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She had certainly been given plenty of hints and, once in a while in a joking/serious way Mitchell would outright ask if she would please…? But Marsha’s joking/serious answer had always been, “Nice Jewish girls don’t go ’round giving their husbands blow jobs!” So she never did. But now…

                                      Warning!

                         Humanistically Sexual 

Lakeside, Michigan

July 4, 1958

 Whereas intercourse before—no matter what quality—seemed her ultimate “gift,” or “weapon”—intercourse being something Marsha considered a thing she’d given more so because Mitchell wanted to receive it, rather than because she wanted to give it…

But intercourse seemed to be far less then than she wanted to give now.

Now Marsha wanted to give more of herself. To give something she’d never given in the past.

Literally deluged by passion and her love of Mitchell, wanting to do for him what he’d so often wanted her to do. Strangely—because the mere thought of it had always made her slightly ill—at that moment Marsha actually had a desire to take him into her mouth, to feel within her mouth it’s hard, soft, cool, hot feel. To even, maybe—though she certainly hoped he would be able to control himself—to actually, maybe, taste the taste of a little—a very little—of what came from within the penis of her husband.

Closing her fingers about him. Wanting him! Oh, God! Wanting him! “Mitchie, I love you!”

His eyes closed to the feel of her touch. “Don’t ever, Marcie—please don’t ever stop saying that!”

Near her, laying very near. Kissing Marsha. Mitchell kissed Marsha’s mouth, her neck, her chest, her breasts. Drawing a dark nipple into his mouth, he felt the circumference wrinkle and tighten and elongate within his mouth. Drawing his hand slowly over her stomach and—avoiding it completely, teasing himself and, maybe Marsha, too—along and down the cool, firm flesh of the outer side of Marsha’s thigh… then along and up the warm, soft flesh of the inner side of Marsha’s thigh. Reaching it, cupping his hand onto the soft/hard, silky mound, two fingers played along the tight, moist fissure for the moments it took till…

Feeling the slick texture of the small lips, his fingers parting the fleshy pedals…

Oh, my God!

The tingling, sweet drawing sensation of her nipple within her husband’s mouth… The sensation of the feel of the movement of her husband’s finger on her hardened clitoral ridge… Along with the hard/soft, cool/warm heat within her hand.

His mouth to her breast, Mitchell did not speak.

Her lips pursed, inundated with sensations that immersed her mind and body, Marsha did not speak.

I love you!

I love you!

The words repeating in their minds were the thoughts of the other and neither were sure if the words they subconsciously heard were their thought or the other’s spoken words.

Still, but for the rustle of bedding and Mitchell’s inspired breathing the room was still.

Moving his lips from her breast, kissing her mouth, chin, her neck. Slowly lowering, kissing the spread of taut flesh between her breasts, trailing his kisses, Mitchell kissed his way down, onto the depression of Marsha’s hard stomach to her “outie” navel, and down, onto the silky thatch of hair, onto the soft/hard rise of Marsha’s mound.

In the past, when he’d been allowed to go to this revered place, he would have to say, “Slide down, a bit, will you, baby,” in order to have room enough to position his body so as to position his head and mouth where he wanted and still have room enough to straighten his legs so as to lie comfortably alongside Marsha, with his penis where he and maybe—hopefully, someday—Marsha might want it, too. So now…

Actually lost within the ecstasy of his touch, kisses, and the trailing of his tongue to where she knew he was going.

…Slightly disappointed because Marsha didn’t know enough to do it without his asking, “Slide down a little, will you, Baby?” he said.

Bringing the pillow along, wiggling downward on the bed, stopping when her head was on a direct plane with his penis.

Inches away! Seeing her! Smelling the mild, deliciously intoxicating scent of his wife’s sex.

Lying flat on her back, thighs parted, expectantly waiting…wanting his touch, turning her head to the side, Marsha looked into the eye of her husband’s turgid penis, as…

Touching her without parting the labia, Mitchell caressed the length of Marsha’s still closed fissure… His hand cupping the mound, feeling the soft warmth, beginning with a slow, rubbing motion… his forefinger easily parting, gliding into, onto…

Oh, God!

Wanting to! The tip of her tongue playing along her barely parted lips. Wanting him in her mouth.

Mentally engulfed by the volume of his wife’s fluid—though at this time she was not touching him—his touch of her transmitting to his lower region, as an involuntary moan broke from his lips, a sexually induced spasm in his rectum and testicles forced a drop of semen through his urethra, that…

Because he was lying on his side, hanging a second, rolling off the glans, the thick driblet hung as a glistening, silver thread, that…

Seeing the hanging, crystalline string of semen, Marsha’s thought of moment ago—of tasting it—vanished because, now, the thought of putting a…? seeping penis in her mouth repulsed her, so instead, wiping the thread of semen away with the corner of the pillowcase, she took hold of him again.

Feeling her touch, sensing her touch to his core, parting the pedals—as he’d done dozens of times in the past—he looked at his wife’s genitalia that, in Mitchell’s eyes, appeared as burnished pink silk. Bringing his lips to her, he kissed her. His tongue gliding, he tasted… Oh, God! Mitchell Lipensky tasted the nectar of his wife’s excitement as probing, his tongue fondled the inner folds of Marsha’s labia and the barely protruding nodule of Marsha’s clitoris that, as of yet, remained within the sheath of female foreskin, as…

Feeling an unbearable heat for this young man that was her husband from the moment she first saw him on this day, now, knowing he was there… Oh, God! Sensing the itch, the erotic itch within her ovaries…

Now!

As the warm, sweet, Oh, God! so warm, so sweet waves surged through Marsha, the hand holding her husband stopped all motion as, imperceptibly constricting her thighs, she tightened her lips and eyes, as…

Coming up for air, looking at the face of his wife, he saw that her creased eyes and mouth were closed tightly and, by the slight movement of her chest, that her breathing appeared normal and Mitchell wondered—as he’d so often wondered—Does she enjoy me doing this? Does she even like me doing this? The way she looks, the look on her face, is it enjoyment or pain? Enjoying the feel, yet feeling himself held loosely, dispassionately within the hand of his wife, Mitchell wondered—as he’d so often wondered—Is she holding me because she wants to, or because she knows I want her to?

Looking at the dispassionate, near pained appearance on the face of his wife, Mitchell saw no indication… not the slightest indication that Marsha—and if there was an indication, would she be pretending that she—enjoyed what he loved doing. What he loved doing! What he loved giving! And Mitchell Lipensky suddenly sensed a…

Lying naked alongside his naked, seemingly unresponsive wife, his face inches from her most wonderful place. Seeing Marsha, having the taste of Marsha within his mouth and the slight, so sexual scent of Marsha within his nostrils. Coming from within the very core of his soul, Mitchell suddenly sensed a…?

Shifting to brain control Mitchell Lipensky suddenly sensed a feeling of, What’s new here? Sex is always great when we make up! He thought rationally. At least I always think sex is great when we make up! So what the hell’s new here? She’s the same Marsha with the same tits’n’cunt and attitude! So what the hell’s changed?

Thoughts… Rational thoughts darted through his mind. The verbally explosive arguments with Marsha—who never admitted to being wrong—so never—not even now, even after running out on him as she had—apologizes; the arguments that always leave him feeling stupid and inferior. And the two phrases that did not seem to be a part of Marsha’s terminology: “You’re right,” or “I’m sorry.” Also, of spending the time of his marriage being ground between the rock of his wife and the hard place of his mother. So what I ought to do, he thought rationally, is to get the hell out of this bed, get dressed and get out of here!

Briefly occurring to him but—due to his love of Michael—selfishly dismissing the fact that it might be better for a child to grow in a one parent home as opposed to living with a mother and father that were in a near constant running battle with each other.

And who knows, he thought optimistically, maybe things’ll be different this time. Besides…

So close to her, rational thoughts overtaken by sight, taste and scent, his brain returning to penis control, engrossed with… Immersed within his wife, his tongue caressing the light pink, no ­longer ­hidden bud of Marsha’s clitoris, the sense of loneliness, along with the thought that he had been there before and that “eventually life would return to what it had been in the past” dispelled.

Enjoying this, Oh, yes! Having already had one, now though—surprised—sensing she was nearing the onset of a second orgasm, but wanting to… Oh, God! Needing the feel of him in her. “Mitchie…”

Lifting his face from the abundant wetness—that should have given him the hint that, Oh, yes, Marsha was certainly enjoying what he was giving, however thinking the abundant wetness might just as easily be his saliva—he looked at her… at Marsha’s face.

“Mitchie, uh, by any chance you, uh, you bring a rubber?”

Swiping his hand across his mouth, “Oh, yeah!” Smiling, “I brought six of ’em.”

“Six?” Smiling also. “You brought six rubbers! Pretty damn sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

“No, baby,” reversing his position, moving upward on the bed, “only wishful thinking.” He attempted to kiss her on the mouth, but knowing where his mouth had been for the past few minutes, she turned her head aside.

Changing positions he’d slipped from her hand. “Mitchie,” taking hold again, “I want to feel you inside me,” she said rather urgently. “Let’s do it, baby, now!”

She wants to! Sensing from the tone of her voice, She really wants to! But, “Uh, oh.”

“‘Uh, oh’?”

“Yeah, the rubbers, they’re, uh, in my bag in the bathroom.”

“So? Go get ’em!” Sitting up on her elbows, she watched as Mitchell…

Actually, Marsha was looking at Mitchell’s horizontally standing penis as he rushed from the bedroom, then, a moment later, returning with the foil Pac ripped open, she watched as he rolled the prophylactic onto his still standing penis.

Her thighs open, her legs spread, “Okay?”

Positioned, looking at the erotically beautiful picture of his wife’s fully open position, “Yes! Oh, yes!”

Oh, God!

The warmth! Gliding into the tight, lubricious channel, sensing the slick flood of warm moisture within Marsha through the thin sheath of latex. “Marcie,” he whispered, “I’m home again.”

Thought of the past gone.

Concern for the future nonexistent.

Now there was only now.

Now there was only here.

Feeling the wonderfully soft yet wonderfully hard strength of her husband. Having the sensation of being asleep, and still within her dream.

Her eyes and mouth again clamped shut, the motion of her breathing again appearing as normal, as though any movement on her part would break her concentration, until…

Arching her body, draping her calves over his shoulder, giving the sweet thrusting deeper access and, hearing the catch in his breathing, feeling the quickening motions she knew preceded Mitchell’s orgasm, lifting her buttocks higher, imperceptibly going with his motion, unknowingly constricting the muscle: grasping, kissing…

Grasping, the lips of Marsha’s vagina kissed the moisture slicked sheath that held the penis of her husband…

For Mitchell: Ending much too quickly but bursting, the sweet, so sweet rapture pulsed as though eruptions of a miniscule volcano.

For Marsha: Triggered by the warm pulsing felt within the wall of her uterus, minimally as strong as the clitoral orgasm of a few minutes earlier—maybe, because pain, sweet or hurtful, is not too long remembered—this vaginal orgasm warmed Marsha as none other in memory.

Her passion ebbing, “Yes, Mitchie,” opening her eyes, looking into those of her husband, Marsha whispered, “you are home again.”