The Queer Ball

"Yes, score!"

"And what did my hubby dearest score, my lovely?"

"I just scored an invitation to the Queer Ball!"

The grimace at my husband's face was painful to look at, just because it made such a mess of his uber-handsome features. "That corporate shill of an event?" He finally intoned, in mock annoyance. "And what do they know about us queers anyway."

"It's just the great social event of the season. Just that. That, and Adele's going to come and sing! And make jokes because haha the Brits are funny again or something."

"The way you describe it is almost compelling darling, but give me a pass. A hard pass."

"As hard as you got last night?"

"Kyle!" A smile ghosted on my husband's face. "That's what he said."

"L.O.L. husband dear."

***

"You know when you first tell me about this ball, you strategically failed to mention it was a damned costume affair."

"Oops, my bad. Oh come on babe, it's going to be alright. It's going to be fun."

Greg made another face. "So said the one not in tiny briefs."

"They're called speedos, G. I'm having you going in as 'Trophy Husband', because you're so clearly not haha. And I'm going as 'Roman Senator', because I'm Italian. Hence the lavender toga."

My husband giggled. I knew the champagne would work wonders. "Oh, what would I do without you, my social-climbing beloved hubby of the year?" He smiled, that beautiful smile again that made me fell in love with him all those years ago right on the dance floor of D'Zara. Which coincidentally was where we were going. My heart skipped a beat. There was always something about D'Zara that made everything more poignant, more... illicit. More sinful. I wondered what would D'Zara hold for us after all these years.

***

The party was going super. Most of the guests failed to identify Greg, mostly going with 'himbo' or 'gigolo', because why not? He had the physicality for both, that's the least could be said about him. The champagne was flowing freely, the music was heavenly, and after Adele completed her set and skit and left, the club became the haus of dance, bringing out deep thumping bass and percussive lines in the background music. And Lady Gaga, lots of Lady Gaga from the Fame Monster era.

"Kyle, Kyle is that you?"

'Of all the gin joints on God's green earth why do he have to walk to this one?' I thought as I plastered a stiff upper lip and a snarl disguised as a smile. "Hi Nathan, fancy finding you here."

"Yeah, I suppose, this is a really fun way to get deep with the community, after all." He smiled gregariously, much like the way he was in the office where he was supervisor-manager just a rung above me. He looked stunning out of his office wear and in black skin-tight henley shirt that shimmered under the strobe lights paired with cute sensible-length shorts. He must be going as 'WASP', the slutty kind. "Hi, who do we have here?"

"Oh right, this here is husband dearest, Gregory, Greg for short." And there he was, in all his gorgeousness, with his tall 6'6'' frame, massive pecs with adorable nipplets, smooth chest and six-packs down to his poor stretched speedo, which was doing nary a thing to hide his gargantuan cock, which had been half-hard for half the night from the champagne and the caresses of the twinks who picked 'himbo' over 'gigolo'. Now a fleeting sigh of regret passed in me at having my delectable husband in such exposing piece, and the moment was compounded when I saw how the light change in Nathan's eyes upon feasting on my husband's considerable bounty.

My husband, unaware he was being put on show, suddenly lifted his arms and whopped like an over-hormonal teenager as 'Bad Romance' started to play. "Come on baby, this is my jam!" I was having withdrawals from Adele, so I declined his offer of a dance. "Well, might as well get up close and personal with my hubby's boss!" Without waiting for my say on the matter Greg pulled on Nathan's hand and rushed to the dance floor.

I watched as the two got up close and personal indeed. My husband turned the meter up to twelve -- must be the champagne running in his blood -- and was grinding his ass and his bulge all over poor surprised Nathan, who looked slightly out of place in the beginning of the song but picked up his slack as the song's chorus began, holding to Greg's hips as he twerked down with the best of them, ra-ra-ra-romance. I lifted my champagne flute at them, trying to remind my husband not to play too much. As the song ended my husband and Nate got lost in the crowd, but my attention was elsewhere as I was suddenly accosted by a waiter over a plate of hors-d'oeuvres.

***

"Wherever did you go?" I asked Greg when he came to where I was perched at the bar nursing my umpteenth drink.

"Oh yeah, I needed to go to the little boy's room." My husband looked mildly flushed. Dare I imagine it, his speedo pouch looked even more pronounced under the flashing disco lights.

"Euuh, TMI hubby dearest. And where is Nathan?"

"Umm, we must have passed each other, I saw him going to the john as well."

"Speak of the devil."

"Hi guys, nice party haha. I had to go for a bit to the loo," Nathan said, mimicking Adele's Britspeak.

Suddenly the flashing lights, the whooping bass and the limitless bubbly became just a tad too much, even after Adele, even after Gaga. "Guys, the party's getting on my nerves. Let's say we cut our losses and split."

"Good idea," Greg nodded in agreement.

***

I could not recall whose idea was it but Nathan took a ride with us back to our apartment. The plan was to let him have coffee or two to sober up before taking the late ride to his house in the suburb, where the thirty-four years young upper middle management man still lived with his parents. Score one for me.

When we arrived at ours I made a beeline to the en-suite washroom, peeled off the garish purple toga off my sweaty skin and proceeded to throw up to my heart's content. Greg made himself scarce playing the perfect host, making coffee for Nathan. After I threw up half my liver and bile, I staggered to the bed, mostly naked -- after I gargled with like half a ton of water -- and laid to oblivion under the warm sheets.

The next thing I was aware of was the rhythmic thudding in the air, which reminded me of the thumping bass at D'Zara. I opened my eyes to look at the clock: 2 a.m. The sheets beside me were cold, and the pillow was not dented. Greg had not come to bed at all.

As I turned the corner into the sitting room, I was almost relieved to see Greg sitting alone, a tin of beer -- cold, he loved them icy -- opened on the counter, dripping condensation onto the wood. On the TV was one of the bondage scenes from 'Fellow Travelers' -- Greg had such a man-crush on Jonathan Bailey, who in a dimmer light could -- probably -- pass for a young Nathan. A groan from Greg surprised me.

Then Nathan coming up between Greg's opened thighs, mouth dripping spit and precum, surprised me even more.

"You're so good at that, Kyle can't fit my cock in his mouth." Greg murmured, eyes divided between Nathan smiling lecherously between his legs and Jonathan Bailey on the TV.

"Let's try fucking my ass again," Nathan whispered, almost too faint for my ear. He stood in all his nakedness, gorgeous planes of lean musculature shimmering in the low light. He turned, presenting an undoubtedly succulent ass, with a surprising tramp-stamp emblazoned above his cunt -- SLUT -- which dripped readily for my husband's hole-seeking tongue. "Fuck, your tongue's so deep in my hole."

"Yeah? Deep inside your hole, deep inside your cunty asshole. Fuck, you're gripping my tongue with your cunt muscles, so tight, so wet."

"Fuck, do you talk dirty like this with your husband?"

"Heheh perhaps -- slop slop -- perhaps not. Now let's try my cock on your hole again." Greg adjusted Nathan's position so that he was sitting right on the mark of his erection.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUUUUUUUCK, YOUR COCK'S INSIDE ME AGAIN."

Greg answered his sublimations with deep groans of his own, groans that reverberated through the air and the walls of our house, the house of our marriage, the house of our love. All for the sake of fucking a tight ass, the ass of my boss.

Thrust thrust thrust, the sounds of my husband's energetic push fucking his substantial cock inside Nathan's hole echoed in my ears. I wanted to kill Greg. I wanted to kill Nathan. I wanted to take my cock out and grip it in time with my husband's thrusts. I wanted to kiss his fecund balls as the stem of his cock wallow in ass-dripping and sweat and precum. I wanted to kiss Nathan's swollen dick-sucking lips. In short, I was utterly confused as to what I felt or supposed to feel.

"Fuck, your ass gripping my cock, your cunt, your good cunt, your fuckin' cunt swallowing my cock!"

"Yeah, yeah, give me your fucking cum!"

"You want my cum, you slut? You want me to breed your faggot ass?"

"Breed me, make me pregnant with your cum, your slimy cum!"

"ARRRRNNNNGGGGGHHHHH!" At this point discretion was no longer a valor. Greg must had hoped my inebriated state would cover up his transgression. That of course did not stop him from having the time of his life shooting white-warm cum deep into Nathan's anal chute.

As if in agreement with him, I came too. I came fast, I came hard, my cock-head vibrating, pee slit achoke in semen. And I realized Nathan was staring at my eyes all this time, an indulgent smile on his face, tongue swiping along his lower lips as if he could taste the sperm anointing his asshole.

Fuck.