Marathon Girl Ch 02

My husband did a decent enough job in his earlier story, but I have to clear a few things up:

First, I hardly ever smoke pot anymore ... and I can't believe he saw fit to begin his freakin' story by talking about me like I'm Cheech and Chong's little sister.

Secondly, and most importantly, maybe, I can't attribute my surge in sex drive to my dropping out of competitive running. In fact, I don't feel like I changed much at all, even if I can see why he would think that. I've always had nasty thoughts and desires ... maybe it all became more obvious when I started hanging around the house a lot more.

I know you don't care about much of that stuff, but I felt like I had to set the record straight.

As E. told you, yes, I became a touch slutty about nine or ten years into our marriage. This basically meant that yes, I slept with other men ... but, again, never without E.'s knowledge and permission ... and with much fun between us afterwards.

We were having a blast with it, in fact, until somebody came between us.

Her name was Renee. I worked with her.

*****

E. never liked Renee. I think it's because they're so much alike but he says it's because she thinks she's god's gift to man. He may have a point.

She's not a bombshell, so much. She'll be the first to tell you that her butt's too big and she dresses a little sloppy ... but she's got a really cute face, nice hair and really big boobs that haven't drooped a notch in the eight years I've known her.

I'll admit now, I'm jealous of the tits. I have practically none (although another side effect of the no-longer-running-marathons thing is I've put on a little body fat, and my boobs are a little bit larger than they were before).

She's also a little loud and tells great stories ... a perfect after-work Happy Hour buddy who'll stay out as long as you want to. We drink together. We smoke together. We occasionally do drugs together.

But there was definitely a wall between us ... we were social friends, not intimates (in any form of that word).

That changed, however, the day she found what she found.

*****

Once my leg had healed up fully (or as good as it's going to), I managed to channel a little bit of my energy into cycling. Lower impact and all. But even that provided its challenges, because the seat – after all – is a damned phallus rubbing between your thighs for 20 miles.

Or is that just me?

Anyway, it had been quite a while since I'd taken a lover, but I'd had one picked out for awhile. He was a friend of one of the guys I'd done earlier ... a shy, but sharp-eyed fellow named Rick.

I'd begun to steer clear of taking the guys to my office to fuck – that's just dangerous and, I'll admit it now, stupid as hell. But, when he showed up to pick me up from work at the arranged time, Mr. "Shy" turned animal ... forcing me inside and barely giving me time to slip a rubber on his cock (which I remember had a very nice curve to it ... it tagged me at just the right spot) before we were going at it in the conference room.

Between his curvy cock and the amount of time since I'd had a guy on the side, we didn't get out of there until after 10, and I was eager to get home to E. and his straighter (and much larger) dick.

And in all the craziness, I kinda forgot something.

*****

"You locked up last night, didn't you Bon?" Renee spoke from my doorway, behind me. I was up on a stool with my back to the door.

"Sure did," I replied, putting reports onto shelves behind my desk.

"How about that." She sounded dubious.

"Why?" Renee was always going off on weird tangents, so I wasn't really all that concerned yet.

She was silent until I turned around. "What?" I repeated.

Leaning forward conspiratorially, she slid something across the table to me. She lifted her hand.

It was a bright blue condom wrapper. Torn open.

I made a face. Then I snatched it up as quickly as possible. I couldn't have looked more guilty if I tried.

"Somebody's got some ‘splainin' to do," she whispered at me.

"It's really not what it looks like," I started, with no concept as to what it might actually be, other than what it looked like, which was exactly what it was.

She made an "o" with her mouth. "Y'know what it looks like? It looks like a condom left behind by my very married co-worker whose husband, I know, has had a vascectomy."

(Damn, I got a big mouth, I thought to myself.)

I didn't say a word. She leaned in, conspiratorially. "You're just lucky I found it and not somebody else. Was it with someone who works here?"

I waved her off. "It's really not ..."

"Fine, you don't want to talk here. I can live with that. Finish up work early, though. We're having lunch. A long lunch. And I'm gonna need details."

She left and I fell into my seat with a thump. What was I gonna do?

*****

Three hours and two margaritas later, and I was slowly making my way through the whole, bizarre thing. She sat, open-mouthed, as I described what had become ... for lack of a better word ... our marital "lifestyle" over the past few years.

"I ain't judging," she said, reaching for her drink. "I'm just amazed. You so totally don't look the type. It's like finding out your good friend is Spider-Girl or something like that." She popped a nacho chip in her mouth and chewed it, regarding me. "Wow."

I relaxed a little, finally. I'd had a lump in my belly since she'd showed me the wrapper, and ... while I was reasonably sure she wouldn't bust me out to the boss ... I was afraid it would just get really uncomfortable between us. But here she was, joking it off. I was happy about it.

I even decided to stop kicking myself for fucking up in the first place.

"And E.'s cool with this?" She asked at length.

I grinned slyly. "He gets off on it. He won't admit it ... claims it's all for me ... but he gets pretty revved up by the time I come home to him." I sipped some more margarita. They made ‘em strong at this place. "Honestly, one of my favorite parts of all this is coming home to him. He's like a puppy."

Another shake of her head. "I still can't believe you're telling me this. And he is totally not the type to put up with this sort of thing, let alone get off on it."

I laughed. "You really don't know him very well. He's a true perv."

"Does he fuck around?"

I looked around quickly. It was loud enough that nobody could hear us, but her voice had spiked a bit. We both giggled as we realized nobody caught what she had said.

"No. Not that I'm aware of, anyway. I'm sure he's not."

"Does he want to?"

"He hasn't mentioned it to me."

"Wouldja let him if he asked?"

I pondered this. As amazing as it may seem, it had never occurred to me. "I suppose I'd be one hell of a hypocrite if I said no, wouldn't I be?"

She considered this while she nibbled on a swizzle stick. "Is that a yes?"

"I don't have to answer until he asks me ..." I grinned.

"Sounds like someone's not too sure of herself," she said in a sing-song voice.

"I guess I'd let him. But, y'know, it's really not about the sex."

"It's not?"

I shook my head. "No, it's about the intimacy. I can tell him anything and he can tell me anything ... I mean ... we've proven that, haven't we?"

She mulled that for a few moments while the waitress came over and we asked for refills.

"So you can tell him anything?"

"I think so, yeah."

"You've told him everything about your past?"

"Yeah. I, well, you mean, like what?"

"Like I have no idea. All the things you did before you met him?"

"Everything he's asked about," I said.

"Interesting answer," she said with a wry twist to the lip.

I turned my attention to the restaurant as a whole, people watching.

She spoke up again. "So what's the biggest secret you've never told him?"

My eyes moved right back to her. "What?"

"Sexually. Your biggest secret he doesn't know."

"I can't tell you that!"

She shrugged her shoulders. "What? I already know you're banging college guys in the office copy room after hours with your husband's blessing and I haven't judged you, have I?"

My head was swimming a bit. The tequila was going straight to my brain.

"Well, there was this one thing. But it's stupid."

"What?" She asked.

"I mean, it's something he'd probably even want to know ... I just haven't figured out the right way to tell him."

"Oh, man. This is gonna be great," she laughed and finished off her drink. "Spill it, ho!" I laughed.

"Well, back when I was in college, before I met him ... and a couple times in high school ... I, well, I used to get with women occasionally."

She raised her eyebrows? "That's your big secret? Honey, compared to bangin' dudes with your hubby's permission ... that's not even an issue. What's college for if it's not for hoppin' into bed with another girl once or twice."

The waitress arrived in mid-sentence and dropped off the drinks. She apparently overheard. "I hear that, sister," she said sweetly. "Anything else I can get you?"

Renee – to my eye – gave the girl the once over before saying, "Not right now, but check back, okay?"

Once she was gone, she turned back to me. "And you can't tell him ... why?"

I dove into the new drink. "Because when we started dating, I made it extremely clear to him that I wasn't into girls. I told him I'd never done anything ... hadn't even kissed one."

"And these were lies."

"Oh, hell yes."

"Hmm. Why'd you lie?"

"Cuz we were just getting started and he seemed kind of conservative at the time. He was older, too. And ... and this is true ... I was an athlete in college. I ran track. And everybody has this stereotype about female athletes and I wanted to make sure he knew I was into guys, hard-core. Maybe I overcompensated."

She chuckled. "Perhaps you did."

"I don't know. It just carried over." I reflected a moment. "Y'know, the first time he rented a porn he fast-forwarded through all the lesbo scenes? Because I'd told him I wasn't into them. I suppose I could've told him the truth, then, but it was so sweet."

"The sweetness of editing porno scenes, I see," she shook her head sadly.

"You know what I mean. It just, sort of, snowballed."

"You're bizarre, you really are. I think I have a newfound respect for you."

We drank and snacked on chips in silence for a few moments. I really was feeling the tequila (when it comes to booze, I'm a lightweight). My mind was wandering back to the old days ...

"You're thinking about it now, aren't you?" She snapped me out of my reflection.

My cheeks burned. I knew I was blushing.

"Damn, I must've hit close to a nerve! I was just playin' with you." She took a swallow of gin. "She must've been really something."

In point of fact, she had been. "Yeah, I guess," I was grinning like a girl describing her prom date. "I can't believe I haven't thought about her in so many years."

A moment's silence. "Well, you gonna share?"

Why stop there? I wondered to myself. "Well, I was a freshman, she was a sophomore ..."

*****

Her name was Violet, she was on my track team and we hit it off right from the start. She was funny, and creative, and smart, and all the things a freshman feels she's not.

And cute. Gawd, yes, cute as a button, in a real girl-next-door sort of way. She wore her hair on the short side, but it tied up in a pony tail when the situation demanded it. It was light brown. Her eyes were a dazzling brown with long, curly lashes that didn't need mascara. And her mouth, seemingly in a perpetual smirk, had full, kissable lips.

I noticed these things right from the start. I'm not sure, in retrospect, how I processed those sorts of feelings back then ... I recall being a little jealous ... insecure ... even put off right at the start. I'd made out with girlfriends a few times in high school, but I'd always rationalized that as substitutes for boys, a sort of training for when boys weren't around.

The concept of bisexuality, or even of lesbianism, was one I was aware of intellectually ... but was something that happened far from my life, like in France or San Francisco.

It wouldn't be long before I'd be able to admit to myself to having little girl-crushes from time to time, but at that point, it was an uncomfortable leap.

Luckily, Violet was much cooler than I. She made jokes with me (not at me). She gave me tips on running and even what to do the night before a big meet. As much as the coach, she taught me what it meant to run competitively on the college level.

But, more than that, we laughed together. We shared a sick sense of humor that, frankly, not everyone on the team appreciated. Before long, we would be the ones sitting together on the bus during rides ... or even next to each other on the plane when the occasion called for longer trips. And yes, we roomed together. (Totally platonically in the early stages ... although I can remember my heart literally jumping one time when she pulled her shirt off while preparing for a shower. Since I'd seen her impossibly perfect body naked before, in betweens stalls after practice and meets, this was different. We were alone in the same room and, well, it was more intimate, I guess.)

One day Violet started a running joke, asking me in a group of friends and teammates if I wanted to be "track dykes" with her.

"You know it, baby," I said, cuddling close, and she wrapped her arms around me, smooching air near my left cheek. We laughed. Teammates laughed. Even some of our friends who were affirmed lesbians laughed. It was funny, I guess, for some reason.

It was so funny, my panties even got a little damp, as I remember.

That little ongoing joke continued at every practice, meet and social event with the team until the last month of the season. It might've started some sort of rumor if not for the fact we were so silly about it ... and the fact both Violet and myself had boyfriends back home who were more or less well-known by other members of the team.

Even after it stopped being funny, I enjoyed it. Violet would sometimes adopt her "dyke" voice (basically dropping her vocal range an octave or so) and compliment something I was wearing, or how the jeans made my butt look. I'd say thanks and we'd giggle about it, but it actually gave me a warm feeling. I enjoyed her approval.

By that time, I had to admit I was attracted to her. But I don't recall worrying about it. After all, what could happen with it?

*****

We were in a major southern city for a major meet ... one I wasn't scheduled to compete in and Violet wasn't up for anything for another day or so. So, a bunch of us "scrubs" holed up in one hotel room until late into the night, dodging curfew and throwing back shots from a bottle of whiskey someone had brought with them. We told dumb stories. We told dumb jokes. We got too loud and then shushed ourselves, then laughed loudly again.

It was a blast. Six underclassmen getting shit-faced on a bottle of whiskey.

Violet surprised me by being the first to want to go.

"Okay girls, I'm outta here," she said, standing and stretching that gloriously tight body of hers. I suspect I was drunk enough to ogle openly, but I don't think anybody noticed.

"Yeah, I better head up, too."

Our teammates called us pansies and lightweights, but they were even drunker than we were and I suspected they be asleep, too, soon.

In the hall, Violet weaved a bit. Must be drunker than I thought.

"You better be careful," I whispered. "If anyone finds you drunk, you're not running Friday."

She giggled and draped an arm around my waist. "Steady me, then." She turned her face to me as I was about to retort, and her closeness flustered me to muteness.

I could feel her grinning at me. That smirk I found so appealing.

I fumbled with the key until I got the room unlocked, then we staggered in. For a second, I thought were were in the clear, but Violet stumbled suddenly without warning. Her arm around my waist drew tight and I grabbed at her in a valiant, if doomed, attempt to stabilize her. I tripped over her ankle and staggered myself.

We reached the side of the bed and she flopped down, hard, onto the mattress. Her arm was still around me, and she pulled me over her, across her body, onto the floral-print bedspread.

She giggled. I sensed a competition now and rolled her with my shoulder, flipping her onto her back near the far edge of the mattress. I looked up, triumphantly on top now, a grin of victory beginning to form on my lips.

It faded.

Our faces were inches apart.

"Wanna be track dykes?" she asked me soberly, her voice a touch husky.

I didn't answer. I just leaned forward a little and kissed her lips tenderly.

Then our mouths opened, and "tenderly" vanished from the room.

*****

Two things happened that night. The first was I broke the last two, unofficial "codes" I'd kept since the first time I made out with a girl in eighth grade.

Others had been broken before, as fast as they'd come up, usually: I'd kiss a girl, but no tongue; OK, tongue, but no feeling my tits; OK, I'd let her feel my tits, but only above my shirt; OK, I'd let her feel my tits any way she liked, but I wouldn't feel hers, above or below her shirt; OK, but not beneath the bra, no bare skin; OK, we'd take our shirts and bras off, but the jeans stay on; jeans stay on, but we can let the fly down ... etc., etc.

You get the point.

The last two I had any intention of honoring: I would never let a girl eat my pussy and I'd never eat hers.

But Violet proved to post wonderfully convincing argument to let those rules go, too.

Point of fact, she could've done just about anything to me that night and I wouldn't have protested a hair.

By the time we'd finished our initial make-out session, we were both entirely nude (although I don't recall either one of us disrobing) and my head was so thick with alcohol and lust no rational thoughts could get in.

Because – and this is the second significant thing about that night – Violet became the first person to really make me feel like she was all about fucking ME. I'd had sex with four boys to that point, and they all – even my then-current boyfriend – seemed more intent upon the act than about doing it with me. I mean, I'm sure they had feelings for me ... three of them, at any rate ... but with guys that age, you get the impression they're just excited that a girl agreed to do anything with them. They seem more intent upon, I don't know, not cumming too fast or something, and they always seem sort of distracted.

But Violet ... she grabbed me, kissed me, fondled me, penetrated me as if it were me she wanted, me she had fantasized about, me she desired more than anyone else in the world. She looked me in the eye. She studied my body (before attacking it). She said my name so sweetly, yet with a vulgar backspin.

I'd never felt so special, so wanted, until later when I met E.

And when she finished sucking (and biting) my nipples ... when she finished bringing me to climax with her fingers, knuckles and hands ... when she began drifting in a deliberate and steady manner lower on my abdomen, I spread my legs wider and waited, a little impatiently, for her to lay her mouth directly on me.

And when she did, I felt the room expand and contract at the same time. I felt hot breath down there ... a tongue of compressed steam ... a tongue with an inherent knowledge of just where to apply pressure and just where to back off.

I felt exhilaration like I'd never felt before. I felt a sharp jolt of something not painful, but not entirely pleasurable, either.

After I'd cum again, I gobbled up her body greedily, shedding inhibitions as quickly as I could work my way to her own glorious pussy. She spread for me, that fantastic smirk rising like a moon above her prone body. The only thought I had was a mild concern I might somehow disappoint her. Then I ran a finger down her slit and heard a sharp intake of breath from above.