A Walk in the Park
by Don Jetman
I followed them like a stalker - except they knew I was there, and couldn't have cared less. From a distance I could see the afternoon sunlight through her loose white shorts and soft cotton blouse. It penetrated the thin material here and there, at first hinting, then flaunting the obvious, that my wife wore nothing underneath. Was I the only one who noticed as I hung back to watch them walk together?
They held hands, laughing playfully as they strolled through the park, oblivious to the other couples and families gathered there on a Saturday afternoon. They stopped for a quick kiss by a park bench. His arm circled her waist, his fingers slowly walking up her side, finally stroking lower crescent of her breast. With a single, deep sigh, she put her arms around him, her body melting into him. L seemed so content, yet on fire, on tiptoe, slender calves in knots, thighs straining upward, pressed against his faded jeans.
She peered over his shoulder, caught me staring, and smiled, giving me a girlish wave with her fingers. Her wedding ring sparkled in the bright sun. I remembered when I had slipped it on her finger, and her loving response, "I do." When had my innocent bride of so many years become this female satyr, this woman of shameless desires? But I knew it hadn't happened in a day, or a week, or even a month. She had grown into the part, hesitantly at first, then confidently, eagerly. Now it fit her like a glove.
"We're starved - we're going to get some lunch," she told me. "Wanna come?"
She had turned to face me. Her fingers were hooked inside the waistband of his jeans, tugging on his belt, keeping him close. My God, her face glowed with both mischief and eager anticipation. He grinned at me. His hand was at the nape of her neck, buried in locks of dark hair, stroking, fondling, in an almost too familiar way. I knew what it did to her, how wet she must be. I tried not to stare at the bulge behind his zipper. I tried to stay in character - the mere acquaintance of the perfect couple. It made everything more exciting, the outward appearance to any observer that she was his. No one could have guessed otherwise, that her husband stood before his wife and her lover, playing the mere acquaintance so easily.
The way she said it made me hold my breath for a second. "Staarrved...", the "a" drawn out lasciviously, the "v" formed softly, her lips glistening and inviting, just as I imagined they would be when she stared up at him in awe as he entered her for the first time. "Wanna come?" immediately tucking her lower lip under gleaming teeth in a teasing but slightly predatory "innocent" awareness of the double-entendre. She was telling me, but asking him. Wanna cum? She had knowingly planted the seed with just two words.
We sat together under one of many blue and white striped umbrellas scattered about the outdoor bistro on the edge of the park. The young waiter gave us more attention than was reasonable for a busy spring afternoon, and the customers around us showed their frustration with curious glares at us as they tried in vain to flag the good-looking kid for their checks, or a second glass of wine. It was no secret to me why he was drawn to our table. Even shaded from the sun, up close, L's blouse hid very little. She had opened a third button as the sun warmed her on our stroll to the bistro, and the waiter stared openly into the parted white cotton that no longer concealed the soft inner curves of her breasts. Each time she leaned forward to flirt with her new friend seated beside her, the material fell open, her pink nipples ripe for the boy's anxious stare.
It was also soon obvious that her date was uncomfortable with the display, or rather that the boy was ogling her. Each time he sent the waiter away I sensed a subtle irritation in his tone and noticed the small furrow on his brow deepen in disapproval. She saw it as well, and smiled at me, a private message between husband and wife. She enjoyed the attention, and the air of jealousy her date had added to the game. It was a compliment, if not taken too far, she had told me many times. It let her know her physical appeal to a new man was overwhelming. Jealousy was the chink in his armor, a weakness that became her strength, and gave her control for the short time they were together.
But her knowing smile also told me she understood what it did to me - sitting across the table from a man I knew she wanted and would soon have sex with, watching his possessiveness as he sat across from me, although unknown to him, his next "conquest's" husband. On the other hand, he was now aware of what I saw as well, that L could also have the young waiter any time she wanted him. It wasn't making his day.
She moved her seat closer to him, plopped back down into it, and whispered in his ear. Her hand was in his lap, hidden under the table, but the gentle motion of her caress was impossible to hide. He turned to look at her, and she returned a playful, daring grin.
"We should go," he said to her. He wouldn't look at me. In fact, he had said very little to me since we had met. But what does a man say to the husband of the woman he's about to fuck? Honestly, didn't he suspect the obvious? That it wasn't mere coincidence that L's "friend" happened to meet them in the park? Was the thinly-veiled thread that connected L and I, ebullient wife and expectantly jealous husband, all but invisible to him? I was convinced (or at least fantasized) that it wasn't, but that he had no interest in complicating his chances of skewering my adoring L like a hen on a spit. Big men have big egos.
Sometimes her men were bursting with questions; sometimes they were tentative and so careful to be respectful. This one? He just wanted to put his cock in her. He was beyond handsome, and had arms larger than her thighs; so serious, so made to manhandle her once they were naked in bed together. If I read her right, and I actually did sometimes, all she wanted was his cock in her as well.
"Are you always this impatient?" L asked him, still grinning.
"Sorry," she told me, her hand still busy under the table, her grin relaxing to an apologetic, comforting smile. "He has this big 'thing' he, um, we, have to take care of. I keep telling him we have until tomorrow, but he's anxious to have me come with him and see for myself. I have to admit, I have been looking forward to it. So, I guess we should get to it."
I kept a straight face, but just barely. It was a miracle she delivered that mouthful without bursting into giggles herself. Her friend, on the other hand, wasn't smiling - wasn't even tempted, I guessed. Come on guy, you know I'm her husband, don't you, and that we're all in? Lighten up. Instead, he stood up, offered her his hand, and looked down at me with the sneer of a conquering hero. I wondered if he knew how mistaken he was, how the characters in our play weren't quite the ones he imagined. Honestly, he couldn't distinguish the conqueror from the toy in our game? Then again, it was probably better that way. If my dear wife had netted a playmate with no sense of humor, he must have other redeeming qualities I hadn't seen, no doubt in his pants. Odd, but keeping me off-balance is L's specialty.
She took his hand, walked to the hotel across the street, went to his room, and fucked him.
I sat under the umbrella, his glance of superiority still fresh in my mind. I considered the thousands, millions of neural connections made and broken each time this dance played out. Pleasure and jealousy, fear and pride, angst and anticipation, possession and submission. All those things, and possibly so many more than we will ever understand, come together, simmer in a complex stew of emotions, and surface each time we dip a finger into the stew and bring it to our lips. Each taste is unique, sometimes a hint of bitterness in the delicious broth, and then, with a second touch to the tongue, a familiar, yet distinctly unique sweetness surfaces. Three minds - three recipes, three cooks, each stirring and sampling a dish seasoned to his own taste, but never without a few surprises. It takes three courses to complete the meal. When one of the dishes fails to rank as a one's favorite, the meal still nourishes, the taste of each dish lingers, and for a short while, the hunger is gone.
Later, in bed - our "debriefing". We named it sometime in the past, in the light of day when our sensibilities outweighed our passions. L always smiled at the pun, at how she first "debriefed" her lover, and then after, I her, in the more conventional sense.
"Well, what was he like?"
She was running the tip of her finger along the top of my erection, slowly, stopping to form a "crown of thorns" with her nails just behind the glans. She raked them lightly forward, just after I spoke, making the sensation part of her answer.
"Mmmmm...aggressive...so much muscle...perfect butt..."
She purred her responses, pausing for what seemed to me like hours between them, still coaxing, teasing my cock, and now my mind.
"Was he good? Did you..."
"Come? Umm hmm... just once... he stayed hard for...well, you know what I like."
She went quiet again, and snuggled her cheek against me. A few strands of her hair fell across my mouth. So fresh, like berries and newly cut grass.
"Was he big...everywhere?"
I could feel her mouth draw into a knowing smile. The question finally asked.
"Big enough...not huge..."
"So, compared to..."
L put a finger to my lips, slithered on top of me, and slipped me inside her in one skillful, uninterrupted move. The soft curtain hair was on my face again, her lips now at my ear.
"He was....easy...." she told me finally, in a voice that was half little-girl, half contented-siren, "...just, a walk in the park."
by Don Jetman
I followed them like a stalker - except they knew I was there, and couldn't have cared less. From a distance I could see the afternoon sunlight through her loose white shorts and soft cotton blouse. It penetrated the thin material here and there, at first hinting, then flaunting the obvious, that my wife wore nothing underneath. Was I the only one who noticed as I hung back to watch them walk together?
They held hands, laughing playfully as they strolled through the park, oblivious to the other couples and families gathered there on a Saturday afternoon. They stopped for a quick kiss by a park bench. His arm circled her waist, his fingers slowly walking up her side, finally stroking lower crescent of her breast. With a single, deep sigh, she put her arms around him, her body melting into him. L seemed so content, yet on fire, on tiptoe, slender calves in knots, thighs straining upward, pressed against his faded jeans.
She peered over his shoulder, caught me staring, and smiled, giving me a girlish wave with her fingers. Her wedding ring sparkled in the bright sun. I remembered when I had slipped it on her finger, and her loving response, "I do." When had my innocent bride of so many years become this female satyr, this woman of shameless desires? But I knew it hadn't happened in a day, or a week, or even a month. She had grown into the part, hesitantly at first, then confidently, eagerly. Now it fit her like a glove.
"We're starved - we're going to get some lunch," she told me. "Wanna come?"
She had turned to face me. Her fingers were hooked inside the waistband of his jeans, tugging on his belt, keeping him close. My God, her face glowed with both mischief and eager anticipation. He grinned at me. His hand was at the nape of her neck, buried in locks of dark hair, stroking, fondling, in an almost too familiar way. I knew what it did to her, how wet she must be. I tried not to stare at the bulge behind his zipper. I tried to stay in character - the mere acquaintance of the perfect couple. It made everything more exciting, the outward appearance to any observer that she was his. No one could have guessed otherwise, that her husband stood before his wife and her lover, playing the mere acquaintance so easily.
The way she said it made me hold my breath for a second. "Staarrved...", the "a" drawn out lasciviously, the "v" formed softly, her lips glistening and inviting, just as I imagined they would be when she stared up at him in awe as he entered her for the first time. "Wanna come?" immediately tucking her lower lip under gleaming teeth in a teasing but slightly predatory "innocent" awareness of the double-entendre. She was telling me, but asking him. Wanna cum? She had knowingly planted the seed with just two words.
We sat together under one of many blue and white striped umbrellas scattered about the outdoor bistro on the edge of the park. The young waiter gave us more attention than was reasonable for a busy spring afternoon, and the customers around us showed their frustration with curious glares at us as they tried in vain to flag the good-looking kid for their checks, or a second glass of wine. It was no secret to me why he was drawn to our table. Even shaded from the sun, up close, L's blouse hid very little. She had opened a third button as the sun warmed her on our stroll to the bistro, and the waiter stared openly into the parted white cotton that no longer concealed the soft inner curves of her breasts. Each time she leaned forward to flirt with her new friend seated beside her, the material fell open, her pink nipples ripe for the boy's anxious stare.
It was also soon obvious that her date was uncomfortable with the display, or rather that the boy was ogling her. Each time he sent the waiter away I sensed a subtle irritation in his tone and noticed the small furrow on his brow deepen in disapproval. She saw it as well, and smiled at me, a private message between husband and wife. She enjoyed the attention, and the air of jealousy her date had added to the game. It was a compliment, if not taken too far, she had told me many times. It let her know her physical appeal to a new man was overwhelming. Jealousy was the chink in his armor, a weakness that became her strength, and gave her control for the short time they were together.
But her knowing smile also told me she understood what it did to me - sitting across the table from a man I knew she wanted and would soon have sex with, watching his possessiveness as he sat across from me, although unknown to him, his next "conquest's" husband. On the other hand, he was now aware of what I saw as well, that L could also have the young waiter any time she wanted him. It wasn't making his day.
She moved her seat closer to him, plopped back down into it, and whispered in his ear. Her hand was in his lap, hidden under the table, but the gentle motion of her caress was impossible to hide. He turned to look at her, and she returned a playful, daring grin.
"We should go," he said to her. He wouldn't look at me. In fact, he had said very little to me since we had met. But what does a man say to the husband of the woman he's about to fuck? Honestly, didn't he suspect the obvious? That it wasn't mere coincidence that L's "friend" happened to meet them in the park? Was the thinly-veiled thread that connected L and I, ebullient wife and expectantly jealous husband, all but invisible to him? I was convinced (or at least fantasized) that it wasn't, but that he had no interest in complicating his chances of skewering my adoring L like a hen on a spit. Big men have big egos.
Sometimes her men were bursting with questions; sometimes they were tentative and so careful to be respectful. This one? He just wanted to put his cock in her. He was beyond handsome, and had arms larger than her thighs; so serious, so made to manhandle her once they were naked in bed together. If I read her right, and I actually did sometimes, all she wanted was his cock in her as well.
"Are you always this impatient?" L asked him, still grinning.
"Sorry," she told me, her hand still busy under the table, her grin relaxing to an apologetic, comforting smile. "He has this big 'thing' he, um, we, have to take care of. I keep telling him we have until tomorrow, but he's anxious to have me come with him and see for myself. I have to admit, I have been looking forward to it. So, I guess we should get to it."
I kept a straight face, but just barely. It was a miracle she delivered that mouthful without bursting into giggles herself. Her friend, on the other hand, wasn't smiling - wasn't even tempted, I guessed. Come on guy, you know I'm her husband, don't you, and that we're all in? Lighten up. Instead, he stood up, offered her his hand, and looked down at me with the sneer of a conquering hero. I wondered if he knew how mistaken he was, how the characters in our play weren't quite the ones he imagined. Honestly, he couldn't distinguish the conqueror from the toy in our game? Then again, it was probably better that way. If my dear wife had netted a playmate with no sense of humor, he must have other redeeming qualities I hadn't seen, no doubt in his pants. Odd, but keeping me off-balance is L's specialty.
She took his hand, walked to the hotel across the street, went to his room, and fucked him.
I sat under the umbrella, his glance of superiority still fresh in my mind. I considered the thousands, millions of neural connections made and broken each time this dance played out. Pleasure and jealousy, fear and pride, angst and anticipation, possession and submission. All those things, and possibly so many more than we will ever understand, come together, simmer in a complex stew of emotions, and surface each time we dip a finger into the stew and bring it to our lips. Each taste is unique, sometimes a hint of bitterness in the delicious broth, and then, with a second touch to the tongue, a familiar, yet distinctly unique sweetness surfaces. Three minds - three recipes, three cooks, each stirring and sampling a dish seasoned to his own taste, but never without a few surprises. It takes three courses to complete the meal. When one of the dishes fails to rank as a one's favorite, the meal still nourishes, the taste of each dish lingers, and for a short while, the hunger is gone.
Later, in bed - our "debriefing". We named it sometime in the past, in the light of day when our sensibilities outweighed our passions. L always smiled at the pun, at how she first "debriefed" her lover, and then after, I her, in the more conventional sense.
"Well, what was he like?"
She was running the tip of her finger along the top of my erection, slowly, stopping to form a "crown of thorns" with her nails just behind the glans. She raked them lightly forward, just after I spoke, making the sensation part of her answer.
"Mmmmm...aggressive...so much muscle...perfect butt..."
She purred her responses, pausing for what seemed to me like hours between them, still coaxing, teasing my cock, and now my mind.
"Was he good? Did you..."
"Come? Umm hmm... just once... he stayed hard for...well, you know what I like."
She went quiet again, and snuggled her cheek against me. A few strands of her hair fell across my mouth. So fresh, like berries and newly cut grass.
"Was he big...everywhere?"
I could feel her mouth draw into a knowing smile. The question finally asked.
"Big enough...not huge..."
"So, compared to..."
L put a finger to my lips, slithered on top of me, and slipped me inside her in one skillful, uninterrupted move. The soft curtain hair was on my face again, her lips now at my ear.
"He was....easy...." she told me finally, in a voice that was half little-girl, half contented-siren, "...just, a walk in the park."
