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Anniversary Ch. 1

By: anon_e_mouse



Author's note: This is my first story. Any and all feedback (positive or negative) is greatly appreciated!

* * * * *

Judi and I were celebrating our fifth anniversary on a lazy Sunday morning. We loved each other very much; we were both highly successfully writers and life was great.

We were enjoying a breakfast of Western omelets on the patio and marveling at the ocean view and the verdant islands a few miles offshore. It was a picture-perfect day, the cloudless sky a deep, almost violet blue.

Judi was stunningly beautiful, as always. Her long red hair set off her green eyes amazingly. Her long, large nipples poked provocatively from her 46-DD breasts, nearly poking through the gauzy material of the thin blouse she wore. I sipped my coffee as I gazed lovingly at her, wondering what I had done to deserve this wonderful woman. She acted like she was ignoring my stare, but the beginnings of a smile from her lips betrayed her. She knew she was a knockout and loved being admired.

I was looking forward to the day ahead. We had decided that, due to our recent hectic schedule, we would do absolutely nothing but laze around the house and enjoy each other's company. 

We were cleaning up the breakfast mess (we had given the maid the day off) when the phone rang. Resisting the temptation to not answer it, I finally said, "hello." It turned out to be Juli, Judi's twin sister. Judi and Juli chatted for a few minutes while I finished up in the kitchen.

Judi reported that Juli was in town and wanted to come over to visit. I groaned inwardly. Juli's a wonderful girl and great company, but I was looking forward to a day alone with Judi. Oh, well...I knew that the twins hadn't seen each other in several months, so I changed my attitude to one of anticipation. I gave Judi a big hug and nuzzled her ear. "Honey," I whispered, giving her earlobe a friendly lick, "I better call Toni and give her the bad news." Toni was our live-in maid who had her own suite on the fourth floor. Although she had the day off, I knew she'd want to straighten up before Juli arrived; besides, she and Juli were best friends - in fact, I suspected them of being lovers, although I had no basis for my suspicion.

It took Toni a few seconds to answer the intercom. "Whut...?" she said groggily. "Sorry to bother you, sweetie, but Juli's in town and will be here in an hour." "Great, John! I'll be right down!" Toni's voice expressed her excitement; she came awake immediately.

Judi and I raced to the shower. We had begun showering together when we were married, as a desperate measure to save water (and money). We were struggling financially until my first novel got published a year after our wedding. Now we giggled and frolicked as the multiple shower heads sprayed us from every direction, pulsating and massaging our bodies with steaming hot water. We washed each other thoroughly with exotic soaps, then rinsed off and kissed. Our kiss grew more passionate and we exchanged gentle licks with our tongues. My cock started growing, and Judi knew it. She grasped it and gave it a friendly squeeze; it grew harder with her touch. She reluctantly pulled away from our kiss. "Later, lover," she breathed against my lips. "We have company arriving shortly." I nodded and touched the controls to begin the drying cycle. Warm air quickly dried us both.

I carefully shaved, dressed, and walked downstairs while Judi finished with makeup, etc. My jaw dropped as I entered the living room. Toni was hastily rearranging pillows and lighting some scented candles. "Wow!" I exclaimed, giving her the once over.

Toni's a petite, long-haired blonde with a Barbie-doll 'dimwit' appearance which belied her wit and intelligence. She was dressed in a fire-engine red miniskirt that was plastered to her body like a second skin. As she turned to face me, she thrust her chest toward me and stuck out her tongue. Her perfectly formed, 38-inch tits were aimed right at me, and I swear I saw her nipples grow another half inch in a split second. "You like?" she asked, pirouetting slowly for me, showing off her tight ass and shapely legs. The 6-inch black high heels completed the ensemble. "I...uh...yeah, I like a lot!" I managed to mumble. I've known Toni for ten years (she's 28 now), ever since her parents were killed by a drunk driver. I'd known her father since childhood and felt I owed him something, so I invited Toni to live with me while she went to college. She offered to help keep house in exchange for room and board. We became close friends; she's lived with me (platonically) ever since. We had cuddled and kissed, but never made love. 

She smiled at me and licked her lips sensually, giving me a glimpse of her incredible 6-inch tongue. Judi hurried in a second later, preceded by the scent of her rare perfume. Its heavy scent caused my cock to immediately grow. She gave me a quick squeeze then hugged Toni and gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. For a split second, I thought I saw their lips part, but their mouths withdrew before I was sure what had happened.

I programmed the music sequencer and the sounds soft jazz surrounded us from hidden speakers around the room. The lighting programmed itself to a warm glow, and the scent of the sandalwood candles permeated the area. Toni busied herself by restocking the bar while Judi lounged on the couch, looking at a magazine. I took this opportunity to retrieve the anniversary gift I had bought for Judi from my office down the hall.

I got the gift from the wall safe and was checking my email when the door announced that Juli had arrived. I hastily put the gift in my desk and returned to the living room just as the door opened itself and allowed Juli to enter. 

As I mentioned, Judi and Juli were twins; that's kind of a misnomer. Although identical in height and facial features, that's where the similarity ends. Juli had long hair whose color is difficult to describe: a deep brown, almost mahogany, with random highlights and a healthy sheen which seemed to almost sparkle in the right light. While Judi is slender (aside from her mammoth tits), Juli is slightly heavier, although by no means plump. She was wearing a tight green dress made of some kind of shimmery, nearly translucent material. It was high-necked, long, and hid absolutely nothing of her luscious body. Her proud tits were eminently visible, as well as her perfect ass. My cock throbbed again as greetings were exchanged. Juli hugged me and Judi, then turned her attention to Toni. They hugged and kissed. This time, I was certain: their kiss lingered; their lips parted and tongues flicked as Judi and looked on in open amusement. Their mouths withdrew a few seconds later and they gazed in each other's eyes as they held hands.

Trying to avoid embarrassing them, Judi and I made our way to the bar and began building cocktails.

Two cocktails later, and comfortable on the big couch, we were accepting anniversary congratulations when Toni asked what gifts we had gotten for each other. Judi laughed and excused herself to retrieve my gift, while I retrieved my gift for her from my office. Judi came back with a beautifully wrapped box. I opened it to find an exquisitely carved statue of Judi, nude, evidently crafted from some kind of basalt; it was black, heavy, and the shiniest object I've ever seen. It was brilliantly detailed and perfect in its replication of her. We ooh'ed and ahh'ed over it while I gave Judi a big kiss and hug. Juli and Toni urged Judi to open her gift; I had a friend who was a master jeweler. He had fashioned a necklace and matching earrings out of platinum and diamonds. It was absolutely stunning, and the girls were all besides themselves with joy and excitement. Judi was crying with joy as she tenderly took my face and gave me a long, deep kiss. Our passion grew as we became oblivious to Juli and Toni. The kiss deepened and our tongues began flicking madly together, exploring each other's mouth. My arms embraced her and my hands fondled her ass. She responded by thrusting her pelvis against my cock, which was rock hard by now. I moaned softly as she caressed my ass and lightly scratched my back. I broke the kiss and began nuzzling her ear. "I want you, baby," I whispered hotly. "I need your cock in me, now!" she replied in my ear, her hot moist breath exciting me further. "We have guests," I replied, "we'll have plenty of time later." Her tongue laved my earlobe and my cock jumped in response. We slowly parted and sat back on the couch, close together and holding hands.

"You guys sure do love each other a lot, don't you?" Juli asked pleasantly. "They sure do!" affirmed Toni, who had snuggled up close to Juli and rested her hand on Juli's thigh. Juli either didn't notice or didn't care...she was slowly spreading her legs, allowing her dress to creep up, showing more and more of her luscious thighs.

Two drinks later and we were pleasantly mellow. Giggles and laughter filled our home as we shared jokes and pleasant conversation. Judi was now almost on my lap and her hand was lightly stroking my cock through my lightweight trousers. Juli and Toni were dancing; I stealthily touched the controls and programmed a series of hot jazz numbers featuring lots of sax and drums. I programmed it to raise the volume very slowly - a 20 minute fade to 85 db. 

As the song cross faded to the hotter jazz, Juli and Toni really started getting into it, gyrating and dancing up a storm. Judi, who had seen my stealth maneuver, cuddled up to me as we watched the show. The lighting, hearing the change in music, metamorphosed itself into stage lighting, complete with strobes and mutating flashing multicolored spots. The smart carpet, sensing serious dance steps, altered its molecules into a hardwood dance floor. Our living room was transformed into a strip joint within a few seconds!

The music gradually increased in tempo, intensity, and volume. The girls were really enjoying themselves and began a bump and grind. They glanced at each other, then began stripping in earnest. Judi and I started clapping and urging them on. As the music hit its crescendo, Juli and Toni were totally nude and light perspiration coated their gorgeous bodies. At the musical climax they embraced each other and savagely kissed with open mouths, their incredibly long tongues intertwining and teasing each other's.

As the last note faded, the lights returned to normal and the wooden floor became carpet once again. In the sudden silence, we could hear Juli and Toni breathing heavily, their lovely chests heaving. I rushed to the bar to prepare invigorating cold drinks. Judi sat on the couch, hands on her chin, openly staring and admiring the girls. I could barely perceive her pelvis thrusting back and forth. She was obviously quite aroused. I gave up the drinks and offered my arm to assist the two girls back to the couch. Still slightly out of breath from their exertions, they leaned on me as I guided them into their seats. They tumbled into the couch and into each other's arms. They began caressing and kissing each other passionately. Toni's outrageously long tongue caressed Juli's lips and licked her tongue. Juli moaned and writhed with pleasure. Toni began breathing heavily, moving her tongue downward to Juli's breast. As her tongue flicked across her nipple, Juli moaned again and her nipple hardened appreciatively. Encouraged, Toni redoubled her efforts. Her tongue became a blur, flicking rapidly over and around Juli's engorged nipple. Juli moaned loudly and began playing with her other tit. Judi and I, meanwhile, were transfixed by the erotic sight before us. We leaned closer for a better view. Juli glanced over to us and licked her lips slowly and gave us a wink. She clearly was enjoying herself and not at all ashamed or embarrassed. I blew her a kiss and briefly caressed my crotch. Juli nodded and licked her left nipple in response. We were clearly on the same wavelength. Toni, meanwhile, was moving slowly down toward Juli's thrusting pussy. Her slender, long tongue was darting, caressing her navel and more. Juli spread her legs further and began stroking her pussy with her left hand. Her right hand gently guided Toni's head downward. 

Toni rearranged herself so she would have unhampered access to Juli's wet pussy. Juli was thrashing about, moaning. Toni slowly licked her way to Juli's cunt, that fabulous tongue caressing and flicking all the way. Juli was absolutely ecstatic; her moans and heavy breathing were getting louder and louder. Her great tits heaved and her nipples stood out a good inch or more, rock hard. Juli moaned, "Oh, god, Toni, eat me! Lick my cunt, lover!! Toni glanced up at Juli, then over to Judi and me. She slowly licked her lips, displaying that marvelously long, pointed tongue. Her eyes were half closed, filled with lust and love. Juli urgently pulled her head to her cunt, thrashing wildly and nearly screaming her desire to Toni. 

Toni obliged by licking her cunt with wild abandon, her 6" tongue probing and flicking rapidly. Juli screamed, "Oh GOD, don't stop, Honey!!! Make me CUMMMMM!!!" Toni slipped two fingers into Juli and began licking her clit. Juli continued screaming and heaving. She grabbed her tits and pinched her nipples, hard. Toni concentrated on her clit, but continued thrusting her fingers in and out. Juli gasped, "I'M CUMMINGG!!! DON'T STOP, BABY!!!" Toni increased her energy and Juli bucked and quivered uncontrollably. Toni was now sucking on Juli's clit and had three fingers inside her. 

As Juli's orgasms subsided, Toni licked her way back up to Juli's face, stopping to pay attention to her still-heaving tits. Finally, the two girls kissed passionately and lovingly, and collapsed into each other's arms.

Judi and I were nearly as exhausted as the girls. Although we had watched lesbians make love in porno movies, this live action was the most exciting thing either one of us had witnessed. I gave my wife a loving embrace as we looked at Judi and Toni in a warm embrace. 

To Be Continued...

Anniversary Cheat



This is not a story in which the characters get what they deserve. Nor is it a good vs. evil morality tale. If that's what you seek, you'll be better served elsewhere. It's a story about people (of the fictional kind: I made them up, so they don't act like you or me), and the wonderful and terrible things they sometimes do for and to each other. And of course, love and sex. My thanks to stev2244, who kindly "beta-read" and pointed out places where I had attempted subtlety and achieved only confusion.

*****

Next weekend, I will go away and sin. I will cheat on my husband. This will be neither an accident, nor a one-time 'mistake.' I will take everything I promised my husband would be his alone, and give it away, freely and repeatedly, to another man, for an entire weekend.

My husband has already agreed to it. He has agreed that there will be no recriminations, no revenge, no quid pro quo, and no questions, ever. For those three days (yes, I'm taking Friday, too), it will be as if I don't exist for him. He certainly won't exist for me. He will not know where I have been, nor whom I have been with. All he will ever know, is that I will spend the weekend having sex with another man. I know that I will deny that man nothing, and I know he will take everything I have. By Sunday night, there will remain nothing of me that is private between me and my husband. Then I will return home and resume my role as his faithful wife. That day will be our fifth wedding anniversary.

My husband is starting to wish he hadn't agreed to this, as he sees how much it excites me. I don't think I've ever anticipated anything this much in my entire adult life, including my wedding. At first I tried to hide how much I was looking forward to this – I don't want to hurt him, after all – but he's smart and observant, and figured it out anyway, so what the hell. He did ask if, after I came back, he could see me in some of the lingerie I bought for my trip. It is far more brazen than anything I wear for him. "Oh, honey," I said, "by then, it will all be in tatters, and I'll have thrown it away." You see, Brandon – the man I am going to be with – always had a thing for ripping girls' clothes off them, and I intend to give him plenty of opportunity.

I've been completely faithful to my husband since the day we married. OK, perhaps not completely, if you count deep kisses, very dirty dancing, and being thoroughly groped all over, sometimes under my clothes. None of which was against my will, by the way, and quite a bit of it at my invitation. But for five years, his has been the only cock inside my body. It's not that I lack opportunity. I'm 27; only 5'5", but with long slim legs; 34C-21-32, and I don't dress to hide it. I work in a brokers' office, so I dress professionally, but my colleagues (male and female) as well as our clients know pretty well what I have to offer. They've almost all tried to get some of it, and several of them have succeeded to a greater or lesser degree, but no one but my husband has landed the big prize. That will change next weekend.

NEXT FRIDAY MORNING.

I am dressing to go to Brandon. He was my first, back in high school, and still ranks as my best. A couple of months ago, I got an e-mail from him out of the blue. It seems he too had moved away from our home town, was about an hour and a half away, and had gotten my e-mail address from a classmate who was one of our clients. His offer to 'work me in' on a weekend told me he was still his old, cock-sure self. My drooling pussy didn't care; it was ready for him to work me in, or work himself into me, however and whenever he deigned to do so. I used the next few weeks to manipulate my husband into agreeing to this. Now it is time. I will do this.

I am quivering all over, shaking so badly I can barely manage to pull on the almost-trashy, too-expensive bra and panties that I bought to wear for him. My husband is watching me, his hurt plain in his eyes. 

"It might be easier if you didn't look, sweetie," I tell him. He shakes his head and continues to watch, as I smooth the thigh high stockings, which I know will be a laddered mess by noon, onto my freshly-shaven legs. 

"Remember, the weekend has started, and you don't exist for me until Monday morning." He says nothing, but he looks like I just slapped him. 

"So I shouldn't even be letting you watch. But I guess you can look if you want to – but you can't touch." I slip my arms into the soft silk blouse, button it, then unbutton it down to the button between my nipples. When I lean forward to pull on my skirt, I know the blouse gapes open and my husband can see, and see through, the whorish little bra that I'm wearing for another man. 

I know he's still hoping that I'll change my mind. Last night after dinner, he made this little speech to me. 

"I know you're looking at this as a sort of weekend out of time," he said, "a weekend that won't really have existed after it's over. You think it won't matter, and you will come back and everything will be just like it was before. You think it's just about the sex. It's not. You've already started to change. You won't be the same when you come back, and neither will I. You will have shown yourself that you can turn off your love for me, just like a faucet, and once you do that the first time, it's inevitable that you'll do it again. You'll be hit on at work by someone you like, or an important client will want you, and you'll think, why shouldn't you give him what you gave away this weekend?" He stopped to collect himself. 

"I know I agreed to this, and I'll keep my word. I won't leave you over it; I won't try to get back at you; I'll never bring it up again after you get back. But I give you my word of honor, I believe it will be the undoing of us. Please don't do this to us." 

The poor dear meant every word, I'm sure. But it was too late. It had been too late from the moment Brandon e-mailed me. All the rest – the agreement and everything – was merely to insure there wouldn't be trouble later. For me, that is. He was right, though, I could feel myself changing. His concerns would have gone to my heart as recently as a couple of weeks ago, but now they just seemed pathetic. I almost snickered as I imagined him holding up two fingers and saying "Scouts honor" at the end of his plea. But I do love him – really I do – so I tried to ease his mind. 

"You know you're the only man I love," I said. It was almost like reassuring a child. "You don't have anything to worry about, you'll see. Monday morning, I'll be here drinking the coffee you made for me, just as usual, and we'll pick up right where we left off." 

I could see he wasn't convinced, so I reassured him the best way I knew how. "I know what's the matter with you," I almost smirked. "You won't be getting any for three days, and it makes you sad." Come to think of it, three days is longer than we'd ever gone without sex since we married. I walked over to him and ran my hands through his hair and pressed my boob against his arm. 

"Come to the bedroom and I'll make you forget all about it." 

Actually, he made me forget all about it, and for a good long time, too. Please don't think my husband is some sort of pencil-dick, or inadequate in the bedroom, or anything like that. He's a master at listening, and last night he listened to my body as if he were inside my head or something. He somehow knew everything I wanted just a split second before I did, and by the time I realized I wanted it, he was doing it. He's brilliant at taking my so-called non-erogenous zones and using them to set me on fire. I was burning with it before he came near my pussy. When he did, I was already so wide-open I swear I could feel the breeze on my inner lips. He almost waited too long to actually penetrate me: I was nearly comatose from the pleasure when he finally entered me. But he played my nipples just like I like, and that got me going again, and we galloped together to the finish. 

My husband doesn't fuck, he makes love, and last night he was exquisite. He was a master. Every part of me right down to my toes felt loved, cherished, and satisfied. But as I lay in his arms, just before I fell asleep, it was Brandon's arrogant face, not my husband's loving one, that flashed across my vision. My nipples tightened and my pussy began to throb, in spite of the loving I had just received. My husband had taken his best shot – and a fine shot it was, too – but he had lost.

I finish dressing, check myself in the mirror, and pick up my small suitcase. (Lingerie doesn't take much room.) My husband approaches me for a hug and kiss goodbye, but I stop him. 

"It's the weekend, remember?" Now he really does look pathetic, nothing like the masterful lover of last night – or the masterful fucker I will give myself to today. That makes it easy for me to turn my back on him and walk out the door, a smile on my face, a spring in my step, and an extra swing in my hips. If I had known then... but then one never does, does one?

BRANDON.

Brandon had moved to our district at the beginning of my junior year in high school, and by Christmas, he was the talk of the school. He wasn't especially big, or strong, or fast, or smart, or even all that good looking, though he wasn't a troll, either. But he could have any girl in the school he wanted. There seemed to be some sort of connection between his eyes and a girl's pussy; he could get any of us sopping wet by just looking at us. I saw him give a couple of the pretty young teachers the look, too, and it made them blush and walk funny, just like it did us girls.

I was, like a half dozen other pretty girls that I hung with, a "good girl" until Brandon "took an interest" in me. He plucked each of us, one by one, peeled us, broke us open, bit into us, devoured us, then cast aside what was left and plucked another one. As far as I know, he never went back to a girl once he discarded her: though any one of us would have walked naked into the boys' locker room for the privilege of offering him everything we had. He was just that good. 

The day of my first date with Brandon, I was 'all a-flutter,' as my grandma would have said. I'd heard the talk; I knew that whatever I wore, I wouldn't be wearing long. But it's not every day a girl gets her cherry popped, so I did my hair nicely and dressed up a bit: I wore my fanciest underwear, and a nice blouse and skirt instead of a t-shirt and jeans. He was so late picking me up that my mother said I should go to my room and she'd slam the door in his face. I couldn't tell her that I was afraid I would have to go to my room anyway to change my panties, the ones I was wearing being soaked. He finally arrived, gave my mother a look which shut her up, and steered me into his car. I don't remember where we were supposed to be going, but I already knew we would never get there. 

Brandon wasn't much of a talker, either. He didn't say a word for about ten minutes. He gave me the look, though. My already-swampy virgin pussy got even wetter, and my breath was short and my thighs were trembling under my skirt before he finally spoke. 

"I always fuck on the first date." No leading up to it for this guy. I was soon to find that applied to his sexual technique, too. "If you're on the rag, I'll take your ass instead. I don't use condoms, and I don't pull out." 

I almost came then and there. He didn't say another word until we arrived at a well-known parking spot. He gestured with his thumb to the back seat, opened his door and got out. I thought he would come around and open the door on my side (silly me!) so I sat and waited for him. 

"Move!" he growled at me. I did. 

I sat demurely on Brandon's back seat, knees primly together, head lowered, suddenly feeling a little shy as I curiously examined the place where my virginity would become history. It wasn't any too clean, and I shuddered a little at the thought that some other pretty high school girl had probably occupied this space last night. Then Brandon was in the car, advancing on me, predatory, as if I were his next meal. He seized me with a hand under each knee, pulling me toward him and spreading my legs. In an instant, I was on my back with my skirt up almost to my waist and my legs flailing helplessly in the air on either side of him. I thought for a moment of the time and effort (and money) other boys had spent trying and failing to get me into this position. Brandon had me there in about 5 seconds. 

I was conscious of Brandon's face and hands moving toward me as his shoulders forced my legs wider. His hands looked huge; his expression hungry. I felt more than ever like something about to be eaten. I could feel my pussy pushing out juices in time with my rapid heartbeat. 

His big hands took my head between them, and I guess you would say he kissed me. It felt more like he devoured me. His tongue pried my lips open and dove for my tonsils. His teeth ravaged my lips. My tongue tried to participate – I'd had good results from this sort of thing before – but it was ruthlessly pushed aside and stuffed back toward my throat. His hands kept my head in place while he forcibly took complete possession of my mouth.

When he was finally finished with my face, I was panting heavily, both from arousal and from the fact that I could only breathe through my nose. Before I even got my breath back, his big hands seized the collar of my pretty blouse and pulled. Fabric tore, buttons flew, and my breasts were exposed, trembling before him in their lacy covering. My bra didn't last any longer than the blouse had, yielding easily to his tearing hands. 

I had let guys touch my breasts before, of course. They were all well aware how great a privilege I was bestowing upon them, and they acted like worshipers at a shrine. Not Brandon. He growled something that sounded like "nice tits" and set about mauling them. He squeezed them hard in his big paws; he slapped them, he twisted them, he pulled them as if he wanted to rip them off my chest. It was a completely new sensation for me, and I was immediately addicted. I was sure my poor nipples would be marked for life, but when he took them both in his mouth and bit down hard, I gushed and came harder than I ever imagined I could. 

I completely lost track of time. I don't know how long he spent ravaging my face and my tits, but I knew that when the time came for my virgin pussy to submit to him, it would receive the same violent treatment. My nicest panties would meet the same fate as my now-ruined bra. And I was more excited than I had ever been in my life. My panties were so wet I was sure Brandon could see right through them. My juices had dripped all the way down my ass and onto the car seat; I was already lying in the wet spot and we hadn't even done it yet. 

Brandon didn't 'deflower' me, or pluck my cherry. He claimed my virginity, he consumed it, he destroyed it. His big hands finally left my abused tits. I heard him open his zipper. I felt him rip the crotch of my panties open, felt the outside air on my overheated pussy. I felt the head of his cock at my entrance. I heard the wet, squilchy noises as my pussy lips surrendered and spread for his cock's assault, yielding to its width. I felt my walls stretched past their limit as he ruthlessly pushed them aside. I felt the tearing pain as he destroyed my vainly-resisting maidenhead as if it were tissue paper, and powered past its tattered remains. I felt him bang against something at the back of my pussy, as I felt his pelvis smash into the surrendered space between my flailing legs. I heard someone scream – I think it was me – and then I felt myself explode into a thousand pieces, each of which floated into the air, out through the roof of Brandon's car, and up into the stars.

Slowly, the pieces of me returned to Brandon's back seat and reassembled themselves. It seemed that while I was gone, he had continued to pound me. He had one of my ass cheeks in each of his big hands and was slamming into me as hard as he could go. He treated that thing at the back of my pussy (I later learned it was my cervix) as if it were a personal enemy. It felt like my ass would bear his fingerprints for a week. And I lay there, hoping it would never stop.

Finally he gave one mighty push, stuffed the head of his cock through the opening of my cervix, and held himself there. I could feel the shots of his cum power washing the back wall of my womb. He roared; I screamed and shuddered; then we lay quiet. I put my arms around him, and ran my fingers through his hair. My legs fell slackly open as I recovered my breath. I had been fucked: well and truly fucked: fucked to heaven (or hell) and back; fucked to exhaustion. And he could fuck me again, any time, anywhere, anyhow he wanted. I was his. The fact that I wasn't his only one didn't matter to me at all.

I've been fucked since by guys who were bigger, stronger and better looking than Brandon, some who were as well-endowed (though none significantly bigger), and one who I know truly loves me. But he was still by far the best I've ever had – or I should say, the best who's ever had me. 

THE WEEKEND.

I really have no idea how I managed to actually drive my car for an hour and a half to get to Brandon's place. It had been over ten years since he'd last taken me, but my pussy remembered it as if it were yesterday, and drooled accordingly. I was 27 years old, married 5 years, with plenty of sexual experience, but I was as nervous as I had been the night Brandon took my cherry. I had to turn on the car's air conditioner to keep from breaking out into a sweat. 

I had my suitcase in my hand as I rang Brandon's doorbell. I felt like some kind of perverse Avon lady – "Ding-dong, booty calling." 

I was about to ring again when Brandon opened the door. He didn't say a word. He threw my suitcase into the house behind him, pushed me backward onto his front porch, seized me in his arms, and kissed me, except it was far too voracious for a mere kiss. He plundered my mouth. He had been great at devouring a girl's face in high school, and had obviously practiced since. In the small, remote corner of my brain that was still rational, I thought, "Well, that's one part of me gone: these lips will never belong to my husband again." I barely noticed that he hauled my skirt up to my waist and tucked it there, baring my ass for all to see. 

He broke the kiss, if that's what you want to call it. Before I could react, he turned me around so I faced the street. A big hand seized each side of my pretty silk blouse, and pulled. The little pearl buttons yielded easily, exposing my breasts in (and out of) the slutty little bra. Said bra might as well have been perforated down the middle for all the resistance it gave Brandon. It took him less than five seconds to strip me to the waist, capture a breast and begin mauling it, and jam a hand inside my thong and start turning my insides into jelly, all in full view of the neighborhood. Oh, and he was sucking and biting those tender spots on the side of my neck at the same time. I loved it.

I don't know how long I spent hanging helpless in his arms, my spraddled legs useless and quivering under me, while he molested my surrendered body. It was long enough to attract an audience, because I'm pretty sure I heard whistling and clapping when Brandon finally threw me over his shoulder, strode into his house, and slammed the door. Everything after that is a jumble in my memory. I remember landing on my back on the living room rug as he dumped me there. I remember the rough feeling of his jeans on the tender insides of my thighs as he took his rightful place between my legs. His rightful place, now: not my husband's. I remember feeling the club-like head of his cock at my entrance, which was sopping wet, wide open and eager for him. I remember him pushing into me, balls-deep at a single stroke. I remember thinking he was rearranging my insides, as his invading weapon shoved muscles and tissues out of its way on its relentless drive toward my cervix. And I remember thinking, that's another part of me forever taken away from my husband. Brandon wasn't that much bigger than my husband, if at all. But where my husband entered me like a lover, gentle and considerate, Brandon entered me like a conqueror, hard and uncaring. And conquer me, he did. 




Anniversary Cheat



You know how after you have the wind knocked out of you, and you come back, the first thing you do is take inventory? That's the next thing I remember doing. Arms move? Check. Legs move? A little shaky, but check. That sort of thing. I still had on all my clothes except my heels; I could see one of them by the door. The blouse and skirt had survived, as long as the cum stains came out of the skirt. The bra, thong, and stockings were history. As for my body: my pussy was sore, but still usable; my tits hadn't fared too badly either, but I had rug burns on my ass and I could feel bruises starting on my neck and shoulder where he had chewed on me. All told, not too bad for a session with Brandon. 

Slowly and stiffly, I got to my feet. I didn't see or hear Brandon, so I got a drink of water then went in search of him. He was in his study, looking at his computer. He heard me come into the room and motioned me to look at the screen. His smile was not nice.

I gasped. There I was, in living color, stretched out on his living room rug like some kind of obscene trophy, fucked into oblivion. He laughed at my reaction. There were close-ups of my exhausted, battered pussy leaking his cum; shots of my cleaning his cock with my mouth. I didn't remember having done that, but I knew I wouldn't have refused him, whether he asked or not. I didn't dare ask what he wanted the pictures for. Later, he gave me a complete set which I kept for years, so I could reminisce about my 'weekend out of time.'

There I am in the back yard, wearing a thong and my high heels, nothing else. Brandon sent me out there, then chased me all over the yard. He was faster than me, but he would let me 'escape' so he could enjoy watching my tits bounce while I ran. When he caught me, he would whack me on the tits or the ass, pick me up and turn me upside down while I squealed, or just tackle me to the ground and dry hump me. The shoes didn't last long, and I was faster barefoot, but he still caught me whenever he wanted to. The last time, he threw me backwards over his shoulder. He ripped my thong open (he did enjoy ruining my underwear) and stuffed two fat fingers into me. My bare legs flailed about helplessly in the air; my squeals as he finger banged me were loud enough to draw a crowd. They got quite a show. Brandon held me easily with one hand, while ravishing me with the other. When my screams became hoarse after what felt like 15 minutes of solid orgasm, he unceremoniously dumped me onto the grass, and sauntered into the house. To get a beer, I think. 

Brandon enjoyed the idea that he was taking me away from my husband. I had wanted to take my rings off and leave them at home, then put them back on when I returned – symbolic of what I was doing with my marriage, which is what the rings are supposed to be, I guess. Brandon wouldn't hear of it. He took pictures of the glittery diamond on the hand that fed his cock into my mouth. He took videos of me posing in my trashy lingerie, looking like a cheap whore (I don't know why they say 'cheap' – that stuff is damned expensive!) as I used my wedding-ringed left hand to arouse myself for him. He took one of me finger fucking myself where it looks like my pussy is about to eat my diamond – he really liked that one. His favorites were the ones of my left hand, rings clearly visible, playing in his sperm as it decorated my face or tits, or dribbled out of my pussy. 

Brandon became the first to fuck my ass. Typically, he didn't bother to tell me he was going to. I don't remember where we were; I think we might actually have been on the bed. He was pounding into me doggy style, when I felt what must have been his thumb jammed into my asshole. Brandon's not a big guy, but his hands are huge, with big thick fingers. That big thumb both hurt like the devil and sent me over the edge. He held still inside both my holes until I stopped shuddering, then started fucking away at me with his thumb and his cock. It wasn't long before my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the bed, him still on top of me and inside me. I felt his thumb pull out and thought he was finished. No fear. 

Next thing I knew, that big cock of his had plowed its way past my sphincter and was half buried in my bowels. My poor ass had lain open and helpless before him; it hadn't even started to close after he pulled out his thumb. I squealed like a stuck pig. In fact, I thought I knew pretty much how said pig felt. I tried to close my legs, but Brandon was solidly between them, and it wouldn't have helped protect my ass anyway. He kept pumping, and few strokes later, I felt his pubes grinding against the my already-sore ass. 

I had some crazy idea about trying to dig my way into the mattress to get away from him, it hurt that badly. Then he reached a hand under me and started working my pussy and clit again. I'd not come down very far after my climax, and was soon on the fast track to another one. I didn't know which way to fuck – up for his cock in my ass, or down for his fingers (three, I think) in my pussy – but whichever way I went, I loved it. He finally jammed himself inside of me, held me in place with his fingers in my pussy, pinched my clit, pulled my hair back, and shot my rectum full of himself. I squealed, I came, and I think I passed out again. Anyway, he has a picture of me, naked, spread out on my front, both holes gaped open and leaking his seed. And of course, the rings on my left hand.

Years later, I would still pull out those pictures from time to time and go through them. Brandon appears in very few of them, and then it's only his cock. But what he did to me is evident in every one of them. I'm usually flung somewhere like a rag doll and left to lie, either dripping sperm from one of my holes or painted with it. I'm naked or wearing the remnants of some kind of underwear or stockings, but my clothing has clearly suffered just as hard use as I have. The pictures look like sleazy porn, but my body remembered what it felt like when they were taken, and it wanted nothing more than to go back. 

I don't remember eating or sleeping that weekend. I'm sure we did, because we expended an awful lot of energy. But my memories of such mundane activities were swamped by the mind-altering, rock-my-world, turn-me-inside-out, fucking. Early Sunday evening, I began to put myself back together for the drive home. I had known beforehand that Brandon would rip open whatever blouse I wore, so I had picked one where the buttons would give easily without ripping the fabric. I had planned on wearing it home, but I couldn't find it. 

"Looking for something?" Brandon's voice had even more of a sneer than usual, and as usual, all that did was turn me on. I was naked; I could almost smell myself heating up. I straightened up to look at him. He had my blouse in his hand, holding it out to me and grinning. I held out my hand and walked over to him; he snatched it away. He used it like a bullfighter's cape to get me to charge, while he laughed at me and swatted my ass hard as I went by. Of course, he'd spent the entire weekend making sure my ass was properly tenderized, just like the rest of me. He went out into the back yard; I could smell the outdoor grills going. The neighbors would once again enjoy the spectacle of me running around naked, my tits bouncing wildly. Finally I chased him into a corner. I leaped for my blouse. I got a firm grip on it with one hand. As I flew by, he captured one of my legs and flipped me. I landed hard on my back, but worse than that was the tearing sound as my blouse was ripped in two. He laughed like crazy as he stood over me, one foot on my chest between my bare boobs, waving his half of my blouse over his head in triumph, like some kind of banner. I distinctly heard neighbors cheering this time.

I did manage to find my skirt and get it on, cum stains and all, before Brandon could do anything to it. But I had to wheedle Brandon out of one of his shirts, at the price of letting him viciously fuck my face. Even then, all he would give me was an old wife-beater undershirt with what looked like cum stains on it. That wouldn't have been so bad, except that I had run out of underwear earlier in the day. So I would be going home to my husband in a cum-stained wife-beater, a short skirt likewise, white heels, and nothing else. 

Even then, Brandon wasn't through with me. He carried my nearly-empty suitcase out onto the front step (like the gentleman he wasn't), then seized me in his arms with my back to him. Deliberately, he reached in the side of the undershirt, captured a breast, and scooped it out, leaving it completely exposed to the neighbors. He repeated the action with my other breast. He then reached down to the bottom of my skirt, lifted the hem, and neatly tucked it into the waistband. Calmly, almost dispassionately, he set about arousing me again, fingering me obscenely as my legs spread and weakened. He twisted, batted, and mauled my naked boobs, pinching and pulling their nipples, all in full view of the neighborhood. It occurred to me that they must be accustomed to enjoying shows like this. 

He whispered in my ear, "Next time, we do this at your house," brought me off a final time with his fingers, and released me. When I stumbled on my weakened legs, he gave me a slap on my ass. I stumbled; I think he was disappointed I didn't fall. Then he went into his house and locked the door.

I vaguely remember sitting in my car, hunched over the steering wheel, until it was fully dark. I remember I was already plotting how I could get my husband out of the way so Brandon could take me in our house. I don't remember much of the drive home, only thinking that the way I was dressed, I'd better not get pulled over. Finally, I reached the sanctuary of my garage. I turned off the engine and just sat there. 

My husband must have been listening for my car. When I didn't go into the house, he came out after me. Technically, it was still the weekend, so I shouldn't have let him touch me. But I had to, or I would have spent the night in my car, as I lacked all energy to move. Tenderly, he helped me into the house. He didn't turn on the light in the bedroom. He helped me out of the shirt and skirt, swaddled me in the comfy old cotton nightgown I wore when I was sick or very tired, and let me sleep.

AFTERMATH.

Remember I told my husband that on Monday morning I would be drinking coffee with him, just as usual? It didn't happen. In fact, as far as I was concerned, Monday morning itself didn't happen, nor did Monday afternoon. I slowly came awake to the sound of my husband puttering around the house, and the smell of food – though something was odd about that, I couldn't put my finger on just what. He came into the bedroom and smiled at me.

"Hello, sleepyhead," he said.

"What time is it," I asked groggily.

"About 7:30," he replied. 

"Oh, crap!" Galvanized, I sat up, in spite of the complaints of every muscle in my body. "Why didn't you wake me earlier? I'm going to be late, oh crap, oh crap..."

"Ssh." He gently pushed me back onto the bed. "It's 7:30 pm."

"Oh." No wonder that food didn't smell like breakfast.

"Don't worry, I called in to work for you: it seems you have a touch of the flu. I have some soup keeping hot on the stove. Meantime, would you like a bath?"

A bath was exactly what I did want most in all the world just then. I lay back on the pillow and drowsed, listening to the sounds of contentment to come as he fixed the bath for me.

It wasn't until I was contentedly soaking in the luxurious bubbles and oil of my bath (just the right temperature, too) that I realized what my poor husband must be seeing. I looked like I'd been ravished by an army. There were bruises on my arms and legs where Brandon had grabbed me and thrown me around. He had spanked me hard enough to leave bruises on my ass, too. And he had left hickeys on every tender, once-private place I had. The insides of my thighs, all the way up to my crotch; all over my breasts, especially the undersides; even the outer lips of my shaved pussy, glowed red with the marks of Brandon's ownership. As for my neck, you couldn't tell where one mark ended and another began. It looked like it had been chewed. I actually blushed. I hadn't done that in ten years.

My husband, though, was true to his word, and didn't say anything. Not a word, except to apologize when I winced. He tenderly bathed me, using sweet lotion where I was sore, and rinsed me clean. He washed my hair, using twice the amount of conditioner: it must have been a mess. Then he patted me dry, wrapped me in the fluffy robe, and fed me soup. When I was finished, he put me back to bed. And he did it all with the sweetest, most loving expression on his face you can imagine. I fell asleep to the sounds of my husband cleaning up the kitchen. 

I'm older and more experienced now, but I still cannot recall seeing or hearing of such an act of outright love as he gave me that night. Would I have done the same for him? Hell no! If he'd done a fraction of what I did, I'd have had his balls for breakfast, then taken him to the cleaners in the nastiest divorce in history. Instead, I came home to a loving man who, with all his tenderness, tried to heal me from another man's use and abuse of me – abuse which I had deliberately left him to seek.

Did my husband's demonstrations of how much he loved me make me sorry for what I had done? Not a bit. I was already planning how to get him to agree to having Brandon in our home, ravishing me on the bed we shared. My still-sore pussy heated and moistened at the mere thought. You see, I was convinced I deserved to have it all: incredible sex with Brandon (and others?), and my husband's sweet love. I was young and hot, and smart enough to use what I had to get what I wanted. So why shouldn't I be entitled to have it all? I didn't actually want to hurt my husband, but if he happened to get hurt in the course of my pursuit of happiness, that was how it went. Collateral damage, as they say. Besides, it wasn't as if I didn't intend to make it up to him. 

Tuesday morning, I sat drinking coffee with my husband before we each went to work. It was easy for me to convince myself that we were picking up right where we left off, just as I had said. But by the end of the week, I knew my husband had been right. Not that I told him so, of course – that would have been bad for discipline – but it was obvious we had both changed. I was more careful in talking to him: somehow reluctant to share feelings, readier to keep secrets from him. One evening, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn't know what he was feeling, and didn't really care to ask. I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that I loved him, but I just couldn't seem to make myself care.

We were expecting an important client at work on Friday. He could be difficult, but he was one of our biggest accounts, so we all treated him like royalty. It was no secret that he wanted a piece of me, and I had let him have some of it. For instance, there was the Friday night at the club where I had sat in his lap in a dark corner booth and murmured into his neck while he extracted a bare breast from my dress and played with it and his other hand made merry havoc between my legs. I think he was one of the ones I let push my thong to the side and give me a gentle climax, but I don't remember for sure. He had quite a nice erection; I remember him grinding it into my ass until I was half afraid he would bruise me. This was file nine for me at this point: I had done this often enough that I could do it without thinking about it. Enjoy the situation, play the client, and fend him off before he got the big prize, gently enough that he could keep his hopes up.

The client showed up and behaved as expected. I flashed him melting looks, along with some tit and thigh, while business was discussed at the office. He suggested the same club as before, and made sure I would be one of the party. I called my husband and told him I had a client meeting (which was true, of course), and off we went. We had dinner; he danced with me (OK, so we dry-humped standing up while music was playing); and I found myself in his lap again. I was mostly healed from my weekend with Brandon, so I was OK with his scooping a breast or so out into the open. I let him progress to my preset limit, which we both enjoyed, and then fended him off, all pretty much on auto-pilot. I think he had been hoping to go farther than last time, but he took it well, and we still stood to make our hefty commission. All in all, a successful day.

It wasn't until I was on my way home that I started to wonder. Why had I stopped him? Would there have been anything to gain from letting him have everything he wanted – for the firm, or for me? I found myself wondering what it – and he – would have been like. I hadn't let myself get picked up for full-on sex since before I met my husband. And after The Weekend, as I thought of it now, there didn't seem to be anything left to 'save' for him, or any reason to save it if there was. I pulled into the garage, wondering how long my return to faithfulness would last.

It lasted almost two weeks longer. The guy was a new prospective client. He was certainly no Greek god: he was the wrong side of 40, with a bit of a paunch and thinning hair. But the suit was expensive, the watch was understated but rich, and the shoes were good and well-polished. He was the kind of client we wanted, and the way his eyes followed my little wardrobe adventures told me that I had what it took to impress him. 

He wasn't making it easy, though. I sat close to him and treated him to some nice leg shots; he clearly enjoyed it, but he also clearly expected it. Baseline stuff, he seemed to say. I pushed a boob into his arm several times, enough that he knew it was intentional (the soft bra I had on was ideal for this sort of thing, allowing the tit to squish nicely); same reaction. He kept talking business all the while, and doing it well, too, reinforcing my judgment that he was accustomed to the kind of tease I was giving him. 

It was getting late. Our prospect was summarizing what we needed to do to get his firm's business. I was concentrating on taking notes; I'd given up advertising my availability for the moment. As he finished, I felt a hand on my leg. Not a tentative, see-if-she'll-let-me-do-this hand, either. This hand went straight for the slit in my skirt, entered it unhesitatingly, gripped my thigh, and rode upward to the bare flesh above my stocking tops, lifting my skirt with it. It was done as casually as picking up a pen, and with as much right as if he owned me. 

The surprise made me sit up straight in my chair. My boss looked inquiringly at me. 

"I was just thinking that while you're talking with the other partners," I said, caught out and trying to cover quickly, "he and I could go over my notes and make sure we have everything." Our prospect gave me a knowing look as if aware of my improvisation. His hand continued up my leg, his fingers exploring and claiming the tender flesh of my bare inner thigh as my legs opened to give him room.

"Good idea. My business with the partners will take the rest of the afternoon, so why don't you take our guest to dinner, as well?" 

Our prospect agreed. With one hand he closed his tablet. His other hand cupped my pussy mound possessively, squeezed it once – then flipped my skirt demurely back into its accustomed place on my legs. He stood and offered me his hand to rise from my chair, and I could feel him fingering my wedding rings. (He wore one, too.) I looked at him, expecting to see a little smile, or smirk, or some acknowledgement of what he'd been doing. All I saw was cold appraisal. I stood straight, subtly pushing my breasts toward him; his expression didn't alter. I've rarely had so little idea what a man thought of me. 




Anniversary Cheat



I'm not inexperienced, OK? Just because I've been faithful, doesn't mean I haven't flirted pretty heavily in business settings. I know how this works. You let them know that something could happen. They start to see how far they can go. You lead them on, push them back, then lead them on some more. They start losing focus a little, stammering once in a while, and then you have them where you want them. You close the deal on terms favorable to you. Then you either stop them there, or give them a little more, as you choose. You're in control.

This guy was different. We sat in my office for almost an hour going over my notes, with his left hand firmly established between my parted legs. Legs which he had bared by casually flipping my skirt out of the way again. His voice didn't stumble once. His focus remained sharp as we coaxed the complex deal into place, and he coaxed more moisture out of my pussy and onto my thong. 

He didn't make the next step easy, either. He didn't dance; didn't want to go out drinking; was only up for dinner at his hotel. Fortunately, there was a decent restaurant there, and we shared a dark little corner booth. He wasn't exactly charming, but he could hold an intelligent conversation, and did so through dinner and dessert. A picture of us could have been sent to either of our spouses with no repercussions at all. What the picture would not have shown, was how widely my legs were spread under the table, how he'd shoved my thong to the side, completely baring my pussy, and the big wet spot on the seat. I was about ready to jump out of my skin if I didn't come soon.

Finally, after dessert, he told me he was pleased with our company's offerings so far, and he was certain that if things continued on their present course, we could do business together. Unlike most guys, he actually said it to my face, not my boobs. I smiled, catching the double-entendres. Finally, he had approved of something! He leaned toward me with a napkin in his hand, as if to wipe a smudge off my face. Suddenly, he shoved three fingers up my cunt as hard as they would go, while he thumbed my clit. When I opened my mouth to scream my climax, he deftly pushed the napkin in, muting me. His fingers rasped against my spot, as I clenched and came. Finally, he let me relax. "There, that's better," he said, delicately wiping the corner of my mouth with the napkin.

In his hotel room, my return to fidelity officially ended. It was the weirdest sex I ever had. We went into his room, he shut the door, and he began taking off his clothes, making a little gesture indicating I should do likewise. I did. I've never stripped less erotically for a man, but my pussy didn't know that. It had loved the appetizer downstairs, and was opening wide and drooling for the meal it knew was coming.

He took everything I had, without asking, as if it was his right. He used me almost as roughly as Brandon had, except he didn't rip any clothes. And I came just as hard, and just as often. But he did it all with this pleasant-but-deadpan expression on his face – just like when he was eating dinner. I never felt so used – so treated like a thing – in my life. I thought I should resent that, but I just didn't. I reveled in it, for some perverse reason. 

He was good. I can't say he was a good lover, because he wasn't a lover at all. He was an equal opportunity ravisher: he took and used everything I had. And everything I had certainly loved him. He made himself completely master of my body. He was like a man playing with a complex toy, who understands its every nuance, and puts it through every one of its paces, getting his pleasure from the simple mastery. And, of course, cumming in me. Yes, I let him ride me bareback, and cum inside me. Why not? It wasn't anything Brandon hadn't done. 

It was after 11:00 when I finally thought we were finished. He had already come three times, once in each of my well-used holes, and I had luxuriated in a nice long hot shower. I was pulling up my little thong when I heard his voice from the bed.

"What do you think you're doing? You won't be needing that."

The man had another erection! I sighed a bit, and rejoined him. Then he did something involving his tongue and teeth on my ear, his hands on my breasts, and his slick-with-my-juices cock between my legs, and my pique and tiredness were forgotten as off we went again. I remember a lot of climaxes and a few random thoughts – "I didn't know my inner thighs could feel like that," "I thought I already knew everything you could do to a pair of tits," "Does he eat every girl this way, or is it just me?" We ended up spooning, and he painted my insides again, sighed deeply, wrapped his arms around me, and fell asleep. It had to be past midnight. I tried to stay awake long enough to find a way out of his bed without waking him, but I was just too tired. 

My cell woke me at 6:30. (I'd set it to voice mail at his insistence, but the alarm clock still rang.) I struggled out of our prospective client's arms and shut it off. I'd missed four calls from my husband, three last night and one this morning. He wasn't angry, just wanted to know if I was safe. The one this morning asked if I wanted him to bring me some different work clothes. What a sweetie – instead of reproaching me for my overnight activities, he was thinking of saving me from the Walk of Shame at the office. I called him back, took him up on his offer, and gave him the hotel and the room number. He suggested a shopping bag outside the door, so my companion wouldn't be embarrassed. He really is thoughtful.

I turned back toward the bed, and seeing our prospective client had morning wood, did something about it. Just a blow job this time, though I could feel his eyes memorizing every part of my naked body. By now I was getting off on the mere idea of being used by this inscrutable man – he didn't even have to touch me. 

When we finished, my clothes were outside the door. I put them on, put yesterday's into the shopping bag, and was ready for the day. After breakfast, we went to the office, he signed the papers and became our client, and that was that. I was detailed to drive him to the airport, then take the rest of the day off. (From my boss's facial expression, he knew perfectly well what had happened, in spite of my change of clothes.) To my surprise, our new client didn't lay a finger on me, nor did he mention the previous night. He did say he'd see me the next time he was in town, and I had no doubt about what he meant by 'see.'

So now I had whored for my firm. The thought didn't disturb me. I'd often done some pretty heavy flirting to get clients or contracts, or to smooth the way with co-workers; last night was just a logical extension. Besides, I didn't get paid directly. More worrisome was the fact that I'd cheated, this time without a prior arrangement like I had made for Brandon. Still, I'd as much as told my husband that I spent the night with another man; his only reaction was to ask where to drop off a change of clothes. He was even willing to bring them to the site of my infidelity – and leave them outside the door, so my partner and I wouldn't be inconvenienced. I knew he loved me, more than ever, but I couldn't help comparing him with the other two men who'd had me recently.

Brandon and our client were two very different men, but they had one thing in common: they took what they wanted from me, as if it were their right, not my gift. I was OK with it, of course, not that it mattered. Brandon took me with roaring savagery; our client took me with almost clinical detachment, but they were both takers. They didn't care at all what I thought about it, or whether I enjoyed it (though of course I did). They saw me, wanted me, and took me – all of me. Repeatedly. My husband was a giver. Pleasing me was always his first objective. He did it very well, and he certainly got his pleasure too, but mine came first. Brandon and our new client seemed like lions, capturing me, dragging me down, and gorging on me until they were satisfied. My husband seemed like a scavenger, content with leftovers. That was when I began to lose what was left of my respect for him. 

After my night with Mr. Inscrutable, things progressed pretty quickly. The next week, one of the guys in the office with whom I'd flirted pretty heavily in the past decided it was time he got a chance at what I'd kept from him before, and I saw no reason not to let him. It was a stereotypical office fuck: after repeating the stuff he'd already had but still liked (heavy kissing with ass-grabbing and crotch-grinding; blouse and bra opened and tits thoroughly explored), he bent me over a table in the spare conference room, flipped up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and plowed in. I was wet, he was hard, we both came, it was fun, and that was that. Zip up, button up, and back to work. 

We had a 'difficult' client with a major account in town. My boss assigned me to work closely with him, saying he hoped I would do as good a job with him as I had done with Mr. Inscrutable. I did: both with numbers in the office (I'm actually good at my job) and a bit of medium-strength flirting. Then at dinner, at the dance club, and finally in his hotel room. He was happy, my boss was happy, I was happy. 

It didn't take long for everyone in the office, of both sexes, to figure out that my pussy was no longer off limits. Well, it still was off limits to the trolls and geeks in accounting and so on, but I'd never let them touch me anyway. Squick! You know what I mean. But a couple of months after my Brandon weekend, between clients and good-looking co-workers, I was cheating on my husband about two or three times a week. I never told him in advance; usually, I didn't know myself. I'm sure he knew, particularly about the evenings I "worked late." If I was too tired for him, he not only accepted it, he gave me bubble baths and tucked me in. If I was bruised or stiff (some of those guys were pretty rough – is there something about me that invites that sort of thing? – do they know how much it turns me on, or do they just not care?), he would tenderly wash and massage me. When I was 'available' for him, he was still the same masterful lover. But as those times became fewer and fewer, he meekly accepted the fact. I know now that he meant it as a sign that he loved me. But instead of loving him more, I respected him less.

I hadn't forgotten about having Brandon come and take me in our house. In spite of all the sex I was getting, I still wanted that. But my husband proved surprisingly resistant to my hints and cajoling, so finally I outright asked him, and he said no. 

"No?" I asked. "Just no?"

"No. Our home is the one place where you're all mine. I know you're going out with other men to cheat, and you're cheating on me regularly at work. I'm doing my best to handle it. But when you come in that door," he pointed to the front door, "you're mine. Our home, and our bedroom, are private to us. And I want to keep it that way."

So that was it. I should have felt something for my caring husband, if only pity, but I didn't. I felt only resentment that I couldn't give away this last privacy between us to his uncaring rival. I argued with him; for once, he remained adamant. But so did I.

I began to do things to deliberately 'soil' our home for him. I had guys I'd cheated with call me at home, and I would graphically describe how they had made me feel, while I knew my husband was listening. I didn't need to exaggerate, either: it was plenty hot just as it happened. I left my cum-stained underwear where he could see it. One particularly forceful playmate had ripped my panties and bra off me and used them to soak up the cum he'd sprayed on my face and boobs. I brought them home, still dripping, and hung the ruined underwear from the bathroom doorknob. (Why do I always seem to attract clothing-rippers? I'm spending a fortune on lingerie. Fortunately, my increased 'flexibility' at work is getting me some good bonuses.) I even tried not showering after 'dates,' coming to our bed with another man's dried cum at strategic points on my body. I stopped that after a couple of tries: I just felt too icky. 

After a few weeks of these guerrilla tactics, my husband confronted me. Even now, he was determined, but not angry. Come to think of it, I can't remember a time he was really, truly angry with me. You would think that would have made an impression on me, wouldn't you? But no. 

"I know what you're trying to do," he said. "You're trying to point out how the men you cheat with are already in our home and our bed, because they come home with you – in your mind and on your body. That's true, of course, to a certain extent. You may not see a difference between that and letting them actually have you in our home, but I do. And I will not agree to it."

Damn. I wanted Brandon now more than ever: what they say about what you can't have is true. But I had no more ideas than a rabbit about how to make it happen. I asked people at work; I even asked Brandon. He just laughed and said it was my problem. What made it worse was the girlish panting and giggling I could hear in the background that told me that Brandon wasn't exactly pining away for me. Finally my boss came up with an idea. It was totally sick, completely disgusting, and an utter betrayal of the man who I knew was the only one who truly loved me. I didn't care. All that mattered to me was that I was sure it would work. 

It took weeks to set it up. Anticipating Brandon taking me in our bed, screwing me senseless in the one place my husband still considered private to us, had me climbing the walls. My boss said I spent more time screwing than working. (Not that he was complaining; he got his share.) The clients I 'saw' thought they'd died and gone to heaven. 

The Day came. Brandon arrived at mid-morning, soon after my husband had left. As I expected, he began ripping clothes off me the moment he was in the door. He then flung me over his shoulder, carried me into the bedroom, threw me down on my back on our marital bed, spread my legs, and split me open with his cock. It was everything I'd been waiting for and more. The best orgasm of my life started when the head of his weapon pierced my pussy lips; it didn't stop until he spray-painted the far end of my womb with his cum. He took a couple of pictures of me lying there on the bed I shared with my husband, naked, panting, and leaking his cum from my well-plundered pussy. Well, there goes "private to us" with a literal bang, I thought, with considerable self-satisfaction.

I had wanted some action shots, too, so we had to fuck again. (I know. Awww.) I had bought Brandon a tripod and a remote shutter specially for the purpose. There was one with him taking me doggy style, my breasts swinging wildly beneath me, the soft flesh mottled red from his abuse. Another one in doggy, with my face on the mattress, held down by his foot while he ruts into me. One where he's fucking me from the side, one arm hooked behind my knee to hold my leg in the air and spread my pussy even wider for him, while he mauls my boobs. Finally, there was a sequence where I'm on my back with my head hanging off the edge of the bed, and he's fucking my helplessly offered throat while he has his way with my tits, then he pulls out and cums all over my face. 

We meticulously prepared what my husband would see when he came home. First, he would see a strange car in the driveway. (Call it a cliché if you want. I prefer the term 'classic.') When he opened the door, he would see a trail of my clothing, leading to the dining room table. Prominently featured would be a sundress that was a favorite of his, now ripped and ruined, its buttons still demurely fastened, leaving no doubt about what its fate had been. On the table, he would see a sign reading "Your Choice." On one side were pictures of Brandon fucking me in our bed that morning, and a note "We're in the bedroom; feel free to join us if you wish." If he did, he would find me smiling lovingly at him from Brandon's arms, naked and freshly fucked on our bed. On the other side were divorce papers, ready to file and bearing my notarized signature. 

Brandon and I relaxed on the bed, waiting for my husband to come home. He thought it necessary to fuck me again to make sure I was completely relaxed, and I didn't argue. I smiled as I heard the sound of my husband's key in the lock. The idea that I wouldn't get what I wanted never crossed my mind. I was young, hot, and smart, remember? We heard him walk through the living room to the dining table. We heard him stop. We heard papers; knew he was looking at the pictures. I could feel Brandon's abdomen moving as he chuckled; he tweaked my nipples just for fun. We heard an envelope open: the divorce papers. Then a brief scratching sound; then more footsteps, back through the living room. We heard the front door open, then close. 

Brandon laughed out loud. "I guess he couldn't handle it, but he's too much of a pansy to do anything," he smirked. I laughed, too. I was sure he would be back, probably after Brandon's car was gone, and I would have won. I still couldn't imagine any other outcome. Brandon and I had the same idea about what we could find to do in the meantime, so once again I found myself royally fucked. 

It was dark outside when we finally left the bedroom. I turned on the light to see the dining table. The pictures and the note were there, with a terse addendum: "Thank you, no." Brandon thought it was hilarious; I started to feel a little anxious. The envelope with the divorce papers was still there. I opened it and idly pulled out the papers. There seemed fewer than before, so I looked at the first page. There, just below my signature, was his. I looked at the front of the envelope. In his neat writing were the words, "Your copies." That was all. 

I was outraged. How dare he! The papers were supposed to force him to do what I wanted, not give him an out. Now I was screwed: all he had to do was take them to the court house and we were finished. And I knew him well enough not to doubt that was what he would do. Now he was gone, without even a good bye. Even now, all I felt for him was anger, for ruining my beautiful plan. It would be years before I saw him again.

Brandon thought (predictably enough) that the best cure for my panic and anger was to fuck me senseless. Under the circumstances, that was probably as good as anything, and he proved himself more than capable of doing the job. Afterward, Brandon held me as I slept the sleep of the exhausted. 

My alarm clock woke us the next morning; I had to go to work. Brandon insisted on (OK, he just plain took) a good-morning fuck from me, preceded by a blow job (i.e. throat fuck) to take the edge off. Then he left. He didn't say, but I was pretty sure he had someone else in line to fuck that night. Damn. 

The next two years were a blur. I was making great money, having great sex with lots of guys (including Brandon), and doing whatever I wanted to do. I seldom thought of my ex-husband, and when I did, it was along the lines of "he's the guy who couldn't handle me," or "I'll bet he's missing what he used to have." Once in a great while, I heard his gentle voice in my mind saying "I believe this will be the undoing of us. Please don't do this to us." When I did, I would shrug, and think, OK, so he was right. So what?

I was assigned to a new client; he was a new rep from a company we already did business with. Good looking, a little shy, easily embarrassed by my little flirtations. Putty in my hands, I thought. He was wearing a wedding ring, but I never cared about that, as I was sure from previous experience I could make him forget about it. He was surprisingly resistant, but his virtue was no match for my well-honed technique. Finally, we were in the lounge next to the restaurant. I was in his lap, whispering naughty nothings in his ear while my ass 'accidentally' moved just enough to keep his quite nice-sized erection interested. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, so I stuffed the left one inside my blouse. He hadn't noticed the open buttons, but this certainly brought them to his attention. He was all mine, now: I even used his wedding ring to tease my hard nipple through the skimpy little bra.




Anniversary Cheat



We proceeded to his hotel room. His jacket and tie were off, as were my shoes, blouse and skirt. He was a great kisser, too. Then the room phone rang. He answered, and turned absolutely white. It had to be his wife. A kinky smile crossed my lips. I knelt and fondled his package through his pants, stroking his nice big erection, while he talked with his wife. After he hung up, I stood, smiled at him, and unclipped my bra. Before it could fall off, he seized my shoulders, gripping so hard it hurt.

"Listen. This is all a mistake."

"What?" The line was so stereotyped I gave a little grin.

"Please go. Now. We are not doing this."

I even chuckled a little as I smiled and grabbed for his crotch. "Something else says we are."

"No, we aren't."

"But why? She's gone to bed; she'll never know. And you can't say you don't like my body..." I shimmied to make my breasts jiggle, and stroked him again. He was iron hard. I enjoyed his confusion as his virtue made a pitiful last stand, and got even hotter anticipating my certain victory. I felt what a man feels when he is pursuing a woman and knows he almost has her, and when her resistance finally breaks, it will shatter into a million pieces.

"You have a..." he gulped. "a great body. And a pretty face. And you're very sexy. But there's one thing you don't have."

"What's that?"

"Love. You don't love me; I don't love you; we are not doing this." 

"But it's just sex..."

"There's no such thing as just sex. It's broken promises. It's disrespect. Most of all, it's not love. Can I love my wife while ... while we're doing this? No. So we will not do this. End of story."

Suddenly it had become important to me to get this young husband into bed. I'd had him so close, I could taste it, and him. I tried pouting at him, crying, threatening, questioning his manhood, everything I could think of. He was hot for me, no question, but he wouldn't budge. Finally, humiliated, I put my clothes on and walked to the door.

"When you come to the office tomorrow..." I began coldly.

"I won't be at the office tomorrow," he said, his head hanging. "I don't think I can work with you after this. It won't prejudice your contract; there'll be another rep from my company." He raised his head and looked me straight in the eye. I could see that he was still hard. 

"I wish one thing for you," he said. "I wish you someone who will love you, whom you will love enough that you will never need anyone else. It's the best thing on earth, and it's worth doing anything – or forgoing anything – to keep." 

My whole face was flaming as I left his room. I knew as soon as the door was shut, he would be beating off over me, wife or no. It didn't help. I went home and cried, for the first time since my ex-husband left. 

The next day at work was hell. Sure enough, Mr. Faithful wasn't there, but another rep was, and I worked out a good deal with him with nothing more than mild flirting. One of the partners who hadn't laid me yet called me in to say some very flattering things about my work. After the door was closed he said even more complimentary things about my attitude, then about my body. I reacted appropriately, and soon found myself quite efficiently stripped, groped, screwed, and driven through repeated climaxes. He was bigger than I had expected, knew how to use what he had, and quickly discovered how to push all my buttons. Which he did, repeatedly, enthusiastically, and in a half dozen positions. I was relaxing in a very nice afterglow – we had finished in spoons on the couch – when he threw me my clothes and told me to get out, he had an appointment in five minutes. He kept both my bra and my panties: he wanted souvenirs, he said, and the panties were just too small. Really, a pretty normal day, and the sex was well above average, even for me. But I still felt like crap when I got home, and I didn't know why.

There was only one thing to do. I called Brandon. He laughed at me. "My next few weeks are pretty booked, babe, but I can work you in after that." I heard the sounds of slapping flesh and feminine squeals in the background; why wasn't I surprised that the guy who took my virginity was enjoying some little cutie while talking to me? "How's the 29th next month? I'll only have the day, but I can do a house call for you." I mumbled I'd call back later. He laughed and hung up. 

I was now 29 years old. There were a few more lines on my face, but I weighed the same as I did 10 years ago. You could still bounce a quarter off my ass, my tits still had the perfect teardrop shape with no sag, and there wasn't a trace of cellulite anywhere. I was still smart, I was still hot, and if I wasn't exactly young any more, you couldn't tell by looking – anywhere. And in the last 24 hours, I had been turned down for the first time in my life, and the guy who took my virginity was taking booty appointments – weeks in advance. What the hell was going on here?

The rest of the week was filled with normal days, normal work, normal flirting, and the normal amount of sex. But I felt worse and worse. Friday after lunch, one of the dweebs from IT was working on my computer, and something fell, and he got on the floor and picked it up. As I said, I don't flirt with the dweebs, but he got an accidental upskirt. He totally froze in place. His eyes got real big and he stared until I realized what he was seeing. 

Another time, I would have thought it was funny. But whatever it was that had been bothering me all week boiled over, and I lost it. I pulled him up by his ear (I remember my grandma doing that to my brother once) and let him have it. All of it. Everything I could think of, delivered at top volume, straight into his now tomato-colored face, for a full five minutes. I think they heard me outside on the sidewalk. When I ran out of things to call him, I repeated a few for good measure, then turned my back on him. I lifted my skirt and wiggled my ass, to show him what he'd never have. 

To this day I swear that what happened next was an accident. I truly didn't intend to do it, I never even thought about it, but – I farted. Big and loud. I walked out of the office to raucous cheers and laughter, not sparing a glance for the poor IT guy I'd just humiliated. It wasn't even his fault – he'd just looked at what I was showing, after all. Not that I cared, at the moment.

About an hour later, one of the older women in the office came up to me and uttered the four scariest words in the English language: "We have to talk." She made less than I did, but she was one of those people you have to have in an office because she knew everything and everyone, and could make it all work together. So I wasn't stupid enough to blow her off or disrespect her when she sat me down in a conference room and began her lecture.

"Of course, you're going to apologize to Geoffrey," she began. Of course. He would be a Geoffrey. But she was right; I was already beginning to feel ashamed of myself, especially for the bit at the end. I nodded.

"But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know I've been here a long time, and I've seen just about everything. I've seen a couple of dozen just like you, if you want to know. Smart, sexy, ambitious, not shy about using everything you have to climb that ladder. Don't get your dander up – I'm not calling you a bimbo. Though even bimbos are useful in their place, you should know. Your type is different, and you're as good a combination of brains and sex as we've ever had. Like most of your type, you enjoy all of what you do, both the actual work, and the sex. And you're good at it: you really do have it all.

"But you know, something always happens. Something causes them to question why they're doing this. They're doing all the same things, and suddenly instead of being fun and rewarding, it's all crap. That happened to you this week, and that's why you blew up at that poor IT dweeb."

What? Had the old battle-axe just called 'Geoffrey' a dweeb? I looked carefully in her eyes; sure enough, there was a little twinkle there that told me she thought he was just as much a loser as I did. I relaxed a little.

"Like most girls of your type, you're not very self-analytical. So I'll help you. What you're feeling is generally known as, 'Is that all there is?' You're still young, you're whip-smart, you're sexy as all get-out. You're successful in your profession, you're making great money, and you're getting sex on your terms when you want it. You have everything you ever thought of wanting. But suddenly none of it matters. There has to be something else, but you have no idea what it is. 

"The bimbo types, of course, can go into stripping or something like that; it's a new adventure but using the same tools, and makes good money, so it works for them. You wouldn't last a week in the sex trade.

"Some girls react by leaving the work place, pouring their energy and their formidable abilities into their husbands and children. They almost always make good mothers, though a bit tiger-mom-ish. And it may surprise you that they almost all become faithful wives, no matter how much they spread it around while they were here. But you seem to have misplaced that nice husband of yours. Too bad: he'd have been just what you need right now.

"So what I suggest for you" (I was waiting for the 'my dear,' which was implied rather than said) "is a fresh start, using just your brains. You're smart; that will be with you when you're my age. Your looks won't. And you'll get self respect by succeeding without using your body. Unfortunately, you won't be able to do it here." 

My jaw dropped. I stared. "You mean they're going to fire me? over this?"

She laughed – a real laugh, too, not fake or sarcastic. "No, my dear, they won't – especially after today. You're too valuable to them in all sorts of ways. No, the reason you must leave is that while you are here, you'll be valued at least partially for your looks, because you've trained the people here to think of you that way. Here, you'll always be the sex bomb with a brain, not the smart woman who happens to be hot. Do you understand?" 

I did. I thanked her, and went off to apologize to Geoffrey. He really wasn't a bad sort – he wasn't too upset, and didn't try to push things too far or rub my nose in it. It's too bad he was such a dweeb; I might have enjoyed getting to know him. 

I called in a few favors from old-timers (OK, so I gave out a few, too) and found out that my suspicion was right: the grey haired office battle axe had once been a young, smart, hot analyst, like me. She had obviously taken her own advice; I decided I would, too.

A NEW START (MOSTLY)

Two years later found me in a smaller firm, in a smaller town near where I grew up. I was already chief analyst, and I would make partner in two years when Fred Jenkins retired. We'd become the most profitable brokerage house in the state for our size. And I didn't sleep with anyone, or even flirt, to make that happen. Every new year's, I still send a thank you note to the grey-haired battle axe at my old firm. 

I was 31, and I still had it, in case you're wondering. Every now and then, when I felt the urge, I would go out and pick up some guy. It was a night he would never forget, nor repeat.

One day I got an e-mail from someone calling herself Mary Harmon. I'd never heard of such a person, but the name Harmon drew my curiosity: it was mine, while I was married. So I read it instead of deleting it. 

It turns out she was Mary Morrison, and she had been a couple of years behind me at school. It took some thought, but I finally remembered her: a tall, skinny, serious girl, dressed to hide what little shape she had, but if you took a second or third look at her, she was actually pretty, in an earnest sort of way. She said she had married my ex-husband, had seen my picture in the local paper (they were big on 'local business woman makes good' stories), and had persuaded her husband to invite me to dinner at their house. 

I finally decided, why the hell not. It wasn't as if my social calendar was overflowing anyway. I wasn't mad at my ex any more, and had grown up enough (finally) to realize that it wasn't really his fault. Besides, I was curious to see what Mary Morrison was like now. So I accepted. 

I stood on the front step of the smallish but immaculate house and smiled. It was so exactly what my ex would want. I rang the doorbell.

The door opened to reveal a little girl, about eight or so. I gasped: she looked exactly like the Mary I remembered, straight brown hair worn long off her face and everything, only shrunk to child size.

"Miss Lucie? Please come in." Her serious-but-sweet smile lent warmth to the formal address; she was charming.

"I'm Marie. Please have a seat," she motioned to what was clearly the best chair in the living room. She had even practiced the gesture, the little minx.

"Mom and Dad asked me to let you in because they can't because dinner is at a critical juncture." She pronounced the unfamiliar words carefully, but correctly. "What's a critical juncture?"

I explained, and we talked for a while. Her poise and confidence were the equal of many an adult woman, her sincerity and charm put me completely at ease, and she displayed what seemed to be a freakishly large vocabulary. 

I noticed a formal picture of a handsome young Marine in the place of honor on the mantle. I asked if it were her uncle.

"No, that's my father. He was killed in Afghanistan." 

I sat, stunned. What do you say to something like that? Whatever it was, I couldn't think of it – still can't.

"Please don't mind, Miss Lucie." The little girl's candid eyes and serious-but-sweet smile looked up at me.

"I never saw him, so I don't really miss him. And of course I have Mom and Dad. But they say we must never forget him and always honor him, and do our best to make him proud. He was a hero." She said it simply, as one might say 'he was a fireman' or 'he was an engineer.' We sat quietly for a moment. She sprang up with an expression of horror, suddenly a child again.

"Oh, my gosh. I forgot. I'm so sorry. I'm supposed to offer you something to drink. We have," she paused while she remembered her list, "ice water, iced tea, cranberry juice (but you wouldn't like that), or root beer (that's the best). We have other things too, but Dad will have to get them for you because I'm too young." 

I told Marie I'd like a root beer; she smiled and almost skipped to the kitchen to get it. As I listened, I heard her say, "No, I want to take it to her!" Then an adult voice too low for me to understand. "I like Miss Lucie, she's nice." I heard my ex chuckle; little Marie was clearly getting her way. 

I rose to greet the procession: Marie with my root beer, Mary Morrison Harmon, and my ex. Marie handed me my drink, which gave me a few seconds to compose myself. My ex smiled and extended his hand. 

"Welcome, Lucie," he said. He looked more relaxed than I ever remembered seeing him. I never saw him that calm and happy after my weekend with Brandon, that's for sure. 

"May I present my wife, the former Mary Morrison?" It was all done formally and correctly, but there was a warmth there that made what I'd considered the silly social conventions actually meaningful. 

We shook hands. Mary hadn't changed, on first glance. But a deeper look showed a mature, happy, confident woman, secure in herself, secure in her family. I'd always considered her not in my league when it came to looks, but I had to admit that she was beautiful now. The height that had made her gawky at 14 made her elegant now; her simply-done hair perfectly set off a classically beautiful face unmarred by makeup and warmly lit from within. She still wasn't 'hot' and never would be, but she was beautiful in a way I knew I never would be.

Dinner was amazingly comfortable. I've never enjoyed eating with children, even (especially!) my own little brother, but Marie was more polite than many adults I've known. Her good manners combined with her childish enthusiasm to make her irresistible. I had expected Mary to be at least a little uncomfortable around her husband's hot ex-wife, but she wasn't. After dinner, my ex excused Marie to her homework (she'd been allowed to postpone it in honor of my visit); he promised she could come back and say good night to Miss Lucie before she went to bed. He then headed to the kitchen to clean up, by obvious pre-arrangement. Mary and I proceeded to the living room.

I hadn't known Mary well in school, but there was something so comfortable about her, that before long we were talking as if we'd been best friends. She let it drop that she'd been a virgin when she married Jeff, her Marine first husband. 

"Then you must not have dated Brandon," I said archly.

"Oh, but I did," she actually giggled, "sort of." 

"Sort of? I didn't know he did 'sort of.'" I had to hear about this.

"Some of my friends set me up with him. The bargain was they would get all the gory details afterward: gossip fodder, you know. He asked me out – I don't remember where we were supposed to go – and of course I wasn't going to turn down the most popular senior in the school, so I said yes. He gave me this look, and I could feel it all the way through me. 

"It was a couple of days until our date, and he would sometimes see me in the hall, and give me that look again. The feelings got stronger every time. Finally the day came. I met him at school, so my parents wouldn't know how much older he was. He didn't say a word; he just started driving, giving me that look from time to time. I had never even kissed on a first date; now, every time he looked at me, I revised my boundaries again, to give him a little more. Then he looked at me and made this little speech about always doing it on the first date. 

"Lucie, I was quivering all over like you would not believe. I'd never felt anything like that before. I was only 15, after all! Part of me – a lot of me – was ready to let him have whatever he wanted. Then I heard my dad's words in my head: 'You're worth more than that, Mary.' I asked him (with the part of my mind that wasn't screaming at me to just give in), 'What should I do, then?' He answered, too: 'Sometimes the only thing to do is run.'

"So I did. I got my legs set under me and put my left hand on the seat belt latch. I'm sure he thought I was rearranging myself so he could see more of my legs, and my skirt did sort of ride up. I got my right arm out of the seat belt and braced it on the door handle, and when he stopped at the next red light, I was gone!" She was chuckling at the remembrance. 

OK, I admit it: I goggled at her. This shy little naif had actually had the balls – there was no other word for it – to walk out on Brandon. From his car. And at 15, no less! I was never able to do that, even when I had a husband to do it for. "Wow!" was all I could say.

"I think I waved at him when I reached the sidewalk, though I don't remember for sure. I certainly thought about it. After all, he couldn't very well leave his car to chase me, so I felt safe. I walked about four miles home, and that was that."

"What did you tell your parents?" 

She laughed. "I told them he thought he was hotter stuff than I thought he was, so I left him. 

"He tried to make some trouble for me at school, cornering me against my locker and that sort of thing. He could still arouse me just by looking, but I was never again in serious danger of letting him have me. Then one day, he had me pinned against my locker and was starting to feel me up, when this angel boy made him stop. He turned out to be Jeff, and after that, it didn't matter what Brandon did, or how he looked at me." 

"You mean his look didn't turn you on any more?" 

She considered for a moment. "Yes, it did, in a way. I mean, I could still feel it. But I knew that if I ever gave him anything, I would regret it, and besides I was falling in love with Jeff, so Brandon just didn't matter any more."




Anniversary Cheat



We talked about Jeff for a while. They had married out of high school; he had enlisted, and she had gone to nursing school. Marie had been conceived on his last leave before he was killed. 

"He never got to hold Marie," Mary said, tearing up for the first time. I tried to imagine that kind of sorrow, and couldn't. I changed the subject. I asked her how she'd met my ex.

"Oh, thank you for asking that. I need to talk with you about that without Matt in the room, because he's very sensitive about it. That's why I had so much trouble getting him to agree to having you over, but it's also why I insisted on it. His being out of the room when I told you was our compromise." She took a deep breath. Her face was grave.

"Lucie, there's no easy way to tell you this. I was working Emergency the night they brought Matt in. He had attempted suicide – over what you did to him." 

I started to splutter something or other in my defense. 

"Lucie, neither of us is angry with you. I'll admit I was at first, but I'm over that now. What's done is done; my calling you every name in the book won't change it. Besides, I've never been in your situation, so I don't know if I'd act any better than you did, so I can't really criticize. But I want to ask you for something, while it's just us. 

"I'm sure you knew how deeply what you did would hurt Matt. He'll always have scars from it. But it would mean a lot to him – it would help him heal – if you could honestly tell him you're sorry. No details, no explanations, just you're sorry that you hurt him. If you feel you can do it." 

"So why are you asking me this? Why isn't he asking me, himself?" I was suddenly, irrationally irritated at this calm, cool, upright, butter-won't-melt-in-her-mouth woman who attempted to meddle in my passions. She gave me a gentle smile, in which even unperceptive I could see the strength of her love for her husband, and her determination to protect him. That smile answered my question before she said a word.

"He wouldn't, because he doesn't trust himself to. And I will, because it will help him have closure and be at peace." She thought for a moment.

"Do you know, Jeff – my tough, man's man Marine husband – introduced me to opera?" I must have goggled a bit; this woman I had always thought of as quite ordinary was full of surprises. She laughed her with-you-not-at-you laugh again. 

"He did, and now I have Matt and Marie on board, too. Anyway, there's an aria in Mozart's Don Giovanni, where the tenor sings, 'My peace depends on yours; your trouble breaks my heart.' That's how Matt and I are, Lucie. And I will dare anything for his peace." There was steel in her words. 

We both sat thinking for a moment, she with that sweet but determined smile, me busy with my thoughts. Did I – could I – regret all the great sex with Brandon and the others? Could I be sorry for the excitement of it all? No, I could not. I might have moved on, but truthfully, I enjoyed all of it, and given the chance to go back, I knew I would do it all over again. 

Then I thought of my new life. I was getting ahead with my brains, I had plenty of money, I was getting sex when I troubled to go looking for it. What more could I want? Mr. Faithful's words came back to me: "I wish one thing for you. I wish you someone who will love you, whom you will love enough that you will never need anyone else. It's the best thing on earth, and it's worth doing anything – or forgoing anything – to keep." My ex – Matt's – voice came then: "I believe this will be the undoing of us. Please don't do this to us." My traitorous eyes started to tear up. Yes, the sex had been great, and I enjoyed it: but I paid too much for it. Worse, I paid for it out of our joint account, if you will: I spent his love to buy my – OK, say the word – lust. And for that, I was truly sorry. 

I couldn't speak, so I nodded to Mary. She smiled at me, and I knew I had done the right thing.

The moment was broken when Marie entered, freshly-scrubbed and in her PJs. She was adorable. She ran to me with a beaming smile, threw her arms around me, jumped into my lap, and told me in a breathless rush how glad she was I had come to her house. Matt, taking a seat next to Mary, reminded her that we didn't jump on guests. Recalled to herself, she was about to get off me. Suddenly, I couldn't bear for her to go. I put my arms around her and held her close.

"Please, can she stay here, just for a little while?" I asked, sounding rather child-like myself. Matt nodded; Mary smiled, and Marie snuggled in. We four talked easily about nothing consequential until I had to give her up; it was an eight year old's bedtime. Standing straight and tall as she could (she would be tall like her mother), she extended her hand to me. 

"Thank you for coming to visit, Miss Lucie. I enjoyed it very much, and I hope to see you again soon. Good night." We shook hands and she trotted off with Matt. She turned and waved at me before she went out of sight. My eyes, damn them, were misty. Worse yet, Mary noticed. I got the feeling she didn't miss much.

"You know, she really does like you. She almost never opens up that much for strangers. And she really meant it about hoping to see you again, it wasn't just being polite." 

"Yes, I could tell. She's a – remarkable girl." I knew that wasn't the right word, but it was the best I could do just then. What did I know about eight year olds, anyway?

Mary became pensive. "She's very empathetic. I worry about her sometimes: she can sense when someone has a hidden hurt, and she just has to make it better." She smiled wistfully. "I'm not sure I like where that could lead when she's older, but she is who she is: I don't think I'd change her, even if I could.

"There's only one other person to whom Marie reacted as strongly as she did to you." 

"Who was it?" The question was out before I could stop it. Marie just looked at me and smiled. 

"Oh," I said. "That was a silly question, wasn't it?" Matt came into the living room as my blush was fading, but he didn't see it. His eyes met Mary's, just like they had several times that evening. I remembered what Mary had said about their being each other's peace. I believed it. Their look had music in it: I wondered how the tune went. Opera, huh? It just goes to show you.

Matt started to say something, but I interrupted him.

"Matt, there's something I need to say to you, and I need to get it out before I lose my nerve." 

He smiled just a touch, I think the idea that there was something for which I might lose my nerve amused him. 

"Matt, the things I did while we were married, especially that last day." Come on, girl, at least talk in complete sentences. "I knew they would hurt you when I did them. And I did them anyway. I didn't set out to hurt you, truly I didn't. I just selfishly didn't care. Maybe that's even worse, I don't know. No one's ever hurt me that badly. But I – that is, we – you – you were such a good – " He was looking at me calmly, acceptingly, almost encouragingly. I lost my train of thought and finally blurted it out.

"You didn't deserve what I did to you, and I'm ashamed of my selfishness, and I'm sorry. OK?" I promptly started bawling. I don't mean grief-stricken weeping, I don't mean tears of regret, I mean little girl fell off her bike and skinned her knee bawling. I thought of perfect little Miss Marie, who (if she fell off her bike at all) would probably pick herself up, brush herself off, and say "Oh, bother" or something like that and get back on the bike. I bawled harder. 

Matt was on one side of me, Mary on the other, holding me. A streak of blue PJs and long brown hair bolted down the hallway and flung herself into my lap. She wound both arms around my neck as tightly as she could, dampened the front of my shirt with her tears, and kept saying, "Don't cry, Miss Lucie. You're with us now. Please don't cry." Empathetic? yes, I guess you could say that. 

When we were all cried out, Marie remembered that she was supposed to be in bed, and asked me to come tuck her in. Awkward. But her arms were still around my neck, so if she was going, I was going, and her parents didn't seem to mind. She stretched out her hand to Matt as we left, so he came too. He was on one side and I on the other as we pulled the blankets over the little girl, who was already mostly asleep, with an angelic smile on her face. For a brief moment, I thought that Matt and I might have been tucking in our own little girl, had things gone differently. But no. 

"I'm so sorry I lost it there. It just – " I couldn't finish the sentence because I didn't know just what 'it' was. Matt smiled at me from his place next to Mary. 

"Lucie, what you did took a lot of courage. I accept your apology, and admire you for offering it. I forgive you."

I wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next. A hug? a handshake? a sincere look across the living room? Mary filled the awkward silence.

"And you're welcome here any time." A shadow crossed Matt's face. I don't think they had discussed this beforehand and I could see Matt had some concerns. But I was betting that Mary would get her way, especially since most of his concerns were probably for her feelings anyway. After all, when we were married, most of his concerns were about me. 

It wasn't late when I got back to my condo. I had half-planned that if this evening didn't go well, I would still have time to change clothes, head out, and get laid. Instead, I plumped myself down in my comfy chair. I was exhausted – it had been a pretty emotional evening – but there was something warm that made the corners of my mouth go up instead of down. I thought about it, and finally realized: those three people actually cared about me. I couldn't really do anything for them – frankly, my apology did more for me that it did for Matt, and I'm pretty sure he and Mary had known it would all along. And most wives would see – OK, let's face it, a hotter, sexier ex-wife – as a threat. Not Mary. She was serenely untroubled. She wasn't stupid or naive, far from it. I'd never in my life been secure enough in a relationship – even with Matt – to have done what she did, as gracefully as she did it. What made her so secure?

I was no closer to an answer a week or so later when I picked up my phone to hear a carefully poised, adult-sounding voice that could only belong to a certain eight year old. I felt my mouth turning up at the corners and my heart warming in spite of myself. 

"Mom and Dad are having some neighbors over for a barbecue on Saturday, and they said I could invite you. Would you like to come? ... please?" 

"I would love to come, Marie." I mean, what else could I possibly have said? I had no real desire to see Matt and Mary again, much less meet their neighbors, but Marie had her heart set on it, and disappointing that little girl just was not an option.

"SHE SAID YES!" I think I'd have heard her shout from across town without the aid of the telephone. Still, how long had it been since anyone, whatever their age, had been that excited about my company?

"Please ask your Mom what I should bring," I asked, when I had recovered some of my hearing.

"Mom says you don't need to bring anything, just yourself. We'll eat at 6:00, but people will start arriving about 5." Marie had recovered her poise, but you could still hear the excitement in her voice. We said good bye and see you then, and hung up. 

I decided that if my previous visit to Matt and Mary's had been about what I had lost by driving Matt away, this one would be about what he gave up when he walked out on Brandon and me. I was going to get some pride back. I know, I was being selfish. So sue me. The tricky question was how to do it. 

I knew I could easily out-hot Mary, but I also knew that would play straight into her demure little hands. I was subtle. Understated makeup, button-down blouse worn loose outside my mid-thigh walking shorts, and low-heeled sandals wouldn't attract attention, but anyone who paid attention would know I had what it took. And Matt had always been one to pay attention. 

I arrived about 5:30 to a polite but clearly sincere welcome from Marie. She brought me a drink (root beer – she remembered!), chatted a while, then excused herself to attend to "her guests." I watched as she made each of the neighbor children feel welcome and at home, simply and confidently, like a seasoned hostess. I had to smile. 

Matt and Mary greeted me warmly, introduced me around, then went back to the grill and the salad trays, respectively. If you've been paying attention, you know I'm expert at flirting. I can do it hard or soft, obvious or subtle, one-on-one or in a group. The fact that I hadn't played the game seriously in a while didn't mean I had forgotten how. It didn't take me long before I had the husbands hanging on my every word, hoping for a greener light, while their wives had me in the "pretty and nice enough but no threat" class. Perfect – except for one little thing.

Do you remember the picnic scene in 'Gone with the Wind' where Scarlett is trying to get Ashley to notice her, and she ends up with the attention of every man in the place except him, and he only has eyes for Melanie? Well, that was us. Matt only had eyes for Mary, and they both looked like they knew exactly what I was doing. Worse yet, they didn't mind. How humiliating!

As if on cue, Rhett Butler showed up. OK, he didn't have a mustache and his hair was sort of dirty blond, but it was straight out of the movie. All he had to do was walk into the back yard, and everyone knew he was there. The husbands (except Matt) stayed a little closer to their wives, some of whom got that embarrassed look that said they knew him better than their husbands thought they did. They were rewarded with a little grin that might have seemed like boyish charm if you ignored the wolfish leer in his eyes. The only people who greeted him with equanimity were Matt and Mary, to whom he was quietly respectful. Then he looked at me. I swear, it was just like Brandon. If it weren't for the good smells from the grill, everyone nearby would have known that my poor little thong had just gotten soaked. Of course, the bastard made a beeline for me.

"Luke Walters," he said, holding out a powerful, oh-so-masculine looking hand. 

"Lucie," I replied – no need for details. "And what brings you here, unattached?"

"Pretty women, of course. What else?" He looked me up and down arrogantly, as if to satisfy himself that I was worth his time. He knew it made me wet, damn him. 

We were interrupted by the call to dinner. 

"You're going to enjoy this," Luke said, taking my arm and steering me toward the table, taking the opportunity to rub his knuckles on the side of my breast, and grinning like a naughty schoolboy as he watched my nipple pop out. 

"I was enjoying the smells before you arrived," I said, with a snarky little emphasis on the 'was.' He chuckled.

"Seriously, Matt's a master," he explained. "I've known him for a while, and I'd rather eat here than just about any restaurant in town. And not just for the eye candy, either."

Luke was about to seat me (and of course, look down my shirt) when Marie came up to us. She was a little out of breath from playing, but perfectly poised nonetheless.

"Pardon me, Miss Lucie, but Mom said I could sit next to you if it's OK with you." 

"Thank you, Marie, I'd love to. Where are we sitting?" I smiled sunnily at Luke's discomfiture.

Marie was excited to be at the grown-ups table, and determined to prove she belonged there. Her manners were perfect, her conversation was engaging, and she actually listened, too. Bless her heart, she even had a fresh root beer poured on ice ready for me. And the meal was every bit as good as Luke said it would be.

"Is there someone you really want to be like when you grow up?" I asked her. I loved hearing her talk, and I really was curious.

"Mom, of course," she answered quickly, then thought a moment. "Actually, maybe mostly Mom and some Dad. I'm so lucky to have them both. I know I'll meet other nice people, like you, but Mom and Dad will always be my heroes." 

Heroes. Had I ever had a hero? What would I do with one if I did? I was lost in thought until I felt the lightest touch on my forearm.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lucie, I didn't mean to make you sad." She meant it, too, the little dear, and it was all I could do not to give her a squeeze right there. I restrained myself: it would have made her feel like a little kid, and that would be just wrong. So we talked about what she would like to do when she grew up. She pointed to her Mom. 

"She's always quiet, and never looks like she's hurrying. But she's always where she needs to be, and everything's always better when she's around. That's how I want to be." 

Wow. I looked her in the eye and told her I was betting on her. The smile I got in return was enough to light up a room, and keep it warm, too. 

Marie smiled at me and excused herself after dinner. "I'm sorry, I need to attend to my guests. It was wonderful to talk with you." It was charming, and I really believed that she would rather have stayed with me, but had her obligations. I watched her wistfully for a few moments as she played hostess, until a strong male hand took me by the elbow.

"Are you about ready for some adult conversation?" Of course Luke was speaking right into my ear with that tingly rumble that goes straight to a girl's pussy, and doing that thing with his knuckles against my boob that made me wish I'd worn a more substantial bra. 

"Ha! That eight year old has better manners and conversation than I do – or certain other adults I could name." I smiled my most innocent smile, and tried to camouflage the "take me!" signs my nipples and pussy were busily hanging out for him.

"Just wait until she's old enough to flirt." We both laughed, as I allowed him to lead me to a little bench. 

We hadn't been talking long when Marie presented herself. 

"Excuse me, Mr. Walters." I couldn't read the expression she gave him, but it certainly didn't contain the warmth with which she then looked at me. 

"Miss Lucie, I'd like to take the other kids to the park that's a couple of blocks from here, but Mom and Dad say I need an adult with me. Would you please come with us? You wouldn't have to chaperon or anything, just be there in case something happens. Could you help me, please?" 

If I didn't know better, I'd have thought Marie was trying to save me from Luke. Looking at those clear, candid child-woman eyes, I decided I rather wanted to be saved, so I agreed.

"I've heard of hiding behind a skirt before, but this..." Luke spoke softly, for my ears only, but the brief flash in Marie's eyes showed she wasn't fooled a bit. Remind me not to try to put one over on that girl, I thought.

Marie was right; the kids behaved for her, and the park was fun. I even did something I've never done before: I pushed a child in a swing. How many other simple pleasures had I missed out on, while I pursued a brilliant career and hot sex? As I was pondering this, Luke walked up to me. I stood and smiled at him: never let them think they've gotten the best of you.

"I'm heading home, so I won't have another opportunity tonight to give you this." He held a piece of paper toward me with his name and phone number on it, but before I could either take it or reject it, he reached around me and stuffed it into the back pocket of my shorts, groping and squeezing my ass as he did so. I jumped and squeaked a little. 

"There. That's not going anywhere," he laughed. "I'd better go before Little Miss Muffet gives me the evil eye." He laughed again, gave me one last melting (for my pussy, anyway) look, and walked away. Marie was indeed looking at Luke. I could tell what her look said, now: "She's my friend, and don't you dare hurt her." Marie watched Luke out of sight, then ran to me, gave me a big bear hug, and ran back to her guests, all without saying a word.