Setches – Beads & Pearls

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm keeping the "sketches" in the title just so it orders right in the list... but this story, and these characters, have moved way past sketches.

You don't need to read the first three to get the fourth one. It's pretty easy to grasp that our married characters have been very naughty and now they're dealing with it. To really get why, though, we had to see where the craziness began. We had to go to a time shortly before the beginning of the series.

This is not your standard stroke story: most of the narrative is flashback and introspection. Imagine throwing a cigarette in the corner of your sofa cushions. You start with some smoke, then you get hints of smolder, then a touch of flame, then suddenly the whole house is blazing. B&P 4 is kinda like that.

WARNING: If you're easily offended, don't waste your time or mine by reading any further. If you can't separate characters from the writer, you need a reality check. If you're compensating for something, or suffer from poor impulse control, high blood pressure, or guilty remorse, try something safely traditional in "erotic couplings." Your head may actually explode if you read this.

Whichever head explodes, feel free to share in the comments. Feedback is a wonderful thing for writers: it's lets us know if we're doing what we set out to do. Leave a note, won't you?

Thanks,

Wilson

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I glanced at the clock. It was noon, already past usual Sunday service times. They still have church in the mornings, right? Maybe we could find some evening session at a Catholic church somewhere. Heck, my soul was a pile of Methodist debris, but confession would do us well.

Jesus, what had we done?

This New Orleans trip rolled around my head like a marble in a can of Boddington's. There was a whole mob of folk that knew what Jess looked like with her top off. Not that weird for Mardi Gras... but six of those guys learned how much Jess loved to cut loose. Seven guys if you count me. The 3 last night had photographic evidence – along with our real names and numbers.

We'd partied hard, harder than I imagined we might. A lot of dirty fantasies came to life. My wife had slipped into the role of sex toy and "slut" was our new term of endearment. I wondered if we'd gone too far. And where do you go when you've gone too far? Was that really when the bullet hit the bone?

I looked over to see Jess laying in bed, half naked, blankly staring at the wall. It was a little creepy.

"Are you okay?"

"I feel ill."

"Close your eyes."

"God, no. I'll just see

them

again."

"Brent? James? Vince?"

"Who else?" Her eyes finally closed, then shut tight. "And Frank, and Robert, and a few of the others."

My pulse jumped and my cock jumped with it. "Really," I covered under a cool reply. "...And a few others, huh?"

She nodded silently.

Last night, we were walking back after the alleyway craziness and I mentioned maybe keeping the swing-thing going when we got home. That's when sex in the office came up. She was coy about it, but hearing the names now didn't surprise me.

She buried her face in my side. "Yeah."

The office. God, what a can of worms that would be. I still get a very peculiar memory of "Frank" -- him in a cold sweat, his zipper wide open as he ran towards the front door. Yeah, there was a story behind that. It was how this craziness got started, the story behind this whole Mardi Gras trip.

They say what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Let me tell you, what happens in Vegas, never, ever stays in Vegas. Or New Orleans or anywhere else. If it's interesting, it'll find a way to get around -- just ask Jack Ryan or David Vitter or Eliot Spitzer. I wasn't sure how, I wasn't sure where or when... but it was inevitable something was going to pop up at some inopportune moment. Somebody in her office (like Frank) was going to find half-naked pictures of Jessica on some soft-porn boob site featuring "Mardi Gras action." Her whole office knew we were going, and I was sure they'd be combing the net. A week ago, I didn't really care. Last night, I would've piped the little gangbang to them live. Right now, I had some reservations.

Jess works for a small, 12-man marketing agency. The company does everything from imprinting kitchy promotional crap to producing television commercials. They are successful because their angle is consistent and focused:

sex sells

. Not original, but it fits their "edgy" clientele. She is the only woman in the office and rounds out the firm to a lucky 13.

She is first and foremost their bubbly flirt of a receptionist. Occasionally, she moonlights as their in-house model and back-up voice talent. She is a natural exhibitionist, embodying the firm philosophy with tight blouses, deep cleavage and short skirts behind a minimal glass desk. It has launched her from "perky phone girl" to being their company mascot

Risky behavior anywhere else was Standard Operating Procedure at this firm. Since sex sells, they talk sex -- it keeps them in the zone. Still, in the six years she'd been there, boundaries had never been breached. Tested, teased and taunted perhaps, but never compromised. These guys were smart and professional, even when it was so fucking tantalizing they just wanted to bury their face in her married cleavage.

Of the 12 men she works with, 6 are married (only 3 faithfully) and 6 are various shades of single. Jess gets along with all of them, each on different levels. One of the single guys is friendly but indifferent; he might be gay but nobody knows for sure. The other single guys are all shameless voyeurs, and the 3 philanderers are worse yet. The 3 faithfuls are courteous, professional and treat her with all the delicacy of sweaty sexual nitroglycerine.

Everybody there knows me and knows I could flatten the lot of them. There's no real physical competition. Everybody there knows she loves me. No emotional competition. The pressure is off. Maybe four years ago, at one of their raging office parties, I got a kick out of dipping in double entendre with my sexy wife. Once I did it, then everybody could do it. And for 4 years, they did. As long as she's comfortable, then it's all in good fun.

At later parties, after folk got their drunk on, conversations inevitably turned to sex. There was always plenty of bragging, all the way around, and they definitely knew Jess and I played sex games. For four years, no problems -- at least until this last New Year's Eve.

Not three months ago, I mingled at my office soirée and planned to party hop to hers around 11. By then, as I understand it, Jess was stoking a pretty strong buzz. With the company picking up cab fare, so were most of her workmates, a stable of clients, plus wives and girlfriends and caterers.

Jess escaped to the very dark second-floor patio for a little air and wasn't concerned when someone silently joined her. She leaned on the railing and listened to the palm trees rustle in the breeze.

Her eyes were closed and whomever had joined her still hadn't said anything. She nursed her fifth limoncello and swayed her hips, listening to the music emanating from inside. It's always been a dangerous drink for her (that and appletinis), but she didn't worry about her audience... And that's when she felt a hand brush over her ass and rest on her hip.

No speaking? A sensual touch? A risky place? This was exactly the kind of thing I did with her. That got her into it, encouraging the "mysterious stranger" with all the whispered dirty talk she could. She told him to unbutton her jacket, and he did. She told him to unclip her bra (the only thing under her jacket), and he did. She told him feel her tits and to push himself against her ass. And he did.

When she heard the zipper, she arched her back and bent over the railing. She was definitely ready. She felt a hand slide between her thighs and she spread her legs. Her soaked satin panties were pulled aside. A finger tested her dampness, then plunged deep. It was wonderful, and she rode the hand, but there was something just different enough that she looked over her shoulder. She blinked through the darkness – and saw Frank, one of the married guys!

Frank had a rhythm though, and her body was dancing to it. She could feel conflict under the limoncello but her sex was calling the shots. The finger disappeared and she felt the shaft of his cock slide under, wetting itself along her labia. She moaned as she felt the bulbous head nestle itself into her folds, positioning for the first thrust. She dropped her head, knowing what was coming.

...And Frank plunged deep inside her.

Only now did reason start to break the surface, as if his dick rammed thoughts out of her pussy and back to her drunken head. On the first hammering thrust: all she could think was that he wasn't me. Second thrust, that she was married. Third, he was married. Fourth thrust: he'd always wanted to fuck her – and he was kind of a jerk about it. She could feel her body rock to the vengeful force of a grudge fuck...

Fifth thrust... she was moving her hips to meet him.

He felt really good

. Sixth savage thrust, she only let this happen because she thought Frank was me. Seventh, he'd never announced himself. ...But Eighth: she'd never asked.

Ninth pounding thrust: she'd talked dirty to him, inviting him when he was still me. She couldn't encourage him now, could she?

She wanted to moan his name

. Tenth: she knew it was him after the finger... but before the cock. A wave of guilt wash over her and she felt suddenly dirty. It made her that much wetter.

Eleventh thrust: she would confess it all to me. What would happen then? She put her head down and tried to think of what to do next. She lost count as she wondered how to get out of this gracefully. Frank moaned and she realized she'd been tilting her hips to meet him. All the thinking slid back to her pussy, her thoughts wrapping around the cock stiffening inside her. He was about to come. She squeezed his cock with her pussy, milking his shaft inside her--

The break room door swung open.

She screamed and Frank jumped like he'd been tasered. The door closed in a rush and she had no idea who'd just seen them. At the same time, they both heard my voice carry over from the parking lot.

Frank stumbled out of the patio in a blind panic and got his dick caught in his zipper. He yelped and ran into me, sprinting for the cab waiting on standby. One of the other married guys, Robert, assumed I already guessed what was happening and tried to calm me down. It actually freaked me out even more as I struggled to find Jessica. I splintered the break room door on my way to the patio and found Jessica sitting in the corner, bra in her hand and a tear running down her eye.

She reached out to me. "I was drunk. So stupid. I though it was you."

I scooped her up. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I'm fine." Her sigh would've melted a breathalyzer.

"What happened?"

"Frank sorta fucked me."

"Sorta?" There was no "sorta" but it was a nice shot at defusing tension.

"I didn't realize it was him at first... Please don't kill him."

Note that she didn't say

'...kill me.'

She knew I would take a bullet before I let anything happen to her. "You seriously thought Frank...?" I looked around the patio and I could almost see how I'd do it. "...But you're okay?"

Robert poked his head in. "Is everything okay out here?"

I waited for Jessica to answer. She eventually nodded. "We're fine."

From below, we heard the taxicab pull out of the parking lot. Robert frowned and shrugged helplessly. "I opened the door, I saw something that looked consensual, I closed the door but..." He took a deep breath. "Should I call the police?"

"No," Jessica mumbled. She pointed at me. "I knew Nick was coming and I thought..." She broke into sobs, barely able to speak. "...This was really my fault. I'm an idiot."

Robert looked at me and shook his head. "No, Frank knew what he was doing and it was unbelievably stupid. Nick, please don't kill him."

I turned to Jess one last time. "Are you okay?"

"Well, except for wanting to hurl, I'm fine."

I turned back to Robert. "Frank lives."

He nodded, as serious as an HR manager. "I'll make sure we all get some harassment training."

Jess answered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Oh, Christ, you all know how to harass well enough already. Let's just let it go, okay? As much as we can?"

"None of us want to lose you, Jess. If you feel pressured..."

"Thanks."

That was the end of the sex, but only the beginning of the "Patio Incident." Guilt-spiked limoncellos started an immediate hangover. We didn't say a word on the drive home, though her shut eyes were damp with tears.

Once home, and still drunk, she stumbled to the master bath. Didn't even undress as she sobbed in the shower. The experience was burned into her, unforgettable, and she confessed everything she could remember. She was sorry straight to the soul.

I found myself dropping into hot rage even as my dick hardened. I tried to hold back, stalking out of the bathroom, but wound up punching a hole through the wall. Unfortunately, it was the bathroom wall and Jess screamed when my fist exploded through from the other side.

She saw jealous fury, and maybe there was some jealousy, but this was mostly fury. I didn't want to talk about it, but I shared the blame: Frank got his inspiration from me. Remember those drunken braggings? The "mystery man" was an old, dirty fantasy Jess and I had played out. I know; there's a difference between fantasy and reality, and Frank was a douchebag to use it, but I still felt like a hypocrite.

I held a seething grudge for about 10 seconds. The hole in the wall made me feel really stupid and the rage just drained away. I looked through the future repair bill and started to realize how thin a line separated our fantasies from reality. Be careful what you wish for, right? If there was any karma it was that Frank

almost

came, then got his dick stuck in his zipper.

What happened was all too human. In retrospect, I was a little surprised nothing had happened before now. Maybe because the reality was so similar to the fantasy, the Patio Incident felt unreal. I tried to wrap my head around the married seal being technically broken, but viscerally, I had to

see it

to believe it.

I undressed Jessica and joined her in the shower. We let the hot water run over us for who-knows how long until I broke the silence.

What if Robert hadn't opened the door?

She'd already told me this, but she answered again: she'd wanted to feel Frank finish. At least she was honest.

What if Frank blabbed?

Of course he would.

What if she were labeled the office slut?

In a way, after these years, it would be kind of a relief.

The more it sunk in, the more it actually turned me on.

What if she hadn't screamed?

Robert would've watched.

What if she were tempted to do it again?

That one was tricky. I could tell part of her wanted to, and she was feeling my own guilty excitement, but she'd also seen me punch through the wall. Sex was sex, and sex was good, but this was about our relationship.

I turned off the lights in the bathroom and climbed back into the hot shower with her. I brushed my hand across her ass and rested it on her hip. She was naked... but she told me to unbutton her jacket. I became Frank, but with one important change:

I came

. So did she. It was Marvin Gaye Therapy, an outlet to blow off pressure. It brought the experience back under our control, giving some serious sexual healing.

That was just the beginning. When we woke up, we played through another scenario where I was Frank and Robert joined in for a 2-on-1. Jess' blue jelly dildo made an appearance for some very real double penetration. She had the most orgasms I could remember in a long time. Over the next few days, other office names came up, other scenarios. It was dangerous fantasy territory, but the sex was intense.

If they only knew.

The office opened back up on January 4th and everybody was walking on eggshells, especially Frank. Was there harassment? Assault? Rape? I'm not sure what they feared more: her producing some sort of lawsuit or me just beating Frank to a bloody pulp.

Jess hadn't dressed any more conservative, but the whole office was nervously polite. After we'd spent the holiday getting over it (and building it higher), this was definitely a buzzkill.

By lunch, Jess sent out a company-wide email. They all knew

something

happened but few really knew what. She laid out details as tastefully as she could and shouldered half the blame. Lingering fears were defused with a little self-deprecation: she signed the email as "The Office Slut."

Once she'd said it, then everybody could say it -- and they did. The jest of the century covered an unspoken fantasy that could now be spoken. It was a thin line of not being an actual office slut that made it work (no matter that most of the office wished she were). Either way, by the end of the day, Frank was crowned both folk hero and village idiot.

That evening, Frank caught her in the parking lot. "Hey, Jessica."

"Hello..." It was the first direct word she'd said to him since the night on the patio. "Frank."

"Hey, nice email today." He stumbled a second, barely able to form the next sentence. "I just needed to formally apologize."

Jess nodded. "I don't think you're sorry, but I accept your apology."

"I, uh," Frank shrugged. "I wanted to ask you: how's Nick taking it?"

"Sweet of you to ask. I told him it was mostly my fault..."

He seemed relieved. "Are you guys doing okay?"

"When life hands me lemons, I squeeze them 'till the juice runs down his leg."

"Ooh, nice! I'm picturing a new spin on hard lemonade commercials." Frank rubbed his hands together. "Making it up to him. So he's not... uh... carrying a grudge?"

"Let me put it this way: all our fantasies lately have been..." She glanced toward the patio with a coy smile. "...On a certain theme."

"No kidding?"

"Some things leave a mark, Frank."

If they only knew?

Well, now they did. Jessica realized it and tried spin control. "It was up to us whether it was going to be a scar or a beauty spot."

"You two are amazing. I haven't told Edith yet. I don't think I will. It'll probably get back to her anyway, but I don't think she wants to hear it." Frank nodded as he turned away, still thinking about his wife. A second later, he spun back and caught up to Jess. "I've been wondering: the door opened, then you saw it was me?"

"The door startled me. I knew--" Jessica bit off the sentence, already regretting her naïveté.

"Knew what?"

"I knew it was you at the finger."

"Oh," he nodded. Then it sunk in. "But before...? Wait. You

let

me...?"

"I didn't know what to do once I realized you weren't Nick!" She practically spat. "Jesus, Frank, I'd been talking dirty thinking you were Nick and I heard your zipper and I spread my legs. You were already knuckle-deep and I didn't know how to say 'whoopsie' under those circumstances."

Frank let a few moments pass as he considered it. "Did you at least enjoy it?"

"Eventually, yeah..."

Frank looked pleased with himself. "If we hadn't been interrupted, what were you planning on doing?"

"I was drunk, Frank, I didn't have a plan." She turned back toward her car but he followed. She stopped as he hovered over her shoulder, his own curiosity drawing her out. "...Once I was into it, I guess I just wanted to feel you come."

"Would you have ever told Nick?"

"Of course."

He put a hand on her hip. "Please tell me you still want to feel me come."

She turned on her heel. "You're married!"

"So are you," Frank shot back, then it dawned on him. "But you didn't answer the question..."