by Ben Boswell
"No, and I'd appreciate it if we kept that between us. You need to let me try to fix things with him. And if I can't," I choked back a sob, "then I'll cross that bridge."
"I'll be waiting."
I smiled. I knew he wouldn't. Realistically, a week after landing in San Diego he'd already be working his way into another woman's pants. That is, if he didn’t end up screwing a stewardess on the flight across the country.
"I'll keep that in mind."
He turned to leave.
"And Greg?" He turned back. "One thing. Was that you last night? The whole time?"
He grinned and paused. After a long while, he replied, "I think that will be my little secret."
***
I kept trying Dave's cell. I emailed him. I realized there was good chance he'd never want to see me or speak to me again. I couldn't blame him really. But I wanted at least the chance to explain, to plead my case. I knew that sooner or later he'd have to return at least to get his stuff and I'd have the chance to talk to him then, but I was hoping it would be sooner rather than later.
And then there he was. Just before lunch he appeared in my office. I've always been able to read Dave pretty well. But not this time. His face was blank. He approached me. I tensed, thinking for a moment that he might strike me. But he didn't.
He kissed me on the forehead. "It's going to be okay."
A warm feeling spread across my chest.
"But you can't see him anymore."
"I know," I replied. But that wasn't quite right. I would see him again. I'd see him in the office. I'd see him on business trips. Heck, there was a going away party planned for him that evening that I really should attend. The situation could not be resolved by simply avoiding Greg. The issue was being able to be around him for business without letting things get personal. In other words, back to normal.
Dave saw me hesitate. "Say it," he said.
I explained about the party that evening. Dave eyed me suspiciously.
"Just don't fuck him," he replied.
That took me aback. "I'll, I'll..."
"Try?" he cut me off. "Yes, try."
He kissed me again and turned and left.
I worked through the afternoon.
***
Just before 5:00 my email tickler buzzed and reminded me of the party. I figured I'd drop by just to make an appearance. But it's funny. The closer I got to the conference room, the less I wanted to go in. When I got there and saw people already gathered, drinking wine, I realized that wasn't where I wanted to be. I walked past the party and to the elevators, down to the garage, and started to go home. Traffic was a nightmare, as usual. But I got home at a reasonable time.
Dave was waiting for me. When I walked in, I saw relief flash across his face. I went to him. We kissed. Hard. God it felt so good to be back in his arms. So good to feel that he still wanted me.
I'd been dreading how hard it would be to rebuild my marriage. The work it would take. The pain we'd go through. I'd been thinking of how distant and resentful Dave had been over the weekend. And while I was committed to trying to make things right, I was daunted by the prospect. But right then, kissing Dave, feeling his passion made me realize it would all work out. It would be okay, just like he said.
Dave brought me out of my introspection by tearing my panties off me. I gasped in pain and surprise. Then I gasped again as he roughly shoved a finger into my pussy. He'd never treated me like this. And I liked it.
He must have felt my excitement because he roughly shoved me down onto the sofa. We fumbled with his belt, and then suddenly he lunged forward and shoved his prick inside me. We didn't make love. We fucked. Hard and fast. I could feel him getting close, and that was enough to push me over the edge. We came together, gasping, kissing, moaning.
There are a lot of people who, I'm sure, would hate me for what happened if they knew about it. Who think women who cheat should be permanently branded with a scarlet letter. Who think I got off easy. And yeah, I did. Dave took me back. I'm not sure I could have done the same.
Does that make him weak, a doormat who lets his wife get fucked like a slut and do nothing about it? Or does it make him strong, a man confident enough to forgive his wife's terrible mistake? I don't know, and I don't care. All I know is that being with him is what I want, and I'm grateful that he made it possible.
But it's not as if bygones are simply bygones. We're rebuilding our marriage, but we won't ever have what we had. I know that, and I know it is my fault. The worst is when I have to travel for business or work late, and despite his reassuring words, I can see it in his eyes that Dave suspects I may be cheating again. It makes me want to cry and take him and hold him. But I don't. Neither of us acknowledge it. I think we just don't want to reopen old wounds. And in a way, while I wish I could heal Dave fully, his pain, and my pain at his pain, is also a reminder, a warning of how close I came to losing it all.
I'm off the pill now, and Dave and I are trying to start a family, and when that happens I'm sure this episode will recede even further into the hazy past.
But I do still think of Greg. He kept in touch for a while. And we even had dinner – with two other people – when I was in California for business. But I'm not tempted. I still think of him, though. Sometimes in my dreams. And sometimes when I am awake as well. I'll touch myself thinking of his body and the things he did to me. In the shower, I'll soap myself up and press a finger into my butt, and rub my clit until I get lightheaded thinking of being tied up, sodomized, of being given to strange men.
Is that something good wives do? I suspect they do more often than anyone thinks or wants to admit.
Book Three: Greg’s Gamble
CHAPTER ONE
Look, I know I am not a sympathetic person. No one is going to feel sorry for me. I’m a genetic lottery winner. My parents were loaded. I have brains and a look that women seem to love. I’m also hung. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t really. Except it does.
I’ve always had it easy with girls. I was still a teen when I was seduced by my English teacher, Mrs. Boyer. I guess she abused me. I didn’t mind. She was blond, with thick glasses, a soft body, and great tits. I knew better than to brag about it. Instead, I just enjoyed months of after-school “tutoring.” She was, as they say, very giving, a wonderful teacher.
It gave me a boost of confidence that, truth be told, I probably didn’t need. I cut a swath through high school after that. Girls say a big cock doesn’t make a different, but even still, every girl seem to wants to confirm it for herself. It was an early pattern. I’d hook up with a girl. She’d blab, and before long I was fielding offers from all her girlfriends. Lots of drama. Worth every minute of it.
I don’t know how many women I’ve had. A few hundred at least. And again, I’m not looking for sympathy, but the truth is, none of them have meant anything to me, nor me to them. Just sport fucking.
A lot of people consider that sad. I guess in a way it is. A forty-one-year-old man living fling to fling.
I’ve never made long-term plans with a woman. I’ve never really pictured any of them being around in six months, much less a lifetime. Friends and family kept telling me to grow up, or alternatively assured me that at some point, whether I realized it or not, I would want to “settle down.”
Maybe. Or maybe I’m one of those “sex addicts.” I’m not sure what that really means. It’s not like I get the shakes if I’m without pussy for a few weeks… not that that happens very often. But if it does, I’m fine with it. I don’t need sex with a new woman every fortnight. I just really enjoy it.
There is nothing, nothing, like the sensation of going balls deep into a new piece of ass. I know that sounds crude, but it is a crude sentiment. I could sanitize it. I could say that I really love falling in love, the allure of a getting to know a new, lively, exciting woman. But that wouldn’t really capture the sensation for me. For me, the thrill is physical. Tactile.
It is one of those few things in life where the r
ealization lives up to the hype. Sure, I do also enjoy the chase. Subtle gazes. Flirty conversations. The way a woman will lick her lips and play with her hair. Excuses to be together. Planned assignations. Feeling her tremble as my hand grazes her thigh. The taste of her lips. The aroma of her perfume. Her sounds, those delicate moans, soft gasps, as clothes come off, as we explore each other’s bodies. All a buildup to that moment.
But what it always comes down to is that crowning glory, the sensation of a new woman’s pussy stretching around my prick as I enter her. Feeling her shudder. Hearing her moans.
Of course, it isn’t all physical. Novelty matters. After a few months her pussy might still feel equally delightful, but it just isn’t the same. It isn’t new.
I also – I hate to admit – like that sensation of getting away with something. Maybe that’s a legacy of Mrs. Boyer, her lasting imprint on me. I mean, I knew what we were doing was wrong. Somehow that made it all the better. I have a bad habit of seeking out inappropriate relationships. I’ve dipping my pen in the company ink all too often. I can’t help myself. It is just sooo delicious. And while I’m pretty good about the “bro code,” I have to admit I tend to apply a narrow interpretation. If she’s actively dating a close friend, she’s off limits. But the day they break up… or even, sometimes, when they’re just thinking about it… well, then it is good to go. Why? Because I know that we’ll have to keep it secret, and that will make it all the more exciting.
I guess it probably goes without saying that I’ve never considered married women to be off-limits. That would be true even if three of the hottest relationships I’ve had weren’t with married women, but they were. The first was Mrs. Boyer, of course. The second was a wild ride, a crazy night that is still my go-to memory in my spank bank... well, after my teacher. The third…. The third was hard. I won’t say she broke my heart. We weren’t together long enough for that. But she was the only woman I really regret losing. She’s the “one that got away,” and the one who came closest to changing who I am. And maybe, now that I think about it, she did.
CHAPTER TWO
Cassidy Sinclair. I only knew her name because it was printed in rich, dark script on the placard beside the ballroom at the Four Seasons. I had peeked inside at the glitzy, black tie wedding, a whole expanse of white tables, oversized floral arrangements, and probably three hundred people dancing and drinking to an impressively rocking swing band.
Had I brought my tux, I might have tried to crash the party. Weddings are always fun, and a target-rich environment. But, of course, I hadn’t thought to bring formal attire since I was attending a conference on the tax consequence of public-private infrastructure initiatives. With the main sessions finished, I was meeting up with a few former colleagues at the hotel bar, which sadly turned out to be a target-poor environment. Worse, my colleagues seemed to feel that the best use of their time was to talk business. I drank to drown them out.
When they finally decided to call it a night, I was pretty buzzed. Buzzed enough that it seemed like a good idea to have just one more before bed. I ordered a top-shelf single malt and slowly swirled it in my glass to relish the spicy, sweet aroma. I took a sip, feeling the heat on the throat, the finish, smoky and lush. Before I could down it, there was a commotion in the bar as the oversized bridal party, nearly two-dozen young, beautiful, and very drunk people staggered in.
At the center of the group was the gorgeous Cassidy Sinclair, well now, Cassidy Morgan. No longer in her wedding gown, but still dressed in white, a lacy, flouncy, ball gown, showing off a generous expanse of creamy cleavage. Three sheets to the wind, she was glorious, her full lips glistening with dark red lip gloss, her cheeks rosy, pale blue eyes smiling under long, luxurious eyelashes.
They commandeered a corner of the bar and ordered bottles of champagne. Loud and raucous they largely cleared the place out. I stuck around. Although I’d have loved to nail Cassidy, my thoughts were going more to the several bridesmaids, all hot in their own way, although none of them close in allure to the bride.
Cassidy’s husband was looking a little worse for the wear. He was a good looking kid, blond, broad shouldered and preppy, but he was teetering on the edge of bombed when he walked in, and I had the feeling, looking at his ruddy complexion and glassy eyes, that he was more likely to spend the night praying to the porcelain god than giving his hot, new bride the fucking she so richly deserved.
Was I thinking already about taking his place? Not thinking about it, really, but I have to admit I didn’t stop myself from fantasizing about how nice the new Mrs. Morgan would look on her knees sucking my crank. But it was just that, a little fantasy, not anything I’d act on.
But then sometimes fate lobs you a softball, and you can’t help but take a swing at it.
After a few more drinks, hubby was beginning to look even more peaked, at which point, Cassidy seemed to realize her wedding night bliss was in jeopardy if she didn’t act quickly. Accompanied by a lot of hoots, she tugged at her husband.
“Come on, big boy,” she cooed.
“She can’t wait for it!” cried one of the bridesmaids.
“Little slut,” teased another.
Hubby gave what I think he thought was a cocky grin, though with a droopy eyelid and disheveled hair, he was far from debonair at the moment. He gulped down his glass of champagne and rose uneasily. The two of them made their goodbyes and staggered from the bar.
Much to my chagrin, when the happy couple departed, so did, soon after, most of the rest of the party, including, as far as I could tell, all of the unattached girls. Groaning, I finished up my drink and headed upstairs.
I exited the elevator and turned toward my room. As I entered the long hallways, I saw them. Hubby on the floor, moaning pitiably, and Cassidy tugging at his arm and trying to help him to his feet. That last glass of bubbly was obviously the final straw that put him on his ass.
“Here, let me help you,” I offered, reaching for his other arm.
She looked vaguely mortified.
“It’s okay,” I reassured her. “It’s a tradition for the groom to get bombed.”
She giggled. “I thought there was a different wedding night tradition.” She blushed deeply as she realized that might seem like a come on. She tried to recover. “I… I didn’t.” Another tipsy giggle.
I laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re both young. All he needs is a little splash of water on his face and he’ll perk right up.”
“He better.” Another giggle.
I gave her smile and lifted him from the floor. He was still moaning, head lolling, eyes completely unfocused. A little water wasn’t going to be enough. Heck, a fire hose wouldn’t have been enough.
We more or less carried him the rest of the hallway and into the bridal suite. There were flowers everywhere, a bottle of champagne on ice, and a gorgeous view of the city through a wall of windows. It would have been perfect had he been carrying her across the threshold, instead of us dragging him.
“Um, where do you want him?”
“I guess on the bed,” she sighed.
We deposited him face first, and as she took off his shoes, I turned his head to the side to make sure he didn’t drown in a pool of his own puke. By the time that was done, he was snoring like a racehorse.
I turned back toward Cassidy. She rolled her eyes at me.
I shrugged. “You have your whole lives ahead of you,” I suggested reassuringly as I followed her back into the living room, my eyes inevitably drawn to her tight, little ass.
She laughed ruefully. “Not exactly the way I expected my wedding night to go.”
“I think he just needs a little time to sleep it off. Want to go back downstairs and I’ll buy you a drink?”
She hesitated a moment. “Or we could just pop open that bottle over there,” she replied, nodding toward the chilled champagne.
I held her gaze long enough to gauge her intention. She didn’t back down. I felt my cock twitch.
“Sure,” I
replied.
I walked over to the ice bucket. Our eyes still locked, I removed the foil and popped off the cork. She jolted at the sounds and looked over her shoulder toward the bedroom.
“I doubt that will be enough to wake him up,” I said.
She looked back at me, her smile now conspiratorial. “No, I don’t think anything we could do would rouse him.”
I guess this is the point where most men would feel a twinge of conscience. No matter how hot a woman is, there is surely something sleazy about thinking about banging a man’s new bride, on their wedding night, with him passed out just a few feet away. But then again, that was his problem, not mine. She was tipsy, but not hammered. She’d tried to get her hubby upstairs in time for some fun, but he hadn’t known his limits.
I poured two glasses and approached her. Her eyes sparkled. She brushed a loose strand of hair off her face. We clinked glasses and drank deeply.
“Well, at least you get to wear white for one more day,” I teased.
She smirked. “But I was so looking forward to becoming a woman.”
I chuckled knowingly. There was no way she was a virgin. No. I could see it in her gaze. She knew her way around a cock. She had experienced more than a few.
“Well, maybe I could help you with that.”
Her eyes went wide. Scandalized. But her lips remained curled in a saucy smile.
“But my husband is in the next room!”
Dirty girl. The thought turned her on, too. Or maybe she just liked the idea of getting in a little revenge on him for passing out.
I edged in closer, though remaining just outside her personal space. She sucked in her breath.
I reached out toward her. She shivered, her cheeks reddening. But I didn’t seize her. Not yet. I took her glass, letting my hand graze against hers as I did. She flinched, but didn’t back away. Instead, she lifted her chin and thrust out her chest. I let my gaze drift into her cleavage and then back up again. She watched me frankly.
