No, the real crusher had come when he admitted to feeling “bored” with her. Feeling trapped is conditional, it is circumstantial. You can change those conditions, alter those circumstances, get beyond it. But being bored? How do you counter that? How do you tell someone “No, you’re not bored with me”?
Above all, how could he possibly feel that way?
Okay — putting sex aside for the moment. They shared everything, and enthusiastically. Neal had gotten her interested in history, and computers, and British Invasion rock. Mystery novels and science fiction. Cooking, gardening, travel — these were things she had shared with him. She got him hooked on her old movies, so that Saturday had long been a ritual with them: dinner at a restaurant, back home for a classic film, and sometimes, up to bed for fun. It was all cozy, steady, and (she had thought) happy. It wasn’t boring — surely not so tedious that he needed to hook up with some little tramp at work, to lie and pretend just so he could fuck her.
And speaking of fucking, what the hell was wrong with their sex life? Okay, so she wasn’t a teenager — her body was older and plumper. Her skin wasn’t tight as a drum, her breasts sagged a little. But damn it, she wasn’t some old slug either! When she had stopped working a year ago, she had determined not to take it easy, not to allow herself to slide, physically or mentally. She power-walked or rode her bike. She treadmilled. She did sit-ups, every day. Okay, so she didn’t have a 22 inch waist, but she had a waist! She had big, glorious tits and a nice, rounded ass. She kept her hair long like Neal liked it.
And in bed? She was a tiger in bed. No, they didn’t fuck every night like honeymooners, but they did it often and it was good. Keeping the noise down was a fairly frequent concern in their bedroom, even though Sherry was sometimes tempted to let her kids hear them at it — just to let them know that sex doesn’t have to be dirty, cheap and illicit. It could be nothing short of fantastic, even (especially!) between two old married people who loved each other. She liked sex, liked being fucked, liked Neal’s big dick and what he did with it, and how much spunk he shot when he came. She actually enjoyed going down on him, feeling that big man buck and hearing him cry when she made him cum. Honestly, the man had nothing to complain about. He had no reason to go wandering for fresh fields, no cause — certainly no sexual cause! — to find some other outlet for his passion.
Another line: I’m your wife, dammit! And if you can’t work up a little passion for me, then the least I require is respect and allegiance!
Broadcast News, was it? No, it was Network, with Bill Holden.
“Oh fuck it,” she muttered, sitting up and reaching for her cigarettes.
She may as well watch an old movie now, rather than lying there awake, remembering lines. Maybe there would be some much too long, big budget saga on — something to get sucked into, or at worst, something so boring it would lull her to sleep.
She turned on the TV and huddled the coverlet around her as the eerie gray light filled the room. The sterile light made the room seem even more empty and cold; she flicked through the channels quickly. It was nice, this — not having to fight over the remote control, just watching what interested her. Ah, the little freedoms of a manless bed.
Trouble was, nothing interested her. Sitcoms from the seventies, infomercials, the utterly depressing shopping channels. A black-and-white movie caught her eye briefly, making her pause and sit up. But it was a silent film, and she quickly became frustrated with the actors’ broad histrionics. They reminded her of evil circus clowns.
Almost at the end of the dial, she stopped. A man and a woman, grinning a bit stupidly at each other. He was forty or more; she couldn’t have been twenty-five. Dreadful fashion from the eighties: multicolored sweatsuit and headband on the girl, big open-collared shirt on the guy. Her blonde hair was teased and frosted, the man had a mullet. They were grouped closely in the shot, standing in a nondescript set that might well have been a hotel room.
Sherry smirked. She had never been a fan, but even she knew this was Reagan era, straight-to-video porn at its worst. And this was what her cable dollar got her.
Nevertheless, she edged up the volume curiously.
HER: — said he’d be gone for a few hours.
HIM: Hmm, okay. Well, did he tell you exactly what your new job is?
HER: No, he didn’t say. He just told me to wait here. With you.
HIM: I see. Well, maybe we can find something to do . . . while we’re waiting.
That was it. Big shit-licking smile from the guy, they moved in close to kiss. Awful lounge jazz swelled up behind them.
So much for classic lines, Sherry thought, smiling. If that was what passed for dialogue, the script must have been three pages long. Good thing too, since the girl couldn’t act to save her life. She couldn’t have ad-libbed a cough, for Christ’s sake. And this was male fantasy: smile and say hello, and the beautiful girl wants to fuck you. Amazing.
Still, the girl had lovely tanned boobs — real ones, no silicone — which Mullet Guy didn’t hesitate to pull out for her. She was moaning ridiculously and biting her lip, watching the guy fondling and sucking on her nipples. Between the noise she was making and the sleazy soundtrack, Sherry was forced to lower the volume. But she kept it on, kept watching. There was something so raw about sex that even the poorest example of it had power enough to draw her attention. And though she personally wouldn’t have let Mullet Guy near her on her worst day, what he was doing to Headband Girl’s big pink nipples did look like fun.
Within seconds of first contact the girl was completely naked and on her knees. Sherry was intrigued by her natural curves and her all-over tan — she wasn’t “perfect,” but she did look real, and gloriously sexy. Sherry didn’t think she’d ever looked that good herself. The girl’s expression as she fumbled with the man’s belt and zipper was one of giddy amusement, her face seeming to indicate her joy at getting her hands on his cock, although really, Sherry thought, she was probably just glad she didn’t have to deliver any more lines.
Sherry actually gasped a little when Mullet Guy’s cock popped out of his pants. He had a thick, fat dick rather like Neal’s. Even longer, perhaps. But it had that same lazy heaviness to it, bigger and thicker when flaccid than lots of guys were when hard. The girl put its ridged head between her cherry lips and sucked inexpertly; the fleshy rod throbbed and surged into life. No wonder Mullet Guy was a porn star, she thought. His dick just kept on going.
Along with the acting, the script, the set, the make up and the music, the editing was awful too: they cut to the guy’s face briefly, and then back to the sucking, which had obviously been going on a while. Someone had apparently told the girl she wasn’t taking him in enough, and now she had so much dick in her mouth her eyes were bugging out. She still made the occasional supposedly ecstatic moan, but she was clearly struggling to swallow inches of cock without gagging. Sherry shook her head disgustedly, knowing that she could have managed it perfectly. Stupid men and their young girl fixation.
Still, she couldn’t deny that the porn, crappy as it was, was having its effect: she was getting warm, and wet. Her nipples, already firm in the chilly air, were growing into solid, tingling points. She hated to succumb to such amateurish junk, but hell, it had been six weeks or so since she had any sex.
Sherry leaned back against the wall, untied her nightgown, took out her breasts. Yes, she had nice, pretty tits — pearly white and glowing in the faint light. Powdery smooth to the touch, and intensely warm. She toyed with her nipples carelessly and sighed, watching the poor girl smearing her spit and her lipstick all over that gigantic dick. What a dipshit — all that to play with and she doesn’t know what to do with it. No finesse, no rhythm. She was making a blowjob look like work.
Now if it was her . . . oh it was so easy to close her eyes and imagine it was her, servicing that big, swelling piece of meat. She licked her palms and ran them lightly over her nipples, thinking about how hot and electric that dick skin would feel against her lips, how it would throb on her tongue, the closeness of the tight brown curls, the scent of sex filling her nostrils. The soft, heavy balls brushing against her chin. The little jerks and spasms of the man as she worked her magic. And always, that delicious indecision — should she take him all the way, suck and lick and coax until he shuddered and groaned, flooding her mouth? or should she pull off when he got close, when she felt his head grow tight and rock solid — should she use all her oral skills merely to prep him for her pussy? She always lingered interminably between these two pleasant options, never knowing which she would opt for until the glorious moment came.
She had a hand in her panties now, was decisively and unabashedly pleasuring herself. If Neal were to come to bed now he’d find himself superfluous. The thought made her smile — what would the poor man do? If he had been surprised to glimpse Vanessa’s tits that afternoon, how would he react to finding his “boring” little wife watching sleazy porn and jilling herself crazy?
What a lovely, satisfying message to send him. Go away, you cheating mother fucker — I’m managing well enough on my own.
She opened her eyes only occasionally to watch the screen, using what she saw there as fuel for her own rapid, spinning fantasy. Now they were fucking on the sofa — Headband on top, facing away, Mullet thrusting upward into her. If that big dick had looked good in the girl’s mouth, it looked fucking marvelous barreling into her neatly coifed cunt. It was wide and thick, looking as big and round as her own wrist in the close up. Again and again it plunged deep into her as she thrust her hips back to envelop it. The hairs on his inner thighs were plastered down with sweat and sticky juice; the base of his enormous cock glistened with her moisture . . .
Oh god, if that was her she’d fuck herself crazy. She’d impale herself on that fat dick until she couldn’t stand it anymore, until she flooded his lap with her cream. Then she’d have to pull off him slowly and clean him up, just bury her face in his lap and lick him clean, driving him out of his mind in the process . . . ooohhh she could be such a dirty little slut when she wanted to be, and she wanted to be now.