A serialisation of my first erotic Novel – please do leave comments at the end
Life is full of surprises. One settles into a comfortable, if tedious, routine then there’s a seismic shift and one discovers a piranha in one’s bath, or, as in this instance, a nymphomaniac in one’s bed.
Not the outcome you might predict from a casual, “What would you like for your birthday?” request, from a spouse of twenty-three years.
My reply to the question was not outrageous. Certainly not a demand for the above mentioned nymphomaniac. What I requested had risks, although I considered the worst case scenario to be a flat no, and a few days of a sulky mood.
I didn’t expect her reaction to be so hostile that I’d end up with the piranha, metaphorical or real. Less probable was the chance of it ending with a real nymphomaniac; in my bed or anywhere else.
Mind you, I often fantasised about that outcome (the nymphomaniac, not the piranha), but in real life how many of our fantasies morph into reality?
I will explain.
I’m married to Mary. Our marriage has had its mountains and valleys, but what union hasn’t? My wife is gorgeous and witty. She is a great Mother to our two grown-up children who have left home. She’s an excellent cook, keeps the house tidy, and my shirts ironed.
What else could a married man desire?
Well, sex would be nice. No, that’s not fair on Mary. I’ll rephrase it. Imaginative sex would be nice. Sex with variations. Sex with laughter. Sex with passion.
She has never denied me sex, but neither has she dipped so much as a nipple into ‘sexy fun’ let alone thrown her more sexy bits into the concept.
I don’t blame her. It’s not her fault.
Mary’s Mother regards sex as having one purpose, and one purpose alone; the begetting of babies. Mary, being the good daughter she was, listened to her Mother.
She was a virgin when I married her; Mary, not her Mother. I was sure of that as she would not permit me to explore inside her knickers until she had on a wedding ring. It wasn’t a problem. I loved her for a multitude of diverse reasons. I was content to wait for the matrimonial bed.
What I hadn’t been prepared for was her total aversion to enjoying sex, or experimenting with anything new. The missionary position was it. That, or play Scrabble. I don’t like board games, so I accepted what was on offer. For the best part of a quarter of a century.
Over the years she had softened marginally. She occasionally allowed me to experiment in the bedroom. For instance, a while back I tried taking sexy photos, but even in the privacy of our home, I couldn’t coax her out of her underwear. And anyway, I’m a lousy photographer.
There were other indications she wasn’t so anti-sex as she had been, such as being able to watch love scenes on the TV without tut-tutting continuously, but she was no Mata Hari.
Not sounding much like that nymphomaniac I mentioned earlier is she? Bear with me.
It was nineteen days before my fiftieth birthday. My mind has the date etched on it for reasons that will become obvious, and Mary had asked that question. What would I like as a present?
I love my darling wife and she is still beautiful, but with Father Time adding years faster than he used to add months I realised her looks wouldn’t last forever. I wanted to preserve them, not with Botox, but by having professional photographs taken.
I craved a memory of her beauty. Glamour shots ideally, but any style would serve.
The chance of boudoir shots was less than Tom Thumb being a successful basketball player, but hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. So I ventured.
“I’d love proper, professional photographs of you.”
“Why do you need professional photos? You have a camera.”
“Yes, but you know I’m useless. I want images taken by someone who can capture your beauty, your…”
Here we go, I’ll lob the word out there. See what happens.
The stony stare suggested an Everest climb without oxygen was ahead of me.
“My what? I’m forty-three for god’s sake. My beauty disappeared ages ago if I ever had any. I’ll ignore the other word.”
“Oh Mary, stop putting yourself down. I love you and you are ten times more attractive than most women half your age. And you are sexy.”
“Stop using that word. What is it? You want me to pose as a tart?”
“Not as a tart, no. Elegant, sophisticated images. You have a superb figure. Let’s get it recorded before it’s too late. It is my fiftieth after all. Something memorable would be fantastic.”
Amazingly she didn’t stomp out of the room in a sulk. Did I have a chance?
“What had you in mind then?”
I pushed my luck.
“Boudoir style shots, in sexy lingerie. Not nude or anything. You wouldn’t be showing any more than in a swimsuit.”
“I don’t have any sexy lingerie,” she countered.
That was true. She never wore anything lacy or sexy. Her ‘going away’ lingerie was the only set one could have remotely called sexy and indeed then you would need Terry Pratchett’s imagination designing Disc World to describe it thus.
“That’s not a problem, we can go online and buy you some, or pop into town and browse in the lingerie shops.”
“I am not parading around a store buying that sort of underwear, and most definitely not with you in tow. Too embarrassing. People would take me for a tart.” That word again.
“In that case,” I said, “let’s search online together and choose some I like, and that you would wear.”
“I’ll consider it and tell you in the morning.” she retorted and stomped out.
That was better than I had expected, but I had little hope we would revisit the topic.
I didn’t consider myself a prude although I regarded sex with Dan a duty rather than a pleasure. Mother had brought me up to consider sex was the necessary act to have children, and to regard ‘sexy fun’ as ‘dirty.’
That night in bed though I considered Dan’s request. I thought back to a Radio Four programme I’d listened to a while back. About the changing behaviour and attitude of middle-aged women to sex, and how something fresh brightened their lives.
Our lives could do with that.
Had Mother been wrong? Can sex be fun? Should sex be fun? A tiny doubt crept into my mind.
But doing ‘naughty’ sexy things? No, no, not Mary. Not at all appropriate for a woman in her forties. Pose in my undies with a man with a camera looking at me? As far as I was concerned that was in the ‘disgusting sexual behaviour’ category which Sunday papers seemed to revel in. Could I do it? Would I? For the husband I adored?
I mulled it over. It was a special birthday after all, and as Dan had said, I wouldn’t be showing any more than I did on a beach. If we bought lingerie that wasn’t too risqué, that I’d never worn as underwear, perhaps I’d manage to bring myself to do it.
I reluctantly, and with extreme trepidation, agreed.
Amazing. Mary had said yes. So, before she had a chance to change her mind I sat down with her to buy the lingerie online. I wouldn’t give her time to think about it.
I knew what I would have liked to buy for her, but tempered the more racy of my ideas. I mustn’t make her ‘look like a tart.’
She vetoed most, but finally I got four sets passed the censor. Bras, knickers, suspenders and stockings. Those last two were a real struggle. She reminded me of her Mother’s description of stockings – Harlots’ Hosiery – but I pleaded and wheedled and got her reluctant consent to buy them.
I quickly hit Google to find a photographer. It seemed not all would do boudoir shoots and others sounded downright seedy, but I booked one who seemed pleasant and should put Mary at ease.
When Dan told me he had booked the photographer, reality hit home. Oh hell! What have I done? What was I thinking when I said yes? I can’t do this. Take my clothes off, in public? I won’t even go topless on the beach. No, it wasn’t fun doing them ourselves if I’m honest. And wearing all that so-called sexy lingerie he’d bought me online? No, no, no.
Unexpectedly I found myself, stirred by the prospect of posing, but really? Without clothes on? Definitely not! Stupid idea.
I returned to mulling mode then made my decision. No.
It came as no great surprise when Mary decided she wouldn’t do it, but that didn’t decrease my disappointment. I phoned the photographer, Sam, to tell him. He was sympathetic but suggested we still keep the appointment for Mary to have a few portrait shots done as my birthday gift. If she felt comfortable and wanted to, we could progress to glamour shots.
Another lengthy chat with Mary and she agreed while making it clear she had no intention of posing for anything sexy. Ever.
Too right. I wasn’t posing wearing scanty underwear in front of a photographer. Why did I say yes in the first place? Embarrassing enough when Dan tried to photograph me. Why had he insisted on wasting all that money on the lingerie? I’ll never wear it. Makes me feel like a slut. I was stupid to say yes. I had now convinced myself there was no way on god’s earth I would have the desire, to strip off. I’d go to the studio and allow this photographer to take portrait shots. But that’s it. Nothing else.
Our trip to Sam’s studio was a silent one. During the whole journey Mary had been twisting her handbag strap round her fingers and biting her lip. My attempts at conversation failed to elicit any response.
Sam ushered us in and it was reassuring, for Mary, that he had a pleasant, easygoing demeanour. He sat us down, poured us a coffee, and we chatted for a while. Mary relaxed slightly, and I harboured a faint hope, an almost non-existent hope, she might pose in her lingerie. I would have loved her to pose naked, ideally in porn style shots, but that was just a dream.
We finished our coffee and Sam suggested they start.
He said, as it would simply be head and shoulders, there was little point in Mary changing and he found if models dressed down, they felt less self-conscious.
We had brought loads of clothes, as well as the underwear with us. Mary was adamant she was not posing wearing lingerie but with my persistence that ‘well we’ve bought them, no harm in taking them,’ she allowed me to pack all four sets along with her favourite dresses. She had spent ages doing her makeup, and what I considered a fortune the previous day on her hair. So it was an anti-climax to find she would not be changing, but he was the expert so we went along with him. He did various poses with her standing and sitting, taking time to get the lighting and the expression right, At one point he sat her on a chair, elbows on knees, and hands under her chin.
Sam called me over to see the image on his camera.
Sam had captured the most beautiful expression in her eyes, an expression that was at the same time sexy and tender. It was a gorgeous photograph that captured my darling wife as I saw her. Given how Mary was leaning forward, the vee neck of her loosely fitting sweater was gaping open revealing a great deal of cleavage (she is a C cup) which added to the sexuality of the image no end.
“Wow, that’s beautiful and sexy. Mary come and see.”
Sexy? What’s he talking about? I’m wearing a jumper and jeans. I marched over to look. Christ, bloody man has posed me so he’s looking down my top. I looked in more detail. I grudgingly had to agree with Dan that he had caught a pleasant expression. (I almost thought sensuous but couldn’t bring myself to admit it) I hate photographs of myself but this one had a hypnotic effect on me.
I was torn. On the one hand, it was ‘Bloody pervert. I’m not having this.’ On the other, I couldn’t help but be excited by the picture he had captured. As that thought seeped through my brain, I also noticed a strange tingle where there definitely shouldn’t be a tingle of any description.
She stared at the photograph and blushed, but there was a look in her eye that indicated a liking for it. We carried on for a while and I detected a slight change in Mary’s demeanour. No longer was Sam struggling to get a certain pose, she was much more pliable to his direction.
“How about trying something different?” Sam eventually asked.
“Different? How?” she retorted.
“Something a little sexier, didn’t you bring lingerie with you?”
“Yes. But I’m not a whore. You consider that photo you showed me sexy? It’s perverted. Peering down my top.”
“Oh come on Mary,” I pleaded. “It’s solely for me. No one else will ever see them, and we aren’t getting younger. It would be incredible to have a set of glamorous images of you.”
“Glamorous OK, Porn no. All right?” After some hesitation, and further prompting, with Sam suggesting she wear a kimono over her lingerie she relented, “All right, I’ll do it.” That hesitant yes from Mary, was the key to unlocking a wife I never realised I had.
I was flattered by the photograph, but my ingrained upbringing still had control and I made it clear I would not be posing salaciously.
Somehow though I heard myself agreeing to do the lingerie shots. How did that happen?
I walked to the changing room as if walking to the gallows. Such mixed emotions. I was doing this for Dan’s fiftieth I kept telling myself, so it’s a one-off. He’s been a loving husband, I should do it for him, but can I? With every fibre tingling…
Hang on. Every fibre? Why on earth is every fibre tingling? I don’t wish to do this. Do I? Something deep inside was suggesting I did.
I changed into the least revealing set of lingerie Dan and I (Dan really, I just vetoed the more revealing sets) had chosen online, put on a robe and returned to the studio, shaking so much James Bond would have loved the resulting martini.
Mary was visibly trembling when she returned, swathed in a kimono. I wondered which lingerie set she had chosen, some being more revealing than others. I was certain it would be the set that concealed most.
To settle her down, Sam did many shots of her with the robe on, gradually getting her to let it open a little more. He was good at this; he knew how to encourage Mary to relax.
He suggested removing the kimono which proved me right about the underwear. The bra was lacy but a full cup, and not see-through, whilst the knickers were a French style, with snug legs and plenty of coverage. There were a matching suspender belt and stockings to complete the outfit.
Mary’s face was a mix of nervous anxiety and anticipation. Sam started with simple poses, as she was so stiff and self-conscious. I realized the photos wouldn’t be sexy, but Sam persevered, and my beloved eased into the mood, following direction from him. After twenty minutes of shooting he asked how she felt; she nodded, saying she was OK, and it was fun! Amazing response.
“Right,” said Sam, “in that case how about taking your bra off?”
You may not see that as a big deal, but Mary had never gone topless on a Mediterranean beach when every other woman was, so I wondered how she would react.
Take my bra off? With a man I’ve just met ogling me? Not in a million years! It was nerve-racking enough standing there in my undies.
That was my immediate reaction, but as I was thinking it, I became aware I was moistening up between my legs. What? No, not possible. Seriously? Am I finding this sexy? I had to admit to myself I was. My thoughts returned to that radio programme. So, instead of saying no, as my head was screaming at me to do, I nodded and awaited Sam’s directions.
“Ok,” he said, seeing the fear on my face, “let’s go slowly. Turn your back on me, unclip your bra, take it off, then when you are ready, turn round.”
Ready? Ready? I thought. I’ll be frozen to the spot for eternity. The feelings pulsing through me were so contradictory. My brain was screaming at me; stop, get dressed, go home. What would your Mother say? My heart, or to be accurate, my libido (I was amazed to realise I had one) was yelling YES show everything. Yes, everything. A new inner self was taking control saying grow up dear, be a REAL woman. I turned away from them and reached up my back, unclipping the two fasteners. It proved difficult; I was trembling so much.
I hunched my shoulders and shrugged the bra straps off, holding the cups in place over my breasts. I wasn’t sure what I would do next, when out of nowhere I thought, for god’s sake, I’m in my forties, I’m not getting younger. If other Radio Four listeners can do it, so can I. What the hell. Dan was more than supportive, he wanted me to do it. Go for it. So I did. I took my hands off my breasts, let the bra fall to the ground, swivelled around on my heels, put my hands on my hips, adopted what I hoped was a sexy pose and pouted. Oh-My-God.
At that point, I realised my knickers were sodden.
I waited unable to breathe. Her hands came behind her to unhook the clasps, she hunched her shoulders and the bra fell to the ground. My wife stood still for a few seconds that seemed to last minutes, and I speculated if she would have the courage to turn.
She did. Mary swivelled and posed in what she obviously felt was a sexy manner. What it lacked in finesse it made up for in the blaze of sensuality in her eyes. A look I’d never seen before. She took her hands off her hips and squeezed her breasts, staring into my eyes. The most amazing thing was she appeared to be enjoying it. I was too. (Understatement on a magnitude of ten to the power of ten).
Sam continued shooting, giving instructions, and making the poses ever more provocative. Either Mary failed to register the fact, or did, and happily went with it. I found either option difficult to believe.
“How about losing the knickers?” Sam asked after a while. That’s it, I thought. I expected a flat refusal with Mary stomping off to get dressed muttering about perverts and dirty old men. Instead, I heard her say;
“Why not? In for a boob show, in for a pussy show.”
That can’t be my wife. Impossible. I couldn’t remember her using the word pussy before. Exposing it to another man was unbelievable.
In one smooth movement she pushed the knickers down, stepped out of them, screwed the material in a ball and threw the sexy parcel at me.
I was stunned. As horny as hell, but stunned. This had to be a dream. My wife, standing stark naked and enjoying it.
Watching this exhibitionism by my erstwhile demure wife riveted me to the spot. After several other poses Sam had her sitting in a big armchair and asked her to throw her legs over the arms.
No. She won’t do that.
No way did I imagine she’d do it, not my puritanical wife, but with no hesitation, she followed his instructions without any attempt to cover herself.
My wife, exposing herself to another man. No, can’t be happening.
My wife, who only an hour ago was saying she wouldn’t pose in her undies, opening her legs, giving a closeup of her most private parts to this virtual stranger. Mind-blowing.
The next 15 minutes were a blur. My memory a blank, it was as if I were drunk. Intoxicated with the sexuality of the moment. Unknown feelings coursing through me. New sensations, but boy, was I enjoying them!
I remember hoping Sam would continue to make me pose more provocatively. I kept glancing at Dan and there was no doubt he was relishing every second. I was in a world I hadn’t known existed. A world where the feelings coursing through my body took life and living to a higher plain.
I came back to reality. I became conscious I was stark naked, apart from my stockings and suspenders, and had my legs as wide apart as possible, with Sam, and his camera, inches away, shooting for all he was worth. Way to go Mary! If that’s not provocative tell me what is.
I should have come to my senses and rushed to cover up, but that was the Old Mary. The Mary of two hours ago. Now my thought was will he touch me? With a thunderous realisation, I knew that’s what I wanted. Me. Mary. I wanted another man touching me. I needed this intense experience to continue forever.
I was rock hard, and wanted to extract my cock and stroke it, or do more with it, but thought I shouldn’t. It was painful to sit there and not release my urges.
Sam was now down on his knees with his camera so close to Mary’s nest.
“Touch yourself,” he directed, and my wife obeyed him. She eased her fingers into her cunt and then concentrated on rubbing her clit. Her head shot back; she was in a world of her own. With the camera still clicking her hips bucked as she brought herself higher and higher, and then a long, loud, moan signalled she had brought herself off. God, I was so horny and frustrated. I wanted to fuck her there and then.
I vividly remember my thoughts. Had I just done that? Had I fingered myself and orgasmed watched by two men? The first time I had come in years. Must be a dream. A nightmare. No, not a nightmare, I was enjoying myself too much.
Mary sank into a heap on the chair, looking as I had never seen her before. Alive. An intensity in her eyes that spoke volumes. She did not cover up, but sat there, naked, and still rubbing her clit.
“Oh. Wow. What was that? I feel so good.”
Was my Old Mary of the last twenty-three years gone? I hoped so.
I recognised something earth-shattering had happened. Similar to the medieval idea of the devil being driven out, but in my case, the devil was modesty, and hang-ups, about sexual matters. Yes, I’d only posed naked and had an orgasm. Only? Listen to me. I could count on one hand, well perhaps two, the number of times I’d orgasmed since my wedding night. Now? Oh, it was only an orgasm in front of a stranger! Deep down I knew this was the start of a cataclysmic change, I prayed Dan would come with me on this journey. A journey of sexual discovery that should have happened long ago.
We both sat there for a while with our thoughts while Sam talked about post-production, and editing, and presentations. I wasn’t listening; I was just hoping Mary would continue down this path.
We regained our composure, and while Mary dressed, I asked Sam to repeat everything he had just been telling us. Yes, we would return to see the results. I’d call him and fix a date.
Mary and I wandered back to the car holding hands and sat and looked at each other. Mary leant over and kissed me. Our tongues darting at each other going as deep as possible.
“Dan,” Mary whispered “I can’t believe what I’ve just done. I feel so alive.”
“But you did do it, and it turned me on enormously, What a revelation. Why the sudden change? You were so shy and reserved to begin with.”
“I know. I was shaking more inside than out, then, I don’t know, first that photo I suppose. I realised I can look good, and when Sam asked me to take my bra off, my first thought was unprintable, then as I turned my back I remembered a programme I’d heard on the radio, about middle-aged sexuality, and it somehow just hit me, I felt a rush at the thought of flashing my breasts and by the time I’d reached up and unclasped my bra it’s as though I’d been reborn. I had this huge surge of wantonness going through me. You didn’t mind did you?”
“Mind? Hardly, isn’t that obvious?”
“Mm, probably,” she said, looking at my bulging crotch, “let’s get home and celebrate.”
I won’t bore you with the details of our celebration, suffice to say we were both exhausted by the end of the evening.
I was awake first in the morning and stumbled down to make the coffee. I needed to convince myself the previous day had happened. I spent the time thinking about all that had transpired, and alternated between euphoria and concern that, in the cold light of day, Mary might regret what she had done. I was bloody certain that wasn’t my reaction. Even after last night my dick was still interested in action.
Carrying the mugs into the bedroom and being greeted by Mary’s smiling face I knew she had no regrets. Oh, and perhaps the fact she had thrown the duvet back, had her legs wide apart, and had two fingers working hard in her pussy was a clue too!
The coffee went cold.
Lying there after, I asked “Where do we go from here? Would you do it again or was it a one-off?”
“Oh no,” she replied, “as long as you want to, I’m desperate to do it again but… are you happy I do?”
“Mm. More than happy. Do you just want to pose, or would you take it further?”
I was holding my breath, hoping she would choose to take this further, much further.
“Well …what made me so horny was Sam being up so close, and I wondered how I would have felt if he’d touched me.”
“Touched you? How? Your tits or pussy do you mean, or more?”
“I’m not sure. God, I can’t even believe I’m thinking this let alone saying it. If he’d used his fingers or massaged my breasts, it would have been magic, but there, with him so close and me naked, I would have so loved to have had him…” Mary hesitated looking at me, searching my face to watch my reaction.
“…fuck me. There. I’ve said it. Do you hate me for it?”
It was the most amazing statement from my wife since she had said ‘I do’ at our wedding. Amazing on two levels. The prosaic level of her never having uttered the word fuck before, and the erotic level of fulfilling a fantasy of mine.
“Oh, darling, no,” I said “that would turn me on more than you can ever imagine. Look.” I pointed to my cock which was swelling again.
“Naughty boy.” Mary responded by slapping my penis hard.
“Ouch. That hurt. Do it again!” So she did. We were entering virgin (an inappropriate choice of word!) territory for sure. Mary had never been playful with my cock. Not once in twenty-three years. You can understand why I was so excited.
So we talked further, with long interruptions for our hands and mouths and other bits to work hard on, and in, each other.
During a respite from the sex we discussed Mary going further with Sam.
“Do you think he’d want to fuck me? I’m older than him. Perhaps he wouldn’t find me attractive enough. Or perhaps it’s against his professional ethics.”
“I don’t think photographers are quite in the same league as doctors, but I suppose he might have some personal reservations if he’s married or has a partner. Not your attractiveness though. I keep telling you, you are still sexy, any man with a cock would be more than happy to fuck you.”
“God Dan. You saying ‘Any man’, I wonder. Could I do it with any man?”
“Are you asking me if I’d be OK with it or whether you could physically do it?”
“Both I suppose.”
“Well, to the first yes you have my blessing, as long as I can watch, and two, I’m sure you could. You seem to have freed yourself from your Mother’s piousness.”
“Thank you. Let’s see how it goes with Sam, then make plans.”
The upshot was I phoned Sam on the following Monday to arrange an appointment to collect the results of the shoot. We discussed how I should approach him and Mary decided she would rather just let things develop, in case she changed her mind.
I couldn’t wait, the thought of seeing another man enter my wife was ensuring I had no need for Viagra.
Where will this lead? Chapter Two here