I watched hawklike from where I was leaning on the headboard at my husband, my handsome husband, the man who gave me two sons and a lifetime of happiness. He was tittering here and there at the long mirror, standing on tiptoes one minute -- trying to make himself taller, perhaps -- adjusting his coiffure the next, this time an elegantly messy Caesarean cut, which fit his face well, if I might say so -- well, I did chose the cut during his most recent barber visit. But he really did look so handsome, my lovely husband with his adorable Caesarean hair.
Despite the hour he was still unclothed. He was wearing his favorite white tank top, the one that showed off his broad chest like an armor with his trim figure and flat tummy -- my point of contention, as if I could not for the life of me cook mean feasts to satisfy the man -- and tighty whities, the one that showcased his bulge like a huge hungry slug awaiting to descend on some unsuspecting foliage. Perhaps I should chose which of his suits for him to wear. Maybe the navy pinstripe, or the old-fashioned maroon double-breasted.
In the end he chose a plain black suit, a casual cut I remembered bringing in from his tailor earlier this year to wear for his mother's birthday lunch. Ah, Mother Houston, such a character. One had to be when one's son came out late in life like my husband did -- well, the thirties were a wee too late, methinks -- but remembering her antics again brought some tears of joy and reminiscence into my eyes, which was not missed by my darling husband.
"Oh baby." He left the suit hanging on the chair and scuttled next to me on the bed. "Are we going to cry again? Like last week?" Blood paused in my veins, but after a moment's hold it passed. I reached with shaky hands that strip of skin below my husband's tank top, that undeniably male area with its neatly trimmed hair and muscles under the skin like living marbles, so near to his cock yet so far. My husband, ever the cheeky one, sniggered at touch of my cool fingers near the apex of his manhood. He bent and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek, like old friends as opposed to his husband and lover.
"You know I have to save that for Kenny."
Ah yes, Kenny. Dear good old Kenny, who up to last week had occupied an innocent, sometimes frustrating but otherwise always accommodating niche in our friendship. Who up to last week was no more than a close friend that could be trusted perhaps with the house keys but not with our children. A friend, a somewhat confidant, who held secrets but nothing too deep, nothing too incriminating. All that relationship was -- I did not know what to call it, but the closest would have to be metamorphosis, indeed, was metamorphosized by the fact that my husband picked him to be his bottom bull.
See, it was all my fault like my husband had said. I was the one who instigated things, the one who made the first move, the one who fucking introduced them in the first place. The blame laid squarely on my head, the buck stopped at my door. I had no one else to fault for the fact that one of my closest friends now enjoy the sexual prowess of my husband on a semi-regular basis.
And what bounty was to be enjoyed. For my husband, truly, despite his homosexuality, had a breeder's cock: tall, proud in its relentless erections, beer-can thick, much like an ancient weapon of destruction. This was the cock from which sprang our two children, this cock or rather his two fertile lemon-sized balls. And my husband's stamina, which I had confided in Kenny rather innocently and giddily like two schoolmarm girls encountering sex with a demigod.
