Marc Mixer: Sex For Everyone

But now, the importance he was attaching to those trips bothered her. "Without those trips of mine-" he'd said.

She had interrupted him. "Other couples don't seem to have to import all sorts of foreign ideas to their bedroom. Don't get me wrong, Larry, I'm not knocking it. God, how could I ever do that? But other couples-"

"Other couples-well, some couples-are highly imaginative in their own right. But it takes imagination on the part of both partners, Gert."

There was a note in his voice she didn't think she liked.

"Larry, are you saying you're dissatisfied with me?"

"Gert, I'm not saying anything of the kind. All I mean is-well, let's face it. If it weren't for those trips of mine and the ideas I get from them, all you'd ever be doing is laying on your back all the time."

All you'd ever be doing… Crap!

But it was true, wasn't it? Ever since their marriage, he had been the one to suggest, to try, to innovate. She, on the other hand…

God, was there something wrong with her.

But how was a housewife supposed to expose herself to new ideas, anyway? Larry's new ideas came from a variety of circumstances, a variety of women, a variety of gimmicks like that doll. Where A flash of white caught her eye across the street. The milk truck had moved to the house across the way. She looked at her own reflection in the door window-pane and ran a hand through her hair to smooth it. She realized she was wearing nothing but a flimsy thigh-length nightgown tied together at the front. She smiled at her reflection hesitantly.

A milkman?

How trite, how really cliche.

But think about it. She really couldn't run around town trying to pick up interesting types of men in order to gain interesting types of experiences. But the home, the typically, oh-so-typically suburban home, was a place to which many interesting types of men came as part of the normal routine. Well, they were potentially interesting. And the normal routine might well become abnormal. And the things they brought with themes, think about it. But think fast because there he was now, coming away from Ferguson's house across the street and She opened the door. "You, there-milkman!" she called.

And she knew that this was going to be the start of something.

As he stumbled into the kitchen, she wasn't sure she had picked the right man to start with. He was the frumpiest looking milkman she had ever seen. Not that she'd spent an awful lot of time looking at milkmen. But this one didn't have much hair, and he was short enough so that she could examine each square inch of his sparsely thatched dome. And his middle hung over his belt in a way that matched the manner his jowls hung over his collar. He looked to be in his mid-forties, and for a moment Gert had a real doubt. She dismissed it. The noble experiment had to begin somewhere, sometime, with someone, here and now; he would have to do.

I'm Mrs. Ross," she said, toying with the drawcord that kept the front of her nightdress together. "I need a few things."

"Y-yes'm!" he said, his face seeming to change colors.

She opened the refrigerator door, standing between him and the light so that he would be sure to get a full view of her fullness. She bent over, feeling the bottom hem of the nightie move upward on the base of her buttocks. "Let's see now," she said.

"Gulp," he said.

She straightened and turned to him, but not before she'd unfastened the draw cord and allowed the front of the nightie to separate.

"Gulp," he repeated. Again his face changed color.

"I think… yes, I think I'd like something really special this morning. Twelve quarts of cream. Yes, they will certainly help me get out of my despondent mood. Do you think you could run along like a good boy and get them for me?"

She brought her elbows into and under her breasts and squirmed at the pressure.

"Tw-rw-tw-"

"Twelve quarts of cream."

His face colored settled on something between crimson and purple. She stepped toward him. Her extended breast nipples almost touched his lips.

"What's your name, milkman?"

"G-G-Gil, ma'am. Gil."

"Well, Gil, I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry. I'm simply aching all over for… for that cream of yours."

"Y-yes'm."

He backed out of the kitchen, almost tripping over the doorsill. Turning, he started to his truck at a walk, then picked the speed up till it was a fat-bouncing, jogging trot. Gert swallowed. He was not Adonis, no Larry, that was for sure. But, she reminded herself, the noble experiment…

The cartons jiggled nervously in their carrying case as Gert smiled a combination reassurance-invitation smile.

"Now, Gil, I'm going to take a milk bath," she said. "Or I should say cream bath. You will carry that upstairs for me."

Pocketing a wrapped quarter-pound stick of butter, she moved behind him. Gently nudging his rear with her two outspread hands, she edged him toward the staircase in the next room. His stiff-legged gait told Gert that he wasn't yet sure he was anxious to comply. But he would be, she thought, he would be.

At the top of the stairs she directed him toward the bathroom off the main bedroom. A double gulp told her he had deposited the container and re-entered the bedroom. She stood before him, her robe draped across a bedside chair. Slowly turning full circle on the balls of her feet, she half closed her eyes, and ran her fingers through her hair, across her breasts and down her stomach and hips. She paused, facing him full now, hearing his heavy breathing. She started a circular motion with her fingers, moving them closer and closer to the wet lips of her front entrance, then stopping, cupping her hands as if offering him a drink.

"Would you like to help me with my problem, Gil?"

"I-er, I don't know if-"

"If you can? Why, Gil, I've watched you for days. Really I have-weeks, if you must know. And I know you're just the man I need. Need, Gil. Come fill my need."

He took a hesitant step toward her, she having to make up the rest of the distance between them. When there was no more distance between them, she moved slowly around him so that her two cupping hands could not massage both herself and him.

"You're perspiring, Gil! Why, of course! It's those clothes you're wearing. How do you expect to accomplish anything in those clothes?"

But she had felt that hard thing with her fingers. It was a big, bulging thing, not long, but fat, thick, squat like the rest of him. And shuddering, also like the rest of him. She'd have to act a bit faster than she wanted to.

With a shove from her, he toppled and his back bounced on the bed. His mouth opened to say something but she was upon him before the word or cry or wail got up to his throat. 'I'll help you, Gil-with the clothes-but then it's your turn. Remember that."

Moving to his side, she began unbuttoning the shirt buttons beneath his already opened jacket with her left hand. She released his cock from its fabric prison and moved both his pants and jockey shorts over his hips. He took part in the business now, kicking his shoes off with his feet. Her hands had continued working his pants downward, breathing hard as she focused on his maleness. She had been right about it. Not overly long-but the thickness of it! A veritable feast.

She pulled him to a sitting position better to remove his jacket and shirt, at the same time moving her head down the length of his body until her mouth had reached cock level. He shuddered as she gave him a flickering tongue and then slowly moved upward along his body, mounting him at face level. Mouths joined, she trapped his prick between her legs. She squeezed his prick and squirmed atop him. Her tongue exploring the insides of his mouth, until suddenly it was no longer just she doing him but he tongue-pushing back into her, grasping her back with his hands, pushing upwards with his prick trying to insert it, struggling.