First off, let me just say that I’m not usually the jealous type. I have a wonderful marriage that’s fulfilling in every way, so I have little reason to complain. It’s just that, for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that June, my beloved hot, horny housewife of 21 years, has been spending an awful lot of time on the phone lately.
I almost hesitate to bring all of this up. After all, the last thing I want is to come off sounding like one of those boring, middle-aged husbands who become paranoid that their undersexed housewives, being the cum-crazed slurp-sluts that they are, may be seeking affection elsewhere.
I like to think I’m a trusting husband, one who doesn’t get all suspicious about my dripping, fuckable wife’s outside hobbies or interests. Obviously, in a mature relationship, partners need to give their dirty little spouses plenty of room to grow and explore on their own. But, lately, when I see her disappear into the bedroom at three in the afternoon clutching the cordless dildo-phone and wearing stiletto heels, a see-through lacy lingerie ensemble, and crotchless peek-a-boo panties, I can’t help but wonder if something is going on.
I suppose she could be talking to her sister Linda. But would Linda really need to hear June describe her outfit in such lascivious detail? One time, I asked June about it, and she said she was just talking to the electric-company people about our utilities bill. But would the electric company need to know that she was on all fours, bucking like a bronco while working a six-inch buttplug in and out of her quivering, spasming asshole? I guess there’s no reason for her not to tell them, but, still, it didn’t seem all that relevant. At least for the purposes of that conversation, anyway.
Again, let me stress that I’m a very open-minded person: When the shaved Asian sluts moved in next door, lots of people in the neighborhood worried about property values going down. But at that month’s homeowners-association meeting, I stood up and said, “Look, I don’t care if they’re Asian or any other ethnicity, what’s important is that they’re shaved sluts, just like the rest of us.” The way I look at it, God made all of us–whether soaked, slippery sex-sirens or hard, horny man-meat–from the same rubberized latex cloth.
My wife and I get along just fine with the double-fucking hot black studs who live down the block, and we’ve even attended some of their no-holes-barred hot-tub parties. But now that I think about it, there have been some odd moments. The last time we attended one of their all-anal fuckfests–I love neighborhood get-togethers, because they give me an excuse to whip up a pot of my famous Five-Alarm chili!–I was standing in the living room admiring their drapes when I suddenly realized that everybody else had disappeared into the Jungle Room for what seemed like a pretty long time. My wife didn’t reappear for at least 40 minutes!
Then there was that trip to San Diego last summer, when we met those 15 exotic international stewardesses and that boatload of gang-bang sailors on the beach. A young, friendly bi-curious lifeguard had invited them on a sailboat trip to a deserted beach he knew about, and he was nice enough to ask if we wanted to come along. My corns were acting up that day, so I politely declined and headed back to the hotel, but my wife decided to go. I didn’t mind, but then she yammered about it on the phone for the rest of the trip! It was nothing but boatload of sailors this, giant human pyramid of stewardesses that. Could this marriage be in trouble?
My family is very important to me. I dearly love my two barely legal virgin bikini twins. (The day they won the wet-T-shirt tag-team mudwrestling championship was one of the proudest a father could have.) And our eldest son Sergio has grown up to be a fine young super-hung lawyer who believes in uncompromising discipline, both in and out of the courtroom, so I feel safe in saying that my wife and I raised our children right.
Yet every time I hear my cock-craving housewife grinding away on her “King Dong” maximum-width double-dildo while supposedly putting in the weekly order at the grocers, my suspicions grow. Maybe it’s my fault: I’m a dedicated career man who may be spending too much time down at the cock-ring and novelty-penis-enlargement-device factory to give her the attention she needs. I don’t mean to neglect her hot pussy and enormous, eager tits, but, hey, as the office joke goes, somebody’s got to make the 14-inch miracle horse cocks. But perhaps all the lonely hours she’s spent waiting for someone, anyone to fill her juicy cunt lips with a steaming-hot load of jizz-juice have taken their toll, causing her to rethink certain aspects of our relationship.
Maybe I’m just being silly. After all, we’ve had a great marriage, built on a bedrock foundation of friendship, trust, and carnal forbidden lust of the most depraved sort. And even though things aren’t quite as spicy on the romance front as they once were, I still make time to shoot a huge load of dripping hot cum all over her face whenever we can manage a special night of “quality time” away from work and the kids.
But, still, I don’t know. I’m probably being paranoid, but I just can’t figure what she’s doing on the phone for so long every day. I swear, if I had $3.99 for every minute I’ve spent worrying about this, I’d be a rich man!
