This is the sixth 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.
Also, this is a COVID-free story. It was planned and mostly written when Corona might lead to a hangover, not a virus. If this story happened during lockdown, the characters would've done very different things. If you need an escape from social distancing, keep calm and read on.
Yours truly,
Wilson Spalding
###
The Saturday morning sun was just brightening the eastern horizon.
I carefully rolled out of bed, making sure I didn't wake Ginnifer. She was a flame-haired freckled-faced fuck-monster and I considered myself lucky to call her my fiancรฉe. With high, sharp cheek bones and a matching jawline, she was a red Ferrari among a sea of Southern California Porsches.
Quietly, I went downstairs and got the coffee going. Eggs and bacon followed, and of course the cat needed breakfast, too.
This last week, we'd just moved her big sectional couch into my living room and this morning, my gaze kept drifting back to it. I visualized what we looked like as she gave me head there last night.
I remembered, slightly embarrassed, how fast I'd come on her face.
See, I was the second guy to come on her face yesterday...
As lucky as I was to call Ginnifer mine, I wouldn't call her "my own." No, we definitely checked the "complicated" box on our relationship status.
Confession time: I'm a voyeur.
I grew up on a steady diet of porn, and not just the explicit variety that ends in a proper facial. In my world, tits and ass sell work boots and snow tires. That kind of thing sets weird expectations for guys and girls alike (or however you "identify").
As I grew up, I'd learned to compartmentalize all those signals. I separated advertising boobs from everybody else with boobs. Or, as people with a modern sensibility call it: reality. Not being an asshole sounds simple enough, but it's complicated when you're constantly blasted by cleavage.
For those of us who aren't asexual (or violently repressed), we're swept away by a tsunami of mixed signals. A million years of evolution makes it a challenge to see the forest from the trees. Personally, I was just woke enough to know I wasn't woke at all: boobs in beer commercials were a guilty pleasure.
Enter Ginnifer.
I'll confess for her: she's an exhibitionist, and a serial flirt from the get-go.
She was on the other side of those expectations; not so much a target as aspiring to the skewed ideals. She knew she wasn't supposed to like people paying attention to her B-cups but the reality was she thrived on the attention. She was a coy tease, energized by sexual tension.
She was just barely on the sane side of "good girl" - except for when she wasn't. She'd already been sliding down a slippery slope when she met me - and we found out we both knew the legend of "Veronica."
Veronica isn't an actual person, but a character from the movie "Clerks." The plot point is that Dante, her boyfriend, discovers Veronica has gone down on 36 guys before becoming his girlfriend. Dante is "Number Thirty-Seven" - what is otherwise the blandest, most innocuous number in the world.
37.
That number stuck with me.
A side-effect of growing up on porn: I already liked "experienced" girls. I wanted neither the responsibility nor the complications of guiding a virginal type. I wanted the fast machine who kept her motor clean. Basically, I wanted Veronica.
Before me, Ginny had three serious relationships and six [mostly-oral] flings, including a couple of one-night stands. She wasn't exactly virginal, but she definitely wasn't Veronica. With her flirty, show-off side, though, there was potential.
One thing led to another, and I asked Gin to be my Veronica. We restarted her "count" at 0 and she'd climb to 37... as my fiancรฉe.
Early on, the flirty girl was naturally nervous. I had become a "real" romance and she didn't want to lose me just because we dared to mix explosives in our sexual chemistry set. Once she felt safe in a relationship sense, she took that flirting to its natural end: going down on a guy. Or that night, two guys.
That was a mere week ago, the last day of our road-trip vacation, and it had been kind of a breakthrough. Not without risk on a dozen different levels, but with a "Veronica Count" of 2, now she knew she had the freedom to be "cheaty" (her word).
Which brought us to the post-vacation Monday. Back to work. Ginnifer should be able to just turn off the flirt switch, right? The "hot girl," the one used to being hit on, should be the pillar of HR's golden standards... right? No, for her, the office was the ultimate risk and that made it irresistible.
Here's something else: she has kind of a submissive streak and it spikes around older guys. Naturally, you're wondering: where does she work and can you stop by? She's a receptionist at a law firm, you pervert.
The firm specialized in divorce and harassment cases, with the attorneys spread across the US. The Los Angeles branch, technically Glendale, was the heart of the firm, with five partners working out of the office. For most of the cases, they got involved when the trial was over and it was time for arbitration and a settlement.
Given their speciality, you'd think the office would have the most carefully appropriate, neutrally sterile environment ever. Just the opposite: these dirty old fogies were sometimes their own clients... and they'd lucked into a receptionist who was very permissive.
Even more, they knew their "forgiving girl" was now engaged. Did that make her off-limits? No, that painted an even bigger target on her. After our "Just Engaged" vacation, she made it four days unscathed back in the office. Friday - yesterday - my fiancรฉe's Veronica Count jumped by one.
That had been a helluva breakthrough, maybe bigger than her blowjobs last weekend. It was one thing to go outside the relationship, but this was going down on one of her bosses... at her office. Oh, one more thing: she wasn't telling that boss that I knew. Instead, it was a modified truth: she was a slut who was addicted to cheating.
Yeah, I knew about it - I sorta back-hand encouraged it - but the cheaty gray area made it more exciting for her. I think we can all see that her office shenanigans were just beginning.
For Ginnifer, having a voyeuristic fiancรฉ at home and a hall pass at work was a dream-cum-true. That I gave a 30-second pop-shot across her nose when her boss's dried cum was still in her hair was all the validation she needed.
Not to say it wouldn't have its complications and downsides, but at this stage, her work-sex honeymoon was just beginning.
She'd passed out shortly after I painted her face. She was relieved, satisfied and a little horny, all over again.
###
I heard soft footsteps coming down the carpeted stairs. I glanced over my shoulder to see those slender, pale legs gracefully descending. She wasn't quite naked, she had on a long t-shirt that she used as a night shirt, but it barely hung below her ass. Looking at her on the stairs: the landing strip was hidden, but at this eye-line, there was a clear view to smooth lips framed in a perfect thigh-gap.
Two more steps down the stairs, the night shirt obscured the view, but not by much. That T-shirt was so sheer that it looked wet even fresh out of the dryer.
At least with a little cotton modesty, my brain could finally function.
She stopped on the bottom stair and took a deep sniff. Her voice was a little gravelly. "Coffee, bacon... eggs. Marry me?"
"Sure. Free this afternoon?"
She ran down and gave me a kiss, then a very serious look. "Don't tease."
I handed her a plate. "One of us specializes in teasing... and it's not me."
She gave a guilty shrug. "I'm teasing less, though..."
"Only because you're following through."
"Three times, now." She grabbed my hands and put them firmly on her tits before asking: "Are you absolutely sure you want me to be your 'Veronica'?"
I believe her lawyers would call this 'leading the witness.' I gave her gentle nipple-tugs before answering with a question: "Have you enjoyed being my Veronica?"
"Uh, Yeah," she nodded, eyes wide like it was only the most obvious answer in the world. "Though... it's still a little nerve-wracking."
"What part?"
She looked at me like I was dense as she gave my bulge a squeeze. "Don't get me wrong, I really, REALLY love giving head. But..."
"But what?"
"Well, you know: I haven't given head like Veronica because it was more important that somebody actually loves me. Suddenly, you show up in my life and tell me I can have both? It's like a porno storybook: way too good to be true!"