by Throne
Okay, I'll admit it. I didn't have much to offer Staci when we got married. I'm short and slightly built, with a bland face and light brown hair that refuses to stay in place. The one thing I did have to give her was money, which a big fat trust fund supplied more than enough of. Still, even all the money in the world couldn't have made up for my sexual inadequacies. What could I do to compensate for a tiny dick, super-fast finishing time, and a lack of confidence in bed? Well, I could have given her oral sex, which at least would have provided the orgasms I was incapable of supplying otherwise. The problem there was that I found even the thought of using my mouth that way to be repugnant.
Now you have most of the picture. The final piece is Staci herself. She's short like me, buxom, with a trim waist and an ass that makes men turn and stare, especially since she likes to show it off in tight skirts and slacks. Her face is sweet, in contrast to that devilishly tempting body. Her red-blond hair, worn long, combined with flashing emerald eyes, finishes the alluring picture. I guess she liked me, but was never deeply in love with me. Not that she didn't give me chances to prove myself. But I'm sort of spoiled and fussy and selfish.
By the time we reached our first anniversary, trouble was brewing. I didn't have to work, so the two of us spent a lot of time in my spacious, split-level home, which is in a development of similar residences. Maybe everything would have gone on the way it was, with me thrilled by having bedroom privileges with her, and Staci inevitably disappointed by my shortcomings in that department. Then, something changed. Justus Kirk moved in, across the cul-de-sac from us. He had played pro football for several years. When he retired at a young age, he wisely parlayed his money into opening a chain of gyms. With his name and face in their advertising, they were a huge success. The guy was loaded, money-wise. He was also tall and handsome, with his athlete's physique made even more defined by regular workouts in the nearest of the facilities he owned. Also, he was Black.
I think the first time my wife saw him was when he parked in his long driveway and got out of the sleek sportscar he loved to drive. She happened to be looking out of our front window, and came to a standstill when she caught sight of him.
Keeping her voice conversational, she casually asked, "Who's that new guy that bought the Smithson's house, Dick?"
I put myself beside her. All my wife had on at that moment was one of the short, belted robes she liked to wear around the house. Those made her so desirable. I would have put my arm around her but my natural reticence prevented me from doing it, in the same way it stopped me from being sexually aggressive. I got my initial view of Justus. He had on a muscle shirt, which showed off his bulging biceps, and running shorts that left her sculpted legs bare. For a few seconds, I couldn't find my voice. He was that impressive. Finally, I told her who he was and about his business, which I had learned online, while checking a local newsfeed.
She told me, "We should welcome him to the neighborhood. Maybe have him over for a little visit."
"I don't know. He's probably busy getting settled."
"Don't be so uncertain," she said with mild criticism. "The way you always are."
Wanting to redeem myself in her eyes, I determined to do what Staci asked. I was in my own robe, which was a lot longer than hers. When I said something about changing into street clothes, she practically pushed me out the door, insisting that I needed to catch him while he was home. I crossed the space between our houses. He was still out front, talking on his phone. I got near to him and was struck by how commanding his physical presence was. He glanced at me but didn't acknowledge my presence.
Into the phone he said, "That's not going to happen. We can do it like I said, or there's not going to be any deal." After listening for a moment, he told whoever it was, "That's better. In the end, you're going to see that I was right all along. We'll talk some more after the contracts arrive."
As soon as his call was ended, he looked down at me and smiled slightly.
I said, "Hello. I'm Dick Wilton. I live across from you. With my wife. Staci wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and thought you might like to stop by for a drink. Or something."
He peered past me, to our place. "She must be the fine lady I see at the window. Sure, my man. I'd love to come and say hello. How about tonight? Say, around eight?"
"Oh. Sure. Fine." I held out my hand. He gripped it tightly in his much larger one, and gave a single shake before letting go. "Tell Staci I'll be real glad to get to know her."
"Okay. See you then."
I turned away and started walking. My wife was still visible. The top of her robe seemed to be more open than before, showing off her glorious cleavage. For some reason, it bothered me that Justus had used her name. I mean, I had told him what it was, so there was no reason for him not to. He had a competent business attitude, as shown by that phone call. It would be natural for him to register names and use them, to establish familiarity with new contacts. Even so, it unsettled me.
"So," Staci said brightly when I returned, "what did he say?"
"Oh, he's coming over at eight."
"That was quick. I can't believe you were so decisive."
"Actually, he sort of told me when it would be. I suppose he's used to doing that." I shrugged. "From when he does business."
"Sure. I'll have to decide what to wear. And we don't know what he drinks, so I'll order a couple of different bottles."
"Right. You can have them delivered."
"No. You'll pick up the order. That way, if I think of anything else to get, I can call you to add it on."
"You're right. That makes sense."
She gave me a friendly pat on the cheek. "That's my good boy. I'll let you know when to leave."
Staci looked so inviting at that moment. She radiated a fresh vitality all of a sudden. It had been a while since we had sex, and I was especially eager to do it. You can imagine what it was like, just being around her and seeing that stunning body all the time. When I hesitantly put my hand on her shoulder, I could feel her warm skin through the thin material of the robe. The faint scents of soap and perfume mingled as they invaded my senses.
Instead of responding in the way I had hoped, she lightly took my hand and moved it away. "I think my little man wants some bedroom time. But since you made that invitation, I'm going to have things to do, before our new friend arrives. So you behave and keep it in your pants."
She reached between the halves of my robe, below my waist, and gave my genitals a mild squeeze. Her hand easily contained them. The ball of her thumb rubbed under the head of my penis, making it spring to life. Her other hand slipped under the top of the robe, her fingers found a nipple, and she did some extra teasing there. Those spots on my chest are extremely sensitive, which she knows from long experience. In fact, she often toys with them during intercourse, right after I enter her, and it never fails to make me finish rapidly, before I'm ready. After a few more precious moments of that she stepped away.
"That's all for now, Dicky," she announced.
I noticed that she had switched to the diminutive form of my name, which she would playfully use when reminding me about my limited penis dimensions and lack of staying power. It was kind of a reminder to me that I was unable to satisfy her in bed and to try harder to please her in other areas. Like always, I backed down and accepted that as part of my married life. After all, I knew she had been with men who could fulfill her needs when she was single, with who I could never compete. She would refer to them only occasionally, and never in an accusatory way, but I still understood the implications.
"Thank you, dear," I said automatically. I had gotten into the habit of displaying gratitude for any minor favors of that type, which she deigned to grant me.
"I'll let you know when that order is ready for you to run and fetch. In the meantime, be a dear and clean up the bathroom. And take off your robe, so it doesn't get mussed."
We had a service that took care of household chores like that, but from time to time, Staci would task me with doing them between the cleaners' visits. I waited until I was out of her earshot before I allowed myself to sigh. Then I resigned myself to the job at hand and went to get the cleaning items that I used. After my robe was off, I had on only a sleeveless undershirt and jockey shorts. I would have preferred boxers, because their looseness could hide the fact of my immature male parts, but she ordered me the less concealing shorts online. Like my undershirts, they were inevitably in pastel colors, which also weren't to my taste. However, like I said, I was always playing catch-up, trying to offset my lovemaking liabilities.
After an hour, she came and told me I could leave. "I'll phone you if there's anything I want added to the order. I also called the deli for a platter. Make sure you go to the liquor store first. I don't want the food sitting in the car any longer than necessary."
That seemed self-evident. She made it sound like I was incompetent to use common sense. I headed out on my errands. Inside, I was seething over the way she had been treating me. She called when I was halfway to my first stop, to tell me to pick up one additional item. Staci said that, if I forgot the brand name, I should call her, to be sure I didn't come back with something wrong. How did she think I would misremember which vodka she preferred? I got to the store and paid for the entire order, including that add-on. It was mostly wine, plus the expensive vodka and a top-shelf bourbon. The deli pick-up went smoothly and I started home.
So much had happened since a few hours earlier, that I couldn't stop thinking about it all. By then, I resented Justus, even though none of it was directly his fault. I had a vague unease about my wife's attitude, even though she hadn't done anything overly annoying. It was just a series of small matters that added up. Telling myself that none of it would make any difference after we had entertained our guest and he departed, I drove the rest of the way home. First, I took in the carton of booze, and then the large covered tray.
"Dicky," my wife asked with thinly veiled concern. "Did you remember to make the deli stop?"
"Of course I did," I told her, my irritability tinging my voice.
"There's no need to snap at me," she said, sounding hurt.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to get the bottles inside first."
"But didn't I tell you not to leave the food in the car any longer than absolutely necessary?"
She had me there. It was only the difference of minutes, but technically she was in the right. It came across as if I hadn't cared enough about her wishes to respect them.
"I'm sorry," I said again, whether or not it warranted an apology.
"Well, you can put it in the fridge."
"I will, dear."
"I'm going to get dressed."
She had on a tank top and slacks set, that I thought would be fine for an informal occasion. As they say, however, it is a woman's prerogative to change her mind. I puttered around the kitchen, doing some cleaning up without being told to. When Staci reappeared, I was stunned. She had on something I had never seen before. It was a bodycon dress in pale red, with a high hem. It's most arresting feature was a keyhole cut-out that ******* her deep cleavage. I was almost positive that she had on no bra.
"That's... um... nice," was all I could say.
"You don't like it?"
"No, it's... fine."
"A little enthusiasm would help. I thought you'd love it." Before I could redeem myself, she added, "Never mind," and turned away. Over her shoulder, she informed me in a neutral voice, "I laid out something for you to wear. I hope my choices will meet with your approval."
I went to the bedroom feeling guilty, without being quite sure why. On the bed were a yellow shirt with long, pointy collars, and bright green slacks. Beside them, unfortunately, was a pullover sweater vest with an explosion of bright colors all over it. Staci had bought it for me months ago, and I had promptly hidden it at the bottom of a dresser drawer. It must not have been hidden as well as I thought. I unhappily donned the combination, pulled on socks, and slipped into a pair of comfortable loafers. It was almost time for our guest to appear.
When I went to Staci for her approval, she had put on a pair of heels. Those made her taller than me. The difference wasn't great, but as sensitive as I am about my statue, it irked me. So be it. We would spend some time with our neighbor and then I could go back to my regular life. Maybe I would even get lucky with my wife, for some overdue activity in the bedroom.
Justus showed up, strolling across from his place. He had a single red rose, which he presented to my wife in a gentlemanly manner. She reacted with a warm sisterly hug. I felt the rose implied something romantic, but again remained silent. We sat in the living room, with them on the sofa and me opposite, in an armchair. Staci asked him what he would like to drink, which was a bourbon and water. In a helpful way, Justus informed on how to best prepare it. He even specified the preferred type of glass.
Then he said, with only a hint of condescension, "But I guess you knew all that."
Staci advised me, "You should make one for yourself, too, Dicky."
He chuckled and my wife joined him. Feeling stung but with insufficient grounds for a legitimate complaint, I went and fixed his drink and mine, along with getting a glass of wine for her. Retaking my seat, I sipped at the libation. The proportions he had called for made it rather strong. My tolerance for alcohol has always been low, so I vowed to go easy after that one. Had they been sitting that close together when I left the room? The two of them chattered away happily.
Justus said, "For the next round, I'll play bartender." He asked Staci, "Would you lead me to the kitchen?"
She got up and took his hand. They vanished and, for about five minutes, I sat there fidgeting. Their voices drifted back from the other room, but were indistinct. There were a few bursts of my wife's laughter mixed in. When they came back, Justus handed me a second drink. I wanted to just set it aside, but also didn't want to appear rude, especially at the risk of upsetting my wife. I sipped it slowly. Halfway through, it struck me that it tasted different than the previous one. My head told me that it was stronger. At some point, they left together, this time with Staci appointed by our visitor to be the mixologist. Halfway through my third glass, I began to get woozy. She came over and coaxed me into finishing it. After that, I had a dim awareness of slipping into sleep. I think my drink got freshened up once, or maybe twice. I wasn't aware of anything else until the next morning, when I woke up, still in that ugly sweater, slumped in the big chair, with a back that was sore and a head much worse. I was alone.
After taking a minute to let my thoughts clear, I went looking for Staci. She was in our bed. There was a serene satisfaction written on her face, one I had never seen before and which I knew I could never inspire. My mind jumped to the conclusion that something had happened between her and Justus, once I was sound asleep. My emotions overwhelmed me.
"Staci!" I hollered. "What did you do last night?"
She opened her eyes sleepily. "What are you talking about, Wilton?"
"You and Justus. That's what I'm talking about. How could you? Right here in our home? After you two intentionally got me *****."
My wife sat up slowly. Her smooth brow drew together, two vertical lines forming above her nose. "Wilton? Are you accusing me of having sex with our new neighbor?"
"Well, didn't you?"
"Is your faith in me really that weak?"
"I mean, the circumstances..." I ran out of words. My anger subsided all at once. Had I been wrong? Was there any way I could take back those accusations?
She glared at me. I wasn't accustomed to seeing her like that. Staci told me, "That was totally insulting and uncalled for. Maybe you'd rather not stay married to me. Is that it?"
The possibility of my life changing drastically struck me. I had an abrupt vision of being alone. "It's not... I was just..."
"Or maybe we should just spend some time apart. A trial separation."
"No. Please. Not that." There was pleading in my words. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"You know, I've put up with a lot from you. Perhaps the reason you think I would stray is because of the sex life we've had up until now. I assume you can tell that I don't have orgasms during sex."
"It's..." I tried unsuccessfully to calm myself, before conceding, "I've suspected that from time to time."
"And did you ever try to do anything to change it? For my benefit? I've mentioned more than once that there are alternative methods to satisfy a woman. Ones you can use if you're incapable of doing it the usual way. If you're not equipped for that. Did you get called names in gym class, by the other guys in the locker room, because of what's between your legs?"
That question, delivered at the end of her flow of reminders, caught me off guard. Without thinking, I admitted, "Yes. Their favorite thing to call me was Peanut."
Without giving me time to recover from that shameful confession, she wanted to know, "And why did they use that term?"
"Because..." Even in my upset state, I had enough presence of mind to know that I didn't want to answer. But with her so near, waiting for my response, looking so desirable, yet possibly prepared to leave me, I couldn't refuse. "It was because my penis is so small."
"The smallest in the room?" she ventured.
Unable to meet her gaze, I lowered my eyes, before admitting, "Yes."
"And you never considered how your lack might affect my ability to enjoy sex?"
"I didn't exactly think about it that way."
"Now, after accusing me of cheating, are you at least prepared to do something to help me reach climaxes?"
She had me cornered. Fear of abandonment filled me. I had never had much luck with girls before her. I took a deep breath. As much as I hated the idea of giving her oral sex, there was no other course that I could see.
I conceded, "We could try that."
"And will you make an honest effort? Do whatever I say?"
When I told her, "Yes. Anything you want, dear," it was like a trap closed around me.
"Fine. I'll give you a chance to redeem yourself, though it won't be easy for me to get past being called a cheater."
"I'm so sorry," I restated, and then heard myself sniffle.
"You'll have your chance to prove that... tonight."
I had quelled my suspicions but then they reappeared. When we went to bed, she was in an especially seductive nightie. Getting into position between her legs, I brought my face close to her lightly furred mound. What I was about to do nauseated me, but I felt the need to repair the damage my outburst had caused. She kept me down there, using my tongue, lips and fingers, until she had enjoyed a trio of noisy orgasms. It was three more than I had ever given her, until then.
She purred, "That's more like it. Now that you've proved you can be useful in bed, we're going to do a lot more of this. And a lot less of the other stuff... Peanut."
Having taken that big step backward, I was at a low point. Rather than oppose her, I agreed to continue on that path. Over the nights that followed, she cemented my new role as her oral plaything. One evening, as soon as we were in bed, she allowed me to assume the missionary position but cautioned me that I was only allowed to touch her furrow with the end of my penis. Staci proceeded to finger my receptive nipples, quickly bringing me to the verge of ejaculation. It was too much. I lost control and spurted, without even being allowed to enter.
She declared, "Somebody made a mess down there. Time to clean up, Peanut."
"I'll go get a warm washcloth," I offered.
"That's not how it works. I might get out of the mood while you're doing that. Get down in the Fun Zone and start licking."
"But I already... I got my stuff all over your..."
"Duh. I know all that. I also know that you owe me big time, for all the months when you weren't able to make me pop my cork, because your pecker feels more like a finger when it's in me. So, I'm going to let you bust your nut during foreplay, but only if you always slurp up the results. Or would you rather not be allowed to get your jollies at all?"
"What? No. I couldn't stand that. I'll..." I gagged slightly. "... do it the way you just said."
"And what way did I just say?"
"That I'm only allowed to have the tip of my... little dick... against your pussy lips, and you'll tease my nipples to make me shoot off right away." I closed my eyes and finished with, "And then I'll lap up the mess I made... every single time."
"That's my good Peanut. Now suit your actions to those words."
I did it, moaning and sobbing the entire time. She made me do a thorough job. I wasn't sure how I had gotten so deep into my new situation, and had even less idea how I might get out of it.
After a long while, I said, "I think I'm done."
She told me, "I guess so, but stay down there. You can kiss the pink for a while, to show me that you love our new arrangement." While I was doing that, she went on, "I almost forgot to mention something else. I talked to Justus about going to the nearest branch of his gym. He not only agreed it was a good idea, but gave me a free membership, with no expiration date. Wasn't that nice of him?"
"Yes, dear," I said disconsolately, between smooches on her labia.
"I'll be starting tomorrow night."
"In the evening?"
"Yes. Night. Evening. Same thing. Is there a problem with that?"
"Err... no."
"Well, thanks for the permission." Her words dripped with sarcasm.
"Yes, dearest."
Her first visit to the gym had a secondary result. She phoned me and said that she had gotten to know several of the other female members and had been invited to go out with them, for drinks. Instead of questioning her, I acquiesced at once. Staci returned home several hours later than I had expected. She claimed that all that exertion had revved up her system.
"I need your talented tongue to settle me back down."
All too soon, I found myself being rushed into finishing by her titillation technique. Then I was sent to my increasingly familiar position, to suck and swallow. I was surprised that it seemed like there was much more of a deposit than I was accustomed to ingesting. I wordlessly did my familiar good job.
She said, "You really love these feedings, Peanut."
"Not really. I'd rather go back to..."
"Don't tell me that. I can feel how excited your tiny pecker gets and how hard you finish. And how quickly. Since you prefer it this way, I'm keeping you on that program. I get lots of climaxes and you have your perverted fun, gobbling your own cream."
"But... but..."
"That's all," she announced. "And it felt like you shot a double load this time. That's another sign that you're getting off on it."
It hadn't felt like I'd produced more than my usual amount of semen. While I was giving the insides of her soft thighs some extra kisses, it struck me that the excess ejaculate might not be mine. What if I had been correct, on the night that Justus visited and I blacked out? What if now he was enjoying her body at the gym, or somewhere else near it, and she wasn't bothering to wash up afterward. The possibility sickened me. I felt unmanned. It was like I had been psychologically gelded.
We continued that way for the rest of that week, with her visiting the gym every second or third night, staying late because she was supposed to be with the girls, and then having that overload in her cunny, as a late-night snack for me. I couldn't stop believing that I was swallowing another man's spunk.
One night, as we were settling into bed, right before I was due to be granted my rushed ejaculation, she said, "Remember how bad you felt when Justus visited us, the next morning, and you had the crazy idea that he and I had screwed while you were unconscious?"
"Yes, dear." I aimed my penis at her cleft and touched it, not daring to go any further.
She began to toy with my nipples, but more slowly than usual. "I'll bet you pictured us together, that big muscular man on top of me, while I had the best sex imaginable. You know," she said absently, "some of the girls got a look at his cock when he had to rush out of the locker room one time, for some minor emergency, and his towel came off. That was before I joined. Anyway, they all agreed that what he has is quiet a weapon. A real muscle of love."
Why was she prolonging my pleasure, at the same time that she was putting those mental images into my head?
She went on, "It would be quite an experience for a girl to have that long, thick sausage inside her, pumping and pumping and pumping, driving her over the top again and again. If that happened to me, I'd need some tender loving care for my pussy, when I got home. You know, like you give me with your mouth, Peanut."
While she made those final remarks she rubbed my nips faster. I gasped and blew my load, as she made that final description of what might result. Had she been telling me that she was being satisfied by Justus and coming home for exactly what we were doing then? I became convinced it was true, as I fastened my lips over her slit and sucked hard, to begin extracting the super-serving of slime, that seemed to be so much more than my small testicles could produce.
Since then, I've been back and forth about what might be the truth. Justus had us over to his place recently, for snacks and drinks. He only served wine, so I stayed relatively sober. When the two of them conversed, it sounded like they were making veiled references to a secret affair, with double entendre. Was that the case, or was my imagination simply working overtime? Our sex life has stayed the same, with Staci always requiring my oral services after her workouts, to relax her system. It's sheer mental anguish for me to not know if there's infidelity going on, and whether or not I'm consuming that capable Black man's spunk. Staci never lets me rinse my mouth or brush my teeth after I've done it. She says me doing that would show disrespect for her. Sometimes, after we're done and she's asleep, I lie there in the dark, trying to picture myself having full intercourse with her, normal penetration, and not having to go down to lick her out afterward. I make the effort to call up those pictures in my mind, but I can no longer make it happen. When I think about sex, all I can envision is doing everything my wife's way.
*********
Okay, I'll admit it. I didn't have much to offer Staci when we got married. I'm short and slightly built, with a bland face and light brown hair that refuses to stay in place. The one thing I did have to give her was money, which a big fat trust fund supplied more than enough of. Still, even all the money in the world couldn't have made up for my sexual inadequacies. What could I do to compensate for a tiny dick, super-fast finishing time, and a lack of confidence in bed? Well, I could have given her oral sex, which at least would have provided the orgasms I was incapable of supplying otherwise. The problem there was that I found even the thought of using my mouth that way to be repugnant.
Now you have most of the picture. The final piece is Staci herself. She's short like me, buxom, with a trim waist and an ass that makes men turn and stare, especially since she likes to show it off in tight skirts and slacks. Her face is sweet, in contrast to that devilishly tempting body. Her red-blond hair, worn long, combined with flashing emerald eyes, finishes the alluring picture. I guess she liked me, but was never deeply in love with me. Not that she didn't give me chances to prove myself. But I'm sort of spoiled and fussy and selfish.
By the time we reached our first anniversary, trouble was brewing. I didn't have to work, so the two of us spent a lot of time in my spacious, split-level home, which is in a development of similar residences. Maybe everything would have gone on the way it was, with me thrilled by having bedroom privileges with her, and Staci inevitably disappointed by my shortcomings in that department. Then, something changed. Justus Kirk moved in, across the cul-de-sac from us. He had played pro football for several years. When he retired at a young age, he wisely parlayed his money into opening a chain of gyms. With his name and face in their advertising, they were a huge success. The guy was loaded, money-wise. He was also tall and handsome, with his athlete's physique made even more defined by regular workouts in the nearest of the facilities he owned. Also, he was Black.
I think the first time my wife saw him was when he parked in his long driveway and got out of the sleek sportscar he loved to drive. She happened to be looking out of our front window, and came to a standstill when she caught sight of him.
Keeping her voice conversational, she casually asked, "Who's that new guy that bought the Smithson's house, Dick?"
I put myself beside her. All my wife had on at that moment was one of the short, belted robes she liked to wear around the house. Those made her so desirable. I would have put my arm around her but my natural reticence prevented me from doing it, in the same way it stopped me from being sexually aggressive. I got my initial view of Justus. He had on a muscle shirt, which showed off his bulging biceps, and running shorts that left her sculpted legs bare. For a few seconds, I couldn't find my voice. He was that impressive. Finally, I told her who he was and about his business, which I had learned online, while checking a local newsfeed.
She told me, "We should welcome him to the neighborhood. Maybe have him over for a little visit."
"I don't know. He's probably busy getting settled."
"Don't be so uncertain," she said with mild criticism. "The way you always are."
Wanting to redeem myself in her eyes, I determined to do what Staci asked. I was in my own robe, which was a lot longer than hers. When I said something about changing into street clothes, she practically pushed me out the door, insisting that I needed to catch him while he was home. I crossed the space between our houses. He was still out front, talking on his phone. I got near to him and was struck by how commanding his physical presence was. He glanced at me but didn't acknowledge my presence.
Into the phone he said, "That's not going to happen. We can do it like I said, or there's not going to be any deal." After listening for a moment, he told whoever it was, "That's better. In the end, you're going to see that I was right all along. We'll talk some more after the contracts arrive."
As soon as his call was ended, he looked down at me and smiled slightly.
I said, "Hello. I'm Dick Wilton. I live across from you. With my wife. Staci wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and thought you might like to stop by for a drink. Or something."
He peered past me, to our place. "She must be the fine lady I see at the window. Sure, my man. I'd love to come and say hello. How about tonight? Say, around eight?"
"Oh. Sure. Fine." I held out my hand. He gripped it tightly in his much larger one, and gave a single shake before letting go. "Tell Staci I'll be real glad to get to know her."
"Okay. See you then."
I turned away and started walking. My wife was still visible. The top of her robe seemed to be more open than before, showing off her glorious cleavage. For some reason, it bothered me that Justus had used her name. I mean, I had told him what it was, so there was no reason for him not to. He had a competent business attitude, as shown by that phone call. It would be natural for him to register names and use them, to establish familiarity with new contacts. Even so, it unsettled me.
"So," Staci said brightly when I returned, "what did he say?"
"Oh, he's coming over at eight."
"That was quick. I can't believe you were so decisive."
"Actually, he sort of told me when it would be. I suppose he's used to doing that." I shrugged. "From when he does business."
"Sure. I'll have to decide what to wear. And we don't know what he drinks, so I'll order a couple of different bottles."
"Right. You can have them delivered."
"No. You'll pick up the order. That way, if I think of anything else to get, I can call you to add it on."
"You're right. That makes sense."
She gave me a friendly pat on the cheek. "That's my good boy. I'll let you know when to leave."
Staci looked so inviting at that moment. She radiated a fresh vitality all of a sudden. It had been a while since we had sex, and I was especially eager to do it. You can imagine what it was like, just being around her and seeing that stunning body all the time. When I hesitantly put my hand on her shoulder, I could feel her warm skin through the thin material of the robe. The faint scents of soap and perfume mingled as they invaded my senses.
Instead of responding in the way I had hoped, she lightly took my hand and moved it away. "I think my little man wants some bedroom time. But since you made that invitation, I'm going to have things to do, before our new friend arrives. So you behave and keep it in your pants."
She reached between the halves of my robe, below my waist, and gave my genitals a mild squeeze. Her hand easily contained them. The ball of her thumb rubbed under the head of my penis, making it spring to life. Her other hand slipped under the top of the robe, her fingers found a nipple, and she did some extra teasing there. Those spots on my chest are extremely sensitive, which she knows from long experience. In fact, she often toys with them during intercourse, right after I enter her, and it never fails to make me finish rapidly, before I'm ready. After a few more precious moments of that she stepped away.
"That's all for now, Dicky," she announced.
I noticed that she had switched to the diminutive form of my name, which she would playfully use when reminding me about my limited penis dimensions and lack of staying power. It was kind of a reminder to me that I was unable to satisfy her in bed and to try harder to please her in other areas. Like always, I backed down and accepted that as part of my married life. After all, I knew she had been with men who could fulfill her needs when she was single, with who I could never compete. She would refer to them only occasionally, and never in an accusatory way, but I still understood the implications.
"Thank you, dear," I said automatically. I had gotten into the habit of displaying gratitude for any minor favors of that type, which she deigned to grant me.
"I'll let you know when that order is ready for you to run and fetch. In the meantime, be a dear and clean up the bathroom. And take off your robe, so it doesn't get mussed."
We had a service that took care of household chores like that, but from time to time, Staci would task me with doing them between the cleaners' visits. I waited until I was out of her earshot before I allowed myself to sigh. Then I resigned myself to the job at hand and went to get the cleaning items that I used. After my robe was off, I had on only a sleeveless undershirt and jockey shorts. I would have preferred boxers, because their looseness could hide the fact of my immature male parts, but she ordered me the less concealing shorts online. Like my undershirts, they were inevitably in pastel colors, which also weren't to my taste. However, like I said, I was always playing catch-up, trying to offset my lovemaking liabilities.
After an hour, she came and told me I could leave. "I'll phone you if there's anything I want added to the order. I also called the deli for a platter. Make sure you go to the liquor store first. I don't want the food sitting in the car any longer than necessary."
That seemed self-evident. She made it sound like I was incompetent to use common sense. I headed out on my errands. Inside, I was seething over the way she had been treating me. She called when I was halfway to my first stop, to tell me to pick up one additional item. Staci said that, if I forgot the brand name, I should call her, to be sure I didn't come back with something wrong. How did she think I would misremember which vodka she preferred? I got to the store and paid for the entire order, including that add-on. It was mostly wine, plus the expensive vodka and a top-shelf bourbon. The deli pick-up went smoothly and I started home.
So much had happened since a few hours earlier, that I couldn't stop thinking about it all. By then, I resented Justus, even though none of it was directly his fault. I had a vague unease about my wife's attitude, even though she hadn't done anything overly annoying. It was just a series of small matters that added up. Telling myself that none of it would make any difference after we had entertained our guest and he departed, I drove the rest of the way home. First, I took in the carton of booze, and then the large covered tray.
"Dicky," my wife asked with thinly veiled concern. "Did you remember to make the deli stop?"
"Of course I did," I told her, my irritability tinging my voice.
"There's no need to snap at me," she said, sounding hurt.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to get the bottles inside first."
"But didn't I tell you not to leave the food in the car any longer than absolutely necessary?"
She had me there. It was only the difference of minutes, but technically she was in the right. It came across as if I hadn't cared enough about her wishes to respect them.
"I'm sorry," I said again, whether or not it warranted an apology.
"Well, you can put it in the fridge."
"I will, dear."
"I'm going to get dressed."
She had on a tank top and slacks set, that I thought would be fine for an informal occasion. As they say, however, it is a woman's prerogative to change her mind. I puttered around the kitchen, doing some cleaning up without being told to. When Staci reappeared, I was stunned. She had on something I had never seen before. It was a bodycon dress in pale red, with a high hem. It's most arresting feature was a keyhole cut-out that ******* her deep cleavage. I was almost positive that she had on no bra.
"That's... um... nice," was all I could say.
"You don't like it?"
"No, it's... fine."
"A little enthusiasm would help. I thought you'd love it." Before I could redeem myself, she added, "Never mind," and turned away. Over her shoulder, she informed me in a neutral voice, "I laid out something for you to wear. I hope my choices will meet with your approval."
I went to the bedroom feeling guilty, without being quite sure why. On the bed were a yellow shirt with long, pointy collars, and bright green slacks. Beside them, unfortunately, was a pullover sweater vest with an explosion of bright colors all over it. Staci had bought it for me months ago, and I had promptly hidden it at the bottom of a dresser drawer. It must not have been hidden as well as I thought. I unhappily donned the combination, pulled on socks, and slipped into a pair of comfortable loafers. It was almost time for our guest to appear.
When I went to Staci for her approval, she had put on a pair of heels. Those made her taller than me. The difference wasn't great, but as sensitive as I am about my statue, it irked me. So be it. We would spend some time with our neighbor and then I could go back to my regular life. Maybe I would even get lucky with my wife, for some overdue activity in the bedroom.
Justus showed up, strolling across from his place. He had a single red rose, which he presented to my wife in a gentlemanly manner. She reacted with a warm sisterly hug. I felt the rose implied something romantic, but again remained silent. We sat in the living room, with them on the sofa and me opposite, in an armchair. Staci asked him what he would like to drink, which was a bourbon and water. In a helpful way, Justus informed on how to best prepare it. He even specified the preferred type of glass.
Then he said, with only a hint of condescension, "But I guess you knew all that."
Staci advised me, "You should make one for yourself, too, Dicky."
He chuckled and my wife joined him. Feeling stung but with insufficient grounds for a legitimate complaint, I went and fixed his drink and mine, along with getting a glass of wine for her. Retaking my seat, I sipped at the libation. The proportions he had called for made it rather strong. My tolerance for alcohol has always been low, so I vowed to go easy after that one. Had they been sitting that close together when I left the room? The two of them chattered away happily.
Justus said, "For the next round, I'll play bartender." He asked Staci, "Would you lead me to the kitchen?"
She got up and took his hand. They vanished and, for about five minutes, I sat there fidgeting. Their voices drifted back from the other room, but were indistinct. There were a few bursts of my wife's laughter mixed in. When they came back, Justus handed me a second drink. I wanted to just set it aside, but also didn't want to appear rude, especially at the risk of upsetting my wife. I sipped it slowly. Halfway through, it struck me that it tasted different than the previous one. My head told me that it was stronger. At some point, they left together, this time with Staci appointed by our visitor to be the mixologist. Halfway through my third glass, I began to get woozy. She came over and coaxed me into finishing it. After that, I had a dim awareness of slipping into sleep. I think my drink got freshened up once, or maybe twice. I wasn't aware of anything else until the next morning, when I woke up, still in that ugly sweater, slumped in the big chair, with a back that was sore and a head much worse. I was alone.
After taking a minute to let my thoughts clear, I went looking for Staci. She was in our bed. There was a serene satisfaction written on her face, one I had never seen before and which I knew I could never inspire. My mind jumped to the conclusion that something had happened between her and Justus, once I was sound asleep. My emotions overwhelmed me.
"Staci!" I hollered. "What did you do last night?"
She opened her eyes sleepily. "What are you talking about, Wilton?"
"You and Justus. That's what I'm talking about. How could you? Right here in our home? After you two intentionally got me *****."
My wife sat up slowly. Her smooth brow drew together, two vertical lines forming above her nose. "Wilton? Are you accusing me of having sex with our new neighbor?"
"Well, didn't you?"
"Is your faith in me really that weak?"
"I mean, the circumstances..." I ran out of words. My anger subsided all at once. Had I been wrong? Was there any way I could take back those accusations?
She glared at me. I wasn't accustomed to seeing her like that. Staci told me, "That was totally insulting and uncalled for. Maybe you'd rather not stay married to me. Is that it?"
The possibility of my life changing drastically struck me. I had an abrupt vision of being alone. "It's not... I was just..."
"Or maybe we should just spend some time apart. A trial separation."
"No. Please. Not that." There was pleading in my words. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"You know, I've put up with a lot from you. Perhaps the reason you think I would stray is because of the sex life we've had up until now. I assume you can tell that I don't have orgasms during sex."
"It's..." I tried unsuccessfully to calm myself, before conceding, "I've suspected that from time to time."
"And did you ever try to do anything to change it? For my benefit? I've mentioned more than once that there are alternative methods to satisfy a woman. Ones you can use if you're incapable of doing it the usual way. If you're not equipped for that. Did you get called names in gym class, by the other guys in the locker room, because of what's between your legs?"
That question, delivered at the end of her flow of reminders, caught me off guard. Without thinking, I admitted, "Yes. Their favorite thing to call me was Peanut."
Without giving me time to recover from that shameful confession, she wanted to know, "And why did they use that term?"
"Because..." Even in my upset state, I had enough presence of mind to know that I didn't want to answer. But with her so near, waiting for my response, looking so desirable, yet possibly prepared to leave me, I couldn't refuse. "It was because my penis is so small."
"The smallest in the room?" she ventured.
Unable to meet her gaze, I lowered my eyes, before admitting, "Yes."
"And you never considered how your lack might affect my ability to enjoy sex?"
"I didn't exactly think about it that way."
"Now, after accusing me of cheating, are you at least prepared to do something to help me reach climaxes?"
She had me cornered. Fear of abandonment filled me. I had never had much luck with girls before her. I took a deep breath. As much as I hated the idea of giving her oral sex, there was no other course that I could see.
I conceded, "We could try that."
"And will you make an honest effort? Do whatever I say?"
When I told her, "Yes. Anything you want, dear," it was like a trap closed around me.
"Fine. I'll give you a chance to redeem yourself, though it won't be easy for me to get past being called a cheater."
"I'm so sorry," I restated, and then heard myself sniffle.
"You'll have your chance to prove that... tonight."
I had quelled my suspicions but then they reappeared. When we went to bed, she was in an especially seductive nightie. Getting into position between her legs, I brought my face close to her lightly furred mound. What I was about to do nauseated me, but I felt the need to repair the damage my outburst had caused. She kept me down there, using my tongue, lips and fingers, until she had enjoyed a trio of noisy orgasms. It was three more than I had ever given her, until then.
She purred, "That's more like it. Now that you've proved you can be useful in bed, we're going to do a lot more of this. And a lot less of the other stuff... Peanut."
Having taken that big step backward, I was at a low point. Rather than oppose her, I agreed to continue on that path. Over the nights that followed, she cemented my new role as her oral plaything. One evening, as soon as we were in bed, she allowed me to assume the missionary position but cautioned me that I was only allowed to touch her furrow with the end of my penis. Staci proceeded to finger my receptive nipples, quickly bringing me to the verge of ejaculation. It was too much. I lost control and spurted, without even being allowed to enter.
She declared, "Somebody made a mess down there. Time to clean up, Peanut."
"I'll go get a warm washcloth," I offered.
"That's not how it works. I might get out of the mood while you're doing that. Get down in the Fun Zone and start licking."
"But I already... I got my stuff all over your..."
"Duh. I know all that. I also know that you owe me big time, for all the months when you weren't able to make me pop my cork, because your pecker feels more like a finger when it's in me. So, I'm going to let you bust your nut during foreplay, but only if you always slurp up the results. Or would you rather not be allowed to get your jollies at all?"
"What? No. I couldn't stand that. I'll..." I gagged slightly. "... do it the way you just said."
"And what way did I just say?"
"That I'm only allowed to have the tip of my... little dick... against your pussy lips, and you'll tease my nipples to make me shoot off right away." I closed my eyes and finished with, "And then I'll lap up the mess I made... every single time."
"That's my good Peanut. Now suit your actions to those words."
I did it, moaning and sobbing the entire time. She made me do a thorough job. I wasn't sure how I had gotten so deep into my new situation, and had even less idea how I might get out of it.
After a long while, I said, "I think I'm done."
She told me, "I guess so, but stay down there. You can kiss the pink for a while, to show me that you love our new arrangement." While I was doing that, she went on, "I almost forgot to mention something else. I talked to Justus about going to the nearest branch of his gym. He not only agreed it was a good idea, but gave me a free membership, with no expiration date. Wasn't that nice of him?"
"Yes, dear," I said disconsolately, between smooches on her labia.
"I'll be starting tomorrow night."
"In the evening?"
"Yes. Night. Evening. Same thing. Is there a problem with that?"
"Err... no."
"Well, thanks for the permission." Her words dripped with sarcasm.
"Yes, dearest."
Her first visit to the gym had a secondary result. She phoned me and said that she had gotten to know several of the other female members and had been invited to go out with them, for drinks. Instead of questioning her, I acquiesced at once. Staci returned home several hours later than I had expected. She claimed that all that exertion had revved up her system.
"I need your talented tongue to settle me back down."
All too soon, I found myself being rushed into finishing by her titillation technique. Then I was sent to my increasingly familiar position, to suck and swallow. I was surprised that it seemed like there was much more of a deposit than I was accustomed to ingesting. I wordlessly did my familiar good job.
She said, "You really love these feedings, Peanut."
"Not really. I'd rather go back to..."
"Don't tell me that. I can feel how excited your tiny pecker gets and how hard you finish. And how quickly. Since you prefer it this way, I'm keeping you on that program. I get lots of climaxes and you have your perverted fun, gobbling your own cream."
"But... but..."
"That's all," she announced. "And it felt like you shot a double load this time. That's another sign that you're getting off on it."
It hadn't felt like I'd produced more than my usual amount of semen. While I was giving the insides of her soft thighs some extra kisses, it struck me that the excess ejaculate might not be mine. What if I had been correct, on the night that Justus visited and I blacked out? What if now he was enjoying her body at the gym, or somewhere else near it, and she wasn't bothering to wash up afterward. The possibility sickened me. I felt unmanned. It was like I had been psychologically gelded.
We continued that way for the rest of that week, with her visiting the gym every second or third night, staying late because she was supposed to be with the girls, and then having that overload in her cunny, as a late-night snack for me. I couldn't stop believing that I was swallowing another man's spunk.
One night, as we were settling into bed, right before I was due to be granted my rushed ejaculation, she said, "Remember how bad you felt when Justus visited us, the next morning, and you had the crazy idea that he and I had screwed while you were unconscious?"
"Yes, dear." I aimed my penis at her cleft and touched it, not daring to go any further.
She began to toy with my nipples, but more slowly than usual. "I'll bet you pictured us together, that big muscular man on top of me, while I had the best sex imaginable. You know," she said absently, "some of the girls got a look at his cock when he had to rush out of the locker room one time, for some minor emergency, and his towel came off. That was before I joined. Anyway, they all agreed that what he has is quiet a weapon. A real muscle of love."
Why was she prolonging my pleasure, at the same time that she was putting those mental images into my head?
She went on, "It would be quite an experience for a girl to have that long, thick sausage inside her, pumping and pumping and pumping, driving her over the top again and again. If that happened to me, I'd need some tender loving care for my pussy, when I got home. You know, like you give me with your mouth, Peanut."
While she made those final remarks she rubbed my nips faster. I gasped and blew my load, as she made that final description of what might result. Had she been telling me that she was being satisfied by Justus and coming home for exactly what we were doing then? I became convinced it was true, as I fastened my lips over her slit and sucked hard, to begin extracting the super-serving of slime, that seemed to be so much more than my small testicles could produce.
Since then, I've been back and forth about what might be the truth. Justus had us over to his place recently, for snacks and drinks. He only served wine, so I stayed relatively sober. When the two of them conversed, it sounded like they were making veiled references to a secret affair, with double entendre. Was that the case, or was my imagination simply working overtime? Our sex life has stayed the same, with Staci always requiring my oral services after her workouts, to relax her system. It's sheer mental anguish for me to not know if there's infidelity going on, and whether or not I'm consuming that capable Black man's spunk. Staci never lets me rinse my mouth or brush my teeth after I've done it. She says me doing that would show disrespect for her. Sometimes, after we're done and she's asleep, I lie there in the dark, trying to picture myself having full intercourse with her, normal penetration, and not having to go down to lick her out afterward. I make the effort to call up those pictures in my mind, but I can no longer make it happen. When I think about sex, all I can envision is doing everything my wife's way.
*********
