Anniversary Cheat

This is not a story in which the characters get what they deserve. Nor is it a good vs. evil morality tale. If that's what you seek, you'll be better served elsewhere. It's a story about people (of the fictional kind: I made them up, so they don't act like you or me), and the wonderful and terrible things they sometimes do for and to each other. And of course, love and sex. My thanks to stev2244, who kindly "beta-read" and pointed out places where I had attempted subtlety and achieved only confusion.

*****

Next weekend, I will go away and sin. I will cheat on my husband. This will be neither an accident, nor a one-time 'mistake.' I will take everything I promised my husband would be his alone, and give it away, freely and repeatedly, to another man, for an entire weekend.

My husband has already agreed to it. He has agreed that there will be no recriminations, no revenge, no quid pro quo, and no questions, ever. For those three days (yes, I'm taking Friday, too), it will be as if I don't exist for him. He certainly won't exist for me. He will not know where I have been, nor whom I have been with. All he will ever know, is that I will spend the weekend having sex with another man. I know that I will deny that man nothing, and I know he will take everything I have. By Sunday night, there will remain nothing of me that is private between me and my husband. Then I will return home and resume my role as his faithful wife. That day will be our fifth wedding anniversary.

My husband is starting to wish he hadn't agreed to this, as he sees how much it excites me. I don't think I've ever anticipated anything this much in my entire adult life, including my wedding. At first I tried to hide how much I was looking forward to this – I don't want to hurt him, after all – but he's smart and observant, and figured it out anyway, so what the hell. He did ask if, after I came back, he could see me in some of the lingerie I bought for my trip. It is far more brazen than anything I wear for him. "Oh, honey," I said, "by then, it will all be in tatters, and I'll have thrown it away." You see, Brandon – the man I am going to be with – always had a thing for ripping girls' clothes off them, and I intend to give him plenty of opportunity.

I've been completely faithful to my husband since the day we married. OK, perhaps not completely, if you count deep kisses, very dirty dancing, and being thoroughly groped all over, sometimes under my clothes. None of which was against my will, by the way, and quite a bit of it at my invitation. But for five years, his has been the only cock inside my body. It's not that I lack opportunity. I'm 27; only 5'5", but with long slim legs; 34C-21-32, and I don't dress to hide it. I work in a brokers' office, so I dress professionally, but my colleagues (male and female) as well as our clients know pretty well what I have to offer. They've almost all tried to get some of it, and several of them have succeeded to a greater or lesser degree, but no one but my husband has landed the big prize. That will change next weekend.

NEXT FRIDAY MORNING.

I am dressing to go to Brandon. He was my first, back in high school, and still ranks as my best. A couple of months ago, I got an e-mail from him out of the blue. It seems he too had moved away from our home town, was about an hour and a half away, and had gotten my e-mail address from a classmate who was one of our clients. His offer to 'work me in' on a weekend told me he was still his old, cock-sure self. My drooling pussy didn't care; it was ready for him to work me in, or work himself into me, however and whenever he deigned to do so. I used the next few weeks to manipulate my husband into agreeing to this. Now it is time. I will do this.

I am quivering all over, shaking so badly I can barely manage to pull on the almost-trashy, too-expensive bra and panties that I bought to wear for him. My husband is watching me, his hurt plain in his eyes.

"It might be easier if you didn't look, sweetie," I tell him. He shakes his head and continues to watch, as I smooth the thigh high stockings, which I know will be a laddered mess by noon, onto my freshly-shaven legs.

"Remember, the weekend has started, and you don't exist for me until Monday morning." He says nothing, but he looks like I just slapped him.

"So I shouldn't even be letting you watch. But I guess you can look if you want to – but you can't touch." I slip my arms into the soft silk blouse, button it, then unbutton it down to the button between my nipples. When I lean forward to pull on my skirt, I know the blouse gapes open and my husband can see, and see through, the whorish little bra that I'm wearing for another man.

I know he's still hoping that I'll change my mind. Last night after dinner, he made this little speech to me.

"I know you're looking at this as a sort of weekend out of time," he said, "a weekend that won't really have existed after it's over. You think it won't matter, and you will come back and everything will be just like it was before. You think it's just about the sex. It's not. You've already started to change. You won't be the same when you come back, and neither will I. You will have shown yourself that you can turn off your love for me, just like a faucet, and once you do that the first time, it's inevitable that you'll do it again. You'll be hit on at work by someone you like, or an important client will want you, and you'll think, why shouldn't you give him what you gave away this weekend?" He stopped to collect himself.

"I know I agreed to this, and I'll keep my word. I won't leave you over it; I won't try to get back at you; I'll never bring it up again after you get back. But I give you my word of honor, I believe it will be the undoing of us. Please don't do this to us."

The poor dear meant every word, I'm sure. But it was too late. It had been too late from the moment Brandon e-mailed me. All the rest – the agreement and everything – was merely to insure there wouldn't be trouble later. For me, that is. He was right, though, I could feel myself changing. His concerns would have gone to my heart as recently as a couple of weeks ago, but now they just seemed pathetic. I almost snickered as I imagined him holding up two fingers and saying "Scouts honor" at the end of his plea. But I do love him – really I do – so I tried to ease his mind.

"You know you're the only man I love," I said. It was almost like reassuring a child. "You don't have anything to worry about, you'll see. Monday morning, I'll be here drinking the coffee you made for me, just as usual, and we'll pick up right where we left off."

I could see he wasn't convinced, so I reassured him the best way I knew how. "I know what's the matter with you," I almost smirked. "You won't be getting any for three days, and it makes you sad." Come to think of it, three days is longer than we'd ever gone without sex since we married. I walked over to him and ran my hands through his hair and pressed my boob against his arm.

"Come to the bedroom and I'll make you forget all about it."

Actually, he made me forget all about it, and for a good long time, too. Please don't think my husband is some sort of pencil-dick, or inadequate in the bedroom, or anything like that. He's a master at listening, and last night he listened to my body as if he were inside my head or something. He somehow knew everything I wanted just a split second before I did, and by the time I realized I wanted it, he was doing it. He's brilliant at taking my so-called non-erogenous zones and using them to set me on fire. I was burning with it before he came near my pussy. When he did, I was already so wide-open I swear I could feel the breeze on my inner lips. He almost waited too long to actually penetrate me: I was nearly comatose from the pleasure when he finally entered me. But he played my nipples just like I like, and that got me going again, and we galloped together to the finish.

My husband doesn't fuck, he makes love, and last night he was exquisite. He was a master. Every part of me right down to my toes felt loved, cherished, and satisfied. But as I lay in his arms, just before I fell asleep, it was Brandon's arrogant face, not my husband's loving one, that flashed across my vision. My nipples tightened and my pussy began to throb, in spite of the loving I had just received. My husband had taken his best shot – and a fine shot it was, too – but he had lost.

I finish dressing, check myself in the mirror, and pick up my small suitcase. (Lingerie doesn't take much room.) My husband approaches me for a hug and kiss goodbye, but I stop him.

"It's the weekend, remember?" Now he really does look pathetic, nothing like the masterful lover of last night – or the masterful fucker I will give myself to today. That makes it easy for me to turn my back on him and walk out the door, a smile on my face, a spring in my step, and an extra swing in my hips. If I had known then... but then one never does, does one?

BRANDON.

Brandon had moved to our district at the beginning of my junior year in high school, and by Christmas, he was the talk of the school. He wasn't especially big, or strong, or fast, or smart, or even all that good looking, though he wasn't a troll, either. But he could have any girl in the school he wanted. There seemed to be some sort of connection between his eyes and a girl's pussy; he could get any of us sopping wet by just looking at us. I saw him give a couple of the pretty young teachers the look, too, and it made them blush and walk funny, just like it did us girls.

I was, like a half dozen other pretty girls that I hung with, a "good girl" until Brandon "took an interest" in me. He plucked each of us, one by one, peeled us, broke us open, bit into us, devoured us, then cast aside what was left and plucked another one. As far as I know, he never went back to a girl once he discarded her: though any one of us would have walked naked into the boys' locker room for the privilege of offering him everything we had. He was just that good.

The day of my first date with Brandon, I was 'all a-flutter,' as my grandma would have said. I'd heard the talk; I knew that whatever I wore, I wouldn't be wearing long. But it's not every day a girl gets her cherry popped, so I did my hair nicely and dressed up a bit: I wore my fanciest underwear, and a nice blouse and skirt instead of a t-shirt and jeans. He was so late picking me up that my mother said I should go to my room and she'd slam the door in his face. I couldn't tell her that I was afraid I would have to go to my room anyway to change my panties, the ones I was wearing being soaked. He finally arrived, gave my mother a look which shut her up, and steered me into his car. I don't remember where we were supposed to be going, but I already knew we would never get there.

Brandon wasn't much of a talker, either. He didn't say a word for about ten minutes. He gave me the look, though. My already-swampy virgin pussy got even wetter, and my breath was short and my thighs were trembling under my skirt before he finally spoke.

"I always fuck on the first date." No leading up to it for this guy. I was soon to find that applied to his sexual technique, too. "If you're on the rag, I'll take your ass instead. I don't use condoms, and I don't pull out."

I almost came then and there. He didn't say another word until we arrived at a well-known parking spot. He gestured with his thumb to the back seat, opened his door and got out. I thought he would come around and open the door on my side (silly me!) so I sat and waited for him.

"Move!" he growled at me. I did.

I sat demurely on Brandon's back seat, knees primly together, head lowered, suddenly feeling a little shy as I curiously examined the place where my virginity would become history. It wasn't any too clean, and I shuddered a little at the thought that some other pretty high school girl had probably occupied this space last night. Then Brandon was in the car, advancing on me, predatory, as if I were his next meal. He seized me with a hand under each knee, pulling me toward him and spreading my legs. In an instant, I was on my back with my skirt up almost to my waist and my legs flailing helplessly in the air on either side of him. I thought for a moment of the time and effort (and money) other boys had spent trying and failing to get me into this position. Brandon had me there in about 5 seconds.

I was conscious of Brandon's face and hands moving toward me as his shoulders forced my legs wider. His hands looked huge; his expression hungry. I felt more than ever like something about to be eaten. I could feel my pussy pushing out juices in time with my rapid heartbeat.

His big hands took my head between them, and I guess you would say he kissed me. It felt more like he devoured me. His tongue pried my lips open and dove for my tonsils. His teeth ravaged my lips. My tongue tried to participate – I'd had good results from this sort of thing before – but it was ruthlessly pushed aside and stuffed back toward my throat. His hands kept my head in place while he forcibly took complete possession of my mouth.

When he was finally finished with my face, I was panting heavily, both from arousal and from the fact that I could only breathe through my nose. Before I even got my breath back, his big hands seized the collar of my pretty blouse and pulled. Fabric tore, buttons flew, and my breasts were exposed, trembling before him in their lacy covering. My bra didn't last any longer than the blouse had, yielding easily to his tearing hands.

I had let guys touch my breasts before, of course. They were all well aware how great a privilege I was bestowing upon them, and they acted like worshipers at a shrine. Not Brandon. He growled something that sounded like "nice tits" and set about mauling them. He squeezed them hard in his big paws; he slapped them, he twisted them, he pulled them as if he wanted to rip them off my chest. It was a completely new sensation for me, and I was immediately addicted. I was sure my poor nipples would be marked for life, but when he took them both in his mouth and bit down hard, I gushed and came harder than I ever imagined I could.

I completely lost track of time. I don't know how long he spent ravaging my face and my tits, but I knew that when the time came for my virgin pussy to submit to him, it would receive the same violent treatment. My nicest panties would meet the same fate as my now-ruined bra. And I was more excited than I had ever been in my life. My panties were so wet I was sure Brandon could see right through them. My juices had dripped all the way down my ass and onto the car seat; I was already lying in the wet spot and we hadn't even done it yet.

Brandon didn't 'deflower' me, or pluck my cherry. He claimed my virginity, he consumed it, he destroyed it. His big hands finally left my abused tits. I heard him open his zipper. I felt him rip the crotch of my panties open, felt the outside air on my overheated pussy. I felt the head of his cock at my entrance. I heard the wet, squilchy noises as my pussy lips surrendered and spread for his cock's assault, yielding to its width. I felt my walls stretched past their limit as he ruthlessly pushed them aside. I felt the tearing pain as he destroyed my vainly-resisting maidenhead as if it were tissue paper, and powered past its tattered remains. I felt him bang against something at the back of my pussy, as I felt his pelvis smash into the surrendered space between my flailing legs. I heard someone scream – I think it was me – and then I felt myself explode into a thousand pieces, each of which floated into the air, out through the roof of Brandon's car, and up into the stars.

Slowly, the pieces of me returned to Brandon's back seat and reassembled themselves. It seemed that while I was gone, he had continued to pound me. He had one of my ass cheeks in each of his big hands and was slamming into me as hard as he could go. He treated that thing at the back of my pussy (I later learned it was my cervix) as if it were a personal enemy. It felt like my ass would bear his fingerprints for a week. And I lay there, hoping it would never stop.

Finally he gave one mighty push, stuffed the head of his cock through the opening of my cervix, and held himself there. I could feel the shots of his cum power washing the back wall of my womb. He roared; I screamed and shuddered; then we lay quiet. I put my arms around him, and ran my fingers through his hair. My legs fell slackly open as I recovered my breath. I had been fucked: well and truly fucked: fucked to heaven (or hell) and back; fucked to exhaustion. And he could fuck me again, any time, anywhere, anyhow he wanted. I was his. The fact that I wasn't his only one didn't matter to me at all.

I've been fucked since by guys who were bigger, stronger and better looking than Brandon, some who were as well-endowed (though none significantly bigger), and one who I know truly loves me. But he was still by far the best I've ever had – or I should say, the best who's ever had me.

THE WEEKEND.

I really have no idea how I managed to actually drive my car for an hour and a half to get to Brandon's place. It had been over ten years since he'd last taken me, but my pussy remembered it as if it were yesterday, and drooled accordingly. I was 27 years old, married 5 years, with plenty of sexual experience, but I was as nervous as I had been the night Brandon took my cherry. I had to turn on the car's air conditioner to keep from breaking out into a sweat.

I had my suitcase in my hand as I rang Brandon's doorbell. I felt like some kind of perverse Avon lady – "Ding-dong, booty calling."

I was about to ring again when Brandon opened the door. He didn't say a word. He threw my suitcase into the house behind him, pushed me backward onto his front porch, seized me in his arms, and kissed me, except it was far too voracious for a mere kiss. He plundered my mouth. He had been great at devouring a girl's face in high school, and had obviously practiced since. In the small, remote corner of my brain that was still rational, I thought, "Well, that's one part of me gone: these lips will never belong to my husband again." I barely noticed that he hauled my skirt up to my waist and tucked it there, baring my ass for all to see.

He broke the kiss, if that's what you want to call it. Before I could react, he turned me around so I faced the street. A big hand seized each side of my pretty silk blouse, and pulled. The little pearl buttons yielded easily, exposing my breasts in (and out of) the slutty little bra. Said bra might as well have been perforated down the middle for all the resistance it gave Brandon. It took him less than five seconds to strip me to the waist, capture a breast and begin mauling it, and jam a hand inside my thong and start turning my insides into jelly, all in full view of the neighborhood. Oh, and he was sucking and biting those tender spots on the side of my neck at the same time. I loved it.

I don't know how long I spent hanging helpless in his arms, my spraddled legs useless and quivering under me, while he molested my surrendered body. It was long enough to attract an audience, because I'm pretty sure I heard whistling and clapping when Brandon finally threw me over his shoulder, strode into his house, and slammed the door. Everything after that is a jumble in my memory. I remember landing on my back on the living room rug as he dumped me there. I remember the rough feeling of his jeans on the tender insides of my thighs as he took his rightful place between my legs. His rightful place, now: not my husband's. I remember feeling the club-like head of his cock at my entrance, which was sopping wet, wide open and eager for him. I remember him pushing into me, balls-deep at a single stroke. I remember thinking he was rearranging my insides, as his invading weapon shoved muscles and tissues out of its way on its relentless drive toward my cervix. And I remember thinking, that's another part of me forever taken away from my husband. Brandon wasn't that much bigger than my husband, if at all. But where my husband entered me like a lover, gentle and considerate, Brandon entered me like a conqueror, hard and uncaring. And conquer me, he did.