by Jason Lenov
Dirty Becky
A Wife Sharing Romance
by
Jason Lenov
Copyright 2019 Jason Lenov
Thirteenth Line Publications
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those that are clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, companies, organizations, events, or products, is purely coincidental.
All characters depicted in this story are 18 years or older.
Cover characters are models. Image(s) is/are licensed from:
depositphotos.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Also by Jason Lenov
Chapter One
“Beck? Becky? You sleeping?”
Becky purred like a kitten before rolling over to stare at me through the darkness. “Mmm?”
My gaze wandered over her pretty features, dipping toward her abundant chest amply filling out the old white t-shirt she slept in. “Were you sleeping?”
A smile flickered on one corner of her mouth. “I was trying,” she whispered. Her innocent expression was delicious. Mostly because I was sure she knew exactly what I was trying to get but pretended not to anyway.
She thought she knew, that is. She thought it was what most men wanted from their wives at the end of a long day. It was, but with a darker twist.
Becky was a beautiful bundle of contradictions. It was what had inspired my intense and immediate attraction to her when we first met.
A blonde ornithologist that dressed like a bimbo and wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses which only served to make that particular juxtaposition all the more jarring. She peppered endless descriptions of birds with a barrage of f-bombs that would have made a sailor blush. Reared running barefoot in the Appalachian mountains by what can only be described as hillbillies, she’d harnessed a latent genetic inheritance of genius and finished her PhD in her mid-twenties. She loved a drink, wouldn’t say no to a smoke if one was offered and took her coffee black, preferably as thick as tar.
But for some reason she refused the usual uniforms of academia, pant suits for professional women, opting instead for too-tight blouses, top buttons undone to reveal her generous cleavage and skirts that covered only half her toned thighs.
She was, in short, a bombshell and a brilliant dork rolled into one delicious, curvy package. And while the revealing outfits might have implied a roaring libido, she was fairly sexually conservative. Eager to please but mostly on her back with her legs in the air. Nothing kinky.
This was the only part of her I swore to change the moment she accepted my engagement ring with teary eyes and hands cupped over her mouth. The reason for this, what would become my obsession, my precious and dirty little secret, came as a surprise, even to me.
There was one thing about Becky that tickled a funny part inside me that I previously hadn’t even known was there. She’d been married previously. In keeping with her stubborn lack of genre, that marriage had been to a very large, very handsome and very athletic black man named Quentin.
I still remember the moment on our third date when she casually divulged this information. It caused the strangest swell of arousal to well through me, so potent that I spent the rest of the meal struggling to control it.
Her recounting of their relationship was brief, as if the whole thing had been a mere footnote in her life up to that point.
They’d met in college, dated for a year, married and divorced two years later. No kids. No explanation as to why. No other details. This in itself was a stark contrast to her usual soliloquy's on the most mundane aspects of her history.
It drove me to the very edge of insanity.
“Were you going to ask me something? Or just keep staring at my chest?”
A blush rose to my cheeks at the way her gentle chiding pulled me from my thoughts and back into the moment. I tore my eyes away from her breasts and looked into hers again. I’d spent the last six months of our marriage trying to ignore the question that was now on the tip of my tongue. Six months of burying it, pretending it didn’t exist, trying to cram it back into the corner of my mind it had crawled from.
I’d realized that day that it wasn’t going away. I had no idea what her reaction would be to me asking it. I had no idea how my life would change knowing the answer. The only thing I was certain about was that if I didn’t at least try to address it, it might just tear me in two.
“Still waiting,” Becky said, caressing my cheek lightly with a finger. “I’m not just handing it over you know,” she teased. “You have to at least ask for it.”
A shiver raced through me.
“You know my grandmother used to say once a month was more than enough for any man,” she purred, her smile widening.
Her twisting smile caused my own lips to curl. “What did your grandfather have to say about that?” I asked.
Becky giggled. “He didn’t talk much,” she admitted. “Too busy philandering.”
I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what I was about to do. “Well I’m only interested in philandering you,” I whispered.
One eyebrow shot up as Becky looked up toward the ceiling. “I don’t think…” She paused, then shook her head. “Never mind. Not the most romantic fucking proposition but I guess it’ll do,” she said. Grabbing a hold of her shirt she began to haul it up her stomach to pull it off over her head.
I put a hand on her arm. “Wait.”
Becky raised an eyebrow again. “Wait?” she echoed.
“I want to ask you a question first.”
Her arms settled back down onto the bed. She rolled onto her side, propped her head up with a hand, the smile fading from her lips. “What’s the question?”
I wiped my mouth with a clammy palm. This was it, the moment I’d been planning for weeks. I could barely keep myself from shaking. “I want to know about Quentin,” I whispered.
Becky’s brow furrowed. Her eyes roamed back and forth along the bed. “Quentin?” she said.
I nodded, eyes riveted to her expression, gauging her reaction. “Quentin.”
“What about him?” she said, shaking her head, clearly puzzled by the question.
“It’s just…you’re so…you know, like, it seems so unlike you. You’re so different than…”
Becky adjusted herself on the bed which made her breasts jiggle in a very distracting way. “You want to hear about Quentin? Right before we’re about to have sex?”
I couldn’t tell from her tone whether she was exasperated with me or upset or what was going on inside her mind at all. “It’s not…I mean I’m not asking because…”
But I was asking because of that. I was asking because the idea of Becky copulating with her ex-husband filled me with such a terrifying yet thrilling dread that hardened me like nothing else had yet.
“Why do you want to hear about Quentin?” Becky said, looking more puzzled with each passing second.
I’ve always believed that life is a series of decisions. The way we approach our relationships, the details we choose to share can bring us closer together or drive us farther apart. Up to that point Becky and I had been too busy being in love to talk much about each other’s past. But the past is what creates us, makes us who we a
re.
I had never met Quentin or seen him, even. But from the brief description of him Becky had given it seemed like the two of us could not be more different. I’m a bio-ethicist. I drive a Honda Civic. I read scientific papers as a hobby.
How a woman like Becky could, in the same life, fall for a man like Quentin and then for a man like me was an achingly painful question. One I had to answer, even if only partially. “It’s just…”
In that moment I had a realization that shook my whole being. This was not, as I had thought, a decision that needed to be made. It was not even a decision. It was a foregone conclusion. There was only one way forward if I were ever to be happy in this marriage. I had to tell the truth.
I took a deep breath and began.
“This thing, this Quentin thing has bugged me, well, not bugged me, it’s eaten away at me ever since you told me about him,” I admitted.
“It has?” Becky asked. Her brow unfurrowed, expression changing from puzzlement to curiosity.
“It has,” I replied. “I want to know you entirely. Completely. I feel like that’s impossible until I understand what made you marry a man like him.”
“You mean a black man?” she said.
“No! No, no, no! I didn’t mean that. I don’t care that he was black.” I did, but not in any sort of racist way. It was…fascinating, I suppose was the best word for it. “I just meant that he was an athlete. From what you’ve told me he seemed like sort of a jock. Didn’t he play football or something?”
“Oh yeah,” Becky replied, nodding but seeming like she still wasn’t understanding my question. “He played ball alright. He was on a football scholarship.”
“Right,” I said. Because of course he was. Like that explained anything. “You’re just…you don’t even like football. How did you guys meet?”
Becky thought for a moment. “Well, my friend Marie was in a sorority and she invited me to one of the parties. Quentin was there.”
Okay. As if that explained anything I’d asked about.
“And?” I urged.
“And he seemed nice so we started to date.”
Nice. That big jock of a football player is so nice, said no woman ever. I wasn’t buying it. There was something else. I had my suspicions but didn’t want to put words in Becky’s mouth. “Nice?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Becky replied, nodding earnestly.
“What was so nice about him?”
She shrugged. “He was just really kind. Had a good personality. Made me laugh. All that stuff, you know?”
All that stuff did not at all seem like reason enough to get married about. “That’s it?” I asked.
Becky shrugged again. “I guess.”
Her apparent lack of understanding was maddening. “Why’d you get divorced?” I asked, hoping a new line of questioning might elicit more detail.
Becky sighed. Wistfully? Perhaps. In my excited state I’d lost confidence in my ability to tell.
“We just weren’t right for each other.”
Full stop. Like running into a brick wall. For god’s sake woman… “Was it amicable?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, nodding. “We’re still friends.”
A cold blade of jealousy sliced through me. Still friends?
Becky scowled. “Is that okay? Are you…if you want me to not be I can unfriend him on Facebook. I’d have to tell him why but he’d understand.”
Sweet merciful Christmas. That football playing jock wasn’t just nice. He was kind and understanding, probably had a heart of gold. What else? Did he rescue puppies in his spare time?
“Actually I just saw him a few weeks ago at the animal shelter where he volunteers.”
Of course she did. I nearly slapped my forehead at this. “You saw him?” I said, my voice a little shaky. “And didn’t say anything?”
Becky shook her head. She looked thoroughly perplexed. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I didn’t know this about you, Jeff.”
“Didn’t know what?”
“I just didn’t take you for the jealous type.” She seemed neither here nor there about it.
“No! I’m not jealous,” I lied. I was. Just not in that I’m-gonna-kill-that-sunnabitch kind of way. Really I was far more intrigued than I was jealous. The jealousy was just the caffeine of this emotion that I hadn’t named yet.
“Then what is this all about?” Becky said, finally sounding a little exasperated. Her expression changed as soon as she’d said it, to something very apologetic. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I love you. I want you to be fucking happy. I just don’t understand.”
I sighed and had my own realization. Becky’s frustration was my fault. My questions were as obfuscated as her answers seemed. I touched her arm in a caress. “I want to tell you something.”
“Of course,” she answered. “Anything.”
“It’s very strange.”
She smiled sweetly. “You’re a little strange. That’s why I married you.”
“I don’t want you to get upset.”
Becky leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. “Nothing you say will upset me,” she whispered. “And if we don’t finish this conversation soon I’m going to be way too tired to have sex. So just fucking spit it out, mister.”
The expletive sharpened my appetite for her. “It’s sort of personal,” I said quietly, trying to smooth the road ahead.
“We’re married. That’s as personal as it gets.”
I swallowed loudly. “Did you…I mean…while you were…” Oh for god’s sake. I just couldn’t get it out.
Becky’s sweet smile turned into a knowing one. “Did we have sex, Jeff? Is that it?”
I rolled my eyes and groaned. “Of course you did. You were married,” I said, acting like that hadn’t been the question I’d been circling around for the past ten minutes.
b. When I looked at Becky again she was studying me, watching my expression. “You want to hear about it. Is that it?”
This was the moment I’d been preparing for. It was now or never, the fork in the road, the switch to be flipped. This was my great decision. “I think I do,” I whispered.
The tension in her expression eased, her smile not faltering, however. “You silly goose,” she whispered, touching the tip of my nose with her finger. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Chapter Two
I still spend a good bit of time pondering that question. I suppose I didn’t just say it because things were different then. I didn’t know Becky the way I know her now. Completely. I didn’t know what her reaction would be, or whether I’d be shamed by it. I didn’t know how open one could be with another person, or how good that feels.
Thankfully for me, I couldn’t have imagined a better reaction than Becky’s. To answer me in a far more honest and outright way than I’d managed to ask the question.
“Quentin wasn’t like the other guys,” Becky began. She paused, her thoughts drifting back as she recalled what her old life had been like. “He really was sweet. He always said please and thank-you and he was never creepy. We dated for months before he tried to kiss me.”
This was strange. It didn’t fit with the version of Quentin I’d constructed for myself. Then again, it was also so very Becky. To fall for a man so opposite of not just her, but of what he should have been himself.
“When he finally did it was on the steps of my apartment after he’d walked me home. We’d been on a date, an afternoon stroll through the park followed by ice cream. It was the best fucking ice cream I think I’d ever had. Maybe that’s what had softened me to finally let him kiss me.”
The perfectly placed curse was delightfully jarring. I hung on her every word.
“He put a finger under my chin and lifted my mouth to his so gently.”
As she spoke I realized she was reliving the moment in her mind. My cock hardened at thinking that my wife, my sometimes larger-than-life scientist with deliciously out-sized breasts, hips built for bre
eding and a brain the size of a watermelon, was recalling the way her black lover’s tongue had pressed into her mouth.
The lust that rushed through me was mind-boggling.
“But then,” she said, her voice hushed, “when he finally kissed me, when I finally let him in, he was the exact opposite of the man I’d known up to that point.”
Of course.
“He didn’t just peck me gently on the lips.” She locked eyes with me. “When he pushed his tongue into my mouth he wasn’t asking for permission any longer. There was nothing delicate or polite about it,” she explained, shaking her head so her blonde locks danced across her shoulders. “He owned me with that kiss, Jeff,” she whispered, her eyes opening a little wider, a wildness in them I’d never seen. “That kiss made it clear that there was a very different Quentin in there than the one I’d fallen in love with.”
I was perched on the edge of my proverbial seat. “And?” I whispered, my throat so tight I could barely speak. “Who was that Quentin?”
Becky bit her lip. “That Quentin was an animal, Jeff.”
It felt like a fist had closed around my chest. A brutal, clenching feeling that led me to believe I might never breathe again. “And? Did you…” I couldn’t bring myself to form the question.
But Becky now understood what I wanted from her, what I’d wanted this whole time. Not only did she seem to understand my need, she seemed to enjoy it, too. “I did,” she said quietly. “I took his hand and led him upstairs to my apartment.”
This tore through me like a freight train. My beautiful Becky, the intellectual I’d always dreamed of marrying, succumbing to that most base of needs, the thing that drives this bio-mechanical ballet we’re living. “You let him…”
Becky shook her head. “There was no letting Quentin do anything once we got in the bedroom. He just did it. He took what he wanted and didn’t ask questions.”
