Watching Her With The Lawyers (3 page)

6

C
ynthia wasn’t kidding when she said Sully’s Tavern was in the basement. It is buried down in there, no windows and not even any signs outside the building. I’ve probably been to this bar at some point over the years, but I don’t remember it. It is reasonably big, with sort of an Irish pub feel to it, a dark wood bar, booths with tall sides, and some generic round barroom tables and stools sprinkled all over. It’s all right, and I figure they selected it for convenience and not ambiance.

Still, it has the qualities that I’m looking for. It is dimly lit, and there are just enough people there that I wouldn’t stand out—not that these lawyers would have any idea who I was even if I were the only other guy in the place. Still, I like the idea of being completely unnoticed, a fly on the wall, watching and listening like a spy, a peeping Tom. What husband gets a chance to truly see this side of his wife, to truly see her as an independent human being and not just as one-half of a stale marriage? Oh, fuck it’s so clear now, I think as I take a seat in a small empty booth and order a Macallan on ice.

I gaze at the other men in the bar, some of them young and suited-up, some of them older and dressed down. There are a decent number of women, some clearly from the offices in the building, others who seem to have come here with their lovers or friends. I fix my eyes on one couple who are sitting at a table, looking at menus, both of them frowning as they try to read the fine print describing what kind of fish is in the fish-and-chips. If only they knew, I think. If only they knew . . .

I am almost giggling to myself as I take a big sip of my scotch. Oh, it’s so clear to me, I think again. So fucking clear that what Cynthia and I are doing has injected new life into our marriage, new energy into our sex life, new spirit into each of us as individuals. We could have become that couple, sitting quietly and staring at menus in some shitty bar in the basement, nothing to say to each other. But instead we eat at our dinner table every night, facing each other, talking about our days, opening up about all our fears and dreams, our insecurities and ambitions, our needs and wants. By opening up the sexual side of our marriage, we’ve opened up the emotional side as well, brought each other closer, so close that it’s almost overwhelming sometimes.

I wipe away the beginnings of a tear in my eye as I finish my whiskey and ask for another. I am so happy, so excited, so worked up that my leg is tapping uncontrollably. Sure, there is still that nervousness, still that uncertainty of how I will react when I see Cynthia out there voluntarily flirting with these guys. Some of what she does will be an act, but the kind of act that gets real because you’re putting everything you’ve got into it. Certainly she will enjoy it. And I WANT her to enjoy it. Hell, yeah, Cyn. Show us what you got!

And just as the waitress puts a fresh whiskey in front of me, the door to my left swings open and in walks my wife, her face lit up in a smile as a tall, handsome, blonde man whispers something in her ear.

Behind him are three more men, all of them tall, dressed in dark Brooks Brothers suits, cufflinked shirts and power ties, teeth white as fresh cocaine, hair perfect like they just came out of a GQ photo shoot. They are young, lean, and hard, their faces clean shaven and alert, their eyes sparkling with energy.

Holy shit, these guys are studs, I think as I hastily gulp down my second scotch as I glance at my wife’s genuine smile, her twinkling eyes, the way she’s moving her body, touching her hair . . .

Yes, these guys are studs, Cynthia. But you knew that, didn’t you, you little slut of mine. Oh, you little slut of mine, I love you so fucking much, and I cannot wait to watch what you’ve got planned for me.

I cannot fucking WAIT!

7

T
hings are pretty casual with them for the first couple of drinks, which is perfect as I watch the four lawyers interact with my wife and each other.

From Cynthia’s descriptions, I am able to quickly figure out who is who. The tallest, blondest guy is Anders, the quiet Swiss-German prick, who seemed quite talkative and not so much of a prick when he walked in with my wife, saying something that made her burst into laughter. Right now he is silent, though, leaning back against the bar, his long, trim body stretched out and relaxed as he swirls the ice in his drink while scanning the room with those eyes that are so blue I can see the color from across the room. He is handsome, no doubt, and tall enough that I allow myself to entertain a quick image of his long white cock sliding into my Cynthia as she tremors and grimaces. Oh, Cyn. You little devil!

Now I look over at pin-stripes guy—Jack. He is easy to make out because he is in fact wearing a pin-stripe suit with a striped shirt. Still, he is pulling it off, which is something Cynthia neglected to mention. Yes, it works just fine with his chiseled GQ looks, his broad shoulders, full lips that seem permanently set in a half-smile that makes him look like a young Marlon Brando. He is not as tall as Anders, but still a tall man, with dark, thick hair and brown eyes that are wide and alert. I can easily see him spreading my wife, licking her from behind, tongue-fucking her without messing up his hair.

Oh shit this is so much fun, I think as the waitress brings me my fourth whiskey of the evening. I have eaten a good dinner and I can hold my alcohol, but I am certainly feeling a nice buzz kicking in now. I’d better pace myself after this drink, I tell myself even as I take a big swig.

All right, let’s see. So that’s Anders and that’s Jack. The black guy is obviously Parker, the stereotypical poor kid from the Bronx who makes it to the Ivy League. But now I instantly feel guilty and racist as I think that. Truth is, that’s NOT stereotypical unless you’re talking about a Hollywood movie. It must be fucking HARD to grow up black in the inner city and then make it through college, get into a top law school, and finally hack it at a top firm. No, this guy Parker isn’t a fucking stereotype, he’s the goddamn exception! The stereotypical black kid from the Bronx wears hoodies and ends up in jail for stealing a car stereo at age fifteen! Parker is the opposite of that. He must be smart as hell, disciplined as anything, and dedicated like a motherfucker.

But now I chuckle as I take another sip of my drink and glance at Parker once more, taking in the sight of his full smile, sharp but gentle features, closely cropped black hair, the way he carries himself. Fine, I tell myself, so Parker’s not a stereotype. But can’t I imagine that he has a gigantic cock anyway? I mean, he’s tall and wide, so chances are he does. And I am already imagining Anders’s cock to be long and Jack’s to be thick and heavy. That’s not too racist, is it?

I am still chuckling at my deep thoughts about race and cock-size as I turn my attention to the fourth lawyer, the Spanish stud who likes to put on an Italian accent. He is actively talking to Cynthia right now as Anders stands silently while Jack and Parker discuss something that seems both funny and important.

Marcos the Spaniard doesn’t look like a stereotype, though. I was expecting maybe a dark-skinned guy with long black hair and a ponytail, but this guy has short, light brown hair that has almost a reddish tinge to it. He is white as anything, and although his mannerisms seem exaggerated as I watch him gesture with his hands while nodding and talking excitedly to Cynthia, his body language is easy and smooth, which makes me think that if he’s putting on an act, it’s an act he is very good at.

I smile now as I finally glance at my Cynthia again. We have already made brief eye contact a couple of times, but we didn’t hold it. I don’t think either of us WANTED to hold eye contact, truth be told. Cynthia needs to get into the mindset, and I don’t want her to feel self-conscious or worried that I won’t be able to handle it. It’s so strange, actually, I think as I watch her flutter her eyelids and nod and smile at whatever Marcos is saying to her . . . yes, it’s strange that she was so easily able to spread her legs for those previous men but seems to be almost shy right now when I’ve clearly told her to let loose and just straight-up seduce these guys. Still, let her take her time, I tell myself. There’s no hurry.

B
ut a half hour later I am getting restless. Cynthia and the lawyers are clearly having a good time, but there is not much I can see in the way of all-out flirting. I suppose it makes sense—it’s tough when it’s one woman and four men. Besides, they all know Cynthia is married—I mean she wears her ring to work and she’s got it on right now. So maybe they’re assholes and pricks but still gentlemen. Is that possible? An asshole and a gentleman?

My fifth drink is here and now I realize I have to do something. But what? Cynthia is in the middle of that group right now, clearly the center of attention, but in a way that’s friendly and not as sexually charged as I was hoping for this point in the evening. Cynthia is flirting a bit, making better eye contact with each of the men, raising her arms and playing with her hair, taking off her jacket and letting her boobs get some looks from the guys. She looks great, fucking GREAT, and I have no doubt that this night is going to get to where I want it. But at the same time I want to move things along.

A couple of minutes later, the door opens and two young women walk in. They are maybe twenty-five or so, both of them dressed in skirts and tights, both of them laughing as they walk in and stop for a moment as they look around for a place to sit.

“Hey, Rachel,” Parker calls out loudly, and my heart sinks as I watch the two younger women wave and quickly walk over to the lawyers, their asses swaying, boobs swinging.

Fuck, I think. They must work at the same office. Yup, I realize as I see Cynthia smile and say hello without introducing herself. She knows them, but not well.

A minute later two more young women walk in, clearly part of a group with the first two women, and now I am almost wild with annoyance as I see all four lawyers slowly converge on these four younger women as everyone says hello and exchanges hugs and air-kisses while the bartender lines up some shots.

Cynthia is still standing against the bar, part of the circle but at its edge. The lawyers are getting drunk, and it’s clear where their attention is shifting. I don’t blame them—I mean, Cynthia is hot, but she is a married woman. And these guys are all in their twenties, so it makes sense that they’re staring at these twenty-something single women and starting to ignore my wife.

“Fuck me,” I mutter as I finish my fifth drink and shake my head and look down at the table in frustration.

But when I look back up, I catch Cynthia glancing over at me, and this time she is holding the eye contact. She’s trying to tell me something, I realize. What, baby? What should I do? What do you want me to do?

She blinks once and finally looks away from me. Now she takes a small step to her left, separating herself a bit more from the group as she places her glass on the bar and turns to look for the bartender.

And then it hits me. Now I get it.

So I take a deep breath and stand up, touch my hair for a moment, straighten my belt. Then I walk right across the room, slowly, carefully, like I am drunker than I really am (even though I really am a bit drunk).

I am at the bar now, and I step close to my wife, my heart pounding at how crazy this is, how exciting it is, how arousing, how fucking WILD!

And with a pronounced slur in my voice, I turn to Cynthia and loudly say:

“Hey, baby. You come here often?”

8

“A
re you serious?” Cynthia says to me, her eyebrows raised in an expression of perfect incredulity and annoyance.

I shrug now as the blood pounds in my head. I can see that Marcos has noticed me and has turned to us, and Anders is looking this way as well now. So I push on, looking at my wife like she is a stranger.

“Let me buy you a drink and I’ll show you how fucking serious I am,” I say to her, my voice getting louder, the slur more pronounced.

“Hey, easy man,” says Marcos from the left of my wife. “She’s with us. Lay off, all right?”

Now I glance over at Marcos and then back at Cynthia. I look down at Cynthia’s wedding ring, then back up at her face.

“He’s not your husband, is he?” I say now, speaking even louder as I become aware that all four lawyers have shifted focus back to Cynthia and me.

The bar itself is more crowded and getting louder, and the four women are watching us but are clearly not going to step in and say anything. Good, I think. Let these four studs play the alpha-male protectors right now. That should get their priorities straight.

“Excuse me?” Cynthia says now. “How is that any of your business?”

I blink and shrug, letting a smirk break on my face as I look at my wife. “Well,” I say, with a mock-confidence that I know comes across as sleazy. “He isn’t wearing a wedding ring, first of all. And he’s much too young for you anyway.”

Cynthia opens her mouth wide in shock as I say this, and now Marcos steps in front of her. He does it quickly but carefully, touching neither Cynthia nor me.

“All right, man,” he says in his weird Spanish-Italian accented voice that is a bit high-pitched. “I told you she’s with us, and that’s it. Get your drink and go stand somewhere else. Yes?”

I try to look confused now. “What do you mean by ‘she’s with us’? She’s with all four of you?”

I glance at the four lawyers now, making eye contact with each one. They are all staring right at me, their jaws tight, their eyes focused. That alpha-male instinct is rising in them, and I know they are feeling protective over my wife right now, which is exactly what I want.

“She’s with all four of you?” I say again. “And none of you have wedding rings on, so I’m guessing none of you are her husband. So what the FUCK does it mean when you say she’s with all four of you?”

Now Parker steps forward, right up to me, and I take a quick breath when I realize how tall he is. I mean, I am close to six feet tall, and I feel like a child next to him.

“It means she’s with us,” he says in a perfectly calm, deep voice. He makes clear eye contact with me, and although his jaw is set tight, he is in perfect control of his emotions and aggression, I can tell. “So get your drink and move along.”

Despite Parker’s calmness, I can feel some tension in the air now, and I blink and take one step back, smiling inwardly when I see that those four women have backed off now and are talking to each other. It seems like they weren’t planning to meet these lawyers here, and I figure they will head out somewhere else soon if I can keep these guys focused on protecting Cynthia’s honor from a sleazy drunk douchebag.

I take a deep breath now and look back up at Parker, making eye contact with him once more. “It’s a free country,” I say. “All I did was offer to buy a woman a drink. And as far as I can tell, she hasn’t said no yet.”

Now pin-stripe Jack from GQ steps forward, and he is clearly worked up and annoyed. “Hey, buddy, the answer is no, all right? Are you fucking stupid? Get the fuck out of here, man!”

He is drunk and excited, his face red, his eyes flashing with energy. This guy would fight if given the chance, I realize. Good, I think. Hold on to that energy, Jack. I want to see you unleash that energy on my wife.

Jack takes another step towards me now, and for a moment I wonder if he’s actually going to push me or something. I am a bit drunk too, and honestly, surrounded by these guys and standing here in front of my wife, there’s a part of me that WANTS to fight! Fuck, I think. Don’t be stupid. You need to hold on to that energy too. Use it later.

But Jack is coming closer, and now he clumsily puts his drink on the bar like he needs both his hands for something. I can feel my heart beating faster, and I blink hard as my body tenses up and my fingers ball up into tight fists. Shit, I think as I hope Cynthia doesn’t just call a time-out and end this ridiculous scene. Don’t do it, Cyn. Let it play out.

And just then, a long, lean man with thick blonde hair steps in front of Jack and puts both hands on his shoulders, stopping his trajectory instantly. It is Anders, and he looks at Jack for a moment and then slowly turns to me. His blue eyes are cold and his gaze is sharp, and now he forces a thin smile and nods his head slightly.

“We were all just leaving,” he says in a firm monotone that sounds very German. “You have a good evening, sir.”