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We met at his restaurant’s opening night. We went out a year later. We were married a year after that.

We fought the entire time.

His food was his real passion and that became a problem. I tried everything in my arsenal to get him to see to my needs, but I simply ran out of tricks.

Had I known we weren’t sexually compatible in the beginning, I probably would have ran. I’m no nymphomaniac, but I can become very irritable if I don’t get my itch scratched regularly. Now, my ‘regularly’ is just once a week. I never had a boyfriend that grimaced at that request. That is, unless he wanted more.

That first year, the restaurant was our life. The food was amazing, but the business was a monster. From getting fresh ingredients from Peru to keeping the celebrity guest list balanced, it was a 25 hour a day job. He had no time to sleep and I was just learning why I needed two forks for dinner.

We were always short with each other, but always as partners. He admitted that he never had a better cheerleader, teammate, or coach – and they were now all the same person. We’d be on the edge of a relationship eruption until about every three months – about the time the new menus were completed – when we’d do the deed. Prior to that, our passing connections might be a morning handjob in the shower or a quickie after he got home at 2AM. Those were always instigated by me, hoping it would lead to more.

But right after the new menus were complete, he’d take the next day off and we’d end up scaring the neighbors. His dick has a girth that needs practice to handle, so once every 90 days didn’t give me much preparation. When he’d fuck me from behind I would get so loud he’d have to stuff my face into the pillow. It was amazing.

Every 90 days.

At first the restaurant was an easy excuse and I was blessed to have such a wonderful partner. My pussy and I would remain somewhat satisfied with the post-menu episode, my box of toys, and my variable speed massage showerhead.

Occasionally I’d throw myself onto him and get my rocks off, but he wouldn’t cum, no matter how much I tried. At first I thought I was doing something wrong. Then I simply got what I needed and that was that. After awhile, that began to make me feel worse – like taking someone to a movie hoping they’ll like it with you, even though they’ve seen it a dozen times already. The guilt of selfishness sours the moment.

After a year of the physical and mental denial, the questions in my head began to pop up.

“Was he cheating on me?”

“Is pendik escort he gay?”

“Am I not attractive?”

“Had he been molested as a child?”

We had a very open and continuous dialogue about our lack of sex, but it was his sister who kept me from being stupid.

“Everyone in our family had the same questions because every girlfriend had the same problem you’re having. They all solved it the same way: they cheated on him,” she explained at lunch. “He just doesn’t have the same sex drive as most men. We assumed that if you were happy with him, then you must have a similar sex drive?” she questioned with hope, not wanting to see her brother’s heart crushed.

So I lied to her. And a little to myself. I thought I could power through.

I was wrong. Worst year of my life. I was a constant bitch. The only positive that came from my uncared pussy was my law firm’s client list. Opposing attorneys and judges were afraid of me. My partners were too.

I was prepared to end it all after he opened the third restaurant. I waited up for him at the end of the first week and demanded that he fuck me against the island in the kitchen or I was leaving him. I was butt naked and dead serious.

He simply sat down next to me on a bar stool and said, “I have another option.” He pulled out his phone and sent an address to a website for escorts to my phone. “I checked out the reviews and the ladies sound satisfied. I could fuck you now, but you’ll want more soon enough. I only want you to be as happy as I am every time I think of us. It kills me to know that you can’t have everything you want when I have it all. I’m good with it if you are too,” he finished, as I looked at the website on my phone. He kissed me on the forehead and headed upstairs.

Then and there I looked at the website – naked and in shock – as he went to bed. The website was as vague as it was simple. If you didn’t know any better, they could have been selling time shares in the Carribean. Between the lines, however, were companionship and dick.

I joined him in bed two hours later, still naked and in shock. He was wide awake.

“I can’t do it on my own,” I started. “You don’t have to be involved, but I have to be able to talk to you about it. I can’t have a separate life from my best friend. I can’t do that.”

“I think I can handle that,” he agreed.

For a month I shopped for my first escort. I exchanged notes only to be more frustrated than I was before. All of the escorts seemed sweet, but not my type.

“Please fuck somebody escort pendik already,” was my husband’s advice. “You don’t have to marry him.” He was just as anxious to see if this would work as I was, though he appeared more relaxed about it.

So I responded to the first letter in my inbox and scheduled an appointment.

The hotel I chose was nondescript in every way. I was there to get dick, not have an affair. Clean and relatively close to work was all I needed in my hotel and my escort.

When I got to the room, he was already in the shower. His suit, shirt, and tie were neatly laid out and his shoes were under the desk. “Very humid day today,” he shouted from the shower after he heard the door shut. “Out in a minute.”

His French accent was a surprise, but everything else was exactly as his bio explained – 6’2″, 190, 8″. Entering the room with no towel was rude and exactly what I needed.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted me as his freshly manicured dick swung heavy. “How would you like begin?”


That evening I stayed awake until well after the restaurant closed. That afternoon, I texted my husband to let him know I’d safely returned to work after my lunch date, but that was the end of our communication. I wanted to talk about the episode in person.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he came into our room. “Crazy night.”

“Crazy day,” I responded wearing the biggest smile I’d worn in months.

He paused. Then smiled, knowing I was eager to share my day with him. “Please tell me about this afternoon’s workout and don’t leave out a single detail. I’ve honestly been conflicted about the idea of you fucking someone else until seeing your face right now. I didn’t know if I’d be jealous or heartbroken. I’m not really either because I haven’t seen you this happy in a long fucking time,” he said as though he was proud of me. Proud of us.

“Well, I honestly didn’t know what to expect,” I started. “He asked me what I wanted and I told him, I guess. I wasn’t comfortable looking him in the face, so I let him fuck me from behind.” I paused and waited to see my husband’s response. Would he be jealous, confused, turned on?

“And?” he questioned with an interest similar to how my day at work was or what I bought at the grocery store.

“I let him caress my back while I leaned against the couch until my pussy began to moisten,” I started over. “He took off my blouse and skirt, but left my heels and underwear on. I could feel him kneel behind me as he shifted my thong to the side enough to pendik escort bayan slide his tongue along my asshole and his index finger into my pussy.

“Looking down between my legs I could see him stroking his dick until it was rock hard,” I continued as my husband began to undress. “At some point I heard the condom wrapper tear and I knew he would be inside me. I leaned further over the couch, glancing back just to see the condom wrapped dick approach my pussy. He entered me slowly with one hand on my back and the other hand hand on my thigh. We rocked slowly at first until all of his dick was comfortably inside me.

“He rubbed my back and thrusted with care for a minute or so, but I needed more. I began to fuck his dick as fast my hips would allow and I came as fast as I could,” I said, never losing eye contact.

“And?” he questioned, knowing I typically need more.

“I gathered myself, spun around, ripped off the condom, took another condom from the couch, put it on his dick, leaned back over the couch and told him ‘Next hole, please’ without taking a breath,” I said. “He repeated the last act, only this time in my asshole and I paid him with a nice tip.”

“Okay,” my husband replied, now in his standard shorts and t-shirt. “Next appointment?”

“Two weeks. Not sure if I should stay with the same guy or keep it fresh,” I answered as though I were scheduling a manicure. “This is all very new to me.”

“As long as you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said with a genuine sense of joy as though the problem of a lifetime had been solved and the love of his life had been recaptured. “Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

We turned off the lights and held each other as though we’d just had sex. And I realized that this was what I needed more than the sex. Our tension had eaten us alive and we needed this release. It wasn’t the lack of sex, it was our inability to understand each other’s feelings around sex.

I know it wasn’t about the sex.

Because I never fucked that French escort or the countless other guys I had to invent to fulfill our new pact. I took one look at that escort’s dick and realized that I really needed the trust from my husband that my pussy was an equal player in our relationship. That’s what eased my tension. I knew that the moment my escort stepped out of the bathroom. I needed the confirmation and my husband needed to know that I will always be satisfied in our relationship. That’s why I keep making up new escorts, though the activity remains identical. That way I don’t have to remember all of the lies.

All I really needed that day was his full trust.

Actually, that and the new double-penetration, wireless vibrator I test drove the minute I got home from work.

That French accent was hot!

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