Sorry, this story starts with an AUTHOR'S NOTE. If you want to get straight to the hotness then skip your eyes down past the dotted line. It starts there ; - )
This is a response to my first Quid Pro Quo story. I made the mistake of using the word 'cuckold' in the description and got spanked (not in a good way) for it. I used the word not because I saw it as the essence of the story-an emasculating woman taking sexual revenge, but more because I was looking for a short description to fit limited character space.
That word opened a can of worms. The response for me was bizarre, I didn't understand (thanks to Gatorhermit for not only not being anonymous but for also informing about some of the anger surrounding the cuckold issue) because for me it wasn't about on partner punishing another partner but more about a subconscious sexual desire that was revealed through jealousy.
It was Gatorhermit's idea to flip the story, see what would happen the gender roles were reversed. And I think it works just as well. Let me know what you think.
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He was angry. Not talking to her in the way men did, grunting out responses to her questions and refusing to make eye contact. So she'd flirted a little, it was what she did. He knew that when he married her ten years ago. Hell, he'd loved it ten years ago.
He looked fantastic.
Not that she could tell him now—he'd think she was trying to use sex to make up. He was too angry to make up now. The dark gray suit, the crisp white shirt and matching power tie partly undone. He'd tugged at the knot in frustration. He'd run his fingers through his hair and it now it was all sexy tousled, not in its usual neat part. Damn he looked fine. The edge of anger that accompanied him only made him hotter in her opinion.
"Do you do it deliberately?"
Aaah, he was finally speaking. "What's that honey?"
"Do you deliberately flirt in front of me?"
"Honey I didn't even talk to him. He talked to me."
"Right," he scoffed, "Just after you looked at him with that 'I really like your ass' look."
It was true; the garage attendant did have a great ass. He was young and gorgeous, but he held nothing to her husband in full fury mode. His mouth curled in a snarl, eyes flashing, chest heaving. She wanted him to fuck her hard. It had been three weeks since they'd had sex and she was as horny as all hell. She'd been on conference for a week and then the kids had tag teamed the flu. He had to be just as horny, just as desperate. It was their monthly date night, the kids had just been picked up by grandma for a sleepover and their dinner reservations weren't for an hour. So maybe, just maybe...
"You can wipe that look off your face. I know what you're doing. Using sex to shut me up. To make it all right. Not tonight. OK? Not tonight." He waved a dismissive hand at her and turned away.
OK, so maybe not.
"Maybe if you were wearing a wedding ring..."
The rest of the argument disappeared down the hall with him as he stormed away. Not that she needed to hear it, she could repeat it in her sleep having heard it so many times over the last ten years. It wasn't as if she didn't wear a ring so she could pick up. She might flirt but she never, never cheated. She couldn't wear the ring, not safely, not working in the lab every day. Sure, she could probably put it on when not at work but, Jesus; she was a scientist not a trophy wife, she didn't care about jewelry—with her job and taking care of the kids, she sometimes just forgot. It didn't mean anything. Truth be told, until he mentioned it she hadn't even realized she'd left her wedding ring in her desk at work.
No way was she telling him that, not if she wanted sex again this decade.
She sighed, wondering whether date night was a complete goner when he finally reappeared from the bedroom. She turned off CNN and put the remote back on the coffee table. She hadn't really looked at him—too busy finding her keys and getting her jacket—so when she got a good look she cursed, "Fuck". He was wearing skin-tight Levi's with the shirt she'd bought him last summer that he'd never worn. It was a short sleeved faded blue cowboy shirt. It had pearl snap buttons. When she'd bought it she'd imagined ripping open those snaps and putting her mouth to his chest. He'd never worn it, said he didn't feel comfortable. He didn't see himself the way she did. He was too uptight. Too serious.
She looked at him and thought, how could he have no idea how hot he is?
Silver belt buckle, cowboy hat and his boots completed the ensemble. Damn, he looked like a Country Music Channel girl's wet dream.
His dark eyes flashed angry as he looked at her and clicked the heel of his boot on the hardwood floor.
He arched a brow and said, "Problem Cass?"
No, no problem at all, other than fact that she was now uncomfortably wet.
She shook her head and watched his ass as he walked through the door. Now was the time to shut her mouth and pray he'd forget he was angry so she could please, please get a piece of that fine ass.
When she got to the car he was in the driver's seat. He didn't like to drive her car—his was at the garage—but in the spirit of not getting in further trouble she got in the passenger side and said absolutely nothing. When he took the wrong turn to the restaurant she still said nothing, thinking that he'd eventually work it out and maybe she'd score some points for not bitching about it.
He actually spun the tires when he pulled into the lot of The Hardball Bar. One of their old haunts, pre kids, pre marriage.
"Aah Jack, honey. We have reservations."
