[Thank you for clicking on this story. I hope you enjoy it. This is chapter 3 of a slow-building story about a couple discovering that he likes to see her exposed to other men and she enjoys being exposed...and more. If you like stories with exhibition, voyeurism, and a slow move towards "corrupting" the wife and cuckolding, you might like it. If you don't like those things, this isn't likely to be an enjoyable read for you.]
[Chuy]
A downpour. Forty-five minutes of raindrops as big as peas pounding the bike path. One goddamn, mother fucking rainstorm. That's what it took to change everything.
We were halfway between home and the new restaurant that finally opened in the town center when it started. It was a steamy day and Jess and I ended up laughing at the big drops stung our skin and soaked us through.
"Back?" she tossed over her shoulder as she stretched out over her bike, speeding up and racing the storm.
"No way! I
will not
miss out on this!" I shouted as I worked to keep up with her.
We'd moved into a greenfield new urbanist planned community far on the outskirts of the urban area reluctantly, banking on a light rail line that's promised in another five years, reaching us and letting us ditch our cars. Three years out of college and a year into our marriage, we couldn't afford anything anywhere we wanted to live. Kensington Gardens promised most of what we wanted at a price we could manage without having to sacrifice too much. We knew restaurants, coffee shops, groceries, etc., would be slow to arrive, but we expected the school district to blossom right around the time we'd be having kids and loved the idea of being "pioneers" in a community focused on walking and biking. We imagined our kids playing safely in all the green spaces, free of cars and bustling with other kids, all the families around our age.
Then the pandemic hit. Literally the week after we signed, people started dying. The developer defaulted and got involved in a lawsuit that prevented new sales, leaving us alone at the far edge of the suburbs, with hour-plus off-hour commutes and nothing remotely like a place to eat nearby. The nearest sit-down restaurant was a Cracker Barrel more than half-an-hour away. Grubhub? Uber Eats? Not a chance.
A few months ago—long post-pandemic—we got a mailer that a Syrian place was opening up in the town center, the first business to locate there. We were not going to miss the opening!
There was a covered outdoor seating area Jess declared adorable. As she grabbed a table, I went inside, hoping to get some towels or napkins to dry off with. Only one other person was there, a guy watching sports on a tv so loud and massive, it made me happy we could sit outside. The staff was incredibly friendly and gave me a pile of cloth napkins and promised a feast to thank us for coming out in the weather.
When I got back, the guy had moved outside, near the door. He glanced at me, but immediately returned his gaze to Jess. It was obvious why: her shirt was almost entirely transparent. She had a lacy bra on that was also all but invisible. Her skin glistened and her dark areola stood out like beacons. She was pointedly looking at her menu, positioning it like a shield between her and the guys, but she was sitting at the wrong angle to really cover her charms.
I froze. She was blushing. She hates being embarrassed, and I should have rushed over to her with the napkins.
Instead, I glanced back at the guy. He looked up at me, raisedhiss eyebrows slightly, and made a point of looking at my wife's breasts, a little grin on his face. This asshole was enjoying her discomfort and daring me to do something.
I watched him for a few moments more, a strange, familiar feeling churning up inside of me. My breath was shallow. I hadn't felt this way since high school.
I shook my head and speed walked to Jess, practically dumping the napkins on her.
"Thanks," she said, using drying her hair as an excuse to turn her back to the guy. She was beet red, which I've always found very attractive, despite knowing how much she disliked it. I was almost breathless with awareness of how beautiful and sexy she was in the moment. The rain had broken, and she was in a ray of sunlight, which made her golden skin glow. She's not like a model or anything, but she has the most adorable, cute face. There's nothing outstanding about it—no amazingly plump lips or doe-like eyes, just, I don't know, normal, but perfect? Definitely perfect. The sun brought out the red hues in her chestnut hair, too. God, I loved her.
"That asshole has been staring at me the whole time you were inside." Her voice had venom in it I rarely heard from her.
"I'm sorry." My words were a lie. 'Of course,' might have been more honest, since not only was her top transparent, her blue skirt clung to her legs, emphasizing how amazing they were. What straight man could avoid looking at that? Worse, though, was that I wanted her to turn back and let him see her. The lie combined with the other feelings tangling up my insides. I was more horny than I'd been in years, the guilt and shame acting as a catalyst to levels of depraved arousal I hadn't experienced since...
When I was 18, I was so in love with my girlfriend, Sarah, that until I met Jess, I didn't think I could love another woman. But Sarah was a very good Christian girl, and I graduated a virgin, at least in terms of penetration. Sarah's panties never came off, even if she got off rubbing against my jeans-clad cock. So I was perpetually horny, which lead to my nickname, Chuy Burrito. Sarah and I had been making out after a big game and I went into the locker room sporting wood. One of my teammates noticed when I got in the shower, shouted, "Oh my god, it's bigger than a burrito!" Somebody else said, "Chuy Burrito!" (as in "chewy burrito") and an extremely embarrassing nickname stuck. Eventually, I accepted it and most people assumed I just liked burritos. My parents gave me a talk about how white people sometimes say insensitive things. We didn't have the word microaggression. But, honestly, this was a macroaggression.
The other result was that I became a voyeur. I was always so horny, so when I discovered a gap in the plastic panels on the fire escape that let me see in our neighbor's yard and the shy, conservative, goes to Mass five times a week Esmé sunbathing when her hard-working, double-jobbed parents weren't home, I started watching and jerking off. The contrast between the girl I knew at school and the girl in the backyard was so hot. So was the illicitness of it.
...which is probably why when this asshole stared at my wife's breasts, Chuy Burrito said, "Just sit there so he can't see so much," instead of yelling at the creep.
"Oh, yeah. Of course," she said sarcastically. I'd just lost major points.
She somehow made napkins into something resembling a stylish scarf cover up and we focused on the food, which was delicious. Except I kept thinking about the guy. He didn't move and didn't hide that he was constantly checking out Jess. Almost worse, when he wasn't trying to stare through the napkins, he'd look at me, like he wanted me to know he was going to look at my wife unless I got up and punched him.
Which is an "¿En serio? How can you be that much of a dumbfuck" thing. I couldn't tell how old this guy is—he's one of those weather-beaten white guys who could be 40 or 60—you know, a craggy face almost as brown as mine from a lifetime outside without proper skin care. Hair somewhere between blonde and gray, and more of it on his badly shaved cheeks than scalp. Short, scrappy guy, too.
Jess calls me her gentle giant because of my size and baby face. I had at least six inches on this fucker, and am athletic. I'm not fast, but the one time I got angry enough to punch somebody, they went to the hospital—one punch—and I almost got expelled from school my senior year. So, yes, I could have put this jerk down, and no, I wouldn't risk jail to do it.
Maybe he wasn't waiting for me to punch him. Maybe he somehow knew the idea of her being exposed to him turned me on. Maybe he knew how the only reason my burrito wasn't poking out was the way my guilt and shame swirled around in my belly and balls. What kind of man gets off on his wife being humiliated? What kind of man wants other men to see his wife naked?
Jess's blush eventually died down as she went on about how delicious the food was, like really went on about it. The food was amazing, but she was too focused on it. I know her well enough to know when she can't bear thinking about something, she'll ramble on and on about another topic. I doubt it truly took her mind off the asshole, but at least keep me from getting hard. When you're the Burrito, unwanted public erections are embarrassing as fuck. And I didn't want to think what Jess might think.
When we stood to go, Jess had to leave the napkins behind. Her back was to the asshole, so he didn't get a titty show, but, unbeknownst to her, the sun hit her skirt at exactly the right angle to show off her ass and legs—her best feature other than her smile, I think. The asshole gave me a thumbs up. What a fucking asshole.
Jess talked about the food and how nice it will be to have a place we can bike to until we heard a motorcycle roar down the road near the bike path. The asshole. No helmet, of course.
"God, can you believe that guy? He kept staring at me the whole time. I wanted you to punch him."
"I'm sorry. I..."
She smiled at me. "I only meant it metaphorically. I don't know what you could have done, anyway. Punching somebody for being a jerk isn't legal. We should have just moved inside. Didn't they have booths?"
"Yeah. We should have."
"I wish I didn't get so damn mousy in moments like that."
"When you're embarrassed?" To be honest, now that she brought it up and my emotions weren't so aroused, I'm surprised she didn't. Jess is normally the kind of woman who just solves problems. I don't need to punch people for her because she can take care of herself.
