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Have you ever just disliked someone for no sound reason? That was Paul, or how I felt about Paul. I didn’t like him at first, despised him would be more accurate. He seemed quietly arrogant, like he knew something that everybody else didn’t, maybe something they were incapable of knowing, since to him they existed several steps below his razor-sharp intellect. He appeared to be very self-centered, too, like he didn’t give a shit if anyone thought he was haughty, since he was who he was, spoke perfect English with a foreign phrase thrown in here and there, you know the type.

The kicker was when he basically slammed the door in my face as I trudged around the neighborhood with my daughter, selling Girl Scout cookies. He didn’t know me at the time even though our houses backed to each other, but would it have killed him to be polite? A terse “yes” was followed by a dismissive “no thanks,” as the door was shut in our faces mid-sentence, much to my consternation and my daughter’s bewilderment and disappointment. Consternation? Hell no, I was pissed, and I would have rung the doorbell and given him a piece of my mind if I hadn’t been with Megan and had two more blocks of doorbells to ring. He was on my shit list as of that moment.

Later though, I got to know his wife Karen as a fellow room parent for the third grade, and she seemed to be quite nice, around my age, 39, and bright, but without the smug baggage of her asshole of a husband. Our daughters began requesting play dates, so we grew to be neighborly acquaintances over coffee and swing-sets, phone calls and predictable third-grade catastrophes. Over the course of a year or so I ran into Paul a couple of times, first with Karen and then other times in a rush whenever he picked up his daughter after school and once where we made small talk at the winter pageant.

But on one December day near to Christmas and shortly after the pageant everything unexpectedly changed for me. He climbed the stairs from his family room when I stopped by to collect money for a holiday gift for our kids’ homeroom teacher. This was the first time I had seen him in any way disheveled or wearing anything other than jeans and a leather jacket, both of which I hated to admit he looked good in. He’s not classically good-looking, like a model or a celebrity, but he knew how to dress to his advantage, and being sexy is more of a state of mind anyway. It hit me that day for the first time that his parts added up to more than the isolated impressions I had gotten of his overall appearance.

He’s 6′ tall and probably weighs around 190lbs, an inch shorter and a few pounds lighter than my husband; he has sparkling blue eyes and thinning brunette hair that he wears in a short ponytail. In short he has that “I’m an artist who used to smoke a lot of pot” look about him. But seeing him in his workout clothes made me aware of his long, muscular legs and, as he bent into his refrigerator, his nice tight buns (just the way I like them, but come to think of it, who doesn’t like them nice and tight?), like he had played soccer or run track for years and had stamina to spare. And judging from the random folds and lopsided bulge in his sweat-soaked, gray athletic shorts, he appeared to be amply endowed in other ways as well as I stole a glance at what my girlfriends and I used to call simply “the package” in our college-girl code.

But damned if he didn’t catch my eye that one second when I checked him out. He held my gaze when I looked up and discovered that I had been caught, but gracefully he looked away before either of us became uncomfortable. I guess he was flattered, I don’t know, but it was a polite gesture on his part I must admit since I expected a smirk or the like. He was drenched from a strenuous workout and smelled faintly musky and very masculine as he moved aside me, drinking his iced tea, chatting pleasantly and making his wife and I laugh about one of our neighbors. For some reason I never imagined that he had a sense of humor, but he had a silly and observant one, and I am a sucker for humorous guys. Not a clown, but someone who appreciates life’s absurdities. And rather than conceited, now for some reason he seemed to be entertaining and funny in a chiding and acerbic way. When I eventually left there that day I would have gone so far as to describe him as charming and confident.

Karen was baking cupcakes for a school function, and as we chatted her eyes were fixed on the mixer and a recipe. He excused himself to shower and change. I became aware of my heart pounding as I watched him walk down the hall to their bedroom, feeling like a high school girl with a horny crush on another girl’s guy, only this one came as a shock to me when I realized that this guy was turning me on in a big way, the guy who I seemed to dislike just moments ago. I felt the familiar tingle of warmth in my belly that preceded my nipples tightening into sensitive little buds and my clit asking me to pull the seam of my jeans tightly against it. So I self-consciously crossed istanbul escort my arms to cover the evidence, ridiculously assuming that his wife would somehow know exactly why my nips were all-of-a-sudden rigid.

I shook it off; I had to shake it off for my own self-preservation, for all kinds of common sense reasons. He was happily married I assumed; they were one of the royal couples in the neighborhood as my husband called them with a touch of jealousy: perfect kids, highly educated academics both, and income to spare, in two words, off limits.

As I walked home I cringed as I imagined humiliating myself were I to be alone with him, making a subtle pass and being rejected with a dismissive snort and a condescending glance over the rims of his glasses that framed eyes, I must admit, that respectfully never seemed to wander below mine. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to talk with a guy and have him look you in the eye rather than stare at your chest, but when you want him to notice you that’s a different story. Guys often see that contradiction as irrational, but it’s not.

But irrationality does describe part of my life; maybe timidity is a better description of why I married Steven. He wasn’t flashy or dangerously sexy, and our once-passable sex-life had eroded to bi-yearly trysts, but he was my husband and a good father; he was safe. My friends quietly questioned why “the blond with a brain” as they once called me had settled for him out of many choices, but sometimes practicality and foresight trumps excitement.

Steven was a figure out of the nineteenth century; missionary position exclusively, awkward oral sex only if he was drunk and I was fresh out of the shower (where I usually pretended to cum to avoid hurting his feelings). And blowjobs, well, they were “demeaning” to me, he decided, so even though they made me horny as hell and I loved the feeling of hot skin plugged into my throat, he wouldn’t let me give him one. Steven could count his lovers on one hand; I ran out of digits even barefoot.

So I had become quite adept with my fingers and my fantasies, regularly and quietly in a shower with a pulsing, extendable hand attachment (with two kids the only place in the house where one can get a little peace) and a lockable door. I planned to violate my marriage vows only in the humid mist of my bathroom and the safety of my own mind.

Predictably, that evening my shower featured Paul in his workout clothes. I was so eager to get it on with him that I showered earlier than normal. He appeared as I was gardening, in flimsy shorts and a tee shirt, after he stopped during his run to stretch a tight thigh muscle. As he faced the street, I watched him flex and massage his afflicted thigh, clenching and rubbing the muscles of his butt as he loosened up, his running shorts hiking up to where I could catch a glimpse of underwear; that day he wore black.

He spied me over the split rail fence and the white azaleas and with a knowing smile asked for a glass of water (he had forgotten to take his bottle on his run; ok, it’s lame but it’s my fantasy). As we entered the back door of my house that leads to the kitchen he followed me to the cupboard and then to the refrigerator. I felt the heat of his body close to mine as he shadowed my movements. As I leaned over the sink and drew him a glass of cool, refreshing water I felt his arms encircle my waist, thread upward between my arms and my sides and boldly cup my bare breasts with his hands, tenderly manipulating my rigid nipples between his outstretched fingers as he softly squeezed my boobs. Hot breath warming my neck preceded his first playful bite underneath my ear, his teeth tenderly kneading my ear lobe just before his serpentine tongue explored the crevasses leading to my ear canal and then slithered down through my insides along nerves leading directly to my pussy. His expanding cock straightened and pushed insistently along the crack of my ass as with his palm open he pressed my stomach at my navel and pulled me into him, his little finger stretched within just an inch of my needy clitoris.

I caught myself as I sighed loudly, with one hand flat on my stomach, one taunting my wet boobs with a nipple pinched between my fingers. Now startled and unsure of how long I had been in the shower, so engrossed was I with my dream, I panicked. Had my husband heard me? Had the kids? Not wanting to appear suspicious I raced through my shower, the moisture between my legs overwhelmed by the shower water that dripped from my pussy and pubic hair. I nervously washed my slippery, warm skin, not daring to stop for fear that I would succumb to my urge to pleasure myself, fearing the accumulated force of my desire would lead my fingers to curl into my unfilled pussy. I roughly and rapidly washed and reached for a towel, trying to banish my desire with the fear of discovery. I dried myself with like speed and rushed from the bathroom to dress, stopping briefly to gaze at my reflection in the full-length mirror in escort bayan the bedroom.

I’m 5’6, thin, with small breasts (generously a 32B), long legs and a full but narrow butt that guys always claw for as they kiss me, ok, used to claw for. Steven leaves my butt alone; there’s no need to get into why. My breasts stopped developing in my late teens and never became the globes idolized in men’s magazines. My areolas are medium-large and puffy and light pink and lead to delicate and sensitive nipples that literally harden if I happen to be topless in a gentle breeze. My butt, on my thin body, is a bit of a bubble (the blond with the butt was my other moniker). Guys love it even though I think it is too prominent, but I’m not complaining. I thought as I turned to look at my backside, how would it feel were he to see me and touch me. What does he like? What would sex be like with him? Is he demanding (which I could deal with), wimpy, or—I hope–somewhere in between?

My hair is naturally blond, and cut in a short wedge, longer in the front than in the back. I have blue eyes and long lashes behind little wire rimmed glasses and rarely leave the house without full make-up, even if I’m wearing sweat pants and a sweatshirt. After having two kids, I forced myself to do sit-ups to recover my flat stomach, and I did get it back, so much so that I can still wear a two-piece with little or no evidence of childbirth. And my soft, thin pubic hair is blond as well (if anyone needs to verify that I’m a natural). Sometimes I wonder if my husband knows how good he has it, driving his sports car in the slow lane. Just once I wish he’d have the guts to floor it.

Anyway, our neighborhood New Year’s party was a formal affair that rotated from house to house over the years. Before the party, I briefly toyed with the notion of wearing no underwear under my dress, just to feel risqué, but settled on black string panties under garters as a compromise. As it turned out Karen and Paul showed up as well, making me both tense and slightly giddy. Even my normally oblivious husband commented on how sexy and alive I looked, and when I passed a mirror that night, I got a little thrill at how good I still looked despite at times feeling on the early cusp of middle age.

The party landed this year at our house and gave me the only sign that Paul was aware of me as a woman and not just Danny and Megan’s mother and Steven’s wife, although he and Steven had very little in common and associated little. Late in the party I was conscious of him looking in my direction as I refilled the snack table in the dining room in my little black dress and string of pearls, deftly bending in a curtsy at one point—despite the booze–to pick up a dropped pickle as I replenished the platters of crudités.

For a moment we were alone in the dimly lighted dining room as Christmas music softly played in the background; the other guests were collected on the deck as a few flakes of snow fell from the sky, adding atmosphere to the party. Everyone was out of sight and earshot, surrounding the warmth of our chiminea, chatting, laughing and drinking everything from mulled cider to cognac.

It was late and neither one of us was aware of the time. By now I had drunk a few glasses of wine and some cognac, and Paul was drinking cognac and obviously had more than one drink as well. He said little as he listened to me anxiously chattering in safe territory, about our kids and the neighborhood, his mind seemingly far away from the room. I tried to act cordially without revealing the illusory familiarity (or would that be embarrassment?) that came from masturbating fairly regularly with him in mind and in a variety of fantasies. We had made love in so many places and various ways that the real Paul I feared could never live up to my dreams of him.

Everything happened so quickly. He stood to refresh his cognac when a neighbor shot through the room, out of the powder room and by us, mumbling something about not wanting to spend the first minute of the year in the bathroom. As he opened the door onto the deck we heard the final countdown from the revelers and a hardy cheer. Paul and I looked at each other, alone and exceedingly uncomfortable, standing two feet or so apart. He looked dashing and good enough to eat holding a snifter of fine cognac. I gladly would have kissed him then and there and dropped to my knees to celebrate the New Year in proper fashion and begin it in a way that both of us would remember. And I, well I was holding a half-empty plate of cauliflower; I doubt I had the same sexy aura surrounding me.

Maybe it was the booze, or the accumulated force of my fantasy, or that the last time I made love with my husband I came only after imagining with closed eyes that Paul was inside of me. But as we gave each other an plastic smile and leaned into each other for a celebratory peck on the cheek, what actually resulted was a celebratory peck on the lips that we held longer than either of us expected.

Pulling escort istanbul back with surprise on our faces we froze momentarily. I still can’t believe I had the courage to reach out and hook a finger into the waistband of his pants, like I had done so many times before in my fantasies, and pull him toward me. He reached behind me in a move almost as practiced as mine and placed a hand in the small of my back, softly placing his lips over mine. With closed eyes our tongues touched at first, then intertwined as I pressed against him and encouraged our bodies together as our faces tilted into a slow and passionate kiss. I whimpered as I discovered he kissed every bit as well as I imagined.

“Much better” he said, as he pulled back and took a deep breath, his eyes wide, obviously moved himself I surmised, swallowed and said with an obvious touch of disappointment as he looked over my shoulder, “here they come.”

The door opened from the deck and our spouses and guests spilled into the room as I stood at the table holding an empty plate, the cauliflower having fallen into the pretzels and dip during our kiss. Steven came up behind me and gave me a peck on the cheek and whispered “Happy New Year” as I faintly smiled and felt the blood rushing in my ears as I watched Paul embracing Karen across the room.

“Oh Honey, you’ve made a mess” Steven said and, to his puzzlement, I just laughed and excused myself to visit the bathroom. The door closed as I reached between my legs and hungrily massaged my pussy as I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. I had to admit, I looked good, even with my hand lewdly curled under my dress.

After the guests left I was ravenously horny. Steven wanted to finish cleaning the house after the party, but I convinced him that we should save that for morning and attack it with a good’s night sleep. What I really wanted was Paul to spread my legs, grab my ankles and ride me hard to a drunken orgasm. I let Steven get into bed before I entered the bedroom. Starting with my pearls, I slipped out of my dress, leaving only my bra, hose, garters and panties. Hoping that Steven wouldn’t see how wet they were I slipped them off at the foot of the bed and immediately threw them toward the dirty clothes hamper.

Like a cat, I crawled over the foot of the bed and up to his face, straddling him before I began using my tongue to dip into his mouth, his ears and paint a line down his neck as I slowly unbuttoned his top and sucked on his nipples. He was taken aback by my unusual display of sexual aggressiveness and it showed in his eyes. I dispensed with the rules and dropped to his crotch, taking his cock in my mouth and rolling it around with my tongue in a pool of saliva. I felt alive and wanted to share this exuberance with him, to suck him until just before he came and then, reverting to the house rules, slip him inside of me so that he could cum in a “proper” way.

But the sucking went nowhere, as if his cock refused to respond to my unruly mouth and demean me, as he would put it. So I decided to push it. I popped his balls into my mouth and began to stroke him to a full erection with my hand. On Steven that was what he proudly referred to as his “thick six,” although a slightly rounder than normal five was more accurate, truth be told. It did drag on my lips as it slid in and out of me, nicely pulling on my clit. But he never made it those few extra inches into the back of my pussy. I remember each and every guy who visited there. And it had been years since that had happened.

To make a long story short I got a little wild with Steven when I returned him to my mouth, sucking all of him into me as out started to gush the load that had been building up. He tried to pull out of me and I tried to hold him in my mouth. But just after he began to shoot his load he managed to push my head off of him and his thick jizz splattered over my lips and face and even across my eyes. I crawled up his body, stopping to lick up a particularly large stray gob, and kissed him, rubbing his warm spunk all over him and swirling it around in his mouth. You would have thought that I poisoned him as he wrenched his head to one side and angrily asked me if I was nuts.

“No, this is nuts” I said as I straightened up. Rearing back and pulling my pussy lips apart with my fingers in a ‘V’ I pulled back my hood and began to flick a finger on my other hand back and forth over my clit.

“Jesus, Corinne” he asked, “do you have to do that in front of me?”

“No, Steven, I don’t” I said angrily as I got off of him, grabbed my pillow and stomped to the guest room where I furiously screamed, not caring whether the kids or the sleepover baby sitter in the family room would hear, “I can do it in here, too. But I normally I save it for the shower.”

At that point I was too distracted and pissed off to cum, but he didn’t know that as I let out a convincing wail under the cold sheets of our guest bed and feigned an orgasm just to piss him off. The wail quickly led to angry, silent tears as I wordlessly lamented the distressing state of my marriage as I heard him in the bathroom, washing his face and brushing his teeth. That was the last piece of ass he ever sort of would get from me I swore as I drifted off to sleep.

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