Marathon Girl

Of the many, and profound changes my wife's gone though in her life, one thing remained constant: when she gets high, watch out.

She's never been what I'd call a pothead, but on occasion, she'll unwind with a joint, or bowl, or whatever, and that's almost invariably brings out the freak in her.

Examples? Well, in college – before I met her – she once did a few bong hits and then let four men use her for, she says, hours on end. That's the story she told me, anyway ... sometimes the number of men varies from four to six ... sometimes I think she made a good chunk of it up just to get me crazy before sex.

That said, I've been around her plenty when she was stoned and, again, she's a completely different animal ... it just gets her totally loose.

Not that she's very uptight in the first place ... but she once was much more restrained, sexually.

When I first met her, she was a senior in college. I was a TA in the Math Department. She wasn't what I typically went after – tall, thin-lipped, red hair that tended toward orange when she'd been out in the sun too long, fair skin with a hint of freckles, and a lean mass of muscle. Not an ounce of fat on her.

And me a tit man.

She was there on a track scholarship, and was a respectable athlete ... receiving mentions come All-American time once or twice, and even getting a nice write-up in her local paper.

Throughout that time, I can remember her almost constantly running, her legs muscled and smooth, her ass high and defined, her abs rock-hard and glistening when she ran with her midriff exposed, hair back in a ponytail and her already-tiny breasts tightly confined within a sports bra.

Truly a sight to behold.

I rooted for her in the stands that last year ... although I drew the line at her efforts to get me out on the track. Some things a math geek simply can't do: long-distance running is one of them.

Our courtship was a long series of laughs. The sex life was truly amazing, if relatively free of kink.

We married three years later. By then, I was a professor. She was a triathlete. A really good one.

And, with the occasional dalliance here and there, we let nine years blow past.

Her life – our lives, really – changed for good when she blew out her knee during the last mile of a triathlon in Texas. It was a near-total devastation, tears of the MCL, ACL and PCL.

The doctor assured her she'd walk and even jog again ... but her career as a nationally-ranked triathlete, as a runner, was over.

She was 33 years old.

That's when things got weird.

At first, I attributed the change in her mood to some form of depression. She was laid up in bed or on the couch, after all, and for the first time since I'd known her forced to remain still.

If it were a form of depression, it was most assuredly one I could learn to enjoy. Her sex drive – always a tad above average – increased exponentially. She wanted sex almost daily, every time I returned from class or dropped in during a meal break, she'd pull her robe open, roll over on her back and present me with those splendidly taught thighs, spread wide. Even the bandages on her knee didn't stop me from indulging almost every time the offer was made.

Then I would come home and catch her masturbating ... certainly not a first in our relationship but nearly every single time I came home, she'd have her fingers on her chest, her belly, her cunt, rubbing one out to whatever was on the TV screen. (Softcore porn on Cinemax was a favorite, but I even caught her diddling herself to a video on VH1.)

She laughed off my concerns. "If you were around more, maybe I wouldn't have to resort to such drastic measures." Then she'd force me to take off my pants and ... well ... more sex.

I was loving life, but my work was suffering. I was way behind in my grading, a project I was collaborating on was stuck in neutral (my partner not at all too understanding) and, frankly, I wasn't a kid anymore. I was sore ... both in muscles and in skin rubbed raw.

I figured it would all end, anyway, as soon as she was ambulatory again. She'd go back to work, maybe swim a few laps when she was able, and I'd have my same old Bonnie back. (With, maybe, "new Bonnie" visiting on the weekends and on extended vacations.)

But when she was finally allowed to use crutches ... and then, later, when she graduated to a cane, her appetites even increased. The Cinemax shows were recorded on tape now, without me even in on it. This culminated in the day I went to pop a DVD into the player and found a most hardcore compilation porno already in the slot.

It wasn't one of mine. I'd never even heard of the people in it.

"Oh, I stopped by the video store on Wednesday," she explained, blushing a little. When I didn't say anything, she giggled and leaned in close, "Well, what was I supposed to do? You were at that stupid conference thing Wednesday night!" She kissed me, then hobbled off to meet some friends from work for drinks. "You should watch scene eight. Awesome orgy ... it'll get you ready for when I get home."

The orgy scene was, indeed, awesome. Turns out she has a great eye for porn ... which is saying something because in my entire life with her, she only watched porns I'd picked out and brought home. Hell, I'd even felt guilty a time or two for making her sacrifice like that.

And now, I thought idly – watching a volumptuous Latina jerk on a cock in each hand while she sucked off a third – drinking a beer and waiting for my suddenly nympho wife to come home, she was stopping by porn shops?

Something was seriously ... well, not wrong ... but different.

I liked it, but it scared the hell out of me.

So yes, by the time she made it home – drunk and horny to the point that she pulled off her top even before the front door closed behind her (her pal's headlights still illuminating the darkness behind her) I was plenty ready to fuck her ... despite the pile of grading still awaiting me and my partner's angry emails seething on the server.

She made me cum once, then she teased me mercilessly (I have a "thing" for her playing with herself) until I was hard again. By the time I'd squeezed out another orgasm (she'd had several), I nearly collapsed on the bed next to her ... the sheets damp with sweat.

"I think I'm getting a lot more flexibility back," she noted, straightening her knee out experimentally.

I spent about ten seconds wondering if I were feeling the initial signs of a heart attack, then chilled out for a few moments.

She, meanwhile, stood up and gathered our clothes, dropping them into the hamper and then jumping back into bed next to me. I was going to chastise her to watch her knee, but she was grinning and it just felt like a nice moment.

Then I said it.

"I think you're killing me," I said, still somewhat breathless. "Y'know, if you want to get another guy on the side to take the edge off this, I'd totally understand."

She laughed, then, and kissed me on the cheek.

I laughed a little, too, then passed the fuck out until the alarm went off, early the next morning.

The second I got home that Friday, I knew I was in trouble. A good kind of trouble, but ... still ...

The house reeked of pot smoke. And music was playing. REM. Old stuff.

I found her in the living room, dancing ... dirty dancing, frankly. In fact, the moves were rough approximations of what you'd see on a stage with a pole on it.

I ahemed.

Her eyes opened into those wonderful, slightly-pink, oh-god-I'm-so-stoned slits, and she saw me and smiled.

Seductively, she danced over to me ... wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me ... her mouth hot and moist against my lips.

I hmmmed.

She broke off, then, and went back to dancing ... less Flashdancy now, though, more like herself.

"Did you have a good day?"

"Yes and no. Barry's pissed at me."

"How come?"

"I'm a little ... eh, never mind. Just kiss me."

"In a second." She was lighting another joint. "Want some?"

"You know they're randomly testing these days. I shouldn't even be in the room with you."

"Testing college professors for drugs. That's just bullshit, man," she said, laughing even as she pulled in smoke.

"I will have some wine, though."

Lips sealed tight, she gestured to the glasses. I filled it with a red. Bonnie's the wine queen. I just drink what she opens.

"Oh, man, this feels good," she said ... perhaps to no one in particular.

I could only laugh. Then I sat on the couch, drinking my wine.

About five minutes passed while she smoked. I drank. We listened to Michael Snipe and said nothing.

Then she appeared next to me, her lithe body wrapping around me like a tailored suit. One of the benefits of a long marriage is familiarity like this.

She kissed me again. I could taste the pot on her, but didn't mind too much.

Then she hugged me again and laid her head on my thigh.

"I have a question," she said, sounding strange, even for someone as baked as she.

"Okay."

"I want to ask it, but I don't want you to freak out when I ask. It's just a question."

I'd long ago learned not to take her too seriously when she's like this. "Sure."

"Promise."
"I promise."

She giggled, like she'd never thought she'd be saying this, but ...

"How ... serious were you the other night."

"What other night?"

"That thing about me taking a guy on the side."

My scrotum tightened. It actually did. I felt a chill down the center of my being and my nether regions pulled in like a fat teenager sucking in his gut when a pretty girl walks by.

"It's just a question," she said into the silence of the room.

"Why do you ask?"

More giggling. I wasn't sure what was going on inside of me, but the giggling soothed it, for some reason. "I mean, people say things, y'know? And I was just curious if you were just fooling around ... I mean, I know you were fooling around, but ... what do you think about that?"

"I, uh ... I don't know."

"Honey, I need you to relax." She was suddenly in my face again. Smiling. Slit eyes. It was the pot, I decided.

"Okay, I'm relaxed. What's going on in that crazy little mind of yours."

"I dunno. It's just ... since you said that, I've been walking around ... well, I've been walking around wet." She saw I was going to make a point. "Even hornier than I've been lately ... seriously."

"I didn't even know this was a fantasy of yours."

"I guess neither did I, but, like I said, it's all I can think about."

My throat was dry. More wine.

"If you want it to just stay a fantasy, I'm totally cool with that," she was saying, near my ear. "But if you don't mind it being something more ... I'd like to explore that."

Her hand slid down my torso. I twisted momentarily, but in vain. "Oh, my ..." she exclaimed. "Part of you thinks it's okay ..."

I shrugged a little. "That's because it reacts to kinkiness ... and this is kinky. And that part doesn't call the shots."

Regardless, she gave me a small rub through my pants.

"I'd never do anything that would jeopardize this, you know that, right?"

"I think so. I mean, I trust you."

"If I just wanted to fuck around, I'd do it without telling you, right?"

"And you haven't, right?"

"Never."

I paused. I knew a lot of this was the pot but ... again ... she seemed so earnest about the whole thing.

"I know you think about this sort of thing. I know you read the stories online."

"Yeah, but those are just fantasies ..." I said.

More caressing of my cock through my pants.

"You liked it when I danced with that guy in the Bahamas."

"Yeah, but that was dancing ..."

"And flirting ..." She licked my ear.

I grinned reflexively. That had been pretty great.

"And a little grinding," she added with a wink.

"You never told me that part," I chided ... not sure if she were joking again.

"You never asked."

"This is crazy, you know that, don't you?" My body was turning on me ... the endorphins rushing through my system and sucking me into a black hole.

"Yeah. But I'd like to try it."

"You got the guy picked out?"

"I do," she nodded.

"Anyone I know?"

"Nope. A student."

"A college kid? Cradle robber."

"Well, I like 'em young, dumb and full of cum."

"If you get caught ..."

"Hey, he goes to Milburne ... and I go by my maiden name at work, anyway. Nobody'll ever connect us."

I moaned ... her hands were doing magic.

"Are you really serious?"

"I am. If you say yes, I'm going to seduce him tomorrow after work. He shows up to pick up the outgoing packages."

"Think he's up for it?"

She licked my ear again. That always did me in. "That's a silly question, don't you think?"

A sane part of me rebelled at this entire line of discussion. Then it reached a compromise.

I set her back a little. "Okay, listen. Wait. If you're serious about this ... we need some rules."

She sat up immediately. Stone sober. Well, almost.

"I'm totally serious, are you listening."

"Of course."

"Rule one ..." my mind creaked, soaked with wine and fighting a raging hardon. "Rule one is you always have to check with me before ..."

She nodded. "Of course."

"And tell me what happened after."

She grinned. "I think I can arrange that."

"No more than one time with any other guy. Ever. I'm very serious about this one."

"You think I'm going to leave you?" She appeared amused.

"I consider it a possibility."

She got closer. "Honey, I'd never leave you. You have money and also King Schlong." She then gave the latter a squeeze.

I should note ... it's true. I have a very large cock. Especially for a mathematician, but pretty much for regular guys, too. I don't like to brag, but I do take a certain pride.

"I want this to enhance our marriage, not threaten it." She added.

"Oh, and a condom. You have to use a condom."

She nodded, slowly, then. She knew she had me.

Damn, she had me.

She sealed the deal by unfastening my pants, sliding them down my thighs, and placing her hot, hot mouth on my cock, through the material of my boxers. I could feel the fabric instantly heat up like she'd applied a blowtorch. Her right hand grabbed my balls through my underwear and provided gentle, even pressure. She opened her mouth and placed it over where my cockhead was.

"I love your cock," she told me ... then tugged down my boxers to let it lumber loose. Her mouth opened wide, then, and she worked about a third of my dick in between her lips, the tongue working the underneath expertly.

I thought briefly of the college boy she'd targeted.

The poor bastard didn't have a chance.

But then she snaked her left hand up under me, rubbing a spot just outside my asshole. I bucked. Man, when she did that it was more of a love/hate thing than anything I could experience outside the world of sex. I wanted her to stop every bit as much as I wanted her to continue.

Grinning around my cock at the expression on my face she knew so well, she continued.

"Yousolike that, you just won't admit it."

"Stop talking and suck my dick," I told her.

Looking dubious, she did just that, running the tongue up one side of my now totally-stiff cock and down the other. She also pressed forward with her left hand. "Seriously," she said again, a wicked look on her face. "I'll stop. All you have to do is say to."

I was squirming now. "Aren't you supposed to be doing this as a favor for me letting you fuck another guy?"

She put the spongy tip of my cock in her mouth and pulled off, a loud pop audible in the room. "And all you had to say was stop ..." she said, seemingly to herself, and plunged a finger knuckle deep into my ass.

I gasped and wiggled, but the finger stayed put ... even worked its way a little deeper in there. Meanwhile, she sucked my cock ever deeper into her mouth ... now beginning to move the finger in and out, in and out ... a miniature piston.

I didn't last long from there, exploding in her mouth ... and across the lower part of her face ... and over her shoulder onto her back ... and on the carpet a little.

Waiting for my vision to clear, I looked over at my wife ... who was cleaning herself up ... rubbing some of the cream into her skin. A blissful look was on her face.

"You gonna do that to this guy?" I asked her.

She paused. "Ehhh, I think I'm going to reserve that particular trick for you." Then she slowly scooped up a little bit of my cum with her index finger and tantalizingly slipped it into her mouth.

"Oh, yeah," I said out loud. "The kid's a dead man."

I'd like to tell you that I spent the next evening pensive and anxious ... either agonizing over the decision I'd made or waiting with baited breath and erect penis.

Neither was true, however. I worked. I worked hard. And, in a way that only mathematicians and artists can understand, I forgot about everything ... even the fact my perky little 34-year-old wife was across town fucking the brains out of some 20-something stud from a rival college.

That said, when I heard her car door slam in the driveway outside, I came out of my trance like a shot.

And yes, I felt that sick sort of excitement in the pit of my stomach that always accompanies exceedingly guilty pleasures.

Alert and a little dazed, I remained at the kitchen table as she opened the door and came in.

She had a sort of half-smile on her face ... a drunken look but I knew she hadn't been drinking. As if reading my observation, she crossed, wordlessly, to the liquor stand and poured herself two fingers of scotch.

She didn't usually drink scotch.

Then she ambled ... and that's the word, ambled ... over to the couch and flopped down, crossing her legs and regarding me.

"You look happy," I observed.

She sipped the liquor. She nodded. "I am."
"It went well?"

More sipping. A long pull this time. "You want details?" Her grin was impish.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to demand 'em."

"Then come closer." She instructed. She patted the sofa next to her.

The moment I complied, she straddled me. I could feel the heat of her cunt even through my jeans.

"What details do you want?"

"Just spill it," I told her, smiling myself.

She ground herself into me a little, finished her scotch.

Then she told me.

Turns out, she'd been laying the groundwork for this over the course of several weeks. Little flirtatious gestures, cute talk, maybe a skirt shift that showed a little too much leg from time to time.

That day, she'd made sure she was the only one in the office when he arrived to pick up the packages ... not a difficult task at the end of the day.

She'd unlocked the door to let him in. Locked it again after he entered.

They'd chatted for a while then, her making sure to put her hands on her forearm as they talked. Making sure to laugh at anything remotely funny.

Before long they were sitting at a desk in the office's main conference room, trading stories. She asked him if he had a girlfriend. He said he liked to play the field. She told him she was sure he had lots of action. He shrugged and said he guessed so.

Lucky girls, she'd said in a soft voice. Really lucky.

And then she'd leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the lips.

"Aren't you married?" He'd stuttered.

"What difference does that make?" She'd cooed back.

And, really, he had no answer to that question.

"So it was that easy?" I asked her, then. My cock, hard now, was pressed up between us.

"Well, first off ... don't be surprised. I can seduce with the best of 'em."

I conceded the point.

"But, actually ... no ... it wasn't that easy."

She proved to be too good a seductress. After some extended making out, which included her gradual disrobing ... revealing a body that was still fit and trim despite a few months of relative inactivity ... she had knelt down in front of him (my heart skipped about six beats at this point in the story), opened his pants and took out his cock.