Big Mistae Huge

My heart lurched in my throat, its beating rhythm a strident tattoo against the door of my sanity. How quaint, seeing as I was also perched against the door to the bedroom. The drum drum drum beating against my ears made my head a little dizzy. Please God, not another migraine coming on, not when I was witnessing my husband having the time of his life between the thighs of my friend.

I remembered our conversation a week ago: "So that's why I need you to fuck my husband."

"What in hell have you been consuming this morning?" Kane had always a way with words.

"Not fuck him 'fuck' him, just make him flustered and hot and bothered. Then he'll come back to me and we'll have the best sex of our lives."

"Your lives, ha. That's make two of you."

"I know right, the fact is seeing he's always been a little repressed even in the bedroom, I think it's his complex. Not to mention the sex had been drying up lately since he's been holed up with work more and more."

"Continue."

"I mean, I'm thankful for the money, but I kinda miss the old days when we would fuck like rabbits the whole weekend and go to work the next Monday, or -- sometimes -- not."

"And where do I come into the equation?"

"So, I want you to invite him out for drinks, whatever, in one of your clubs."

"I know, I have hundreds of those," Kane remarked sarcastically.

"And, I want you to kinda... seduce him. Make him hot. Be sexy. Enticing. Then send him home to me."

"Okay. You do know you're treading on dangerous grounds here with your instructions, but hey I'm a good friend. Fly your freak flag, man."

"I know you'd be a sport about it."

The weekend came, and as it turned out I had to cover for someone at the diner where I had worked for ten years, where I met Jack my husband, where he proposed. You'd expect I would have some sort of seniority there, but there had been no one else who was able to cover the shift at short shrift. I was the only one free.

I started the shift on high spirits, certain Kane would follow through with his instructions. I had sent a message to my husband, expecting him at Felix, a bar downtown we frequented. Our plan was to have Kane met him there and brought him bar hopping and gradually wear him down with drinks and dancing.

After an especially large order (an extended family gathering), I opened my phone to a flurry of messages. The first message was from my husband: "Kane's here, we're going to the bars. Love you xxx."

"Kane's really funny, wait till you hear the one about the priest in a titty bar."

"Kane's acting weird honey. Did the two of you set him up for this?"

Then, from Kane: "You never told me Jack is hung as fuck!" Oops, my bad.

"We're going to D'Zara!" Great. D'Zara was known as a place with a notorious cruise-y vibe. Maybe they could soak up the atmosphere -- quick -- and get home earlier than planned. Then I forgot to check my phone because there was a cops crew at the door.

The next time I was free it was already three a.m. -- one of the cops kept crying about missing his mom in faraway Seattle, and kept asking for more donut refills -- my phone was eerily silent. My last message was of them going to D'Zara. I pulled up the GPS locator of my husband's phone. Strange: it was firmly planted at our house.

I did not know why but that fact did not comfort me. It should, it meant my husband was back safe and sound in our house, probably half-drunk from alcohol. He was probably smoking his last cig for the day, his habit after being home from bar-hopping. He loved to smoke, but knew I did not tolerate them well, so only had them rarely when I was out of the house.

Suddenly unbidden a vivid picture came to my mind: Kane and Jack my husband dancing the night away in D'Zara. Both slightly intoxicated and warm from the alcohol running in their veins, sweaty from the heat of the dancing crowd, the glistening flashes of ropy muscles and musky pheromones clouding judgements of husbands and friends. I imagined them standing close together, the song probably one of those slow songs crafted to make couples sway gently -- my husband's favorite was Careless Whisper, with its sexy sax solo opening -- hands holding skin on skin, ever so slightly humid from the sweat, my husband holding Kane's bountiful ass, his big bubble -- a point of pride for the guy -- in my Jack's large masculine hands. I imagined them running their bulges across each other, my husband's gargantuan blob dwarfing Kane's, him smiling seductively at my husband at the sensation of bulge on bulge.

My shift's ending in fifteen minutes. I contemplated leaving early -- I had the kitchen cleaned, and people from the next shift were having their breakfast in the pantry room, but decided to be the good colleague. I sent off a message to Jack: "Hope you had a good time babe!" and to Kane: "Thanks honeybunch I owe you big xxx."

Both of them blue-ticked my messages, but did not reply.

My apartment was only a few blocks away from the diner so I walked the sleepiness off. Along the way I bought a few pastry products from my husband's favorite baker, just across the street from our building -- a reason why we chose the apartment in the first place. When I passed Mrs. Baum our next-door neighbor on the stairs she seemed flummoxed and even a bit shy to see me. She sure scurried in faster than a surprised kitten after she fetched her newspapers, giving me little time to say good morning like a neighborly person.

What surprised me was the fact that my husband was as fresh as daisies this morning. I had expected him to be relentlessly hungover from last night's adventures, but apparently alcohol reacted different ways with Italians. He was upbeat, standing on his tiptoes, generous with his touches and his kisses, warm, the lovable oaf.

Much like how he would behave after a night of sex.

The other thing was the fact that Kane had stayed over the night before. He was sitting at the table, sipping his morning coffee from my good china with the pinkie all straight up like a rich bourgeois bitch boy. Apparently he -- they, my husband and him -- had crashed and slept the excesses of the night in our apartment.

I watched the two banter over breakfast, the talk flowing easy between the two men in my life. What were the chances... no, they could not have. Even the thought of the two clutched in flagrante delicto was too much, too cruel to even contemplate. Breakfast proceeded uneventfully, and Kane took his leave soon after.

After breakfast and Jack's leaving for work I decided to get caught up in laundry. I was going through every room, collecting socks and shirts and whatnots, when an article under our bed caught my eye. It was a white jockstrap, a size too small to be mine -- I wore jocks only rarely, if ever, if Jack wanted to be naughty or when we were on holidays -- anyhow, this one felt too small to be mine, and the pouch was all wet and sticky, like someone had came inside it. Which brought my mind crashing back to Kane.

Why was Kane's jockstrap here, under my bed of all places? Didn't he sleep in the guest room? And why was it wet? And why was the cum patch -- assuming it was cum -- felt fresh?

Later after laundry was done I packed the jock and ordered an Uber to Kane's downtown condo, intent on sending it off with a big bowtie as a joke. I had the key to his house, like he had mine. We always had each other's back, Kane and I, going back to our college days, even if the guy could be a tad obnoxious, much too conceited and a bit ornery sometimes but he was my shoulder to cry on whenever I felt everything was too much. Now I had my husband, which I was grateful for, but Kane was -- and ever would be -- my rock.

I was going to call his name the moment I stepped over the threshold, like Ethel from I Love Lucy. I was distracted by a pair of black pants lying haphazardly across the landing, and a few feet further down a pair of grey briefs. Both of which I recognized to be what my husband wore this morning. Blood began screaming in my temple. I had not realized it but there were grunts and moans from the bedroom down the landing, grunts and moans and an incessant thumping, like the beat beat of my heart. The door was open. I took the fatal turn.

There he was, my husband, my beloved, my companion, my lover, naked as the day he was born. Apparently he had taken a leave of absence from his work and came here to fuck his brains out -- very possibly as a continuation from last night. It all made sense: Mrs. Baum's shyness, my husband's affability this morning, Kane's staying over, the missing jockstrap. My husband was leaning on the headboard, his impressive body laying on the bed, cock -- of which can be seen -- tall, thick and marmoreal, thighs separated wide. His limbs were tied to the corners of the bed, making him a helpless, delicious morsel of man-hunk. His cock, with its delicious strawberry head and veiny breadth, was smothered in what looked like honey, though I could never tell from this distance. It certainly smelt like honey though. What people would use honey as lube?

Apparently Kane did, the whore, whose ass was slowly painstakingly moving up and down my husband's fat erection, supported by pillowy thighs, hands holding on to my husband's massive thighs, holding and failing because my husband, god bless him, even with his limbs tied down, was adamant on making the maximum purchase inside that treacherous hole.

"Fuck, so fucking tight, tight asshole I'm gonna breed."

"Mmm your cock's so big, so hard. Tell me, who's fucking you?"

"Fuuucck you're fucking me, you're fucking your ass on my cock!"

"Yeah right, sure beats your sweet little husband any day."

"Do that thing ahaaa, again with your ass, pleasssseee."

"Do what?"

"That clenching thing, that kissing thing you do with your hole."

"Ohh, this?"

"FUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK I'M CUMMMMMMMMINGGGGGGG!"

"Oh fuck you filthy beast!" A kiss, a deep soul-searing kiss between the lovers on the bed. A flick here, a flick there, and my husband was released from his binds. Kane slowly made his way to the top of the headboard, hanging on to dear life, pushing my husband's head gently but resolutely to where the cum was dripping from his well-battered cunt. "Now taste yourself."

And Jack my husband, my dear beloved husband, growled like a starved animal and pierced his tongue into Kane's asshole, slurping on his cum there of which was plentiful and mixed with the honey. "Your ass is so sweet."

"It's the honey, you fool."

"Among other things." They laughed, deep belly laughter laced with semen.

And that laughter, of all the things, was the one that truly, irreparably broke my heart.