Three Wives Ch. 02

Story Info
April was a very beautiful woman, at her very sexual peak.
8.4k words
4.65
141.4k
52

Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 10/04/2022
Created 04/15/2006
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

APRIL

I guess I have a lot to thank Mrs. Johanssen for - not just the sex. She helped me get my act together; I went on to finish my graduate degree and I never looked back. Nowadays I'm a psych professor at a reputable college on the East Coast. It's a pretty good gig; it sure beats working for a living.

As you probably imagine, it really happens; I've become accustomed to the young coeds approaching me. Some kind of nervous young thing shows up in my office and the pitch is always the same. "Oh, Professor, can I talk to you . . ." What follows is some kind of sob story about how she's been too busy to complete the term project on time, or how she'd like a little assistance with the subject material; a little personal assistance, right?

I always listen to their spiel. The bottom line is always the same theme, some variation of: ". . . little one-on-one, just you and me, Dr.?" By the time they get to this part I usually can't hold back my grin anymore and it's on. I learned early on why shrinks really keep a couch in their office. Sometimes it doesn't even get that far; I've bent girls over across the top of my desk and laid pipe standing-up doggie-style, and I've lost track of the number of blowjobs I've received sitting at my desk. This is probably the most convenient scenario because I can answer the phone and from out in the foyer it looks like I'm busy at work; except for maybe the look of total ecstatic agony on my face while under my desk on her knees Little Miss Sweetheart of Sigma Chi is hard at work polishing my knob with her wet mouth.

Considering the above, I was quite intrigued the day April came into my office. April was one of my older students. Real older. I put her in her mid-to-late-forties; she certainly didn't fit in with the younger t-shirt and baggy khaki's set. She seemed to try to come across with a casual style to fit in but was almost too chic somehow. Swishy crushed silk skirts with wide leather belts that emphasized her round hips, loose blouses worn open just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, and a quite bit of gold jewelry. The effect was some kind of stylish hippy-chick Gypsy adventuress.

From my point of view April definitely had it going strong. A good-looking brunette, her hair was cropped short, done about her face in a teased, windswept style. April had a great body; big tits and a nice round ass from what I could discern, but certainly not 'full-figured' or fat in any way.

Needless to say, I'd taken notice of Ms. April in my lectures. Or should I say Mrs. April; part of her extensive jewelry collection included a wedding ring set with a diamond about the size of a hen's egg.

I often wondered what brought an older girl like April back into the college scene. Some rich guy's wife, looking for something to do with her spare time? An aging trophy wife, perhaps, working on getting some real credentials against the day she gets traded for a younger edition? Not that it mattered; as far as I was concerned April was a VERY good-looking woman who just happened to be getting up there in her years.

April always sat in the front row; that's how I knew the minute details of her jewelry accoutrements. Hell, I always hovered near her in lectures because catching a whiff of her perfume always gave me a woody. Oh, and did I mention the view down the front of her dress was simply magnificent?

She even had nice ankles; April usually wore ankle-length high-button boots, either that or those gladiator-type wedgie sandals that strap around the calf. It was almost as if she was trying to bring attention to her feet and ankles - I guess she was self-conscious about her ass or something, even though she had no reason to be.

Today April wore a figure-hugging dress of black crushed silk done in a calico pattern that buttoned up the front, with a bit of lace showing about her ample cleavage. With her high-button boots she had a sort of a Cher theme going; gypsies, tramps and thieves. Especially the tramp part.

"Hello, uh, April, isn't it?" I said, playing the absent-minded professor bit. I didn't want to make it obvious that I drooled over her on a regular basis. "You're in my, let me see if I remember, uh, Psych 201 class, aren't you?"

"Yes, Professor. I, uh, wanted to talk to you about my work in the course . . ."

No shit, I thought.April! Whoa . . .

"Y-e-e-e-s?" I said, drawing it out. This was going to be good and I wanted to enjoy every second of it.

"Well, I . . . . . . uh . . . . . .I'm finding the course workload a bitoverwhelming, and . . ."

Waiting for her to get to the point, I was asking myself over and over again if this was really happening or if I was imagining the whole thing. Having a beautiful mature woman coming across like a coed in her late teens or early twenties was blowing all the norms. I was getting signal overload and at the same time I was totally intrigued in a very sexual way.

". . . I was wondering if you could give me some time. Maybe some assistance . . ."

Bingo. There it was. For some reason I wasn't grinning like a wolf.

"Uh, what part of the syllabus are you having difficulty with?" I asked. I'll admit I was a bit nervous too, so I shuffled through some papers on my desk. I mean, this wasn't your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety, just-had-her-cherry-popped coed we're talking about. This was a fully-grown woman, a very beautiful woman - obviously at the very sexual peak of her life - and she was coming on to me like a dozen alley cats in heat. It occurred to me that this was no time to be playing games so I looked up from the mess on my desk, straight into her eyes.

The look in April's green eyes was all business; she obviously wasn't into playing any kind of stupid games, either.

"I have a place where we can go . . . to . . .talk," she said, quite simply.

I returned her look. "Meet me in five minutes, April, out the parking lot. You know my car?" Everybody at University knows my car - there aren't too many AC Shelby Cobras in the world, and there's only one on campus.

Let me tell you about my car. I'm a psychologist, right? I'm constantly analyzing the people around me, myself included, right? So when my mid-life crisis arrived I decided to Hell with being in denial. When women hit this stage they go nuts, buy lots of jewelry or have affairs; guys go out and buy themselves sports cars. I figured I'd been working my balls off all these years, now it was my turn for a fast car.

You don't really buy a Shelby, that is, unless you have about 500,000 lying around that needs to be spent; you build a Shelby. There are quite a few custom car companies that offer Shelby kits; I bought my kit from a South African company that owns the rights and the drawings to the original Shelby's. Most kits come with a fiberglass body; there's one company out there that advertises carbon fiber bodies, but they're never in stock. The insane maniac who runs the South African operation teamed up with this aircraft factory in Poland that used to make MiG fighters; nowadays they fabricate bodies for the finest Shelby replicas on the road out of aircraft grade aluminum. That's right, I said aluminum; the entire body only weighs fifty pounds!

My Shelby is silver with a black stripe down the middle. The usual blue and white Ford color scheme is so limp dick; I wanted something that made a statement about raw power and speed. I wasn't going to paint it Ferrari Red - I mean, sure, it's a projection of my penis, but I don't have to be obvious about it. And I wasn't going to paint it Rubber Duck Yellow like the Dean of the Humanities Department's Porsche Boxster. Give me a fucking break. I had it done in the colors of my favorite NFL football team; the Oakland Raiders. My silver rocket-ship-with-wheels is powered by a 427 cubic inch stroked supercharged V-8 engine. Like I said, power. Raw power.

But I digress. This story is about ass; a very special piece of ass in particular. The only reason I mentioned my Shelby is because of the effect it had on April. When I opened the tiny side door she kind of squealed at the tan leather interior. I went around my side and stepped over the door and settled myself behind the wheel.

You don't get into a Shelby as much as you strap it on; much like climbing into the cockpit of a fighter jet. Even though mine is two inches wider and has a lowered floor to handle my physical size, there's still not a lot of room, and then there's the three-point restraint system.

I helped April belt her way into the shoulder straps, which had the effect of nicely emphasizing her boobs. When I reached between her legs for the crotch strap she instinctively tightened up until I held up the strap and showed her the metal tab.

"It's a safety thing," I explained.

I clicked the tab into the buckle right beneath the shelf formed by her generous breasts. Now April was all strapped in, cinched nice and tight, and when I pulled that last buckle snug the metal tab was sitting right on top of her pussymound. Because of the way the crotch strap pulled up the hem of her dress I couldn't help but notice the lace edged tops of her thigh-hi stockings - very nice. I naturally wondered if April was wearing panties.

Then I turned the key in the ignition.

The Shelby has a particular effect on women; the engine gives a throaty roar when it comes to life and the huge cylinders in that bore-stroked V-8 just rock the tiny car and everything in it. April's face had this look of utter amazement that was quickly replaced by a wide smile. I just gave her my best Satyr-like grin, and sent her this message by mental telepathy:That's right, baby. You're strapped inside a giant, silver vibrating dildo on wheels. I could tell from the way April was flushing from the tops of her breasts right up to her hairline that my car's powerful engine was sending vibrations all through her body right onto her clit.

I put her into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. This time April didn't even pretend to play shy or coy. Her left hand gripped my thigh, holding on for dear life as we went from zero-to-sixty in about two seconds, still in second gear. It's not that I'm into terrifying girls as a way to impress them or anything; I was just going down the street. The car has zip, that's all.

April settled down a bit when we got onto the highway and there came a modicum of normalcy to the degree of speed we were traveling. If there's anything normal about doing a hundred miles an hour in an open car that's only slightly bigger than a kid's go-kart, that is. April didn't let go of my thigh. She leaned against me as close as the restraint system would allow, her big boobs pressing against my tricep as I manipulated the gears.

April's death grip on my thigh lightened up as she became accustomed to the sheer power of my little silver bullet but she didn't move her hand. Instead she began stroking up and down my thigh, which felt great because I was already sporting an intense hard-on. April said something, and I hollered back at her, "W-H-A-A-A-T?"; you really can't speak when you're doing a hundred+ in an open convertible. She said something again, then smiled as she realized there was no way we could engage in verbal communication.

Then she put her hand on my crank.

Her small, soft hand felt good on my poor cock, which by now was straining to get out of my trousers. April smiled again as she trailed her fingers across the denim my cock had stretched as tight as a snare drum and she kissed my cheek. At that point it would have been nice if she could have gone further, but when you're strapped into the tight confines of an AC Shelby doing a hundred down the highway that's about as far as it goes.

I smiled back at April and downshifted and then I let my hand come to rest on her inner thigh. April opened her legs as much as you can in that little cockpit and I took that as my signal to move my hand a little further north. North, above the tops of her stockings, about as far you can go up a woman's thigh and still be touching leg. The crotch strap and the hem of her dress prevented me from getting to home plate, but judging by the moisture I encountered I could already deduce two things: a) April was in anextremelyheightened sexual condition, and b) April was definitely not wearing any panties today.

April pointed, indicating an exit. I took it and gently slowed my machine as I drove through the off ramp. Speed is okay on the straightaway, but I'm not in a hurry to test the roll bars. I knew through the little hamlet we were cruising through. April pointed out a little winding road that led up into the hills. I kept the car in second gear as we winded up the little mountain road; April leaned over so she could press her tits against my arm. The powerful vibes of the engine took care of the rest; I swear I could feel April's labia pulsating against my wrist. With her arms about me and her face pressed against my shoulder, April's entire body convulsed once, twice, and again.

A guy can't always tell if a woman's faking it, but he can always tell when it's for real. Lovely April had just come to orgasm; right then and there in the passenger seat of my car. I'd bet my tenure on it.

April pointed out a driveway. I pulled in and killed the engine. All of a sudden there was just the twittering of birds, and the sound of the engine ticking as it cooled down. I hit the release on my five-point and looked over at April. She was still in a state of sheer amazement at the Shelby experience; her head was back and her eyes had a wild look in them as her fingers fumbled with the buckle on her harness.

I just had to ask. "So what do you think of my car?"

"You drive the way you teach, Professor," she whispered. My eyes were on her magnificent pair, they were going up and down like a bellows.

"Oh?" I mumbled as I gave myself permission to bury my face in the valley between her ample tits, while I manipulated her glorious mounds with my free hand.

"O-V-E-R-W-H-E-L-M-I-N-G!!!" she gasped.

Did I mention that her nipples were poking through the thin fabric of her dress like a pair of pencil erasers?

Somehow we managed to extricate ourselves from the Shelby and get in the front door. "What a nice place you have," I remarked, moving about the wide central room.

"It's a friend's place. She loaned it to me for the afternoon," April smiled.Loaned it to me so we could fuck, was the message I got from that.

"It's a nice place," I said, impressed.

"It's only a matter of time before it slides off the side of this hill," she shrugged "but the view is amazing!" April was standing by the big picture window. I had to agree with her; as she leaned on the window ledge, the view of April's asswasamazing.

Then she turned and said, "Let me get you something to drink.". We moved to where the bar separated the kitchen area from the wide-open living room area. I positioned myself at the bar and watched April move about the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and produced a bottle of wine, a South Australian Shiraz. She produced out some glasses and placed them on the counter. "Can you open this?" she asked, placing a corkscrew on the counter next to the bottle.

She was going to shamelessly ply me with booze - not that it was going to take much plying to do the trick. I popped the cork and poured the wine. We clinked glasses.

"To . . . us?" she smiled, apprehensively.

"To us." I confirmed with a disarming smile.

"Oooh! That's a nice drop!" she said after taking a sip. I tasted the wine tentatively; itwasgood.

"Tell me about you, April. You're not the average coed. What brings you to university?" This was code for 'what's an older girl like you doing in the meat market?'

"Well, my life was getting kind of boring . . ." she paused to take another sip of wine.

"Go on," I said, doing my typical Dr. Peters act.

"I'm married, you know - that doesn't matter does it?" To her momentary look of panicky concern I gave her a cursory shake of the head, a little wink that saidno, of course not; marriage has nothing at all to do with what we're about engage in. She went on, "and, well, my life was becoming kind of stale . . . you don't mind if I talk about my marriage, do you?"

"Don't feel that you have to, April."

"No, I want to. I want to tell you . . ."

I just nodded and acted sage-like. April went on, "My life is, well . . . comfortable, but . . . what I mean to say is my husband really does a good job of providing for me and everything, but . . . I mean, there's the scene at the country club, and the nice trips and everything . . . what I mean to say is . . . I was really going nuts being a rich man's wife,

"There's his cars, his boat, the place up in the mountains," she continued. "I was a part of it all. I married young; I was merely another bauble, a part of his wealth. Now I'm getting older . . . and he's getting . . .realold . . ."

She continued. "When I was young, I had everything going for me. In high school I was a cheerleader. I went on to do some modeling; I trained as a travel agent and I had a little career going on. I mean, I had my whole life ahead of me . . . and somehow I ended up being a trophy wife!"

April paused, looking up from her wine. I remained silent, waiting for her to go on. "With my husband, it's . . . well, it's not . . . what I really mean to say is that I, we . . ."

"You don't have to go on if you really don't want to, April," I suggested, sensing what it was she was trying to say.

"No, I want you to know. I would never cheat, but with my husband, well, something's missing in our life. Let me put it this way; up until ten minutes ago, in that thing you call a car, I haven't had an orgasm in the presence of another person in the last ten years."

I grinned wide and April blushed and looked down. I was right; my cardidmake April come!

The sad fact of the matter is that most men don't know how to make love to a woman. April's old man probably fucked like a pig; either that or he was suffering from age-induced limp-dick syndrome. Most women react by thinking there's something wrong with them; April obviously blamed herself for her old man's inability to satisfy her.

When April looked up there was a smile on her face. She finished off her wine with a healthy swig, then got up and moved over to gaze out the huge picture window, at the view of the valley below. She sighed, "All my life I've been a glorified ornament. I signed up for classes at the University because I wanted to do something I'd never done before." She placed her hand upon the ledge and adopted a sort of coy posture. The girl knew exactly what she was doing and she was good at it. Very good.

With the daylight behind her, the crushed silk of April's thin dress assumed an almost translucent quality. I could perceive the curve of her hips, her shapely legs. I could even make out the crack of her ass; it was obvious she wasn't wearing panties. I put my wine glass down and moved up to stand behind her, put my hand on the windowsill next to her.

We were close, so very close, as close as two people can stand next to each other and still not be touching. As I breathed deep of her scent, a powdery smell of fresh flowers and musk, I could smell something deeper; the scent of her smoldering sex.

"April."

"Yes, Doctor?"

"First of all, stop calling me Doctor. My name is Sean."

"Yes, Sean," she said, her voice dropping by an octave.

"You're a beautiful woman, April." Beautiful wasn't the word for it: she was a knock-down, drag-out stone fox.

"Thank you, doctor, I mean Sean." April looked over her shoulder at me, her sweet smile and languid eyes told me it was time to get to work.