The quiet of my immaculate house was shattered by my impassioned moans echoing off the finely decorated walls. My horny wails bounced back into my ears as I furiously fingered my soaked pussy. My own voice was begging me to fuck myself harder. 

The heroine of the steamy romance novel I was immersed in had just escaped the foul clutches of her dastardly guardian, a vile miscreant who intended to force her hand in marriage, so he could control her inheritance. Within the arms of her stalwart, roguish love interest, a long-haired, muscular rebel with a heart of gold, she found comfort, solace, and the needy, hot sex that both she and I craved.

As I had the entire, sprawling house to myself all day, just like every day, the coffee table served well as a footrest to support my widely-spread legs as I fingered my dripping sex over the torrid sex scene. Musing over shopping for a book holder, so I could use both hands to stimulate my volcanic cunt, I alternated between harshly rubbing my clit and plunging two fingers deep inside my velvety canal. My need for release grew in tandem with the heat of my pleasure centers. Squishing sounds as I pummeled my cunt added harmony to the symphony of my guttural moans.

Finding the perfect rhythm of plunging and flicking my sensitive nub, I quickly got myself off while reading a passage where the heroine noticed that their hard, urgent sex was being observed by a young woman. It made her cum all the harder, and I copied the written words, giving myself a screaming orgasm that rattled the windows.

Originally, I had intended to reposition the living room couch, as it was approximately seven-and-a-half inches too far to the right. When Mike, my wonderful husband, perched on the couch to watch his evening shows, the setting sun shone through the window, and the glare blinded him. We couldn’t have that, so the davenport was relocated.

However, the book I was reading was on the coffee table, and I decided to read a few pages before I got back into my wifely duties. One of the advantages of being a housewife is that I have the entire day to fuck myself as often as I desire, any place I want. As far as Mike knew, I was simply always horny for him. The real truth was that I just loved to cum, so the “for him” part was open to debate.

My day’s biggest decision was whether to masturbate next in the bathtub, on the patio, or in the comfort of my bed. Since I had the entire day to myself, I opted for all three. Other than that, I did my usual rituals, going about my day and minding my own business. I did, however, spend my day in the nude. There’s just something about doing mundane things naked that turns me on. The laundry needed folding, the house needed to be cleaned and dusted, and I needed to prepare dinner and have it ready when my husband walked through the door upon his return from work.

Since I didn’t have any shopping to do that day, I had plenty of time to read more of my romance novel on the patio, the heroine’s torrid, steamy sex life adding extra sultriness to my fingers as they flew over my clit. None of our neighbors could see me, as the patio had privacy screens, but, I would have loved the thrill of being watched as I fucked myself to more orgasms. Then, as I waited for the bathtub to fill with hot water and bubbles, I lay on my bed, a vibrator buzzing away on my clit.

The previous day, I’d steam-cleaned the bathroom. The tub, fixtures, and tiles gleamed and sparkled in sanitary radiance, making my long, hot, luxurious bubble bath so relaxing. Sharp, new blades in my razor allowed me to shave all the stubbly hair growth from my legs and armpits, and my pubes were touched up and trimmed, with just a little vertical swatch running over my pubic mound. Hubby likes it like that, and what makes him happy pleases me. Imagining that he’d like my newly-trimmed pussy so much that he’d lower his head between my legs just to kiss it set off another long masturbation session. 

I’d already thought about what to wear to greet him. I could envision his reaction, all but feel his passion over how sexy I would be looking, and my body shivered in anticipation of the feel of his tongue gently swirling over my still-engorged clit.

Momentary panic set in, after my bath, when I couldn’t find the frilly, pink, lace thong panties that matched my push-up bra. He likes my tits to look big, firm, and full, and that bra always earned my juicy boobs extra gropes. I had a regular set of lingerie in black, and, while that’s not my preferred color for undergarments, I’d fingered and toyed myself longer than I usually should have, and that pesky dinner wouldn’t cook itself.

A black, floral sundress, light and wispy, covered my body. It accentuated my firm, round butt, and the material draped enticingly between my boobs. Looking at myself in the mirror, I determined that if I were a man, I’d fuck me, so it would do. Demure shoes, patent black leather with low, but still sexy, heels, finished off my ensemble. Contrasted with my newly-dyed, blond hair and smooth, pale skin, I looked ravishing, or, at least, hopefully, sexy. 

With dinner finally in the oven—a beautiful roast from the butcher’s shop, baked carrots with mashed potatoes, and dinner rolls on the side—I set the table and set out the sundries for my husband’s returning-from-work drink. With the dinnerware perfectly aligned to the plates, the candles on the table matching the tablecloth, and the curtains drawn closed precisely enough to let the light filter in without putting us on display for the entire neighborhood, all that was left to do was apply my makeup.

It took some pondering to decide on the palette. When my hair was darker, smoky or metallic hues seemed to enhance my fine facial bone structure and complement my skin tone. With the golden blond that Mike, my husband, wanted, such sultry color schemes didn’t work well in regular household lighting. Medium blue seemed perfect for my eyeshadow, matching some of the detailing on my dress. My lips were painted in a vibrant but subdued red, one that matched the roses on the sundress almost perfectly. A little rouge here, some alluring perfume there, and I was my usual sexy, but not slutty, housewife self. 

I had just enough time to adjust the twins in my bra and pour my husband his after-work drink before he pulled into the driveway. A good wife greets her husband at the door. Although he knew I’d be there, the way his face lit up when he saw me standing there, all prettied up, with a drink in hand and a smile on my face, made my heart swoon.

“Hi, honey,” I said cheerily. “How was your da…”

I couldn’t finish the last syllable because Mike tossed his briefcase aside, freeing his arms to scoop me up within them, and, then, he planted a big, romantic kiss on my lips. His lips burned into mine, my chest heaved in erotic need. I moaned onto his tongue when one of his hands ran across my torso, over my hips, and softly cupped my ass cheek.

My kiss grew passionate and furious in response to his pawing at me, and I pressed my soft, feminine body into his hard, muscular man-flesh. Mike turned me, pushing my body into the wall as if I were weightless, and I melted under his controlling, protective embrace, my pussy shooting fire. Pinned against the wall, my breath coming in panting sighs, and his hands roaming all over me, I nearly forgot about his dinner.

I wanted the sensation of his manly hands molesting my thighs to last forever. My hips involuntarily bucked against his fingers when he reached under the skirt of my dress and caressed my overheated cunt over my panties. When his left hand rose from my ass, running over the small of my back, I melted into him. He grabbed my neck and forced my burning lips against his more forcefully, and my pussy gushed with hot wetness. Had I not been pressed against the wall, my knees might have buckled.

“Keep it in your pants, for now, tiger,” I told him. “Dinner is ready for you.”

“If dinner tastes even half as good as your lips, Mary Anne, I’ll have seconds.”

Exactly as a good wife should, I refreshed my loving husband’s drink and served him his dinner. As usual, I waited until he gave his approval of the meal I’d prepared before serving myself. Dinner conversation was light and typical. I asked him about his day at work, built him up, expressed my appreciation for all he does for us, informed him that he had a fresh set of lounge clothes all neatly folded on the bed, and asked him about our evening plans.

Judge me all you want, but I love my life. I was a “trad wife” before it was cool. I know what you’re thinking. A lot of men think, you can be my wife, or, I wish my wife was as perfect as you. Sorry, guys, I’m happily married and far from perfect. 

Women tend to judge me as part of the problem. How dare I prostrate myself before the patriarchy? Maybe I’m missing the point, but isn’t being a feminist all about choosing the life that you want, not what somebody else dictates is your lot in life? The thing is, I’ve done the career-woman thing, and my traditional wife role is by my choice, and for good reason.

After graduating from college, I got a good job at a small advertising firm and quickly earned the reputation of being an efficient and very effective ad and advertising campaign designer. I was well compensated for my efforts, and having no family to rear and no husband to take care of allowed me to also work the long, hard hours all the men did. I was rapidly promoted and, eventually, had a small team of marketers working under me.

However, along with my fast-paced career came all the angst and woe. The daily stress and pressure to produce, and perform began taking their toll. With no life to speak of, relaxation only came in the form of alcohol, late nights, and one-night stands that, while physically gratifying, left my heart cold and empty. With the stress came sleeplessness, physical ailments, and premature aging. 

Then I met Michael, my Mike. He’s handsome and manly, gentle and loving, and he was a department supervisor for a chain of department stores. We met through work, his company being clients and me being one of the ad designers, and it was lust at first sight. Being a modern woman, I asked him out to dinner, seduced him, and a romance flourished. A few years later, we were married. His casual attitude towards the stressful rigors of working life saved me from falling into the pit of corporate despair.

About three years after we were married, Mike was offered a huge promotion. Taking the position of department head meant a larger office, a huge increase in salary with lots of vacation time, and all sorts of perks, including a company car. It also meant that he had to relocate more than a hundred miles away from where we lived to be close to the corporate headquarters.

After much discussion, I left my firm and accompanied my husband across the state to our new, larger, and more luxurious home. The original plan was that once we were settled in, I’d find another job, and things would go back to normal. Not surprisingly, that didn’t happen.

It wasn’t due to a lack of job offers. My track record allowed me to choose which firm I wanted to join. However, as it took a couple of months for us to get settled in, I’d grown pleasantly accustomed to not punching the clock and trying to win the rat race. No matter what, even if you win, you’re still a rat. Additionally, the effects of not partaking in the working world daily were amazing.

After the move, there were just so many things that needed to be done. Mike, my brown-haired hero, was striving to find his place within his new position, learning the ropes and taking charge. That left me to handle unpacking and organizing our belongings, take care of the utilities and deposits, venture out into the wilds to shop for the things our new home needed, greet the neighbors, and turn the house into a home.

While I was occupied with my chrysalis transformation into a domestic goddess, my entire mind, body, and outlook began to change. Suddenly, I could sleep at night, and I woke up well-rested and enthusiastic about the coming day. That was a far cry from my usual ritual of hitting the snooze button multiple times, dragging my still-exhausted butt out of bed, and dreading the impending doom of my work day. My complexion cleared up from lack of stress, and my libido skyrocketed. 

I had the absolute freedom to decorate and furnish the house and yard as I saw fit. Since Mike was working long hours, I made sure to greet him at the door when he arrived home with a cocktail in hand and a smile on my face. More often than not, my loving attention resulted in sex right there, on the spot. Because he was truly the king of his castle, at least from his point of view, he lavished attention on me as a display of gratitude. Still, though, I submitted my impressive resume to potential employers.

Something inside of me forced me to nitpick, always finding some reason why I wouldn’t be able to accept the job offer: there was no future that I could see with that company, the work culture was too misogynistic, the hours weren’t right, or I didn’t like the health plan. The list went on and on.

Then, one day, as we dined in a fancy restaurant, Mike just looked at me and said, “Babe, we’re not hurting for money at all. If you want to work, then find something that you like. If not, then don’t worry; I bring home enough money that you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I’ll think about it,” was my reply.

Five years and three big raises for Mike later, Mary Anne Kimball, a marketing career woman, was still Mrs. Suzie Homemaker, a traditional wife, and quite content. I chose this life. It was what truly made me happy. The difference could easily be seen by the spring in my step, the smile on my smoothly-complected face, and my well-fucked pussy.

So, I’ve lived on both sides of the fence, and I prefer it exactly where I am. For some, Rosie the Riveter is their choice. For me, it was Betty Crocker. I’m not subservient to my husband, nor does he boss me around. I run the home, and he makes the money. For us, it works; for me, it’s perfect.

The roast for dinner was, of course, superbly cooked, a culinary delight. It was a picture-perfect evening. All through dinner, Mike drenched me with sugary-sweet compliments and admiration. When I was done dining, I got up and began clearing the table, rinsing off the dishes to make for easy washing, later.

Noting his lusty gaze on my legs, I turned to face my smiling husband and lifted my skirt. His eyes bulged out when he saw my sexy black panties. He began to fidget in his chair as if he were about to stand up.

“Sit right back down, mister,” I scolded him with a wagging finger. “Be a good boy and finish your vegetables. Then, maybe, you can have your dessert.” I pointed to my hot, already-wet pussy. “I have a surprise for you if you behave.”

“Mary Anne,” he began, trying to be assertive. “I’m the man of the house, and I…”

“Well, finish your vegetables like a good husband, because you need your energy. Then, if you clean your plate and rinse it off, properly, for once, I’ll let you fuck my hot, wet, juicy pussy.”

With a crestfallen look of resignation, my bread-winning husband dove into the last vestiges of his second plate and hurriedly shoveled spoonfuls of sugar-glazed carrots down his gullet. I attended to the pots and pans while he finished the meal I’d “slaved all day over a hot oven” to prepare for him. The fact that the carrots came from the grocery store ready to warm up and the roast was pre-seasoned in the butcher's shop was my little secret—well, one of many little tidbits of information that I’d “accidentally” left undisclosed over the years.

I heard him leave his chair and sidle up behind me, even with the faucet in the kitchen sink on full blast. Mike dutifully scraped his plate and rinsed it off; he even remembered to put it in the left-hand side of the double sink.

“Now,” he whispered into my ear as his hands encircled my waist, then rose to fondle my breasts. “You mentioned a surprise in your sexy panties.”

Smiling, I turned off the water and turned to face him. “Take them off and see for yourself.”

My husband’s face grew red with arousal, and a sly, lusty smile crossed his lips. His hands reached out, slowly lowering to grasp at the hem of my sundress. I batted his groping paws aside.

“With your teeth, dear.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me, you big stud. Drop to your knees and take my panties off with your teeth.” He may make the money, but I run the house—my pussy, my rules.

His thick shock of brown hair disappeared under my dress. Even before his mouth made contact with my flesh, my thighs had already begun to quiver. As predicted, it took some time for his teeth to grapple with the waistband. His lips nuzzled against the satiny fabric, grazed my hot flesh, and his teeth and tongue brushed and lapped at my creamy, overheated flesh. The sensations and anticipation were wonderful.

During the few, short minutes it took for him to get a good bite into my panties and slowly pull them off my hips and down my legs, his chin, lips, and tongue had inadvertently explored my entire lower half. Even my sexy, lithe thighs were coated in erotic trails of saliva. My pussy began aching for attention, hot, sexual nectar dripping down my thighs.

“Good boy, Mike,” I teased him as I pulled up my dress to let him view my newly-trimmed pubes. “Now lick up all my juices.”

I leaned back against the kitchen counter, spreading my legs, as my handsome, fit husband kissed and licked his way up my inner legs.

“I love it. So sexy,” he cooed in his horny, playful voice.

“Less talk, dear, more tongue.”

Grabbing his head with my hands, I firmly but gently guided his mouth over my inner thighs, up my legs, and, finally, to my dripping, pulsating cunt. I was so aroused that my horny juice saturated his face before his tongue snaked out and made contact with my clit.

“Fuck, yes, Mike, lick my pussy. Harder. I need to feel how much you want me. You do want me, don’t you? Do you want to ram your big, hard cock deep into my cunt and fuck me hard and fast?”

“Mm-hmm,” he moaned, not taking his mouth off my slit. He made to stand up, but I forced his head back onto my dripping snatch, humping his face in my erotic bliss.

“Not yet. Make me cum first. Finger my ass while you eat my pussy, tiger. Make me cum.”

Submitting to my desires, one of his fingers penetrated my sex. I screamed in delight and leaned back further against the counter. With one finger in my cunt and his tongue flying over my clit, I was soon moaning and convulsing, nearing another orgasm. Perfectly timed, his smaller pinky finger probed at my backdoor. 

“Shove it in my ass and make cum, you fucker. Fucking lick my cunt.”

As soon as his digit popped into my ass, my entire body exploded. I held onto my husband’s head for dear life, violently thrusting it into my convulsing pussy as multiple waves of pleasure consumed me. When my orgasm began subsiding, my humping body lurched forward into him, causing the finger in my ass to withdraw, which reignited my waning orgasm and set off another round of orgasmic bliss.

When I’d finished cumming, I let him stand, my hands fumbling for his pants.

“Fuck me,” I demanded, “right here, right now. I need your cock.”

Mike’s muscular arms lifted me and threw me onto the counter. In his sexual frenzy, my husband dropped his pants, shoved my legs open, and maneuvered his throbbing cock into my drenched pussy.

“You’re so wet, Mary Anne,” Mike moaned. “So tight. I love fucking you.”

I’d gotten him so worked up that he only lasted a couple of minutes. At first, I egged him on, begging him to fuck me harder and deeper. Quickly, though, my encouragement gave way to moans and sighs of pleasure as he slammed his cock into me.

The back of my head was slamming against the cupboards with every thrust, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be fucked. I needed to be used, to feel that hard cock slamming deep into me.

“Cum for me. Cum in your wife’s hot, fucking cunt. Fill me with your cum.”

“Cumming. Oh, aaah, Mary Anne. Fuck.”

My husband’s face contorted with pleasure. Grimacing, his face reddened from exertion, and with his hips lunging into me, I felt his hot, sticky goo shoot into my pussy.

“Now, be a dear and clean up your wife. On your knees, slave.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me, stud. Lick your cum out of my pussy. Suck it out of me. I think I have some on my clit, too. Make sure you get that nice and clean as well.”

Shrugging, he got back down on his knees. “You’re so kinky. Where did you learn this?”

“From the landscaper,” I lied. “You were working so much, and I was so horny. Right there, dear, keep licking. I let him fuck me, and he wanted to lick it out of me, just like you’re doing.”

“You fucked the landscaper?” he asked. His voice betrayed his arousal at the thought.

“Lick my cunt.” I pushed his mouth back over my oozing hole. “Get all your cum out of me.”

Mike attacked my pussy with all the vigor of a parched man who had been offered a tall glass of water. He buried his head between my legs, and his tongue snaked up into my still-quivering cunt hole.

“Well,” I managed to say between enraptured moans, “the laundry room sink is backed up. I can call a plumber and seduce him, since it obviously turns you on so much, and…”

My musings were cut short because my words caused Mike to redouble his efforts on my pussy. It felt so good that all I could do was lean back and let him make me cum, again.

“That’s it, you bastard. Suck your cum out of my cunt.”

My orgasm was intense and violent. I thrashed around, limbs flailing, and my mouth shouted shrieking wails of pleasure.

Later that evening, as we watched television, Mike said, “Is the sink really stopped up?”

“Yes, dear, it is.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Call a plumber.”

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” I interjected. “I ran into Allison, from down the street, yesterday, and I invited her and her husband to dinner, tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Allison?” His tone communicated unfamiliarity.

“The redhead,” I prompted. “She goes by ‘Ginger.’”

“Oh, okay,” he exclaimed. “I remember. What does her husband do, again?”

“His name is Ben. He’s a college professor.”

There was a short pause.

“So,” Mike chided. “Mary Anne, Ginger, and the Professor?”

“Yes, my handsome husband.” I reached out and squeezed his cock over his pants. “And if you make any Gilligan’s Island jokes, I’ll cut your dick off. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Let’s go to bed; I have a big day tomorrow.”

I was more than ready to go to bed. Sleep, however, was not my intention. The thought of him getting horny over me verbally fantasizing about cheating had me in a sexual stupor. As quickly as I could, I washed off my makeup and cleaned my teeth. But by the time I exited the bathroom and crawled into bed, Mike was already snoring.

Tomorrow was another day; I’d just have to double down on my self-pleasure, especially since we were having company, and I’d need to wait until they left to get some cock.

 To be Continued...