Sunday in the Paring Lot

This is the fourth installment of the "In a World..." series, detailing the erotic journey of Ginnifer and Rick. This narrative can stand alone, but it's at its best when read in the slowly-building sequence. This is also a cross-category story that leans deepest into the prurient parts of the "Loving Wives" category. More sensitive readers should check the IaW Foreword (a stand-alone chapter) to see if this story is right for them.

Yours truly,

Wilson Spalding

###

Sunday morning, we were up at six.

Well, technically, I was up at six. Ginny was still sleeping, naked on top of the sheets, and she still reeked of last night's sex.

It was quadruple-kinky: I was smelling her, me... and two other guys. Yeah, that's the way she fell asleep.

It was our kink breakthrough: she'd partied with two dudes on the after-hours, closed deck of the motel's pool. She came back to the room, told me all about it and I reclaimed her. Moments later, she fell asleep as content as a warm pussycat.

Vicarious voyeurism for me, but it was still pretty intense. They'd sent videos last night, I'd seen the thumbnails, but I still hadn't watched them. I'd do that soon -- and I'd do it with Ginny in my lap.

I waved the coffee cup under her nose, letting the aroma gently seep into her.

She reached for the cup, eyes still squeezed shut. Her voice was raspy. "You are a god."

I nodded, not that she could see it. "Better than smelling salts."

She raised her nose over the coffee cup and her eyes snapped open. "Fuck."

"Good morning," I replied. "How much do you remember?"

"I remember everything. Headache, yes, but I was more buzzed than drunk."

"That's good."

She adjusted her hips and took a sip of the coffee. "I dunno. Margaritas and Coronas are kinda like white-out."

"Last night wasn't about correction fluid. Erection fluid, maybe."

She almost spilled her coffee. "Hate me?"

"I love you more now than I did yesterday."

Her voice wasn't quite steady. "I had to ask."

"I did kinda set it up."

She gave me a furtive glance. "You did?"

"Well, not like I invited them, but I did leave you behind, naked, in the jacuzzi... Veronica."

She smiled at the "Clerks" reference, but she was a bit wistful as she sipped her coffee.

I sat down next to her. "How do you feel?"

"Guilty. Dirty, and not in a great way. Sticky. Crusty. Slutty. Smelly."

"Pretty sure those were the dwarves who lived with Snow White."

That spilled her coffee. "Oh, my god!"

"Why don't you go shower, Snow, and let's get outta here."

She rolled out of bed, licking the spilled coffee off her fingers.

I smacked her ass as she walked past -- those were firm, round glutes. Ginnifer was slender, lithe, and she'd be pale if it weren't for all the freckles. As it were, she looked tan at first glance.

She hip-bumped my shoulder in response. The smell of sex almost knocked me over.

Even in the dim light, I could see her little ginger landing strip was a bit matted. Objectively, the morning after, that might even be disgusting. On her, it was an aphrodisiac.

She stood by the counter, taking another sip of coffee, and I stared into her thigh gap from the rear. It vaguely registered that she was popping pills, presumably aspirin, as her hips started to sway.

I looked up and realized she was looking back.

She got a coy smile as she danced toward the shower. "I know we gotta go, but join me? Please?"

My shirt was off a second later. "One for the road? Sure!"

###

There was a little stutter in time. Walking through the tiny entry foyer of the motel room and suddenly it was last night all over again. I'd crossed that threshold with the woman I love; the woman I intended to marry. My mind was still blown.

But there was the hiccup within the hiccup. I'd done kinkier... but never with a person that I had any emotional commitment. I'd done wild things with people I barely knew, it was a side-effect of being an unrepentant adrenaline junkie, but this brought it home.

Ginny's voice echoed from the bathroom. "Hey. You okay back there?"

I nodded and smiled at her. "Just savoring the moment."

She nodded, started up the water and stood under the stream. It was instantly steamy and she just let it flow. I watched her from the safe zone, where I didn't risk being boiled alive. Her face in the spray, the flow hugged her curves as it seemed to dissolve morning-after guilt as much as it washed away the cum of three men.

I could only imagine the memories she carried from last night. I wouldn't want to see directly through her eyes, but I wish I could've watched her eyes as she went down on them. I know she wanted me there to watch, but that was more of a guideline.

A minute later, she realized why I was waiting outside the shower. She pouted, stuck her tongue out at me, and lowered the temp from "Broasting" to the comparatively polar "3rd Degree Burns." Medically, I have no idea how she does it.

Once in the shower, I stood behind and wrapped my arms around her. For another minute, we just let the water flow over us. We got dirty together, this was getting clean together.

She started lathering up and images from last night came rushing back. From us at the bar, to flirts and dares back in our room, to sitting in the jacuzzi, to introducing ourselves to the two dudes.

Walking away, leaving her with them, may as well have been jumping out of an airplane. I'd been in freefall until she rejoined me an hour later. I thought reclamation sex would've been popping the chute, but I'd gotten sloppy thirds after I'd only expected her to give head. Popping the reserve only came when I popped deep inside of her.

That had been unbelievably intense.

And then she passed out...

I admit the fucking had been a surprise, but it shouldn't have been. I'd put her in that mindset. Nor were we following a technical manual for incrementally increasing perversity (though I was thinking maybe we should write one). That she did what she did -- and how she did it...?

According to Gin, after the double-header in the jacuzzi, they'd gotten excited all over again. Fingering led to fucking and the three of them ranged all over the pool. It finally climaxed in the parking lot. Yes, in the motel's fucking parking lot.

It was at two in the morning, but on a Saturday night, under the lights? That was still early. Ginny allegedly braced herself against the rear bumper of my Bronco as two strangers took turns pounding her from behind.

Early, early Sunday morning. In the parking lot.

When she got back, still a little buzzed and well-used, she revealed just how much she enjoyed it. Wish I'd been there, but just hearing about it had been fucking intense. Literally, fucking intense: it took "reclamation sex" to make her mine again.

In the shower, Ginny looked up and over her shoulder at me. "Wow. You're... awake."

I nodded, my arms still wrapped around her. I caressed her flat belly and slid my hands up, cupping her breasts and gently squeezing her nipples.

One hand stayed high while the other reached between her legs.

She spread her legs, pushing her ass against my pelvis. She wanted this as much as I did, maybe more.

I was only half hard, but that was hard enough for her.

She guided me inside her, and I was still growing.

Ginny ground her ass against me, and feeling her pussy? It was still slippery. Less sloppy, less... aromatic in the shower, but there was still that feeling she'd been used. Some people interpret that as "stretched" -- but the truth was that she was excited. Dilated. Her pussy was inviting cock.

She looked over her shoulder. "I'm still loose, aren't I?"

I'd wanted this to stay at 'making love,' but it was not destined to be pure. "You feel almost as good as you did last night."

She closed her eyes. "I should've showered last night."

I was slowly, gently thrusting. "You were exhausted."

"I had two men's cum inside me -- and then my fiancée added his. I should've showered."

"Okay..." I grabbed her hips and thrust hard. "So why didn't you?"

"Because their cum felt so good inside me. Does that make me a slut?"

"Yes."

She braced herself against the shower walls. "Do you hate me?"

"No. I love you."

"Do you love me because I'm a slut?"

"No. I love you because you're lovable. But I do love that you're a slut."

She bent, just a little more, and looked over her shoulder at me with those big, green eyes. "Reclaim me again! I need more cum... your cum."

Her eyes suddenly snapped shut. She felt how hard she'd made me.

It wasn't hate sex, or even angry sex, it was me needing to bury my dick deeper and deeper and deeper into her. I was watching her, studying every curve as I yanked her hips back, slamming her over and over. I watched her perfect ass jiggle, the shockwaves of me pass through her cheeks.

I watched the edge of her boobs shake with every thrust -- and that was a gorgeous sight. There was something about boobs, from any angle, when a woman was being fucked, that was objectively beautiful.

I was tipping over the edge.

Ginny's eyes were squeezed shut.

A moment later, my balls tightened and shot their load deep inside her. On every pulse, she was cooing -- until she could only stop to breathe. And for a moment, she stopped breathing.

###

Just ten minutes after a shared orgasm, just a few hours later that same Sunday morning double-fucking, we carried our bags to the Bronco.

The sun was already up, the Palm Springs skies blue and bright.

I stopped behind the back bumper and looked down. I didn't really expect to see anything, but sure enough, there was a spatter of tiny, dried gray puddles in high contrast against newly tarred asphalt.

Gin came around the corner of the Bronco. "Whatcha... Oh."

"Just admiring the leftovers of performance art."

She took out her phone and took a snapshot. Then she handed the phone to me and put her hands on the bumper, as if she were bracing herself.

I was getting hard all over again. I took a picture of her leaning against the bumper, smiling over her shoulder at me.

She climbed in, but I took another moment to run my hand along the Bronco's bumper. Besides all the road head on this Sex Tour of the Great American Southwest, this was a memory I wanted to hold on to.

###

It was a long, silent drive from Palm Springs, through Riverside and finally into LA County. Not bad, just silent.

There was a lot to think about.

We'd known each other maybe a month and we'd already gotten engaged. Part of it, I'm sure, is that we had overlapping tastes in kink. She had a "tainted background" (her ex had uploaded their sex tapes to YouPorn), but she still hoped to find actual love. She found me... and she found actual love.

But it was complicated: as turbulent and complicated as she was. There were still things I was learning, and still more I needed to learn.

Which brings us back to that one "Clerks" reference. If you've seen the picture, you might remember that Veronica was the girlfriend of Dante, the main character. Her fame, and a major plot point, was that she'd gone down on 36 guys before she went out with him. There was something to having an "experienced" girlfriend. After seeing that movie, my biggest kink was for a girlfriend who'd call me "#37."

We'd talked about her natural flirtitude, finding that she wasn't just craving attention, she was craving sexual tension. The feedback gave her validation and affirmation. I was a bit of a voyeur, she was a bit of an exhibitionist... If I could handle it, she was willing to be my Veronica.

That was all before the trip and it was a decision neither of us took lightly. Her own history, what made it possible for her to be that kind of girl, was complex. She was ready at times, reluctant at others, but ultimately, she was down to go down.

Unlike the movie, we ignored her minor history to restart her "Veronica Count" at zero. There it stayed until the time was right. Until last night. She chalked up numbers 1 and 2 in the jacuzzi. If that had been it, I'm pretty sure we'd be talking a lot more right now.

I could tell by her silence that she was still off-balance. Blowjobs were one thing, but actual sex took it to a riskier level that we hadn't "officially" talked about. Was that a technical betrayal of trust? Our boundaries talk had been pretty hazy.

As we hit traffic (yes, even on a Sunday morning), all the big-picture, rest-of-life relationship contemplation started to fade. The anvil pressure of work was already nagging at me. As of Monday, it was the final two-week run-up to a new shoot: after that, I'd be gone for a month and a half.

Bad timing as Ginny was getting ready to move in to my place.

Glancing over at the flaming ginger, she was positively squirming on the passenger seat. It looked like a silent battle between relief and self-loathing, and probably a dozen other things that I couldn't yet read on her.

She noticed I was staring and her face went scrunchy. "So... last night."

"Which part?" I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. "There was that detail you revealed at dinner... You and your 'handsy' bosses. Especially Morty."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Morty's hand jobs."

"That's the one. Kind of a surprise, but not really: you're just as handsy..."

Her mouth hung open a moment, her hand up. "...Not the part of 'last night' that I was thinking about."

"Okay, then. The Veronica Count? Numbers One and Two?"

"No, but sure. Yes," she nodded. "Are you still okay with that?"

"I am incredibly turned on by that."

She reached over, touching my arm. "You know that I'm going to keep asking, right?"

"Yes. Wait. Asking if we're okay or asking to do it again?"

"Asking if..." She grinned so wide it was hard to talk. "Well, sure, yes. Since you put it that way, both."

"Good. Keep that communication open."

She bit her lip, reining in that grin. The top lip. It was totally goofy, but she still made it sexy. "Um, sloppy--"

"Ah. That."

Sex conversations with my fiancée were dangerous. I heard you're supposed to seek medical attention for an erection that lasts more than four hours. My stiffy had been going on for a month and at this rate, would last for years.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, remember when I handed you the ice bucket last night?"

"No. Oh... Yes."

"I dared you to walk to the ice machine in nothing but that wonderfully sorry excuse for a t-shirt. You said that was more likely to spark sloppy seconds than a facial... and I double-dog dared you after that?"

"I kinda forgot about that."

"It set the tone. Twenty minutes later, I left you alone with two guys, buzzed and naked in a jacuzzi. You had a vibe, trusted your gut and went with it. I think we'll survive."

The top-lip bite turned into a bottom-lip chew. "We should've talked about it first, I know. Explicitly. Specifically. I'm sorry. I was drunkish... and stupid. Forgive me?"

"Explicit specifics...?" I stared at her. "That's the name of my new band!"

Gin choked, snorted and when she could finally get air, laughed.

I didn't think it was that funny, but breaking the tension and all that. That's when the whole "trap" thing with her ex rolled back into my head. Her reaction made so much sense now! How did I button this without actually mentioning his name? As her chortles subsided into giggles, the words were coming to me.

"I trust your judgment, Ginny. You felt like you had implicit approval -- and you did. Sex is kinda who we are. Even if it had been a mistake, it didn't come from any place malicious. We'd chalk it up to a miscommunication and work out what to do next time."

"I... uh, you..."

"Forgive you? Apology accepted and I appreciate that it's on your mind. As for forgiveness...? Well, that goes with 'reclamation sex'. That was fucking amazing, thank you very much. You wear sloppy seconds -- thirds -- really, really well."

Ginny blushed four shades of red, then unbuckled to lean across and kiss me. "Marry me! Please?"

"Yes!" I grabbed her hand and kissed the engagement ring. One more kiss on the lips and I had to focus back on traffic. "Now, we need to be careful, obviously, for so many different reasons..."

"Yeah..."

"Let you in on a secret, though."

"What?"

"Sharing 'sloppy whatevers' with my Significant Other was a bucket-list item. I can't wait until we do it again! And yeah, on occasion, I need to be there."

Ginny smiled, relieved and re-blushing just a bit. She reached out and rested that ring-hand on my thigh. "Rick, I cannot wait for you to watch me..."

Hard. Son of a bitch. "Yeah... More than I can say."

"Okay. I think I'm feeling better."

I shrugged. "There's plenty of things we haven't talked about yet. The important stuff: joint bank account, tax returns, kids... if you're on the pill. Stuff I can't believe we haven't talked about yet, but should have. I've seen you take aspirin, but not birth control."

She shook her head. "Diaphragm."

"Makes sense." I nodded, then jumped to the next obvious point when you're dealing with sloppy seconds. "Do you see yourself wanting kids?"

She smiled at me and shrugged. "Maybe someday? It would be a beautiful thing but I know I'm not ready yet."

"Bank account?"

She shook her head. "Now that's really crazy..."

"What?"

"Priorities, I guess? Sex, sex, sex, sex... bank account? No way!" Ginny laughed. "But... wow. Yeah. Yeah, I'd actually love to do a joint account."

"I forget: what are you classed as? Paralegal? Legal aide? Legal secretary?"

Gin shook her head. "Um, just 'receptionist'. I do a little filing and copying and travel booking, but mostly it's hostess, routing calls and dictation. Somehow, I make three times as much as the average legal aide."

"'Somehow'? I think it's the 'dictation'." I considered a moment longer. "Or maybe 'other duties as assigned'."

Her whole face puckered up. "Other liberties as allowed...?"

The "liberties," in case you're just joining us, were the gropetastic partners at the law office. Ginny was a very "tolerant" receptionist; for the guys, she was the right girl in the right place at the right time. For workplace professionalism, it was all objectively wrong, wrong, wrong.

"So there was a lot of alcohol involved last night, details are hazy. Remind me: how long have you been giving Morty hand jobs?"

She grimaced, hearing it like that. "Four months, maybe? Since I came back from that medical leave."

"Four months of hand jobs and somehow you never once went down on him?"

She shook her head. "Sounds crazy. Not to say I didn't want to. And I know he wants me to... but that was where I drew the line."

"And he doesn't count for one of your six 'casual sex' encounters?"

"No. A hand job is intimate flirting, but it's not sex..." There seemed to be so much more behind her eyes, but she wasn't ready to talk about it.

So there you have it. On one hand, she was a closet submissive with a thing for older guys in authority positions. On the other hand, I was a voyeur. Between those two hands: a job.

If I was unleashing her, it was kind of expected that her law partner-bosses would be part of her "Veronica Count." Judge not, even when they're lawyers.

I glanced over and she was staring into the dashboard. I took a shot at her preoccupation: "So, Morty's been without a hand job for three weeks..."

She dropped her head. "Two weeks."

"Wait... didn't you say you wore your engagement ring that last week?"

"I did. I didn't think a 60-something man could get that hard." She was locked in a pinched-nose facepalm. "It's the first time Morty ever called me a slut, and... I was shocked at how much it turned me on. The 'count' almost started before we left. It's kinda why I said I didn't want to tell them that you 'knew'."