My name is Alicia, and after nearly three years of marriage to Alex, we decided it was time to start a family--or so I thought. I visited my doctor, ditched the birth control pills, and embraced a regimen of prenatal vitamins and yoga, preparing my body for motherhood. I adored my career as a marketing consultant, the late nights crafting campaigns, the thrill of client presentations--but deep down, I felt the tug of maternal instinct. Or at least, I convinced myself I did. Truth be told, I was hesitant. Once the pill's hormones flushed out of my system, I found excuses to avoid Alex's eager advances. One week stretched into two, then three, as I dodged his clumsy attempts to drag me to bed. By the fourth week--peak fertility--I conveniently landed a business trip to Chicago. The travel wasn't my favorite, but escaping Alex's puppy-dog enthusiasm made it almost a vacation.
By the trip's end, I'd made up my mind: I wasn't ready. I needed another year, maybe more, to feel like myself before surrendering to diapers and sleepless nights. Alex, though, was obsessed with the baby idea--practically glowing every time he mentioned it. I dreaded the disappointment I'd see in his soft brown eyes when I broke the news. Resigned, I steeled myself to tell him the moment I got home.
But something was off when I walked through the door. Alex barely mumbled a greeting, his usual chatter replaced by a brooding silence. He wouldn't meet my gaze, his shoulders slumped as I peppered him with questions about his week. Uneasy, I shelved the baby talk for later. Then he mentioned Tom's party. Tom, Alex's smug, overconfident boss, had invited us to dinner the previous Friday. My trip forced me to cancel, but Tom insisted Alex attend solo. What Alex didn't know--what I later uncovered--was that Tom had originally planned to seduce me that night, his eyes always lingering too long on my curves during office visits. When I bailed, he pivoted, hiring a sleek, predatory escort to pose as his girlfriend and ensnare Alex instead.
The trap was meticulous. Wine flowed like a river at the party, and Tom slipped a dose of GHB into Alex's final glass. Alex awoke, groggy and disoriented, to find his pitifully half-hard cock buried inside the escort's wet, writhing body. She straddled him, her bare breasts bouncing as she rode his drugged, unresponsive form. His mind swam, but his traitorous dick didn't care--it stiffened under her expert grinding, swelling to its unimpressive full length. It took mere minutes for her to milk an orgasm out of him, his pathetic little spurts barely registering against her practiced moans. Right on cue, Tom burst in, feigning outrage at catching them mid-fuck. Alex, still reeling, stumbled over apologies as he yanked up his pants, the drugs and booze slurring his words. Tom played the gracious host, ushering him to the guest room to "sleep it off."
The next morning, Tom unveiled his real game. He cornered Alex with an ultimatum: let him fuck me, or he'd confess the "affair" to me himself. Alex, spineless and terrified, caved.
That week after my return was a nightmare. Alex barely spoke, his silence a wall between us. I chalked it up to work stress--Tom was his boss, after all--and waited for him to spill. Then, on Thursday, he announced Tom had invited us to dinner Friday night. I groaned inwardly. Tom grated on me--his relentless flirting, his assumption that I'd swoon over his chiseled jaw and broad shoulders. As Alex's superior, he held our finances hostage, so I always played nice, flashing coy smiles while seething inside. This time, though, Alex seemed insistent, and I wondered if it tied to his odd behavior. For his career's sake, I agreed, though his faint frown when I didn't resist puzzled me.
Friday evening, I came home to find a sleek dress box on our bed, tied with a crimson satin ribbon. Alex said he'd picked it out for me to wear tonight. Later, I learned Tom had sent it, orchestrating every detail. The ribbon slid off with a whisper, revealing tissue paper scented with jasmine. Beneath the first layer lay a black lace bra and thong, so sheer they were practically transparent, the fabric delicate as a spider's web. I set them aside, uncovering a slinky black cocktail dress--low-backed, with a plunging V-neck that screamed seduction. Nearby, a bag held scented lotion, and a box contained towering black pumps, their heels a precarious four inches--higher than I'd ever dare.
I stripped off my work clothes and slipped on the shoes, the leather hugging my feet perfectly. How did Alex know my size? Naked but for the stilettos, I perched on the bed's edge, feeling like a high-class call girl prepping for a john. The thought sent a shiver through me, my pussy tingling despite myself. If Alex had walked in, I'd have let him take me right there, consequences be damned. But he didn't.
