Authors: Ben Boswell
“We never made it to dinner.”
She seemed to enjoy my incredulity.
She continued. “We were suppose to me at Flanagan’s at six, but he was late. A little after six he texted me. He said he was running behind schedule. He invited me to his place for a drink while he got ready.”
“And you went?”
“Well, it was just around the corner. And I was already getting annoyed at turning down drinks while waiting for him.”
I nodded. The problem with looking like a Barbie Doll is that men are constantly hitting on Terri. I could see why she wouldn’t want to sit in a bar waiting.
“I got there, and he gave me a glass of wine. Said he was going to take a shower.”
I knew where this was going. Indeed, I already knew the outcome. And yet hearing Terri tell the story had me tied up in knots.
“He was gone for a few minutes. And then he came back out, wrapped in just a towel.”
Her eyes seemed unfocused as she lost herself in the story.
“He’s still in great shape,” she offered.
I could picture him. Handsome guy. Slim. Well-defined muscles. Wrapped in a towel. Still dripping from the shower.
“How did you react?” I asked, dry mouthed.
“I didn’t. I dunno, I was in shock I guess. Things were moving so fast.”
I nodded and she continued. “He leaned down and kissed me. Just a small peck on the lips. And then he said,
this is what you’re here for, right?
And I couldn’t answer. I just nodded, I guess.”
I groaned. She was saying so little, and yet so much. I filled in the details in my mind. His spacious, well-lit apartment. Terri on a stool before a marble topped counter. Her glass of white wine half-empty. Her lipstick marks on the rim.
“He leaned down and kissed me. More passionately this time. His tongue pressed into my mouth. I pushed him away. Kissing was somehow too intimate.”
I groaned again. I knew what was coming next. Kissing was too intimate. So instead...
“I pulled off his towel and stroked his cock. He got so hard, so fast, and I was like on autopilot. I leaned down and took him in my mouth.”
As she spoke, I continued to finger her pussy, feeling it getting wetter. Was that her? Him leaking out? I shuddered.
She laughed. “Are you okay?”
“I dunno,” I replied honestly.
She just watched me for a moment until I prompted her to continue, “So, you were sucking his cock...”
She grinned lewdly. “Mmmm. Yeah. And he had his hand in my hair, encouraging me to take him deeper.”
I grunted softly, shook my head. “I thought you were going to make him work for it. Instead, he gives you half a glass of wine and you’re blowing him.”
“I never said that I’d make him work for it. What I said was that he’d probably score if he was a gentleman.”
“Some gentleman. Late. No wooing. Just walks out in a towel.”
“Maybe, I’m easy.”
“With him you are.”
“You knew that when you sent me on a date with him.”
But she knew she had me. I was still playing with her pussy, still obsessively running my eyes over her body, taking in every potential sign of their lovemaking, fucking, whatever.
“Do you want to hear the rest of what happened?”
There was a part of me that wanted to say no. Just pull the plug on the whole damn thing. Pretend it never happened. But that part of me never had a chance.
“Yes,” I groaned urgently. “Tell me.”
“We decided to get more comfortable. We went into the bedroom. I let him untie my dress. Unwrap me like a present. Then we settled on the bed. Like old times. I got on my knees, my head in his lap and took him back in my mouth. He explored my body with his hands.”
I was breathing heavily now. My own eyes becoming unfocused with excitement.
“He’s rougher than you are. Always was. He was squeezing my ass, giving me little spanks. Pulling my hair. But mostly he was playing with my boobs, grasping them firmly, pinching my nipples, stretching them out.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“A little, I guess. The spanking, too. But it’s good as well. He follows it up with a gentle caress, you know, sort of pain then pleasure. And it’s the same with the sex. Very hard, very rough, until it’s almost too much, too intense, and I almost want to scream. And then he’ll stop, and as we’re both gasping for breath, he’ll go slow. Really slow. And it’s, well, soothing. And then it starts again.”
I felt sick. It sounded like he was better, much better than me in bed. Terri noticed my look and touched my cheek tenderly.
“It’s not better. Just different. Sex with you, I usually feel content, loved, cherished. With him I’m satisfied. Challenged. It almost feels like an accomplishment to take it, to keep up.”
“Did he make you come?”
She nodded. “Yes, the second time. Just once, though, in over an hour of actual sex. It took me a while to get comfortable. To get used to him again.”
She nodded. “Yeah, which is why I’m a little sore right now. You and me, we’re more efficient, aren’t we?” she said with a smile.
I didn’t know how to take it.
“So, now that it has happened, does this all still turn you on?”
She pulled open my bathrobe and took my hard cock in her hand, stroking it firmly, just as she’d done for Chucky only a little while earlier.
She smiled. “I guess it does. What part of it is most exciting? Is it just the idea of me going to him? Is it the fact that I’m such a slut with him? So easy? Does it turn you on to think of him stripping me? Running his hands all over my body? Or are you thinking about him fucking me? Me on my back, legs spread so wide, my hands pinned above by head by his strong grip as he pounds into me, over and over and over. Until I can barely catch my breath? Or are you picturing that moment, both of us sweaty, when he slows down and slides his prick inside me so slowly, so tenderly?”
“Oh fuck, all of it,” I groaned miserably, hating my self for being so turned on by her fucking another man, and yet unable to deny the reality of my obsession.
“You can fuck me if you want. If you go slow,” she offered gently...condescendingly?
I must have grimaced, because she quickly backed up. “I don’t...I don’t mean it that way. Like I’m giving you a gift.”
“It’s okay,” I replied. But it didn’t feel okay.
“It’s okay,” I repeated. Then, “Tell me more. About him. About you and him.”
“Are you sure?”
“He asked me about you. Asked if you knew.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him you did. That it was sort of your idea.”
I groaned. The humiliation was like a red hot poker to my side. But it was also weirdly exciting, an excitement she stoked effectively by squeezing hard on my cock as she pumped her fist up and down.
She grinned at my reaction. “He said he felt like that meant he had to do a good job.”
A good job fucking my wife. I groaned again. “Did he?”
“Mmmm, yeah. I enjoyed myself.”
“Would you do it again?” I said without calculation. The reality was that I was operating without any filter, without any plan. I was just saying the first thing that came to my mind.
“Do you want me to?”
She smiled. “I would.” Her voice was soft, throaty, and dripping with suggestion.
I realized, too late, how close I was. “Oh God,” I groaned, coming hard in her hand.
It is hard to explain what went through my mind after that. I tend to be a pretty reflective guy. Lots of naval gazing, I guess. In some ways it would have been easier if I’d been one of those happy swingers, a vaguely dimwitted rube. Or maybe a free-love hippy. Or hell, a creepy, self-hating cuckold thriving on humiliation and pain. But I wasn’t any of those...
I’d always been a pretty conservative guy, sexually if not always politically. Too much so, in retrospect. College would have been more fun if I’d been less squeamish, less self-righteous, more generally adventurous. I’d had my flings, but I’d left a lot on the table.
Obviously Terri had seen that in me. I was a “nice guy,” the kind who would respond to a long, drawn-out courtship not with frustration, but with deepening respect and affection.
I guess that was one thing I was having trouble with. She’d played me. Manipulated me when we’d first met. But so what? Don’t we all? I let her believe that I was a Sarah McLachlan fan, a nature lover who liked hiking forest trails, when really I would have preferred to go to a Metallica concert and watch football on TV on a glorious Fall afternoon. So we both put on a mask at first. Who doesn’t?
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was still being setup somehow. That Terri had caused all of this... this weirdness to happen. But that didn’t make sense. What? She’d conspired with Janet to bring it up? Known I would raise it again? Trusted to her raw sexuality to elicit a response out of me? Jeez, it was crazy. And even if she’d played me that first evening, I had to admit, I was driving the train ever since. Or was at least an active co-pilot.
I pushed for the crazy scheme of stalking him. I was the one who’d pushed for the “date.” Somehow the fact that he hadn’t even bothered to meet her at the bar, that he’d just invited her to his place, that she’d gone and fucked him, was incredibly hurtful...and undeniably hot. The moreso for being unexpected. Jesus, just weeks ago, my main impression of her was of a mother, a homemaker, a sweet girl more comfortable baking cookies and playing board games than anything else. But she was so much more.
I winced... even that digression reflected my conflicting emotions. Here I was trying to explore and make sense of my feelings, only to be almost immediately diverted to the image of Terri, my wife, so eagerly tugging at his towel, taking his hard cock into her mouth.
Why was it such a turn on? In a weird way, it was an ego boost. My wife was a sexy bitch. Somehow all of this seemed to reinforce that realization. And she was mine. But why did I need to share her to appreciate that? And then it occurred to me that maybe what I was really responding to was seeing this other side of her. I’d always known she was sexy, intellectually at least. She’s pretty. She turns me on. I enjoy sex with her. But with me that’s always been, I dunno, a perk, a fringe benefit rather than the essence of her.
But suddenly she wasn’t just that, she was something more. With Chucky, she was raw, unfettered. With him, she was a pure sexual being. She wasn’t my wife. She wasn’t the mother of my children. She wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t a homemaker. She was just a hot slut who loved to fuck. With him, she could be a whole different person, and something about that was insanely hot. I couldn’t explain it, but there it was.
Chucky was exposing it to me for the first time. I was seeing the raw sensuality beneath the surface. And it was that more than anything else that got me going. This sense of discovery, of realization that the woman I’d been sharing my bed with—with whom I’d built a comfortable home and life—that she had within her a whole other side.
We were banging like teenagers. The littlest things would get me going. When she came out of the shower, I’d remember her coming home from him, freshly showered. When she changed, I’d think of him
her. A glass of wine would remind me of his easy seduction of her.
But most of all was her phone. He’d sent her flirty a text immediately after, under the guise of making sure she’d gotten home safely. She’d replied hours later, saying she’d had fun. He wrote back that he’d like to see her again. She replied with a non-commital, but suggestive emoticon:
He knew enough to step back for now.
But that phone was their link, and every time it rang, or buzzed with a text, every time she read her email, or checked the weather, every time that phone was in her hands, I thought of him contacting her, arranging another assignation. I knew her passcode, but I never breached her privacy, even as the days passed, and I increasingly suspected they were talking, texting, whatever.
And then the following Wednesday, we’d put the kids to bed and were sharing a glass of wine on the patio. She was in a cute flowered little sundress, her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, wearing a matching scrunchy as a bracelet.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the incoming text and gave me a grin. She passed it over.
It was a message from Chucky.
Hey baby, whatcha up 2?
I shrugged. It didn’t seem like much. “So?”
She laughed. “He’s booty calling.”
“Watch,” she replied.
She texted to him,
Not much, just hanging around.
Her phone buzzed back instantly with his reply,
Yeah, me too, wanna come over?
I’d never been part of the booty call culture. I couldn’t recognize it when it happened. I was getting window onto a whole new world.
Terri was looking at me, phone in hand, obviously waiting for my reaction.
“What?” I asked. “I mean, do you want to go over?”
“I could,” she replied with a grin. “Or I could stay here with you. Or, I could go and then come back to be with you. What do you want?” She put a strong stress on the
I sighed. I wanted her to go. I wanted to experience that exquisite combination of lust and jealousy that would result. I wanted to think of her being taken hard by Chucky, enjoying a sexual experience different than what I provided, and one that she obviously craved even if she wouldn’t quite admit it.
I wanted her to go, but I didn’t want to have to say it out loud. I wished she’d take the responsibility herself. That she’d simply assert her desire to be with him. But I realized she was probably right not to do so. She wanted this too, but she wanted me to be complicit, not because she was trying to humiliate me—although I imagined she got a small thrill out of that—but rather because that way I could never, in a moment of jealousy, throw it back in her face.