If Music be the Food of Love…

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Author’s note: This particular story evolved after a lengthy and enjoyable series of emails between myself and a very well-read and highly intelligent American gentleman of German descent. It is a work of total fiction, and all participants are aged eighteen or over. All sexual encounters are performed consensually.

Chapter One: Overture.

August the fifteenth is a date that will remain the most important day of the year for me. More important, even, than my birthday. Why? If you’re sitting comfortably, dear reader, allow me to explain.

Several things have happened on that date since it first became important to me nearly nineteen years ago. I was married on August the fifteenth, and I have remained in that state, despite the increase in separation and divorce, and the increasing tendency to ‘live together’ without marrying that has gone on since I first said ‘I do.’ None of that for me! I’m happily wed, my husband spoils and indulges me, and my lover ensures that I get a steady supply of what I need – regular fucking with a good hard cock.

Confused? There is no need for you to be. My husband not only knows about my lover; it was him that put me on this path. In order to let you see the whole picture, I need to go back to the end of the Second World War. If you’re still with me, stick around. You might just enjoy this story.

Erich Strauss was released from the prisoner-of-war camp in mid Wales following the Allied victory in 1945. He reasoned that it would be pointless to return to his devastated native Fatherland after the defeat of Hitler and his crew, so he remained in Wales. Being an engineer, he soon found work in one of the many deep mines which produced the best steam coal in the world, and which had played such a vital part in the Allied victory.

In July 1946, the government of the day nationalised the British coal industry. The National Coal Board was formed, and Erich never looked back.

He moved to a new place of work in the south Wales valleys, was promoted to Chief Engineer, and met and married a local girl. Their son was born a year later, and at sixteen years of age, he began work underground at the same pit where his father worked.

Klaus was an excellent miner. Strong, fit and seemingly never too tired to do a bit of overtime, he wasn’t blessed with his father’s intelligence, but that didn’t bother him. He worked hard and he played hard.

Unlike many of his fellow miners, Klaus didn’t settle down and marry early. He was content to practice what he called ‘the three F system’: find’ em; fuck ’em; ‘forget ’em.

This way of life suited him, and the women he met, and just before his thirty fifth birthday, Klaus fucked Martha Evans one Saturday night. By Sunday afternoon, he’d forgotten all about her.

Until, that is, walking home from the pit a fortnight later, he bumped into her and she told him her news. She was pregnant.

Klaus was an honourable man. He married her quickly, and there was only the merest whiff of scandal in the village when Rikard was born barely eight months after Klaus and Martha were married.

My name is Eleanore, Ellie to my friends.I was born fifteen months after Rikard, and we grew up in our two communities, which were separated by the mountain that towered over both of our villages, and which ensured that we never met until we both started University on the same day in the big, bad city twenty miles down the valley.

I was to read Welsh and Music; Rikard was studying to become a civil engineer, having inherited his grandfather’s practical ability and nimble mind.

Because we both came from adjoining villages, whenever we went home for the weekend, we’d catch the same train up the valley. We started chatting one day in our second year of University, and eventually, we became what was known in those days as ‘an item’.

We started going out together at weekends, and both sets of parents were delighted that we were now officially ‘courting’. We both continued to work hard at our studies, and after three years in Cardiff, I graduated with a double first. Rikard, whose course was four years long, was both proud and delighted.

Whilst he carried on in his final year, I enrolled on a post-graduate course to learn how to become a teacher, and life carried on.

When Rikard graduated with a 2(i), which translates as a second class degree (first division) I was the proud owner of a PGCE, a post graduate certificate of education. Within four months, both of us had managed to find jobs.

I taught in a primary school in a nearby village and Rikard became an NCB engineer, just like his grandfather. We had both worked for about eighteen months, and were both living at home with our respective parents, when Rikard asked me to marry him.

I’d loved him for about two years, and so I didn’t hesitate. I accepted his proposal straight away.

We were both virgins when we got into the honeymoon suite of the hotel where we spent our first night as a married casino şirketleri couple. Rikard was a perfect gentleman, and doing my wifely duty wasn’t at all as horrendous as my mother had warned me it would be.

After an initial sharp stab of pain when he put it in me, it was all over in about three minutes. If truth be told, I wouldn’t have minded if it had lasted a bit longer, but Rikard couldn’t achieve the necessary rigidity, and so we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

After our honeymoon, we moved into our new house and soon got into the rhythm of married life. We worked hard all week, and on Friday nights we’d go to bed early and make love. What I didn’t know then, but what I crave these days, was that it is possible for a woman to have an orgasm too.

Rikard was (and still is) the perfect husband. But he does have his shortcomings. (pun intended!) At the time I was being mentored in school by a more experienced colleague.

Beryl was in her forties, divorced, and had a reputation as a woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to go all out to get it. She was a brilliant teacher, and was, until her passing a few years ago, a good friend and confidant.

It was coming up to our third anniversary when Beryl and I had one of our regular professional assessment meetings. She assured me that I was achieving all the targets that I needed to, but that there was something lacking.

When she saw my worried face, she laughed, patted me on the knee and told me not to worry.

“It’s your domestic life that I’m talking about, Ellie,” she said. “You come to school day-in, day-out, and you perform brilliantly. Your pupils adore you, your colleagues are in awe of your musical ability and your teaching skill, and yet…”

She trailed off, and when she remained silent, I looked at her, my eyebrows raised questioningly.

“And yet?” I prompted.

She had the grace to look embarrassed, but it didn’t stop her from saying quietly,

“And yet you have the look of a woman who is in desperate need of a really good fuck!”

“Beryl!” I screeched, both angry and embarrassed.

My objection was like water off a duck’s back. She didn’t even apologise.

“I’m really fond of you,” she said softly, “and I want to see you making the most of your ability as a teacher, and as a wife. Tell me,” she continued, “is Rikard coming to the end of school year party?”

“He’s hoping to” I replied, having calmed down somewhat. “But he’s very busy in work, and we’re off on holiday as soon as school breaks up for the summer. We’ll be celebrating our anniversary in Hamburg. Rikard has some family there, and we’ve never met them. So he wants to get all his work finished before we break up for the holidays.”

Beryl said no more, but at the end of school year party, I came back from a visit to the toilet to see that she’d moved into my seat and was in deep conversation with my husband. It was my intention to go and join them, but I was intercepted by the parents of a pupil in my class, who happened to be in the pub, and who wanted to buy me a drink to say ‘thank you’ for my efforts with their child.

By the time I escaped from them, Beryl and Rikard were laughing with two of the classroom assistants, and when I joined them, I’d forgotten about their earlier tête-à-tête.

The party broke up eventually, and Rikard and I went home. He was unusually quiet in the taxi, but I put it down to tiredness We went straight to bed, and in the morning we packed two suitcases and set off to catch the ferry to Holland, from where we would drive to Hamburg.

It was a brilliant holiday. Rikard managed to catch up with some of his distant relatives one day, and we really enjoyed the bustling city.

And so we come to that important date that I mentioned at the start of this tale. The day of our third anniversary. It came just before we were due to come home. We had gone walkabout in Hamburg and relied on an app on my mobile phone for directions.

But geography has never been a forte of mine, and we got lost. We found ourselves in the infamous red light district, and on an impulse, we accepted the invitation of a very butch looking woman, and went into a sex shop.

What a revelation that was! We saw rubber and plastic dildos, vibrators, nipple clamps, butt plugs and all manner of canes, crops, paddles and floggers. I’m quite adept at using most of these nowadays, but back then…!!!

I was really touched when Rikard bought me a selection of erotic underwear, which cost a small fortune. As we made our way back to the hotel with our recent purchases in a very discrete brown paper parcel, I whispered to Rikard that he could choose which set he wanted me to wear for him that evening.

We were due to go out for a meal to celebrate our anniversary that evening, so later on when I emerged from the shower to dress for dinner, I found Rikard looking intently at the underwear that he’d bought me earlier that day.

“Have casino firmaları you decided what set you want me to wear for you?” I asked shyly.

To my horror, he began to cry, and I rushed to his side to put my arms around him.

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked .”Are you feeling unwell?”

“Oh, Ellie,” he sobbed, his whole body shaking with emotion, “it’s no good. I can’t keep it in any more. I must tell you my terrible secret. I suppose that when you know, you’ll not want to stay married to me a moment longer. But I love you so much that I can’t keep it to myself any more.”

I felt a sense of panic rising in my chest. “Wh…what are you t…talking about, Rikard?” I stuttered, my own eyes filling with tears. “If you love me why do you want to divorce me?”

He looked at me in amazement. Taking my hand, he pulled me down onto the bed, to sit beside him.

“You silly billy,” he smiled through his tears, “I love you with all my heart. I’ll never divorce you. But I have to tell you something, and when you know my secret, I think it’s you that will want to divorce me!”

“Never!” I contradicted him. “I married you ‘for better or worse.’ Now spit it out. What’s this terrible secret?”

We were late getting to the restaurant for our evening meal, but they weren’t busy, and so we were able to invent an excuse, which the manager accepted with a smile, waving away our apologies.

I would be lying if I said that Rikard’s confession that he’d bought the sexy underwear for himself, not for me, hadn’t thrown me quite a bit. But as I listened to him telling me that he regularly wore my knickers under his trousers, I reasoned that it wasn’t harming anyone, and that if it gave him a thrill, so what?

So as we sat down to eat, I was probably the only one who noticed the discrete little bulge in Rikard’s trousers, where his tiny cock was standing up proudly, encased as it was in a pair of pure silk satin knickers.

We sat and chatted throughout the meal, and it was as if everything had been resolved. I told Rikard that our secret would be the making of our marriage, if the state of his trousers was anything to go by, and he grinned. That night, for the first time ever, we made love twice in one night, and the second time, Rikard lasted long enough to give me a wonderful orgasm.

So my husband was a panty wearer. So what? If he got excited enough to give me orgasms whilst wearing them who was I to complain? We returned home the next day, ready to go back to work, and I was convinced that our little secret was going to be the thing that helped to fulfill us as a married couple.

How wrong I was! Instead of enhancing our relationship, we tended to revert to our pre-holiday patterns almost straight away. We made love on a Friday evening, and even when he had been wearing panties for the whole week, Rikard never reached the heights of his performance in Hamburg again.

One Friday night, after he’d cum in me almost as soon as he’d put it in me, Rikard sat up in bed, put his bedside light on and turned to me with a wry smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a very sad voice. “This isn’t working, is it? I could tell that you’d barely got started before I finished. You’re not being satisfied, and I can’t live with that.”

“Don’t start this again,” I replied testily. If the truth be told, I was feeling extremely frustrated. The sensation of my orgasm in Hamburg was a rapidly receding memory. and it was very frustrating, because I really did love having sex.

“I might have a solution,” Rikard said hesitatingly. “But I’m not sure how to tell you about it. It’s pretty strange, but if you are willing to hear me out, maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to enjoy having sex again.”

“OK,” I said cautiously. “I’m willing to listen. I accepted your panty wearing, didn’t I? What is it this time? Do you want to start borrowing my lipstick?”

He smiled sadly, and confessed that wearing make-up was perhaps a step too far in our small and very close-knit community. What he suggested was much more radical, and when I heard it, I rejected it straight away.

Rikard suggested that I find myself a lover. Someone who I could be with on a regular basis, who would pleasure me and give me the orgasms that he himself was unable to do.

“Don’t be so bloody stupid,” I snapped. “I’m your wife, not some bloody tart who goes around fucking anything on two legs just because he’s got a bigger cock than you!”

I paused for breath, and to try to avoid bursting into tears. To my amazement Rikard was not only grinning at my foul-mouthed outburst, but his little cock, so recently shrivelled and flaccid, was showing signs of coming to life again.

“Oh Ellie!” he breathed, taking hold of his cock and improving his semi hard-on by stroking it a few times, “that was magnificent! I love it when you talk dirty!”

I giggled, and blushed, my outburst forgotten as I eyed his rapidly hardening cock.

“So to get your little güvenilir casino cock hard enough to fuck me, all I need to do is to mention that my cunt is ready and waiting to be filled with your magnificent three inches, is it?” I said in my best femme fatale impression, and Rikard groaned.

“Yes!” he gulped. “But it would be even better if, when I’m in you, you told me how you dreamed of being filled up and stretched by a much bigger, thicker cock than I’ve got!”

“It’s what I think of anyway, when you’re humping away at me on a Friday night,” I gabbled, improvising furiously. “I can barely feel your pathetic cock in me, and when you cum, it’s a dribble compared to a real man! I want to have a sore, bruised cunt from hours of being fucked , and when my cunt is full of real man’s cum, I want you to go down…”

I never managed to finish that sentence. Rikard was on me, and then up me. I squirmed as he banged into me savagely, and I could literally feel the blood pumping into my labia and my clit. This dirty talking seemed to be working!

He fucked me furiously, and to my utter dismay, he shot his second load of cum into me before I was anywhere near an orgasm. We lay there, breathless and I felt him soften and slip out of me.

It wasn’t done intentionally to hurt his feelings, but a groan of disappointment escaped from my lips (the ones on my face. My other lips were still blood engorged and desperate for pleasure.)

Before I knew what was happening I felt Rikard’s breath on my thighs and then, oh my god! He was kissing and licking my cunt. I lay perfectly still, not wishing to move in case I broke the spell. But when his tongue found my clit and began to lap at it, I couldn’t help myself.

I wrapped my legs around his head and pulled him in closer. His tongue was like a piston, in and out and I felt as if I was going to explode. About two minutes later, explode I did.

Later that evening, when we were discussing the future, we both confessed that it felt like I was pissing when I came. I now know that he’d made me squirt, of course, and these days, when I’m fucked properly, I always squirt. But it was a definite novelty back then.

The next day was a Saturday, and Rikard brought us both a cup of tea in bed. We sat and chatted, and I asked him if he was still serious about me taking a lover.

“Of course I am ” he grinned enthusiastically. “Last night was fantastic, and

I loved kissing and licking you after I’d finished , and before you’d cum. The thought of doing that again when you’ve been with someone else is such a turn on!”

That Saturday, I joined two dating sites, one specifically for hotwives and their wannabe cuckolds, and the other a fetish dating site. I was honest in my description of myself and of Rikard, and within a few days, we were deluged with replies.

I didn’t realise at the time, but most of the replies were either from time wasters, fantasists or liars. We then wasted a lot of time and effort answering these, and arranging meets with those we felt were promising. It was very frustrating for both of us, but at least my vocabulary was expanding, and I could soon include a lot of new ‘dirty’ words in my conversations with my husband.

I also began to put make up on him as soon as he came home. I bought him a couple of outfits to wear around the house, and for our fourth anniversary, I ordered a pair of very realistic body form tits for him to wear under his sissy clothes. He had an instant hard-on when I buckled them on, and I had the opportunity to practice my new second favourite hobby – cock sucking! (My favourite was fucking, and remains so to this day!)

I had just started back in school in the September after our fourth anniversary when I got home and found Rikard already at the computer.

“We’ve had a reply!” he said excitedly. His dress was displaying a telltale bulge, and when I lifted it up to check, I was delighted to see that he was wearing a pair of split crotch panties, and his little cock was straining proudly out of the shocking pink material.

I sat down beside him and looked at the reply to our advert.

“But it’s from America,” I said in a disappointed tone. “You’ve got me all worked up for fuck all!” (These days, I rarely missed an opportunity to ‘talk dirty’ for my sissy!)

“Read all of it,” Rikard replied, his eyes shining with excitement.

I did as he suggested, and turned to look at him with a grin that spread from one ear to the other.

“Is it possible, do you think?” I asked, my voice hoarse with tension.

“There’s an email address there,” Rikard pointed out. “Send him a reply, and see what happens. I’ll get on with supper, and you write to this Mr. Lupus, telling him all about yourself. Lupus is a species of wolf, isn’t it? If he’s genuine, he could be perfect.”

I spent an hour describing myself, my needs and our domestic situation. My reply was quite short, considering the amount of time that I spent constructing it, but I kept changing things, so that by the time supper was ready, I was almost satisfied with it.

I saved the document and went to eat, and afterwards I agreed that the washing up could wait. Rikard and I went back upstairs, and I showed him my reply.

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