Something To Take The Edge Off

It's a cool breezy day in New York. The weather hesitates to rain; there's a sprinkling here and there, but mostly the skies are in a hung over haze of gray. It's the ultimate cuddle weather. Nice ‘lets take a hot shower together' weather. Well, these were the plans for last night. Along with a new black cutout dress I purchased. Henri didn't know; its been tucked away in our closet for two weeks, hidden beneath my boxes of shoes, an Area 51 for almost any husband. The front is simple, just short with small tears to show cleavage and on the arms; but turn the dress over and bam! Party in the back! Completely torn in all the right places, enhancing the back view, also a body part Henri prefers.

The sex between my husband and I has been little in between, and its due to the simplest reason: we are too tired! By the time our son is in bed, we're cleaning up the house, getting things ready for the next day, and right after a shower, hitting the bed is the closest thing to an orgasm we can ride out. But today my cunt has been pulsating, randomly coming to life in the unlikeliest of moments. Just to watch Henri walk by is putting me in a frenzy. He can not turn away from my advances; I lure him into the room many times to kiss his neck or cradle my hand between his thighs. My nails have gotten longer, painted one of his favorite colors, and I use them to comb along the outline of his growing erection. I let him go, only to call him back to me moments later, always fondling his manhood, scratching the sensitive area from the back of his neck down his spine, grabbing, pressing against him. A mini foreplay session every time he purposely entered the room; it became clear to me that he was enjoying this.

After the last tease he tells me he's going to the kitchen to pour himself some wine "to take the edge off." He turns around, having served himself a rather large amount than normal of the drink. He takes a sip, I grab his crotch and whisper in his ear (with Maurice in plain view behind us) "I know another way to take the edge off. Follow me." Back to the bedroom we went, the wondering eyes of his best friend tracking us until the door closed. Henri stands against the wall, directly opposite the bed where I choose to sit. He sips from his glass, I pull his shorts down very slowly. I joyously await the hook of his penis to snag slightly on the waist band; and when his cock finally bounces back up, bobbing in the air like a buoy in misty water, I giggle with childish zeal. I grab hold onto it, play with it. Squeeze and rub, nails to bare flesh. I pulled out my tits, and he grabs on fast, squeezing my nipples. Henri puts a lot more emphasis on them than before. It hasn't been said out loud, but since he knows of what I've already been subjected to with Sir Dre, he knows I have a high tolerance for it.

I take one breast at a time and his cock and rub them together, alternating between cupping both of them, burying his tool completely. Somewhere in my mind I intended to place my mouth on it, knowing that we both would enjoy it. He was extremely turned on by my touch, which I meant for this to be a big tease that would carry him over until the night. But when I had stopped and he said "I was about to cum," well, I wasn't going about to let that go. It's been a long time, longer than I'd like to admit, since I've given Henri an old-fashioned hand job. We live in a fast paced world, and blow jobs have become one of the easier delights of choice that give men the gratification they need in the moment. Hand jobs are a slower process, intimate. And messy. He came on my tits, just like I asked him to, more like pleaded. There was so much that it began to drip down to my stomach onto the bed, and there was still more coming out. The first time I had ever let him cum on my tits, we were closed in a room, in an apartment with two other people. Repeating moments like that–it helps me take the edge off of so much more than sex.

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