Maxine laid back and closed her eyes, and concentrated on the steady, rhythmic sensation of the tongue flicking on her clitoris.
It felt good, but it didn't seem to be going anywhere, building to anything. It was at a plateau. She couldn't help but be equally aware of how the pillow was above her head, not under it, and would at any moment topple over and cover her face.
She opened her eyes and looked upwards, making sure she wasn't about to be smothered, then looked down, to where her hands were lightly stroking her husband's head of curly, mostly-dark hair, a half-hearted gesture to acknowledge his well-meaning but lackluster skills at cunnilingus.
At least he knew where her clitoris was, she thought; a relatively-recent improvement, which she owed to his willingness to read
The Sensuous Woman
this year, no doubt in an effort to get more, if not necessarily better, sex. But, please, Judd. Put some variety into it. Try sucking. Try swirling. Try side-to-side instead of up-and-down. Go pay some attention to my labia and then come back to my pearl.
The problem was that last month Maxine, at age 35, had discovered how absolutely spectacular oral sex could be. She had impetuously and outrageously grabbed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to slip away with another man, a strikingly handsome younger man, and ended up committing adultery for the only time in her life. Part of the earth-shattering intensity of the encounter had been the experience of really, truly being "eaten out," by a lover who was hungry to devour her; who held her legs open with his strong, hard hands like he was trying to tear a chicken leg quarter apart; who drove his tongue into her depths and then lashed her clitoris with it, back and forth like he couldn't decide which was tastier, sweeping all the way down to her perineum, shockingly close to her puckered anus, which she had never dreamed could clench and twitch as if it was a sexual organ; opening his mouth like a ravening and a roaring lion and sucking on her entire pudenda, as if he adored her full mound of honey-brown pubic hair and wanted to take some of it home as a souvenir.
And the worst, and best, part of it was that the young man was her best friend's twenty-year-old son. And since her best friend was her big sister, that meant that the man who had taught her how great sex could be, was her own nephew.
Meanwhile, her husband was unimaginatively flicking away, and even though it wasn't unpleasant, it wasn't going anywhere. She didn't have the heart to tell him "that's okay, it's me, not you," so she clamped her thighs around his head and tightened her grip in his hair and faked a gasping orgasm.
Her husband released his grip on her hips and got up on his knees, looking proud of himself. His penis -- his quite adequate, nicely thick, uncut penis -- hung at quarter-mast between his thighs. She couldn't help remembering how when her nephew had come up after giving her a genuine orgasm, his cock had been a rigid, pulsing spear.
Her husband leaned over her, covered her petite body with his, thick and mature and not undesirable, and kissed her. She could taste herself on his lips, a not-at-all unpleasant sensation that she wouldn't have ever imagined a few months ago, but she couldn't help but compare it unfavorably to the lustful kiss of her nephew.
He rolled off of her and held her, and she felt his cock growing now against her thigh. Now, of course, he would want to penetrate her and thrust into her and give himself an all-too-quick orgasm of his own, and of course she would grant him that.
She loved her husband. He was loyal and hard-working (too hard, she thought), and together they had had two lovely sons and built a more comfortable life than she had ever dreamed possible. She still thought of him as handsome, just as she had when she was 19 and he was 26 and she was a little star-struck and he had gotten her pregnant on their fourth date. But even then the sex was only marginally satisfying, and it had only grown more stale over the years.
She had pretty much come to the conclusion that that's all sex was for anyone. Then the last three or four years had happened. The whole world around her seemed to have changed, loosened up, gone braless and thrown away its morals. Movies, books, and the giggling conversations of her friends over bridge or afternoon cocktails; some of whom actually confessed to participating in extra-marital liaisons.
She still didn't know, though, whether they all weren't just mimicking the same fantasies that the popular media was promoting.
And then she had had a lapse of temporary insanity. An awkward half-stumbling hug from her twenty-year-old nephew, in which she had simultaneously felt his powerful arms enveloping her and keeping her from falling, and at the same time his startlingly erect penis pressing into her hip through their slacks. An evening and night of forbidden, fetid fantasies and dreams. A not-so-innocent acceptance of a not-so-innocent offer to go on a motorcycle ride, which had ended up in the tired little house he was renting on the south side of town, still not sure she wasn't imagining his intentions. Until he began to undress her, and to ignore her weak and disingenuous protestations, and then carried her to his bed.
In that fleeting and frantic encounter with Billy, she realized that the descriptions of sexual ecstasy in the paperback novels were not exaggerations. Her orgasms had felt less like sneezes and more like epileptic seizures. Her entire body had come alive with nerve endings she didn't know she had, feeling every callous on his hard hands against the small of her back and the sides of her breasts. Mostly, she felt more
desired
, and therefore desirable, than she had ever felt, as her eager nephew took her like Paris ravaging Helen of Troy; like a young and virile Henry VIII laying claim to Anne Boleyn.
She had no idea, really, whether it was because the impetuous, illicit, perhaps illegal nature of their coupling had made them crazy and set their senses alight, or whether her nephew in fact had skills and techniques and maybe even a transcendent desire for her that really did make the act of sex... of
fucking,
she blushed... even better than the paperbacks had suggested.
Afterwards, she had told herself that she was lucky to have had the experience and to have gotten away with it, with her marriage and her world intact, and that she would have to satisfy herself with the memory because it could never happen again. And at the same time, she knew that if she ever got the chance, she would have to take it, to be right back on her back with her legs wrapped tightly around his lean, thrusting torso and his impossibly rigid cock straining inside her as if trying to reach her heart from below.
***
The next evening, her family gathered around the formica dinner table in the apartment they were renting while looking for a new house to buy, and as Maxine served up the casserole, she realized she couldn't hide her depression. The boys were oblivious, or else used to it. But tonight, Judd took notice.
"What's wrong, honey?" he asked.
"Nothing's wrong," she replied. "I'm just... well, I know it's only been six weeks. I just... haven't made new friends here yet. And I miss my sister."
"Well, then, you should take some time and go see her."
"Really?" Max said, out loud, realizing that she was feeling a flutter between her thighs, thinking not of her sister but of her sister's handsome son. "But, how?"
"Well, I've been thinking," Judd said. "It's time we get a second car anyway. The boys' after-school activities, and all..."
"But when?"
"The boys have a fall break coming up, right? That's a four-day weekend. Take the boys and go to Fairville."
Steven, the older boy, cleared his throat at that point. "That's the last football game of the season."
