*This is a response to a request from a literotica friend. I hope you enjoy it and don't mind how liberally I've used artistic licence*
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I am not someone prone to thoughts of infidelity. I pride myself on the fact that I have been 100% faithful to every partner I have shared myself with and I expect the same responsibility and honesty in return.
Marty and I had been going out for 6 months. He was to all intents and purposes a 'jock'. Captain of the university football team, tall, toned and lean but not overly muscular, together with a handsome face and charming smile I have no doubt that he was the object of the fantasies of a fair few women who had met him. He was no fool either, I never saw him spend much time with his books yet he effortlessly aced whatever exam was thrown before him. And yet here was I, fresh out of a small rural college, with no great sophistication or tremendous beauty, monopolising the attentions of this Adonis. I was used to the bitchy stares and comments from other girls and I became accustomed to the coterie of flirtatious females that attached themselves to Marty whenever we went out to a bar or club, often in blatant disregard of my presence alongside him.
At first, of course, I found it impossible to ignore them. Even though it was flattering to have a boyfriend who attracted such attention it was much more than I knew how to handle. I was aware too of his reputation garnered during his first year at university. I didn't know exactly how many girls he had slept with, I didn't ask either but I knew he had taken more than his share. So whenever some glamorous, and usually drunk, girl threw her arms round his neck and pressed her slender body against Marty, heedless of my aghast expression, I couldn't help but wonder whether this was another of his conquests returning for seconds. I sulked and wept my way through the first month and a half of our relationship before I gradually gained a grip on my jealousy. Despite his past I had no reason to believe Marty was anything other than devoted to me, apart from my own sense of inadequacy. I also reassured myself with the notion that based on the amount of sex we were having with each other there surely couldn't be any need for him to be looking elsewhere.
I reaped the benefit of his experience in this. I had never been a particularly orgasmic partner in my previous relationships but I was able to learn a great deal about my body through the way he touched me. In our first 3 months together we were insatiable. The bedroom I nominally shared with my roommate at university residence remained pristine whilst I eventually found myself taking over the laundry duties at Marty's house. Like so many teenage boy's he suffered from a lack of attention to cleanliness. If I didn't change his sheets on a daily basis the bed quickly became so stained with our sweat and other bodily fluids that the smell would make me gag.
I found his other housemates largely an annoyance to be tolerated. When he was with them his boorish side overpowered the tenderness I saw in private. Only one of them could I stand to be alone in the same room with for more than 5 minutes. Rich was sporty too, but his chosen field was the comparatively solitary activities of athletics and swimming. Hence, he always seemed shy and quietly vulnerable compared to the raucous carousing of his friends. Whenever Marty became insufferable I would invariably sneak away to Rich's room on the top floor where I would nestle myself in his tired and faded leather armchair and gabble at him whilst he struggled manfully to finish whatever essay was due in the next day.
Somehow after half a year of semi-blissful coexistence my enthusiasm began to diminish. I wasn't aware of it at first except as a creeping ordinariness in our life. We still met every day, went out together most days of the week and had fun when we did so. Yet I no longer felt pain in my tummy at the thought of having to leave him for a few hours, I no longer had to struggle to contain my naïve happiness when we were reunited. We still made love as frequently as before but when the fireworks went off they were not quite as bright or as explosive, and even those were now the exception rather than the rule to which I had been accustomed. The confusing part was that on the nights spent in my own bed alone it was thoughts of him that fuelled my masturbation fantasies and brought me so quickly to wave after wave of orgasmic delight as I pillow-smothered my moans of pleasure for the sake of my roommate's prurience.
One night we had been out with a group of mutual friends at a bar. I managed to ignore the skinny blonde with the unfeasible cleavage that had spent most of the night practically throwing herself at my boyfriend and it was perhaps her attentions that accounted for the fiery passion with which he molested my body on the dance floor. From the bulge in his trousers that pressed against my tummy as we danced I knew how the evening would develop and I managed to keep him far enough from his jock buddies and the bar long enough to ensure he would not be incapable at the end of the night. I gave his crotch a playful squeeze and suggested we take a taxi before the queue gets too long.
As soon as the cold air hit me I started to lose any arousal that had built up. The boyish fumbling in the back of the taxi did nothing to increase my desire. The rough and feverish grappling, which always used to melt my resistance when we were first discovering each other's bodies, now seemed forced and unwanted. I feigned modesty before our driver in keeping the wandering hands outside my little black dress yet secretly I knew this was my excuse to hold him at bay.
When we reached Marty's house his hands were upon me before we even opened the front door. In the darkened porch he lifted the front of my dress and pressed his hardness against me. I couldn't respond. All I could sense was the overpowering reek of alcohol on his breath and instead of being excited by the smell of his perspiring body I suddenly wanted to be away from his embrace.
'What's wrong?' he asked concerned by my lack of interest.
'Nothing.' I smiled, 'I just think you should have a shower before we go to bed.'
'Mmmm. Ok babe, do you want to join me?'
I wriggled free from his arms and skipped off into the hallway. 'In a minute, I'm a bit thirsty though. I'm going to get myself some water and then I'll come up.'
Marty sighed heavily. 'Don't be too long now. If you're not in my bed in 10 minutes I'm going to bend you over that kitchen table and have you no matter who's watching.' I gave him an exaggerated expression of shock and skittered off to the kitchen.
I downed the first glass of icy water and poured another immediately. I could hear the shower running in the room above. Marty's showers were always long affairs and it was a source of friction that I was regularly left with at best lukewarm water if I got in after him. I wandered upstairs, passing Marty's bedroom and stopping in front of Rich's, as ever, open doorway. He sat at the desk, his back to the door and I stood there a moment watching. He looked so concentrated on his study, I couldn't bring myself to interrupt him.
'You're back early tonight?'
'How did you know I was here?'
'Everyone else in this house moves about like a herd of wildebeest. When you tiptoe up the stairs it immediately catches my attention,' he turns to face her, 'and besides you woke up half the street falling out of that taxi about 2 minutes ago.' He smiles and removes his glasses.
'You should wear glasses more often.'
'Why?'
'They make you look...I don't know...more distinguished.'
'You mean like a geriatric professor?'
'Yeah, something like that.' She replies dryly and slumps into her usual place in the old leather armchair beside the bed.
'Good night?'
'No, it was boring. Stuck listening to drum and bass all night while Lydia tried to undress Marty in front of me.'
'Why do you stand for it?'
'What do you mean?'
'Why don't you just tell him to push them off?'
'Of course I've told him that'
'And ...?'
'And, he swears he doesn't even notice that they're flirting with him. He says I'm being oversensitive. That it's all in my imagination.'
'Do you believe that?'
I stared into my glass and rubbed a speck of dirt on the rim. 'I don't know. I know I get jealous. Not exactly the most attractive of emotions. And I can't expect him to not have any female friends, but other guys are able to have a conversation with girls without them leaving a damp patch on the seat afterwards.'
Rich hid his laugh behind a hand.
'Like you for instance. When you talk to a girl I don't see her pawing at your thigh like she's kneading bread.'
'No, that's true, but it's hardly the same circumstances.'
'I don't see the difference. You're about the same build, both good-looking. Are you trying to tell me that girls don't find you attractive?'
'That's not what I mean. Marty's just a more...tactile person than I am.' A lock of Rich's wavy chestnut hair fell in front of his face. He managed to look simultaneously more boyish yet more mature than any of his housemates.
