Dragonfly

Each summer during the week that our young daughter was away at camp, Fiona and I entertained ourselves with several nights of something we called "Tell Me." It was essentially a game of truth or dare based upon ten or twenty questions that we wrote beforehand, and then took turns either being frank or accepting a challenge.

Quite unintentionally, the game (usually lubricated with a bottle or two of wine) became an invitation for us to explore each other's sexual histories. We married quite late, a second marriage for each of us. Each of us had been extremely active sexually while single, both before and after our first marriages. We reached an understanding early on in our game playing that talking about former spouses was out of bounds and that nothing we said could ever be repeated in a hurtful way.

Each game ended in intense sex.

The game started largely out of curiosity and idle fun. Over time though the questions became insightful. Answering honestly became a tremendous trust builder, knowing that we were exposing our secrets to each other in the most exquisitely vulnerable way. It was a game impossible to play without investing complete trust in each other. It also became riveting proof of how perfectly matched sexually we were and ultimately a demonstration of how we satisfied each other as fiercely monogamous sexual soul mates.

Leading up to camp week one summer I hid out in my workshop and secretly put together a payoff for the week. On our first night alone, I presented Fiona with an elaborately and beautifully wrapped package. "For later this week," I said, handing her the box.

"It's heavy." She smiled curiously.

"Put it away until Saturday night and you'll see why."

Each night we played that week, I left a hint about the package's content, each one sharpening Fiona's curiosity and fanning the tension. The first night I produced a swatch of brocaded cloth, figured with a dragonfly design. Next was a piece of dense foam. Finally, I gave Fiona a sliver of plywood.

The sex was incredible all week and more than once I caught Fiona eying the box as we fucked. On the last night our questions and answers led quickly to kissing, teasing and short bouts of oral sex.

"If your sexual life was a book, how much haven't you told me? A few chapters, a few paragraphs? Or a few sentences?"

Fiona smiles wickedly and says: "Only a few sentences."

"A place where we have not made love that I can add to your birthday list."

Me, unhesitatingly: "On my desk at work." Now there is a wicked smile from Fiona, followed by a deep kiss.

"When we go away for our anniversary, do you want me to fuck you on a balcony, in an elevator, or on the hood of a car in the parking garage?"

"Parking garage." Fiona replies instantly. Departing from the next written question, she asks, "In the garage, shall I be naked under my coat or would you like a garter belt and stockings?"

"You tell me what I want."

"Garter belt." She knew me too well by then.

My turn. "The number of men you have fucked outdoors, not counting me."

Fiona pauses to count, finally laughing: "Five." I unbutton her blouse and squeeze her breasts. She wears no bra and I see that her long nipples are already erect. As I kiss her breasts she sighs and moans, "Maybe eight." I see her look sideways at the wrapped box.

I stop, kiss her lips gently and lean back into the sofa cushions. Recovered slightly, Fiona asks in hoarse voice, "Scarves, stockings or rope when I tie you to the bed?"

"Scarves." She unzips my trousers and takes me in her mouth. She is gentle and somewhat tentative, quite unlike her usual aggressive cock sucking. In a moment she pulls her head up and asks me directly, "The number of women who have sucked you but not fucked you?"

My answer is instantaneous: "None, baby. You know that I always close the deal." Fiona returns to my cock, her head now bobbing resolutely. The damned cards don't matter now. I am able to croak, "Your own on base percentage?"

Fiona stops sucking and looks quizzically at me. I answer: "Licked but not dicked?"

She climbs onto my chest and whispers, "Too many to count. You're forgetting high school. I was afraid to close the deal until college." Fiona kisses me passionately, grinding her lap into my cock.

"But you made up for lost time, didn't you? What was higher, your college GPA or the number of times you had a cock in you every week?"

"Cocks," she grunts, knowing I am aware of her nearly perfect grades. "Are you ever going to show me what is in that damned box?"

"You haven't taken a dare yet," I respond.

Fiona stares again at the gift-wrapped box. "Dare me"

"All right. Unwrap the box and to do what comes naturally."

Silently Fiona stands and crosses to the box, which is in the middle of our living room warmed by flickering candle light. Fiona peels away the gift wrap and unboxes the surprise. "Oh, fuck," she gasps. "Where did you get that?"

"I made it for you. Well, everything but the most interesting part." Fiona is on her knees staring at her favorite dildo protruding from a padded half round stool. Brocaded dragonflies dance across its padded seat.

"Well, I have been looking for your stand-in every afternoon this week," she says, referring to the dildo. "Whenever we play these games, I can't wait to fuck you. This week my fingers have stayed in my pussy while you are at work. I've needed to feel it between my legs but didn't know where it was."

"Now you know. And I think you promised to do what comes naturally.

Fiona stares at me for a moment and then wordlessly stands, bathed in the candlelight. She strips off her skirt, and shrugs away her blouse. She is completely nude now and completely exposed. Fiona kneels over the jutting phallus and takes it in her mouth, lubricating it and enjoying its fullness.

In a few minutes my wife stands and slowly strokes her clit. She stares at me until I hear the soft sucking sound of her pussy getting wetter and wetter. Silently she straddles the stool, sinking to her knees and guiding the dildo into her pussy. She moans deeply, breaking our gaze. Slowly she rocks onto the rubber dick, rising slightly each time as its length enters and then withdraws from her.

Involuntarily I begin to stroke my cock, keeping time with Fiona. She lavishes attention on herself, groaning loudly. Shortly she arches her back, squeezing her nipples and rolling her head. She quickens the pace. All the while I stroke myself. And watch. And then join her groaning.

Fiona is now humping the dildo with complete abandon. Her breath grows faster as she relentlessly grinds into it. Finally, she leans forward, placing her hands on the front of the stool as if it were the pommel of a saddle. She leans harder into the dildo and screams. I groan as sperm rushes up my dick at the moment of Fiona's shattering orgasm.

We kept the Dragonfly around for a while after that, with Fiona using it more while I was at work than when I was around. For the rest of the summer while we were making love, Fiona would tell me occasionally that she had flown with her dragonfly while I was at work. She knew how to time that admission, saving it until we were close to climaxing, boosting my thrusts into overdrive.

The dragonfly is gone now, its parts consigned to the scrap box in my shop, but the image of Fiona impaled by that dildo and controlling her own pleasure remains one of my most vivid sexual memories, often spinning between my ears as my fingers pull another orgasm from my cock.