Hunting Pixies

Hunting Pixies, Part 09

This is the latest installment of my continuing series. Most of it is posted under the Romance category, which fits overall. I'm posting this in Loving Wives (technically Husbands) because I think the "reclamation" tone of the sex scenes at the beginning and end fit that classification. The overall story is about an extramarital relationship, but it isn't about cheating, so if that's your kink, this probably isn't for you. And the sex here is with the wife, so more tame than in some of the other installments. Finally, as a standalone, this will make little sense. Please don't ding me in the ratings if you think I've gotten the category wrong; the platform doesn't allow multiple categories to be selected.

Ever since I quit drinking, my internal clock has been hardwired to wake me at about 4 a.m., regardless of when I go to bed, a relic of the time that I would rise then from whatever couch or chair I had passed out on in my drunken stupor to find my bed for a few hours of actual sleep. Now, I usually just get up or lie waiting until five on alternate mornings to begin them with sex with Beth. We are both creatures of routine.

This morning seems to begin routinely, with my morning wood raging as I stir at what I know will be about four without having to look at a clock. The events of last night come back to me quickly as I find that I am spooned to Beth, and it is wedged comfortably in the cleft of her naked ass. This is far from routine.

I push forward a bit in instinct, and she stirs, pushing back into me. I throb. She lifts her top leg and I feel her reach between her legs to find my hardness, stroking it a few times, releasing a bead of moisture and rubbing it around the head. She slots it in her folds, surprisingly moist, and becomes wet as she rubs my tip through them. She finds her entrance and pushes back. I push forward, embedding in her in a single thrust.

She moans a little, "I want you to finish," she whispers. Invitation taken, I begin slowly pumping her as we spoon together, my groin bouncing on the soft globes of her ass. I rub her shoulders and stroke her arms in time with my deepening thrusts. I move to grasp a breast, and she gently pushes my hand away. I assume she is too sensitive; last night was an anomaly.

I roll us over so that I am on top of her, she is prone beneath and I am still embedded in her from behind. My legs are outside of hers so that I can stroke into her more powerfully. The angle isn't quite right. I lift her hips and pull a pillow beneath them, tilting her pelvis just so. My next deep stroke sends my full balls slapping against her clit, my pelvis bouncing against the cushion of her ass for a dozen or so deep strokes. She moans into the mattress. The sensation is incredible for me, but the friction is not quite enough.

I pull out and roll her to her back, the pillow now under her ass, lifting it slightly. Her feet on the bed and knees raised, I kneel between her widespread thighs. She grasps me and slots me to her again. I sink home in a single powerful thrust. We both groan. I begin pumping against her fast and hard.

There is no concern that it will be too much for her. It's as if her body were custom-designed for mine, built to take whatever I can give her, and I am giving her a lot. Her breath comes in gasps with each thrust as I pound her ass into the pillow. I drop to my elbows, my head to the side of hers. My mouth kisses her neck, teeth nibbling and tugging gently at her ear. One hand entwines her hair into a tail and pulls it lightly and she emits a soft groan.

The other creeps under her ass, pulling a cheek apart, finding her crack slick with our juices. I use them to circle her ring with my middle finger, wetting it fully before thrusting the finger into the palm. She groans and pushes against me, leaking more fluid to ease my way, encouraging me to take more. I add a second finger, curling them against my shaft through the thin membrane between the vagina and the rectum.

This is what it takes for me. I lift my chest as I silently roar my release. I feel her lips on my left pec, using it to suppress hers, feeling her deep moan humming against it, then something else, a suction I can't describe? As I pulse my seed deeply into her, I feel the increased fluids of her release dribbling on my contracting balls as they spasm and we still. I rise back to my hands and she brings her face to mine for a deep kiss, allowing a little tongue.

"That's better," she says, as I withdraw from her and roll to the side, our combined fluids trickling from her as I pull out. "I didn't want you to have any reason to be grumpy today." She rolls over as she says this and punctuates it with a quick kiss. The room is dark, but not pitch black. I can just make out her face and eyes as they shine back at me. "Oh, and that thing you did with your second finger?" She asks.

"Was it too much?" I reply, a little sheepishly.

"Mmm, no, it was just right, I think, in the moment. But don't get any bigger ideas from it," she laughs as she gives my shaft a gentle squeeze, "this isn't going in there."

"Point taken," I reply, keeping my tone light. I'm not disappointed; I never had an expectation that she would entertain that level of intimacy with me. The butt play that she does allow has been a nice addition over the last few years by itself.

"And that," she says, touching her finger to my pec, "is to remind HER who always comes first." Her statement leaves me confused as she rises from the bed to head to the bathroom to clean up. She adds, "I want to walk this morning, but can I sleep a little more? Until like 6:30?"

"Of course," I reply, as she turns on the bathroom light and slides the door closed behind her. I rise from the bed, find my discarded boxers and pants from the night before, and pull them on. I find my shirt and carry it and my phone as I make my way quietly to the hall bathroom to clean up. I glance at the time, 4:30, and chuckle to myself. Like clockwork.

Aiden and Cindy are still lying chastely separate on the pulled-out sectional, showing all signs of still being asleep. Our ardour was a little more enthusiastic than typical, and I'm glad for the solid doors and thick walls I built into the house; they are a far cry from the paper-thin walls of our apartment. Nibbles does not stir in her bed, facing our door. She can sense when Beth comes out and knows I'm not her, and she has no interest in anyone else if Beth remains an option.

In the bathroom, I understand Beth's cryptic comment as I look in the mirror while washing my hands. Just above the fading bite mark left by Margaret on my pec is a fresh mark left by Beth: a distinct and angry-looking fresh red spot left from her lips. A hickey. I laugh at the almost absurd situation I've found myself in. Seemingly marked by rivals for my attention at 59? Life is pretty good for this grumpy old troll. I put my shirt on and turn out the light before exiting the bathroom.

I make my coffee as quietly as possible and move out to the back porch to sit. First light is not for another hour, and there is almost no ambient light in the back of the house, but the moon is fairly full and enough of its light filters through the oaks and palms to give the landscape a slight glow, with the trees and plants forming shadowed layers upon shadowed layers. It's peaceful, with only the occasional animal noise. A distant barred owl calls, and ours returns it from the back of the property.

I sip my coffee and reflect on the last hour, last night, and last day. Beth's behaviour this morning and last night in bed is...interesting. Not entirely novel, but it has been a long time since she allowed herself to express anything close to this level of passion with me. Last night could maybe be attributed to lowered inhibitions from her drinks, but she was far from intoxicated.

This morning seemed entirely different. Her mention of my ass play was far more direct than she ever is when we discuss sex. She has rarely stated her likes or dislikes, preferences or limits, or even asked for anything specific in bed. I have had to discover everything about her through trial and more often than not, error. She is extremely intelligent, so it isn't that she can't articulate what she wants and doesn't want; it's that she won't, even when asked.

It's also interesting, and a relief, that she is aware of the fact that my issues with our relationship are not solely about sex, and that in fulfilling my needs outside of our marriage, it will likely be more than the physical act of sex that is involved. This isn't something we completely spelled out when we set our "rules" for engagement in all of this. We didn't make a rule about 'not falling in love with the other person.'

We danced around that. It's hard enough to really even fully articulate the dimensions of what 'love' means. Love is a spectrum. It has a different nuance for everyone in your life that you feel 'love' for. So it seems like something that would be impossible to 'regulate' with any real meaning. I think we both anticipate the possibility of 'love' with the other person as a known risk, and we will have to address it if it starts to cross the other boundaries.

And for me, love, romantic affection, and sex are closely intertwined. It would be hard for me to fully enjoy sex with someone without some connection that felt at least somewhat like 'love.' For me, there has to be some core 'feeling' for someone I'm with to truly enjoy sex, and that's why I think we are where we are in our relationship.

I love Beth, I enjoy sex with her. But she goes through the motions for me, and that filters into my view of it. She doesn't fully enjoy it for herself and would take it or leave it. She sees it as an almost mechanical thing, like exercise, a nice little cardio session with a built-in stretch. And while it's great that we are at least having a lot of sex, it leaves me feeling unfulfilled with it as well.

I don't think I would ever feel 'fulfilled' by sex with someone that I didn't feel some deeper connection to. A deep enough connection that they thoroughly enjoyed it and were 'fulfilled' by it also. Without it being mutually satisfying, it just seems hollow. And for it not to seem hollow, I will likely have to find a fairly deep connection.

I wasn't entirely sure Beth and I were on the same page with all of this. Beth's comment last night suggests she understands this more clearly than I had hoped, at least in theory. But will she be as understanding in practice? I think she senses I am already starting to feel the connection I need with this "other woman." And I take her playful challenge, made by leaving the hickey as acknowledgment and at least a degree of acceptance for the developing situation.

As I come back from this train of thought, I open my phone to the rules Beth and I had set to review them, and confirm that I don't think I've done anything to this point that is at odds with them. I think through the additional advice that Jim had given me, and I seem to be okay in that regard as well. I'm actually a little surprised that I haven't given Margaret much explicit thought since we parted, so I'd also say I'm doing pretty well on the homework she'd given me, particularly with making sure Beth is kept happy. She seemed very happy at the end of last night and a few minutes ago.

I think about the two rounds of sex Beth and I have just enjoyed. While not our most intense ever, they were both certainly much more intense than usual, and the most intense in recent memory. I wonder what is driving that? I've read a little about "reclaiming" sex that goes on in the hotwife lifestyle, and wonder if it is something akin to that.

And I remember that our most intense sex was after I had discovered Beth's affair and she was concerned about me ending the marriage. Even when she didn't really want to be in it, she seemed to use sex to reassert her place with me.

Or does it have to do with the same psychology that makes one seem more attractive to others when they are taken? I think back through my romantic history, and there were several periods that I have always thought of as "when it rains, it pours." I had several long dry spells that were broken by not one, but two or more women making themselves available to me at around the same time.

I shake myself from going further down this rabbit hole by remembering the last unwritten rule: don't overthink it. I'm overthinking it. Whatever the psychology or motivations are that are in play, things seem to be off to a good start with this possible new chapter of life.

Which reminds me of my other homework, getting to know more about Margaret through what she has written and what she reads. I open Goodreads and find that she has already added me to her friends list. I have been reading about 100 books a year for a few years, using the app to log them, mostly so I don't reread something. I only enter a rating when I've finished a book; I've never written reviews.

Margaret's account is a treasure trove. It dates back years with hundreds of books listed. She has rated and appears to have reviewed each one. The reviews range from a sentence to several paragraphs. There is a LOT of overlap in our reading likes. Hers skew very heavily to Fantasy in all its myriad dimensions, leaning very heavily to female authors, but not exclusively. We appear to share a lot of favourites.

There is also a lot of academic-oriented reading and non-fiction. Particularly, self-help/marital relationship books in the last few years. I actually read several of those same books, but before I started logging anything on the app. I feel a little voyeuristic in reading some of her reviews, but I choose to think of it as a version of "speed dating."

I look for one author in particular, Esther Perel and her 'Mating in Captivity.' I can't recall if I actually read the book in full, or just excerpts, but it addresses the underlying reasons for the concept of ethical non-monogamy, and was high on Beth's radar a decade ago when we were initially rebuilding our marriage after its near collapse. Margaret appears to have started reading it a few years ago, but there is no indication she finished it. Interesting.

I've finished my first coffee and note that it is a little after five-thirty. Beth would typically have been up by now to join me, but I recall she wants to sleep in a bit more. No one else is stirring except Nibbles. I quietly start the Keurig for my decaf coffee round and take her out for a quick walk while it brews. I take my fresh coffee back out to the porch, leaving the slider open so that she can come back out to the porch with me or stay inside. She elects to go back to her bed and stare at our bedroom door, knowing Beth is only feet away. Theirs is an interesting relationship; at times in the past, I found myself jealous of it. I chuckle at the memory.

First light is starting to intensify the glow in the forest and the sounds of the early-rising birds. I can hear roosters down the road warming up. The owls give their calls and returns, keeping tabs on each other, making sure everyone is where they are supposed to be. A pileated woodpecker is out and about for an early breakfast, knocking loudly on a sabal palm in the back somewhere.

I return to my phone and pull up the link for Margaret's thesis. The title is pure sterilized academia, but from the abstract, it's about the evolution of the feminine voice in speculative fiction, with a focus on the explosion of Romantasy novels versus more literary achievements. The format on my phone is going to make reading it difficult, and my MacBook is in the library where Mom is sleeping, so for now, I peruse the abstract and look through the cited works.

I recognize a lot of them: Sarah Maas and Rebecca Yarros, representing the Romantasy explosion, the most commercially successful currently; Ursula Le Guin and Robin Hobb, literary masters who avoided reliance on romance to sell their work; and rising writers like Naomi Novik, N.K. Jemisin, R.F. Kuang, and Madeline Miller, who are also largely outside of the romance camp. She also cites unpublished works and published short stories written in the 1970s and 1980s, sourced from "personal papers" by an author named Lily Hart. I wonder if that might be Margaret's mother, Lily? Now I'm even more intrigued, and hope I have a chance to read the thesis in full before I get back together with Margaret tomorrow.

I'm clearly out of my league with Margaret in terms of depth of understanding of the fantasy world. Her dad's comments that she spent a lot of time as a child immersed in fantasy ring true from her reading and study preferences. I laugh a little, as I'm sure she can tell me in minute detail why "pixie" is probably not quite right for the label I applied to my desired amorous target. Be that as it may, the more I think about her, the more apropos it seems.

I've already learned a lot from her Goodreads account and thesis, and then recall Margaret had sent me the key to finding out about her spicier reading preferences, her Literotica username. She mentioned she hadn't posted anything, but did have several authors she followed and stories she had favourited. I look back at her text to find her username. I didn't really make a note of it when I first read it, as I was so excited to share mine with her so she could find the couple of weak stories I've posted. I open the text, and my jaw drops; her username is sluttypixie. How had that not registered with me, and how is that much of a coincidence possible?

I open my Literotica account and go to My Works Activity notifications. There are five new notifications from sluttypixie. She is now following me, she has added both of my stories as favourites, and she has commented on them both.

The first story is "A Long Walk Back," a kind of sappy remembrance of my first kiss and my romantic misadventures as a young and not-so-young man. Sluttypixie comments, "This made me laugh and cry. Such a lonely young troll. I can relate. You should tell me more about 'Heather' sometime."

The second is "Fantasy and Reality," a pretty blunt contrast of the actual sex life I have with Beth with the one I fantasize about having. Sluttypixie's comment is no surprise: "Baby, I would wake you up with the fantasy version. Every. Day." Well, one day in and she already has; my pants tent at the memory.

I click on her profile and find about a dozen authors she follows, as well as a few dozen stories she has added to her favourites list. I realize that while this could be an interesting rabbit hole to explore, it's getting closer to dawn, and it should probably wait. Reluctantly, I close down the apps on my phone.

It's now a little after six, and first light makes visibility in the woods clear enough for me to go out and gather some wood and get things set up in our fire pit out back. We plan to have a fire going this evening. After our main meal in the afternoon, we anticipate most of our guests who are spending the night at the hotel will want to linger through the evening and into the early morning. When I come back to the back porch, it's almost 6:30, and I see that Beth is up and already dressed to walk, sipping her coffee with Nibbles happily in her lap.

"Good morning," I say as I lean down to give Beth a quick kiss and Nibbles a quick pat. "Still up for a walk, I take it?"

"Of course," she replies, "as soon as I finish my coffee, did you take her for a walk already?"

"I did, let me go get changed for ours."

"Okay, thanks, take your time."

I quietly go back to our room and put on shorts and my walking shoes, a performance tee, and a light fleece zip-up. It's fairly cool out, but I tend to get overheated very quickly and perspire heavily. Not just at hot yoga. No one else is stirring when I rejoin Beth on the back porch. The sun has just risen, and it's light enough to take our trail through the back woods to the bike trail without needing a flashlight now. Beth is not a huge fan of walking through our woods in the dark.