years, he could not get it up. He went and got an implant and I had no say in the matter. It meant that when he was in the mood, he would play with me for a little bit, then have to stop and pump it up before we could proceed. It was a total turn-off to me. After five years, it just stopped working at all. His implant was broken.
So, about 15 years ago, I was a hypersexual, frustrated wife who did not even like my husband, much less love him. The only thing was, we worked really well together in our own business.
Have I mentioned that I go through hypersexual times in my life when I can’t get enough? This was one of those many times.
Bob 2 had a friend, maybe ten years older than me, who would come around at least once a week to talk to him. He was a cutie with a hot bod.
“I want him so much that I’d risk almost anything,” I thought to myself.
This friend, whom I’ll call Manny to protect his identity, one day said to me, rather unexpectedly, “I want to show you something on my pickup.”
He had the same pickup as Bob 2, except a different color, and my husband, who was on oxygen, didn’t seem at all perturbed as I walked out the door with Manny. We got to the parking lot in front of the office and Manny said, “I think you want me as much as I want you. Meet me tomorrow morning, early. I’ll pick you up.”
A bit taken aback by the unexpected proposal, but excited as well, I said that I didn’t know if I could get away.
“You’ll do it,” he said, “just take a walk at dawn, and I’ll pick you up.”
Simple as that, I did it, and he parked by the park under the trees.
I looked around nervously. “We’ll be seen.”
We lived in a very small town, and I had a well-known business. This was risking a lot, but I needed relief.
“Nobody is awake,” he said as he reached out to fondle my breasts. “Show me your nipples.”
I unbuttoned the shirt I’d conveniently worn for this occasion, and he reached out and pulled down my thin bra, which was barely covering my nipples. They hardened, either in anticipation or from the chill of the morning; I wasn’t sure which. He played with my tits as he pulled my mouth to his and gave me a big kiss.
He then reached down, unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, and pulled out his cock. “Lick me, Baby,” he said.
I took his cock in my mouth. I grew increasingly aroused as I took him deep in my throat while he fingered my pussy and nipples. Then, with a groan, he shot his load into my throat. I swallowed it all while I had a giant orgasm of my own. I bucked my pussy against his fingers as I came.
We composed ourselves, and he dropped me off about a block from my house with a casual, “Thanks, Babe.”
We met to do this together for the next couple of years before things started changing in our small town: they widened the road where we used to park, added security cameras, and there was more traffic early in the morning.
I still occasionally run into him in the local diner, which is what brought this memory to my mind the other day.
While I’m happy now with someone else, I remember that, for just a little while, I was a somewhat happier and a lot less frustrated wife.
