I wanted to wait for Anna to come upstairs, but my cock was throbbing and my blood was filling my head, pulsing so loudly in my ears that I couldn't hear anything but my own breath, and Anna's imaginary voice in my head:
“Maybe something like this,” Anna said to John, her hand on his cock, admiring the girth of it, nearly too big to get her fingers around.
A fat, thick drop of precum squeezed from the distended head of John's cock, and Anna turned her head to catch it, the way you would drink water from a tap. She rubbed it together on her lips, coating them in a pale white sheen. She licked her lips and pumped his cock for more, letting it drip, drip, drip into her waiting mouth, before she lost control of herself and swallowed him whole.
I had my hand on my cock, dying for some release. Could I convince Anna, in the middle of the night, to get on her knees and suck my cock, and hope that she would think of John as she did it?
My heart thudded to a brief stop, before knocking again on my chest and pushing the blood around in my veins.
Where was Anna? It seemed like a long time had passed since she had come in.
I tried to listen for the sounds of her in the kitchen.
She wouldn't have brought John back in here, would she?
To our house. To have a “cup of tea?”
The familiar feelings I had when I watched Anna flirt with other men, so long ago, surfaced inside of me: jealousy, burning low in my torso. And then another feeling, cool and hot at the same time, flaring through my groin.
I sat up. I cocked my head as if that would help me hear better what Anna was up to. As if I could hear if there were another person in the house, moving softly behind her, her fingers to her lips, smiling. Sssshhhhh, her mouth would say. This way.
Where would she take him? To the basement, to the piles of things that would muffle the sound?
I shook my head.
God, what was I thinking?
I stepped onto the carpet, but half-drunk on desire, I walked quietly to the balcony.
I heard the sound of a teacup sliding on the counter, and for a moment I felt the excitement building again.
Then the light, plastic click of a keyboard.
Of course.
Anna had gotten up because she couldn’t sleep. She had taken the trash out and run into John. Insomniacs, out for a spin in the moonlight. But she did a lot of work at night, like this, and Anna had never been one to waste time.
The clatter of the keyboard got faster, busier.
I felt a pang of satisfaction, and of disappointment. My sweet Anna was loyal to me, and she wouldn't go running off with the hot, black neighbor just because he happened to be in the middle of the street, happened to invite her in...
But disappointment lurked underneath the layer of relief, and I knew what it was. I knew but I pushed it away.
I pushed it away long enough to get into bed, and then I started my fantasy again, right where I had left off. John's white cum dripped into the back of Anna's throat, her eyes locked on his as she swallowed him whole and sucked him until he came. John grabbed her hair, and tilted her head back, and her eyelids fluttered as his cum streaked her face and landed on her thick eyelashes, her hair, her cheeks, her lips...
I groaned into the pillow as my own orgasm, brought on by just a few quick strokes of my cock, clawed through me and left me shaking, alone in the dark.
6: TURN INTO OBSESSION
I fell asleep that night after some fitful tossing and turning, and when I awoke, Anna was in the shower. I blinked at the alarm clock numbers, which slowly took shape.
6:15.
I went into the bathroom. The shower was one of the better elements of the house, an oversized stand-up shower with glass doors and brown and blue stone floors, a nice bench at either of it, and of course: the glass doors. Which allowed for a great view of Anna, whenever she showered.
She was turning in a slow circle beneath the dual showerheads, and the last of her soap was sliding in ribbons over her body. She used a very faintly-scented body shampoo that smelled like jasmine, but my imagination filled the air with the scent of her body instead. The tangy scent of her pussy.
I dropped my boxers and opened the shower door.
She treated me to a fake face of surprise. “Oh!” she said, jumping lightly. “I had no idea you were there.”
She kept turning, like a dancer in a music box, and smiled as the water ran all over her. Anna took showers just like she was in a movie and being filmed, all the time. I even spied on her through the door when she thought I wasn't in the bathroom, to see if she really did just keep turning and turning and letting the water and soap run all over her body. She did. She also used a loofah to get herself very soapy, and ran her hands all over her body. It was a great show every time.
I stood under the second shower head and watched her.
“You were up late,” I said.
Anna's face was unchanged as she turned toward me. The smile was still on her lips.
She murmured an assent and gave no further information, just kept turning.
“What did you do all night?” I said, trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible.
She opened her eyes after making one mysterious circle, and looked right at me. The color of her eyes, in the morning light and the reflections of the colors of the stones, was such an intense teal they almost looked unreal. “Work,” she said.
There was something funny about her tone.
Or was it something funny about the fact that she had actually answered my question?
Or was it just something funny about me, something that was making me read too much into every word and gesture of Anna's, to the point of driving myself crazy?
I placed my hands on her waist.
My cock, which was hard as steel now, rubbed across her ass and her thighs as she turned. She had her eyes closed, and her lips turned into a teasing smile as she came around again. “Happy to see me,” she said.
But it wasn't just that. I wanted to get my hands inside of her. I secretly wanted to find her dripping, soaking wet, the kind of wet that came from being turned on well before 6:15 am, the kind of wet that happens only when a woman sits in her kitchen thinking and thinking about the man in the rental unit, until she has to move her fingers down and into her panties and make herself come with just a few, expert strokes...
Or maybe the kind of wet that was even wetter than that, the kind of sloppy, filled-up wet that comes from being fucked nearly senseless by the man in the basement, on her kitchen table, biting her own wrist to stop herself from screaming...
As I fantasized these scenarios, I moved my hand down between her legs, applying a light pressure to stop her from spinning around again. She seemed to have a mechanical momentum, and she pressed against my wrist, as if she wanted to go around again and could not stop herself. I pushed my fingers between her folds.
I found the silkier wetness, the moisture that slipped against my skin, only when I dipped inside of her.
But she was more wet than she should be.
Wasn't she?
Even as my fingers were moving into her body, and she stopped her turning to push up against me, craving more, my mind was racing through paranoid thoughts. Even as her hard nipples pressed against my skin and her eyes fluttered closed like a half-sleeping animal, and her lips parted to release a puff of ecstatic air near my neck, I was thinking of why should would already be so excited. It was so early in the morning, she had been up all night...for a man to have an erection in the morning was one thing, but whose wife was as slippery as this in the morning with nothing to stimulate her?
Had she gotten this way just thinking about him? Thinking about the excitement of another man, playing out her own secret fantasies? Had she lathered herself up with her jasmine soap and imagined John touching her body? Instead of her own hands had she been thinking about his hands, dark and strong against her lightly toasted skin, moving from her neck and over her chocolate nipples, d
own the middle of her stomach, over her light brown hair, and to where my hands were now?
Or was it something else? Had his hands even been there? Maybe they had only started something, and not finished. Maybe she had tasted his full lips, and felt his tongue in her mouth, and they had panted like teenagers against the wall, and then she had told him to stop. I imagined her, her light hair stuck to her cheek with the lusty sweat he had induced in her, pushing him away reluctantly, her sea-green eyes imploring him to keep going, even as she said, I can't...Brian...
And then had they embraced for one more kiss, and had her body arched against his with a deep ache inside of her? Had she felt his cock against her thighs, ready for her, and had she almost, almost, let him throw her on the floor? I could almost hear them panting together, wanting to fuck.
I curled my fingers inside of her, up toward the backside of her clit, and she moaned. I pulled my fingers out of her, and pushed her gently to the bench. She was ready, and she wanted to be taken: she placed her hands on the bench and turned herself up toward me. I looked down at her ass, hoping to find some trace of betrayal on it: a mark, a fading slap.
I guided my cock to her dripping wet pussy. The outside of her lips was washed away clean by the torrents of water gushing from the shower, but I was too blind with desire to think to turn them off. My cock squeaked through her flesh on the outside, before finding the soft, superheated, super-wet center.
I sucked in my breath as I was enveloped in her wet flesh.
I wanted to get her talking again, the way she had the day John had rented the apartment, but it seemed too out-of-place now. To say to her: tell me how you want John to fuck you, or, better yet, Tell me how John fucked you, would be absurd.
Instead, I thrust into her and, overcome by a sudden fit of lust and rage and elation and animal savagery, I grabbed her wet hair and pulled her by the hair as I pummeled into her. She gasped but let out a pleased moan, and pressed her hands against the wall with her fingers spread. She pushed back against me to take it deeper, and harder...
And that's what she wanted, wasn't it? A deeper, harder fuck than I could give her? A really enormous cock, all the way inside of her?
She began to make obscene noises, to clench around me, and I knew she was going to burst all over my cock soon enough, so I let my filthiest imagination loose:
A cock so big, so long, so filling, and a man to fuck her so hard in the ass that his cum spilled out of her mouth. And then I imagined it, John's cum just gushing from her mouth as he yelled behind her, his cock so deep inside of her she was screaming in pain, his face contorted as he spewed his cum into my wife's tight ass.
I yelled as I came, and thrust deep into her.
I leaned against the wall, my hands above hers.
She was panting. She said nothing, just lifted her knees to the bench. My cock slipped from inside of her. It was still aching, still hard. She folded herself up and turned around to face me.
“That was fun,” she said. She kissed me on the mouth, patted me to get me out of her way, and stepped into the shower. “I have to get to work,” she said simply, and took one, two, three spins in the shower before hopping out, without giving me another glance.
She moved to the sink, leaning over the counter to examine her flawless face for any signs of flaws, which she never had, Not even a dark circle, after a sleepless night. Nothing displeased her, so she formed a pout and gave herself a fashion-perfect shot, before looking under the counter for something. All the while I watched her, the water dripping down my face without me even having the thought to push it away.
“I have to work late tonight,” she said. She had a tube of red lipstick in her hand. She leaned forward again, and applied it, then grabbed a Kleenex almost as soon as it was applied and scrubbed it off.
Then she looked at me, blew a kiss, and walked out of the room.
When Anna left that morning, she ran into John coming out of his apartment.
Was it coincidence? I wondered. Or had they orchestrated it?
It bothered me the way they exchanged something between them, some kind of high-strung urban-professional knowing look.
I watched her wave at John through the window of the car, and then turn her head to back up. I watched John's face as he lowered himself into his own vehicle. Was he smiling? Smiling because he wanted my wife?
Or was he smiling because he had already had my wife?
And I was not smiling, but I was definitely savoring something about either one of those ideas.
My thoughts were beginning to turn to obsession. I could feel the change inside of me.
I needed to get some work done. I opened my laptop and made some coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself staring at the screen. I was replaying, and replaying, and replaying the scene from the night before. John's shirtless torso in the dark, the lines of his muscles highlighted by the silver moonlight. Anna in her skimpy shorts, her legs hanging out of them, teasing him. I embellished, making John taller, making Anna flip her hair more. I tangled the real memory up with my fantasy until I couldn't tell them apart anymore.
My Master's is in computer science, and I ended up, in a series of long stories, freelancing coding for designers. I had aspirations before that to do something in artificial intelligence, so I took a ton of Cog Sci classes.
I had a special obsession with human memory, and its weaknesses. Once something was recalled in the mind it was corrupted by the present. Everything in our minds, therefore, was more or less a lie. And there was no way of knowing how much you lied to yourself, how much you created, how much you dismissed, how much you added or subtracted.
I liked to ruminate on this idea, the idea of lying to myself constantly.
I loved to ruminate on this idea, truth be told. Especially if it involved Anna. Something about the pain of Anna's love for me being a lie gave me a nice little punch of pain that I enjoyed.
The only check on your own reality was other people, and how well your memory aligned with the reality of the present: but other people were as unreliable as you.
Maybe John and Anna had fucked right there on a trash can.
Or maybe John and Anna hadn't even seen each other last night at all.
Jesus fucking Christ, Brian.
“You have a deadline,” I told the computer. The coffee had gone cold.
I decided to go to the library.
I left the house clear-minded enough, concentrating on thinking about something besides John and Anna. But my resolve began to degrade, and without even realizing it, I had fallen back into a trance, visualizing the two of them together. The emotions that seized me were so jumbled: I felt the anticipation of Christmas, the longing of early love, the excitement of new lust, the rage of jealousy – all at once.
In this state, I walked too far, and snapped out of my reverie when a streetcar nearly grazed my nose. I looked around. I was blocks away from the library, and I didn't even recognize the neighborhood.
A homeless man chuckled. “Almost gotcha,” he said. And chuckled some more. His dog, as calm as he was, with the same fearful tendencies lurking beneath his exterior, stared at me.
“Thinking about a girl,” the man said to his dog, stroking it from head to the middle of its back.
I felt in my pocket for some change, and came up with a ten-dollar bill. I handed it to him. He nodded his thanks, and then turned distantly back to the street where I had almost died.
The scene was surreal. I blinked as I turned back in the direction I thought I had come from, and began to walk up an enormous hill. By the time I reached the library I was deep in the same thoughts again. My stomach was twisting in knots. John and Anna, John and Anna.
Anna. Her lips full and red.
Anna. Her mouth full of cock.
I wasted the whole day like this, staring at the screen of my computer. I even started Googling John, though why, I could not be sure.
I thought about their exchanged smile
s as they left the house.
What was to stop them from meeting for lunch?
Maybe they were even at a hotel right now.
Stop it.
Deadline.
I had entered a few lines of code after an hour, and chances were it was inelegant and barely functioning. I had looked at my phone thirty times, I suppose hoping that Anna would call me, text me, anything – even though she never did that during the day.
I was going crazy.
I spent part of my time thinking about the time before were were married, when Anna liked to play her games. Flirting with other men, and then ditching them before anything went too far. Some of my time remembering the hot feel of her cunt as we both (I hoped) fantasized about her fucking John. Pleasure snaked through me as I savored the thought that maybe she was as serious as I was in her fantasizing.
But most of my time, I dedicated to imagining her with him. Rolling, climbing, stretching into absurd positions, kneeling and opening her mouth. Her skin wet and pale with gallons and gallons of his cum, her eyelashes sticking together, her tongue licking at her lips, John's cock spreading her open.
I tried to rein in my thoughts. I was getting next to no work done. I was spacing out without even realizing it, staring at the screen.
The thing was, Anna had never taken her games to the point where she had actually done anything with another man, besides kiss, maybe grope a little.
The question was: did she want to?
Had she ever wanted to?
Did I really want her to? Or were these things better left to the imagination? The imagination that was now consuming me, now making it impossible for me to work? The imagination that was sending me to the internet looking for porn that would satisfy my desire, but ultimately did not because...
In the end what I wanted was to see Anna in those videos.
In the end what I wanted was to watch Anna with another man.
The Tenant: A Very Naughty Hotwife Novel Page 5
