Author's Note
: This grew and grew as I wrote it, but it should be worth your time: literally half the word count is taken up by sex scenes, to say nothing of kinky angst and dirty talk sprinkled throughout... and it builds up to a LOOOONG extended climax that took almost a month to get right.
It's been a while since Part 1, so this chapter opens with a quick recap of what came before.
Part 1 was a story about seduction and infidelity, with a little cuckold fantasy thrown in; this one is a story focused on the growth of that cuckold fantasy as it spins out of control. There's plenty of angst, some taunting & humiliation, reluctance, seduction & submission, and a bit of voyeurism to boot. (There's also some love, if you're into that sort of thing.) If that all sounds ok to you, I really think you'll like it. Enjoy!
All characters and events are fictional.
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Chelsea stood in her bedroom next to the man who had just fucked the life out of her. Her fiancΓ© was asleep in living room... unless he'd been woken up by the sounds of adultery, in which case her whole world was about to implode.
How could I have let this happen??
She'd never done anything like this, not even close. The way the world saw her -- in fact, the way she saw herself -- was as one half of a loving, adorable, wholesome, geeky couple. She and Mark were internet-famous for their funny and endearing YouTube channel about video games. They'd met Dylan, a fellow YouTuber with a fitness channel, and become fast friends. He'd flirted with Chelsea and subtly felt her up. She'd flirted back, a little too eagerly. Mark had witnessed some of this and felt a shameful, horny rush that gave the couple's sex life a big boost.
Then he and Chelsea made the fateful decision to invite Dylan over for dinner and a light workout -- the plan was simply to let him to flirt (and maybe touch) a little more so they could enjoy the naughty thrill. And the plan worked to perfection... until Mark passed out on the couch and Chelsea wound up taking Dylan to bed.
Now the deed was done and Chelsea was trying to contain her panic. She'd cleaned up the wreckage of her bedroom to hide the evidence, but now she would have to try and salvage the wreckage of her impending marriage, just months away. She would have to open that door to the living room and find out if it was already too late. Or, god willing, maybe Mark was still asleep. In which case she would have to find a way, somehow, to redeem herself.
***
Chelsea
"Ok... here I go."
With that, I forced myself turn the knob and opened the bedroom door -- just pure white-knuckle willpower. Every impulse in my fucked-up head was screaming at me to bury myself under the covers and will this whole catastrophe into non-existence, just let it rest until tomorrow and pray to god that Mark is none the wiser in the morning. I wanted to be eight years old again, to go back to a time when I wasn't really responsible for my actions. But that wasn't gonna work, and I hoped against hope that I wasn't still so childish that I might do something like that.
With the door opened in front of me, I paused just one more time, for just one more second, to steel myself for the scene in the living room, and then I crept out silently. I kept my eyes closed for as long as I could as I made my way down the hall -- just one more piece of childish magical thinking: if I can't see it, it doesn't exist.
But when I turned that corner and the room came into view I found that, in a sense, it really didn't exist: Mark was right where I left him, lying passed out on the couch, with the TV still on at the quiet volume we'd left it at -- maybe if Mark didn't see or hear anything, then what I'd just done with Dylan didn't exist either. Anyway it was a start down that path. A wave of guilt socked me in the gut, but that guilt was of no immediate use, so instead I focused on the overwhelming opiate bliss of the relief that came with it.
I walked just past the couch to see if Mark would stir, and when he didn't I slunk back toward the hall to motion Dylan to get the hell quickly & quietly out of my house; he inched by the couch, by my sleeping fiancΓ©, holding his shoes in his hand for maximum stealth. (Oh look, it's more guilt: we're
literally
sneaking around behind my boyfriend's back. Because we're so awful.) I ushered Dylan out and that gorgeous, cocky bastard had the nerve to pull me in for a kiss in the doorway, barely if at all blocked from anyone on the couch who might happen to wake up. After a split-second's worth of hesitation I returned his goddamned kiss, accepting both the sensual delight of his embrace and the fresh wave of shame that lodged itself behind my eyes.
Why don't you just put that over here, with the rest of the shame. You've got a nice little pile going, Chelsea.
Finally he was gone and I was free to do what I wanted most in the whole world right then: wallow in self-loathing. Fresh ammunition for that self-loathing just kept showing up. For instance, as I walked back towards Mark, I realized that I couldn't even nudge him awake and bring him to sleep in his own bed next to his own future wife. We'd straightened up the bedroom as much as possible, but the room probably still reeked of debauched, illicit, heartbreaking, and wickedly glorious sex. I had given Dylan everything, but I gave the love of my life the couch.
I got into the shower, where I enjoyed that self-pitying crying jag I'd been looking forward to.
You ruined it, you're weak, you're stupid, you ruined it
, just going around and around in my head like a chorus of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." I didn't bother trying to snap myself out of that torturous cycle. I wanted it to hurt, the more the better. I needed to get a head start on my penance.
Mark
I was so annoyed at myself for falling asleep on the couch like I did. Partly just because it's rude when you have company over, but mostly due to the fact that it cost me the chance jump Chelsea after that show she put on for me.
And, god, what a show it was. Act 1 was simply the outfit she changed into for the occasion -- form-fitting, skin-exposing, libido-firing beauty, so unlike what she normally wears.
"Wow," I blurted out when I saw her. "That's a hell of a getup."