I lifted my head from where I was nursing my drink: despite everything, I had a tall drink of orange juice in front of me. You would think in the situation I was in that drink should have been something a little more robust, a little more manly, but I had been sober for the past ten years, and I would not want to break that commitment over something like this. I was sitting, perched really, at the kitchen counter, a little nook-and-cranny space I made for him. Him, my husband, my dearest beloved, who looked at me sheepishly from where he was standing, nary a thread on his excellent muscled leanness, from the top of his head to the soles of his foot, naked in the way God intended.
I watched him, long and hard. He was so handsome to me, in that way you could see nothing else in the room except the light of his smile and his twinkling eyes, eyes that had no guile or evil ever in their depths. An All-American jock, and all mine. All mine, including that large contraption in the center of his being, the cock that I had loved and admired and kissed and made cum many times over the long years we had been together.
Yes, we had a good sex life. A fruitful, bountiful sex life. The younger people would call it with that strange gesture, a chef's kiss they called it. He was a good top, an excellent lover, the kind that would not be averse to tasting his own cum on my lips after I sucked him off, and never had I been less than satisfied in his arms and in his bed. He was an old-fashioned man, the kind who pull out chairs for his partner even though we were both masculine, the kind that would not let his lover in a bind in any way. I feared to say it but, but there had been times, fleeting moments that somehow sear themselves into my consciousness, that simple fact that he might be too good for me.
I was not born into money like he had. I was that guy who had two or even three scholarships and a few side-jobs just because where he came from, finding money was fucking hard. I was that guy that had the tattered jacket, a hand-me-down from a distant relative, and wore the damn thing every day because it was the only thing that was warm enough and there simply was no money for anything else. But I was a good student, good enough at least that I was made tutor for several other students. That was how I met him, my husband. And that was how I met Billy.
Billy was just like me, born from the wrong side of the tracks. He was a bit slow on the uptake, but once he had a grasp of a concept he would have it until the day he die. We became close, two peas in a pod, commiserating over our background and our circumstances. People even remarked that we looked like twin brothers, except he was a ginger boy and blushed easily with his pale coloring, that and he was a tad taller than me. When he graduated and I stayed on campus as a research assistant, we kept in touch. We stayed in the same city. He was my best man when my husband finally decided to make an honest man out of me.
So why was he the one waiting for my husband on my bed with his thighs open and ass lubed, in heat for my husband?
