Marriage sex isn't what I expected.

For starters the thought hadn't crossed my mind. The thought of a husband grabbing his wife in the garden and pulling down her yoga pants and panties in one snatch exposing her feminine ass to the cool morning air of their backyard while kissing her deeply on the neck while pressing the blue-jeaned impression of his already throbbing cock against her now naked thick wifely thigh while he moves his fingers low in a v to the gap between her thighs, massaging her exposed labia, her pussy already heating up, so unexpected that her reluctance melts into a sheen of fluid seeping between her swelling pussy lips, getting them ready for entry while meeting his encroaching fingers with dripping wet warm pussy kisses, blushing all the while at knowing he knows he has you right where he wants you, and that your wetness, hard nipples, and roused clit is telling him you need to be fucked, knowing in your big tits that it will embolden him and he will continue heating you up until you are gushing wet and then he will fuck you wherever he wants you.

He whispers something in your ear. Something like you're wet. You've been wanted this haven''t you. I mean. . . I was just watering the plants outside, my body hugged in my leggings, my nipples slightly erect in the cool morning air. I wasn't planning this — oh, god! He grabs the green water jug from my hands and throws it to the ground. "Get on your hands and knees." My cheeks grow flush, I'm shocked, surprised, annoyed, and I watch the water pour out of the jug into the soil, making it wet. I'm so turned on when he does this. The garden has to get watered but that will have to wait. He pushes me to the fertile soil of his yard — our yard — with my ass already chilled in goose bumps and my pussy plush and steaming and wet. I cock my hips so my pussy is higher and exposed to him, my mind reeling at the knowledge that I'm actually doing this, that my actions say quite clearly: mount me. I can smell my sweet fragrance meld with the fresh smell of grass and flowers. I feel the breeze over my wet pussy lips as they bulge expectantly together. At the center of my plump ass, between my thighs, there. I am blooming there and I can hear my husband unbutton and unzip his jeans and fish out his veiny monster for my sweet flower's next pollination. (They're frequent in our house.) In our short time together the sound of his unzipping pants has become pavlovian to my pussy. It washes all thought from my mind and I cock my hips higher. He slides his cock's throbbing thick head through my folds and I whimper. I have it wet in no time — I'm always so wet, I can't fathom it — another way of saying it is he makes me wet, and finding no resistance he dives right in to fucking me. My pussy lips spread as he applies pressure forward, wrapping around the head of his cock with a pop and then he slides deep into the warm inviting embrace of my pussy. My lips will stay spread and tight around him until he is done. Feeling that makes me embrace him. I do. I clutch him sweetly to meet him. A casual "hi, honey." His cock is deep. Hard and perfect. I imagine the head of his cock bulging just out of reach of my cervix.

Yes. Here we go. He wastes no time. He gets right to fucking me, which I like.

Marriage sex isn't what I expected.

Thomas likes it outside. And that's a problem because my parent's house is right next door. But he's so insistent to fuck me out here. I admit when I was studying for seminary in my upstairs bedroom in the house just next door, I could hear an occasional late night session in my room. It twisted me up inside. Having no facing windows all I could do was push my ear to the wall, touch myself reluctantly (a sin for a prospective priest in bible college) and pray she would be louder. Hearing her maddening crescendo and the pummeling he gave her, and finding it so curious, knowing a man should be sweet to his wife. I would be sweet to my fiance Annette, wouldn't I? She wouldn't want to be railed in a garden, so near to a thin wooden fence with gaps in the slats, would she? With Thomas it's all so casual. Without formality. Animalistic. Women like romance, don't they? I search the early manifestations of my burgeoning feminine nature and find no agreement.

It might be moot now, now that I'm squeezing and taking another man's cock in my eager tight pussy. Now that I'm a married woman. The great shift happened while we were at church. In a moment my soul was pulled from my body, pulled from the front row, and slammed a body on the other side of the aisle. I was confused by my sudden change in vantage point a few rows back. That is until I felt the strong hand rest on my thigh and a warm voice asked "are you okay, honey?"

The church is split on what conspired that day. Some think it's demon possession. Some think it's a social contageon — a madness that is better left to pastoral counseling or under the closest rug than to pay any attention to. I was struck at how Thomas's wife enthusiatically fell into the role of being my fiance's man. She faked being me. Women may indeed be historically deceptive. But I am among their ranks now. Their powers are mine.

Though in all the pleading and begging that fateful Sunday, before the pastor demanded everyone go home with their "proper partner", before I went home with Thomas, I could tell in my desperation my dad knew I was telling the truth. That the beautiful woman in front of him was his son. My mom however wouldn't hear any word of it. "Get the whore from next door away from me." It didn't help that I called her a dumb bitch and told her to listen.

Oh, god. This man can fuck.

Pardon my language.

Every Sunday at church my dad looks at me with concern and I look back knowingly. He knows it's me. Me in the dress. Me by Thomas's side quietly. When the pastor stood at the pulpit and said he heard rumors "proper partners with mistaken identies" were not participating in marriage relations and that they were all required to skip lunch out after church and go home and amend that, Thomas squeezed my thigh.

Oh great. . . I was studying to be part of the clergy but now I was going to get fucked after church.

The preacher yelled out "I want a baby boom in nine months!"

My dad turned to me in the pew with a look of concern. I looked at him and blushed. His gaze seemed to inquire if I was okay. I looked back trying to look reasonably concerned. I shuffled in my seat. The sermon was making my satin panties soak through. The words "baby boom" resonated in my clit on repeat. Oh, no, I was in such trouble. I searched trying to turn expectation into fear, without much success. I then tried to resolve the dissonance I was feeling inside — just like I had the nights before when I had told myself that as long as Thomas's wedding ring fit on my finger I could masturbate my pussy in the bath. The ring could made everything okay.

Thomas played with me through my wet panties during the ride home, driving as my thighs spread. "I know you're struggling Eric. But God wants you to be my wife." Oh fuck, it was the first time he acknowledged the truth. And it made my clit so plush, I moaned out loudly. He moved his fingers across my soaking wet camel toe and strafed my aroused clit. "It feels like you want to be my wife, too." Oh, God. Why is this happening? I needed something to hold on to and I couldn't grab the stick shift. I reached over and grabbed his throbbing cock through his dress pants. He pulsed it in my hand. I squeezed back. Clearly trying to reward good behavior, he wove his finger around my panties, pulled them to the side, and settled his finger into my folds. He bent it slightly and my pussy, so overly aroused, pulled it in.

By the time I got home the car seat was soaked and I was so lightheaded. When we walked in the door, with the tap of my heels, I strolled into the kitchen and bent over the table. I waited for him and he didn't say one word. He lifted my dress peeled my panties off grabbed my ass and spread it, his thumb so close to my tight puckering feminine asshole, and he guided himself in. My moans echoed in disbelief in the kitchen. Eventually it was too much and I orgasmed in gush around his thick cock. Holy fuck. My eyes searched the sky, thinking suddenly of my fiance Annette. Fuck, did she know it was that good? There was no way that was real. No orgasm had been that. Ever. As it washed away, I started fucking back. When Thomas came deep he lingered, his hard cock still inside of me, coming so much it burst through the tight seal of our sex and dripped to the kitchen floor between my heels forming a glistening pearly-white puddle. There was no use in fighting it anymore. When his cock finally softened he patted my ass and went to watch TV. And I, not knowing what to do with myself, changed into yoga pants and a t-shirt, straped on an apron, and baked cookies as his dripped out of me. I delivered a plate of hot ones to him in the living room. And then I unzipped his pants and went down on him, relishing at the taste of our earlier meeting on his cock and how good we tasted together.

The next Sunday my dad's eyes met mine with concern. I nodded, trying to look like someone who didn't go down on her husband in the shower before church. Someone with dry panties under her dress. Thomas saw him looking and put his arm around me. He turned back to the preacher. I sunk into Thomas's side. It felt good to be there.

The great shift was three weeks ago. It's Saturday and I want to be a little quiet because my dad might be having coffee on the porch next door. I know he can hear Thomas's thrusts but I'm keeping my whimpers in, though I know when I do that it always means my orgasm is twice as strong.

Oh fuck. Yes, fuck me Thomas. Every length of your cock that passes through my tight pussy gets me further from my old self. It makes me want to dote on you and bake cookies and go down on you. Oh fuck, I want to moan out. It's not like my dad isn't going to know. I saw the calendar on the fridge. My period is late. Thomas has been unloading inside of me. Besides I was a prospective priest, and ever priest knows birth control isn't allowed. There has to be nothing between us. Just my husband's thick cock and my pussy. The message rings in my ears "Be fruitful and multiply." I whimper. Knowing I'm pregnant. I'll be showing in my church dresses soon enough.

A moan softly pass through my lips, sounding in my garden. Thomas hits nicely, deep, and I moan again loudly. Oh, fuck. Yes!

"That''s right. Just like that." Thomas's cock perks up at my exclamation. His fingers twist around my shoulders in a firm grip and he pulls me back into his thrusts.

Fucking ride me, honey. Water my fucking garden with your come. I'll be so fertile for you.

. . .

Annette and my old form were married last week. Thomas and I weren't invited. I wish I could feel sad about that. But Thomas's cock his thickening up nicely, and I know what that means. He's close. And he's not holding back. It just makes me moan louder. I'm close, too.

"That's right! Come inside of me!"

Daddy, can you hear? Your daughter's hubby knows how to take her. He explodes and I let go in a rush of waves across my flesh, coming so hard, becoming, fully and completely, the whore from next door, til death do I part.