The Cream of Sheba

"Nice and big, isn't it?"

Tony nodded. This was a bit like one of his own stories, he thought, only what normally happened would be that the huge breasted seventeen year old cheerleader would then… would then… do exactly what his wife was actually doing. Which was ease down his trousers and underpants to his knees, take his swollen member in her hands and run her fingers up and down its length, from the aching testicles to the swelling glans, fully emerged from the constraints of his unmutilated foreskin.

Margaret stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, picked up her glass of whiskey and took two long gulps, emptying it down her throat. She smiled at her husband, before letting her right hand accompany the left in pumping his penis.

She smiled up at Tony, who regarded her with an as yet unabated expression of embarrassment.

"I guess I need something to disguise the taste of your cock, Tone."

She put her mouth to the tip of the glans, the tongue touching underneath where the stretch of skin from his retracted foreskin pulled down and her teeth gently above on the hooded rim. She removed her mouth.

"Still smells and tastes the same, Tone, doesn't it? A bit like the cheese you write about in your stories. Never could work out what kind of cheese, could we? Should be blue cheese given what it inspires, but I guess it's more like goat's cheese."

And with that, Margaret returned her mouth to the penis, which she deepthroated and gobbled with a skill that only someone more expert in these matters than Tony would have recognised betrayed a recent lack of practice. Tony looked down at his wife and glanced again at the words he'd written as the Cream of Sheba. His fantasies now seemed so small and trivial compared to the real life pleasures of the real thing.

It was only much later when Margaret at last slumped asleep by his side, in the double bed they'd once shared every night, that Tony was able to let his mind wander, as it always did each night, to the fantasies he realised on his word processor. But as he regarded his wife, even as she snored in that soft and still familiar way, he knew their love-making, however passionate, was really just a diversion for her until she patched things up again with Lucy. Although this encounter meant everything to him, he knew his wife well enough to know it might mean something to her, but nothing as much to her as it did to him. He still loved her, and this meant that Margaret was welcome to return to his bed again. Although he had no idea whether she would ever want to again.

And as to the other matter… as to whether the Cream of Sheba should immortalise this precious moment in prose… Well, Tony wasn't sure. Now that he had actually met one of his readers, he wasn't at all sure he was able to express to her, as he would have to do, knowing she would read his words, the true essence of their coupling. Could he find the words to express the love he felt, the passion that his penis had only been his companion in the throes of their sweaty embracing?

Or would he return again to the virginal schoolgirls and bosomy aliens that he found so much easier to write about?