Patrick and I have always had an explosive sex life. From the beginning we have been loud, adventurous and hungry for each other.
I have often been told that second marriages are usually about sex, and that certainly has been true for us. But we have been so much more for each other, building an emotional intimacy and trust that after twenty-three years, only grows stronger. In a way that I would never have predicted, however, that intimacy has been strengthened by a frankness about our sexual histories.
The rules have been simple: No names. No details that would reveal when and with whom we had each exercised our considerable sexual appetites before we met. Subject to those constraints though, we never hold back the vivid details, usually in the midst of coupling or teasing each other beforehand. More than once I have spurred Patrick into fucking me harder, driving my orgasm into new territory, by croaking details of what I have done with other men. More than once, my head has bounced harder on his cock as he described some sexual conquest or another.
Although I have never revealed all of the details to him, my own trove of stories is stocked with a fucking spree conducted after my divorce. My sexual urges have always been intense, and I freely indulged them before my first marriage. It probably was an early warning sign that my first husband thought I was too loud and demanded too much in bed. At the end, the marriage was loveless, abusive and, it goes without saying, sexless.
I emerged from the divorce as a woman in her thirties with a need to make up for those lost years. To an extent that I have not told Patrick, I indulged those desires.
That is not to say that I haven’t talked about the experiences. In fact, some of my most intense post-divorce passion has become the soundtrack for our lovemaking. Consistent with our rules though, I have remained vague about the when and the where, usually leading him to believe that the stories were from my college years.
One affair involved a college instructor whom I had pursued and fucked as a post graduate student the summer after my divorce. Long ago, I described for Patrick how I had teased a professor in a college lecture with stockings and a garter belt that I allowed to peek out from under my skirt. Ultimately, we ended up in the instructor’s office, fucking against a closed door, an image that drove my new husband crazy as we fucked early in our marriage. I never lied to Patrick but I certainly implied that the experience was a college escapade.
I also conflated that episode with a story about a man I dated in college. I described for Patrick how this man bent me over a chair, fucked me hard and spilled his semen down my stockinged legs and staining my dress. Patrick never knew–or I thought he never knew–that the liaison actually occurred shortly before he and I started dating. In fact, an early complication of our relationship was disengaging from this man when Patrick and I discovered each other. I never admitted that I had to stop fucking my instructor so that Patrick and I could start fucking each other.
Years have passed since I related those events in hazy detail and I must admit that I never told Patrick how satisfying the sheer carnality of my time with that man had been. As the years passed and as Patrick and I have grown more familiar with each other’s past, it was probably inevitable that the truth would emerge. It emerged, however, in a way that stunned me.
One recent winter afternoon, Patrick and I shared lunch at a nearby resort, casually teasing each other. When the sexual tension became too much, we rented a hotel room and dove into each other. It was off season and the hotel was nearly empty, which made it all the more inviting to be loud with each other. Soon we were telling stories again.
As we ground away hungrily at each other, my stomach flipped when Patrick suddenly said, “Tell me about that college professor you were fucking when we started dating.”
I hesitated. But only for a minute.
“He had a huge dick,” I grunted. Patrick pounded harder.
“He would pick me–ugh ugh–up and–ugh–fuck me while we were standing” Patrick moaned now.
“Then he would throw me onto the bed and fuck me as hard as I have ever been fucked.” We both moaned.
“Harder than I fuck you?” Patrick croaked.
“No. No–one–has fucked me like this!” I shrieked, even though I wasn’t sure it was the truth. Although I would never admit it to Patrick, there are still times in the midst of pleasuring myself when I rasp, “Fuck my pussy! Give me your cock!” and think of this man.
Patrick hissed: “Tell me about the last time he f-f-fucked you!”
I rolled my hips into my husband and crossed one of the final barriers of sexual history.
“We went to a friend’s house. Ugh, ugh. He took–off– my dress and laid me on the kitchen table.” Patrick now fucked me in a furor.
“Then he took his big dick and teased my lips with it! Fuck — me — harder!! Please!”
“He-he-stood there–while–I sucked his dick.” We each were nearly shouting now.
“Then he spread my legs and–and–and– pushed his big cock into me! God! Yes! Harder! Harder! Oh–my–god!!. He was so–so–so fucking big! Fuck–me–now–please!!God, yesss!!”
“The ta–ble almost broke– he fucked me so hard! Give it to me now!” In my mind, I was back on that table, bucking my hips, pleading for that big cock. “Fuck my pussy!! Give me your cock!!” I screamed as I have done so many times at the memory.
“Ohhhhh! Ohhh!! Yes! Give it to me now!” I screamed.
“Take–my–big –table — dick–now!’ Patrick shouted as we each came explosively.
Suddenly it was my husband’s penis again, stroking my pussy long after his semen spilled down my legs. As he softened and the strokes became gentler, we each sighed and drifted to sleep in each other’s arms, but not before Patrick whispered, “Please… tell me more.”