I grasped the banister and gave it a good shake. It was an old house, the railing was secure...but still...
Ela looked over her shoulder and smiled. My thumb was still in her ass and my cock was pulsing against her thigh, her juices dripping onto it. “You'll have to fuck me nice and slow,” she said, in reference to our precarious location.
And so I slid inside of her, and began to move carefully, slowly, inside of her flesh. She was so wet there was almost no friction, just heat, and I was nearly bursting but it was clear I would be there a long time, fucking her slowly so we didn't go crashing through the railing, being tortured by the feeling of my thumb in her ass and her too-wet pussy on my cock.
But Ela's pussy was quivering around me, and I felt her muscles tense. She was going to come. Her ass squeezed around my thumb and her cunt burst around me.
Her hands made their way back through the railing, and she clamped down on my balls. She kneaded them in her hand and pulled me deep inside of her, as her cunt rippled through the last waves of her orgasm.
She squeezed me with her pussy, and kneaded my balls. And like that – balls-deep in her soaked cunt and without moving an inch to actually fuck her - my cum knifed its way out me and I yelled as I filled her up.
We remained that way for a while, panting. I was dizzy from the intensity of my orgasm, and Ela was still pulsing around me, hot and liquid.
“What was that?” I said, finally.
Don't get me wrong, it was great. I just...couldn't believe that after all these years, out of nowhere, Ela wanted to try something like that.
She stood up. I slid from her, and she shrugged. “I learned it at school,” she quipped.
I said nothing. I wasn't sure what Ela was going for with that comment, but the effect was to make my cock, which had that dizzying, fucked-out feeling pulsing through it, twitch a little back to life.
An image of Ela bent over that way for some instructor flitted through my mind.
Meanwhile, I said nothing.
“I just wanted to try something different. Most men would not be complaining.”
I turned her around. She was right about that. I stroked her arm and gave her an affectionate kiss. “I'm just being...” I said. I really had no idea what I was being.
“I have to take a shower,” Ela said.
I lay awake, though, all night. The paranoia was creeping back inside of me, eating me alive.
First, the shaved pussy. Why? Sure, she could just claim it was a coincidence. But the only other time Ela had shaved so completely was for Christian. For the one time in our long relationship she had strayed.
That you know about, Peter.
I shuddered.
And then there was how wet she was. Why would she be so wet, so turned on, after staying alone and practicing and then riding home on the subway, one of the least sexy places on earth, with its filthy red-carpeted seats and advertisements for STD testing?
The feel of her soaked cunt dripping into my hand fluttered back through my mind.
And then the bending over. The contortionist act.
The fingers in her ass.
It was all too suspicious to be ignored.
Something had to be going on.
And so I lay awake nearly all night, my head awash in image after image of my wife being defiled by all or none of her ensemble members, including the slutty Kim Lee.
And just like that, the obsession flared again. To a full-fledged case of pure addiction.
L ONDON
Ela was wrapped in a towel, smelling like strawberries. She had left her packing to the last minute, as usual, and was now moving in a disjointed and disorganized frenzy. Her hair was wet and clung to her skin. I watched her with fascination as she jabbered excitedly and moved from one suitcase to the next, taking things out and putting things back in.
She set two dresses down on the bed and smoothed the material of each, what little of it there was. Both were new, and without seeing them on her, I could see they were far more risque than her usual choices. She appraised the dresses.
She sighed. “I hate wearing black all the time.”
Something bit me. I mean, something had been biting me for a long time now, but just then I couldn't contain myself anymore. “Does someone else want to see you in another color?”
I meant for my voice to sound lighthearted, to be able to claim that I had just made a joke. But I sounded, instead, like a psycho.
Ela's eyes fluttered with an eyeroll that I couldn't see, and she sighed again. She turned around to face me and said, in a very peculiar voice:
“Oh yes. My big, strong lover says he wants me to wear more red.”
She turned back to her dresses.
I wondered if Ela knew, just a little bit, what was in my mind. Surely she had to. Surely she knew how she was teasing me.
Or maybe she wasn't teasing. Maybe she was utterly serious.
I felt my cock twitch.
I moved closer to her. “Oh yeah? And who is this guy?”
She shrugged, and I could see the ripple of her smile in her cheeks. “Just some guy. I met him at school. He's on the football team.” She was being silly now, but I was serious. I moved my hand along her arm and up to her neck. I pushed her head forward a little so I could pepper her neck with kisses.
I had two choices. Go with the sure thing, the fantasy she seemed willing to talk about. Or go for broke, and try to reel it back in the direction I wanted it to go: to a real lover, a realistic one at least.
“Not your professor?” my mouth said, without giving me the chance to think things over. I moved my hand down to her breast, and gave her a quick squeeze on the nipple through the fabric of the towel. Just in case she was about to get mad and push me away.
She surprised me by smiling more.
She gave a low, rumbling laugh. Almost like a moan. “No. No, he wants me to wear black. Of course.”
I knew she must have been able to feel my cock getting hard close to the small of her back. Surely she could feel it. She must have known that she was turning me on.
“Tell me more,” I said.
She giggled. “Peter!” she exclaimed. “What is with you?”
I hesitated. Should I tell her what was with me? Did I know what was “with me?”
How does a man tell his wife the strange, crazy ideas that are in his head, and circulating around in his cock, getting weirder and weirder there? The idea that I wanted other men to touch her, other men to make her scream, other men to have her – and yet that he didn't want that at all?
There were darker thoughts than just that. Thoughts about wanting to actually see her getting defiled by another man, thoughts about wanting to see what the aftermath was like, physically, on her body. To feel the dried cum of another man on her skin when I touched her, to put my fingers into her cunt and feel it loose and wet around my fingertips, gushing with another man's seed...
“Peter? Seriously. Which one should I wear?”
I pointed at the one on the right.
I trailed my fingertips down her neck, and I was pleased when her skin turned to hard bumps and raised, fine hairs.
“No,” she said, sexily. “Andre won't like that one.”
I shivered again.
“Andre, huh?”
“The football player.”
A pang of hot, painful lust clanged through me, even though this was a silly game. She used this sometimes, a made-up person, a made-up lover, just to tease me.
Don't say it.
“Does 'Andre'have a big cock?”
I closed my eyes. I was going to get hit in the face.
“Very big. Not as big as maestro's, which is surprising. But big.”
Bigger than yours, I begged mentally for her to say.
But even without that, even without her saying that, I felt like I had entered some secret passageway. I was holding a delicate thing in my hands, hot as hell, and I didn't want to break it.
Ela, as always,
had it under control. She pressed her ass against my groin, tilting herself upward to do it. She turned and exposed her neck to my mouth. She held my fingers up to her lips. “Do you want to hear what we do together?”
I murmured my assent.
“You like that?”
I just let a puff of air come out of my mouth. I was too stunned by her willingness to play along with the game to say anything that might break it.
Her hand made its way down to my groin, over my trousers, and squeezed.
Her mouth twisted in a pleased little grin. “Hmmm,” she said. “I think you do like it.”
A wash of memories and desires flooded my mind: Christian with his cock in her ass, the smell of her close enough for me to get a whiff of it. My fantasies about seeing her misbehave again, seeing her do some very naughty thing that I simply didn't have the...desire to do to her myself...with some other man.
“Tell me what you do with Andre,” I said.
And I knew, or at least I hoped (or did I?) that it was all a game, but nothing gave me more pleasure at that moment than the wicked little smile that turned up the corner of Ela's mouth.
“I let Andre do all kinds of naughty things with me, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to hear about them all?”
My head bobbled in what I hoped she took for a nod.
She put her arms over my shoulders. “It makes me soooooo horny to talk about it,” she complained. “I might need you to help me out,”
She was playful, and for her this was very much a game. But she was hitting all the right notes, all the right places where the pain and the pleasure were deepest for me. I didn't want her to stop.
“Tell me what you do for him,” I said.
She smiled. “Anything he wants.”
I slid my hand down her back, to her small ass, and I tapped it lightly. “Anything he wants?”
She nodded, biting her lip. She was smiling with amusement.
I tapped her again. “Even here?”
“That's what I like best. Taking it there for him.”
My breath stopped in my mouth. After her banister-and-ass evening, I had been imagining this very thing, every night she came home late.
She had, after all, gone there with Christian. Never with me, and she didn't know what I knew. But she had done it. Was she doing it now, late at night, with some other man?
But “Andre” was a joke, I reminded myself.
“And what about your maestro? What's left for him?”
She grinned wickedly, I could see her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were back on the dresses. “Too private.”
Something clawed inside my chest. Was she playing a game now, and if she was, how did she know that this would burn through me the most? The not knowing? The hint that she was perhaps telling the truth, that perhaps she had some private affair, but really, and she couldn't tell me about it because it was...real?
All mixed in with her game, her “Andre the football player,” who was a fiction she had invented time and time again. “Andre the delivery guy;” “Andre the garbage man;” “Andre the pilot.”
“I can show you,” she suggested.
She was already sliding down my torso, along my legs. Already getting down on her knees, her fingers tugging on my zipper.
As she pulled my already-stiff cock from my underwear, I gave myself in to the fantasy that might be real: this was how she sucked her professor's cock. She placed her hand on it, and wrapped her fingers around the girth of it. She brought it to her lips, and rubbed the tip of it over her pretty mouth, letting his precum smear across her lower lip. She pressed her lips together, like she was applying lip balm, and tasted his cum, before opening her mouth and taking his cock inside of her.
She looked up at him while she did this, like she was looking up at me now.
I imagined my wife on her knees, slurping away on her professor's cock, her cheeks hallowed out with the exertion, sucking his cum right out of his testicles and into her mouth. I imagined him grasping the back of her head and pushing her face into him, until her lips grazed his balls and his pubic hair, and he could feel her throat twisting with a gag. And then he would pull and push on her strawberry-scented hair, up and down on his shaft, until he shot his full, bitter load of cum into her throat.
And just like she was now, with watering eyes, Ela would swallow it all.
The flight was crowded and full of screaming children. None of the other ensemble members were on our flight: we had booked using my air miles. Ela slammed several glasses of wine and fell asleep. She was tired after a fiery debate about her instrument, which the crew had wanted to stash in the luggage. I had stepped in, after watching her boil over, with a quote of airline policy delivered in my most lawyerly voice. Just in time, because Ela might have gotten us kicked off the plane and sent to Guantanamo if she had kept going.
I had been secretly hoping she would be as frisky on the plane as she had been at home. That her new, naughtier self would want to sneak away to the lavatory and show me again what she did for “Andre the football player,” or “maestro” the professor.
I inserted earplugs, which only minimally canceled out the coughing and crying around me. I looked at Ela. Her face was calm, undisturbed by guilt or worry.
I closed my eyes.
Surely, this was all just a game. And that's what I wanted it to be, right? A game?
I went through the evidence, over and over again, like a criminal lawyer for a trial. The nights she had come home late. All of them under the guise of practicing.
Could be true.
Her naughtiness with Christian, her shaved pussy.
Circumstantial.
Her new tricks, her finger in her ass...
I groaned inwardly, as the image of my wife filled my head and my cock. I tried to push the idea out of my mind, but it kept coming back. First the real Ela, bent over the banister. Then the fantasy Ela, bent over the black chairs at the music school, lying on a piano, her fingers spreading her ass wider and wider so that her professor could watch his cum dribble from her filled, little hole...
It was a long flight.
We had a day before the concert, but Ela dedicated nearly all of it to practicing with her group. A jetlag expert by now, I rose at seven with her, and then walked aimlessly around the city, noting how it had changed dramatically from when I was last there.
My parents were in Greece, enjoying their relative wealth there and the fun of being recently retired.
I met Ela at four, for early dinner as we had planned. It was a dark, wet, wintery London night, and I shivered for almost an hour waiting for her.
She skipped down the steps and her face changed from elation to something more like disappointment as she saw me. “Peter,” she said. “Why didn't you go inside? We ran way over. I only have time for a quick tea. Then I have to get back.”
We ate fish and chips instead, outside at a truck, with Ela watching the city in fascination. “It's so dark,” was about the only thing she said.
And then she went back to practicing, came home at ten, exhausted, and fell asleep.
“My god, this jetlag is awful.”
She delivered the news the next morning from the shower.
“Peter, I have some bad news about tonight's concert,” she said.
I was murderously horny by now, and I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was too long, and it gave me a half-crazed appearance to go along with my half-crazed mind.
A cool feeling sank through me, from my chest to my toes.
“What's that,” I said dryly.
She pulled a grimy curtain open. This hotel was expensive as fuck, because it was in Belgravia, but it was a shithole. “There was a big cock-up.” Ela was full-on speaking with a cockney accent by the end of every sentence now.
“What's that,” I repeated.
“The comps are only good for tomorrow. Apparently.”
I started to open my mouth, to say I would buy a ticket.
&nb
sp; She cut me short. “And the tickets are all sold out. So you'll just have to come tomorrow. Sorry.”
She didn't sound sorry at all, my reptilian brain told me.
I groaned. I was bored, here in London, with no one to meet and nothing to do. I was hemorrhaging money and drinking too much in the hotel room, thinking about Ela.
Ela's unproven unfaithfulness. Turning it over and over in my mind.
“But then you have some kind of outing planned, yes?” I said.
“Well...” she said, and I heard her turn to be under the water. I pulled the curtain aside to peek in and watch the soap and water sliding over her lithe body. White soap was caught in the tiny patch of hair above her still-bare pussy, looking like streaks of cum.
She opened her eyes and cast me a disapproving look before turning again.
I looked at her ass.
“We probably won't,” she said. “We have that concert tomorrow too.”
I reached out and slid my finger from the small of her back to her ass crack.
She slapped me away. “Stop,” she said.
She was impatient. She turned back to me. “I have to get going.”
I withdrew to the room, and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her as she dressed. She pulled thigh-high stockings, knit, childish ones, along her long legs. Then she put on her same woolen skirt from the first day of school.
She caught me looking. “Have to be fashionable,” she said. “Oh! I almost forgot, if you want, you can watch the concert online.” She hurried to the small, chipped desk where my computer was open. She wrote something on a paper. As she did, she bent over, and her skirt crawled up, up, up, until just a tiny sliver of her pale flesh, just above the end of the stocking, peeked out at me. Just a little further, and there would be her panties...
She stood up. “There it is,” she said. She came over to me and kissed me on the forehead.
I reached out for her leg and she let me get very close, traveling up the outside of her thigh, to the strip of flesh between the stockings and her underwear -
“Gotta go,” she said. Another dismissive kiss.
Ela's Performance: A Romantic Wife-Watching Novel Page 9
