The Impotence Files: Take Your Medicine, Honey
I have always hated hospitals. Loathed them, in fact; the clinical aromas, the sterile feel, the gloomy atmosphere, the poker-faced staff. I would have given anything to be miles away from the damned place.
As of this moment, however, I had little choice in the matter. I was ensconced in one of the consulting rooms in the labyrinthine hospital complex, lying on an examination table with my genitals exposed like a horizontal flasher. The pale blue hospital gown that I wore – those hideous goddamned things that expose your ass to all and sundry – was bunched around my waist like a hula skirt.
I looked down at the semi-bald pate of the specialist bending over to examine me and I stifled a soft curse. What was his name again? Rogers. That was it. Dr. Rogers. No – Mister Rogers, I reminded myself. Specialists didn’t like being referred to as Doctor. I felt my pulse quicken. Fucking quacks; I’d had enough of them in the last six days. I was not in a good mood. Mr. Rogers gently lowered my penis and nodded sagely at my crotch, as if my cock had just uttered some nugget of medical wisdom that only he was privy to.
“Whoever did the operation in Vietnam did excellent work,” he said. “The stitching is very good indeed. Really top-class.”
An irrational flush of annoyance furrowed my brow as I realised that he was addressing his remarks to my cock, and not to my face; I suddenly knew how women felt when they complained about how some men talked to their breasts.
“I think the surgeon’s name was Dr. Sew Mai Kok – something like that.” I replied dryly.
He either missed or ignored the sarcasm in my voice. “Well, it really is excellent work,” he assured me again, as if I should likewise be impressed. He straightened and removed his latex gloves, and grandly gestured to a vinyl chair in front of his desk in a manner that suggested he had conjured the chair into existence. I assumed that he wanted me to sit in it. I lowered myself gingerly from the examination table, rearranged the irritating hospital gown, and grumpily seated myself in the proffered chair.
Mr. Rogers was a strange-looking critter; he was exceedingly tall and angular and thin as a reed, but his head was discordantly round and flat as a pie plate. Looking at his thin body and large, rotund head, I suddenly thought how apt it was that he greatly resembled the dicks that he treated. The thought made me grin waspishly, and I wondered if any of his other patients had made the same observation. He strode purposefully around to his side of the desk and sank into his leather chair like a felled giraffe. His leather chair whooshed as air rushed out of it.
He peered at me over his desk as if he were surprised to see me there. He pressed his fingertips together and rested his index fingers under his chin, as only medicos seemed to do. “How on earth did it happen?” he asked.
I sighed and briefly closed my eyes; everyone wanted to know how it happened. It occurred to me that if it had been a two-inch cut in my arm, or my leg, or even my face, then people wouldn’t really care how it happened. But get a deep two-inch slash in your dick, and suddenly ever bastard wants to know the grisly details. Fucking ghouls, all of them, like people slowing down to stare greedily at a car accident, wanting to absorb every morbid detail.
I raised my eyelids and slowly focused on Mr. Roger’s round face hovering over his desk like a moon looming over the horizon. Maybe he wanted to chronicle this one and submit it to the Lancet, I thought rancorous.
I decided to give him the long version. I gritted my teeth and began: “Just over five months ago I was contracted to work as the chief supervisor on a construction job in Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon, building a new multi-storey shopping center. It was a six-month contract, working six days a week. I didn’t really want the job, since it would mean I’d be away from my wife and home for half a year – but the money they offered was too good to refuse. There’s a boom in building there right now, and they’re offering top dollar for guys with my experience in the industry.
“Anyway – last Friday four of the company big shots fronted up, wanting to check out progress on the job. There wasn’t anything new for them to see, but what the hell – they paid my salary, so I started showing them around. We went up to the first floor. You have to understand that since it was a commercial building and not a residential one, the first floor was a lot higher than normal – maybe twenty-five feet off the ground.
“There was a section up there that was still accessible only by scaffold, and we started to cross it. Whether the scaffold rigging was faulty, or the bolts snapped, or whether the weight of five men was too much for one weak section to bear, I don’t know. But as we crossed it, something broke – the scaffold gave way at one end, right under our feet.
“It all happened so fast – one minute I was just walking, and the next minute I was falling. My first reaction was to grab one of the steel uprights, the round supports that held the scaffolding up – but I could only get my right hand around the tubing, since I was holding a clipboard in my other hand and I didn’t think to drop it in time. Grabbing hold of the support with my right hand swung my body outwards slightly, but with the downward momentum that I already had I couldn’t slow myself up with one hand – not around the smooth steel. All it did was slow my fall a little, but I still slid down the pole – fast.
“It just so happened that there was a sign bolted to the scaffold bracing under me, and it overlapped the support that I was sliding down by a few inches. The sign was made from cheap tin sheeting, and as yo can obviously guess, the corner of the tin hadn’t been rounded off, and it was extremely thin and sharp. Under normal circumstances, this didn’t matter; the sign was eight feet above the ground, and nobody was going to hit their head on it that high up – even if they were wearing a safety helmet. What they didn’t think of was someone coming down the pole, like I was doing.
“My crotch collided with the sharp edge of the overhanging tin. All I felt at the time was a painful sting and then a jolt that basically halted my descent and pushed me backwards, and I lost my grip on the support. I fell the last six or seven feet or so to the ground and landed on my back, knocking the wind out of me. I looked up the see two of the company guys hanging from the edge of the scaffold, yelling and scrambling to get back up. The other two guys had fallen like I had, and they had landed beside me and one of them – the one who ended up with a broken pelvis – was screaming. I raised my head to look at him – and that’s when I saw the blood on my thigh. My blood.”
I paused my account, remembering the hot burning that had started then. I had reached down to my crotch and felt the ripped material of my trousers, and when I looked at my fingers they were slick with blood. Then the pain suddenly tore through me, and I realised that I was screaming too.
The next two hours or so was now a blur of agony and shock and dread. Luckily the hospital was close by, and I remembered how the ambulance siren had wailed. I was eventually sent to the operating theatre for emergency surgery.
After I awoke from the anaesthetic, the bespectacled surgeon had appeared at my bedside. In reasonable English he’d explained what had happened; as I slid down the steel pole, the sharp corner of the tiny sign had effortlessly slashed through my trousers and underwear. It had grazed my scrotum, luckily pushing it backwards out-of-the-way. My luck, however, was short-lived, and the sharp metal corner then pierced the underside of my penis, near the root and slightly to one side, half-slicing and half-ripping nearly three-quarters of the way through as I continued sliding down the steel support. The jolt that curtailed my rapid descent and threw me backwards was my steel belt buckle catching the upper edge of the tin sign. The surgeon said that I was fortunate – if I hadn’t been wearing the belt, then not only would my fall have been heavier, but the sharp metal might have continued upward, cleaving my glans in two, and carrying on to tear me open from crotch to throat. What a happy thought. Just marvelous.
A total of eighteen stitches had closed the two-inch slice in my cock, as well as some internal stitching. Painkillers took the edge off the agony.
I had spent the next three days in hospital for observation. A somber delegation of company officials duly paid me a visit, informing me that a flight back to Australia had been arranged at my convenience. As far as I was concerned, it was convenient for me to leave immediately, and I told them to arrange a flight ASAP. I wanted to go home. I gingerly boarded a flight from Tan Son Nhut airport the next day, my crotch swathed in bandaging under my loose trousers. My frantic wife Angela had met me at Tullamarine airport in Melbourne.
Mr. Rogers shook his head and tutted. “Very nasty,” he intoned tonelessly. “I assume that you will seek legal recourse for this injury?”
“You bet I will,” I replied. I had made a preliminary phone call to a law firm yesterday, and they were already rubbing their greedy little hands together in anticipation of the settlement they could demand if I wasn’t satisfied with the offer of compensation that the company was sure to offer me.
Mr. Rogers nodded curtly. He became suddenly businesslike. “Now for your prognosis. Well, the urethra hasn’t been severed, as you are probably aware. Missed it by a fraction, but it’s perfectly intact – so that’s excellent news. There also appears to be no nerve damage, and th underside of your glans was only just nicked. You will also be pleased to hear that we expect you will make a full recovery in time. It’s a very nasty injury, but it will heal just fine.”
I let out a soft breath. Thank Christ!
“Now for some new that isn’t so good,” he began. “Wounds of this severity are obviously serious no matter where they are on the body. But a deep incision in the penis has added complications. You are probably aware that the penis is unique in the manner in which it can change size and shape, from flaccid to erect, and vice-versa.”
I nodded firmly.
Mr. Rogers continued: “The stitches that are holding the tissues together need time to allow healing to begin. In the worst case scenario, an erection can cause enough swelling to rip the stitches out completely, and even at best an erection can put undue strain on the stitches and interfere with the healing process by causing movement that breaks the first tenuous bonding of the tissues. Naturally you won’t be able to engage in sexual activity for a considerable time anyway, but involuntary erections can occur at other times, as we all know – especially at night while you’re sleeping.”
I nodded again, a little less enthusiastically this time. In fact, I did remember laying in the hospital bed and at one point wondering what would happen to the stitches if I happened to get a hard on. A gruesome vision of my cock slowly peeling apart and bursting like an overcooked cocktail frankfurt had made my testicles shrivel.
Mr. Rogers spoke on. “So until your penis is well on the way to a full recovery, it’s important that we prevent any erections that you might have – nocturnal and otherwise.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. Mr. Rogers reached into a drawer and retrieved a plastic-coated diagram showing a cross-section of the male reproductive organs. He placed it on the desktop and spun it around so I could clearly see it. The picture had enough detail to frighten small children.
Mr. Rogers used his silver pen as a pointer. “These muscles here control a kind of valve which holds blood in the spongy tissues of the penis. This is what causes an erection. You have probably heard of Viagra, which helps to contract these muscles in men with erectile problems.”
“I know about Viagra,” I told him. “I think everyone knows what it’s for.”
He gave a curt nod and continued. “About ten years ago it was noted that a certain type of anti-depressant drug had an unexpected side-effect – it relaxed these muscles instead. It therefore had the opposite effect of Viagra, hindering and in many cases halting erections altogether. The anti-depressant was not popular with many men for this reason.”
“I can see why,” I grunted. “They probably had enough to be depressed about as it was.”
Mr. Rogers uttered a fruity chuckle. “Indeed. Anyway, one bright American researcher decided to isolate the chemical composition that was specifically relaxing these muscles. He eventually succeeded, and the ADA approved the drug early this year. When taken regularly, it causes temporary impotency. As you may well understand, the need for its application is rare – but it cases such as yours, it can greatly improve the chances of rapid healing and a speedy recovery.”
“So if I start taking this medication, I can’t become hard?”
“Exactly. The penis will remain flaccid no matter how much stimulation is applied. And, in fact, right after your surgery last week you’re attending physician there introduced it in tablet form as a precautionary measure, according to the records that I was sent by the hospital there – so you’re already taking it.”
I creased my eyebrows. When I was in hospital in Ho Chi Minh City I simply took the pills proffered by the nurses without asking what the hell they were – not that many of them could speak English in any event. I had assumed they were all antibiotics, and I was issued with a seven-day supply of three different tablets when I left the hospital, along with instructions on when to take what. Mr. Rogers had already asked me about that. It explained why I hadn’t gotten an erection since the accident, I guess.
“I see,” I replied. “So I just keep taking the pills until everything is healed. How long will that take?”
His smile faded. “Usually in a case such as yours, it will take upwards of ten to twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks?” I gasped.
“Possibly even more,” he replied dolefully. “Your penis has suffered extensive trauma, and it simply takes time to heal. Much will depend on everything going smoothly, and this doesn’t always happen. It’s common for injuries of this nature to take as long as sixteen weeks to heal properly.”
That sat me on my ass. Sixteen fucking weeks! Or, more accurately, sixteen weeks without fucking! I slumped in the chair. While I was working in Vietnam, many of my colleagues had regularly used the cheap and easily available whores that infested the area around our tacky hotel – but I never did. I had been faithful to Angela. I performed a quick calculation; I had already spent five and a half months celibate – and now possibly another four months on top of that. Over nine mont without sex! I stifled another groan.
Mr. Rogers gazed sympathetically at me, and he read my thoughts. “But after you are healed, you should be as good as new, sexually and otherwise.” he informed me cheerfully. “Of course, we’ll have to assume that scar tissue won’t become a factor.”
“A factor in what?” I asked sharply. A sudden chill went through my stomach.
Mr. Rogers cleared his throat. “Well, in some cases scar tissue can cause the erect penis to develop a slight curve on the side that the scar is located on. This is because some elasticity can be lost when scarring occurs. In your case, since the incision was on the underside, you may develop a slight downward curve. And you may lose a little length when you are fully erect, as well.”
My mouth drooped open; more great fucking news. “How much length?” I asked.
“Oh, possibly no more than half an inch or so. Negligible, really.”
Negligible. That was easy for him to say – it wasn’t his cock we were discussing. I glared stonily at him over his desk. I guess I was average size in the dick department, but I wasn’t exactly John Holmes either – like any man, I wanted all the length I could get.
“But that’s all in the future,” he added. “And for the nonce, we’ll be optimistic and hope that these factors won’t affect you at all.”
I heaved a heavy sigh. “Very well.”
The remainder of the consultation involved him telling me the various medications I needed to take, and strong advice to keep my penis clean and dry and to change the dressing regularly, to refrain from intercourse (as if I needed to be told that – the berk!), to take care showering, to avoid strenuous exercise, etc. He was typing on a keyboard as he spoke, and soon an inkjet printer on the desk whined and ejected several sheets of paper like flat white tongues.
“I’ll get you to come back and see me next Thursday at ten o’clock,” he concluded. “I’ll also contact your local GP – a Dr. Douglas, I believe – and inform him of your situation. If you notice anything untoward, then go and see him immediately.”
He handed me the sheets of paper he had just printed. They were prescriptions. “Get these filled, and when you’ve finished the course of medication they issued you in Ho Chi Minh City, just switch over to the new batch and follow the instructions for dosage. Use the painkiller as needed, but don’t exceed the maximum dose of eight pills per day. I’ll get a nurse to redress the bandages for you, and then you can be on your way. See you next week at ten.” He must have already pressed a button on his intercom, because a nurse entered the room as if summoned by magic. Mr. Rogers made his requirements known to her, and she led me back to the room where I had first changed into the hospital gown.
Ten minutes later, with my bruised and sewn member re-swathed, I slowly made my way back out to the reception area. Angela arose and walked over to me.
“How did it go?” she anxiously asked.
“I’ll tell you all about it in the car, hun” I said somberly. “Let’s get out of here.”
As we strode under a large sign that read ‘EXIT’, I was suddenly reminded of the tin sign that had done me so much damage six days ago. I had seen the sign bolted to the scaffold support dozens of times in the last few months. It had been emblazoned with a caricature of a man from the neck upwards, pointing to his safety helmet, and the ironic words underneath had read: SAFETY FIRST.
Angela drove as we made our way onto the Monash freeway. At this time of day, the traffic was relatively light. It was early spring, and the sun beamed with the promise of a hot summer.
The first thing I told Angela was that I was going to be fine. The relief was clearly visible on her face. I then explained exactly what the specialist had said, including how long it might take for the wound to properly heal. I though I saw the corners of her mouth droop slightly when I mentioned it may take sixteen weeks; she had been without sex for nearly six months, as well.
“But everything will be fine after that?” she asked.
“So Moonface told me,” I replied. She gave a quick bark of laughter at my unkind description of Mr. Roger’s rotund countenance; she had seen the man when we arrived. I continued: “He said there’s no nerve damage, and everything seems to be intact. It’s just gonna take time to heal.”
“Thank Christ for that. You were lucky by the sounds of it, Michael.”
I also mentioned the medication that would keep me flaccid, and the reason for using it. Angela worked as a highly successful sales executive for a major pharmaceutical company, and this engaged her professional interest.
“I vaguely recall reading a memo about that drug,” she said when I had finished. “But I don’t know who’s distributing it.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” I replied. “I have to get the prescriptions filled, so you’ll see the packet. We can do that when we get back home.”
She nodded. I swiveled my head to look at her. I had forgotten just how gorgeous my wife was, and just how proud I was to be her husband. At thirty-two years of age, Angela was seven years younger than I was. She had wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair that framed a pretty, square-jawed face. I was always reminded of Farrah Fawcett’s jawline when I looked at her – but the similarity ended there; Angela’s mouth was broader, and her cheekbones were wider, and her eyes were deep green. When she smiled, her whole face lit up.
She stood about five feet, nine inches tall, and diligent workouts on our home gym and regular exercise had given her a body that women ten years younger would have envied. She worked hard to maintain her body, and she was justly proud of her efforts. Her long legs were probably her best feature; they were perfectly shaped and well proportioned, with tight calf muscles and lean, slender thighs. When she wore a mini-skirt she had no shortage of appreciative male glances. She had a flat stomach and a tapered waist that flared out into broad, curvaceous hips, and an ass that was practically edible. Her firm breasts were of average size, but had that delicious cantilevered shape that could take a man’s breath away. She once told me that her measurements were exactly 36-24-36 – and I could easily believe it. When she wore a tight dress, her entire body screamed Woman!
I often wondered how much her success as a sales executive was helped by how good she looked in a snug skirt. This was perhaps sexist and unfair of me; she was extremely good at her job, but her feminine charms were amply evident even when dressed in her relatively tame work attire. I would have bet they would have enticed more than one pharmacist to purchase the products she proffered. They would have enticed me.
It was the second marriage for us both; I had divorced my first wife five years ago, and Angela’s first husband, an up-and-coming barrister, had died in a car accident at around the same time.
“But our marriage was already dead,” Angela once told me. “If Carl hadn’t had the accident, we would’ve been divorced soon after anyway. I already had the papers drawn up.”
She explained that Carl had been fond of other women. He’d started having affairs soon after they were married, and Angela had at first been forgiving, accepting his promises to stop his dalliances. But he didn’t stop. Angela’s love for him slowly died, and her smoldering rage slowly grew with each lie that he told her.
“So in the end I had a couple of affairs myself,” she told me “I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but at the time maybe I just wanted him to see how it felt. Or maybe I just needed the sex – because I sure as hell wasn’t getting a lot from Carl.”
I had raised my eyebrows at that: Angela was, as I have stated, an extremely attractive lady. I had delicately asked why she and her husband had not made love more.
Angela had laughed bitterly: “Because I wouldn’t let him fuck me up the ass.”
Her reply had startled me. She explained further: “Carl had a major kink for anal sex, you see. He’d pestered me about it for years, ever since we got married. Back in those days, it just wasn’t for me, and we had so many arguments over it. The more I resisted, the more he tried to persuade me. He became more and more obsessed with it, and he would buy magazines and videos and DVD’s – all featuring anal sex. He once even deliberately tried to get me almost blind drunk by spiking my drinks so he could talk me into it. I have a good idea that if I’d passed out, he would’ve done it to me while I was unconscious.
“The next morning I told him he needed professional help – and of course that didn’t go down too well. So, since I wouldn’t give him anal sex, he stopped wanting vaginal sex with me – which told me a lot about how he really felt for me and our marriage. It was incredibly hurtful, and it was probably the last nail in the coffin. Anyway, his slutty little secretary must’ve been more accommodating, since she was the last little trollop he was involved with. Maybe she thought that if she gave up her ass, then she’d get a promotion, or Carl would even leave me for her – she was such an airhead that she would’ve believed that. But I bet there were a few mornings when she couldn’t sit straight on her fucking office chair.”
I had heard similar stories in the past; whilst I wasn’t into anal sex and had never suggested it to Angela, I certainly didn’t begrudge those men and women who did enjoy it. But to allow disagreements about it to corrode your relationship to the point of dissolving was insane.
The final irony was that on the night a drunk driver ploughed into the side of his car and killed him, Carl was on his way back from a tryst with his secretary. He had told Angela he was working late – but the accident occurred just two blocks from his secretary’s house on the other side of town.
“If he hadn’t always been thinking with his dick, he’d still be alive today. Probably divorced – but alive.” Angela had dryly stated.
I had met Angela about six months after my own divorce. Some buddies of mine had invited me to join their regular Wednesday night bowling team, and apparently some of Angela’s friends had inveigled her to do the same. The first time I saw her at the bowling alley, she was wearing a red dress that hugged every curve of her body. When she sent a ball down the laneway, I’m sure that every male eye in visual range was glued to her gorgeous ass pulling the material of her dress tautly across her behind. It wasn’t exactly a come-fuck-me dress – but it was certainly dropping some heavy hints.
I took instant note of the hints, and by chance the next Wednesday night my team was drawn to bowl against hers. I flirted with her, and after learning that she was single I asked her out to dinner, and she accepted my invitation. To cut a long story short, we became a couple, fell deeply in love, and got married two years later.
I found Angela to be a very sensual lady, and her enthusiasm and inventiveness in bed was a pleasant and very welcome surprise after my passionless first marriage. She was one of those women who exuded an almost understated sexuality, as though she kept her passions in check by exerting only sufficient restraint; you sensed that behind her veneer of propriety there lurked a fervent libido. To say that she had animal magnetism was an apt description. I could see flashes of this in her spontaneous knack for bringing out the eroticism in normally mundane situations.
For example, we once went to a restaurant with two other couples. Angela had slipped her shoes off under the table, and I suddenly felt the toes of her left foot slip up under the cuff of my trousers. I turned my head towards her, and she sent me a soft, teasing smile before returning her attention back to the conversation at the table.
All through the main course her toes had slid sensually up and down my instep. Angela was well aware that this turned me on. As she ate, she carried on conversing and laughing with the other guests as though nothing was happening under the table. When the main course was finished, she leaned over and whispered in my ear: “I need to use the bathroom in a few minutes. So do you. Follow me when I go.”
I gave her a perplexed nod. Several minutes later, she excused herself and arose from the table. I also bemusedly excused myself as she had instructed, and followed her into the dim hallway where the toilets were located. The women’s toilet was unoccupied (I found out later that Angela knew it was empty, since she had been watching the hallway entrance). She took my hand and quickly drew me inside and locked the door.
Without another word, she sat down on the toilet seat, unzipped me, and – despite my initial (and feeble) protests – she proceeded to give me a blowjob as I stood trembling in front of her. She is extremely good at this particular sexual act, and in less than two minutes I was struggling to remain on my feet and stifling my moans of pleasure as I exploded in her mouth. She winked up at me as she swallowed every drop of my cream.
She then re-zipped me, and checked that the hallway was clear, and with a soft giggle of finality she quickly ushered me out. I dazedly crossed to the male toilet, also fortunately unoccupied, and then shakily made my way back to our table, the warm afterglow of climax making my legs wobbly. Angela returned a few minutes later, and as she began breezily chatting with our fellow diners I admired her aplomb. A waiter shortly materialised to take dessert orders. As I raised my glass to my lips, Angela looked at me with the slightest of smiles and demurely announced:”I think I’ll get the vanilla pudding. I really fancy something warm and creamy after gobbling all that meat just now.”
I had nearly spat a mouthful of wine all over the table. To make matters worse, a woman seated to her left peered over her menu and whinnied: “Mmm, that sounds yummy! I think I’ll have that, too.”
Angela had rolled right along: “It’s delicious! Michael often gives it to me for dessert,” She turned her radiant face toward me. “You serve yours with nuts, don’t you, honey?” Her eyes twinkled, and I had been lucky to quell the hysterical giggled that fluttered in my stomach.
On another occasion, we went shopping in the local mall one Saturday morning. Just after we had arrived, we strolled into a women’s clothing store so Angela could look for a new skirt. She found one to her liking – a slinky black number – and she went into the shop change room to try it on. She modeled it for me, and after getting my approval for it, she decided to buy it and wear it immediately. Just after we left the shop, she smiled impishly and reached into her jacket, and passed me a wadded ball of black material. It took me a few seconds to realise it was her panties.
“Put those in your pocket for me please, babe,” she quietly told me. My eyes must have widened, because she laughed softly and leaned forward to whisper: “That’s right, honey. I’m not wearing anything under my new skirt.”
For the next two hours we strolled around the mall, and she would make oblique references to the fact that she was naked under her new purchase. I am not sure if this type of fetish turns all men on, but it sure as hell turned me on. Angela could see the effect it was having on me, and that just made her sly remarks about it all the more blatant. As we sat drinking coffee in one of the cafes inside the mall, she whispered in my ear: “Just think – if it wasn’t for all these people here, you could slide you hand up my thighs and feel just how wet I am for you, honey.” whettttt. My coffee cup had rattled sharply against the saucer when I put it down.
The moment we arrived back home, I practically dragged her into the bedroom, and within a minute we were making passionate love.
After, as we lay spent and panting in afterglow, she asked me how much it had turned me on knowing she was walking around with no panties under her skirt. I answered honestly, and I told her it made me very hot – which she already knew.
She propped herself up on her elbow and rested her head on her hand. “Why does it turn you on?” she asked.
I thought for a few seconds. “To know you’re naked underneath just makes me hot, I guess. Especially out in public with other guys around.”
Her eyes twinkled in sudden comprehension. “Ahh,” she said. “I guess it would remind you of that little fantasy.”
I smiled softly and nodded. That little fantasy, as she referred to it, was a kink I had developed in my early twenties – a voyeuristic craving to watch my partner have sex with another man. Angela, who did a lot of reading and surfed the Internet regularly, had once told me that it was commonly known as a cuckold fantasy.
During my brief and dispassionate previous marriage, I had never even mentioned this fantasy to my first wife. She hadn’t been the sort in whom you would confide anything that smacked of sexual deviance – otherwise it was likely to be thrown into your face during the next argument. I had learned this the hard way.
Angela, however, was completely different; she had an openness that was totally refreshing. She loved to explore the steamier boundaries of sexuality, and discussing fantasies during pillowtalk was a favorite post-coital pastime of hers. I came to trust her completely, and I told her things that I had never told another living soul – my cuckold fantasy being one of them.
When I first, and somewhat shyly, told her about this little kink, I was slightly fearful of her reaction; would she be shocked? Outraged? Disgusted? To my relief, she had simply raised an eyebrow, and told me that she had read that it was a very common fantasy for a lot of men, and that it didn’t upset her at all. She stated that it was one fantasy that we would probably never act out for real, but she added that she would make use of the fact that it aroused me.
That was another thing; it had been difficult to imagine my shrewish former wife with a lover; her frigid nature and indifferent attitude towards sex had somewhat dampened the erotic appeal of the fantasy. By contrast, Angela’s sensual personality and alluring body made it all too easy for me to imagine her ardently coupling with another man. In fact, Angela’s latent eroticism combined with the fact that her job brought her into contact with many different men on a daily basis had made this fantasy blossom like a weed in fertile soil; I found myself thinking about it more and more.
In fact, the next Friday night after I had confessed my little kink to her, I arrived home from work first. Angela came home about twenty minutes later, and I could immediately tell that she was feeling frisky. She kissed me passionately as soon as she walked in the door. She was a great kisser, and her soft lips and warm, moist tongue soon had me hardening in my jeans. She guided my hand up her skirt, and when my fingers slid up her smooth thigh to her pussy I drew a sharp breath; once again she wasn’t wearing panties. She broke our kiss.
“Oh!” she drawled softly. “I must have left them in the motel room – after I was with my lover.”
If I had been totally hard at that moment, I swear I would have nearly creamed my jeans.
Within two minutes we were naked in the bedroom. I shook as I mounted her. She gasped softly as I slid into her, and she wrapped her legs around my hips as they began pumping. Her eyes glittered as she looked up at me.
“Mmm, fuck me baby,” she urged softly. “Give it to me. And as you fuck me, think about where I left my panties!”
I had always prided myself on being able to last for at least ten minutes or longer when we made love. But upon hearing these teasing, carnal words from her, the unthinkable happened; orgasm suddenly boiled up inside me like an overheated radiator that suddenly had its cap removed. A few seconds later I moaned loudly and exploded inside her. I had not climaxed so rapidly since I was a teenager – if even then.
I dazedly collapsed onto her, shaking and panting. She sighed warmly under me and wrapped her arms around my back.
“Mmm, you came so fast, baby!” she said quietly. “I haven’t ever seen you cum so quick.”
I gasped that I hadn’t seen myself cum so quick, either.
She chuckled softly. “Mmm! It’s a good thing that my panties are in my handbag then, hmm?”
From that moment on, Angela started employing this form of tease on a regular basis. Naturally it didn’t become the sole focus of our sex life, but she quickly realised that she could use this kink to instantly heighten my desire and arousal. Over the next few months she used numerous ploys to discover what new buttons she could create using this fantasy, and she had no hesitation in pushing them – hard. The intensity varied, depending upon the circumstances – from teasingly subtle to blatantly pornographic.
For example, one subtle change involved her work attire; she naturally dressed as her executive position dictated – usually a plain skirt with a hemline a respectable two or three inches above the knee, pantyhose, a modest blouse and business jacket. The underwear that she usually wore was correspondingly tame and sensible. One morning she called me into the bedroom just as she began dressing for work. Instead of finding her in her usual staid undergarments and pantyhose, I was stunned to see that she had dressed in a sheer set of matching black bra and panties, and as a finishing touch she had donned a black suspender belt and stockings. She naturally saw my expression of surprise, and she smiled mischievously: “I just thought this might give you something to think about all day, honey,” she told me.
And think about it I did. At work my mind often played with images of Angela talking business with a male client, knowing that underneath her staid attire she was encased in skimpy lingerie and stockings. After Angela got home that evening I was naturally frisky, just as she had planned. She teased me for a while – making small-talk, but sitting with her delicious legs entwined and contriving it so that her skirt rode up, exposing the tops of her stockings. She finally deigned to notice my excited glances at her nylon-encased legs.
“Like what you see, honey?” she asked. Of course, I nodded, and she demurely added: “I’m sure a few other men might have had a good, long look today, as well. So, are you just going sit there and drool at me all night – or are you going to take me into that bedroom and fuck me?”
Naturally, I chose the latter option.
She didn’t wear lingerie under her weekday attire a lot – but just often enough to make the tactic extremely effective.
On the more blatant side, she would occasionally launch into a wickedly salacious narrative as we made love. For example, she would start by telling me that one of her major clients had been indecisive about a large purchase, but that he had suggested he would sign the contract in Angela offered him an extra incentive. The ‘incentive’ was, of course, sex – and Angela would then tell me that he was such a hunk that she had eagerly agreed, and that the pair of them had then gone to a motel and spent the afternoon fucking. Angela would pitch her sweet, sultry voice so that her lewd story had a tone of almost apologetic but unabashed glee – like she was aware she had done something extremely ‘naughty’, but that she had been unable to stop herself from relishing it.
She had dozens of variations on this theme, and naturally these deliciously wicked stories would drive me absolutely insane with excitement. I am sure that Angela sometimes did it just to see how fast she could make me explode, and at other times she would teasingly start and stop her lurid tale, halting me on the brink numerous times before winding me up yet again until I was a shaking, trembling wreck. With each story she told she learned something more about what turned my crank, and even I was surprised at the lascivious and carnal thoughts and desires that she was able to uncover in the murky depths of my sexual psyche. It was like riding on an erotic roller coaster, with each new crest offering a new thrill, and Angela not only rode it with me, but she kept cranking up the speed.
She did, however, ensure that I was aware that her titillating stories were just figments of her imagination. After one torrid lovemaking session in which she had alluded to a phantom lover with more kinky zeal than usual, she may have felt that I needed reassurance. We were laying naked in bed during the early evening, and we had been making soft, post-coital conversation for twenty minutes or so. She was curled up next to me with her head resting on my chest, softly running her nails over my stomach.
“When I tell you those things about another guy, you know I’m only teasing you, right, honey?” she had asked.
“Yeah, I know that, babe,” I relied. “It works, by the way.”
She chuckled softly. “Oh, I know it does! But I just wanted you to know that I would never sleep around behind your back. After having Carl do it to me so many times, I know how much damage it can do and how much it hurts, and I love you too much to ever risk letting that happen.”
I kissed the top of her head. “I know that, too. Thank you. And ditto.”
“So just know that when I tell you the wicked little stories that I do, it’s just done to excite you. If we ever did take that fantasy to the ultimate level, we’d talk about it first – a lot. I would never just go and sleep with someone else.”
This was the first time I had ever heard her mention the possibility of her cuckolding me for real. A tingle of excitement rippled through me, and I felt my cock twitch. “Do you think we ever will take it to the ultimate level?” I tentatively asked her.
She tilted her face up at me and smiled softly. “Not right now, honey, but in the future? You never know. It’s a very, very big step to take, and once you open the box, it can’t be shut again. I would need to be totally sure it’s what you wanted. If I ever did decide to bring it to life for you, it would just be to drive you absolutely insane,” Her smile and her tone took on a teasing edge. “And maybe for me to have a little ‘fun’.”
Her last statement sent another erotic ripple through me. “You would enjoy doing it?” I asked. My cock began to harden.
“If I knew that it was driving you out of your mind with arousal and lust? Then sure I would. If I found a guy who I really fancied, and knowing what it would do to you, then sure I’d enjoy it.” She glanced down to see that my cock had arisen to almost half-mast. She turned her face upward to me again. “Is that turning you on, honey? Imagining me not only really doing it, but enjoying it as another guy fucks me?”
“Yes,” I answered softly.
Angela smiled softly again. She slid her hand down and wrapped her fingers around my growing member. She began firmly stroking me, and I quickly became totally hard.
She pressed her face close to mine, and kissed me. “Well, maybe one day if the circumstances were right, I would do it – but we would discuss it a lot first, honey. It’s not on my ‘to do’ list right now, but let’s just say that one day it might be.”
She released my cock and arose to her knees and swung her right leg over my stomach, straddling me. She reached down and grasped my hard shaft again, her thighs warm and soft against my hips. She guided the head of my cock between her pussy lips and grinned down at me: “There is one thing on my ‘to do’ list that I need to do right now, though – and that’s for me to fuck you.”
She slowly sank down, and my cock gratefully slid into her moist heat. She carried out her pledge – and the bedroom was soon ringing to our combined grunts and moans of pleasure as we made love for the second time that night.
Her disclosure about being at least open to the possibility of cuckolding me in the future had naturally increased my excitement. I knew better than to try and force the issue; Angela was not a lady to be pushed around by anyone, including me. It wasn’t my style to push anyway, and Angela was well aware of that. She did, however, subsequently discuss it with me on several occasions, but only in hypothetical terms, and to further broaden her own understanding of my little kink. She once summed it up beautifully: “You know that I probably won’t sleep with another man, but I haven’t ruled it out completely – and it drives you wild to know that I could if I wanted to.”
The status quo remained this way until I went to work abroad. Angela continued to refine her methods of tease and her story-telling skills, and to be perfect honest I was quite happy with that. As she had stated – bringing this fantasy to life would be a very large step to take. But at the same time, I did continue to entertain visions of Angela truly taking this ultimate plunge, and writhing naked under some hot stud, her back arching and her long legs slithering over his back as he took her.
When I had reluctantly taken the lucrative six-month contract in Vietnam, it naturally meant that my wife and I would be apart for half a year. I was obviously not looking forward to this for several reasons. One of them was a vague sense of niggling insecurity. Angela had sensed my fears right away, and she made it very clear that she would remain faithful whilst I was away working, and once again telling me that she loved me very deeply. I appreciated her reassurance, and I lightly added that our time apart could make that little fantasy a lot more intense. She had smiled softly, and said that if I still wanted to play with it whist we were apart, then she would make sure that she spun me some mind-blowing tales.
Before I departed, I had purchased a laptop PC and I made sure that I got broadband access in the crummy hotel room where I was lodged. Angela had our desktop PC at home, and although we often spoke by telephone, the bulk of our communication was through email and over IRC and MSN. This was a cheap and convenient form of contact for us, and we used this electronic method to chat almost each night after I got back from the site.
One of the reasons that I wasn’t tempted by the local prostitutes in Ho Chi Minh City – apart from deeply loving my wife and wanting to remain faithful – was that Angela had learned that text messaging could have its own delicious erotic nuances. She quickly became adept at composing erotic emails and turning her writing skills to cybersex. In all modesty I got quite good at it as well, and many times my lascivious words were able to make Angela caress herself to climax thousands of miles away; I wanted to keep my lady as happy as I could.
In turn, she also learned that a written form of my cuckold fantasy could drive me just as wild as a spoken version. Once again, this wasn’t an everyday thing, but Angela would spin a different tale involving an imaginary lover maybe once a week. The combination of being so far apart and from seeing it in written form actually made her stories more plausible. Of course, her teasing was just that – teasing. But it had a scintillating affect on me no matter how many times she played with variations of this theme.
In fact, on the night before my unfortunate accident she had told me a titillating story about a colleague inviting her out to dinner a few days hence, and how she was planning on serving him up a hot, creamy dessert later that night.
Now – as we coasted along the freeway in brilliant sunshine – I looked at her pretty face gazing ahead through the windscreen, and I thought about the possibility of sixteen long weeks without being able to make love to her, and I sighed heavily. Fate had not been kind in recent days. I dropped my gaze to her bare left leg; I had forgotten how gorgeous her legs were.
Suddenly, an unexpected thought popped into my mind – a thought so darkly lascivious and carnal that I drew a sharp breath. Angela must have heard my soft gasp, because she turned to face me for a second, and she slid her hand into mine and smiled softly. The warmth of her touch flushed the thought back into the dark recesses of my mind.
But I knew that in the coming weeks, and possibly months, the thought would return.
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