been cast in that role, and the way she was treated on set—meant she made the most of her body, rather than coming to the process of sex as the shy girl I’d married.
When she came home, there was none of the self-consciousness that had occasionally seen us making love in the dark back in the early days. None of the reluctance to accept oral sex that had come from a deep-seated fear that men didn’t like it.
Now, she came home, sometimes she’d be stripping off before the front door had closed behind her, and called for me out of the need for my mouth on her pussy, or my hard cock inside her. If she felt like it, she’d stand while I sat on the ground beneath her to service her, she’d hold my head and ride me like a seat on a carousel. Or she’d pounce on me while I was lounging on the sofa, scrabbling to pull out my cock, or hopping up to deposit her soaking pussy on my face, with or without underwear. She’d come home in skirts that were so short they were virtually belts, drop her panties and bend over the kitchen counter demanding my attention.
And every time I’d ask her if something had happened with Aaron, something that might have got her particularly wound up, she simply smiled and said ‘no’, reminding me as I plunged my hardness into her quivering sex that Aaron was ever the consummate professional. That he was clearly interested, but that the business of making movies came first for him, and as producer he wasn’t one to mess with the help.
*
What she did when she went to Europe was to call home on Skype, and we’d do our best to relieve our tensions long-distance.
Video technology being as good as it was by now meant it was often as though we were in the same room. Only we couldn’t touch each other.
She’d watch me, demanding that I strip for her, that I touch my cock for her, that I get hard watching her slowly removing her clothes. I’d instruct her to remove her top, her skirt, and lie back to stroke her pussy through her panties as she watched my physical response to her.
“How’s Aaron?” I’d ask as she slowly took off her bra, revealing stiff little nipples I longed to take into my mouth.
“He’s fine,” she’d say, adding some description of a scene they were shooting—escaping through fields or remote country lanes, for the passage after the great prison escape, or enjoying the glitz and glamor of Paris as the prison guard romanced the wife of his inmate even to the extent of foreign travel.
“You had to kiss him today?”
“Not today,” she’d say, “but I think I will be tomorrow.”
And I might continue, “How was dinner last night?”
She’d say, “Very nice.”
“Aaron invite you back to his room for some script rehearsals?”
“I told him I was a little tired.” She’d blush, or tilt her head, or some other sign that she was hiding something, though I was okay about her taking her time in finding the strength to tell me all. Or maybe she wasn’t hiding something, and she was simply teasing me, knowing that I was on the edge of my seat every moment now, hoping that she’d relent and just try a little fling with another man.
Some nights, she might have had a few glasses of wine, and while I’d watch her lying there on her hotel bed, her legs parted, hand slipped inside her panties to stir circles around her beautifully waxed pussy, she’d be more in a mood to tease me.
“We were kissing a lot today,” she’d say. “He’s a pretty good kisser.”
“Great, it would be disappointing if he wasn’t,” I’d reply.
“I’m not sure it’s strictly stage kissing,” she’d beam, stretching the black lace of her panties this way or that to expose little glimpses of her pink slit to me across thousands of miles of space. “I mean, the director wants us to make it realistic, so you know…there’s tongues, there’s lips, there’s…”
She’d slide her panties down her thighs, and I’d see how wet she was. I’d see
When she came home, there was none of the self-consciousness that had occasionally seen us making love in the dark back in the early days. None of the reluctance to accept oral sex that had come from a deep-seated fear that men didn’t like it.
Now, she came home, sometimes she’d be stripping off before the front door had closed behind her, and called for me out of the need for my mouth on her pussy, or my hard cock inside her. If she felt like it, she’d stand while I sat on the ground beneath her to service her, she’d hold my head and ride me like a seat on a carousel. Or she’d pounce on me while I was lounging on the sofa, scrabbling to pull out my cock, or hopping up to deposit her soaking pussy on my face, with or without underwear. She’d come home in skirts that were so short they were virtually belts, drop her panties and bend over the kitchen counter demanding my attention.
And every time I’d ask her if something had happened with Aaron, something that might have got her particularly wound up, she simply smiled and said ‘no’, reminding me as I plunged my hardness into her quivering sex that Aaron was ever the consummate professional. That he was clearly interested, but that the business of making movies came first for him, and as producer he wasn’t one to mess with the help.
*
What she did when she went to Europe was to call home on Skype, and we’d do our best to relieve our tensions long-distance.
Video technology being as good as it was by now meant it was often as though we were in the same room. Only we couldn’t touch each other.
She’d watch me, demanding that I strip for her, that I touch my cock for her, that I get hard watching her slowly removing her clothes. I’d instruct her to remove her top, her skirt, and lie back to stroke her pussy through her panties as she watched my physical response to her.
“How’s Aaron?” I’d ask as she slowly took off her bra, revealing stiff little nipples I longed to take into my mouth.
“He’s fine,” she’d say, adding some description of a scene they were shooting—escaping through fields or remote country lanes, for the passage after the great prison escape, or enjoying the glitz and glamor of Paris as the prison guard romanced the wife of his inmate even to the extent of foreign travel.
“You had to kiss him today?”
“Not today,” she’d say, “but I think I will be tomorrow.”
And I might continue, “How was dinner last night?”
She’d say, “Very nice.”
“Aaron invite you back to his room for some script rehearsals?”
“I told him I was a little tired.” She’d blush, or tilt her head, or some other sign that she was hiding something, though I was okay about her taking her time in finding the strength to tell me all. Or maybe she wasn’t hiding something, and she was simply teasing me, knowing that I was on the edge of my seat every moment now, hoping that she’d relent and just try a little fling with another man.
Some nights, she might have had a few glasses of wine, and while I’d watch her lying there on her hotel bed, her legs parted, hand slipped inside her panties to stir circles around her beautifully waxed pussy, she’d be more in a mood to tease me.
“We were kissing a lot today,” she’d say. “He’s a pretty good kisser.”
“Great, it would be disappointing if he wasn’t,” I’d reply.
“I’m not sure it’s strictly stage kissing,” she’d beam, stretching the black lace of her panties this way or that to expose little glimpses of her pink slit to me across thousands of miles of space. “I mean, the director wants us to make it realistic, so you know…there’s tongues, there’s lips, there’s…”
She’d slide her panties down her thighs, and I’d see how wet she was. I’d see
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