Series
An Education ~ Part III of IV
I love you very much, but it seems you need another Latin lesson
Parts I and II: Roleplaying a slutty schoolgirl was surprising: I didn’t get caned, and I didn’t get fucked. I did blow the teacher, but that’s hardly a punishment. I still like blowjobs, even though I’ve been sucking the same cock for over a quarter of a century; I’ve got my routine down pat. The biggest surprise was discovering I was actually roleplaying a schoolboy. It seems my husband had gay fantasies at school. I wonder if they were just fantasies, because mine weren’t. I need to talk to him about all this, but I want to wait until next week, after the party for our silver wedding anniversary.
The party went well. When my father-in-law asked if we’d been anywhere nice recently, I managed not to say, “Yes, we visited the past. Your son face fucked an eighteen year old boy who had his fingers in his cunt, and my first lesbian experience ended with spunk dripping on my tits. How’s your week been?”
I didn’t talk to my husband about anything after the party: we were too tired. I went straight to bed. He likes a lie-in of a Sunday, so my morning has mostly involved clearing up while I try to work out what I want to say to him, and when. I’ll probably wait until after we’ve exchanged gifts. It’s not that I’m mercenary, it’s… okay, it is, a bit. I’ve bought him a vintage Stockwell chronograph for his collection, and I’m certain he’s got me the eternity ring I showed him a couple of months ago. I want to wear it, once, before I have to wonder if I’ll ever be able to wear it again.
He’s not lost for words. He comes up behind me while I’m washing glasses, wraps his arms around me, nuzzles my neck and whispers, “Amo te tam multo.”
I only know enough Italian to order a cannoncino from Pasticceria Supino, so that’s lost on me. “I don’t understand.”
“I love you very much, but it seems you need another Latin lesson.”
So I’m going to be Rowan again. We still haven’t talked, and I still don’t know what I want to say.
He does. He pats me on the arse and says, “I’m off for a shower. Do you want to hop in after me, get nice and clean all over?”
Oh. That’s our code for anal. So Rowan’s going to get fucked this time. After class again, or in front of the ‘other boys’? He knows the idea of being seen excites me, and he must have noticed the effect his fantasy audience had last time. If he’s got another recording, and his cock doesn’t get stage fright again, this might be a lot of fun. In fact it could be perfect: I’ll get to feel like I’m being watched but with no strangers actually seeing me in all my saggy inadequacy, just their voices helping me fantasise. Okay, I’ll play along, but we will have to talk afterwards. What gets said is going to depend on how much fun this is.
I finish the washing up while he showers. He only ever takes a few minutes, in and out. I’ll take a lot longer, because we have a routine for this. I enjoy the preparation shower almost as much the anal. More, sometimes.
He gives me a shout when he’s done, and I go through to the wet room. He’s sitting on the bamboo stool, still naked, one hand on his thigh, casually rubbing his cock with his thumb. He’s got a lazy lob on, but he’ll get hard while he watches me. I might enjoy that part most of all: the idea that my body still does it for him, that seeing me, anticipating how he’ll touch me, can still turn him on.
I undress. I don’t strip, I’m not putting on a performance for him, I just undress the way I would if I was alone. But when I’m naked, I acknowledge that he’s with me. I stand under the shower, my hands pressed against the wall like a prisoner waiting to be searched.
He sets the water to be just warm enough to tolerate: a little warmer than body temperature. He’ll turn the heat up as he turns my heat up. At the end, I’ll be glowing pink, my whole body relaxed except for the one part that needs to be. That’s going to be tightly clenched.
He always starts with my neck and shoulders. Soapy fingers, kneading and digging, smoothing away the tension. Then his hands are on my left arm, circling and sliding from pit to wrist, lathering. He used to be able to do both arms at once, one hand for each… Well, we like it this way. It takes a little longer, but he says there’s more to enjoy.
When he’s done my right arm he presses up against me, his erection pressing against my back, to do my hands. I lift one, and his fingers slide back and forth between mine. I swap hands, and so does he. The water’s getting warmer.
He doesn’t need to be so close now, but he doesn’t move. His hands go to my chest, sliding down and around my breasts. And under. I used to like when he cleaned under them, then for a long time I didn’t, because of how much more under there was. I’m okay with it now, but I miss the days when I enjoyed it. I still enjoy the next part. His hands come up for air and now he’s squeezing and squashing my boobs and I’m up on my tiptoes so my butt can return the favour on his cock. My nipples get a special clean: the filthy kind, a finger and thumb on each, pinching and tugging and rolling.
That ends sooner than I’d like, and his hands slide down again, to my belly, where they move in broad, flat circles. Too broad if you ask me, and not flat enough, but he’s never said that. And if I feel squidgy while he’s doing it, that feeling doesn’t last, because those circles get lower and his little fingers brush against my pubes and all I feel is butterflies. The temperature rises again.
Then he steps away, and fills the necessary before the water gets too hot. When he comes back, it’s to my back, and more massaging, his thumbs and the heels of his hands doing the work now. He’ll keep that up until my elbows buckle, then his hands part and move to my sides. I grit my teeth and remember my promise: he loves my body, and as long as he’s touching it, I’ll try to.
He spends a blessedly short time on my love handles, then pats my arse to let me know he’s done. I shuffle my legs apart, and he kneels so he can make me squirm. He washes my feet the same way he washed my hands, fingers sliding between toes, making them curl.
Then a hand either side of my left leg, rubbing up to the knee and down, up and down, and up and for fuck’s sake, this Rowan business has me picturing him wanking a giant cock. That image is still in mind when he does my right calf, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I slide my feet a little further apart and he washes my thighs. That’s practically a three hand job lately, but he compensates by being more brisk with the two he’s got, for the outsides at least. My inner thighs get one hand each, making soft, slow circles which rise inch by inch until his thumbs brush my lips. I gasp as he turns up the heat a little more.
There’s only my arse left now. ‘Only’. Those big, broad circles again, but now with the same squeezing and kneading actions from up top. Each circle pushes outward, spreading my cheeks a little every time, until the circles stop and a hand slips in between, sliding down so one finger can find the hole, circling and pressing, prompting me to relax and push back against it. When it’s in he puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “Ready?”
He knows I am, but he likes to hear it.
“Mm-hmm.”
He gets the douche he filled earlier, and fills me. When he’s done, he kisses the back of my neck and leaves me to clean the parts he missed.
Then I… you know. And after it’s flushed away, I use the bidet. Then I use the bidet again. While he’s inside me, and afterwards when his cum is dripping out and sliding down my thighs, I don’t care: I want to feel dirty. But before? I have to be perfectly clean. I’m anal, I guess.
I go through to the bedroom to get dressed, and he’s left me another surprise gift. There are clothes laid out on the bed: a white shirt, black trousers, a striped tie, grey socks, black shoes — Oxfords — and white boxer briefs, with a button fly. No bra. They’re Rowan’s clothes, in my size.
Okay, this is… this is weird. Not a bad weird, but still weird.
When I’m dressed, I don’t look as ridiculous as I thought I might in a school uniform. I’m like a Lidl’s own-brand Lea de Laria. I’ll take that. It’s better than what I’d be in a plaid miniskirt.
I pin my badge on, pretend it says ‘Perfect’, pretend I believe it, and head downstairs. He’s waiting for me in the hall, nodding his approval.
Little lies can be just as important for a happy marriage as little secrets. “I’m ready for my lesson, Sir.”
Find previous parts of this series here…