by Sean Geist
“Daph, seeing you naked could get a blind man hard.”
“But—” I kissed her hard and began slowly – deeply – fucking my wife before she could say anything about how what I said didn't make any sense. She sighed into my mouth, our tongues dancing, our breaths melding to one.
I rose above her and increased the speed of my thrusts – watching her tits bounce in rhythm to my strokes.
“You have fun dancing?”
“Yeah.”
In Daphne's face, I could see the glow of another orgasm approaching.
“Brad gets you horny?”
The fantasy of the other man, I don't know if it really turned my wife on, but I did know it stirred something in me – something dark and frightening. I wanted to believe I could control it, separate reality from – whatever this was.
“Sometimes.”
The word sent a jolt through my cock. Daphne's eyes widened; she'd felt it.
“But not tonight?” I had trouble getting the words out between thrusts.
“No – Yes, I mean No, not tonight.”
“What. Got. You. Horny.” My cock pounded out each word on my wife's receptive pussy.
“Shut up and fuck me.”
I picked up the pace, with a force I rarely achieved. But I didn't shut up.
“Who then? Who got you horny?”
I didn't know how long I could keep this up. I felt my balls begin to tighten as that unmistakeable tension started building in my erection. I drove on, vowing to myself, not to come until she answered me.
“Really, Rich.” Her voice was rough, her breathes shallow.
“Yes, Daphne.”
“Oh, Fuck. Fuck I feel it. Gonna – cum.”
“You have to tell me. Now!”
I don't know why it was so important she say his name. A sick perversion – a mental hang-up – a deviance that would drive me insane.
The moment she took her breath, right before she spoke, I knew what she was going to say, and as the word escaped her lips I erupted inside her, my semen splashing deep, much more that usual.
Daphne came soon after and I kept pumping my hips through both our climaxes – emptying myself completely.
***
“Steve Speare?” That was the name that set me off. The man I hadn't thought about since we left Dallas; my wife obviously had.
We cuddled together, my wife and I, our sweaty bodies pressed together. It was messy, but comfortable, a perfect time to talk about our sexual fantasies, with that moment of mind-numbing passion over, but our bodies still flooded with endorphins, leaving us is a state of sated bliss.
“Yeah.”
“Why where you thinking about him?”
“Actually, it was Brad who brought him up. We were talking about you—”
“Me?”
“I do talk about you, sometimes.”
“With your boyfriend?” Daphne slapped me on the ass; I chuckled.
“You're so funny. Yes, with my boyfriend. We were talking local news and who our favorite anchors are. Brad, of course, loves that hot blond on Fox. I was about to say Lisa Simmons.” She's the morning anchor at my station, very competent, smart, and pretty, as all on-air talent have to be, but not overly sexy.
“But you didn't.”
“No. I didn't. I got to thinking about Steve and how hot he was – is.”
“Yeah, I remember.” The sarcasm bled from my words.
“What can I say.” I could tell my wife sensed my discomfort, and seemed to enjoy it. “Thinking about running my fingers through his soft blond hair, down his chiseled jaw, or his tight, six-pack abs.” She paused and stared into the middle distance as if she was imagining the scenario she had just described.
“You know he has six-pack abs?”
“It's my fantasy. He has six-pack abs. Where was I?”
“Running your fingers over Speare's abs.” I tried to sound aloof, nonplused, but I think my words might have held a mean edge. I wasn't mad, just trying to come to grips with our odd pillow talk – what it was, what it meant, and where it might be leading.
“Yes, down his abs to his—Hey feels like someone's ready for round two.” My cock, having a mind of it's own, was slowly engorging between our bodies. “Talking about other guys turns you on? Is there something you need to tell me, Rich?”
I knew she was joking, but I needed to explain my arousal. “Talking about other guy's doesn't turn me on, talking about you turns me on.”
“Me and other guys?”
“Ok, yes, the thought of you and other guys – for some reason – arouses me.”
“Then, I guess it's safe to tell you I want to put Steve on my Freebie list.”
My cock twitched and maybe grew a little more.
“But you've already got three guys on that list.”
It was a fantasy list. Celebrities we'd never really get to fuck, but who we'd be allowed to – if the stars aligned – without repercussions.
“Can't I have four?” Daphne turned around to face me, her lips pouting. Fantasy or no, I was standing my ground.
“Rules are rules. Three guys on the fantasy list. Guess that leaves Steve off.”
“I call for the substitution rule.” Daphne had been ready for my response and she had obviously given it a bit of thought.
“Now you're just making shit up.”
“No. We get one substitution and I'm using mine. I'm dropping the President and subbing in Steve.”
Throughout all this silliness, I remained rigid. Here was my wife, talking about the rules by which she could cheat on me, yet she'd never looked more desirable. Her long red hair was a tangled mess, her eyes smudged with makeup, but the fire that burned within them drew me in and consumed me. I wanted her so badly at that moment, it frightened me, as if I would cease to exist if she denied me.
“Ok. You wanna sub? You can sub. But first we have to fuck on it. It's not official 'til we fuck.”
“You're on, Mr. Hawk. Let's fuck.”
“The President is off your list. Steve Speare is on it.” I plunged my regained erection into my wife and once more this evening, rode her to another orgasm. Although I wasn't sure she came or not, Daphne fell asleep with a smile on her face. And although the President was officially off the freebie list now, I'm pretty sure, if the opportunity actually did come up and she did sleep with him, I wouldn't get too upset.
Chapter 3
The elections came and went; shortly thereafter I was offered a new position at the station, one with better pay and more responsibility, but one which cut heavily into the hours I had to spend with Daphne.
Every news show at the station had a producer to pick stories, set their order in the rundown and decide what pictures and graphics to use to make the stories interesting and keep the viewers from switching the channel. One of the producer's greatest allies in this process is the assignment editor, who collects story ideas from reporters, telephone tip lines, magazines and newspapers, faxes, press releases, police scanners and gossip they hear at the coffee shop. If something catches their eye, they assign a reporter to cover it.
A producer is responsible for one show, but an assignment editor is tasked with coming up with stories for the entire station. I was offered the position as Assistant Assignment Editor after two years at the station. My salary would almost double and I wouldn't have to come in at three in the morning. Instead, I would come in at one in the afternoon and work until the end of the ten o'clock show.
I talked it over with Daphne and we agreed the added income would really help us save for when we started a family. We knew that in a few years we'd want to have kids and a nice nest egg would take a lot of financial pressure off us.
“It'll mean less time together.” A brief look of disappoint passed across my wife's face as I went down the cons of the promotion. “You'll be asleep when I get home and I really won't feel like getting up when you're heading off to the hospital.”
“I could quit.” It was an offer give
n in good faith, but one I couldn't accept.
“You'd be bored in a month.”
“We'd survive.”
“But you'd hate every minute of it, and you'd end up blaming me. You're not meant to be a stay-at-home wife, Daph. Don't worry. We'll get through this, and we'll have the weekends.”
I took the job and we settled into a new normal, becoming more like roommates with benefits than a couple. During the week we never really saw each other fully awake. Just as I predicted, Daphne was fast asleep when I got home at eleven and when she headed off to work each morning at six I was just able to muster enough energy for a quick kiss and a mumbled, 'love ya' before I fell back to sleep.
Despite this, or maybe because of it, our sex life greatly improved, at least initially. Each weekend we'd make up for our lack of intimacy during the week with passionate, aggressive, sex. We were like two lovers separated and then reunited each Saturday. Sometimes we'd start Friday night. Daphne would wait up and meet me at the door sometimes wearing lingerie, sometimes nothing at all. Each time was a delight. We'd have sex and go to sleep exhausted. We'd get up around nine or ten Saturday morning and have breakfast. Sometimes we'd fuck before, sometimes after.
Sunday we'd go to church, or see a movie, or picnic in the park, our options only limited by the fact we lived in a city surrounded by corn and soybean fields. At night we'd have a late meal, maybe a bottle of wine, and just cuddle, enjoying each other's presence. Sometimes we'd make love, but not always.
We did always fall asleep in each other's arms.
Maybe once or twice a month, I'd coax Daphne into a Monday morning blow-job or she'd serve me breakfast in bed, consisting of me kneeling on the floor with my head up her work skirt licking her to one and sometimes two orgasms. She'd leave for work without her panties, and I was hard all day at the station, thinking of my wife going commando and her co-workers not knowing it.
I'd imagine her sneaking off to the lady's room for a quickie with herself and sometimes in these dirty daydreams of mine, she'd get caught and have to blow some co-worker to keep him from ratting her out. On those occasions I have to take a trip to the bathroom to stroke myself back to sanity. I didn't know where all these thoughts of my wife's indiscretions were coming from – I'm sure it had something to do with how we teased each other – but I tried not to think about what they said about my relationship.
It was an odd routine, but it worked for us. Every two weeks the paychecks were deposited and our savings account grew and the prospects of our future become more secure.
***
The honeymoon arrangement lasted about four months. Twice or three-times a week sex became one or two until finally, about half a year into my promotion, we were only making love maybe once a month.
It wasn't that we'd fallen out of love, I still cared deeply for Daphne and I'm sure she felt the same. I guess it's that sex had become so routine, and we never had the time to spice things up. One thing that never failed to get me hard was thinking about my wife with another man, and it drove me nuts. I didn't understand it. When I imagined Daphne fucking someone else I got insanely jealous, mad, and diamond hard. It made no sense to me. I was sure I didn't actually want her to do it, but I enjoyed teasing her about it.; I loved how wet and horny she got, on the rare occasions I brought up Brad or her freebie list. And we always ended up having amazing sex when I did.
Even though my wife and I didn't spend a lot of time together, neither of us was lonely. We both had made friends with our co-workers and occasionally socialized with them. Daphne regularly enjoyed an after-work drink on Thursday with the gang from accounting, and yes Brad sometimes joined them; those were the weekends we ended up having sex.
As for me, I'd go out with my friends on the evening shift: photogs, reporters, producers, hell, even an intern now and then. We'd grab a bite to eat at an all-night diner and maybe a drink after. One Tuesday night we ended up staying on the air past midnight, keeping viewers informed about a particularly nasty weather system that spawned a few large twisters that tore up some soybean fields to our west. Luckily the damage was minimal, no fatalities, and we got to sign off and head home after the National Weather Service lifted the warnings, leaving coverage of the clean-up to the morning crew.
Most everyone still at the station was tired and decided to go home, but I was able to convince the ten o'clock news producer to have a late dinner, really an early breakfast, with me at the Denny's near the station.
“You married, Tim?” I'd worked with the man for over six months and still didn't know much about him.
“Used to be. How 'bout you?” Tim turned his attention to cutting up his eggs and sopping the yolk with his toast.
“Yeah. Four years this September.”
“Good luck with that.” His words were garbled as they shared the same space with his bread. Tim didn't seem to be a very careful eater or polite conversationalist and I thought that might be why his marriage ended.
“Why say that?”
“This business kills marriages. Hell, even if you keep it in the family and marry another news hound, you've only got like a twenty, twenty-five percent chance to make it work.”
“I think Daphne and I are doing fine.”
As if my wife's name possessed a kind of magic, Tim looked up from his plate of eggs and potatoes. He looked tired, his eye's bloodshot, a bit of dried yolk nestled in the crack where his upper and lower lips met. I know I had been working as many hours today and I hoped to God I didn't look as bad.
“This wife of yours, Daphne, right? She in the biz?”
“No. She's an accountant.”
“A civilian.” Tim tisked and shook his head. “I'd research a good lawyer. I doubt you'll be married this time next year.”
“You know nothing about my relationship.”
“She work second shift, like you?”
“No.” What was he getting at?
Tim shoveled another fork full of eggs into his mouth and spoke while he chewed. “I give you six months, then.”
I watched him eat and smiled. I knew I loved my wife and she loved me and I wasn't going to let this schlub poison my life.
“You're looking at me like I'm lying.”
“Just cause your marriage failed doesn't mean mine will.”
“Rich, I'm talking averages – numbers – they don't lie. Hell, you might beat the odds, who knows, but I've been in this business almost fifteen years and every guy or gal I've seen who came in married ended up single again. Only time I've seen people stay together longer than a year or two is when they marry a co-worker, someone who understands, who isn't bothered by the odd schedules and long hours, and like I said, most those marriages also end, eventually.”
“You have a pessimistic view of life, my friend.”
“I'm a realist. That's why I love this job.”
“Well, I'll tell you, Daphne and I are doing fine. We love each other and trust each other and—”
“How often you have sex?”
I didn't think it was any of his business, and I told him as much.
“You probably started off fucking as often as you could, but eventually that passion fades, and now, you can't be bothered. Tell me I'm wrong.”
I wanted to, but I couldn't. He was kinda right.
“Sure, you love each other, but.” Tim paused again, he stared off, as if trying to come up with what to say next. I didn't care. I waved for the waitress to send us our checks.
“You're mad at me. I'm just trying to warn ya. I like you, Rich. You do good work. You're organized and you know your shit. Last guy always had to look up the Governor's name. Kept forgetting it. Anyway, I like you and don't want to see you get blindsided.”
I thanked him for the advice, but didn't really mean it, told him I'd see him in the afternoon, paid my bill and left.
I didn't want to let any of what Tim said affect me, but it did. My once rock solid belief that Daphne and I were soul mates had gained the tiniest of hair lin
e cracks. I wondered if she was really happy with our mismatched schedules, living deep in farm country, away from her family and life-long friends. I promised myself I'd ask her and I truly intended to do that when she got up, in less than four hours, but I overslept.
It was six when I finally did wake up and I had little time to catch my wife before she headed to the office. That's when I overheard a conversation that fed my doubts and those tiny cracks burst wide open.
“Yeah, Brad. I'll be there.” Daphne was on her cellphone, keeping her voice low as not to wake me. I guess I could have seen that as considerate, but my new found paranoia would have none of that. Her low voice was a means of deception, she was having a talk she didn't want me to hear.
I knew I was being stupid, but damn if what Tim had said didn't stick. My doubts were feral beasts and if I didn't say something I knew they'd eat me alive.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
Daphne jumped, her mind focused on her conversation. “Rich, sorry. Was I too loud?” My wife's eyes shifted around the room, missing mine for the longest time. Not a good start.
“No, no. I was just.” Why was I up? Did I go ahead and tell her about what Tim and I discussed last night? Bring up my doubts about our relationship or delve into her feelings, her wants? With my mind situated somewhere between wakefulness and dream-state and Daphne on the way out the door, this wasn't the right time for that conversation. “I have to pee.”
“Oh. Don't let me stop you.” I think she realized how that sounded harsh and she called me over for a kiss. “You know I love you, right, sweetie?”
Why'd she have to say that now? Was her conscience bothering her? And why did Brad call so early? Only one way to find out.
“Who called?”
Daphne looked down at the cellphone in her hand, then flipped it shut. “No one. Just a co-worker. We're having drinks tonight.”
“On a Wednesday?”
“Yeah. Why the third degree?”
I guess I could have turned the tables, asked why she was didn't really tell me who called, but I didn't – it wasn't the right time.
