by Cara McKenna
Sam had checked her personal e-mail while her hair dried and her coffee cooled. She’d decided she wouldn’t check “the dirty account,” as it might just overwhelm her, the task now feeling impossible. Not a cloud she needed following her to work for the third day in a row. But even as she got her shoes on and shouldered her purse, curiosity had her crossing the floor, sitting down, clicking the bookmark, and typing in her password.
Ten or so new messages, but she didn’t have it in her to tackle them beyond reading the subject lines. Then she recognized the e-mail address of the second short-listed respondent.
“You took your time,” she muttered, opening the message. Though had he, really? Taking a day or more wasn’t criminal. In fact, it struck her as rather encouraging that he had other things to do in a given day besides pursue his chances at playing sexual tourist in other people’s marriages. A hobbyist, not a fanatic.
She sipped the last of her cold coffee and read the e-mail.
Thanks for the reply, S.
Bless him and his use of commas and capitals. She opened a new tab and found his first e-mail, wanting to confirm he was the one she was picturing. Yes. Oh, good photo. It was a shot of him in a park, crouching with his hand on a yellow lab’s collar. He looked big and strong, with a fearless sort of smile and a lot of stubble, messy dark hair. Could be any ethnicity – Italian or Hispanic, or just a white guy with a summer tan. She liked the shape of his shoulders under his T-shirt, and wished this were like Zappos, so she could rotate him and examine his design from multiple angles and browse other women’s reviews.
But he looked good. Not too wholesome, despite the park and the dog, but not sketchy. There was something in his smile, something lazy and easy, just a touch cocky. Mischievous. She began to wonder about his voice, then realized she ought to read the e-mail before she got her hopes up too high. She clicked back to the first tab.
To answer your questions, yes, I’m in Pittsburgh. I turn thirty-six in a couple of weeks, but I think I could maybe pass for a few years younger. Maybe. May need to bust out the Grecian Formula on my temples, but —
Dear God, prematurely graying temples? Mike might get hot over the prospect of competing with a younger man, but Sam’s legs always went a bit wobbly over salt-and-pepper facial hair and the like. She liked a man with a few miles on him. A man who looked like he knew his way around a woman’s body. Yes, please.
— maybe that’s negotiable.
Actually, I’ve got no idea what’s negotiable. I’ve never been part of a cuckolding scene before. In fact, I had to look it up to make sure I had the right idea. I found your ad because I’ve got an exhibitionist streak I’ve been thinking about exploring. The idea of some guy watching me with his wife in the comfort of their home has more appeal than getting arrested for public indecency, and the latter seems to be what most of the people looking to be watched or get caught are after. So there was that, plus you’re cute. So here I am, sleazing up your in-box.
Sam grinned. Then she glanced at the computer’s clock, and realized she was going to be late. Fuck it.
You asked what about it appeals to me. I can’t speak to the cuckolding, but as for wanting to be watched… Okay, I can’t really speak to that, either. The idea just turns me on. And I’m not in the market for a serious relationship, so I’m not in a position to ask anyone to trust me enough to tape anything or let an outsider watch. And I don’t really want to be out there on the Internet, in video format. But when I thought about what you and your husband are looking for, it made sense, especially when you mentioned a background check. I figure you’re as concerned about keeping things discreet as I am. I’m not married or the manager of a day-care center or running for mayor, I just don’t want to be another casualty of the Internet’s infinite memory.
Anyhow, that was long-winded. I promise I can be utterly filthy and lecherous, if that’s what you guys want in bed. Just thought I’d make sure we’re on the same page logistically.
Oh, logistics. Sam’s heart gave a flutter. If he’d attached a spreadsheet, she just might have climaxed.
If you don’t mind, could you explain a little more what your husband gets out of this? I don’t quite see what’s in it for him, if you and I ultimately slept together. I’m curious to know what about the idea gets him off. I know you said you’ve never done this before. Sorry if you’re looking for a “bull” who’s a bit more seasoned, to facilitate. If we end up hooking up sometime, I’ll require a little breaking in, myself.
Anyway, hope to hear from you again,
Bern
“Bern?” Mike muttered when he read the e-mail over her shoulder, late that night.
“I’m sure it’s short for something. Bernard, maybe? At least he’s not a Bernie.”
“Or a Nard…” Mike’s gaze skimmed the message a second time. He was wearing his poker face, feigning perfect apathy. “He seems sane enough, and he wrote in full sentences. What do you think? Could you sleep with a Bern?”
“I’d like to at least meet him. I like that he mentioned wanting to be discreet. And I like his photo. He looks kinda sexy.” Kinda very sexy. “He’s the best candidate I’ve seen so far. By miles.”
Still, it was like ordering a dress online. It looks so good, seems so perfect; then it arrives and the color’s off or it fits all wrong, leaves you feeling dumpy, and you’re out seven bucks on return shipping.
“What did you say when you wrote back?” Mike asked.
“I haven’t yet. I wanted to hear that you were still interested before I went any further.”
“I am.” He kept his voice businesslike, but Sam could sense his excitement. “You want to maybe do what we talked about? Meet him at a bar?”
“With you there, spying on us?” For both titillation and safety.
Mike nodded.
“I think I might.” A rush of fear and excitement rolled through her, the whole venture suddenly feeling very… possible. “Would you like to answer his questions about what gets you off about the whole thing?”
He shook his head. “No. If we’re going to do this, I want him and me to be as close to strangers as possible. Since that’s how the fantasy’s worked, with me being oblivious to the other guy’s existence. As long as you’re comfortable being the liaison, I don’t want to have any contact with him, outside of the role-playing.”
“Okay.”
“Going forward… even if this guy is as decent as he comes off in an e-mail, I want to imagine he’s the cocky shithead my wife’s fucking around on me with. So if it’s cool, I’m happy to trust your judgment the rest of the way. Plus you’re better at wording stuff. You’ll explain my freaky streak better than I ever could. And it’ll sound better coming from a woman.”
“Okay, then. And you’re feeling… okay with it?”
“Sure.”
She sighed, smiling up at him wearily. “I know you’re trying to sound like you couldn’t care less, so I won’t feel pressured – but tell me honestly if this is exciting you or not.”
Mike said nothing, just took her wrist, drawing her hand from the mouse and back to cup his cock, rock-hard behind his fly.
“I see.”
He let go of her hand, smiling. “If I had the luxury of staying home tonight, I’d drag you to the bedroom and listen to all your horny theories about this Bern guy. I’m just trying to be blasé so if you’re not into it, you won’t feel bad about pulling the plug.”
She turned onto her hip and held the back of the chair. Mike smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ears.
“Don’t be blasé,” she said. “I know it’s my decision. And for now, I’m excited, in no small part because you’re excited. So don’t downplay anything.” She gave his erection another quick squeeze. “At least part of you is always forthcoming.”
He leaned down to kiss her temple. “You’re the most amazing wife ever, I hope you realize that. Wish I could stay and ravage you.”
“Me, too.”
“But I�
��ll be happy all through this damn case, knowing maybe you’re right here, writing an e-mail to some guy.”
“You may be the weirdest husband ever, I hope you realize that. But good. Happy to make you happy.”
Another kiss, then Mike had to go out to relieve a colleague on a marathon of a drug bust. The glow of Sam’s computer screen had become her most constant companion of late, but in a way, it fed the fantasy. My husband’s never home, she imagined telling some handsome stranger. He won’t suspect.
So after she locked the door behind Mike, she poured herself a glass of red and got comfy before the screen.
Bern,
Thanks for such a thoughtful reply. And thanks for the offer of lechery, though your pragmatism was actually much appreciated. I’m new to all this, too, and not looking to rush anything.
But my husband and I are both excited at the prospect of maybe meeting up sometime. I know it sounds sort of drawn out, but I’ll tell you how I’d been hoping it might go down…
She paused, and a bold thought overtook her. An impulse born of both curiosity and practicality. Though mainly the former.
Actually, would you be willing to speak to me on the phone? I’m home tonight, and I’ll be up until about eleven. I’d like to hear your voice and your thoughts on how I envision all of this going. If you’re comfortable with that, please feel free to give me a call.
She typed her number with a pounding pulse, and the second she sent the message, she worried it was a dumb move.
She worried he’d call. She worried he wouldn’t. She worried herself through the rest of her glass of wine, and to her horror, her cell phone chimed as she was pouring a refill.
“Please be Mike. Please be Mike.” Please be anybody but Bern.
Oh fuck, private number. She gulped a breath, grabbed the device from the coffee table, and hit TALK. “Hello?”
“Is this S?” Oh, what a voice. A deep, easy rumble of a voice.
“Yes. Is this Bern?”
“It is.” A soft chuckle came through the ether, relaxing her by a small measure. “Wow. Weird.”
She laughed herself, though it was tight and high and nervous. “I know, very weird. Thanks for calling.”
“Was I too eager? I just happened to be checking my e-mail when yours came through.” Fuck, that accent. Sam couldn’t say if he was from Texas or Tennessee or Georgia or any other place, but his voice was steeped in bourbon and honey. Even if it was put-on, she prayed he’d keep it up.
“No, this is fine.” She grabbed her glass and sank into the couch cushions, hugged a pillow to her middle. “I was worried giving you my number was too eager…” Sam bit her lip. “Jeez, now that I have you on the phone, I have no idea what I’d planned to say to you.” His voice was as appealing as his photo – and his punctuation – and suddenly she felt like a stammering junior high schooler.
“Well, for starters, I feel kinda silly calling you S. Is there something else we could use?”
“Sam is fine.”
“Sam. I like that. You a Samantha?”
The truth would be a bold move, given that there was probably only a handful of Samiras in the whole of Pittsburgh, but her intuition sounded no alarms. “I’m a Samira, actually.”
“Oh, right, your ad said you’re, what? Persian?”
“Yeah. My parents both grew up in Iran. What about you? Is Bern short for Bernard?” she asked.
“It is. Kinda geriatric, right?”
“Only a little.”
“It was my great-grandfather’s name. I think I got off easy, though – it was between that and Leslie.”
“Close call.”
“So, you were going to explain how you thought the first meeting might go.” Some motion hitched his voice, like he, too, had dropped onto a couch and gotten comfortable. Though for all Sam knew, Mr. Exhibitionist had just taken out his cock and stationed himself in front of a mirror or a wide-open window or a webcam, but she’d run with the first notion.
“We were thinking that for the first time, I’d meet the man at a bar. We have a lot of scenarios, actually, just from… you know. Dirty talk and that sort of thing.”
“Sure.”
“So the idea was that my husband and I would go to the same place, separately. He’d sit off to one side and I’d sit at the bar, pretending not to know he was there. Then you’d meet me, and we’d act like we were having an affair, or that you were picking me up as a stranger, something like that.”
“Right.”
“And my husband would watch us flirt. Though, if you and I didn’t feel any kind of spark, we could just talk about how awkward we felt and pretend to flirt.”
Another soft, seductive laugh. “Fair enough.”
“Then I’d head out and my husband would probably still be happy, just to have seen me getting hit on by some strange guy.”
An unmistakable smirk warmed his tone. “I’d like to think I’m not so strange.”
“That remains to be seen,” Sam returned, smiling to herself.
“And so what if there was a spark?”
“On the first night, probably just a lot of flirting, and casual touches. As much as two people can get away with in a bar. Making out, maybe.” She blushed, feeling silly. With two years’ practice, Sam could wax filthy with no hesitation for Mike’s ears, but no other person on earth had ever met this side of her before. Until now.
“Speaking of getting away with stuff at a bar,” Bern said, “I imagine you’d need to meet me someplace pretty far from where you live, where you won’t know anybody.”
“I would. Shouldn’t be too tough, though. I’m not a native and I didn’t go to college here or anything. I’m willing to chance a meeting or two.”
“Gotcha. I’m not eager to run into a friend, either, so we’ll just have to settle on a neighborhood neither of us usually goes to. Can I ask where you guys live?”
“Shadyside.”
“Ah, nice.”
“And I work right downtown, so that’s out, too.”
“Well, I’m way down in Carrick,” Bern said, “so maybe meet in the middle? Someplace around the South Side?”
“That could work.” She swirled the wine in her glass, feeling relieved and more than a bit wicked. “So. You think you might want to?”
“Meet up? At the risk of sounding too eager, I’m intrigued. Very intrigued.”
“Me, too. And my husband is as well.”
“If you’ll forgive me saying so, I can’t wait to meet this piece of work you married.”
She grinned, trying to guess what sort of wimpy beta male Bern was picturing. “You might be surprised. Can I ask what you do, or is that too personal?”
“Let’s save all that for the bar. Don’t worry – no shocking surprises or anything, but let’s maybe conserve the small-talk topics. We might need them.”
“I guess we’re going with the picked-up-by-a-stranger routine, then,” Sam said, pleased to catch herself flirting for real without even thinking about it.
“I’m game if you guys are. What’s the next step?” he asked. “Do you need my full name or my social or something, for that background check?”
“That’d be good. Hang on.” She rose and went to the counter, to scribble on the grocery list pad.
“Bernard Davies,” he said, and Sam copied down his address and social security digits.
“Thanks. Do you want mine?”
“No, that’s okay. You’re in my call log now. That’s probably enough for the police to track you down with, after you and your husband bury me in a shallow grave.”
“Not before we’ve had our way with you,” she countered.
There was a pause, and then Bern spoke, his tone different from before, firmer. “Speaking of that – of you guys having your way with me.”
“Uh-huh.” She headed back to the couch, suspecting a serious conversation was to follow.
“I looked this whole cuckolding thing up, after I read your ad,” Bern said. “I saw
a bunch of references to something called ‘forced bi.’ Did you guys have anything like that in mind? Your husband… you know, doing anything with me? To the guy you wind up with, that is.”
“We haven’t discussed it, no. That aspect hasn’t come up in the couple of years we’ve been playing around with the idea, in the dirty talk. He’s never said anything that made me think he wanted to go down on a guy or anything. Nothing direct. He… Hmm.” She sighed. “Can I be frank, and kind of gross?”
“Sure.”
“He’s sort of into the whole sloppy-seconds thing. We’ve pretended that a guy’s…” Her face flushed and she was glad Bern wasn’t there to see how red her cheeks had surely gone. “We’ve pretended another guy was with me, and you know… came. Inside me. He likes to feel like there’s proof. So there may be a bit of that.”
