It began as a whisper in the dead of the night. Why I was awake I don't recall, but in my half-sleep I heard her voice. It spoke the name of a man I didn't know. She said it in a sigh, a rich mix of longing, praise, and pleading. I looked over at her. In the silver light of a full moon, I could see she was fast asleep. Her mouth parted and round. I lay still next to her for the rest of the night, hoping to hear that voice again, speak that name again. I couldn't recall ever hearing her voice sound as it did that night. And now that I had, it was used to speak the name of a stranger.
The next day at work I was hopelessly distracted. Whether perusing paperwork or sitting in on meetings, I heard the sound of her voice and his name over and over. It may have been nothing more than an innocent "talking in her sleep", but it introduced something so disarmingly new and arousing it was all I wanted to think about.
A little background at this point might be helpful. When I first laid eyes on Shea, I found her long red hair, fair skin, and slender legs irresistible. She claims that it was my wit, promise as a lawyer, and strong hands that captured her interest. The combination of our mutual interests, in any case, was absolutely combustible. Almost dangerously so. We fucked at any opportunity -- regardless of time of day or location; in fact, the more inappropriate the hour and locale, the greater the pleasure. For the next three years, we greedily devoured one another at a rate that left our friends shaking their heads. Shea and I sated our sexual appetites with an energy and creativity that must have been inspired by Bacchus himself.
It wasn't until just after graduation from college that we committed the first conventional act in our relationship. We got married.
Our sex life roared through the first six months of marriage. But then her work and my studies started to take their toll and slowly erode the one thing we did better than anything else. After a year and a half of marriage, work, and school, our first son was born and sex became something that had to be coordinated, planned for, and penciled in. Please don't jump to conclusions. Shea and I enjoyed a very good life. Our personalities and worldviews were in perfect sync, so running a household and a family was easy. Yet the spontaneous, primal, hungry sex of our youth had become a casualty of domestic bliss.
Shea and I have recently celebrated our 25th anniversary. She is a successful graphic designer. My law practice flourishes. I'm the Peter Kline of Blumberg, Belasco and Kline. We managed to raise two boys with the minimum of missteps, and now both are away at good schools, making their own way in the world. Shea and I have lots of friends and enjoy a gratifying social life. We are fortunate to live in a beautiful home and our money worries are minimal. By all outside observations we have an enviable union.
Still I sometimes spot a young couple in public, oblivious to the world around them, and bemoan the loss of that kind of carelessness. I try to remember how when I held Shea's body in my arms, it was a prelude to another sexual adventure -- one that lay bare our desires as our bodies became offerings to the carnal feast.
Perhaps that is why hearing Shea's voice in the night tilted my world on its axis. I had guessed that the kind of desire we enjoyed at 18 was now, at forty-six, something only for the young -- all we could hope for was that they enjoyed it as much as we had. But when I heard Shea speak another man's name in her sleep, I obsessed about the men that populated her subconscious. Were they men she knew from work? Were they men with whom she shared a moment of intimate eye contact on the street? Or were they men that represented the composite of all that she still secretly desired? Frankly, the idea of Shea's secret fantasy world, one liberated from convention, expectation, and propriety thrilled me. It excited me so much, in fact, that on that first day of work, I excused myself from an important meeting so that I could masturbate in the men's room. As I stood in the locked stall, I closed my eyes and imagined Shea, flush with lust and desire, taking him in her arms and whispering his name as he entered her.
I've spent some time exploring my own fantasy life and have come to the conclusion that it's nothing out of the ordinary. My wish list is comprised of what you'd typically expect from a forty-six year old, heterosexual male. Firm-bodied twenty-somethings. Experienced and confident forty-somethings. A round ass to spank. Encounters with perfect strangers. Shaved pussies. Shaving pussies. Full, natural pussies. Pussies. Satisfying a woman's kink -- within a broad range of possibilities. Parties that turn into orgies. Public sex. Sex with pretty much every race and creed. As far as fantasies go, mine are run of the mill stuff. In the course of my self examination, however, I have come to understand that I have a strong predilection toward watching. I find it very arousing to be on the outside looking in. I love to see the pleasure in a woman's face, the longing in her eyes. I enjoy watching her draw a man's head between her legs. I get off on the way a woman invites a man to mount her, and then entwines his body with her legs, arms, and fingers. I find the vision of a man and a woman, two bodies, each eager for selfish satisfaction, yet in perfect synch with the other to achieve that end, dizzyingly erotic. Given that, I'm sure you can understand how what became a whisper in the middle of the night, soon exploded into a howl -- a primitive yelp that needed attention -- and action.
At first my options seemed limited. I could be direct and tell Shea that it was my fantasy to share her with another man, and though the idea might appeal to her at some deep level, my confession might stir up questions in her mind as to the "health" of our relationship. I certainly couldn't pay a man to seduce Shea, for she was as loyal as she was discriminating. I'm embarrassed to admit that I briefly flirted with the idea of recording her sleeping in the hopes of capturing more nocturnal revelations that I might facilitate in the wakeful hours, but that idea even wierded me out. So, with a mind both aroused with possibility and frustrated by inaction, I ground through one day after another.
It wasn't until a day that Shea was in the city and decided that to surprise me with a visit, that the seeds of a realistic plan were sown. Shea is beloved among my staff. She is funny, smart, and a wonderful listener. And, for a woman at any age, Shea is beautiful. Let me be more specific. At twenty, Shea was a classic Irish beauty. She was so classically Gaelic, in fact, she was exotic. She used to joke that the characteristics in her youth that were the objects of teasing, at some point became the objects of desire. Shea is still fit and slender. Her breasts, though average in size, possess a sexual current that still makes my fingertips tingle. Her long creamy legs disappear beneath the hems of her dress and leave any man, of any age, imagining the deliciousness of their union. Her red hair is the envy of every woman she knows. Her emerald eyes are intense and, even, distracting. But now at forty-six, Shea possesses a strong self-confidence that self-confident men, find irresistibly erotic.
I watched Shea work the office, but this time I was particularly focused on the way she interacted with the men. Shea is a skilled flirt. Men love her attention, and she loves theirs. I was taken by her conversation with Marco, a young attorney who's been with the firm for a couple of years. Shea lingered at his side longer than the others, which wasn't an unusual occurrence as Marco is tall and powerfully built. Marco has a Cuban mother and inherited her coloring. His father was Italian, and it was from him that Marco inherited his charm and flawless sense of style. Women, including my Shea, always lingered longer at Marco's side.
