Speak to Me Ch. 01

Every once in a while this has been known to lead to a brief -- often somewhat rough and unheated -- bout of intercourse before we go to sleep. It is generally of that almost humorous variety where neither of us is really under any spell; we giggle and she complains that I'm tickling her side; we stop for a moment if one of us needs a drink; we don't necessarily stop talking about ordinary things (we had sex like this once, for all of ten minutes, with both of us remarking back and forth about things we could do to make the bedroom warmer at night; she told me not to worry about making her come -- it was fun just to be doing it -- and I grunted, emptied myself, and we laughed and said good night).

Neither of us is especially attached to this variety of passionless humping, so we don't generally seek it out. When nothing is needed but a raw, physical orgasm, I am just as content to get my own jollies, and though Amanda practically never speaks of it, I know that she is of the same mind. We keep ourselves afloat if needs be all week, and then share our passion for each other on Saturday nights. I will say that sometimes our excitement overflows, and after a few hours of sleep we have been known to wake up and make love for a hot and heavy five minutes on Sunday morning, but even this is essentially part of our Saturday night -- I can't recall a Sunday morning session that ever occurred when a Saturday night session did not.

Out of all this, there is really only one small thing that has ever left me discontent, and that's the air of mystery that comes with the well-bred 'affectionate wife'. One can never be sure just how sexual she actually is in there, because she operates with the belief that it's inappropriate to discuss her lustiest secrets, but she understands the allure of them well enough to let you know that she has some. For many men, the mystery might actually be more intriguing than the secrets within it, but for myself, I have learned just enough of Amanda's intimate mystery in eight years that I would die to know every dirty secret she's keeping in there.

As much as I respect the beauty of her modesty, as fiercely as I would defend her fragile angelic persona in the presence of others, I have come to such a stage in my love for her that I crave a glimpse of her stripped so naked I can see her soul; I want a view of her that hides nothing, no matter how silly or embarrassing.

You must not mistake the story I am about to share with you for any kind of depraved, lustful fetish with no deeper meaning than to swap humiliating secrets with my wife. I one day found myself desiring not merely some nasty bit of imagery to fuel my fantasies behind the bathroom door, but nothing short of the deepest, most uncensored view of the woman I love that it was possible to capture -- and the feeling of unbounded trust that would be required to make it visible. That her most intimate secrets are, most all of them, sexual in nature is only because in all other regards she has been open and honest about her emotions, and kept none of them hidden from me in the ten years I have known her.

What sexual fantasies lurk in her mind, how powerful is their grip on her, what might I be capable of doing to make her most cherished daydreams come true in her real life? I wanted these answers not because I wanted to see her dirtied or stained with unbecoming behavior, but because they were the last and the very most revealing things about her that I didn't already know. I wanted to know how often she felt the need to touch herself; where she did it; did it ever happen more than once a day? What was the craziest it had ever been able to make her -- had she ever put something inside of her that wasn't made to go there? I wanted to know if she ever fantasized about anything off-the-wall or dirty. I wanted to know if there was anything on her mind when she came that she desperately longed for me to do to her. I wanted to know every intimate thought that had ever crossed her mind, because then I would know her at her most vulnerable, and I would know her completely. Most of all, I think, I wanted to know that she trusted me so unconditionally that she could share it all with me.

So, like a perfect moron, one day I simply tried to talk to her about it.

3.

Everything began as normal. We put Seth to bed around eight o'clock one Saturday night, and he fought valiantly until almost eight thirty. By that time, I was across the hall on my own bed, my teeth brushed and a small spritz of cologne on my neck. I was still fully dressed -- not long before this night Amanda and I had come to the consensus that it would be fun to get back to undressing each other, a pleasure we had all but forgotten in our familiarity with each other. I listened to Amanda tread softly down the stairs; the bathroom door closed and the water turned on. These sounds being no more than what they are, I've sometimes wondered if it's strange that I start to get hard just hearing them. The anticipation was setting in quickly tonight; I was wondering what was really the point of trying to talk after all -- I wanted her badly enough already that I was having visions of tearing her clothes off and fucking her brains out as soon as she came within reach.

It seemed she took an entire geological age to brush her teeth. When the water finally turned off, my cock was rock hard in my jeans and I was working on clearing my mind so it would go away a little for now. I had been thinking all week about the questions I wanted to ask -- and the confessions I myself would make -- and every single sexy thought seemed to catch up to me all at once. Suddenly I wanted to fuck my wife so hard the headboard would slap the wall, and I couldn't get the image of myself doing so out of my head.

But what kept me from forgetting all about the conversation I wanted to have with her was a mixture of circumstance and curiosity. As I lay waiting for her to complete her pre-bedtime ritual downstairs, minutes were ticking by in unusual silence. It occurred to me that she was still closed up in the bathroom, and I hadn't heard a sound for several minutes. What could she be up to in there?

I had an immediate image of her with her jeans unbuttoned, standing in front of the mirror over the sink 'getting herself ready' for me. What if that were the secret to how easily she could get her orgasm? What if she typically came to me halfway there, in a frenzy because she had already gone to the brink and was desperate to revive the fading urge before the feeling was gone?

I don't know whether the thought excited me or offended me. It really was quite ridiculous in the first place (I think), but suddenly the question -- and a million others like it -- was there, and I would have died to know the answer. Was she down there right now, fooling around with herself to get herself in the right place for me? Did she have a common habit of touching her own silky flesh to get it wet and interested before she brought herself to me for fulfillment? Would that mean that she didn't feel I could do the job thoroughly myself, or would it simply mean that she got so carried away with her desire that she needed to feel a little something right away?

I was determined to know this sexually-thinking Amanda who had always been so neatly hidden from me. I was determined to hear her speak the language of sex, to hear her embarrassment and to comfort her in it, to understand to what degree her sexual appetite gripped her in those circumstances where I was not present to see it.

But even after I heard the bathroom door swing open, it seemed almost an eternity before she came to bed. When she finally climbed the stairs, when she opened the bedroom door as quietly as she could and sauntered in, she cast me one bashful smile and then seemed not to want to look me in the eyes. She stopped just inside the door, leaned lightly back against it, chuckled nervously, and then questioned my stare with a simple, "What?"

"Nothing," I said. "But what took you so long?"

"I was doing something," she answered with a hint of nervousness in her eyes. "I'm here now."

I could see that she was fully prepared for me to ask her what she had been doing, so I did.

"Just something," she said. "Why don't you come see if you can figure it out? You might have to really... check me out, though."

That was the first time I failed to listen, so determined was I to talk. "Come lay down," I suggested instead. "I kind of wanted to talk tonight."

Surprise filled her sparkling brown eyes as she regarded me from across the room, and then she put her hands on her hips with her rather amateur version of a sexy tilt, and she balked at me. "...talk?" she repeated, playfully astonished. "You've got a woman all ready to go over here, and all you want to do to her is talk?"

The second time I failed to listen. Looking back, it's easy to see how stupid it was of me, but somehow in the distraction of wanting to speak to her I completely missed the significance of the words "all ready to go", "over here", and "want to do to her". The entire sentence was (I realize now) actually quite bold for Amanda. It would usually be her who wanted immediately to come snuggle under the covers.

"I didn't say it was all I wanted to do," I told her, believing I had thus addressed the correct point. "It's just the first thing. Come lay down with me."

She hesitated, still somewhat astonished, an uncertain smile clinging to her lips. She didn't speak, but her eyes asked me if I was sure that was what I wanted. I waved her over, and she gave in.

4.

It was mid-fall -- the weather in our area was getting fairly chilly. All day, Amanda had been wearing one of my favorite outfits (not by accident, I'm sure): a pair of black jeans made of some new kind of stretchy denim that hugged her so closely it sculpted her buttocks and thighs into near-Hellenic form -- there were gold colored doodles stitched into the back pockets that curved so perfectly around her ass you simply couldn't look at it without wanting to grab her by the handful and squeeze; a hot pink, short-sleeved shirt with a deep v-neck that left a view so far down when she leaned forward a bit that you could see the connecting corners of the cups of her bra, and the curve of her breast where it overflowed the cup.

For warmth, and to hide a little of the generous cleavage the pink shirt left visible, she often wore a black button-up sweater in public, unbuttoned a bit from the top just because. She usually took the sweater off in the evening at home. Tonight she'd left it on (so there was more to undress from her, I would guess), but I think she had unbuttoned it a bit further -- as she crossed the room to the bed I could see so much of her breasts squeezing out that I couldn't tear my eyes away. Again I had to fight the compulsion to simply take her, urgently, and leave the talking for some other time. If I had only been paying attention, I might have spotted the sway in her step that said this was absolutely what she wanted; I can see it so clearly looking back.

But I wanted to talk to her. So I waited patiently, and she climbed onto the bed smelling of coconut and mango; she leaned forward and let her breasts hang right in my face so that I would catch the tropical scent she had misted down onto them. I gave her body a deep, appreciative sniff.

"Very nice," I commented, wanting to bury my face in her cleavage.

"I hope you don't want to talk a lot," she advised me playfully, seeming unsatisfied with my sniff -- as if she were expecting something more. "I'm very 'distracted'." She remained on her hands and knees like a kitten on the edge of the bed, hovering with her boobs a few inches from my face.

While I was still trying to decide what to say to that, she gave a little shake that made her boobs jiggle, and playfully complained, "Come on, honey -- want me for my body, not my mind."

"I do want your body," I assured her. "I'll be all over it in a few minutes."

Still not seeming satisfied, she settled onto the bed with me and let me hold her. "Okay," she murmured. "We can talk."

She must have been flabbergasted -- I was completely ignoring what was probably the most forward 'fuck me' behavior she had ever brought into our bedroom... to talk.

"I think we should do a little... sexy talk," I said.

"...hmm? Like... what?"

"I don't know -- like fantasies, I guess."

"You mean like fucking me on the kitchen table?" she wondered, redirecting my arm around her neck so that my hand lay in between the two soft, ample hills of her breasts. She gave the top of my hand a playful little pat as she made her funny.

"Maybe that is what I mean," I challenged her.

"Okay," she said. "You want to tell me about it?"

"I want to tell you about all kinds of things. And then I want you to tell me all kinds of yours."

"I don't know if I can be comfortable talking about things like that."

"Why not? You should be able to talk to your husband about anything."

"Yeah, but... That stuff is embarrassing. I mean, what do you want to know -- stuff I really, um, daydream about?"

"Yeah, stuff like that. I'll tell you one of mine, and you tell me one of yours."

She turned to engage me with what I can only call a lust-filled stare. She told me with her eyes that she didn't want to talk, she wanted to be fucked. I should have appreciated it more -- this was an obvious longing, and my wife has rarely come to me with an obvious longing since the days of her pregnancy.

But she said, "...okay, I guess. I'll try."

So I started. I told her I had always wanted to fuck her up against the bathroom wall. I told her I frequently jerked off in the bathroom thinking about it. I told her I dreamed of her hooking one leg up around my ass while I plowed her against the wall, her shirt pushed up over her naked breasts while they bounced like crazy, and then when she was ready to come I would pick her up -- her legs would wrap around my waist and I would fuck her to such an orgasm she'd be weak for hours after it.

She giggled a little, and that was okay. I could see in her eyes that she was mildly discomfited by the fact that we were talking about an image of her with all the eroticism of an adult movie, but she appeared to be a very good sport about it. "Maybe you should try that," she said with too much of her impish smile for me to judge whether she was being serious or facetious. "But could you even hold me up now that I'm a fat cow?"

"You're not even close to fat," I immediately insisted. "You have the sexiest body I've ever seen."

And I reminisced on the days when Seth was first born, and I would marvel at the way childbirth had fleshed her out -- had transformed her from girl to woman. I told her I had always loved the wider hips, the broader buttocks, the larger, lower-hanging breasts; I confessed to watching her undress for bed with my hand already teasing my cock on many of those nights when I would take care of myself in bed beside her.

I gave her specific examples of nights I had seen something I liked in particular. I let it lead into a brief discussion of my favorite outfits, and the joy of undressing her with my eyes when we went out.

I told her my favorite images of her -- the times she had been standing in just such a pose that I would never forget the way it looked; the best views I had ever been given of her while we made love; the beauty of her face when we were making love; the way it made me crazy to watch her breasts bouncing when we were going at it hard.

As I warmed up to this task of talking, I found myself able to pull off some of those wildly erotic turns of phrase and some of those dirty little words that never seem to sound right when you say them aloud: I told her how much I loved to 'bury my face in her tits'; I told her I loved the 'way her ass looked while I fucked her from behind'; I told her she was beautiful when I 'made her come so hard that I could see it rock her whole body'. Somehow, once I had gotten going, all of these words sounded much more natural than I would ever have believed they could coming from my own mouth.

She snuggled in affectionately and stroked my hand while I talked, but made little comment herself. To her credit, she never snickered or made a statement that would interrupt the flow of my words; she sat and listened with all the attention I could have asked for, and for most of my monologue (that's what it turned out to be) I believed my words were absolutely weaving the spell I had wanted them to... until she gave me a tender kiss on the side of the neck, and remarked in the most sensible Amanda-voice I had ever heard, utterly free from any spell whatsoever, "I'm glad you don't think I'm a fat cow."

I finally sensed what I wish I could have realized much earlier: that the mood was not right, and rather than arouse her, I was wasting what ample arousal she had already brought. I began to feel supremely stupid. But I had begun, and I was determined that if she would simply give it a chance, we could find a way to communicate in rapport. So I pressed on.

"I always wonder how often you do it," I said to her, the understanding already being that I was talking about masturbation. I adjusted the arm that hung around her neck and put my other hand comfortably on her belly. She shifted closer, and I dared to hope for a moment that she was getting comfortable in anticipation of a long, private conversation.

But there was still no sense of wonder or involvement in her voice as she said, "I can't... talk about that stuff." We had reached a point where we weren't really looking at each other, but now especially I could feel her avoiding my eyes.

The words I had expected. The tone of her voice that suggested she really meant it, I had not.

"Sure you can," I said. "You should be able to talk to me about anything." It seemed strange to me that she didn't understand this self-evident fact, especially since I had just demonstrated for at least fifteen minutes how easy it was to do.

"Yeah, I know. But it's just... embarrassing. Now you've got a spotlight on me."

"It feels like that at first, but... once you get going-"

"What do you want to know," she asked me rather suddenly, as if she hadn't even heard that I was speaking. "Ask- maybe I can answer a question for you."

My hopes soared for a moment -- she was trying.

"How often do you touch yourself?"

"I... don't know," she agonized immediately, squeezing my hand. She tossed me a quick sidelong glance and begged me with her eyes to change the subject. "Like how many times a week, month, year...?"

"Week?"

She opened her mouth and then closed it. She squirmed, thought about it, squeezed me, snuggled with me, sniffed, kissed my hand very lightly, and finally said, "...I don't really know the number. It totally... depends."

"Will it help if I tell you my answer?"

"I doubt it will 'help', but you could if you wanted to."

"Am I the only one who's curious about this?"

"I- I mean- it's interesting kind of... But only about you. We don't need to talk about me."

"I probably do it three or four times in a normal week," I volunteered. "Sometimes I go a week or more without doing it at all, but that's pretty unusual. I usually need to once every few days at least. Sometimes I do it every day for a while. Every great once in a while I have a crazy day, and I do it more than once in the same day. Have you ever done that?"

"Yeah," she confessed quietly. I can't even begin to describe what a thrill just that little confession gave me -- what hundreds of other questions swarmed my mind.

But at that, a tangible silence hovered between us.

"You're not interested in this at all, are you?" I wondered.

"I just wasn't really expecting to be put on the spot like this," she said. "I thought we would just kind of... see what happens like we usually do."