Ron Taylor
Teacher_s naughty wife

CHAPTER ONE

Joanne threw back the cover but she didn't get up. She lay on the bed, stretching, purring from the middle of her throat, and her tits moved softly under the clinging bodice of her nightgown. She brushed hair back from her sleepy eyes, and looked up at her husband Tom, who was just coming out of the bathroom. All he had on were his shorts, and they were snug, tight-fitting shorts that really played up the bulge of his cock and balls. Joanne kept on purring and slinked one aim toward him, her finger crooked in invitation. "Come here, big stuff," she said in her most sultry voice. "Come here and give me what I didn't get last night."

"Oh, Christ, Joanie," Tom said. "Is that all you ever think about? I mean, is that the only thing on your mind?"

Joanne raised herself on one elbow. The shoulder strap of her nightgown slipped and her left tit came oozing out, free, the nipple stiff and red. She looked down at the aroused nip, and she cooed, touching herself with thumb and index finger. Tom was watching. She could feel his eyes upon her, almost as strongly as she could feel the fluidy back and forth roll of her fingers on her nip. She squeezed until a moan oozed from her lips, and she looked up at him.

"Interested?" she said.

But he was putting on his pants. "I don't have time," he said, and Joanne wondered why those words sounded so familiar. Because, perchance, he was always telling her he didn't have time? That is, when he wasn't telling her he was tired or not in the mood or had a headache. The things that wives were supposed to tell their husbands, not the other way around, she thought in distaste. She left off playing with her tit, pulled the shoulder strap back into place and covered herself, and lay on her side scowling as he got into his pants and shirt.

"Is something wrong with you?" she asked. "I mean, is there something physically wrong, Tom?"

He jerked involuntarily, stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Are you – do you feel that you're – impotent?"

"Of course not!"

"Well?" She lay on her side waiting. He didn't answer. "Tom," she said, "there is something wrong. Do you at least grant me that?"

"The only thing that's wrong," Tom Hickman said, knotting his tie in front of the mirror, "is the fact that you seem to be acting like a nymphomaniac lately. I can't get a second's rest, Joanie, you're always after me, trying to pull me into bed. And I have other things on my mind right now. I'm up for tenure at the end of the term, and if I don't get tenure, then we are back on the job market, and you know how hard it is to find a job teaching English literature on the college level. So if I'm not as sexy as you are, well, I'm sorry but those are the breaks."

"You didn't answer my question," Joanne called as he went out the door. "Is something wrong with your cock? Why won't it get hard? Why?" She came out of the bed, jumping, hauling the nightgown over her head as she ran toward the door. She tossed it over her shoulder and went out the door, standing at the edge of the living room, bare and naked, long hair swirling down her shoulders, a few stray curls wisping onto the curve of her tits. "Look at me," she said. "Will you for Christ's sake look at me?"

He turned, his hand on the front doorknob. "Put your clothes on," he said. That was all he said. He opened the door, went out, closed it behind him, and a few moments later she heard the sound of the car engine starting in the driveway.

Joanne slunk back, against the wall, her arms crossed on her tummy. I will riot cry, she told herself I will not have a hysterical fit. I will take this calmly. "Goddamn you!" she yelled in a high, fluting voice. "Have you turned faggot or something?" But he couldn't hear. He was already in the car, already on the street, on his way to work again. Numb, angry, she turned, stomped into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

She went through the bedroom, snarling, and into the bathroom. The shower glass was still misty from Tom's morning bath and she could smell the cologne he'd dabbed on his face. He never used to use cologne, said it was a cheap gambit by the cosmetics companies to get business from men as well as from gullible women. Said a clean body didn't need any perfumed scents to mask its natural tangy aromas. Said that what he liked best about Joanne, when they first met, was that she was so fresh and natural, her face unmarred with cover up makeup and cheaters. He used to enjoy kissing and touching her face, not to mention the rest of her. What had happened?

Joanne wiped sweat from the steamy mirror, then stood for a long moment looking at herself in the glass. Is it me? she wondered. Have I changed? Aren't I attractive any longer?

She eyed herself from head to toe and she couldn't find anything that looked like a flaw. Thirty-one years old, and she could have passed for eighteen. Almost. There were laugh lines around her mouth and eyes not uncharming in their own way, but she'd had them for years and Tom had never mentioned any discontent. Her hair was long and silky, a chestnut brown with highlights of red here and there. Once upon a time her husband had enjoyed running his fingers through her hair, gently massaging the scalp underneath while his lips brushed time and again across her full, naturally pink lips, while their tongues played back and forth, in and out of one another's mouths in sweet loving foreplay that anticipated the even sweeter in and out motion that would take place when he slipped his fat hard cock into her wet and twitchy twat.

Her tits were good. Small tits, sure, but round and firm and high set, and capped with large brown nipples that covered almost the whole of her cuppable mounds. She cupped and squeezed her tits. Someone had to feel her tits when they ached the way they ached right now.

She had a trim, narrow waist, and slender hips, almost boyish but with the telltale curves that announced she was a woman after all. Five-four, built in good proportion to her height, with long smooth thighs that really should have been on TV doing those Gentlemen-Prefer-Hanes pantyhose commercials, and maybe they would have been if she hadn't abandoned her dreams of a career and married Tom. But when she was twenty-one and full of love for him, how could she let her own idle dreams stand in the way? He had his B.A. then, and he had to get his M.A. and Ph.D., and it was a job for two people. She'd abandoned her dreams to go to New York and try her luck as an actress, and she'd gone to work in a boutique instead, selling funky clothes and drawing a salary that helped keep her husband in graduate school.

Those had been good years, both of them in their poverty-stricken twenties, good years indeed. When dinner was macaroni and cheese washed down with Gallo Chianti or, at best, a night on the town – the free movie town every Wednesday night on campus followed by a group safari with Tom's friends to the local pizza parlor. Pitcher of beer and hold the anchovies. And then home, both of them slightly tipsy and clutching one another for support, and into bed where neither of them needed the slightest bit of support. His cock, hard and strong, punching its way into her supple, hungry twat, filling her with hot stroke after stroke, fucking her until she moaned for mercy and clutched him with her hands and legs, making sure he wouldn't let up, wouldn't give her the slightest bit of relief from his hard, fast fucking.

"So?" Joanne asked the mirror. "So?" Was she changed that much? Had she turned into a scag while she wasn't looking? Not a fucking chance! She caught up the falls of her hair, let it swirl back onto tier shoulders, around her face. After ten years of marriage she could still pass for twenty-one. Nearly. Nearly enough. And inside – God, the way she felt inside!

She hadn't been a virgin when she married. Of course not. Neither had Tom. She'd been a drama student at the university, and she'd been around. Not too many times, but enough to know the score. Enough to be a hot fuck once she decided that Tom Hickman was a man worth fucking. She'd opened her legs willingly, taken him into her hot pulsating cunt, and he'd fucked her for what seemed like hours at the time but wasn't nearly long enough to drench the fires that burned inside her. Clasping him with her legs, milking him of his juicy cum with her twitchy pussy muscles, she had known, from their first fuck, that here was a man she could learn to love, a man she could willingly spend the rest of her life with.

So what had happened?

"Tell me," Joanne asked the woman in the mirror, but neither of them knew the answer.

She turned away, reaching into the tower, adjusting the water to the proper degree of warmth. She turned the nozzle, too, allowing the spray to fall like tiny tingling needles of wet stimulation. Joanne liked that. And it was one thing that she both enjoyed and could get. Unlike her husband's love.

She stepped into the hot spray, and her lips puckered in a surge of delight. She turned round and round, letting the water play across her skin, and it was lovely. She cupped her tits, lifting them so they, too, could feel the stinging spray of the water, and her nipples puckered in joyous arousal. Joanne purred, a bubbly gurgling sound, and her fingers flitted back and forth across her brown paps, tickling them until they stiffened and thrust in the glory of full erection. She closed her fists over the ends of her boobs and squeezed hard, moaning as she began to feel better and better and better.

"Do it, baby, oh, really do it," Joanne moaned from deep in her throat. She got her hands sudsy on a bar of soap, and then she came back in full force, massaging the suds into her body. She was massaging long after her body was frothy with soap. Massaging until her heart swelled inside her and her head began to throb.

"There," she told herself as her fingers once more seized her nips and wrenched them almost viciously, but lovingly. It was the dichotomy that she liked most, the way it could feel so good one moment and hurt so much the next, and then feel good all over again. God, it was what she needed, what she really needed!

They'd been here for three pears, Tom a lowly instructor at the college, teaching grammar and lit surveys and, once in a while, his specialty, 19th Century poetry. Most of the three years had been good, even better than good. He wasn't making a fortune at the college, but he made enough to keep them comfortable, and if he got tenure at the end of the term, they were going to buy a house. They had a few friends, other faculty members and their husbands and wives, but they didn't socialize much and Joanne hadn't really minded. It had been really good and, even after ten years of marriage, they had still been discovering new, delightful things about one another, things that made each day a bright, happy adventure.

Until it all changed.

She supposed it had something to do with the pressures of his job. The 1960's had produced a glut of liberal arts graduates, overeducated people who found that the market for jobs narrowed almost daily. He'd been lucky to find this job, teaching college English, and if he lost it, it might be a long time before he found another. He spoke sometimes of classmates from grad schools, Ph.D.s who were digging ditches and running jack hammers. Maybe tenure was an important thing preying on his mind. But did he have to make her suffer?

It had been months since the last sweet time they'd enjoyed a good fuck. Her pussy ached with the memory of his cock, rampant, fierce, thrusting hard, hard, hard! His juices exploding deep inside her, her own pussy milk flowing to mingle with his cum and bathe her twat in a flood of sweet ecstasy. Her toes twitching and curling as the fires of orgasm sped through her entire body, exploding from head to toe, transforming her into a living fuck-circuit.

Now when he fucked her, it was just that. He crawled on top, complaining and bitching, rammed his cock into her, and two minutes later it was over. He'd squirt a dribble of semen up her tubes and she'd lay beneath him, biting her lips, unsatisfied as any half-fucked woman could ever be. Was the pressure making him impotent? Was that it? And was her own pressure on him only making it worse? She didn't know. But he wouldn't discuss it, right or wrong. He'd only make excuses and go out the door without a backward glance while she watched, wondering where the happiness had all gone. She could bring herself to a kind of release, but one that was so inadequate compared to what she used to share with her husband, humping deliriously on a creaking bed, their bodies full of love and excitement, his cock stiff and sweet and ferocious inside her gulping cunt…

Her cunt. It ached now, really ached. It needed to be loved and fucked. The old way. The sweet way. The best way. Needed it more than ever. Yes, Joanne decided, sliding a hand down her belly, it really was true. Women didn't get older. They got better.

She soaped her bush and her pussy, working the suds into her cuntal gap, her finger rubbing in and out, back and forth, until it brushed the risen nub of her clitoris. She was in a constant state of horniness, made all the worse by the inadequate love she got from her man. "Whew!" She gasped in a breathless voice, fingering her love button. "Do it again!" And she did, gleefully, swaying on her feet as she stroked and fondled herself.

She was comparing herself now, at age thirty-one, to the Joanne who had accepted her first fuck at sixteen, in the backseat of a car. Where else? Wasn't that the traditional American defloration spot? She hadn't even guessed how typical it all was as she allowed her formal to be lifted, her panties, to be dropped by her date, the foxiest guy in the whole school. She'd never forget how it felt then, holding his cock in her trembling hands. Not the first cock she'd ever gotten a feel of, but the first time she had ever made up her mind that this would be it, that this cock would be the first one to plunge its way into her molten cherry center and break the seal of her virginity. Excited? God, yes! Turned-on? Wow! She was sure, at the time, that she'd climaxed almost at the moment that pecker rammed up her pussy.

But what did she know about coming then? Only what she'd learned from her finger, or a date's finger, playing with her pussy. No. Nooo! She had only been starting to become a woman, and something told Joanne that it wasn't finished, not even now. She still had so much to learn.

Something new every day. Or so it used to be. Before Tom cooled off.

She couldn't put her finger on just when it had started. She could, however, put one finger on her left nipple and another finger on her clitoris, and she could nib them in unison while the spraying water cascaded over her body in refreshing tingly needles, and that's what Joanne was doing. Sometime around the first of the term now in session. After New Year's, certainly. New Year's had been great. They'd gone to a party hosted by one of Tom's colleagues in the English department, but they'd sneaked away, into one of the bedrooms, and had a crazy passionate fuck under a pile of coats, excitedly conscious that at any moment someone might walk into the room and discover them. God, how she'd come that evening, full of his driving dick!

The change had been subtle, so subtle she didn't know it was happening until it was almost an established fact. As the semester drew on and signs of spring began to appear over the mountains, she found that her husband was growing colder almost with each breath that left his mouth. He was busy when she wanted to make love. He didn't have time for the little fondness she liked to bestow on him. He seemed to have less and less time for small talk, for just being with her. He didn't even eat breakfast with her any more, and it couldn't be merely because of his 8 a.m. class in English grammar. Half the time he didn't get home until dinner was cold. Something was happening and Joanne couldn't understand it. And she didn't want to understand it. She wanted life to be the way it had always been, her and Tom, happy together, making love at the drop of a hat. Being happy. That was what she missed.

"It can't be me," she said, as she said to herself almost every day. She was cupping one of her tits, squeezing it hard, squeezing it till her lips puckered and she made a whistling sound through them. Her other hand continued to rub insistently up and down the crack of her pussy, her finger slipping inside now and then, making little passes over the erected tip of her hungry clitoris. She let her finger drop down, working it quickly in and out the mouth of her cunt, and she could feel the sticky wetness – not the plain wetness of the water that bathed her body, but the juicy, hot secretions from deep inside. "Mmm, God, yes, yes!" she purred, stiffening her finger. Joanne held her breath for a second, stabbing her finger wickedly, sinfully, into her snatch, and she lifted up, standing on her tiptoes a long time as she penetrated her twat.

"Ooohhhh!" she hummed, settling down onto her soles again, her finger still wedged in her box. She wiggled from side to side, shifting her weight back and forth, so that her pussy did a kind of tango around her embedded finger. She felt the smooth texture of her cuntal walls, the continual flow of sticky juice bathing her finger, dripping into the hollow of her hand as it tensed against the sweet hairy puff of her pussy. Her hand tightened on her tit and pinched off the stiff brown bud of a nipple. A needle of pain shot through the end of her tit, but it was a delicious kind of pain and she dug it. Really dug it. She leaned forward, pushing her titty upward, and her tongue wiggled in the air, stretching but not quite reaching the erect brown teat that crowned her boob. She could lick the curve of her tit, and she was happy to do that, tasting soap and arousal on her flesh.

She put her arm under both tits, scooping the small round mounds upward, and she licked the upper edges of both breasts, her finger still buried in her slick wet pussy. If only, she thought, if only I could suck myself, I might not feel so bad about my husband's losing his cock.

But he hadn't lost it. His cock was still there, a sweet fat hunk of meat between his legs. She'd seen it not twenty minutes ago, seen the mouth watering bulge in his snug-fitting shorts. Last night she'd tasted him, too, gone down or her husband as they lay in bed and he pretended to be asleep. She'd taken his pecker in her hands, stroked it and caressed it with her fingers and her lips and her tongue, and then sucked him for a long time in her mouth, sucked him in that special, tender way site had of eating his cock, using every trick she knew to remind him who she was, what she meant to him and what he meant to her.

It hadn't worked. His cock had stayed soft despite Joanne's feverish effort. She sucked until her throat was full of drool and spit and his prick was frothy with the stuff, but when she took her lips away, Tom's dick was as limp as it had been when she started and he was snoring softly, asleep for real this time, leaving her alone, more alone than she had ever been in her life. He hadn't lost his cock. He'd only taken it away from his wife.

"He may as well have lost it," she mumbled, leaning forward in the shower stall. Water poured over the back of her head, but her eyes were closed and she was breathing in husky gulps. Her lips continued to nuzzle the area of tit she could reach, and her finger had started working in her cunt again. Joanne's hips and belly jerked each time she plunged home, and she plunged home repeatedly, stabbing the finger up into the musky depths of her snatch. She could smell the heated arousal of her body, and she felt stinging bitter tears forming behind her tightly-shut eyelids, tears of shame that she had to be doing this for herself, that she'd been finding her own consolation this way for so long, so many weeks. Her finger in her pie, her fingers on her nips, squeezing, tweaking, she brought her body to the satisfaction her husband was no longer interested in giving her.

Masturbation. It was lovely when you were young and inexperienced, preparing yourself for the day when you would take your place in society's sexual framework as an essential member. But it was ugly, so Goddamned ugly, when you were a married woman of thirty-one and masturbating fingers were the only lovers you had to your name!

"Love me," she moaned, and some of the warm water dribbled into her mouth. She blew bubbles on her lips and she kept on diddling herself, rocking about, twisting this way and that as it got better and better. Joanne sank to her knees, legs parted, her hand still ramming its way up and into her snatch, through the sucking network of pussy muscles and mucous-coated tissue. She reached up to shut off the water – here, on her knees, there was too much of it, she'd drown in her ecstasy – the water stopped and she leaned her fingers against the shower wall for a moment, bracing herself as she kept on plunging fingers up her hot aching twat.

The wall was wet, though, and her hand slipped and slid, and she felt her fingers brush something long and slender and plastic. The handle of the bath brush. Something she never used, though Tom occasionally did. Once upon a time he hadn't needed a bath brush. They saved water, showered together, two hot naked bodies jammed into a narrow stall, and she washed his back and all his other hard-to-reach places, and he did the same for Joanne, and sometimes they even waited until they dried off before he threw her onto the floor and gave her a bathroom quickie. Not any more.

Joanne's fingers closed on the bath brush handle, and she clenched them tighter, moaning between clenched teeth. It felt so phallic, that object! Like a young slender cock, strong and hard and long. She raised her head, opened her eyes, stared at the white plastic object where it hung from a little clamp fixed to the wall. Her eyes misted over and then they sparkled knowingly and she wiggled the brush free, brought it to her face.

She stroked herself with the bristles, which were soft and not at all bristly. Like the beard Tom had sported during his second year of grad school. She'd loved his beard, loved to feel it with her hands and her body, but it caused a rash on her upper thighs and he'd finally shaved it off. Bristled bath brushes didn't give you a rash, though, did they? She thought not. Stroking her face and tits with the brush, especially stroking her stiff, aching nipples. "Do it, baby," she giggled, giggled as she hadn't since passing the upper limits of puberty. She worked her finger out of her pussy, used it to cup her tits while she stroked them with the brush, stroked them till her tits burned and yearned.

She turned the bath brush around in her hand, and she pressed the long, tapering handle against her lips. It had a cold, plastic taste, but it was stiff and phallic and she could pretend, couldn't she? What else did she have? And it was Tom's. Maybe she could taste the imprint of his hands on the plastic? She licked friskily at the handle, tasting nothing but plastic. It was the first hard thing she'd been able to lick in a couple of weeks, though, and could she fault it so awfully much for being plastic?

No. "Come to mama," Joanne simpered, opening her mouth. The slightly pointed tip of the brush eased between her lips, onto the end of her wet red tongue. She closed her lips, and began to suck with loud, slurping noises, the kind of noises she had made as a teenager sucking cock for the first time. High school boys had enjoyed hearing her sounds of passion, mistaking the smacks and slobbers for skill. She'd learned better, but the man who had helped her learn didn't seem to be interested anymore, and he wasn't here to bitch about the quality of the head she gave his bath brush. She kept on sucking, until her mouth was overflowing with drool and she had to clear her throat and swallow hard.

Joanne's eased the brush handle out of her mouth and she looked at it, turning it this way and that, her eyes examining it for the first time, the first serious time. It was about eight inches long, a fraction shorter than Tom's prick, and not nearly as thick as that sweet tool of his. She could wrap her thumb and finger around it twice – or could have, if she'd been triple-jointed. It was, perhaps, as thick as two of Joanne's slender fingers. She noted the size, made the mental comparison, and ten her eyebrows lifted. Her lips curled up into a wry smile. "Why not?" she said. "At least it doesn't tire out and curl up, the way my fingers do just when I need them most."

And with that she rocked back, bracing her ass and shoulders against the back wall of the tower. One of her legs slipped out to rest on the white fur rug outside the stall, and she lifted her other foot high, resting it beside the tray where the soap was kept. She was spread widely, and she wriggled around until she was comfortable, in the process opening her snatch a little more. She looked down into her wet, matted triangle of pussy hair, saw the red lips of her cunt showing among the curls of fur. Red lips, puckered and pouting, their tips coated with the moisture and glistening juice her fingers had coaxed from deep in her tubes. Holding the brush firmly, the handle aimed at her body, Joanne reached down and spread her labes a little wider, pushing them open the smooth, practiced way a "Hustler" model opens herself for the camera. And all she had was a plastic substitute for fat throbbing cock. Well, she thought, you played the hand you were dealt.

And the hand she was playing now was a desperate, starved one, something that made her blush with a kind of shame even as she brought the tip of the handle to her open snatch and started to wiggle it inside her. God, if someone saw me! she thought. I'd die. But I need something!

"Oh, Jesus!" she blurted as she worked the thing into her pussy. It was slick and stiff, entering her easily, and she stretched and strained, working herself around so she could best accommodate the unbending erection of the plastic tool. Was this what women did with those cock-shaped vibrators? she wondered. Maybe it would be better with a vibrator. You'd have that thing buzzing as it went inside, the tingle shooting through your pussy walls as you took it up you. They were a little thicker too, those vibrators, more like three stiff fingers worked into a tight wet hole – where did you find them, for God's sake? Did you go to the drugstore and tell the clerk, "I want a vibrator. About nine inches long. Black if you have it in that color. Or red?" How in the world did you go about getting one?

I am desperate, she told herself, stricken with a sudden feeling of revulsion. What am I doing to myself? I am – I am… "Oh, God, Jesus!" she yipped suddenly, and the thing was in her, maybe four inches of stiff plastic rammed up her twat, and she couldn't get arty more of it inside her because of the angle at which she sat, but maybe, oh, Christ, maybe she didn't need any more of it!

The thing felt incredibly big, stuffed into her pussy, and knew it was only her twat contracting to accommodate the size, to give her body the sweetest, tightest fit possible. It was the way a cunt reacted when you put something inside it. After living in her body for thirty-one years, Joanne Hickman knew that. And her cunt was like a well-tuned machine, something that always responded in the nicest way possible for the woman who owned it, who took care of it. She grasped the exposed end of the brush, squashing down the bristles, and site started to turn it inside herself.

"Whooo!" she swooned as it began to revolve. Her eyes were rolling in their sockets and she couldn't see much of anything. Her foot was jammed tight against the tower wall and she pushed hard, harder, hardest, lifting her ass slightly as she turned and writhed. Another half inch of handle stole into her twat, touching a deeper part of Joanne's cuntal well, and she gasped, wrenching hard on the bath brush, pushing it impatiently, swishing it in her box like a swizzle stick in a martini.

"Tom, Tom, Tom," she panted, fucking herself. She'd gotten the rhythm now, and the action, and she could feel the thing digging into her, the pointed tip a light irritant, not quite a pain, deep in her pussy, and she was moving it in and out of her, as best she could capture it, with same kind of rhythm she wanted, needed, demanded, when she was being fucked by a real cock. By Tom's cock. But it wasn't his cock in her, it was his bath brush, and even though she felt her passion bubbling in her veins, racing through her bloodstream to her brain, she knew it wasn't the same, that it could never be the same.

"But it's all I have," she gasped, fucking herself with a brutality born of Tom's inexplicable coldness. "It's – all – I – have!"

No! She had more! And she could feel it starting to happen, the come-fever boiling in her belly, bubbles getting bigger and bigger and bigger, swelling and rolling down the tube of her twat, breaking upon her fingers as they wiggled the bath brush deeper and deeper into her rippling pussy mouth. She pushed harder with her foot on the shower wall, her other foot curled the fur rug around itself. Her tits ached, her nipples big and hard, but she was using both hands to manipulate the brush in and out of her twat and she couldn't even spare a finger to toy with her stiffened tits, couldn't possibly take her hands away, couldn't possibly.

When she came it was an explosion, and it should have blown her body to pieces, but it didn't. Somehow she survived the initial impact of orgasm, and then she went rocking up, moaning, keening her blues to the echoing walls of the shower compartment and the bathroom outside, and she couldn't bear to work the thing inside her any longer. She jerked it out of her pussy, replaced it with a stiff, straining finger, and she humped the sweetest, hottest, wettest part of her come onto her finger as it plunged deep inside her, soothing away the sweet fuck-pain she'd brought herself to. At last she lay huddled in a ball on the shower stall floor, knees pulled up to her chin, finger wedged but no longer moving in her pussy, and she could only moan and sob as she came down from the humiliating but [missing text].