But he hadn't done that. Instead, he'd release her hand and then touch her back during one introduction. Put his arm around her for another. Take her ...and for yet another. Each time bringing her into contact with another part of his anatomy. The hardness of his chest here, the strong inner muscle of his thigh there; and each time the renewed contact with her warmed flesh vividly re-created a sense of what he must be like. Or more accurately, it created a heightened curiosity, a desire to. The temptation to peek was overwhelming. I wanted to listen, creep up to the door and perhaps steal a view to satisfy my curiosity. But, I remained loyal to what my wife wanted. Deep down maybe I am a voyeuristic junkie. Those who are enamored with gifted men fucking their wives I’m sure can relate. I began to play with pecker which was swelling. Faint moans became more prevalent from the living room. Was he eating her? Fucking her? Making out with her? I didn’t know. The mental. More

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