Her bare palm rubbed my swollen, tense manhood, and her nails tickled through the supple skin of my balls. Following her lead, I ran a hand up her shirt. Pawing her soft, womanly swell through the slick fabric of her bra, she arched offering me more. My groping brought her fire higher, and she responded by rubbing me harder. Breaking our kiss, I looked at my wife as she laid beneath me, ‘Here?’ I asked. She only nodded. As I lifted her shirt, she arched so it would slide up, and lifted so I could pull it over her long black mane. I slipped the straps of her bra off her shoulders, and folded the cups away to reveal Deborah’s wonderful breasts. Her dark nipples outlined against pale, milky white skin, called for my lips. As my palm tended one, my lips went to the furthest circle. I suckled in the leathery nub, and began drawing on it, licking it, nipping it with my teeth. Kissing from one, down the valley and up to the other, I teased it as well. Then I slowly kissed and licked my way. And he ate my cooking. And he listened. And he played with my dog. And he listened. And he stood to leave and reminded me, as he always did, that if I ever needed to talk he was there for me. But this time he touched my hand as he said it. He touched my hand…little more than a handshake, but…it was more than a handshake. It left me weak in the knees — and wet in the crotch. And the next time we met — the next time he came over, it was all very different. There was electrical tension in the room as we cooked together, throwing some stir-fry into a wok and warming up some bread from the local bakery. We studiously avoided bumping into each other, with mumbled apologies accompanying each failure. We ate in near silence, our topics of conversation being how our day had been, and how good the food tasted. After dinner we sat in the living room, he on the sofa and I in an easy chair, and this time HE talked. He talked about his hopes, his ambitions, the way he wanted to make the world a.
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