Author's Note:
Steven returns from an out-of-town business trip to find that his wife has made herself fully available to him, or anyone, who comes to the door.
My stories feature Hayley and Steven. There's a certain sameness to their characters throughout as I like to think about them a particular way. Or, maybe I'm lazy and don't want to fuddle with figuring out names. Each story stands alone and are not sequential unless labeled to be in parts.
**
From LAX to home in Charlotte. Ugh. It takes a while, even when things go smoothly. Arrive at the airport 90 mins early, delay the departure an extra half hour due to a plane replacement for who knows what reason, a joyous four plus hours in flight wearing a mask, three hours of your day lost to time zones, and another 40 minutes to get out the plane, collect my bags and pay the parking ransom. And then... then finding the highway at a full stop only several miles from the airport. Lovely.
I had texted Hayley when the plane touched down, which she understands is a signal that I'm a little more than an hour and a half from arriving home. That situation had obviously changed. Google maps showed the interstate traffic density in the shade of a blocked artery, two miles of it. I'm delayed another 50 minutes. Ugh. Some people love to travel on business. I'm betting they don't do it frequently. I texted her the update but didn't get a reply. Maybe she had started dinner. Hopefully, it would be something that could be kept warm.
My mounting frustration and verbal tirades weren't pushing cars ahead, so I figured I may as well try to take an almost adjacent exit ramp. Google wasn't saying it was a faster route, but sitting still on an interstate drives me nuts. Blinkers, patience, and a little bit of illegal backing in the emergency lane got me there.
SoCal may be awesome for some, but it's not a land flowing with milk and honey for me. A week there? No thank you. But I'd done it before, and I'd do it again to pay the bills. I'd rather spend my time with Hayley.
As I should. She's gorgeous. Kind. Friendly. Wise. A tease. A fully engaged lover. My best friend. My wife, even. I hope you have the same. There are no secrets between us, something we agreed to before we got married because we value the intimacy between us.
I know, I know. You want the details. 5'7", slender, great figure... No, not me. Her. Light brown shoulder length hair, parted from the side and hanging to just below her shoulders. A cute nose, mouth, ears... Well, I don't mind sharing what other people say. A younger Téa Leoni. With slightly bigger boobs I'll add. I had to Google Téa. There's a strong resemblance. She's a beautiful woman. But, hey, I got Hayley. Go find your own.
It matters later, so one thing you should know at that point is that Hayley delights in my cum, wherever it ends up, and she's not hung up on where exactly that may be. How many other wives are like that after being married five years? Not many, I'd imagine.
When I go on a long trip, I try hard not to masturbate -- the more for her to enjoy when I return, right? It's not some sort of proof of celibacy or anything. She doesn't care if I do or don't. But, for her, cum is what makes sex
real
. Condoms may bring pleasure, but, well, maybe you get the point. Cum is a main part of the experience as well as the evidence after the fact. It's an added dimension that she expects.
This past trip, I was maintaining my self-control, and then Wednesday she texted "Horny!" and followed it with a picture of her fingertip brushing the side of her clitoris. iPhones these days. Wow. It was moist, shaven and beautiful, the area around it flushed and swollen from her activity.
She called shortly afterwards. We talked about the photo and those things you talk about when you're somewhere distant and horny as hell. She eventually came, but I didn't. Only, I told her I did. A white lie maybe? I wouldn't call it a secret. I could have told her the truth, but then she'd keep trying and probably want a picture to prove she got me there. And, I'd have less to share when I got home. I'll add that I don't take any satisfaction from cleaning cum off my chest. In a hotel. Alone.
Back to the travel. The exit ramp idea worked, with some liberties taken at stop signs and stop lights when no one was around. I got home about 20 minutes after my original estimate, but maybe sooner than she'd expected if she got the second message. Didn't matter. I was home.
The garage door was open for whatever reason, and I pulled in. She forgets sometimes. I popped the trunk, got my bag and soon find that there's a piece of paper taped to the door that leads to the kitchen with a note written in thick Sharpie. "Just mopped! Use the front door."
Joyous. Another delay, but a final one. I left the bag where it was. I wasn't in the mood to wind it out of the garage, around our sidewalk and up a couple steps. It would wait. I was fumbling for the front door key as I neared it when I noticed a similar note on the front door. Strange, that.
"Come inside and follow the instructions."
It doesn't take many words for me to understand that this wouldn't be a typical coming home. She had some sort of surprise waiting for me, and I was betting it wasn't cake or a visit from my mother-in-law. I peeked through the glass panes to the side of the door, and my heart could have stopped. Whoa!
Let me help you understand the scene. You're looking into a foyer, you know, the entrance area just inside the front door that is functionally necessary, but then architects go and make it too large, wasting square footage that would be better spent on other rooms. And, if it's a two-story house, the foyer opens to the ceiling so you can pay more on your heating bill.
We have such a gluttonous version, 8' wide, 12' or so feet deep, with a large arched farmhouse style window pane above the front door. It's showy. There's a fancy large chandelier that hangs there, filling the void, which no one notices unless they're walking on the street at night when its lit. As pretentious as it sounds, it's just the way they've built nicer houses for the past decade or two in these parts.
Anyway, that chandelier is in full bloom, which is odd because we only use it when we have guests. But it does a fine job of illuminating Hayley, who is sitting in the middle of the foyer on one of our dining room chairs, facing the front door. You can picture that, right? Not real complicated.
Now to get closer to why you're reading. You've got the scene. Here's your character. Hayley's wearing her wickedly sexy 4" black heels that have single straps that wrap around her ankles but leave almost all of the top of her feet bare. She's got sexy feet. She knows it.
Why am I starting with her feet, you ask? I'm working my way up. She's wearing a pair of high-cut, black see-thru panties that really amounts only to a small triangle. There's not a hair to be found in the region. She doesn't like shaving, but she loves it when I watch. I'm just
that
lucky.
There's a blindfold, too. It's black as they often are, but it's one that's particularly effective at staying in place and blocking her vision. Having spent a small fortune sampling the gamut from cheap to overpriced, she finally just made one herself that actually works. A labor of love, obviously.
Now to color the rest of your picture. No bra. Her bare breasts are pointed directly at the front door. Her legs are spread, wide. You're looking at well-defined calves, taught sinew and muscles, creamy smooth skin... I forgot to mention she's 28, and she looks it. Whether women or older or younger, they want to look like she does at 28. To save words, you might settle for ripe, luscious, or, heck, ready to eat.
She is a vision. She's sitting with her back straight in the chair, her arms folded behind it. Her shoulders are square and she isn't slouching. It's a presentation of what I, or whoever, have been instructed to
