Speak to Me Ch. 01

[Author's Note: This is the first part of a fairly long project. This chapter is quite lengthy in itself, on account of the thorough development of the characters. Future installments will be considerably shorter and more to the point, but I believe that this lengthy first installment does its job in every way by the time you reach the end.

My work is geared more toward couples reading together than toward individuals, so I recommend it more in that capacity. Individuals seeking something fast and exciting may be less interested in all the introductory material, although I have done my best to engage the reader with sexuality at a fairly steady pace from the start. Ideally, this will develop into a series of those shorter, more immediate pulse-pounders that individuals may prefer as well once the characters are well established, so I would not necessarily discourage such readers from taking the time to get familiar with this chapter. Ultimately, however, I write with a vision of men and women sharing these words together.

As with all my work, this story champions faithful marriage and healthy sexual expression. And as with all my work, your comments and suggestions are what I look forward to the most. If you read it, do me the honor of letting me know what you think.]

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1.

I once had the bright idea to try talking to my wife. I'm not sure where it started, or what ever made me think it was the brilliant plan I believed it to be, but one day in our eighth year of marriage the thought struck me, and I latched onto it. In fact, I spent several days deliberating on it -- trying to determine the right things to say, the very best words I could think of to express my thoughts, the time to bring it up, the way to bring it up, the things I shouldn't say, the words I shouldn't use, the expectations I ought to bring to the conversation, the things I should not expect...

I put forth such an effort of forethought and planning that I had myself utterly convinced of the outcome before I had even begun. I would approach her with such honesty, such simplicity, such a banquet of words that she would melt in my hands, and suddenly we would have evolved into some new, greater mode of spiritual existence; our marriage would all at once have its inner walls torn down and there would never again be any need for a barrier of any kind between us.

But for all my planning over the course of the week, there was a detail I had forgotten to account for. You see, I had the bright idea to talk to my wife of eight years. I did not have the bright idea to listen. This unfortunate lapse in my judgment caused no small amount of discord, and even seemed at first to have done more harm than good. However, the moral of the story, which we'll be getting to in due time, turns out to be one worth sharing, and I'm inclined to think that a number of the events leading up to it might make for an interesting read as well -- in the proper setting.

This is an intimate story. It's not a love story; it's not an advice column; it's not a social commentary. This is a story straight from the pages of my own personal sex life, complete with examples, and its purpose is no more nor any less than to encourage an intimate evening among all you other happily married men and women out there. If you happen to learn the same lesson that I did along the way, then I'll be happy to have imparted a bit of my wife's good sense to you, but for all intents and purposes you can do yourselves a favor when you're done reading this: keep your mouths shut and just make love to each other.

2.

Now obviously, having been married for eight years and having a five-year-old son, there was a lot going on in our lives that wasn't necessarily sexy. Amanda and I are not exactly the sexual crusaders that everyone else our age seems to have become since the onslaught of the internet in the late 90's; we keep most of our relations in the bedroom where we both generally feel they belong, and we keep the natural relationship between cock and vagina as the centerpiece of our interactions. We rarely get so heated that we lose our heads in a fit of passion and go to any particular extreme -- I think prior to the events of this tale the wildest we'd ever gotten was a quick and unplanned fuck at the computer desk while our son was asleep on the couch, and even that was not entirely spontaneous. We have had an arrangement for years -- since the birth of our son, in fact -- that Saturday nights were 'our night'; the steamy session at our desk happened around naptime on Saturday, and was thus only 'unplanned' by virtue of a couple of hours.

We occasionally treat each other to a very fair, turn-oriented system of oral sex, and we both quite like it -- it falls safely within our comfort zones -- but neither of us prefers it to simple traditional sex, and I have never comprehended the seemingly common claim of men who would rather get head than have sex. I've never put my cock into any orifice other than my wife's mouth or vagina, and I can't imagine any reason one or the other would ever fall short of the goal. On a few occasions, almost always on account of convenience, we have satisfied each other with nothing but our hands in each other's pants. This is generally our resort when privacy is an issue and going without satisfaction is not an option -- both of which circumstances have been decidedly rare.

In between our Saturdays, our lives are as straightforward and pleasant as you could imagine. We work. Neither my wife nor I feel any strong hatred for our job, though we would both readily agree that they are jobs, and not careers. After work we eat dinner at the table -- another of our traditionalist 'quirks' I suppose -- and then sit with our son and watch television for an hour or so. Toward the end of an average day, we tend to split off and amuse ourselves with our individual interests: Amanda sits with a book; our son Seth plays his Playstation games; I retire to the computer room and stare at a blank computer screen thinking someday I might write something on it and make a bit of money while I'm at it.

I can't imagine any other way to live -- there is no sense of dullness or boredom in our lives, but that simple feeling of contentment that seems to have disappeared from the family environment these days, and is the result of genuine love for the people with whom you live. We are happy, healthy, and very much in love, all of which would make for a rather boring story, I'm sure.

Let none of this, however, convince you that we were in need of any particular 'spice'. My wife is, to put it succinctly, a fabulous lover. I have never been any less than completely satisfied after any sexual encounter, of any length or variety, and there has never been a single thing I wanted to try so badly I couldn't go without it, that she was not willing to do with me. There are quite a number of exciting things that a man and his wife might do behind their own bedroom door, without putting anything anywhere it doesn't belong, and I can happily say that Amanda and I have given most of them a hell of a go. In fairness, I would have to say her inhibitions are generally stronger and more rigidly fixed than mine, but our preferences have always been similar enough to make us both happy.

We neither overinflate nor underappreciate the importance of sexual satisfaction in a healthy marriage; we have quite openly come to agreeable terms in that regard, and my wife has an uncanny knack for making love to me when we need to make love, and begging me to fuck her as hard as I can when we need to fuck. What she is able to do to me -- the heights to which she has taken me during our marriage -- is nothing short of astounding. She does what she does without ever sacrificing the innocence and pure class of a well-bred soccer mom, but when the time is right, she can sink her teeth in my shoulder and cry, "Oh God, I'm coming!" with the best of them. If every man could have such a wife, I'm fairly sure the drastic rise in divorce rates would quickly reverse. For my part, I will never give up mine -- that should tell you something.

Amanda's beauty at thirty is that very classic kind that has never been properly represented in the world of sexual discussion. If one wished to place her in a category, one would be hard put: she is beyond the early twenties which for some reason gets the improper name of 'teen' in the world of adult material; neither is she quite 'mature'. In the most technical sense, one can put her with the 'milfs', but she hasn't the sluttiness that goes with it; she is most certainly no 'cheating housewife'; she is of no particularly sought-after nationality such as 'Asian', and is in fact pure white American, descended of Europeans like most of us but bearing no resemblance to any European ethnic group in particular; she has wonderfully full breasts but falls a bit short of the 'busty' label as it's usually perceived in adult entertainment; the only thing I can do for you in the way of 'marketing' her particular brand of sex appeal is to propose an entirely new category, and we'll see if there's an audience for it: let's place her squarely into the newly created 'affectionate wife' category, and in that context, let me tell you all about her.

My 'affectionate wife' Amanda is blessed with the body of a mother. I have discovered in the years since we used to have to spoon to make love, while both of our hands lay clasped protectively on the large round swell of her pregnant belly and her tender breasts went all but ignored throughout the act, that the post-childbirth body of a woman is actually the shape that pleases me most.

Throughout her pregnancy and after giving birth, it seemed that some hidden reserve of hormones was being wrung from inside her: her breasts suddenly blossomed and never went away; she became so sensitive in her nipples and crotch that at the slightest tickle of contact I would suddenly find her body fastened passionately to mine and she would be heaving with orgasm in minutes; for the first time in our intimate history together I could make her come twice in one session -- sometimes with almost ridiculous ease! She confessed to me (in her roundabout way) that as often as not, she simply had to have an orgasm every day in the latter stages of her pregnancy, and just because there were frequent days she was not getting one from me did not mean she was not getting one -- the most straightforward admission she had ever made up to that point that she was familiar with the art of masturbation.

There were times when she would come to me without a word and simply implore me with her eyes to come to bed with her; I would gingerly help her lie down, and no sooner would I place a kiss on the side of her neck and press my hand around the hot swell of her mound than she would gasp and shiver and cry, "Oh God, yes! Thank you!" then suddenly take my stiff cock in one of her soft little hands and stroke it rapidly to ejaculation with a look of utter bliss in her eyes. Her appetite during the final three months was so great that it was sometimes daunting. I can only imagine how much more intimidated I might have been, had she not been discreetly taking care of more than half of it herself. In the years that have followed, the appetite has of course slowed considerably, but I have been quite pleased to find that her tendency to orgasm easily has remained. She has never been particularly hungry for more than one, but she rarely goes without her one, and seems to enjoy it mightily when she gets it.

After Seth's arrival, there were several months of healing, and several more of such obvious exhaustion that I would not have burdened her with my sexual requirements even if I thought my balls would explode. For the better part of Seth's first year, I took care of my own needs without much complaint, though not always privately (she offered me the very matter-of-fact suggestion that there was no reason I should have to run off and hide because of it, and my intrigue was such that I conceded her point for a while and enjoyed myself in bed beside her while she lay apologetically drifting off to sleep).

But as that year wore on, and my desire for the real thing grew steadily less bearable, I studied my wife's naked body and found her possessed of a new, fuller, more curvaceous figure that was awe-inspiring. Her hips had visibly widened and spread; her breasts, though we bottle-fed our son from the beginning, remained voluptuous and dangled low under their new weight; her whole body had fleshed out and grown softer and rounder. I even noted that her intimate anatomy, where it had been snipped by the delivering doctor, now hung partly exposed like a naughty invitation -- two small pink bundles of that glorious flesh inside her were always visible beneath the thick mat of hair between her thighs.

For five years now I've listened to my wife complain endlessly about never losing all of the baby weight, and I laugh at her. Every soft inch of her is glorious to me -- I wouldn't trade the motherly figure of my Amanda for any three flat-bellied, narrow-hipped, high-breasted little 'teens'.

Even aside from the lovely fullness of her shape, she really is a beautiful woman in every way. She has the most luscious waves of dark chocolate hair I've ever seen; it glistens like chocolate syrup when she combs it through with spray gel and teases it into a full-bodied cascade of curls around her neck. She keeps it long and clean and smelling of coconut. When she tosses her head, you can spot the gleaming silver and gold of some ornate pair of earrings buried in the dark brown depths of her hair, and she is almost never without one of her three favorite pendants dangling down into the very upper portion of the recess between her breasts.

She has large, moist eyes of the same rich brown color as her hair, and if you asked me to choose the single most beautiful thing about her, I would have to say it's the way she speaks with those eyes. There's no clearer way of explaining it; she simply speaks with them. She can tell me things with those sparkling brown gems that there just aren't words for. They engage me without a sound and glow with unabashed, immeasurable love; when they darken with anger it wrenches my heart; when they glisten with tears they can -- and sometimes do -- cause me to cry myself; when mischief glitters in them I would follow her to the ends of the earth to see what she's up to. She's learned how to adorn them with just the right touch of eyeliner and a hint of shadow, and she knows how to use them.

She is perfectly aware, and will sometimes boast, that she has the best pair of doe eyes in the world; she levels them on me with a tiny pout in her plump lips and convinces me to sign my soul over to her nearly every day. In fact, she used them to great effect on the day nearly nine years ago when, after a shopping expedition with her best friend of those days, she informed me that she had picked out the engagement ring she wanted when I finally decided to ask her to marry me. She was wearing that very ring the next weekend.

When we make love, she keeps those wonderfully expressive eyes closed most of the time, her pretty face awash with relaxation, far away and distracted by some elusive secret she seems quite intent on learning. Every so often there's an urgent moan from her slightly parted lips, and then her eyes flutter open to take me in, so radiant with adoration that they seem to be alive and in love with me in their own right. When she comes they squeeze tightly shut, her whole face takes on an expression similar to confusion and even pain, and then she lets out a soft cry that almost has words in it like, "Oh God!" or, "Oh yes!" or even, "Oh fuck!" but they're never all the way there. When the greatest shudders of her orgasm subside, her eyes pop open wide, and as I start to thrust and slowly swim inside her again she beams me a look of such happiness and gratitude that I would give anything to be able to go back to the beginning and do it to her again.

When we fuck -- and this has not been often, because it hasn't needed to be -- her eyes are alive with fire, and she levels them on me with her intentions blazing. They say in their silent language, "I know exactly what I'm doing." They watch me for any sign of pleasure, and when they spot it she pounces; I can see the omnipotent sense of triumph flood her being when she finds my weak point and grinds it mercilessly to an explosion between us. I don't know how she does it but she watches, she waits, and when she knows it's time, she comes around me while I'm coming into her, and we both cling together gasping for our lives. Then her eyes regard me with pure self-satisfaction, and they silently ask me, "What do you think of that?"

In between these episodes of passion, there is of course no shortage of non-sexual life going on. To hear me tell it, you might have been inclined to think that we have a lot of sex -- that it's nearly all we've thought about since we married. There is a great deal more of the ordinary in our lives that needn't be dwelled upon in these pages than there is of the excitement I've set out to share with you.

We are neither of us what I'd call exceptionally sexual; I'd be inclined to call my own sex drive a healthy if unflattering 'average'; Amanda is, if I'm to be honest, much less sexual than she might thus far appear to be here, and has more than once confided to me the exact words, "I'm not a very sexual person." This doesn't quite do her justice, though, as words can be so pronounced as to change their meaning simply based on where you place the emphasis. I will hope, going forward, that you understand my wife of eight years to be, in fact, a healthily sexual woman, but place the emphasis in her confession precisely where it belongs: she is not a VERY sexual person.

I have come to understand the difference between her drive and mine to be a subtle one: for Amanda, having sex seems to be a physical manifestation (we could, for perfect accuracy, give this the less colorful term 'side-effect') of two people being in love; for myself, it is not an effect created by love, but perhaps the most meaningful, the deepest possible way to express it. I may be representing this poorly -- words sometimes fail me, as I've recently learned -- but let's try to understand that Amanda is simply more able to express her love without having sex; she is more inclined to view sex as a shared benefit of being in love, to be enjoyed when one so desires like a reward; she is, perhaps, more likely to consider sex a purely physical craving one should be able to control, and into which one must intentionally add all the emotional resonance one wishes to be there.

On the other hand, I myself cannot feel that words, hugs, or meaningful glances fully say all that I long to say to the woman I love -- I must sometimes melt into her and make everything else disappear in order to successfully express my love to her; I view sex not as a benefit so much as a requirement of love, to be fulfilled every so often in order to complete the circle; I am quite as compelled to the physical cravings of sex as she has ever been, but I am also frequently drawn to the emotional resonance as well, which to me is innately there. If there were a way, short of making love, to feel my love for her as deeply as I do when we make love, then perhaps I could survive on much less of it. Until such a discovery comes along, I will want my wife in bed as often as I can have her there, and it will most of the time be my heart -- not my cock -- that is craving her.

Although it's not entirely unheard of, we don't often have fully intimate relations together outside our Saturday night arrangement. When I say "fully intimate", I'm mainly referring to intercourse; it occasionally happens that, to fulfill the purely physical side of our longings we might fool around during the middle of the week and touch each other to rather satisfying but not particularly intense orgasms.