Was It Good For You? by Tavie

© 2001. All Rights Reserved.

The day was long, hot, humid, and so full of stress that all Wendy wants to
do was go home and take a nice long bath. Reaching the door, her keys slip
from her sweaty hands twice before she finally manages to juggle them, her
briefcase, and the two bags of groceries so that she could get the correct
key into the lock only to have the door slowly swing open. A disgusted
curse passes from her pursed lips as she steps into the entryway. Bud's
home, she surmises. She mentally chastises him for not closing the front
door completely. Taking the groceries into the kitchen she starts to get
the full picture. Dishes are stacked in the sink; beer cans lined up along
the counter; an open jar of mayonnaise sat along side an open bag of bread
on the table; Bud didn't get the bid. Signing heavily, Wendy shoves back
the cans and puts the grocery bags on the counter before setting her
briefcase on the floor. Following a trail of chips into the living room she
finds her husband lying on the couch, his snores drowning out the sounds of
the truck pull being on some obscure TV channel.

Turning her back on the depressing scene, she walks to the bedroom, slipping
out of her suit jacket along the way. Dropping the jacket on the bed, she
goes into the bathroom to start her bath. She immediately dismisses the
idea when she finds a bunch of greasy rags in the tub, the sink covered in
grime, and her pristine set of white hand towels now irrevocably stained
with some black substance.

Leaving the bathroom, she shuts the door on the mess and walks back to the
living room. Kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, she props her arm
on the edge and cups her chin in her hand. Watching him sleep soundly
before her, she can't help but remember a time when he would sense her
presence before him, opening his eyes even as he reached for her. He would
pull her down on top of him, kissing the breath out of her. The warmth of
their bodies would penetrate their clothes until the material seemed to melt
away from the heat of their passion.

Wendy looks down and finds that her hand has cupped her breast, her thumb
rubbing the nipple through her blouse and bra. Looking back at her husband,
she shrugs her shoulders and makes her decision. Wendy watches Bud sleep as
she slowly unbuttons her blouse then unsnap the front clasp of her bra.
With both hands she caresses her now bare breasts until the nipples harden
into tight crests and she begins to feel a moist heat building between her
legs. Adjusting her position, she spreads her legs, pulling up the hem of
her skirt up to her hips.

Licking her fingertips, Wendy moves her right hand between her thighs while
her left continues stoking and pinching her nipples. All set to pleasure
herself fully, Wendy curses softly as she realizes that her panty hose are
and impenetrable barrier. This being absolutely the last straw for an
already crummy day, she digs her fingernails into the fine mesh material and
pulls hard.

"Shit," she mutters, "give me a day when I am running late and have only one
pair left and the damned things self destruct."

Her anger and stress reaching the boiling point, she pulls again with all
her might. The beautiful sound of tearing fabric reaches her ears as the
nylon gives way. Wendy smiles as her fingers remind her of this morning
when she decided it was too damned hot for both panty hose and underwear.
Letting her forefinger navigate the forest of her pubic hair, she searches
for her clitoris.

Finding that sweet little button of nerve-filled flesh she strokes it softly
remembering how Bud's warm, soft tongue would circle that one spot for what
seemed like hours as she lay writhing, panting, begging for that final
release. Soon Wendy realizes that her dainty little finger is unconsciously
mimicking that wonderful movement and her left hand is kneading her left
breast with increasing ferocity.

Sneaking another peek at Bud, still sleeping and oblivious to autoerotic
pleasures, Wendy lets her hand dig deeper between her legs. She sighs as
first one, then another finger slides into her wet vagina. Biting her lip to
keep her mews and moans from waking her husband, Wendy imagines herself on
top of Bud's hard, athletic body. His throbbing staff buried deep within
her body. Her left hand becomes her husband's callused palm mauling her
breasts. She sees the look of intense concentration on his face as he seeks
to hold back his own orgasm until she reaches hers. Wendy rubs her thumb
against her clit, pretending it is his, and increases her speed as she rides
her own hand. Her derriere bouncing against her ankles, she sees ecstasy
before her like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Rushing
towards it, she reaches out and pulls it to her, letting the pleasure
envelop her being until her body collapses in a satisfied mass of exhausted

Slowly regaining her senses, Wendy notices that room is now very quite. She
looks at the TV and sees the "mute" symbol in the upper right hand corner.
Turning her head, she finds Bud's baby blue eyes focused on her. She smiles
weakly, embarrassed at being caught masturbating yet secretly hoping that
her little scene had turned him on enough to turn him into the sexual dynamo
he had been when they were first married.

"Was it good for you?" he asks.

Wendy shrugs, "I came."

He rolls over and snores fill the room.

Bud looks at the clock again, 3:22 AM. He can't sleep. He looks at his
wife. He and Wendy had such big plans when they first married. Was it
really ten years ago? He remembers how they had mapped out their lives
together. He was working for a building contractor then and she was going
to business school to learn accounting. They were going to save up their
money, live as simply as they could until they could buy a house and he
could start his own contracting business. Part of her paycheck went into
the housing fund while part of his to the business fund. After five years
of living on tuna casserole, they finally had enough to do both. They found
this wonderful three bedroom split-level in a quiet neighborhood. It had
needed work but, hey, he was a builder… together they made it a home. Then
his boss came to him and offered him a partnership. Old Sam was planning to
retire in a couple years and wanted to make sure his business was in good
hands. After another two years, Bud and Wendy had their dream.

They began to work on phase two of their plan – having a family. As soon as
she became pregnant, she would quit her accounting job. It didn't mean that
she would be a "stay-at-home-mom", that wasn't the plan. She would keep the
books for the business. They would be partners in everything. But then
Wendy didn't get pregnant. And then Bud stopped winning bids.

Losing that contract today was a real blow. It meant he had to lay off two
more men. Good men, young men with young wives and dreams of their own.
Now, like him, they have to depend on their women to support them.

Bud looks at his wife sleeping so peacefully beside him. He thinks about
yesterday afternoon. He remembers waking on the couch and seeing her there,
pleasuring herself. Oh, how he had loved watching her.

Bud thinks back to the first time they had made love. They had waited until
their wedding night and his brother's advice had really paid off that night.

"Buddy," Rick had said, "no matter how much you want to just climb on top of
her and plow in… Don't."

Bud remembers the heat that flamed his face and how his penis had jumped to
full attention at the thought of bedding his bride.

"You gotta take your time with a woman." Rick continued, "Before you seek
your own pleasure, you gotta give a woman hers. Touch her everywhere, find
out what makes her moan and keep doing it. And when she starts crying out
for more, touch her one more time, then take her to the stars."

Bud never regretted taking his brother's advice, even though he never really
understood it until the morning after. He had touched her. Found that she
really moaned when he suckled her breasts, stroked the back of her knees,
and she about flew off the bed when he found what he later learned was her
clitoris. Hearing her first cries of ecstasy, knowing that he was the first
and only one to have heard them - or ever would - brought him more pleasure
than he had thought possible, without actually experiencing orgasm itself.

So that afternoon, he had watched her masturbate. When her mews and moans
grew louder, he had hit the mute button so as to experience the full, pure
sound of her pleasure. He had wanted to reach out to her. Wanted it with
all the desire that completely filled his heart. But his body… his cursed
body, was numb; no response. So he watched and listened.

Looking down at the blanket, Bud finds that a tent has formed around his
groin area. "Now you're all rarin' to go, aren't ya?” Bud thinks in
disgust. He looks at Wendy. Still sleeping peacefully. He thinks about
kissing her awake and making passionate love to her. The tent droops.
Instead he pictures her kneeling beside the couch, her blouse unbuttoned,
bra unclasped, her hand mauling her own breast. The tent raises. With a
resigned sigh, Bud takes matters in his own hands.

Before getting married, all Bud had bothered to do was give it a few strokes
and, boom, relief. But then five or ten minutes later he found a need to do
it again. With Wendy having her periods once a month and him still wanting
her every day and night, they had started to experiment. At first Bud had
instructed Wendy to masturbate him the way he had always done it himself.
But then she started playing games. Stroking him for a while, then using
her mouth. Then she started touching him in other places. In a way, it was
like their wedding night in reverse. She was discovering him, and he was
rediscovering himself. Wendy had inadvertently taught him that if he took
it slow and built up to his orgasm, it was ultimately more satisfying.

But Bud had never tried this on himself. Thinking about the way she used to
touch him, his hands follow that long, almost forgotten path of pleasure.
Bud's fingers find his nipples. They pucker to his callused caress. His
hands smooth down to his belly where his abs flex at the sensual contact.
In his mind, it isn't his hand that is gently, but firmly, grasping his
penis. It's hers. And those aren't his fingers pulling and pinching at his
nipples. Those are hers. Suddenly, the image of Wendy on her knees in the
living room pops into Bud's mind as he realizes that his hands are now in
the exact same position her were when she sought her own pleasure.

Mentally, Bud begins making love to his wife. His mind rolling out
yesterday's scene like a blue movie. Steamy and hot, his hands moving
faster and faster even as he strives to hold back until her moment of
ecstasy. He can hear her cries and, as if from some far away place, his own
echos hers. Then she comes, and so does he.

Lying there, in the dark aftermath, the guilt sets in. He should have
cleaned up the house before she came home. His mind had been screaming that
to him all night. But, just as it had when he watched Wendy satisfy
herself, his body wouldn't cooperate. With a heavy sigh, Bud gets up from
the bed and looks at his slumbering wife, glad that she hadn't witnessed his
own self-play. He goes into the bathroom and, taking the cleanser, starts
scrubbing the sink.

Wendy lies still and stiff on her side of the bed, trying hard not to sob
aloud as the tears roll down her face and onto the pillow.

It had been another brutal day at work and Wendy is exhausted. She gets
home and sees the light on the answering machine blinking. Automatically
she hits the "play" button.

"Bud," the low, full, female voice coming from the speaker stops Wendy dead
in her tracks, "This is Dora and I am calling to confirm us for today at 2."

Wendy feels her whole body tensing. Suddenly the whole picture is very
clear. She rummages through her handbag for the card.

"Ronald J. Woods, Attorney at Law: Specializing in Matrimonial Law"

Wendy dials the number and gets an answering machine. She waits for the
annoying beep, "Mr. Woods, this is Wendy Braham, I need to talk with you
about ending my marriage, my number is….."

Tears streaming down her face, she grabs her purse and runs out the door.

Bud comes home feeling better than he has in the four weeks since witnessing
his wife's auto-erotic encounter. His session with Dora went particularly
well today. Bud never in his 35 years of life believed he would ever need
to see a therapist but after seeing the doctor and getting a clean bill of
health, what else could he do about this problem.

Today had been a breakthrough. Dora had gotten him to accept that he had
been feeling like a failure; what with his business is failing, which was
causing problems in his relationship with Wendy, causing problems in his
self-image. Dora had called it a "vicious cycle."

Bud sees the light blinking on the answering machine. As he touches the
"play” button, he silently prays that it is the builder he had spoken to
about doing some drywall. Sure it would be a step down, Bud says to
himself, but at least I would be bringing some money into the house again.
At least that is how Dora had helped him see it. He pushes the button.

"Bud, this is Tom Fuller about that drywall job… could you start on the
28th? Call me."

Bud smiles… he got the job.

"Wendy, this is Ron Woods, can we get together tomorrow for lunch… about

Bud's smile runs away. Who is Ron Woods?

Dinner is a tense affair with Bud and Wendy sitting at opposite ends of the
table and neither of them saying a word. Looking up from the potatoes he
had been pushing around his plate for the past 20 minutes, Bud sees that
Wendy is wearing a face he learned to recognize early in their marriage. It
is the face she always wears whenever he did something to piss her off.
From experience, Bud knows that there is only one way to get rid of that
face. Taking a deep breath, he prepares to speak.

"Wendy," he begins.

"Don't!" Wendy cuts him off. "I already know and I am telling you now that
I want a divorce."


"You think I don't know about her, Bud?"

Wendy is tapping her fork against her plate. Bud knows what that means too.


"Dora, 2 PM…. I got her phone message yesterday."

Bud reacts, "And just who is lunch at one Ron Woods?"

Immediately Bud hears Dora's voice chastising him for speaking without
thinking. He has to stop this now.

"Dora is my therapist," Bud chokes out. "She has been helping me deal with
my impotence." His voice catches at the evil word. He had never spoken it
aloud before.

"Impotence!” Wendy shouts, "since when have you been impotent?"

Bud looks at the table, stirring the potatoes around the plate again. "It's
been going on for a few months now."

"You can't be impotent," Wendy spits back, " I have seen you jacking off at
night and you couldn't do that if you couldn't get it up."

"That is what I thought until I started seeing Dora."

"And when did that start?"

"I called her the day after I saw you in the living room."

"Oh? And what has ‘Dora' been telling you?" Wendy slams her chair back and
starts walking around the dining room, arms crossed. "That your mother didn
't pay enough attention to you? That she paid too much attention to you?"

Bud feels his own anger growing and struggles to keep his voice even, "She
made me understand that I was feeling sorry for myself and blaming you for

"Me! Why am I to blame?" Wendy yells.

Bud's voice is so quiet that Wendy has to strain to hear it. "You're not to
blame, I am."

"That day I watched you in the living room, I wanted to touch you so bad…
even reached out to touch you, but I couldn't."

Wendy gives a doubtful look but Bud continues.

"It happened again that night. I was remembering how beautiful you looked
and I got so hard for you but when I thought about reaching for you, I went

Sitting at the table, staring at his plate of now cold food, Bud continues,
"It has been happening that way every night since."

"You don't love me anymore," Wendy whimpers.

"No,” Bud goes to her, "I love you very much."

"Then why?" She cries.

"The plan, it was the damned plan."

"What plan?"

"The plan, Wendy," Bud shouts, "our plan… the one we made before we got

Wendy is still confused.

"Saving for a home and business of our own, having a child, working together
to make our dreams come true." Bud explains.

"That plan?" Wendy laughs, "we were children when we came up with that."

"But we almost had it Wendy," Bud points out, "the house, the business… we
almost had it."

"But Bud," Wendy interrupts but Bud doesn't hear her.

"Then you couldn't get pregnant, I stopped winning bids, you have been
supporting us… I have been feeling like I failed you." Bud's voice quivers
as he continues speaking. "And everytime I thought about making love to
you, I would start thinking about how good everything was in the beginning.
Back when we were living on love, putting away every dime, writing each
deposit in the savings books together then tearing off each other's clothes,
making mad passionate love. Then, afterwards, we would talk about the

Bud sits back in his chair and buries his face in his hands. "Every night I
would look at you, think of all that, and know that I have failed you."

Kneeling beside her husband, Wendy pulls his face into her hands. "You didn
't fail me," she whispers fervently. "You have been everything to me."

"Who is Ron Woods?"

"He is an attorney."

"Why are you seeing an attorney?"

"Because I thought you were having an affair," Wendy looks ashamed, "because
I was angry that you would be making love to her but not to me."

"There has never been anyone else, Wendy," now it is Bud's turn to hold her
face in his hands, "you were my first, last, and only lover… the only one I
have ever wanted."

"What are we going to do?" Wendy looks at her husband, her eyes silently
begging him to make it all right again.

"I don't know," Bud kisses his wife on the forehead, "but at least we are
past step one."

"Step one?"

"Dora's step one: Admitting to having a problem."

"So what is step two?"

Bud laughs, "I don't know, it took me nearly four weeks to get through step

"Tell me something," Wendy asks, a lone teardrop rolling down her cheek.


"Right now, right at this moment… do you want to make love to me?"

"In my heart and in my mind, I always want to make love to you, baby," Bud
responds, his hand caressing her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear,
"but the body…."

"Then maybe we should find our own step two." Wendy takes Bud's hand in
hers and pulls him to his feet. She leads him to the bedroom.

Taking off all of her clothes, Wendy then undresses her husband. She kisses
his chest, his nipples… feels his body tense and shiver in anticipation but
sees that his penis isn't responding.

She contemplates the situation then goes to her closet. Drawing a box from
a shelf, she starts pulling out her collection of silk and chiffon scarves.
Grabbing a hand full of them, she gives them to Bud then kneels before him –
her hands held over her head as if in subservient prayer.

Bud isn't sure what to do. This is something they had never even talked
about before, but the idea intrigues him. He takes a paisley silk scarf and
ties Wendy's wrists together. Using the ends, he pulls his wife to her
feet, picks her up and lays her on the bed. He ties the ends of the paisley
to the headboard, watching as Wendy's breasts stretch across her flawless
chest. Hungrily, he bends to pay homage to the perfectly pink peaks with
his mouth. Wendy's moans of pleasure spur him on, pushing him to take more
and more of her soft flesh between his lips.

His hand moves down to her round bottom, squeezing it once before stroking
his way down her thigh. He tickles the tender spot behind her knee and she
writhes from the attention. Suddenly he realizes that he is making love to
his wife. Maybe not in the conventional way, but loving her nonetheless.
Mentally Bud maps out all of her sensitive spots, seeking them all and
deriving infinite pleasure from her vocal and physical responses.

Bud works his way to her clitoris and throws his body across Wendy's as she
wildly bucks off the bed. Working his fingers deeper into her pubic hair,
Bud dips one finger into her vagina. Once, twice, he plunges that digit
into her warm wetness then pulls it out. Carefully, he paints her breasts
with her juices, then pushes his finger back into her body.

Finger fucking his wife, Bud licks her breasts clean. He presses his thumb
against her clit while sucking her rigid nipples. The result is
predictable, but still it amazes him with its force as Wendy screams and
sobs her way through the orgasm. And he watches, mesmerized by a sight that
an hour ago he never thought he would ever, could ever, have elicited again.

He watches her heaving body float back to reality and Bud braves the desire
to hold her in his arms. Wrapping his warm body around hers, Bud unties the
paisley scarf and feels Wendy wrap herself around him.

Looking at the clock, Bud sees that it is 3:22 AM. Their bodies still
entangled; Bud looks down at his sleeping wife. He is still impotent, but
no longer does he feel like a failure. He had made love to his wife.
Was It Good For You? © 2001-2002 by Tavie. All Rights Reserved. Do not reproduce or distribute without the expressed written consent of the author. Poems used here are printed by permission of the author.
About The Author:
In her mid thirties and youngest of eight children, Tavie writes short stories and poetry when the mood, or the muse, strikes. The rest of her time is spent in a traveling photo studio taking pictures of children, families, lovers, and friends. It is a great job for someone who enjoys dealing with people.
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