My wife, goddess and mad

At last I took courage, and to the sound of Verdi's La Traviatra write this account. Meanwhile busy Epitácio Pessoa Avenue never sleeps. Perhaps that was the price one paid for living in such an acclaimed wonderful city. With my office window closed, I do not hear the twinkling lights flashing around Rodrigo de Freitas lagoon; still the muffled noise of traffic disturbs my favourite Opera and the quietness at midnight. Classical music relaxes me. Yet my goddess from Entrita on the patterned sofa is sleeping a loose slumber.
Without her panties, she wears the white and buttoned sweater that she wore for my first birthday this year after going out to celebrate in a modest restaurant outside of Rio de Janeiro. It was the most audacious congratulations I'd ever received in my life. I remember it well as being quite cozy and very rustic. We sat across from each other at a small table with Fabiana on one side facing the wall, our backs turned towards the window. At the end of dinner, she was ready to leave; Fabiana without leaving the table ripped her panties off just as the waiter was about to pour us more wine. I don't know how he did it but with his underpants in hand, he buried his private part inside a glass of wine and left me and the waitress utterly stunned at seeing white laundry within a glass. The paralyzed waiter looked at me hesitantly, but with an imbecilic smile, Fabian politely demanded that the boy fill up the cup with wine. And then with the cup full, and as the waiter walked away from us he handed me a birthday card which was both indecent and creative but also funny to see the bottle's throat shaking in the mouth of the glass.
In one gulp, I literally drank my wife. On the way out with her wet lace panties squeezed in my hand, the waiter accompanied us to the door hiding in his gentle smile the shyness of my wife's courageous attitude; but before he opened it for us he heard from that bastard's mouth that I was your man and on a special day you deserve special things too: she is ruthless, unpredictable; besides impulsive, totally insane.
The shrill, high-pitched sound of a siren rips the avenue from one corner to another. It wakes me up in a time travel where Fabiana and I were spiced with desires to end that night after we left the restaurant. The sound of the siren seems to evaporate into air as it moves away, but did not awaken Fabian from her deep sleep who only moved on the couch. But determined to recount in detail one of the casual moments from our sex life that still haunts me today, my mind returns to time express and my fingers on laptops keyboards scribble down exactly what my thoughts are telling him about winter 2004 at a bucolic town called Conservatória in interior Rio de Janeiro state.
It's a small town with about 4000 inhabitants. A city that has stood the test of time, its architecture sparkling and quite detailed from the early nineteenth century; a very peculiarly hospitable people who have music names affixed to their doorsteps as they greet each other; it is a journey back into imperial times; a trip to golden years while troubadours on guitars and dozens of sergeant-major sings nostalgia crawling through cobblestone streets; by houseboats and at night inside.
In this journey through time, I slowly tasted a wine sitting at the table in front of a well-known bar located on the main street of the city. With a very similar voice and singing Cabocla, a singer reminds me of Nelson Gonçalves. Even though it was winter, and by suggestion from friends we wore quite cold clothes; but it wasn't what it looked like, the sky was clear and the moon flapped its silver halo over the warm night.
With medium height, black hair down to the middle of her back and brown eyes, my Fabiana, a competent geriatrician, is sitting beside me with her head hanging on my shoulder while I wrap my arm around her bare shoulder. She wears the jeans skirt that I gave her as a gift during one of our trips north-east because it's too short; she would never wear it except in our most intimate moments where she is personal depravity.
I confess that today, I am irrational and dangerously in love; why not say totally dependent on my wife's affection, presence, opinions and strepolia. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like without Fabiana present, and how a man wounded by his first marriage could end up falling hopelessly for another woman who suddenly reappears in my life as part of an unspoken group of friends and personality and my entire life. I'd thought, never falling in love with anyone again after the seismic shake-up that had struck me where it shattered my solid foundations of personality and turned me into a cold, macho man who was totally insecure about any new relationship. Or who knows, the affectionate greetings on my way home from work, the hugs for no reason, the heated romantic or obscene messages left in my briefcase or cell phone's mailbox, the deliberate knocks down our apartment corridor; or maybe it was her leaving the comfort of our bedroom to lie on an uncomfortable printed couch and wait until I took her into bed with me - something she has always enjoyed since we moved in together ten years ago. Perhaps it was these gestures proving his love for me, and certainly those attitudes that had captivated me, wrapped me in such a way I ended up prostrating myself at the feet of a goddess who taught me to say to her: "I love you".
Everything about her moves me, especially when we have sex. I am completely stunned to see how a cultured lady, very intelligent; educated in a rigid family and the best schools of Rio de Janeiro turns into an ill-mannered whore, an impudent slut obscene on a bed How can a woman sensitive to other people's problems divided between office work, household chores and our five year old son still find time for not only giving herself away to orphanages, day care centers but also turning into an indecent woman without scruples when she is objectified by harassing me? Today, for example, without my knowing it she broke into my office at the firm and sat quietly in front of my desk while I internally caught myself with her masturbating open-legged on my cluttered work table. The fright was great but the excitement intense or seeing my wife all want to touch herself moaning and writhing in a wooden chair with eyes glued to mine. She said that she would accompany me home. But that night, conservatory brought something magical in the air; Something was ready to happen at any moment.
Right in front of us, almost halfway between the rows of tables set outside the bar on an awning taken over by time, a middle-aged man sips his beer quietly but watches. He tries, but his attitudes and the clumsy way he looks at Fabiana betray him. At that moment a tall woman with white cuties, inside jeans, smooth red hair comes out from the bar; she cuts across this gentleman's forehead and walks towards a lonely boy sitting at the last table in the row we are standing at. In such a cheerful atmosphere, the young man turns to face her melancholy appearance. The woman's tight trousers do not delineate a round waist, nor a very slender body, but the white sleeveless blouse traces well-developed breasts. Approaching the boy she does not sit down at table next to him, only comments something in her ear and moves away with long steps towards a gray Astra on the other side of the street where someone is waiting for her; yet even in all haste, and because of the high heels that she wears, she must restrain her footsteps against the gravel stones. Inside the car, the woman walks away toward the chapel at the entrance to town disappearing into the curb of the road, but this is unnoticed by the young man. Abandoned and alone, he seems to be even more embittered trying to hold back a tear of disappointment. He then pays the bill and walks out on his head slouching slowly with hands in pockets towards the end of the street. Fabiana, without stopping from observing her furtive gazes, comments what we witnessed.
Invited to dance, and led by Fabiana, I enter the bar indifferent to the abused starved gazes of a middle-aged gentleman. With our bodies glued together in rhythm with music we dragged our feet on the hardwood floor; and even though having to divide up space with musical instruments and being interrupted at every moment by the waiter from attending tables that surround the small area, I still have to submit myself to the sinister insistent looks of this fellow upon my wife. But then again I will not take away his reason. Fabiana was delightful, sexy inside the skirt she said she would never wear outside our walls. The printed blouse clutched at her arms did not cover her shoulders but almost completely concealed the lap of her breasts. In my opinion I didn't notice anything vulgar for a woman in her 40s. Amidst the music, she kisses me on the face and asks that I order another juice, which is waiting for her at the table because she will go to the toilet and return immediately afterwards.
While Fabiana was away, I observed an interesting human behavior in myself. Do all people behave like a powerful whole when something of their own attracts someone's attention? On the one hand, I felt completely flattered to possess something that another person at that moment seemed to be craving; but in my case, I also sensed the insecurity of jealous pincers upon seeing Fabianna returning with her hair loose in the wind on a pair of high-heeled sandals. The ring earrings under her hair gleamed in the night glow. It was a wonderful night, and surely nothing could dissuade me even the intransigence of an ill-mannered man.
Fabiana sits next to me, puts her hand in my shirt pocket and then swallows the juice that was already waiting for her. As she kisses my lips, she grabs hold of my hand and places it on her bare thighs. But the man is even more restless when he notices Fabian opening up her legs and pushing my fingers inside my thighs so that my toes slip over his pubic hair; she had taken off her panties. Then, to my surprise, I could understand that what was in my pocket wasn't her lipstick as she used to wear it but rather a red and lacy thong which I saw her wearing from the mirror of her hotel room - another unexpected gesture. The eyes of the crown on witnessing such an occurrence burst out like mine when one afternoon at our apartment I was quietly talking on the phone with my brother when I was interrupted by Fabiana's terrified cries for me to go immediately into the kitchen. I dropped the phone with my brother on the line and stormed out into the hallway, something unexpected was happening to Fabiana. In a brief moment of time as I ran to rescue my wife, I saw her clothes strewn across the corridor floor. The worst had happened in my head; until when I reached the kitchen I found that whore's daughter completely naked at the center of the kitchen spreading honey all over his body. When he noticed my eyes fluttering with the fright that had taken me by surprise, like a little girl carried away, he looked right into mine and said to lick it just before the ants did. My intention was to beat Fabiana dead but instead I got in the mood of playfulness. At last there were honey marks, condensed milk and strawberry broth all over every corner you could look at. But this time, before Fabian went to the toilet her lips didn't shine out tracing an imbecilic smile nor her eyes scream whining flashes of desire and pleasure. That was the signal I had learned to recognize in Fabiana when she articulated something unexpected and spectacularly unpredictable.
We left that environment leaving perhaps the crown as excited as I was after being suggested to find a place where we could be more at ease, and I remember well that it was possible to count stars -- not because they were few but because the reflection of the full moon in clear skies kept us from losing count.
With Fabiana clutching my arm, I enter a street where there is a large concentration of people. We stop to listen to an enthusiastic man singing in verse The Locomotive 206; A landmark of the city: An American Maria Smokey from 1910, retired and parked full of dust and rust near the old railway station of Rede Mineira de Viação; which was inaugurated by D. Pedro II in 1883, today it has been transformed into Rodoviária .
Our car is parked in the Plaza del Chafariz, a little far from where we were. The night was still young and whatever my wife's mind had on it surely was ready to explode; nevertheless, embracing her behind me I decided to stay right there to participate and hear the serenade that began.
Remembered in each stanza and on every plaque affixed to street corners and doorways, the poetic anthology was etched into minds and sung from the saluting mouths of lumberjacks. In a rhythm orchestrated by the pitch of music Fabiana would jerk her ass against my penis. As I followed the lumberjack's procession with my body glued behind that of Fabianna, she disguised her hands inside my trousers, gripping and willingly squeezing the rigid body of my already drooling and bursting with desire. Fabiana calls my attention to show who was following us a few meters from our side and once again we leave you alone, crawling through the streets illuminated by poles and chords of temporary musicality.
Embracing each other, we traveled back the entire distance travelled by the forest. The silver rays of the moon blended with artificial yellow lights on the poles. A fresh breeze blew over our bodies as we enjoyed a romantic 1950's atmosphere. It was fascinating to see the facades of houses and streets in full bloom. Everywhere you look there is an air of preservation. We entered the same street from which the forest started. At its end stands a statue honouring master José Borges who according to the plaque at his feet composed "Rua das Flores" (Flower Street) music that has become the anthem for the trees. Walking in search of our car, we came out on another street parallel to the one where we were while following a procession of lumberjacks. The high heel of Fabiana's sandal hits the pavement cement. They are weak strokes with a slow rhythm but totally synchronized by chords and refrains from the lumberjack who, on the other road parallel to ours, recall Cartola singing "Bate Otra Vez".
Passing by the Museum of Wood and Serenade, I have a desire to possess my wife right there; but surely I would have to restrain myself because it won't be long before woodcutters are about to enter our street. Yet in an impulse I push Fabiana towards the gates of a mini-Shopping Mall, lean her against the iron grill and kiss her mouth as if entering into hers. Our tongues embrace like passionate snakes, like gladiators in body combat. The creaking sound of our kisses sounds like burning woods or coals. Fabiana's delicate arms around my waist drag me toward her warm body. My hands seek to explore, even for a brief moment, that whole drowned in desire and pleasure. My knee between her open legs, the wet furry vulva, the moans, whispers, and fear of someone's inconvenient arrival take me into an utterly exhilarating mood steeped in dread or ecstasy.
The solemn march of the lumberjacks is drawing near, and I long to climb with Fabiana. Meanwhile, like a wet frog, she slips from my arms and walks out before me; perhaps her rational instincts had overcome my enthusiasm. In a disorderly manner, as if calling me to pick up what she said was mine alone, Fabiana lifts her skirt; pulls and strokes the brunette ass that bathes in moonlight; but seconds before behaving like the modest woman, the restrained housewife, the devoted and affectionate mother, the first violin players appear at the corner of the street singing "Risk", by Ari Barroso. He follows in the footsteps of that bitch as if she were a model on a catwalk; and doesn't even care about my presence who follows her disguising my desire with his left hand tucked into his pocket.
In the car, I gently open the door for her to come in but the slut insists on sitting down all decomposed with a dress that has risen outrageously revealing its furry vulva inflated by pleasure.
The evening is at an end, the crowd begins to disperse. The moon on its peak suggests that a quiet dawn has already taken over from the hectic night. Mr. Voyeur in front of the mall watches us as we make our way towards the city entrance.
I continue to the hotel where we are staying; but at the entrance of the crying tunnel, I am persuaded to return. I turn around and aimlessly follow the sign pointing towards Santa Isabel. Fabiana doesn't mind showing the hidden bottle in the dark interior of her car as she tears off her sandal while trying to steer it through the narrow street of the sleepy city. Without a bra, her breasts appear more enlarged within the patterned and welded blouse, but do not show her stiff nipples. The loose and embarrassed hair hides the golden earring which, perhaps in the flash of pole lights, might shine when under them. Her feet play on my lap but it's not uncomfortable to feel him over my erection; nor do they themselves, maybe enviously feeling that same foot force my face to pay attention to this display rather than a dirty locomotive rusty and abandoned by time. Subjugated by those attitudes I behold her sucking her fingers with incomparable pleasure after having buried him in her vulva.
We drop off at the sidewalk, and we enter a dirt road. The city lights go out in front of us. Fabiana on four seats opens my sleeve. Her hand slips into my pants, but I feel my fingers slip inside her melatonin vulva, meanwhile I already imagined his desire when I facilitate the entrance to your head between the steering wheel and my belly. On the deserted street turn off the light from the lampstand and leave only lampposts access. This night is really wonderful, and everywhere you look there's diffuse moonlight. Now I can lose count of the stars while a woman, clutching my dick in great frenzy, exhibits the art of fellatio. I know it's an awkward position to be on all fours in that fluffy car seat, but it was delicious watching her like this as she tried to balance herself through the tightest curves and yet still trying to hold onto you as I finger your swollen clitoris. Yet my penis is big, and the effort not to enjoy myself into that pussy's mouth is enormous. But suddenly my vision is blocked by the body of Fabiana who, in any case, tries to fit her legs around my waist and eat me right there.
It's complicated and at the same time dangerous to drive a car on winding, bumpy roads while an irresponsible woman sitting across from me deliriously kisses me, almost blinding me completely without being aware of danger. I feel her tearful vulva groping my horny penis ready to surrender to the urges of a smoky bouquet. I try to keep pace with speed by putting my foot on the accelerator pedal while camouflaged by dawn our car is like the voyage of a transatlantic that rips through ocean waters at cruise speeds.
But in such a compact and claustrophobic environment, what had been whispers and groans now echoed with screams, howls and words disconnected from each other, unintelligible, laden with obscenities. What was sluggish and loose is now restless, out of control and impetuous; what once weighed down by self-control has now become dominated and infected by the malice of an aiming woman.
She clutches me in her arms, and begs with a gasping voice that I enjoy myself inside of her, to pour out the accumulated sperm within herself. With libidos and instincts manipulated by her mischievous and playful way of being; and enjoying the danger of an empty dark road, yielding to her calls spilling all my thirst, all my carnal desire and all my love into the pudgy whore. Clinging on to her arms while our screams, drowned out by one long kisses gulp, turns into one long groan. When I can catch my breath, I howl like a horny wolf on the hill trying to find his darling female. She loves it.
We're at the height of sexual arousal. At that moment when everything is a complete delusion, and minds become empty as our bodies soar like feathers tossed in the wind; we are at that point where muscles contract to paralyze movement, and attention converges only on ego-pleasuring and bodily gratification; but my foot slips and gets caught between the brake pedal and accelerator; I try to get it off quickly, but Fabiana clutches me by the neck, enjoying herself hallucinatingly seated on my thighs without realizing what's really happening. The car begins to jerk and slam, as it is at a speed of less than the third gear; It seems until we are sitting on an angry ox in a rodeo. Fabiana realizes what's happening and tries to get out of my lap quickly, but her right leg gets caught between the seat and the door so she has to stay coupled with me till I can control the vehicle. But the bumps continued when fabiana relieves weight from my thighs by making my foot fall off. My body is thrown against that of Fabiana pressed to the steering wheel. The car stops immediately clogged, my God knows whereabouts. But something stuck in the bottom of the vehicle. But this unexpected contradicted will and overcame desire; humbled courage and exalted feeling while stirring fear.
The light from the headlight is directed toward a mountain, but as we struggle to get out of our vehicle the door crawls into the dirt. We are near a masonry bridge shadowed by a large arch bridge - perhaps the same one that the hotel receptionist told us was built between 1877 and 1883, inaugurated in 1884 by the emperor at the time. Built with limestone stone and whale oil, this monument looked like beautiful 19th-century architecture; yet the moon's shadow prevented us from witnessing its stones stacked together, just as the Incas did in Machu Picchu, Peru.
The dust from the tires slowly dissipated, mingled with the ephemeral moonlight. Fabiana threw her hair backward against the parapet of the little bridge; it looked fine but I insisted on approaching, but for safety's sake I insist that she stay right there until I understand what really happened.
My son had certainly never seen a firefly play hide and seek in the silver night; however, behind the grating of crickets and the cackling of some frogs chirping away there was an uncomfortable silence at that place. According to the receptionist, it wasn't very haunted. He told us a crazy story about some hapless villagers who lived near the bridge and killed Turks selling their wares by knocking on doors; but perhaps this could be another inner-city legend to add to its history. But the place was hypnotic, and there was an unusual peace here that differed greatly from the sleepy stillness of early mornings in other interior towns we have had the pleasure to visit.
I got into the car again, started up and swerved backwards. The engine was pushed by stepping hard on the throttle but there was only noise and dust; something held the Vectra underneath as it didn't move at all, just its wheels skating around. However, the hum of the discharge, very different from what it was, disturbed the silence and certainly frightened the night-time residents except for the horse that still continued to eat his meal.
But I knew my wife, she was feeling guilty for what happened after all it had been more than ten years of relationship; with this even in the darkness we learned to read our feelings and understand each other's attitudes. I approached her and almost broke her in half hugging her by the bridge sill; but she smiled calling me a fool when returning my embrace I said that Saint Peter would not understand anything if we appeared at heaven's door with my pin buried therein. Surely it would be an act out of the ordinary in paradise, and certainly we'd have been sent to burn on the marbles of hell. For a few minutes we stood there embracing that bridge's shadow, not knowing what to do. We didn't know what was really holding up the car like that; neither did our cell phone work at that place. Our idea was to walk back into town and ask for help from the hotel.
Fabiana was like this, always innovating. She said that the core of her excitement lay in seeing me wired up and excited at times when it's complicated and difficult to expose myself; she often left me with nowhere to go, totally inactive as I discreetly created a new situation for our friends just so they could enjoy my hard-on. How many times, inside the city, in the heavy and boring flow of Rio de Janeiro's city, that bitch ran to the back seat of her car; or masturbated herself, or used, in a licentious way, the vibrator she had bought at a sex shop which she entered out of curiosity; but I also had my moments up.
One weekend Fabiana was invited to attend a geriatric conference in Salvador, and she asked me if I would accompany her. At the closing cocktail party of the event we were standing up talking with a group of doctors. Leaning against a panel on the ledge of the auditorium wall she wore an airy dress just above the knee. The conversation flowed animatedly until one couple joined us. The good-looking, well-dressed gentleman was always talking with his arm outstretched and a gold watch in front of him; nothing humble about it. His snobby wife showed herself to be full of silly racist prejudices. She kept going on about the trip she had made to Egypt. It wasn't anything Egyptian, but she wanted to play that damn tour; while her husband only talked about how much money he had spent building a house at Penedo in downtown Rio de Janeiro. Rich, materialistic people with small heads and hearts.
Everyone was looking for a subtle way to get rid of the couple's Petulance, but they insisted on staying there even though I could see dissatisfaction in everyone's face. That is when I discreetly grabbed Fabiana's ass as if to tell her: "Since you won't let us out now we will hang them". I saw the hidden amazement on Lady Cleopatra's countenance when she realized what I had done. It was my joy at seeing that, so I groped it again only this time I kept smoothing my wife's butt over the viscous tissue. Then, noticing that her eyes always escaped to what was going on, I went further; behind Fabiana's back, I put my hand inside her dress pulling the panties aside. Fabian threw a disguised look at me as if saying: "Do not mess with who is still". Intelligent and clever as she was, she understood that whatever was about to happen would be for a good cause. Then we looked at Madame Cleopatra with a sly smile and, believe it or not, her eyes almost went out of their sockets as she gazed upon Fabiana sticking up her ass. And when Madam Cleopetra saw that my finger was being buried in the delicate tail of my accomplice's cock... Poor man, not understanding the reason for his wife's attitude and without finishing saying how much he was going to spend on her natural swimming pool at Penedo's house, followed while she completed her repudiation by stating that there is no place for them. They all looked at each other with questioning faces. Later away from everyone my Fabiana asked me why I hadn't thought of it before.
In our house in Búzios, we used to have a barbecue for relatives and friends who came to spend the weekend with us. I was playing snooker and enjoying some excellent Portuguese wine with my brother and father-in-law. From the game room I saw Fabiana leaning out of the window talking animatedly to a bunch of women sunbathing by the pool. Suddenly I wanted her right there at that spot just as she was. Excited about this idea, I passed the baton over to my brother saying he had to solve one little problem. She didn't understand my intention when she smiled at me as I followed her into the room, but was frightened when I sat down on the floor and buried my hands between her legs. She tried to run away, but her feet were caught in mine so that she had to lean back out of the window again. With one swipe I pulled up her panties by opening them open, and with a bold gesture began slowly burying her underwear inside this donkey's mouthpiece.
It was absorbed into the middle of those legs that I saw those vaginal lips swallowing up completely, the little black piece of lace. I'd like to see the look on his face in a situation such as this where he has to pay attention to every person at the pool, be attentive to anyone approaching and above all quietly vent out his horny delirium while my tongue explores each corner of that genital canal. My index finger goes back and forth from her anus. My eyes burn with the molasses of that bottle. His restless legs squeeze my face almost suffocating me when she sucks his big lips. It was wonderful to see that stuffed bottle contracting the vaginal muscles while my tongue meandered over her swollen clitoris; and as my teeth ripped out the soaked panties from inside this now inflated cocktail of horny.