Richard Travis - Another suck wife

Kitty finally adjusted to her evenings at home with Harold, to retiring precisely at ten, accepting his immediate fuck-thrust without foreplay, handing him the Kleenex box, then hearing the regular breathing of his deep sleep.

It hadn't been like that in the early days of their marriage when he needed her, needed her desperately, and when he wanted her, really wanted her. He had crawled to her then, licking from her toes up, begging entrance to the delights of her pussy.

Kitty kept telling herself she was better off than most. Harold rarely drank too much, chased women or mistreated her. He was cold, but solid: successful, a good provider of clothes, a car of her own, and a home with a pool.

She couldn't stop her restless nights, or the sexual fantasies that crept through her mind the instant she was alone in their sprawling, silent house. But she could keep them to herself.

When strong lust plagued her, made her restless, filled her with the feeling of missing something in life, something basic and important, she ignored it and rearranged the furniture, or went shopping.

Then James came on the scene.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, James came to mow the grass, water and trim the, shrubs.

James never looked at her, which confused Kitty. She was used to having men look at her. When she had been a waitress, they looked at the full swell of her tits as if they wanted to order them instead of the luncheon special.

When she had been a cocktail waitress, they looked at the swell of tit-flesh that threatened to spill out of her scanty uniform. They had looked at the cheeks of her ass and her bare thighs as she walked away to get their drinks. She was used to men looking at her.

She loved it. It was as if their devouring eyes were warm, eager hands exploring her body, creating excitement, desire everywhere they touched.

James never looked at her. When his eyes touched her, which was rare, she had the feeling he was looking through her. His apparent disinterest puzzled her at first, then filled her with a sense of exasperation.

He aroused the longings within that she had learned to ignore, aroused fantasies. The mere sight of his bronzed shoulders, glistening in the hot desert sun, made her wet between the legs.

Even tough it was July and the temperature often went above a hundred, she made a point of going outside for something every time James was working in the lawn. She retrieved glasses left around the pool, wiped down the tile walls of the outside shower.

She lingered outside, her eyes darting to wherever James was working, shirtless, his bronzed skin glistening in the sun, his dark hair bunched over the sweat-band he wore around his forehead. She hoped to catch him looking at her, as other men looked at her, devouring her.

He never did. He was always bent over a lawn tool of some kind, his broad muscular back toward her.

Once, when James was edging the grass near the patio around the swimming pool, she came out in a swimming suit that consisted solely of strings with three small patches. She walked slowly to the diving board and made a graceful swan dive. James didn't even notice.

Feeling frustrated, rejected by a mere lawn man, she retreated into her house. The man was unreal!

"Do we really need him?" she asked Harold one morning, interrupting his concentration on the morning paper.

"What did you say, dear?"

"That gardener! He's costing us an arm and a leg!"

"Let me worry about the bills, dear. You know how hard it is to find a good gardener."

Kitty decided to never go outside again and suffer the humiliation of his disinterest, but she didn't stop looking outside. Every Tuesday and Thursday after Harold left, she ran from room to room, looking out windows until she found where James was working. As she watched him work, her restlessness grew.

It was more than just his muscular build and his handsome, sweat-covered face that attracted her. It was a certain animalistic confidence that made her feel he knew she was watching, and was amused by her interest.

He knew all right, she decided, her humiliation increasing with the knowledge.

And it was all so damned silly! She was a grown woman, edging toward thirty-five, not a teenaged rock fan with a crush on the face and body printed on a poster.

I must get control of this, she decided. I must not let it bug me so much.

The way to do it, she decided, was to face the man, talk to him eyes to eye. Once she got to know him, to see him as a man like all other men, the familiarity would breed contempt. The wild fantasies, the deep hungers would disappear.

She made a pitcher of lemonade, filled a tall glass with ice and marched into the back yard.

"Here," she said, handing him the gins and pouring it full. "This should help fight off the heat."

He looked into her eyes, or rather through her eyes, as if seeing something even Kitty didn't know was there. His face was deeply tanned, dripping with perspiration. His dark eyes gleamed.

"Thank you," he said, emptying the glass with one long drink, then returning it with his eyes still boring into her.

"More?"

"No thank you," he replied, returning to his work.

Kitty returned to her house, more agitated than ever.

Damn him! she thought. Who in the hell does he think he is?

But she wouldn't give up, not yet. At noon, when he normally left for the day, she went out again.

"Wouldn't you like a cool shower before you leave?" she said, expecting the offer to lead to a conversation, a chance to get to know him, to see his weaknesses.

He looked at her as if reading her mind, causing her to blush.

"Good idea," he relied. "Thanks."

He was suddenly standing nude before her, his sweat-stained pants and shirt on the ground at his feet. "Can you throw these in your washer for me?"

Kitty was speechless for a moment, her eyes fixed on the long cock that dangled between his legs. "All right!"

"I'll need a towel, if you have one handy."

She didn't want to look shocked. And why in the hell should she? Sooner or later all of their parties ended up with everybody swimming nude.

Still, her entire body was shaking when she went inside to start the washing machine and get his towel.

When she returned, holding the towel in front of her, he turned off the shower.

"You do it," he said.

It was more of an order than a request.

"That is, if you don't mind," he added, smiling politely.

He knew, Goddamn it! He knew she wanted to touch his beautiful body, to feel the texture of his flesh, to run her fingers over his thighs, his flat stomach. He knew and be was making fun of her. That bastard!

But her sense of embarrassment, her deep humiliation, didn't stop her. Nothing could have stopped her. She began rubbing the soft towel down his muscular chest as she would wipe down the shower wall.

"My feet," he said, his eyes never leaving her. Kitty dropped to her knees without realizing it, bending down like a scrub woman, dabbing at droplets of water on his toes, his ankles, the calves of his well-formed legs. She dried his skin as gently as she would the skin of a baby, then touched him with her fingers, thrilling to the velvet-like smoothness.

She couldn't believe she was doing this. She had caressed the flesh of men before, many men, many times, but always to please them, to con them, to win their approval fin a month's rent on an apartment, a second-hand car, a trip to Hawaii. She had never done it for her own pleasure, not like the pleasure she was feeling now.

She dried his thighs, then touched him again as if starved for the feel of him.

He held his cock so it pointed at her, soft and still moist from the shower. She looked up into his eyes, then thought of Harold, of her marriage that she had to preserve at all costs, of her future.