We are, to use a term apparently coined by Dan Savage, monogamish.  Although we have had other people in our bedroom, we consider ourselves primarily monogamous.  We have never played separately, and as of now we aren’t really planning to; virtually everything that we’ve done involving other people is intended for the furtherance of our own relationship.  That is not to say that those who do play separately do not have the furtherance of their relationships in mind.  That is simply our way of rationalizing the current boundaries that we have set.  That said, given the right set of circumstances, we would likely go much farther with another couple or individual than we have thusfar.  It’s not exactly monogamous.  It’s monogamish.

Call it monogamish, non-monogamous, or even open, it’s our relationship, and it’s our business.  If we want to make our kinky side someone else’s business, we will do so.  If they don’t approve, if they judge us for it, or if they tell mutual friends and acquaintances about things we would have preferred that they kept private, it’s ultimately our own fault for trusting the wrong people.  Therefore, only a very small selection of our real-life friends have any knowledge of our sex life.

We have written at length about the importance of discretion.  The loss of Jill’s job because someone discovered that she, a woman who works with children, could be so audacious as to not only have a sexual identity but a need to express that identity anonymously in a public forum, is a tangible risk for us.  However, it might be just as earth-shattering if certain members of our families – and even some of our friends – learned of our sexual quirks.  Jill’s family is devoutly Catholic, and many of her oldest friends are as well.  I’m not trying to judge Catholics en masse when I say that there’s a good chance that most of them would not approve.

Which is not to say that we seek approval from anyone.  Certainly not from our parents.  We are long past the point of using our parents as some sort of life template.  As adults, we are more than capable of living our lives for ourselves without seeking validation from anyone but each other.  Our need to hide this blog from our families isn’t about that, exactly.  More than anything, it’s about respect.  Whether or not our families would approve of our sexual escapades, we are reasonably certain that they just wouldn’t want to know.  Just as we wouldn’t leave Jill’s vibrator on the kitchen table when someone comes to visit, we also do our best to cover our sexual tracks lest someone learn something about us that he or she would rather not know.

Were it to become public knowledge that, for example, Jill has eaten pussy, people might look at her differently.  Were it to become public knowledge that we’ve been to a sex club and fucked in front of a mob of strangers, I might be viewed in a negative light, the assumption being that I led her down such a path.  Were it to become public knowledge that we have more than just a passing interest in opening up our sexual relationship, it might lead to conversations that we’d rather not have with people who have no business inquiring.  Alternately, and possibly worse, it would lead to no conversation whatsoever, but our relationships with our loved ones might falter because of it.

Bear in mind that we have absolutely no intention of subjugating our sex lives to the will of anyone else; we are not interested in being what others would like us to be, and any toeing of any hypothetical line is done solely in the interest of protecting our financial livelihood, as well as shielding from reality those who might not be capable of handling it.  Our family and friends are important to us, we enjoy close relationships with all of them, and we aren’t interested in alienating anyone when a little subtlety and discretion can help us to avoid doing so.

Most people seem to view everyone and everything through their own often narrow prism of values and experience.  Every time a politician, athlete, or celebrity (for the purposes of this demonstration I will use male pronouns) has an affair that is exposed, the public turns on him decisively.  Despite knowing nothing about the individual’s primary relationship and/or any extenuating circumstances that might conceivably excuse or explain his behavior, the individual caught misbehaving – in the eyes of the general public, anyway – is instantly labeled persona non grata, condemned for his dalliances, and in some cases never looked at the same way again.

Consider Bill Clinton, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Kobe Bryant, and Tiger Woods.  These four men all committed adultery and were, to some extent, vilified for it even before all of the facts were known.  Even Clinton, whose popularity skyrocketed in the wake of Monicagate, had staunch political supporters who were vocal in their disapproval of his personal life.  I recall being scoffed at repeatedly every time I suggested that, despite the fact that Bill was the leader of the free world, so to speak, perhaps his and Hillary’s marriage should be private and therefore of no concern to the average American.  Playing Devil’s Advocate, I even went so far as to suggest that the President and the First Lady of the United States had an open relationship.  Most people thought I was a sexual deviant for even considering it.

But why is this such an inconceivable scenario?  To use a more recent example, take Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher.  Following apparent infidelity on the part of Kutcher, Moore publicly condemned her husband’s actions and has since filed for divorce.  I realize that they probably didn’t have an open relationship, as evidenced by Kutcher’s allegedly telling the woman he cheated with that he was estranged from his wife.  But what if they did?  If they had some sort of agreement that allowed Kutcher his dalliances as long as he didn’t get anyone pregnant or return home with a sexually-transmitted infection, could Demi Moore have handled the situation any differently than she did?  I suspect that the answer is no.

As I said above, people who are caught having affairs are publicly condemned before the facts are known.  The general public assumes that such people do not have non-monogamous relationships because the general public (well, most of it, anyway) does not have non-monogamous relationships.  In the unlikely event that Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher did have such an arrangement, once Kutcher was caught, that arrangement was discarded.  In order to save face with the fans who respect her, and who have made her brand profitable, she would have had to cut her ties to him, lest she appear weak.

If the wife of anyone caught with another woman defended her spouse, and said that she was okay with him sleeping with other women, at the worst she would be vilified alongside her husband, but at best the public wouldn’t believe her, would accuse her of lying to save a marriage that is obviously irreparably broken.  They’d ask, “Why would she let him have an open relationship?  Doesn’t she have any self respect?”  Even women won’t admit that other women are entitled to sexual agency and might actually desire a non-monogamous relationship for her own purposes.  To most women, this is a vile thought.

I flirt constantly with women on Twitter, or via e-mail and instant messenger or Skype.  If this became public, I would be judged for it.  While my flirtiness is known to some of our friends, even those unfamiliar with our perhaps unconventional sex life, to actually sit in front of a computer and make virtual eyes at a woman who is not my wife, a woman that perhaps I would like to fuck and about whom I have most certainly thought about fucking, would not be looked at kindly by some of my wife’s family – if not all of them – and likely much of my own.  I already suspect that certain of our families think that I am an emotionally distant womanizer at best and a serial cheater at worst.  But they have no grounds for this line of thinking; to be blunt, just because your husband’s tendency to flirt signifies a problem in the marriage doesn’t make that true for all husbands who do so.

Additionally, it is not out of the realm of possibility to think that people would judge her for my perceived infidelity.  Perhaps they would think that she has failed to satisfy me, or that she’s driven me into the arms of other women through her own actions or inaction.  Some would certainly suggest – insist, even – that she divorce me and find a man who doesn’t treat her poorly.  Fortunately, Jill is not so hung up on the perceptions of her friends or family that she would dissolve our marriage just for the sake of appeasing them.

Jill trusts me in a way that – and I hesitate to put it in these terms – I almost don’t deserve.  True, I’ve never done anything to abuse her confidence in me, but having someone’s complete trust from day one wasn’t something to which I was accustomed at the time.  We spent three years of our relationship living hours apart, and as she points out, had either of us wanted to be unfaithful, we certainly had the opportunity to do so and likely never be found out.  It’s just not our way.

During the final year that we lived apart, I found myself at a family function where I related to a few of my siblings- and cousins-in-law a story I’d heard about someone whose cleaning lady had robbed her house, stealing amongst other things  her late father’s wedding ring, a priceless heirloom that she planned to give her son for his fiancee if he ever got married.  To be fair, I pointed out, putting such a treasured weddng ring in a nightstand drawer seems to contradict its sentimental and financial value.  Overhearing from nearby, an extremely well-meaning but completely out-of-her-depth cousin to my wife jumped to the conclusion that what I was referring to was my proclivity for leaving my own wedding band in my nightstand drawer while Jill and I were separated.  Because, you know, cheating on my wife is the sort of thing I’d boast about while conversing with her family.

We cannot honestly say that we have never been guilty of prejudging an aspect of someone else’s private life in the manner we describe others doing above.  Jill’s best friend told her that her husband had once racked up an enormous phone bill calling phone sex operators.  Given what we know of Jill’s friend’s relatively sexually conservative leanings, we assumed that she didn’t talk dirty to her husband, likely out of inhibition or a feeling that it was distasteful or in her mind extraneous to their sexual activities.  With that in mind, it made sense to us that a person who greatly desires one thing but is denied by his spouse would then seek out the services of a professional who would gladly indulge his need for pay.

But for all we know, we were completely wrong in judging the situation as we did.  For all we know, Jill’s friend is a world-class dirty talker, the sort of woman whose comfort in using the filthiest sexual terminology imaginable belies her strict Catholic upbringing.  Hell, it’s true of Jill, so why not her friend?  For all we know, she can induce a hands-free orgasm with just a few breathy whispers (and oh, how I hope she can).  It’s not implausible that her husband was completely satisfied with the dirty talk, but just needed a little variety.  I can relate to that.  Maybe calling a phone sex line kept him physically monogamous, something that we’re certain his wife expected him to be.  How can we not be on the right side of that?

In conclusion, the only thing you should assume is the position.  You won’t always know the whole story.  Strive to avoid rushing to judgment, and if it doesn’t concern you, look the other way.

Go see who else is being naughty this week!

-Jill

[This story is based upon a much shorter story I wrote for Flash Fiction Friday, using the above image as a prompt.  When it was published in March, I was asked to write a longer version.  I don’t normally do requests, but I thought that fleshing out the characters and the circumstances of the original story beyond the 119-word limit would be a fun challenge.  Additionally, I looked forward to writing freely, without the constraint required of flash fiction.  What follows is the extended version of Green; read the original version here.]

Sabrina pressed her ear against the bedroom wall, listening as her sister got fucked on the other side.  She consumed each thrust with equal measures of voyeuristic delight and bitter envy, all the while wishing that she was the one experiencing such erotic bliss.

It could have been her.  It very easily could have been.  As her body began to heat up, she shed her clothes and began to run her hands up and down her flesh.  Her hands cupped her full, blushing breasts, finding nipples stiffening into erect peaks.  Her hands moved down to her thighs, feeling the warmth as the caressed them.  And when she could stand it no longer, she gave in and attacked the ripe, swollen bud that practically screamed for her attention.

In the neighboring bedroom, Katrina was bent in half, her ankles up by her head.  She had long ago stopped trying to stifle the sounds of her passion and her excitement.  It was impossible.  Sam’s cock was the best she’d ever had, thick and satisfying with a beautiful red head.  She imagined that it looked like a shiny fire engine as it pistoned deep inside of her.

Every stroke of his magnificence threatened to push her over the edge.  Katrina had been surfing a wave of ecstasy for the past hour, each orgasm more intense and all-consuming than the last.  She had already enjoyed so many orgasms that she’d long since lost count.  But the next one was going to blow her mind, that much she could tell.  She braced herself against the wall with her hands, and let her climax overtake her.  She screamed with release, opening her legs and clamping them around his back as though trying to coax him even deeper inside of her.

Her pussy squeezed Sam’s cock as she came.  Feeling him tense up, she knew his own climax was imminent.  When he began to fill her with his cum, her screams of passion became satisfied sighs of happiness.

Their lips met first, their tongues next.  It was a kiss like none she had ever experienced before, breathless and sensual, and if her heart wasn’t already pounding, the heat between them would have ensured that it was.

On the other side of the wall, Sabrina lay in her bed.  Her jealousy was made more bearable by the sexual climax she had just enjoyed.

It had been two months since that slow Thursday afternoon when Sam walked into their lives.  The café was empty and quiet, the lunch rush having just let up.  The small two-seat booth where he sat down would have been in Sabrina’s section had her twin not been called to replace a sick co-worker at the last minute.

Both women eyed the handsome, well-dressed man from behind the counter.  Sabrina offered to wait on him, but Katrina insisted that it was her section, and her responsibility. But she didn’t say it with the tone of a responsible young woman.  She checked her make-up in a mirror that hung on the wall, then took a menu over to his table.  Sabrina watched her fill his cup with hot, black coffee, watching her lean seductively against the table as she told him about the daily specials.

Though the two women were identical, Katrina wore her uniform with so much more confidence than her sister did.  The jade blouse fit tightly, hugging her curves.  Her matching skirt was perfectly pressed, her white apron spotless.  But that really wasn’t where the confidence came from, was it?  Katrina exuded confidence and grace in a wrinkled T-shirt and sweatpants.  In high school, she was the one surrounded by boys while Sabrina focused on her schoolwork.  Where lunch periods found Katrina sitting in the bleachers with her friends, Sabrina would while away the time in the school library, studying calculus, biology, and economics.

Sometimes, Sabrina wished she was that popular.  But at the same time she didn’t know if she wanted to have everything handed to her the way it was handed to her sister.  Everything Sabrina had, she had worked very hard for.  It would have killed her to lose sight of the value of work.  But as she watched Katrina carry a tray with the gentleman’s order, Sabrina wished she had at least been given the chance.

When Katrina brought his bill to the table, she made sure to include her phone number, along with “Call me!” written in blue ink.  In true Katrina fashion, the period at the base of the exclamation mark had been replaced by a garish heart.  As she caught sight of her sister’s message on the bill, Sabrina thought, How shameless.  I’d never be caught dead flirting so brazenly, certainly not with a customer.

But why wouldn’t she?  What, she considered, was wrong with having a little fun?  She’d put herself through school, she’d studied hard, she’d worked, and she deserved a little attention, the kind that Katrina sought out and enjoyed so freely.  That settles it, she thought.  The next cute guy I wait on is getting my phone number, whether he wants it or not.  She giggled with excitement as she considered the possibilities.  The café was always full of handsome, available men.

For the next two months, most of the men who sat in Sabrina’s section were either clearly attached – holding hands with their significant others or wearing very obvious wedding bands  – or else sitting with women who appear too old to be their daughters, and too young to be their mothers.  Though the body language between them never seemed intimate, she shuddered at the thought of doing the impetuous thing and leaving her cell number on the bill only to have their angry wives complain to the manager and get her fired.

And the ones who did appear to be available?  None of them were her type.  Some were too old.  One was way too old, older than her father, and she was not about to go there.  Most were too short, too slight, too obtuse.  Some seemed disinterested in her, despite her best efforts to flirt.  She wondered if they thought she was just flirting in the hopes of getting an inflated tip.  During one busy lunch rush Sabrina spent half an hour chatting playfully with a cute guy in a polo shirt and tan Dockers who she was certain from their back-and-forth was available and interested.  She spent another ten minutes psyching herself up to write her number on his bill, then lost her nerve.

And then there was Sam.  He’d come in for lunch many times since that first visit, when Katrina had demonstrated exactly how to hook a customer.  When Katrina wasn’t working Sabrina even got to wait on him.  They made small talk, but there was no real flirting.  Sabrina wasn’t sure why, whether due to the fact that he and her sister were an item, or the fact that she lacked the nerve.

Now, though, still reeling from one of the most exciting and intense orgasms she’d ever given herself, Sabrina began to feel something akin to nerve for the first time in a very long while.  Her heartbeat was still racing, fragrant moisture clinging to her thighs and pooling beneath her ass.  She even fancied that her body was glowing.  She felt, in a word, sexy, and though completely satisfied physically, she was still brimming with sexual desire.  Time now to do something about it.

She heard Katrina’s feet sound against the bedroom floor.  When the door opened, Sabrina hurried to her own door and looked through the keyhole.  She watched her sister walk down the hall to the bathroom, her naked body lean, bathed in sweat.  After Katrina had disappeared into the bathroom, Sabrina heard the sounds of the shower running.  She had precious little time.

She peeked out of her bedroom.  The hall was empty, so she dashed to Katrina’s bedroom door and opened it slowly.  Sam lay asleep in bed.  She beheld his nakedness for the first time, savoring every inch of him.  He was even more perfect, more glorious, than Sabrina could have imagined.  As she approached the bed, his eyes opened.  Her heart leapt.

“Hey beautiful,” he said with a sexy smirk.

Sabrina’s mind raced.  She didn’t know how to reply – what might Katrina say in response? – so she said nothing, and instead climbed silently onto the bed in front of him.  She moved herself onto her hands and knees, and then reached back to open herself up for him.  She paused a moment, her still-wet sex open, ready for him.  She finally spoke:  “Fuck me.”

No sooner had the words escaped her mouth than Sabrina felt Sam’s prodigious member throb against her opening.  All at once, he buried himself inside her.  She gasped, the realization of what was happening striking her with great resonance as he filled her like she had never been filled before.  Sam’s strong hands gripped her hips, his cock meeting her G-spot with each forward thrust.  Sabrina didn’t even have time to raise a hand to her clit and prod herself toward climax.  No sooner had she even thought about it than she was convulsing through an orgasm so explosive that it dwarfed her previous one.

Her moans were urgent and erotic.  She didn’t bother holding back.  Even had she wanted to, there was no way she could.  But she didn’t want to hold back.  She’d been dreaming of this, desiring it for so long.  Everytime Sam walked into the café, everytime he spent the night with Katrina, everytime Sabrina overheard the sounds of their passion, she wanted him.  And now she had him.

Sam’s hands tightened around Sabrina’s hips, his breathing escalating as his cock swelled inside of her.  She almost climaxed again at the very thought of his release.  His voice was a throaty whisper:  “I’m cumming”.  He repeated it with greater emphasis, his words becoming groans of pleasure.  Sabrina hopped off of him, spun around, and opened her mouth invitingly.  Sam took the hint.

After she’d swallowed the last drop, and licked and sucked him clean, Sabrina looked up at him.  He was completely spent, his shoulders sagging, his body deflated but still sexy.  He smiled as their eyes locked, and then he spoke.

“That was great.  Now you’d better get out of here before Katrina finishes her shower.”

5. Movie
I love too many movies to choose just one.  And you know this; you read my answer to #1.  To name a very small sampling:  Raiders of the Lost Ark, Pulp Fiction, The Big Lebowski, Dazed & Confused, The Godfather, Aliens, Snatch, Bride of Frankenstein, Goodfellas, Harold and Maude, Clerks, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Taxi Driver, The Empire Strikes Back, Ed Wood, Office Space, Swingers, and Casablanca.  Like I said, pick one.

I hate Forrest Gump.  Yeah, I know that no matter what else I say here, this is what people will mention in their comments.  I didn’t care for the ideology behind the film, which to me says that men and women should fall into a predetermined place in society and be rewarded or punished accordingly.  You may say that I’m reading too much into the film – many have – but conservative groups have claimed Forrest Gump for their own.

My guilty secret is undoubtedly ’50s-’60s B-grade sci-fi and horror films.  I love these schlocky spectacles featuring bargain basement special effects, ridiculous spacemen, inexplicable monsters, and performers who either underact or overact, but never quite hit the mark, so to speak.

6. TV Show
I love very little of the current crop of television.  Sorry, let me rephrase that.  I watch very little of the current crop of television, and I love even less.  To me, television reached its zenith with The Wire, which aired its final episode in 2008.  Though I’ve seen quite a few complex, entertaining, and even enlightening television shows in the years since, nothing even comes close.  Nor, do I suspect, will it ever.

I hate formulaic police procedurals.  Doesn’t matter if it’s one of the various iterations of Law & Order or CSI, or one-offs like Cold Case, Criminal Minds, or NCIS, I can’t watch shows that present police work as simple and efficient, implying that all parties work together as a well-meaning and cohesive unit for the betterment of society.  Nor can I believe in protagonists as unflawed as David Caruso’s Horatio Caine, a one-dimensional action figure of a character.  I liked Caruso much better as Detective Kelly on NYPD Blue.

My guilty secret is Pee-Wee’s Playhouse.  You got a problem with that?

9. Sports Team
I love the San Francisco 49ers.  They are my team, and there is nothing more that needs to be said.

I hate the Oakland Raiders.  Sorry, but you just can’t like the Niners and the Raiders.  It’s a classic sports rivalry.  You pick your side and you stick with it.  End of story.

My guilty secret is something I can’t think of right now.  Are there sports-related guilty pleasures?  If the XFL still existed and I somehow found it worth watching, I guess I could say that.  But if the XFL still existed and I watched it, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell anybody.

Bonus:
Sex Position or Sex Act or fetish
I love sex.

I hate not having sex.

My guilty secret is I occasionally masturbate.  Shhh!  Don’t tell anybody.

Jill’s Answers

1. Food
I love potatoes.  I’ll eat them almost any way you can think of.  Mashed, baked, broiled, french fries, potato chips.  Anything but scalloped.

I hate liver.  Not just the taste and the smell but the color and the texture as well.  It’s the one food I hate more than any other.

My guilty secret is Kentucky Fried Chicken.  I don’t eat there often, but just the thought of their extra crispy chicken breast and mashed potatoes and gravy makes me wet.  Despite the fact that it’s chicken, I am under no delusion that it’s healthy.  That’s why Kentucky Fried Chicken is a once-in-a-very-great-while treat.

2. Apparel
I love flowy blouses that accentuate my breasts.  I like looking like I have a nice rack sometimes.

I hate pajamas.  They are way too constricting and hot to wear at night.  I would much rather be naked.  I hate it when we have to share a hotel room with family, or more often when we stay over Jack’s parents’ house.  I have to wear pajamas, or at the very least have them nearby so I can put them on when I leave the room in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or check on the baby.

My guilty secret is I love wearing sexy lingerie under my work clothes.  Though I have no way of knowing for sure, I’d bet that most of my teacher colleagues don’t have thongs and demi cup bras under their clothing.

3. Books
I love mysteries and detective novels by authors such as James Patterson, Michael Connelly, and Janet Evanovich.

I hate the Twilight series.  I got halfway through the first book and quit reading.  To be honest, I knew it wasn’t for me way before that.

My guilty secret is erotica.  Well, it’s not a secret to anyone who reads this blog, but I’m sure there are those who would be very surprised to find out that a bookcase in our bedroom is filled with books on human sexuality and erotic fiction.

4. Songs
I love just about anything by Billy Joel.  I’ve been a fan of his for years, and I enjoy his entire catalog.  In fact, he’s the only recording artist I’ve seen in concert more than once.

I hate country.  There are a few random country songs that I like, but it is definitely not my preferred genre.

My guilty secret is Neil Diamond’s album You Don’t Bring Me Flowers, because it brings back happy memories of car rides with my family.

5. Movie
I love Field of Dreams.  I enjoy the story, I like the characters, and it always makes me cry.

I hate Cry Baby, John Waters’ 1990 film starring Johnny Depp.  My friends and I attended a free screening when it was in its theatrical release, and the projector broke down halfway through it.  We really should have left right then and there, but they eventually fixed it.  I found it to be a horrible waste of time, and to this day I mourn those couple wasted hours that I’ll never get back.

8. Music Group
I love The Beach Boys.  Their music is fun and happy, and reminds me of simpler times, and summer days at the beach.  Party anthems like “Barbara Ann” and “California Girls” never fail to put me in a good mood.

I hate techno music.  I know it’s not a group, but there aren’t many groups that I actively dislike so I’m going with the entire techno genre.  It’s loud, repetitive, headache-inducing, and it goes on and on all night until the drugs wear off and you wake up in an alley behind the club.

My guilty secret is The Barenaked Ladies.  I like their mellow style of alternative rock.  I never said I was cutting-edge when it comes to music.

My guilty secret is I love it when we’re in the park and we see old Italian men playing bocce ball.  There’s something so cool about watching them standing around the court, laughing and sharing stories while they play.  I imagine my brothers standing around a similar court in thirty years, having the same kind of fun.

Bonus:
Sex Position or Sex Act or fetish
I love doggy style.

I hate breath play.  I know it’s not unsafe if done with a trusted partner who knows what he or she is doing, but it still scares me.  I once nearly drowned, and the thought of my airway constricting is not something I would care to revisit on a recreational basis.  A lot of my orgasms do involve shortness of breath, though it isn’t as extreme as having my breathing deliberately restricted.

My guilty secret is tasting Jack’s cum after he ejaculates inside me.  I’ll slurp it up right off of his cock, but I really love it when he fingers my pussy after he cums and lets me lick them clean.

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

*I wrote that joke in 2008, when Bush was in the White House and Camp X-Ray was still an operational entity.  I guess it didn’t age well.

After I came, I took a quick shower.  By the time I got out, Jill was asleep in bed.  That she woke up, came into the bedroom and did not join me in the shower is testimony to her extreme exhaustion.  I would have loved the company, especially if it had led to sex.  On the other hand, I’d already gotten off, and sleep was sounding even better than it did before.  I turned off the lamp on my nightstand, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over myself.

I snuggled up close to Jill.  “Hey,” she said dreamily.  Once again I held her in my arms, feeling her naked body against me.  She was warm, inviting.  She leaned in for a sleepy kiss and I reciprocated.  What began as a gentle but intimate kiss, the sort that says “I’m tired so let’s just go to sleep”, progressed quickly to a hungry open-mouthed kiss, a kiss full of fire and passion.

One mouth pressed against the other, tongues lapping shamelessly together as the kiss intensified.  In the dark, my hands quickly found her breasts, handling them roughly as my fingers pinched and squeezed her nipples.  She moaned in ecstasy even as I felt her hand encircle my cock, engorged with anticipation.  As she rubbed the already-sensitive head with her thumb, I lowered my mouth to her nipple and sucked deeply.

“Fuck me,” she said.  I moved on top of her, settling between her legs and rubbing my cock against the slick lips of her pussy.  I could feel her heat as I entered her, as well as her ankles locked around my waist.  Her feet pressed against my ass, drawing me ever deeper inside her, and as I filled her she moaned.  She sound was, the proverbial music to my ears, a much-needed drug that took me to heights I’d never achieve otherwise.  She reached for my ass, her hands joining her feet and pulling me in.

My hand reached down as well, three fingers coming to rest on her clit.  I imagined the sexual charge that overwhelmed her as she felt my touch.  Her body tensed at first, then relaxed as I moved inside her, thrusting deeply even as my fingers drew circles on her erect bud.  She tensed back up as she rode intene waves of pleasure on the way to her climax.  The sounds she made told me that it wasn’t far off.

I nuzzled her neck, sucking teasingly.  My lips bit gently, not vigorously enough to leave a mark.  Jill’s moans grew more urgent as I continued to touch her, my fingers insistent upon pushing her to the point of no return.  And suddenly she was there.

When Jill’s orgasm passed, I lay beside her, the only light the faint glow of the moon.  We listened to each other breathe.   Silently counting our blessings that the baby hadn’t yet seen fit to wake and interrupt our fun.

A few moments later, she ran her hand over my chest.  She spoke, her voice relaxed and ready for sleep.  “Your turn.”

“I’m all right,” I said.  “How about I go first tomorrow?”

-Jack

Easter has never been our favorite holiday.  For us, it lacks the imagination of Halloween, the excitement of Christmas, and the sexiness of Valentine’s Day.  That is, until now.

Be sure to click for a closer look!

When you use your phone to tweet, read blogs, and perv to homemade porn as often as Jill and I do, people are bound to notice.  If we had a dollar for every time a a relative at a family gathering asked, only half-kidding, whether the two of us were texting each other as we jabbed away at our smartphones like gunshot victims desperately clicking their morphine buttons, we’d have a small fortune.  Perhaps not enough of a fortune for us to retire immediately and live a life of leisure, but certainly enough to justify traveling the world to visit and fuck our favorite sex bloggers and Twitter friends.

If that weren’t enough, I have a tendency to read blog comments as soon as, or shortly after, they come in.  If Jill and I are together, chances are that I’ll read them to her, or at the very least call her attention to them.  It doesn’t matter where we are, or who’s around.  Hey, call me crazy but to me it seems pretty normal for a married man to show his wife something on his phone in a semi-surreptitious fashion without everyone in the vicinity asking to be let in on the secret.  Because it is apparently not, at least in my social circle, this is a habit I need to break posthaste.

As we’ve said elsewhere on this blog, most of the people we know personally have no idea it exists.  This includes both of our extended families, most of whom would likely not approve.  The handful of people who are aware of this blog are those we trust implicitly.  To be fair, however, were we starting the blog today, we might be a bit more judicious with regard to who we tell.  Our decision to let certain friends – again, close, trusted friends – in on it was made out of our own need for validation when we began blogging.  We no longer feel this need.  At this point, we are somewhat relieved that these friends no longer visit, and we choose to believe that they’ve all forgotten the URL.

Last week, we met M for lunch.  In the middle of food, drink, and conversation, I got an email notification about a comment that needed approval.  I told Jill that we’d gotten a blog comment.  Then I remembered that we weren’t alone.