I’m no genius, but I’m not as dumb as my husband thinks I am. It’s been my experience that most men are clueless about their relationships with women. And my present husband is no exception. He’s my husband at present. It remains to be seen if he’ll be my husband in the future.
Every man has something to hide, and every woman knows it. When George walks into the room with me, I know within thirty seconds if he’s hiding something. It’s an evolutionary imperative. Men evolved to be bread winners, strong silent types, hunters, aggressors (though most of them aren’t very good at that). Women evolved to be in groups, to be gregarious, to be political.
To me it shows just how dumb men are. They insist on running all the countries, making all the decisions. And they aren’t even good at it. They didn’t evolve to be politicians. That’s why we have all of these stupid wars. Men have been thinking with their dicks for millions of years. They are incapable of acting outside the control of their own testosterone.
Women are the true politicians. A woman doesn’t let her face show any emotion other than the one she wants it to show. We can dial up an emotion designed to achieve whatever goal we need.
For example, if I want George to do something for me that he doesn’t like to do, I can use my ‘I’m upset with you’ face. I don’t have to say anything. Perhaps I act a bit standoffish, but otherwise betray nothing. Within a few minutes I can read the anxiety on his face. He knows he’s screwed up, he just doesn’t know what it is he’s done. And he’s afraid to ask me because he thinks that will only make matters worse: I’ll know that he’s so insensitive that he doesn’t even know what he did wrong.
Before long he’s so eager to please me to get off the hook that he’ll gladly do almost anything I want him to do. After he’s done whatever it is I wanted him to do all along, I remove my ‘I’m upset with you’ face. He’s relieved because he got away with something though he’s not exactly sure what it is he got away with.
This ploy wouldn’t work if I used it all of the time. I have a number of tricks in my repertoire to make George bend to my will. As long as I vary their usage, keep him off balance, he never knows he’s being manipulated and our marriage can remain on an even keel.
This might sound like I’m a manipulative bitch. But every woman has to use tricks like these or nothing would ever get done around the house or in a relationship. When was the last time a man ever volunteered to do anything? When was the last time that a man had a clue about what was going on in his relationship?
The helpless creatures have to be led to the water and still they won’t drink unless we stick their damn heads into it. Women are the politicians. If women didn’t control things in the household and in the relationship, their wouldn’t be any household or any relationship. Men think these things happen by magic!
Which brings us back to my clueless husband, George. All men have something to hide and all women know it. Is there any man who doesn’t have a stash of pornography somewhere? Today it might just be stored in the computer. But my George likes to pull out a video tape when I go shopping and jack off to the images of obscenely-disfigured women doing disgusting things to men with elongated sexual organs.
George thinks I’m an idiot. He thinks I can’t read the little boy puppy dog expression on his face when I tell him I’m going shopping. I know perfectly well that by the time I get the car out of the driveway he’ll be retrieving that video tape labeled Improving Your Short Game. As if I don’t know what it is, where it is.
George believes in the ‘hide it in plain sight’ method. He takes a pornographic video tape, replaces the label with some boring instructional golf label and expects that no one will ever want to bother with it again.
Men are so innocent. There is something that happens in a house called ‘dust’. This is a phenomenon few men know or care anything about. They think: ‘hey, we dusted back in ’97. That’ll do for the next couple of decades.’ Boys, dust happens! There are dead mites and flaked skin. Fabric disintegrates, books crumble. It’s called entropy. Everything put together sooner or later falls apart. If it weren’t for women dusting, before long floors would start to buckle and the dog would drown in an ocean of dust. I’m starting to wonder if entropy doesn’t also apply to marriages.
So when I’m doing the dusting and I finally get around to the video cabinet, it’s not hard to tell which videos have been used and which ones haven’t. It’s called dust, boys.
I notice that Improving Your Short Game is one of the cleanest videos in the bunch. George hasn’t been on a golf course in a year and a half, ever since he hit that Harvey Johnson fellow entering the 19th hole in the back of the head with an errant 4 iron shot from the 18th fairway.
I know that George has had it in for Harvey ever since the County Club dance when Harvey ‘put a run on me’ as George so succinctly put it. Now I am a happily (so far) married woman. Just because Harvey Johnson makes a pass; just because when we dance he has Russian fingers and Roman hands (as we used to say in high school), it doesn’t mean that I’m receptive to his rather crude advances. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself in those situations. George has no reason to be jealous. No revenge on Harvey is necessary, since nothing really happened.
But George has to go and hit Harvey on the head with a 4 iron shot. I was terrified that Harvey would sue us for fairway malpractice. I expected the police to come and arrest George for assault with a deadly golf ball. From that point forward I insisted that George give up golf. It is just too dangerous a game to be played by someone as volatile as George.
Therefore I must assume that the video might not actually be about golf. My curiosity was aroused, but when I looked at the video I can’t say that my libido was aroused. Forty-something respectable women don’t derive stimulation from videos of people with deformities performing obscene acts together.
I allow George his little foibles. Just because I know he’s hiding something doesn’t mean I should let him know that I know he’s hiding something. It’s politics, sweetie. If they think they are getting away with things, they’ll be happier about themselves. And they’ll be more likely to give themselves away when they try to hide something really important.
And George thinks I’m the idiot!
Why don’t men just wear signs on their foreheads when it happens: I’m GUILTY! George tells me almost everything without opening his mouth. It has something to do with body language developed through millennia of evolution, I suppose. It has something to do with the shit eating grin on his face followed by the gasp of realization of what he has done, followed by the furtive glances from him to me. Can I tell? Can I smell it on him? He’s fooled me before on the small stuff. Can he sneak this one by me?
Let me tell you, he’s never fooled me on the small stuff. I just let him think he has. And no, he can’t sneak this one by me either. I don’t know who she is but I already have a list of possible candidates forming in my head. He is screwing around on me. Or maybe he hasn’t done it yet! Yes, maybe that’s it. He hasn’t done it yet, but he’s seriously considering it. For the first time he’s thinking about cheating.
Other things are happening which alert me to what may be going on. I call his office in the morning and he is not available. That has happened three times in the last two weeks. And yet I don’t think it had happened three times in the previous two years. What is George doing out of the office in the morning? He’s up to no good, I’ll bet.
Now, I’m an easy-going woman. I put up with George’s idiosyncrasies. I often ignore the looks he gives other women as we walk through the mall. I pretend not to notice when he farts in bed. I don’t use sex as a negotiating tool. I’ve got plenty of other negotiating tools.
So what’s his problem? It can’t be me. It has to be him. It’s some sort of mid-life crisis. He’s forty-seven years old. He’s been feeling some arthritis in his knees recently. Maybe his body isn’t cut like it used to be (and George was never a hunk, for heavens sake). Maybe he needs some reassurance of the female kind.
On the other hand, I don’t mean to be disloyal, but what does she see in him? I make love to him with an almost alarming regularity. We must do it several times a month. But I have to. I’m his wife. It comes with the job description.
She has no such obligations. She isn’t married to him. Yet. That could be it! That might be her plan. She’s luring him away from me with sex. Then when she wins him, he marries her, she’ll cut him off just like any other normal woman. I should have realized. It’s all politics.
How do I know, you ask? Besides the furtive glances, what other signs have I discovered that are giving away George’s infidelities, past or planned? He thinks he can hide things from me. I’ll admit there are places in the house that I won’t go unless it is absolutely necessary. He knows that. That’s why I go to those places regularly just to see what he might have stashed there. I don’t want to go to those places, but I do because it’s absolutely necessary.
The room at the side of our house with the very large door that our realtor jokingly referred to as a garage when we bought this home is one such place. If it were twice as big perhaps one of our cars could fit in there, next to George’s tools, old boxes of memorabilia, and various and sundry junk that only a man would want to keep. It’s dirty, dank, and dusty. And no, I do not dust the garage. If he wants to spend his time out there chancing allergies, he’s more than welcome.
Still, it’s one of those places he thinks that he knows that I never visit. Another such place is in the basement, the unfinished part where the heat pump and the water heater and the spiders are. No, I’ll admit that I’d prefer not to visit that place if it weren’t such a darn good place for George to hide things.
There are several such places around the house that George thinks that he has exclusive access to, the poor thing. Those are always the first places I look when I suspect that George is hiding something from me. That’s where I found them.
They were a bottle of pills. Of course I was interested when I found them stashed in the back of a cardboard box filled with ten year old bowling trophies. (If that man thinks I will allow him to display those silly trophies on the mantle of my den, he is sadly mistaken.)
What kind of pills would a man hide from his wife? Well, duh! I occasionally receive spam myself offering Viagra, Levitra, and other such pills at direct-to-you prices. They usually come with a disclaimer: if your hard-on doesn’t go down after thirty-six hours, call your doctor. I swear if George’s hard-on didn’t go down after thirty-six hours, I’d call the Guinness Book of World Records.
That’s what these pills were. Some ridiculous drug to give a man a long-lasting and rock-hard erection. I knew immediately that he didn’t buy them to improve our sex life. Our sex life needs no such improvement. I’m all the inducement he needs. I’m still pretty hot looking for a forty-something woman. I can still fit in to the same dresses that I wore ten years ago. If I hold my breath. Permanently.
So he didn’t get the pills for me. He got them for her. She is going to reap the benefits of George’s ever-lasting rock-hard boner. Men are such pigs.
I confess that my first thoughts upon discovering these wonder pills tended toward the dark side. I found myself searching the internet looking for anaphrodisiacs. Actually I didn’t even know there were such things as anaphrodisiacs. But I had heard about saltpeter.
Saltpeter was supposed to have been fed to the troops during World War Two to cut down on their libido. At least I think I heard that somewhere. But a search of saltpeter on the net informed me that this was an urban legend. But it did lead me to real honest-to-goodness anaphrodisiacs.
Anaphrodisiac: An agent that lessens or eliminates sexual desire (according to Dictionary.com). Who would’ve thought that such things existed? The world is full of many strange and wonderful inventions. Anaphrodisiacs aren’t one of them. Still, they have their uses.
My plan: replace the pills in his bottle of instant hard-on with instant soft-on. That would teach the son-of-a-bitch a lesson! Think he can screw around on me, does he? He’ll never get another hard-on for the rest of his life!
Well, perhaps I was a bit crazed at the time. Before I actually placed an order for dick deflator, I realized it was a pretty low down thing to do, even to a cheating husband. Maybe you shouldn’t be drugging people without their knowledge, even potential pond scum like George.
I remember one time early in our relationship. George and I had been drinking a bit and he whipped out his manhood, as it were, as a means of ‘turning me on’, I guess. It just struck me as funny at the time. He looked so silly with that thing sticking out from his zipper, him standing there in a pair of Bermuda shorts and knee-high socks. I began to laugh. And laugh.
I’m sorry, but I was drunk enough that I got into a laughing jag and just couldn’t stop. George’s erection did a u-turn and disappeared from view. George couldn’t get it up for a month after that.
Christ, men have such fragile egos. And they sure as hell can’t take a joke about their dicks! If I fed him this anaphrodisiac, George might become psychically injured and never get it up again. I want him to get it up occasionally. I thought better of using the dick downers.
Well, I had a fall-back plan, one that wasn’t so blatantly anti-social. In fact, one could argue that I would be helping rather than harming George by this plan. I noticed that the boner pills looked a lot like vitamin E capsules. They were clear yellow small, roundish capsules. I did what any sane woman would do. I replaced the erection erectors with good old vitamin E. The way I looked at it, it wouldn’t hurt.
And if he was going to have sex with this harlot he planned to see, he would have to get hard of his own volition: no chemically induced woody allowed. That’ll teach him.
So there is my problem. My George, my formerly faithful friendly spouse, is contemplating cheating on me. I’m not sure whether to cut his balls off or beg him to be true. Somehow I must have a face for this occasion, a political position that will defuse things and get us back to normal. For the life of me, I can’t think what it is.
Today was the day. I had to confront him. Women are the politicians. They know that every problem has to be faced head-on. You’ve got to talk about things, even things like forty-seven year old fools contemplating infidelity.
But George came home before I was ready. I still hadn’t decided how to handle this! On the one hand I wanted to grab him around the throat and just throttle him. But being the politically astute woman that I am, I could see how this might just exacerbate the problem. Was I really ready to burn my bridges?
Besides which, I am not sure he has already done it. He may be only guilty of adultery in his heart, and that didn’t keep Jimmy Carter from getting elected. The ten commandments might not like it, but is it grounds for divorce? I hope not. George would have filed after every Brad Pitt movie I’ve ever seen.
And if he hasn’t done it yet, I don’t want to drive him to it. Can I possibly convince him to stop before it’s too late? How did my life become such a mess almost overnight?
George had come in before I expected him. He called to me from the front hall to let me know he was home. I hurried in from the kitchen to greet him. I was struck by how attractive he looked, in a slightly bloated forty-seven year old, un-hunky way. He might not be every girl’s dreamboat but he belonged to me. For the time being, anyway.
“Georgie, you’re home early!”, I said. I don’t know where ‘Georgie’ came from. I only call him that when I’m trawling for sex. It’s been a while since I called him that, come to think of it.
“Hi, Freddie. How was your day?”
My mother saddled me with ‘Fredericka’, but every one but her calls me ‘Freddie’. Thank God.
I rushed up to him and plastered him with the juiciest, sexiest, most suggestive kiss that a slightly overweight (very slightly), forty-something housewife is capable of. It may not have been a toe-curler, but it was certainly a knee weakener. I know, because my knees were weak.
I felt George’s strong hands cup my backside and pull me in.
He said, “Now that’s the kind of greeting I could get used to.”
I molded my body against his. Perhaps I was a bit flustered. Perhaps I was a bit forward. But darn it, I’m fighting for my man! Before he goes shopping for some woman on the outside, he darn well better know that what he has at home is pretty hot!
I said, “Oh, Georgie, I’m so glad that you’re home!”
I rubbed his chest with one hand while wrapping my arm around his neck, pulling him closer. My crotch tightly rubbed against his non-chemically enhanced dick. I could feel an all-natural enhancement begin to emerge. Well, at least I still have some effect on him!
I said, “Georgie, it feels so good when you hold me.” The way things are going, this might be the last time he holds me. I had better take advantage of it.
George leaned back and looked into my eyes. “What brought this on? You are being very affectionate tonight.”
I added a slightly more ‘girly’ quality to my voice. Maybe my voice is too hard most of the time. “George, I love you. I’m being affectionate because that’s the way you make me feel.” Oh, dear, I hope I’m not laying it on too thickly.
He pulled me to him and kissed me. In fact, I was being thoroughly kissed. I felt his hand fondle my breast. It may not be huge, but it’s certainly enough for a handful. He squeezed my nipple and I couldn’t help it. A sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan escaped my lips.
We stood there kissing, he with one hand fondling my bottom and one hand feeling my breast. Somehow I had made a rapid transition between harried and worried housewife to hot and panting woman. As he pulled me closer by the butt I began dry-humping his leg.
I have no idea why they call it ‘dry-humping’ because I realized to my embarrassment that the spot on his leg that touched my crouch had become anything but dry. I was leaking juices like a sieve.
Now I am normally not one to be consumed with passion. In fact, I might best be described as relatively sexually dispassionate. I do what has to be done to fulfill my wifely responsibilities, but that’s as far as it goes. But for some reason the need to aggressively pursue my man by proving my love for him had ignited me in a most unusual way.
Frankly, I was hot! I pushed George back on to the sofa, forcing him to sit down. My hands were already opening his belt, unsnapping his pants buckle, pulling down his zipper. I grabbed the top of his pants. He lifted his bottom and I pulled down his pants and his boxers, exposing the object of my immediate desire. It was already firm, extended out from his body in a most inviting way.
I cupped his balls in one hand, softly gripped his dick in the other. I looked in to George’s eyes. What was in them? Was it lust? Was it shock? Was it confusion? Was it outrage? I couldn’t read them when I almost always can. Still, I had to push forward.
“Georgie, there’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but I never had the courage to try it. Would you mind?” Well that was a bold-faced lie. This is something that had never occurred to me to try until now. On the plus side, I really did want to do it now. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
I bent my head and placed a long kiss on the head of his dick, with my tongue massaging that increasingly enraged purple orb at the top. I slowly sucked his dick into my mouth, my eyes never wavering from George’s eyes. I took special care not to use my teeth as I sucked and licked his member.
In no time he had achieved as large as an erection as I had ever seen him have. Of course, this is the closest I’d ever come to it so perhaps my perspective was skewed. Still, I challenge those damn pecker pills to get any more out of Georgie than I was getting right now!
I suddenly realized that I was giving George a spontaneous unsolicited blow-job! This was a first in our marriage. I gently licked his shaft as I sucked on the head of his penis. Finally the surprise or shock or whatever in his eyes was replaced by obvious lust. I heard him moan. His hips began to subtly pump his member into and out of my mouth. I loved it.
I wanted him to come in my mouth. I wanted to feel the whole fellatio experience. But not this time. I was too hot; too excited. Before he was too far along I removed my mouth from his dick.
“Georgie, I promise. I’ll get back to this. I’ll finish you off. I’ll suck you dry. I’ll swallow your cum. Anything you want, Georgie, I’ll do. I promise.
“But please, Georgie. I need you inside me now. Let me fuck you, okay?”
I didn’t really give George the option. He kind of nodded his head, but I was already tearing off my clothes. Buttons were popping and flying across the living room. I pulled off my jeans and panties – they were soaked already – and pushed George back on the couch.
I was naked and I didn’t want to waste time on foreplay. I grabbed George’s erection in my hand and crawled on top of my reclining soul mate. I felt that large round head begin to insinuate itself between the lips of my pussy. My eyes closed and I slammed myself down his shaft.
I moaned loudly with the sensation. He felt huge in my tight little pussy. It felt like he was touching every part of my interior. I know Georgie is only average in size. I’ve seen those elongated dicks on the porn flick on the golf tape. I don’t want any more than Georgie. Georgie is plenty big enough for me. He fills me up. It can’t get any bigger than that.
I leaned over and gave him a burning kiss. My breasts were rubbing his chest. I could feel my nipples against his, exciting me even more. I was rocking back and forth on his erection. I wiggled my ass when he bottomed out within me, maximizing the areas of contact, rubbing all the right places in just the right way.
The intensity of our coupling elevated with every stroke. I could feel my arousal building to something I’d never before experienced. My hips would raise a few inches and then I would slam myself back onto his dick. I started making strange sounds. My vocal chords took on a life of their own and were voicing their participation in my total ravishment.
George. I had forgotten about George. I was coherent enough to realize that he was as far along as I was. I was nearing some kind of peak. It may have been the Mount Everest of orgasmic peaks. I seemed to go over the top. My pussy was clenching and unclenching George’s overworked dick. My back arched and I was frozen in a rictus of exploding passion. I felt George release his seed deeply within me. It just egged on and lengthened my climax.
The altitude of my peak was so high I no longer had oxygen to breathe. I collapsed on George’s chest. Suddenly I was crying. I couldn’t help it.
“I love you, George. Please don’t leave me! Please. I need you. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t leave me.”
I felt George’s arms surround me as he comforted me in my passion-crazed melancholia. The worry, the sex, the passion, all conspired to drain me of energy. I fell asleep in his arms.
I was still recovering from being royally screwed. I thought I could lie here for another week. Or until the next time I was to be royally screwed – whichever came first.
Georgie must have left the couch while I was less than cognizant of my surroundings. When I became aware that he had gone missing, my first thought was: “he’s had his way with me, now he’s probably left me.” It’s just a variation of the old “find ‘em, finger ‘em, fuck ‘em, forget ‘em” line. He’s gotten past the “fuck ‘em” stage and is entering “forget ‘em”. On to greener pastures and his next conquest, that’s my George.
I was about to rush to the phone, call his cell and beg him to come home when I heard the toilet flush in the downstairs bathroom. George ambled into the living room and sat on ‘his’ chair. He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face if I ever saw one. Sometimes men can be infuriating.
“So, Freddie. Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?”
I tried the oblique route. “What do you mean? I love you. I wanted to show you how much, that’s all. Is there anything wrong with that?”
He shook his head. I knew he would but it was worth a try. “I’m talking about the ‘Don’t leave me’ crap. What, are you undergoing some intense psychotic experience or something?”
“George, we have to talk. You see, I know about her.”
“Her? Who is her?”
I knew he was going to make this difficult for me. “Her! The woman you are banging or are planning on banging. The person you are willing to throw our marriage away over! That’s who her is!”
George got a beatific smile on his face, the heartless son of a bitch! “George, how could you! After all these years. After all we’ve meant to each other! How could you?”
George shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t.”
I gasped. “What do you mean you couldn’t.”
He was still smiling. “Freddie, it’s gratifying when your plans all seem to fall into place.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I’m practically hysterical here and he seems to be meditating. He’s lucky I love him or I’d kill him.
“George this has gone far enough. I need to know what you are doing. Who is she? Are you leaving me for her? I need to know!”
George said, “Sweetheart, there is no one. I’m going nowhere. Satisfied?”
I wasn’t buying what he was selling. “Wait a minute, mister! I’ve seen all the signs: the guilty looks, the time away from the office. And I found them!”
He said, “Them?”
“George let’s not get into a pronoun war again. The pills! I found the pills! I know you have pills to keep your erection up. Why else would you have them if not to diddle some stupid young thing?”
“Freddie I never diddle. It’s time we had it out. It’s time to put all our cards on the table.”
Uh oh! I’ve forced his hand. Well I had to know. I was going crazy with worry. No matter what he says, at least the worry will be over.
“What is happening, George? Could you please explain what is going on?”
“Freddie, I have two activities that are my favorite things to do in the whole world, and you’ve been trying to restrict both of them.”
I said, “Me? What have I done? What activities?”
“Golf and fucking. Fucking and golf. I love to do both of them but you don’t want me to golf and it looks like you are getting tired of fucking.”
I could see a ploy when it looked me in the face. He’s trying to shift the blame to me. He’s trying to justify his infidelities by blaming me. I shouted, “No way, Jose! Don’t try to blame me for that. You are lethal on a golf course. Of course you shouldn’t be golfing. We’ll get sued and you’ll be thrown into jail.”
George looked exasperated. “Freddie, if you think I hit that fuck Harvey Johnson on the head from 150 yards on purpose, then I’m going on the tour. Tiger fucking Woods couldn’t have hit him on the head from 150 yards. I told you, my damn club head hit a rock in the grass and forced me into a killer slice. Geez, I’m glad the ball hit Harvey in the head or I might have broken a window in the clubhouse. That I would have to pay for.”
I went back on the offense. “But what about the times when you were out of your office for no good reason? Who were you seeing then? Answer me that, George.”
“Baby, I was golfing. What else does one do on a morning in April when it’s sixty degrees out, the birds are singing, the sun is shining? You golf! I golf! Sorry, honey, but just because you tell me not to golf doesn’t mean I won’t golf. It just means that I won’t tell you that I’m golfing.”
I had him now. “But, but. I saw the video! I know that you are watching pornography when you want me to think you are watching a golfing video. How about them apples!” I had him!
He smirked. “I knew you would fall for that one. You are so easy to control sometimes. I have ten minutes of some awful porn movie on the front of my Improving Your Short Game video. I figured you wouldn’t watch it through far enough to notice that it really was a golfing video. You’re too much of a prude for that. If you realized I was really watching a golf video, you might figure out that I was really golfing too.”
The light went on. “Oh, no! You used the old double blind hide in plain sight ploy! And I fell for it! I’m getting old, George. But the pills! You still haven’t told me about the pills.”
George waved his hand in dismissal. “They weren’t really sex pills. They were just vitamin E.”
I said, “So you knew that I put vitamin E in the bottle?”
He shook his head. “You did? So did I. Actually when I got the bottle there were no pills in there at all. A guy at work bought the pills off of the internet – don’t ask who it is, I’m not telling! He gave me the bottle cause he planned to use the ‘hide in plain sight’ method against his wife. He was putting them in his medicine cabinet in an prescription bottle that he didn’t need anymore, but his wife would never use. Nothing illicit! He wasn’t cheating on her. He just wanted to fuck her brains out.”
“Why did you put vitamins in the bottle and then hide it?” The man’s actions can be totally baffling sometimes.
Again with the smirk. “I knew you’d find them eventually. I knew you were getting suspicious about my unaccounted for time away from the office. I wanted to see if you would put two and two together and get five. I had already addressed the golf problem. I’m hoping that this will address the fucking problem.”
“George! Do you mean there really isn’t a her? You aren’t leaving me for a younger more beautiful woman?” All this talk had me horny again. He wanted me. He only loved me. There isn’t some sweet young thing waiting in the wings to take my place. I had to fuck him again!
I walked towards him and knelt down in front of him. I took hold of his lovely soft penis, leaned forward and applied a kiss.
Looking in his eyes I said, “I promised you I’d finish you off the next time. But George, you are one manipulative son of a bitch!” I took his member in my mouth.
George sighed. Just before he closed his eyes he said, “Honey, I learned from the master.”