To hear your wife tell it, you are the perfect husband; the only man that she will ever want because no other man has ever – or will ever – love her more deeply and selflessly.

Attentive; caring; considerate: these are the qualities that most attract a woman to her mate - qualities that you undoubtedly possess, as she so often tells you.  A gentleman to the core, always willing to place your wife’s happiness above your own - as it should be, of course - and in return, she takes more than adequate care of your desires.  This is love.  This is marriage; that magical partnership of give and take.

And with that partnership come the inevitable friends and family.  Love is love, true indeed; but best friends are forever.  Accepting that is the cornerstone to any successful relationship between man and wife, and so you are happy enough to tag along when your wife has an urgent need to see one of her closest friends.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” your wife says, stepping out of the car. 

And in the passenger seat you smile, knowing that whenever your wife and her friend get together, it’s never for anything as brief as “a few minutes”.  The laughter; the gossip.  The latest celebrity news, or this season’s fashions.  Whatever grabs their attention, you know that you’ll be here for a while.  And that’s fine, you think to yourself, settling down in your seat.  That’s just the way your wife is.

The air in the car is warm; the air-con set just right.  Rain patters against the windshield, like tiny fists trying and failing to attract your attention.  The radio is turned low, the DJ playing an old, familiar tune, and you absentmindedly hum along.  You feel drowsy; relaxed.   Your eyelids are heavy.  But it doesn’t matter – you know you have time; time enough to indulge in a favourite fantasy...

Close your eyes.  Just for a moment; just for a moment.

Hush.  Your wife will be a while yet.

There is time...

Picture a hand that isn’t your hand, with patient fingers that walk the length of your wife’s arm, reaching her slender shoulders to brush the thin straps of her dress aside.  With the faintest rustle, the dress is casually shrugged off and allowed to fall; but even before your beautiful wife has stepped clear from the pool of fabric her lover’s hands are already caressing a lazy line along the alabaster pale skin of her torso, fingers tracing a path through the cluster of freckles just below her neck line, circling lower and lower, until they reach the pert firmness of her breasts.  Your wife’s breathing which has been even and constant, suddenly quickens in anticipation.

Slowly, her lover’s hand cups your wife’s breast, squeezing firm flesh with just enough pressure to draw a gasp, fingers rolling and pinching her sensitive nipples and they respond, hardening instantly.  Touches that are gossamer-light and barely there, awakening a hunger that needs to be sated. 

The hand is replaced by a mouth that isn’t your mouth, lips teasing the nipple, sucking and tugging the teat whilst a warm, wet tongue circles her pale areola, making your wife gasp again as she arches her back trying to force more of her breast into the mouth.  The hands return, this time restraining her movements until she submits.

 Slowly; slowly now.  This is not to be rushed.

Eyes that aren’t your eyes stare deeply into the azure blue of your wife’s pupils, watching them dilate as her arousal increases.  Her breathing is shallow; her body undulates with pleasure as her lover’s hands move back to play with her nipples, and the mouth that isn’t yours moves upwards, exploring and marking conquered territory with a trail of soft kisses along her neck and the underside of her chin.  Sensual probing finds new erogenous zones, the mouth pausing only to savour the aroma of your wife’s favourite perfume - a heady mix of sandalwood and vanilla – and underneath, the faint saltiness of her skin, smooth and soft to the touch.  Inevitably, the mouth finds its way to your wife’s, the tongue gently flicking along her full lips with increased fervour, easing its way inside to playfully joust with your wife’s tongue.

With exaggerated patience, the lover’s hands continue their journey southwards along your wife’s taut stomach, still untouched by childbirth, lightly stroking those ticklish, sensitive areas you know and love so well.  Down and down those fingers travel, and with slow inevitability, they come to that holiest-of-holy’s; to the rose garden that you claim by right as her husband.  These are not your fingers, and yet your wife finds herself responding as she does with you. 

The fingers rub the soft cotton of your wife’s panties, feeling her vulva beneath the thin fabric.  The room is warm, and the cotton damp to the touch.  Perspiration, perhaps – but you know better than most your own wife’s desire, and it seems more than coincidence that the panties are wettest where those fingers continue to massage her sex.  Almost without thinking your wife widens her legs still further, allowing her lover’s fingers to slip beneath the fabric to find the labia swollen, and slick with arousal, already parting in expectation.  One finger, then two, slowly slips between those perfect, sticky lips, working their way in and out, making her gasp.

And before long, those damp panties are eased down your wife’s slender legs to lie discarded on the floor.  The mouth that isn’t your mouth follows the same journey southwards as the fingers before it, kissing its way down your wife’s perfectly flat stomach, tracing a path through the tight ring of curls above her sex and down, finding her opening.  The skin here is as smooth and soft as velvet, and lips that aren’t yours slowly kiss around the inside of her thighs and nuzzle her labia, sucking it, teasing and drawing out the pleasure.

With practised ease, your wife’s lover now shifts position, tongue and fingers skirting the puckered rosebud of her anus.  Do you picture her buttocks clenching as she always does with you, denying access?  Or does your wife simply sigh as her lover’s fingers probe that most intimate of places and the tongue that isn’t yours moves back and forth, back and forth in long, languid strokes, tasting delights not shared with anyone else?

Limbs shift position again and now the lover’s mouth finds your wife’s clitoris, pushing the hood back and flicking a tongue across the little nub, prompting a moan.

Your wife moans again, feeling the waves build inside her as the mouth that isn’t yours sucks at her labia, rolling them between soft lips, and the tongue that isn’t yours twists around the hardened nub of her clitoris, jabbing into her soaking wet cunt to work alongside fingers that are curled up deep inside, stroking away at your wife’s pleasure centres.  There is no going back now.  Your wife feels that warm fuzziness spreading through her body, her orgasm building to the point of no return.    She stifles a moan, and then another but it is too late.  Fingers, tongue and lips work faster, lapping away at the juices flowing freely now.  Another moan escapes, louder this time... and another...

Yes...  yesss.... yessss!!!!.....

And alone in the passenger seat you startle, wondering what it is that has roused you from your pleasant reverie.

You hear it again, more insistent this time; and as your foggy brain finally comes to, you recognise it for what it is: the honk of a car horn.  Looking up, you see your wife’s friend’s husband, waiting to park on a driveway you have inadvertently blocked with your visit.

Grumbling to yourself you exit from your seat, holding a hand up in silent apology before moving to the driver’s side to inch the car forwards.  In short order, the husband parks and the two of you share a joke about ‘gossiping women’ as the front door finally opens, and here is your wife and her friend once again, smiling and apologising for the delay.

Shaking your head ruefully, you make a comment about the time as the two of you take your leave until next week.  After all, there are things you want to do; not least of which is getting back home in time for the afternoon’s match.  But still, you wonder why these two women have spent so long together for no fathomable reason.

Perhaps you notice the flushed cheeks?  Or the shared, mysterious smiles?  Perhaps the azure eyes sparkle so much more brightly after this little visit; or maybe the perfectly straightened hair is no longer so perfect; or the light summer dress is just that bit more rumpled now than it was before.  And why is such light, easily accessible clothing always preferred on these little trips?

Perhaps it is something; perhaps it is nothing but your fertile imagination.  And in any case, your wife appears to be so energised it seems churlish to spoil it all by asking stupid questions.  Her happiness comes first, as it always should.  

 To hear your wife tell it, you are the perfect husband; the only man she will ever want.