Ron Taylor: Teacher_s naughty wife

Joanne threw back the cover but she didn't get up. She lay on the bed, stretching, purring from the middle of her throat, and her tits moved softly under the clinging bodice of her nightgown. She brushed hair back from her sleepy eyes, and looked up at her husband Tom, who was just coming out of the bathroom. All he had on were his shorts, and they were snug, tight-fitting shorts that really played up the bulge of his cock and balls. Joanne kept on purring and slinked one aim toward him, her finger crooked in invitation. "Come here, big stuff," she said in her most sultry voice. "Come here and give me what I didn't get last night."

"Oh, Christ, Joanie," Tom said. "Is that all you ever think about? I mean, is that the only thing on your mind?"

Joanne raised herself on one elbow. The shoulder strap of her nightgown slipped and her left tit came oozing out, free, the nipple stiff and red. She looked down at the aroused nip, and she cooed, touching herself with thumb and index finger. Tom was watching. She could feel his eyes upon her, almost as strongly as she could feel the fluidy back and forth roll of her fingers on her nip. She squeezed until a moan oozed from her lips, and she looked up at him.

"Interested?" she said.

But he was putting on his pants. "I don't have time," he said, and Joanne wondered why those words sounded so familiar. Because, perchance, he was always telling her he didn't have time? That is, when he wasn't telling her he was tired or not in the mood or had a headache. The things that wives were supposed to tell their husbands, not the other way around, she thought in distaste. She left off playing with her tit, pulled the shoulder strap back into place and covered herself, and lay on her side scowling as he got into his pants and shirt.

"Is something wrong with you?" she asked. "I mean, is there something physically wrong, Tom?"

He jerked involuntarily, stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Are you – do you feel that you're – impotent?"

"Of course not!"

"Well?" She lay on her side waiting. He didn't answer. "Tom," she said, "there is something wrong. Do you at least grant me that?"

"The only thing that's wrong," Tom Hickman said, knotting his tie in front of the mirror, "is the fact that you seem to be acting like a nymphomaniac lately. I can't get a second's rest, Joanie, you're always after me, trying to pull me into bed. And I have other things on my mind right now. I'm up for tenure at the end of the term, and if I don't get tenure, then we are back on the job market, and you know how hard it is to find a job teaching English literature on the college level. So if I'm not as sexy as you are, well, I'm sorry but those are the breaks."

"You didn't answer my question," Joanne called as he went out the door. "Is something wrong with your cock? Why won't it get hard? Why?" She came out of the bed, jumping, hauling the nightgown over her head as she ran toward the door. She tossed it over her shoulder and went out the door, standing at the edge of the living room, bare and naked, long hair swirling down her shoulders, a few stray curls wisping onto the curve of her tits. "Look at me," she said. "Will you for Christ's sake look at me?"

He turned, his hand on the front doorknob. "Put your clothes on," he said. That was all he said. He opened the door, went out, closed it behind him, and a few moments later she heard the sound of the car engine starting in the driveway.

Joanne slunk back, against the wall, her arms crossed on her tummy. I will riot cry, she told herself I will not have a hysterical fit. I will take this calmly. "Goddamn you!" she yelled in a high, fluting voice. "Have you turned faggot or something?" But he couldn't hear. He was already in the car, already on the street, on his way to work again. Numb, angry, she turned, stomped into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

She went through the bedroom, snarling, and into the bathroom. The shower glass was still misty from Tom's morning bath and she could smell the cologne he'd dabbed on his face. He never used to use cologne, said it was a cheap gambit by the cosmetics companies to get business from men as well as from gullible women. Said a clean body didn't need any perfumed scents to mask its natural tangy aromas. Said that what he liked best about Joanne, when they first met, was that she was so fresh and natural, her face unmarred with cover up makeup and cheaters. He used to enjoy kissing and touching her face, not to mention the rest of her. What had happened?

Joanne wiped sweat from the steamy mirror, then stood for a long moment looking at herself in the glass. Is it me? she wondered. Have I changed? Aren't I attractive any longer?

She eyed herself from head to toe and she couldn't find anything that looked like a flaw. Thirty-one years old, and she could have passed for eighteen. Almost. There were laugh lines around her mouth and eyes not uncharming in their own way, but she'd had them for years and Tom had never mentioned any discontent. Her hair was long and silky, a chestnut brown with highlights of red here and there. Once upon a time her husband had enjoyed running his fingers through her hair, gently massaging the scalp underneath while his lips brushed time and again across her full, naturally pink lips, while their tongues played back and forth, in and out of one another's mouths in sweet loving foreplay that anticipated the even sweeter in and out motion that would take place when he slipped his fat hard cock into her wet and twitchy twat.

Her tits were good. Small tits, sure, but round and firm and high set, and capped with large brown nipples that covered almost the whole of her cuppable mounds. She cupped and squeezed her tits. Someone had to feel her tits when they ached the way they ached right now.

She had a trim, narrow waist, and slender hips, almost boyish but with the telltale curves that announced she was a woman after all. Five-four, built in good proportion to her height, with long smooth thighs that really should have been on TV doing those Gentlemen-Prefer-Hanes pantyhose commercials, and maybe they would have been if she hadn't abandoned her dreams of a career and married Tom. But when she was twenty-one and full of love for him, how could she let her own idle dreams stand in the way? He had his B.A. then, and he had to get his M.A. and Ph.D., and it was a job for two people. She'd abandoned her dreams to go to New York and try her luck as an actress, and she'd gone to work in a boutique instead, selling funky clothes and drawing a salary that helped keep her husband in graduate school.

Those had been good years, both of them in their poverty-stricken twenties, good years indeed. When dinner was macaroni and cheese washed down with Gallo Chianti or, at best, a night on the town – the free movie town every Wednesday night on campus followed by a group safari with Tom's friends to the local pizza parlor. Pitcher of beer and hold the anchovies. And then home, both of them slightly tipsy and clutching one another for support, and into bed where neither of them needed the slightest bit of support. His cock, hard and strong, punching its way into her supple, hungry twat, filling her with hot stroke after stroke, fucking her until she moaned for mercy and clutched him with her hands and legs, making sure he wouldn't let up, wouldn't give her the slightest bit of relief from his hard, fast fucking.

"So?" Joanne asked the mirror. "So?" Was she changed that much? Had she turned into a scag while she wasn't looking? Not a fucking chance! She caught up the falls of her hair, let it swirl back onto tier shoulders, around her face. After ten years of marriage she could still pass for twenty-one. Nearly. Nearly enough. And inside – God, the way she felt inside!