by Amanda Fox
(02/06/08)

My wife. Her name is Katherine. Not Kate. Not Kathy. Jesus, don't ever call her Kathy -- she'll rip your head off, not with her bare hands, but with her eyes: Like a laser beam from her ocular sockets to your cervical spine, to make a neat separation between C6 and C7, leaving your skull to tumble to the ground like a bowling ball.

She would never come right out and correct you -- that would be too easy. My wife likes things to be difficult, you see, for herself and for everyone around her. Besides, to be blunt, tact is a trait Katherine does not possess. She is not only incapable of predicting the potential embarrassment of such a situation, she could care less about making that sort of exchange copasetic. Much simpler to dispose of you in the condescending fashion she is so adept at. And in the end, you'd feel so inferior, so pathetic for even suggesting that she could be a "Kathy," that you would wish your head had been ripped off.

Katherine and I have been married for twelve years. I will admit to loving her, but this love was, in the beginning, one that made my dick hard, one that had me skittering around in circles whenever she called my name. Her fierce ambition turned me on, and her composure made me horny, made me want to clean out her orifices with my slavish tongue in the hopes of acquiring a little bit of her power for myself. Now, her drive seems virulent, and her self-possession is just that -- self-possessed.

We have two children, nine and six -- a boy and a girl, both delivered by planned cesarean section at thirty-seven weeks, three years apart almost to the day. We live in a house on the right street, in the right neighbourhood, decorated with the right furnishings from all the right stores. It should be no surprise to you that we have all the right friends, and that we know all the right people.

She is perfect.

She is, from certain angles. Though if you view her from the left, from a slightly downward stance, you can see how the highlights in her hair have been strategically placed by her three-hundred-dollar-a-visit stylist to appear as natural as possible, and how Botox makes her look as if she has two microwaved marshmallows attached to the front of her face. My wife Katherine always wears classic diamond studs in her ears, but on special occasions she will change them to pearls. She is well put together, without fail.

Of course, she exercises: two days per week of strength training, four thirty-minute sessions on the treadmill, and one class each of yoga and tai chi to balance things out. She also goes for sunless tanning once a month because too much UV can cause skin cancer, and she needs that little glow.

My wife Katherine has no pubic hair -- no hair anywhere for that matter, which she says demonstrates the emergence of New Age woman. She has been lasered to baldness, her imaginary mustache removed, her underarms and legs made as smooth as paper, her pussy lips and anal region soft as a baby's bottom.

Because of this comprehensive fur removal (I find this tidbit of information quite amusing) when she stands naked you see the sleeves of her inner labia hanging down -- a fact that torments her to no end. She says that this condition (which she actually calls a "condition") makes her look slightly warped, like she has a slow epidermal leak.

"They should be tucked up inside," she growls, prodding at her uncovered self in front of the mirror. "I don't like seeing them."

"Well, you're the one who shaved off all your pubic hair." Secretly I revel in her discomfort. It's as if her body is doing its damnedest to be abhorrent, and I'll admit, when we have sex I pull and nibble on them -- those bad little labial folds -- to point out the obvious: that they do hang down, and that she isn't a Barbie doll.

Katherine stays on the cutting edge, from feng shui to Lasik, and while I am forever outdated, she keeps up with painstaking determination. Last year she thought it prudent for us to experiment with our sexuality. She'd heard the women from her strip aerobics class talking about it. She wanted give another woman a try -- all the girls were doing it. Of course, I was allowed in on the arrangement. The proposal was laid out in a straightforward manner; like the agenda at a business meeting.

"We've been married long enough. Our relationship can handle this. Besides, it's all the better for you, isn't it? Two women? What man wouldn't want that?" What man, indeed.

"What do you think about Maria from the gym? She's really cute. Great tits," I remember Katherine saying for effect, "and not an ounce of cellulite on the girl. And, David..." she whispered this part to me while nuzzling my earlobes, "I know for a fact that she smells good. I'm just guessing here, but I think she wears that new Thierry Mugler fragrance."

Katherine knows how much I like the way a woman smells, though what she doesn't know is that it's earthy odours that make me squirm -- sweat, piss, vaginal profusion -- not fake, perfumey ones.

"How about her?" she asked, her eyes alight like struck matches. "God, I know she's dying to get with you." I bet she was.

After a few well-placed conversations, it was on. We got together at a bar just outside of town, had some drinks -- margaritas for the girls and a couple Coronas for me -- danced for a while, and then headed to a motel. Not hotel -- motel. It fit with the theme.

I won't give you the sordid details. Suffice it to say, Katherine had the time of her life, and so did Maria. Between them both, I think they came about twenty times. No joke. It was okay for me: my penis floundered a bit. Too much excitement was Katherine's diagnosis.

I orgasmed once at the end of the night, one woman squatting over my face, the other hunkered down over my cock, the two girls kissing passionately, pulling at each other's nipples.

You'd think I had everything a man could want, but sometimes everything is really nothing at all.

And then it happened: I met Brigitte. Brigitte Jaqueline Laroche. She's 'Jackie' to her friends and colleagues, 'Ms. Jones' to her students (she's a kindergarten teacher), 'Babydoll' to her papa, and 'Brigitte' to me. (Brigitte is the name she reserves for her lovers.)

We met on the bus. It was a Tuesday morning, and I was heading downtown to work. I have this office job in accounting, but deep down I consider myself a musician. I play guitar in a jazz band every other Thursday and one Saturday a month at a little club called The Black Ox.

Katherine's car was in the shop for a touch of bodywork. Someone had actually had the nerve to key the driver's side door of her Audi RS4. She parks it diagonally everywhere she goes -- need I say more? So Katherine had my car and I was obliged to ride the bus.

At about 7:15 a.m., I hauled myself, my briefcase, and my brown-bag lunch onto the Number 35. I sat near the back, in the last row of double seats.

Three stops later, a woman got on. She caught my attention immediately by unabashedly saying hello to Dan, the driver, calling him by name.

She flashed her pass like it was a secret badge and gave him a flirtatious wink. It was then that I knew this woman was special -- different. I watched her sway to the rhythm of the street as she slowly made her way down the aisle. Her leather sandals slapped at the soles of her feet as she walked, in no particular rush to sit even though the bus had already lurched forward, resuming its route. When she got to my row, she paused and held onto the chair rail in front of me. Her hands were small, with oval-shaped fingernails trimmed short. She wore no polish or rings of any sort.

"Nice day, huh?" she said, inhaling as if the niceness was tangible, like it was the only thing that really mattered in that moment.

"Yes, very nice," I agreed. "Sunny."

She had unruly brown ringlets that clumsily framed her face and neck, and her cocoa-coloured skin glowed, seemingly reradiating the light that shone through the bus windows, making the whites of her eyes appear so white that they seemed almost the lightest shade of blue. Her face was unblemished and unpainted, free of all the traps and trimmings of the modern woman. Even her earlobes had yet to be maligned.

"Sunny is good, but I was referring to de temp'rature." Her eyes didn't meet mine as she spoke. She simply stood there, the slight, swollen mounds of her breasts upheld as if on a shelf at level with my face. Her timid nipples addressed me through the sheerness of her unbleached, cotton blouse, and I had a sudden urge to reach over and press on them with my fingertips. Trying hard not to be rude however, I shifted my gaze slightly and saw that around her neck she wore a necklace constructed of beads and tiny colourful cereal pieces.

I was struck by an uncanny affiliation to this strange female. I think it was a reflection of myself that I saw in her stance, a similarity of mannerism and pose -- a childlike comportment I'd once known but that had long since been squelched. As the bus bumped down the street, she stayed upright, my woman of whimsicality, my siren of sassiness. She rustled through a large, canvas tote, moving and rearranging stuff, apparently not finding the object of her search.

She stopped finally, and looked at me. "You know -- hot. I like it when de air is t'ick like today. Makes me feel like I'm back home."

She didn't say where back home was, and I didn't ask, but from the sound of her, I figured it was somewhere between the Florida Keys and the coast of South America. Then she added something else, something completely nonsensical, and my ineffectual WASP self tried desperately to decipher a garbled speech that hinted at French mixed with the uneven sounds of a mechanical voice changer. I stared at her lips, almost willing them to translate the words for me.

When she caught me watching her mouth, she smiled. She had one dead tooth in the top row, a little darker than the rest, and her lips were dry, like she had just run or walked very fast to catch this ride. I wanted immediately to wet them. The thought made me weak.

"Yeah, hot," I replied feebly, wiping at my forehead. Suddenly the bus came to an unexpected halt, and a car horn blasted to the right of us somewhere. The woman finally sat down, sliding in next to me, her hips and ample thighs mashing up against mine. She set her bag on the floor between her feet and turned in my direction. I nervously focused straight ahead, uncomfortable yet rather pleased that she'd chosen to share my seat. There wasn't another person in our section of the bus -- lots of other empty spots she could have picked.

"You must be ovaheatin' in dat tie an' jacket." She shook her head with pity, and reached over to grab hold of the silk knot at the base of my throat, muttering more gnarled words that from their tone and intonation sounded like salty expletives. She loosened the tie, then patted me on the chest, and declared, "Dere you go. Now don't dat feel better?"

As a married man, and as a human entitled to a little personal space, I automatically leaned away towards the window, though it is conceivable now that I likewise slid the lower half of my body even closer to her. She'd gone back to scrounging through her bag. When the bus rounded a sharp corner a minute later however, the momentum of the turn forced her nearly into my lap, and sent an old man getting up for his stop crashing into the partition near the folding doors.

"Well, you sure know how to liven up de bus rides," she giggled, like I was somehow responsible for her body unexpectedly resting half on top of mine. "An' you certainly are warm. Maybe you should just take off your jacket. I don't t'ink dat loosening your tie has done you much good."

"Really, I'm OK," I answered, no longer making the slightest attempt to move away. I could easily have hugged her tight right then, though I didn't.

"Now come, let me help you." She shifted again, and precariously -- because of the bus, not because of the act -- began undressing me as if I were her child. First, she completely removed the tie; then she unfastened the top three buttons of my shirt, working diligently with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth; next came my jacket, which she helped to cast off and placed neatly in my lap. After she boldly tucked a wayward curl behind my ear, I felt as if I was naked, and my penis, long since risen, began to ache. I was finding it hard to breathe.

Two more passengers got on the bus and sat across the aisle from us. All of a sudden, she became still as stone.

"It's Brigitte -- my name."

"Nice to meet you, Brigitte." I wriggled my hand free for a shake, possibly to diffuse pent-up energy, and possibly because I wanted to touch her directly, to get her going on me again.

She clasped my fingers with the same eagerness that was stirring in my pants. "My goodness, you are hot! Your hands is sweating. Are you always dis way?"

"Ummm. I guess," was my answer, though I wanted to add, "but only since I've met you...Brigitte."

Our enthusiastic grasp persisted, spanning the shallow divide between her legs and mine. She began stroking my forearm with her free hand, gently plucking and twisting at the short brown hairs that grew there. When her devilish touch drew a sigh of pleasure from my lungs, she placed her palm on my thigh. A few more people came and went, and I suffered the fabric of my slacks like a giant bur on my skin.

Two blocks past my stop, Brigitte was turned sideways, partially blocking us from observers. With one hand, she held my pants; with the other, she unzipped them. She then slid her fingers into the modest opening, and fumbled with my boxers until she found my penis. Thumbing over its head, she watched my face, eyes fixed, questioning -- Is this acceptable?

Yes. Definitely yes, I smiled, some of my juices oozing out to greet her. Like two old friends reconnecting, my heart luxuriated in her touch.

When she cupped my balls, my mind strayed toward a foreseeable future: Brigitte straddling me, on a different kind of seat in a different kind of place, her bare feet pressing, perhaps, into a wall. I knew she would grip my shoulders for leverage, and with panties pushed to the side, we'd grind away -- with her pulling and scooping her opening onto my shaft, and me shoving back hard, so hard I'd leave bruises. I envisioned myself deep in her vagina, her skirt billowing around us, innocent witness to our lust, as from underneath, her bush of coarse black hair (I was positive she'd have that) would abrade my flesh. The moisture we'd create would be audible, and her musk would be pungent. This last detail was already evident.

Reality rushed back the second Brigitte clamped her fingers around my pipe and began working me. I tried to relax -- but that's when the questions poured out. I couldn't stop them. They shot from the cannon of my mouth and she returned answers just as quick.

"Would you ever share me?"

"Never."

"Do you know what a labial reduction is?"

"Not a clue."

"Do you have air conditioning?"

"Goodness no! What's de point?"

"What about pubic hair?"

"Oh, a veritable forest."

I ride the bus every day now, going anywhere and everywhere the public transportation system of my fair city allows. I see Brigitte on a regular but very unpredictable basis.

I haven't told her this yet, though I think she knows: things would be different if it weren't for my children. Brigitte sees other men -- I can't control that, nor could I ever expect it to be otherwise -- but when we're together it's as if we are the only two brilliant stars in a vast empty sky.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories