In Chapter One, A Rude Awakening, Billy learns that his wife Sally is cheating on him with Dan, a man whose cock is much bigger than Billy's. Now, if he is to save his marriage, Billy must adapt...
Friday night we had an early light supper, a quiche I'd made and some salad, and then, though I dared hope she would not, Sally left the house at seven-thirty, same as every Friday. A peck on my cheek at the front door, an embarrassed wave goodbye while getting in her car, and she was gone, heading for her weekly romp with Dan in his apartment.
I noted she was wearing the same short skirt and low-cut blouse she'd worn the week before. Maybe Dan had said he liked the outfit. I might have called it slutty if she'd asked my opinion. Hardly the sort of clothes a woman should wear out at night alone when her husband of ten years, who has never cheated on her, is home tidying up the kitchen.
How sexy she looked. Her perky tits braless, nipples prodding the silken sheen of her blouse. The shadows under the hem of her tight skirt inviting any man to wonder about that timid glory hidden within, her funky treasure.
I didn't know what panties she wore, or whether they too had been favorited by Dan, or maybe were a gift from him, something he'd bought at Wal-Mart. "Here you go, babe," he would have said, tossing them at her. "A token of gratitude for all our fucking." Something with lace around the edges. Or novelty panties:
pussy galore... Dan was here...
You idiot
, I thought, pushing buttons on the dishwasher to start the cycle.
You dunce. What makes you think she's wearing panties?
A sick feeling settled in my stomach, disturbing the shrimp and onion quiche still there, and I was queasy enough that I had to sit at the kitchen table several minutes before getting up to start a load of laundry.
So many details, a tornado of them swirling inside my head. The delicate folds of her pussy lips. How, when she is aroused, they swell. Her musky smell. And the taste of her! The way she wriggles and grinds against my busy mouth when I work her clit. Later, I sometimes find wedged between my teeth a pubic hair, wiry and black, and floss it free.
My favorite position: I am sitting up and she is on my lap facing me, my cock inside her. I can lift her holding the cheeks of her ass, up and down, or pull her closer, her tits crushed against my chest. We would fuck like that, sometimes pausing to swig from a bottle of water before resuming. And sometimes we would come to a stop and hold each other in interlude, her pussy gently clenching my cock—clench, release, clench, release—and my cock throbbing slightly. We would notice then the moonlight shining down through trees outside the window.
Oh Sally. Beloved Sal. My sullied gal. If only my cock were bigger, this well-hung man, this Dan, could not have cum between us. I know there are those who would blame you, darling. They would say you should be true. But I know how much you love me.
Size matters, how can it not? My dick is of average length according to my research. And it stands ready for service when called upon. But a dick like Dan's, a full foot long when erect, so stout and solid, thick blue veins along its shaft—it is more than just a cock. It is an avatar of fertility, an emblem of the urgent lust driving every species—a mythic beast poking its head up through the mists of time. I have held his dick. (It's a long story, literally. Chapter 01...) I know the heft of it. I made it cum—felt his hot seed surging through the shaft, within the grip of my two hands, up to the peak, soon to be white-capped: a Mont Blanc of cocks, a Mount Everest! How could any woman not want it inside her? How could she not prefer the way it fills her? How could it not give greater, deeper pleasure?
Sally was probably there by now, in his shabby one-bedroom apartment overlooking the freeway. It was exactly 16.2 miles south/southwest—not as the crow flies, but as the spying husband's odometer reads.
When the laundry was started—I was doing a load of colors, mostly tee shirts and jeans—I went into my den, poured myself a small glass of scotch, and sat in the recliner trying to not think about what Sally and Dan were doing.
I knew what they were doing because part of our arrangement is that afterwards Sally tells me. It's always too much information, which I regret having, but we both feel that this new openness in our marriage will work only if there is transparency.
I always wait up for her. Sometimes she stumbles in at three in the morning, but usually closer to midnight. She's hungry, like an athlete after a big game, and asks me to fix her a sandwich. And sitting at the kitchen table while she eats, she tells me everything.
"Dan hardly talked tonight," she will say. "It was just wham bam wham bam wham bam. Not that I'm complaining." Or, "We broke the bed."
"Did he go see a doctor about that rash you noticed?" I might ask. And she will shrug. Dan's health, and by extension ours, is something of a sore subject.
Her Friday evenings with Dan are formulaic and predictable, much like porn videos. They tend to start in the living room, where horny Dan, waiting for Sally to show, is naked on the pleather sofa, one hand idly petting his cock. There is a knock at the door, and in comes Sally, love of my life. Dan leaps to his feet, his cock bouncing around, and immediately starts pulling her clothes off, tossing them this way and that. He grabs at her ass and squeezes her tits, and starts licking and sucking on her neck, which he thinks is erotic. Sally spares me any mention of prolonged French kissing.
She reaches down and finds his cock and starts working it, knowing that the sooner she gets him hard the less wet her neck will be.
When her hands have worked their magic, Dan grunts and pushes down on her shoulders—the universal sign for
get on your knees and suck my cock
.
Down Sally goes, kneeling on a carpet that has likely not been vacuumed for a year, full of bits of Cheetos and potato chips. Dan's glorious cock is in her face, sticking straight toward her mouth. She takes hold of it with both hands. Leaning in, she licks at his cock's head. Then she takes it in her mouth. Soon she is sucking at it noisily, slurping and moaning, still holding the base of its shaft with her hands. She is doing this as a gift for him, in particular moaning for his benefit, but Dan becomes impatient. He wants control, so he grabs the back of her head and starts pushing his cock farther in her mouth, as far as he can make it go. Her mouth and throat are just a warm wet hole to him—someplace to put his dick.
She is gagging and gasping for air, struggling against the force of his hands.
Abruptly, he pulls his cock from her mouth. It's plenty wet and he wants to fuck.
"Bed," he says. He extends a hand and helps her to her feet, then follows her into the bedroom, watching the sway of her ass as he strokes his hard cock. When they are in the bedroom, he says, "Doggy," and waits as she climbs on the bed and kneels on the mattress, elbows down, knees apart, presenting him her luscious ass at the bed's edge. Delirious with the smell of her wet pussy and the glimpses he's getting of its pink interior, he steps up behind her and steadies himself to enter.
The blunt mushroom head of his cock starts to nudge its way in, Dan guiding with one hand his hard shaft, making sure he does not poke at the pink little pucker above, nor slide stupidly below the target, into the air between her legs. This is the highlight of Sally's week—what she tells me she lives for. Dan easing the big head in, pushing apart the petals of her pussy and moving deeper, her tight warmth soon enveloping maybe a third of his shaft.
This far in, he places both hands on her hips, just above the globes of her ass. He grips and holds her as he starts to work his way in deeper. He backs out some and pushes in again, each time a little farther.
"Oh my God!" Sally cries.
"Yeah," Dan says. "Here I come."
And he shoves his cock in all the way for the first time. He keeps it there, grinding, his balls up against her.
"Oh God! Oh God!" Sally shouts. "Yes!"
She starts wriggling, her ass grinding against him.
