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Copyright 1999, 2000 by Rod Harden All rights reserved |
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The alarm buzzed for a good 20 seconds before Aaron finally found the snooze button. Despite his grogginess, he was very aware of Mr. Stiffy standing at attention already. His cock always seemed to be the first one up.
His heavy eyelids parted just enough to see his wife sitting up next to him. She must have been awake for some time, and was looking at him with an unreadable expression. She looked worried, or torn by some kind of indecision. Aaron knew at once that Mr. Stiffy would not be called to action this morning. "Aaron, I've been thinking..." she said, without preface. Oh God, he thought. She's been "thinking" already this morning. This could only mean trouble. Aloud, he managed an incoherent, questioning grunt. "Remember last week?" she asked. His mind began churning. Let's see. There were seven days last week. 24 hours a day. 60 minutes each hour. Something was happening during most of those minutes... Aloud he said, "Could you give me a clue, Meg?" "My blouse... The buttons..." Her tone conveyed her disappointment in his utter failure yet again to read her mind. Aaron tried desperately to focus on the pop quiz. He thought he'd already apologized enough about her stupid blouse. How many more lectures could she have on the subject? He sat up and put his arm around her. "I said I'd be more careful in the future." She turned and looked at him, surprised. "It's not that, honey. It's just that..." Gradually he began to realize that she wasn't trying to quiz him, or lecture him. She was simply having trouble getting herself to say something. "What is it? What's the matter, babe?" he asked. Meg sighed deeply. "I know I got mad about the buttons when you tore my blouse," she said. "But..." Another sigh. "Well, it's just that... Oh, I'll just say it. I thought it was REALLY exciting the way you wanted me so much, the way you just- just lost control and started pulling and tearing at my clothes." It was true. He had been out of control. He couldn't even remember what it was about her that day, but when she came home from work, she looked so, so good. And he really hadn't meant to be so rough, he just wanted to get at her so badly, he didn't even try to unbutton her blouse. He just started tearing at it. Buttons went flying, seams began to rip. She started shrieking at him to stop. Was he crazy? This was one her best blouses, and he was ruining it! Yeah, she'd been excited all right, but if she'd been sexually excited, she sure hid it well. "Anyway," she continued, "I just wanted to let you know I, uh, I did find it arousing to have you want me that much. And..." She stopped. "And..." he said, prompting her for the rest. "And... I still don't want you ruining my good clothes," she said in her lecture voice. "We can't afford to replace $75 blouses all the time. But-" the indecisive voice returned. "Well, let's just leave it at that." He stared at her in total confusion. Leave what where, he wondered. She rolled her eyes, exasperated. Then, speaking slowly so his male brain could keep up, she explained, "I'm telling you I would like you to really rip my clothes off, just not my expensive work clothes. I didn't want you to think I was angry about how rough you were, per se." Her eyes sparkled suddenly with mischievousness. "Just watch for a better... opportunity... to let that ferocious animal out next time." Okay. Now he began to understand. The next Saturday, Aaron was hunched over the kitchen counter trying to fix the toaster. He figured it couldn't be that complicated. Any reasonably intelligent person should be able to fix a simple toaster. But then, how to explain the past two hours with no success? He was feeling frustrated and short tempered. As he pondered the array of toaster parts, he was suddenly aware of Meg leaning over his shoulder. "How's the patient?" she asked. He grunted in response. He didn't appreciate her flip attitude. This toaster was making an ass of him in his own home. "Anything I can do to help?" she asked, pressing her chest firmly against his back.
Ripper
He was about to snap at her, when subtle signals began filtering into his consciousness. The feel of his wife leaning against him was somehow different than normal. He turned around to look at her, and she backed away a few feet, a barely suppressed smile on her face.
She was wearing an old paint-spattered tee-shirt and a pair of ultra short cut-offs. The sensuous, fluid bounce of her breasts told him she wasn't wearing a bra. That's why she felt different, he realized. She never goes around during the day without a bra.
She stepped up to the counter next to him, without looking his way. Picking at random toaster parts, she started asking "dumb blonde" questions in her best Marilyn Monroe voice. "What's this piece do? Ooh, this one is funny looking."
"Meg," he said, "Come on, I'm trying to fix this thing. You're mixing up all the parts. Hey, stop it!"
"Why don't you stop me?" she taunted, as she purposely knocked several part to the floor. "Oopsie!"
He tried to grab her wrist, but she bolted past him and out of the kitchen. "You're gonna pay for that, Megan," he called after her. By now, he realized this was it. She wanted him to let the wild animal out of its cage.
"You'll have to catch me first," she yelled from the hall.
Without another word he ran to the hall, but she was already gone. She probably went into the bedroom, he thought. He dashed down the hall and through the bedroom door, but she was nowhere in sight. He waited and listened. Heavy breathing, and stifled giggles came from the closet.
As quietly as possible, he tiptoed to the closet and jerked the door open. Meg, curled up in the corner, squealed and dove out just beneath his grasping hands. He ran after her, catching up as she reached the door, and pulled at the neck of her tee-shirt.
The material ripped easily, too easily. She deftly twisted out of his grasp and continued down the hall with a tear in her shirt half way down her back. He paused, wondering why the shirt tore so easily. He'd tried to make rags of old tee-shirts, and knew that the necklines could only be torn with considerable effort. But as he thought about it, watching Meg run down the hall, he noticed several short, careful cuts in the neckline and hem of that old shirt. Grinning devilishly, he realized she'd "pre-cut" it, just so he could rip and tear it with ease.
Now he was totally into her little game. Oh, yes. And Mr. Stiffy was getting interested also, especially after the glimpse of bare bouncing boob he caught through that gaping tear in her shirt. He rushed toward the living room after her, only to have her slip behind him as he went past the kitchen. She'd circled around to the other entrance off the dining room.
He stopped and turned quickly, just managing to take hold of the waist of her cut-offs. Meg yanked herself away from him and again he was surprised at the results. He was left holding the cut-offs while she ran off, wearing nothing but the torn tee-shirt. He quickly assessed the shorts and saw that the side seams had been cut from top to bottom. Only a few loose stitches had been holding them together.
"All right, Meg," he called out. "Now you're really in for it." Returning to the bedroom, he again found her in the closet, but this time he managed to grab a handful of hair as she tried to slip past him.
"Oh no!" she yelled in mock distress. "You monster you! Let me go!"
Without a word he hefted her up over his shoulder like a sack, while she pounded on his back. Holding her with one hand, he swept everything off the top of her dresser. He swung her off his shoulder and sat her on the top of the dresser, about waist high.
"Now, I'm going to have my way with you," he announced in an evil voice. He pulled at one of the cuts in the hem of her shirt. "You can't hide your charms from me any more," he laughed, grabbing another cut and again ripping the shirt. Again and again he tore at the flimsy material, but never quite enough for the shirt to come off completely.
At last, he stopped. They were both breathing heavily. Their eyes met. Hers burned with a fire that dared to be quenched. His seared with the same raw lust he'd felt last week. He let his gaze move from her eyes, to drink in the sight of her heaving chest draped in tatters of cloth.
Quickly he lowered his pants, at last letting his eager cock spring out. His hands reached out as if by themselves, kneading her soft mounds. He twisted the loose strips of cloth around them, flicking the hardened nipples over and over. Meg breathlessly urged him on, having long since forgotten her pretense of fighting off her "attacker." Aaron was suddenly aware of her sharp nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him, demanding him.
He pressed his lips to hers, probing her mouth deeply with his tongue. His right hand dropped between her spread legs, and found her hungry open pussy lips. He guided his cock into its warm wet welcoming, while she wrapped her legs tightly around his thighs. He fucked her as she sat on the dresser, wildly, mindlessly, almost viciously.
He seemed beyond rational thought, but just as he was about to come, he slowed down, took hold of her ass with both hands, and lifted her off the dresser keeping her impaled on his rod. Backing over to the bed, he sat on the edge, and leaned back. Meg, completely lost in her sensations, quickly found her leverage and began to ride his shaft like she'd never ridden it before. Aaron toyed again with her tits and the remnants of the shirt, marveling at his wife's almost desperate fucking. At last, gasping for air, she shouted, "Touch me Aaron. I need you to touch me."
Slowly, torturously, he traced a finger from her breast to her clit. Then, adding upward thrusts, he began to massage and rub her stiff nub. She shuddered and fell forward on top of him, as he erupted inside her. Together they rolled all the way onto the bed, trying to keep his shrinking cock inside her as long as possible. "I never want this feeling to end," she whispered. Knowing what she wanted, he continued to finger-fuck her for many long minutes, sucking her breasts, keeping her soaring, flying in a place he could only guess about.
Finally, they lay wrapped around each other, exhausted. She smiled at him. "I have a whole drawer full of old shirts, you know," she said.
"Yes," he agreed, "I know."
She pointed toward a small object on the bedside table. "Oh, by the way, I think you can fix the toaster now if you put that fuse back in the breaker-box."
Ripper |