Watching Her With The Lawyers

by Summers, A. B.

  Cynthia shrugs. She stays quiet.

  I frown as I try to read her expression. “ALL of the lawyers?” I say now, one eyebrow raised.

  Now Cynthia speaks after taking another deep breath. “So what happened was that one of the documents we released last week to the other party had something incriminating in it. It just slipped in there, and it basically killed our case. The document came from the five of us, the lawyers and me, so clearly it’s our mistake. A HUGE mistake.”

  I whistle as I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, studying Cynthia’s face, which looks very thin and pale right now. “So everyone’s playing the blame game in that conference room now,” I say. “No one wants to take the fall.” I pause for a moment. “So whose mistake was it, Cyn?”

  Cynthia blinks and looks down at the carpet. “Truth is, it’s probably all of us. I provided the raw information and then the lawyers worked it into legalese. It was part of a larger document, so all the lawyers had their hands in it. They all went over the final document. Anyone could have caught the mistake before the document went out. All of us SHOULD have caught it.”

  “Whoa now,” I say, my gaze narrowing for a moment. “Not ALL of you. You’re not a lawyer. The final legal document isn’t your responsibility.”

  Cynthia shrugs and offers a small smile. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know . . . I almost feel sorry for those guys. I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs over the past couple of months, and right now I am a bit pissed with all the name-calling and yelling, but I do feel part of their team now. If they go down, there’s a part of me that thinks I should go down with them.”

  I am starting to get angry now listening to my wife talk. What, you’re going to throw away your career for some arrogant prick lawyers? Because you feel “part of their team”? What the fuck?

  But then through my indignation a strange thought emerges, and suddenly I wonder if this is a blessing in disguise, a gift from the heavens, a boon from the goddesses of sex and fucking. Is it a coincidence that all day I’ve been thinking about Cynthia getting taken by these guys, and now here we are talking about how all five of them are probably going to get fired?

  The living room fades away as I watch my wife speak. I cannot hear her voice, and I feel my cock getting hard as a goddamn pipe now. Still in my trance, I stand up and walk over to my Cynthia, my cock sticking grotesquely out in front of me through my thin gym shorts.

  Cynthia is smiling a bit now, and I think she is ready. But I don’t care if she’s ready or not, and I stop in front of her and push two fingers into her mouth as I hastily push my shorts down with my other hand, unleashing my erection and bringing it close to my wife’s wet mouth.

  And as I feel her hands curl under my warm balls as I start to slide my cock down her throat, I grasp her head, look down at her, and then say, “Listen, babe. I have an idea. If you guys are going down, then maybe it does make sense to go down together.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, almost to myself as I feel the suction on my cock as Cynthia turns her body and gives me her full attention. “You should all go down together. While I watch.”

  Yes, while I watch.

  4

  It doesn’t take much convincing for Cynthia to get on board, and as I buck my hips and pour my hot cum down her throat, my fingers clawing at her soft brown hair as I look down at my wife sucking me off with passion and fury, I wonder how long she’s been thinking about this. Maybe she was leading me to it, planning this from the very beginning, perhaps from the day she met these four lawyers and imagined herself being ravaged by them.

  I am quiet over dinner as I allow these paranoid thoughts to flow through my imagination. Are we back to playing this game, this game where Cynthia won’t actually tell me she’s ready to get fucked again by strangers, banged again by casual acquaintances, filled once more by new men, men that aren’t me?

  The last time we did something like this was with those three waiters, and I smile as I stare at my thirty-seven year old wife delicately eating a dinner salad across from me. I watch her pretty red lips open and close, and I think back to how many different cocks have been in there over the past few months. A lot, I know. But every one of them with my permission, my blessing, my encouragement even. What the hell am I paranoid and worked up about?

  I smile at my own thoughts as I watch Cynthia dab her lips with a napkin and then stand up from the table, bending over slightly as she pushes out her chair. I catch sight of her heavy cleavage, those boobs of hers that so many other men have drooled over like dogs, suckled on like pigs, cum on like they couldn’t help themselves. This is my wife, goddammit, and I am a lucky, lucky bastard!

  My own cock is moving against my leg again, and now I feel all that paranoia and angst slip away as I catch Cynthia looking up at me, her eyes telling me everything I need to know, answering every question I have.

  I am your wife and I am yours alone, she is telling me with that look. But we are not the same people we were even a year ago. This is not the same marriage it was before we crossed that first line with Mark the neighbor. We are both different, and our marriage is different. This game we’re playing has changed everything. But it is still a marriage and I still love you like no other, and I want to grow old with you and no one else. You are my man and you will always be my man, no matter how many cocks slide in and out of my mouth, explode inside my cunt, pour their loads into my asshole. We’re playing this game because we BOTH want to play this game.

  I nod silently, looking down at my food as I feel an overwhelming rush of emotion. The little bit of anger and conflict I just felt is part of the game, I know—a BIG part of the game. Our marriage is stronger for it. WE are stronger for it. Sure, the escalation of our needs is troubling, because how much farther can we go to chase that high, that rush of fresh adventure?

  But those are questions for later, I think as I watch Cynthia’s round ass move under her long t-shirt as she carries her plate to the kitchen. Right now we are about to walk into our latest adventure.

  And so let the games begin.

  Let the motherfucking games BEGIN!

  5

  It is ten days later when I get the call. Cynthia and I decided that this wouldn’t be a pre-planned thing—not in the least. We got such a rush out of getting those three waiters to undress my wife in that restaurant that both Cynthia and I want to push that angle again. Again, but with one important difference.

  “This time I want to watch you seduce them yourself,” I told her last week when we were trying to figure out the best way to do it. “I want to stay hidden until everything gets going. I don’t want them to know I’m watching until the end.”

  Cynthia looked up at me and blinked hard when I said that, and I could see the color rush to her face and then leave it almost as fast. This is something new for her, I know. Something new for me too. Sure, Cynthia seduced all the previous guys, in a way. But I was there each time, and in fact with the waiters it was me who invited them to undress Cynthia, to squeeze her tits, touch her clit, lick her asshole. But now I wanted to watch her in action by herself. Oh, FUCK that got me hard as I said it, the thought of seeing my wife flirt with these lawyers while I stayed hidden in the dark, watching as she laughed and smiled, swayed her hips, stuck out her chest, pouted and preened until those guys couldn’t hold back.

  It took a few minutes to convince Cynthia, but I was adamant. Sure, it made me nervous as much as it got me hard, but the craving to take this experience to the next level—both physically and emotionally—each time is too strong, too fucking strong.

  And the need is strong in Cynthia too, because when she agreed, I could see the excitement in her eyes, feel the anticipation in the way she was breathing, heard the arousal in the way she came soon after that, my middle finger curling up her asshole as I fucked her cunt from behind on the kitchen floor.

  So that was last week, and
I’ve been waiting every evening for the call to come in, the call where Cynthia says, “Hey, tonight’s the night. It’s on, honey.”

  And tonight the call comes in. It is almost ten at night, and Cynthia’s been working till midnight or later every night as they get closer to their deadline. Today is Wednesday, and the final deadline is Friday, so they are pretty close, Cynthia told me yesterday. They needed to be done by Wednesday night, because the company had appointed a separate team of lawyers to double-check all the final documents on Thursday.

  Still, although Cynthia told me that Wednesday night would be best, she couldn’t be sure until that night itself. What if they didn’t get done until Thursday early morning? What if some of the company executives stayed late on Wednesday night to make sure things were done perfectly? Too many what ifs.

  But now the phone is ringing and it is Cynthia.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice shaking with excitement, some nervousness, maybe even a bit of fear. “What’s up?”

  “Sully’s Tavern in the basement of our office building,” Cynthia tells me in a low voice. “We’re going to celebrate—or commiserate—with a few drinks.”

  My heart almost stops as I realize that ohmyLORD, I’m going to get to watch her flirt with these guys at a bar first! I hadn’t even considered the idea, though of course I have fantasized about it many times by now. Oh, shit, the idea of me sitting alone at a table at the far end of a dimly lit bar, watching my Cynthia in her skirt-suit and perfectly coiffed hair smiling as she gets all the attention from these four Ivy-League lawyers!

  “When?” I say, but I don’t really care what her answer is, because I am already dressed and walking to the door. I want to get there early and stake out a spot.

  Yes, stake out a spot so I can watch my wife.

  Watch her with the lawyers.

  6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I cannot fucking WAIT!

  7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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