I couldn’t wait to meet Siliidi. It wasn’t only that I wanted to get regular sex—I certainly did—but this was the first time in my life that a woman had learned almost everything about me and still wanted me. I felt incredible. She was the hottest thing I’d ever seen—at least, there weren’t any women I’d jerked off to who were better than Siliidi.
We didn’t love each other, but neither of us minded. We were adults, and each of us would be getting something we needed. She wanted a green card; I wanted to get fucked and have my house cleaned. Besides, I genuinely liked Siliidi—and to be honest, I’d never really liked a woman before.
I’d agreed to our getting married in the airport chapel. She had said that if I didn’t marry her right then and there, she would get on the next plane back to Sri Lanka. Those were her terms; if it meant getting sex right after I took her home, I was more than willing to oblige.
I saw Siliidi on the security camera as she walked out of customs and shivered—in person she was even better looking than her Internet photo. She wore a sundress tight across her tits. Her hair hung sexily down her back. Gorgeous.
Siliidi pushed her luggage cart toward me, showing off, swaying her hips. I shoved a bouquet of airport flowers in her face and waited for her to speak. I was sweating profusely. I couldn’t wait to finally hear her voice. She turned out to have the voice of a phone sex operator. I got hard instantly.
“Hubert, have you been dieting? You are so handsome,” she intoned in her lilting Sri Lankan accent. She took the flowers and inhaled them as if she wanted to eat them. Even that got me hot.
All I managed to say was a charming, “Hello, Siliidi. You look very nice.”
She grabbed me by the collar and kissed me as if she had been missing me intensely. She wrapped her luscious arms around me and squeezed. “Marry me now, Hubert,” she whispered.
She had traveled halfway around the world to be with me, and I wanted to be with her more than anything. We parked the luggage cart at the chapel, went inside, and tied the knot.
Strangely, Siliidi didn’t say a word on the way home from the airport—she just massaged my cock. If I had just come to a new country to marry some stranger, I think I would have felt something, had lots to say, questions to ask. Not Siliidi. She smiled calmly and stared out the window, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She asked a few questions about the town. I pointed out the supermarket, local bar, dry cleaners, and coffee hangouts. She nodded and smiled, and touched me some more.
We arrived home. Siliidi was impressed by my suburban house, and I guess it did seem pretty big compared to the trailers down the street. It has white vinyl siding that I clean on a semiannual basis, and a moderately mowed lawn. As far as the interior, I was hoping that Siliidi would redecorate and make it nicer.
I carried Siliidi’s suitcases inside and let her look around for a while. I could hear her slow, sexy footsteps clicking through the rooms. She made it from the bathroom to the bedroom, and then there was silence.
“Siliidi?” I called. No answer. I walked toward the bedroom.
“Siliidi? Where are you?” I was too nervous to have a hard-on. I crept into the bedroom.
She was standing naked on the bed in a pair of high heels, admiring herself in the mirror. She looked like someone straight out of a live streaming video. My cock banged against my boxers. I’m sure I was drooling out of the corner of my mouth. There on my bed with the Star Wars comforter and matching pillows was the sexiest woman alive—who also just happened to be my wife.
The spiked heels caught me off guard. “Where…in Sri Lanka…did you get…those?”
Siliidi jumped off the bed and slapped me across the face. “You dirty boy,” she said, unfastening my belt and unzipping my fly. “Pull those down. Now.”
Though I can get hot about being dominated once in awhile, this was not the way I had planned our first fuck. But I decided to pull down my pants, because it would bring me closer to actually getting laid.
She circled me, but didn’t touch me. My eyes lowered to her nipples; they looked like the chocolate icing on mocha cupcakes. I wanted to press my lips to her smooth skin and suck, but I was interrupted by a painful blow across my buttocks.
“Take off your shirt and your boxers,” she growled. “Get completely naked.”
“Ouch, you bitch!” I whimpered, rubbing my butt. I wanted to tell her to fuck off, but if I upset her I might miss the fuck of my life.
I stood naked in the middle of the room. Though I had shed a few pounds across my midsection, I was still fat and pasty white. My man breasts wobbled over three rolls of stomach flesh. My cock, though above average in size by most standards, was dwarfed by my fat. I was sure Siliidi would make fun of me.
But she didn’t. She got down on her knees and her face turned soft and gentle. She touched my cock as if it was a precious thing to protect and cherish. She took it in her mouth and worked it between her luscious red lips, moaning softly, like a woman eating her favorite dessert.
I grabbed a cluster of her raven tendrils and moved her head up and down my cock. She sucked harder; moaned louder; applied more pressure to the tip. My ass tightened and I felt an orgasm starting. She stopped abruptly.
She dragged her nails up my chest and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You have displeased me. Now lie down!”
“What?” I covered my red raging cock with both hands and took a few steps back. “What kind of crazy bitch are you?” What had happened? Things had been going so well.
Siliidi pushed me down on the bed with a surprisingly strong movement of her arms. She raised her leg over me, enough to give me a shot of her wet lips, and kneed me in my doughboy stomach.
When I saw that she was dripping, I calmed down a little. Maybe this was part of her game. I reminded myself that I had an actual, real live female in my bedroom who was wet and ready.
“Apologize to me,” Siliidi said.
“For…?”
Siliidi grabbed my belt and whipped the pillow next to me. “Just do it. Do it or never get fucked.” She straddled me so her wet cunt was near the tip of my cock. She softened again, turning from bitch to loving wife, and stroked her wetness to remind me she wanted it.
I was so weak—and so close to satisfaction. When I felt her juices on the head of my cock and saw her fondling her breasts, her confusing games didn’t matter. I meekly told her I was sorry, though I did not know for what.
She took three minutes to sit down on my cock, making me beg every thirty seconds to go further inside her. I had never seen such developed thigh muscles on a woman. She was able to freeze her toned body just to torture me. Finally, I figured out what she really wanted.
“Mistress,” I said, “I will be a good boy. Please, please sit down on me.”
I had guessed correctly: she loved my obedience. Now she turned sweet and tumbled down onto my cock. Pressing her hands on my chest, she worked her body over me vigorously, providing maximum pleasure. She brought my head close to her breasts so I could fondle and suck while she moved up and down on me. Using every muscle in her strong and sculpted legs, she pushed me in and out of her.
I had intended to keep it going for a long time, but since this was my first real fuck, it lasted only five minutes—still a record over my hand jobs.
Siliidi looked no more than twenty, so I was stunned to learn that she was actually thirty-five. She had been married once before, to a man with a turban, but she divorced him once she realized he had no intentions of moving her to New York City. Ironically, after they were divorced her ex-husband had wed, in an arranged marriage, a much younger American-born Indian. After that Siliidi became even more determined to get to the United States.
Her parents couldn’t arrange another marriage for her, since divorce branded her “damaged goods.” So she took matters into her own hands and put herself on the exotic mail-order brides site. She told me she had gotten over a hundred hits a night.
Most of her clients were Germans with brown-
girl fetishes. She didn’t get much American traffic through her page; American men seemed to want the petite East Asian types. I had been the first American man over eighteen to enter her site.
Was she as desperate as I was? Apparently.
When I realized this, I really fell in love with Siliidi.
In our home, Siliidi ruled. Outside, though, she played the role of the subservient woman, turning me into a living legend in our small town. For instance, every Wednesday she would come to the Kmart with a basket of homemade curries and breads as if she were delivering my lunch. I hated Sri Lankan cooking, but these lunches served an important purpose: every man in Kmart noticed her. She wore a tight spandex miniskirt with no panties, and the curves of her ass showed through the shiny black material. Her tank top, in some loud color like turquoise or yellow, revealed plenty of cleavage, not to mention the outline of her nipples. The men at Kmart couldn’t believe that I had married this exotic beauty with “a tight ass and a nice rack”—and that I had her wrapped around my little finger.
“Hubert!” she would call, running through the store, sending her breasts flying up to her chin.
“Hello, Siliidi,” I’d repy in an aloof manner. To the guys around me, it looked like I had everything under control. She wanted me; I could care less about her. (Inside my pants, of course, my erection was almost ready to pop.)
Siliidi embraced and kissed me; I just stood still. “I made you some special treats because I was thinking about you, Hubert!”
Her voice was syrupy sweet. I wanted to melt, but I remained cool—and all the staff could see it. I pointed to my office with the plastic furniture, and blinds on the windows. “In there,” I told my wife.
Siliidi bowed with a sexy flick of her waist. She ran her hands hungrily over my blue polyester uniform and tugged at my name tag. She left the food on the customer service counter and we went into my office. I closed the blinds and moaned loudly for a good five to ten minutes while she gave me head—which anyone in the vicinity could not help but hear. I would munch on a cafeteria hot dog I’d bought earlier so I wouldn’t have to eat Siliidi’s curry. I loved eating lunch while having my cock sucked. Later I’d throw the Sri Lankan food out in the dumpster, carefully wrapping it so nobody would see that I hadn’t eaten it.
This thing that I had going with Siliidi couldn’t last, and I knew it. She was eventually going to get her citizenship, and then she wouldn’t need me anymore.
After two years in the United States, she was losing her accent. Now, when she told me to strip, she could have been any woman in a porn video. She was losing her uniqueness. I still got instantly hard at the sight of her, but I was less than satisfied with our sex. At first Siliidi had been so exciting, I had to have her, I needed so badly to be inside her. Now, while we were fucking I would think about the stale Twinkies on top of the refrigerator.
One night Siliidi was sitting on her side of the bed smoking a cigarette. She extinguished it only halfway through. “I get my citizenship next week,” she said.
Siliidi wasn’t desperate anymore. She moved out a few months after she got her papers from the government. I didn’t try to stop her.
Sexually, Siliidi had spoiled me. I hadn’t jerked off for the entire two years we were married, and I didn’t want to jerk off again. Sex with a hot kinky woman with humongous tits had turned out to be everything I’d always wanted, at least in the beginning. Now, I want it again.
But I am faced with the dilemma of being Hubert W. Humphrey—a middle-aged, obese, pasty white, fast-food junkie with a middle management job at Kmart. I may not be the most pathetic man in the world, but I’m never going to be an ace on the singles scene. And I still can’t afford a classy whore.
On the Internet, though, I’m a king. I choose who to get off with and when. On the Internet, there are women who need me—women even more desperate than I am.
So, I’m back to XoticMailOrderBrides.com. I’ve even lowered my standards. Now, I chat with them all—scrawny Thais, fake blondes from Russia. After all, you never know when you might find a woman who’s desperate for a green card.
INFIDELITIES
G. L. Morrison
HOW DID I KNOW HE WAS UNFAITHFUL? I KNEW it because I was his second wife. He’d been unfaithful to his first wife—with me. I remember the excuses he gave her: working late, “business trips” we took together, absurdly frequent engine trouble or flat tires.
“She didn’t fall for that?” I asked him. He assured me that she believed every word.
I now know that she didn’t. I don’t. I am just too amazed at his audacity to argue. Now I also know what I didn’t know when he and I were making love for hours, pretzeling into impossible, playful, passionate positions and then sleeping, twisted into each other’s arms in a borrowed apartment of a friend who was out of town for the weekend while Stephen was supposedly on one of those “business trips.” I know that Stephen had sex with his wife, though he told me he didn’t. I know it because he is still having sex with me. Tender, guilty, exhausted sex.
Now, six years after our illicit affair has been legalized, sanitized into a state of respectability, I am twice wounded. My husband is cheating on me with another woman. And all those years ago my lover, the same man, was cheating on me with his wife. I don’t know which betrayal I resent more. I should be angry. I should resist the seductions and cut flowers, as short-lived as his excuses. But I don’t, because Stephen’s a really great lover. I don’t know where he finds the energy. Does it excite him to crawl into my bed with the scent of another woman still clinging to him? To kiss me hungrily…?
Yes, Jennifer. He does still kiss me hungrily.
The other woman’s name is Jennifer. Stephen crawls into my bed as little as fifteen minutes after leaving hers. She lives only a few miles away from us. I’ve never met her. But I know where she lives. Does it excite him to rush in to me after making love to her? To twine his tongue around mine so that I can almost taste her? So that the smell of her cunt, still wet on his chin, overwhelms me. It excites me. It doesn’t lessen my jealousy, but it excites me. When his kisses have inflamed me enough, I push his head down. His rough tongue patiently tickles the inside of my thighs.
“Quickly,” I hurry him. I want some of her juice still on his tongue while he’s licking me. Is it me he’s thinking of while his tongue wriggles into the muscled cave of my cunt? Is her cunt lightly downed as mine, the hair thinned with age, or is she young and rebelliously shaved smooth? I read his diary but he leaves out details like these. “Jennifer,” I heard him say into the phone as he hung up very quickly. (J in his diary.) There were only two Jennifers in his address book. One of them I recognized as an eighty-year-old great-aunt. I wrote down the other’s address and phone number. Sloppy, Stephen. Very sloppy. Which is how his first wife caught us. I wasn’t surprised his habits hadn’t much changed.
I didn’t call her. What would I have said? I’ve driven by her house, hoping to catch sight of her. My jealous curiosity drew me there. One day when I knew him to be on a real business trip, I stopped. (Let this be a warning to you, Husbands of the World. It is not that difficult to check.) I got out of the car. I rang her doorbell. She could just as easily have been on the trip with him. She wasn’t.
Twenty-something with red braided hair answered the door.
“Hello,” I said, cold and defiant.
“Hello,” she said sweetly.
“Do you know who I am?” I demanded.
She looked puzzled. She shook her head apologetically. “I haven’t lived here very long.”
I didn’t know what to say. This interview wasn’t going at all as I had imagined it.
“I’m Karyn,” I said. “Karyn Feinberg.”
Her red braid bobbed amiably.
“Stephen Feinberg’s wife.”
She didn’t bat an eyelash. Not a flicker of recognition.
“Are you Jennifer?” Maybe I was at the wrong address.
“Jennifer Reidenbach.” She
shook my hand politely.
I felt a little foolish. I kept waiting for Rod Serling to step out from behind a well-manicured bush. Should I ask her, “Are you having an affair with my husband?” Should I demand to smell her pubic hair? Would it be the same salty-sweet I licked off his cheek some nights?
Jennifer Reidenbach was looking at me kindly. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’ve lost my…” (Mind. I’ve definitely lost my mind.) “…My puppy. Have you seen him?”
“What does he look like?”
Like every other imaginary pet. “Brown, furry. About this high. Comes to the name of Romeo.”
“That’s a funny name for a dog.”
“Isn’t it?”
Jennifer Reidenbach shook her red braid. “No. I haven’t seen him.”
“Maybe your husband has seen him.”
“I’m not married.”
“Can I use your phone?” I asked.
“Sure,” the fly said to the spider.
She led me to a kitchen phone. I stared at her pointedly. She left to give me privacy. I hit each of the auto-dial numbers programmed into her phone. One of them was certain to be Stephen’s office number or my home. I hung up whenever anyone answered. I didn’t hear a voice or message machine that I recognized. That doesn’t prove anything, I told myself.
The walls of the kitchen and hallways were covered with snapshots. I looked for pictures of him, of them together. They were all of people I didn’t know. I took in as much as I could of her apartment. “Are you a photographer?”
“I wish,” she said wistfully. “I mean, yes, I am. I’m trying to be.”
In spite of myself, I liked her. I went from room to room, looking at the photographs; looking around for some evidence, some telltale sign of Stephen.
Best of Best Women's Erotica Page 20
