From Chapter One: Breathless
I could think of two big reasons why this threesome wasn’t going to work: her boobs. When my husband of nineteen years told me he wanted to “spice things up,” I was envisioning sex toys…spanking…chocolate-covered penis. The kinkiest thing we had done thus far was Richard tying me to the bedposts. We’d had a code for him to untie me if I started to freak out. The code was me saying, untie-me-right-now. So when he first proposed the idea of a playmate, I was shocked. I mean, who did that, anyway? Certainly, not us. He was an insurance salesman whose specialty was planning for a secure future. I was a high school English teacher. We lived in the wholesome Green Mountain State. And we were parents—which was something Eleanor Wilkinson definitely was not, as was evident by her breasts.
They were truthfully too big to be called “perky.” Thing One and Thing Two were up and out. My breasts, on the other hand, were not only small (32 B minus) but had turned into saggy, limp skin sacs with droopy areolae and indifferent nipples from two years of nursing babies. So it was very much unappreciated that my husband wanted to invite someone with a cup size further along in the alphabet than mine to join us under the covers.
It had all started with a trigger point. Richard had been complaining of his upper back muscles being tight, and since I knew he’d been under a lot of stress at work, I got him a gift certificate to a local spa. Eleanor, a transplant from England with what Richard called a “killer accent,” was his massage therapist. After about four sessions of seeing her, Richard mentioned that someone at the office had engaged in a threesome, and then said what did I think of that. I said a twosome was more than enough for me, and the conversation had ended. The morning after his sixth massage, he told me over breakfast (while the girls were upstairs getting ready for school) that he thought he might like to try a threesome, and what did I think of that. I had stirred my coffee a bit too vigorously so that some of it slopped over the sides of the mug and onto the table. I had not known what to answer, and thought it wise that I refrained from my initial response of what the FUUCKK?! After a few moments, I whispered (so the kids wouldn’t hear), why didn’t we just watch some good porn instead?
That’s not what I’m talking about, he snorted. I feel like we need to really shake things up here. Make it exciting again.
Aren’t I enough for you? I asked. I didn’t understand this; we’d had sex three times last week, and I’d gone down on him every time. Even when he hadn’t showered immediately before.
I need a change, he had answered. Sorry, but I’m just being honest.
That was when I got scared. And I said, okay.
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