When I quit smoking eight months ago, my health conscious wife was elated, for she had been after me for years to kick “that filthy habit.” Her joy lasted seven weeks about the time it took her to realize that I was eating for two. “We’re going to have to do something about that,” she said firmly, poking a finger in my stomach. “I’ve got to teach you how to eat all over again. And I’m going to work up a daily exercise program for you. We’ll make a new man out of you.”
Robin approached my makeover with frightening zealousness. I was determined, however, to resist eating the grass, seaweed, straw and whatever else in the way of nutritious “food” I knew she would be serving me from then on. I had yet to see a health food restaurant patron who didn’t look like death warmed over, and I saw no reason to have great insides if on the outside you seemed this close to cashing in. I had always been a meat and potatoes man, and that’s how I intended to stay.
As for exercise, I didn’t think it necessary. True, I had put on a few pounds well, twenty, to be exact but to hear Robin tell it, you’d think I was turning into a blimp. So I was a bit overweight most men my age carried around a little extra baggage. It was no big deal.
The only thing that made sense to me was Robin’s insistence on a checkup. It had been years since I’d last seen a doctor, and I figured that now, at the age of forty, it wouldn’t hurt to get a complete physical. Was I ever thrilled when the good doctor checked me over and pronounced me fit as a fiddle. I couldn’t wait to lay this delicious news on my wife.
Robin’s reaction was to suggest that I seek a second opinion, having immediately concluded that my doctor was incompetent. I rejected the idea of a second opinion. “I feel great,” I said, giving my chest a thump. “In fact, I think I’ll celebrate the good news with a piece of chocolate cake.”
“Go ahead, Tubby,” my wife said. “Just don’t expect a piece tonight.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Simple. No diet and exercise, no sex. The next time we do it will be when you’ve lost twenty pounds. So you have a choice me or chocolate cake.”
I knew Robin was serious and I also knew she would stick to her guns, no matter how horny she got. Resignedly I put myself in my wife’s hands. You can do it, I told myself. You quit smoking, and that was pure hell. Nothing could be worse than nicotine withdrawal.
Well, the first week was sheer torture. Gone were the fat stick bun and coffee with cream I looked forward to each morning. They were replaced by half a grapefruit, a fiber rich cereal, dry toast and skim milk. “This is awful,” I moaned. “This is nutritious,” my wife countered.
And then there was the early morning run, requiring me to get up a half hour earlier to torture my legs and lungs. Robin was out the door and down the block before I could stagger down the front steps. The first few days I did all I could do to make it to the corner before wrapping myself around a lamppost, gasping for air as I envisioned myself being raced to Emergency in my snazzy new jogging suit.
Despite Robin’s daily lecture on willpower, I could have cheated during the day. And in the beginning I did, a little. At work, alone in my office, I would attack a dish of lasagna with fiendish delight, chomping on Italian bread loaded with butter and washing it all down with a soft drink. And sometimes, in the late afternoon, to brace myself for another low calorie, low cholesterol, low taste meal that night, I’d run down to the coffee shop in the lobby and buy the biggest piece of pastry I could find.
But for the most part I behaved myself, simply because I was loathe to torture myself for nothing. If I was going to have to get up earlier every day and jog, if I was going to have to spend my every waking hour with a growling stomach, I damn well wanted to see some results.
Ten days into this get in shape regimen, I came home from work to find one of those home exercise contraptions in the bedroom. It was a gift from my wife: her way of rewarding me for my progress so far. I approached the machine warily, as one might alien beings, and listened half heartedly as Robin pointed out all its features. It seemed the damn thing did everything but walk the dog.
Now I was jogging or working out in the morning while staying true to my diet, and darn if after only four weeks I didn’t start to feel really good. I actually looked forward to starting each day with an invigorating run or forty minutes on the exercise machine. Even the carefully measured portions of low calorie food I was eating were beginning to taste good!
The biggest plus of all was my increased libido. Not having had sex for a month contributed to my horniness, of course, but there was more to it than that. A general feeling of well being translated into a heightened awareness of sex, and I started viewing my wife not merely as the woman who had shared my bed for the past fourteen years, but as an incredibly desirable female. I lusted after her as I had years ago, my cock stiffening immediately as I followed the fluid bounce of her tight ass in her jogging shorts or took in her glistening body after a session on the exercise machine.
Then came the memorable night that I stepped on the bathroom scale, a mighty bulge in my briefs, as usual. Peering down at the scale, my wife exclaimed, “You did it, Frank! I knew you could!” I stepped off the scale and she threw her arms around me, grinding against my bulge as we kissed passionately. With me in hot pursuit, Robin dashed for the bedroom.
Stripping out of her sweat suit, she told me how horny she was, how she had started to think her no weight loss no sex ultimatum, how happy she was that we could now fuck. Her lust thickened voice was proof that she had suffered as much as I had these past five weeks. As I skinned my briefs, Robin threw herself onto the bed.
“Fuck me, darling,” she begged. “Stick it in me and fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before.”
I mounted my wife with an animal like fury, burying my aching cock balls deep in the heavenly cove of her pussy. Four quick thrusts and I was coming, depositing what felt like a half pint of semen in her bank of love. My cock remained hard, however, and I continued thrusting into my wife, who moaned joyously at the force and depth of my thrusts.
Robin came, her fingernails digging into my back as she cried out with pleasure. But she wanted more and in a breathless voice told me to go into her from behind. I pulled out and she quickly rolled over and placed herself in a low crouch, head down and bottom up. Seconds later we were coupling again, my cock driving deep into her pussy and wrenching a groan of delight from her throat.
Robin came twice more before I sent a second load of semen gushing into her heavenly hole. Breathing heavily, I collapsed on top of her, my weight forcing her flat on the bed. We stayed like that until our breathing returned to normal, then separated and rolled over onto our backs. But we weren’t through yet.
Soon enough Robin was on her knees and sucking me hungrily. She licked and sucked with the enthusiasm of a young bride combined with the expertise of an experienced woman, and in no time I was hard again. This time she mounted me, a shout of triumph accompanying the slide down my fleshy pole. With her face flushed and her tits jiggling crazily, she bounced up and down, again and again impaling her pussy on my cock. She came twice, and as the second orgasm coursed through her and her face contorted with pleasure, I shot another load of semen into her drenched pussy.
Amazingly, twenty minutes later I was ready to go again, thanks to another wicked blowjob from my wife. Then, with Robin flat on her back, I straddled her chest, placing my cock in the smooth, warm valley between her lovely breasts. As she held them together for me, I fucked her tits until, at her urging, I came all over her beautiful face. Lifting myself off her chest, I moved up over her face so she could lick and suck my cock clean. Only when my cock was limp did I roll over onto my back. Now, finally, I was too exhausted even to speak.
It was without a doubt our most spectacular night of fucking in all our married life. Not even on our honeymoon had our lust for each other been so ferocious, so all consuming. And it wasn’t simply because we had done without sex for over a month. The jogging, the diet, the daily sessions on the exercising machine had raised my energy level several notches and given me much greater stamina. I felt sexier than I had in years, and this, I was sure, had contributed not a little to my wife’s wildly enthusiastic response to me.
The next day, Saturday, my wife served me breakfast in bed. As she slipped into bed next to me, her first words were, “God, I think I’ve created a monster. You were unbelievable last night.”
“But that was last night,” I said, grinning. “You know I’ve always enjoyed sex in the morning.”
“You’re kidding,” Robin said, her eyes wide. She reached under the blanket and her fingers curled around my erection. “God, I don’t believe it! What have I done?”
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Seems I read somewhere that sex is pretty good exercise too.”
My wife chuckled. “Maybe what we’ll do then, is run every other morning.”
Mr. F.K., Massachusetts