Tell Me What Really Happened

So, my wife Jan really fucked up during a Truth or Dare game with the neighbors.

Let me add a brief introductory statement about this narrative- this is not going to be a "truth or dare" story that ends up with us fucking neighbors or friends. For this story, which is true, we were doing regular/non-orgy/suburban people in their late 30s-reliving college glory days/drinking too much after a progressive dinner party/ type truth or dare. Was there sexual tension? Yep. For sure. That's the fun. You build it up and you take it home.

This tension does not, in my experience, ever turn into a "I can't believe this happened to me" orgy where I suddenly know everyone's height, cup size, and hair color, BMI. A least not with a big group of neighbors. (Side note - I know a woman's bust size is important to characterization in all great literature, but maybe this ain't great literature. I will just say the women in this story definitely have specific bust sizes. There, literature standards met and I'm moving on.)

We are at the kind of party with alcohol fueled drinking games, where at least one couple fights to the point that everyone raises an eyebrow, and things are said that you hope people don't remember. Casting my mind back, the game might have been "never have I ever" now that I think about it, but I'm not going to turn around and fix this fucking paragraph. I'm just going to tell the rest of the story as it happened.

It was her turn, and up until that point the rounds had been "never have I ever given a blowjob in a car" or "never have I ever had sex on a first date", and in that spirit. My wife was and is very intelligent, but not terribly inventive, she suddenly said: "Never have I ever fucked my boss!"

Everyone laughed at first and she was the only one who drank. An awkward silence started to form, because as she's downing the drink I sputtered and involuntarily said, "Wait, was this Phil?"

Now the awkward silence stretched just a moment, and I quickly interjected the line of "Phil was her boss when she used to work at McDonalds back before she met me." Which is a complete and total lie. Phil was her boss from 2004 until 2014 - years and years ago. Her work boss during the middle years of our marriage. I laughed because I didn't want to cause a scene, because I'm a good liar, and maybe because I always knew something was off.

Phil (I'm not saying this to be mean) was not a good-looking guy. He wasn't then and I'd imagine he's worse now. Mentally the things that stood out from meeting him - a beak nose, huge jaw, thinning hair and watery blue eyes - good reputation as a programmer, socially awkward. He stayed in the corner at parties, and he would RSVP for an event and then not show up, saying he was sick or had a headache. This included events like weddings, where the team clucked that it was so rude of him to ALWAYS say he was coming and never come. He has a wife and two young boys -- and the only time we ever went to his house we only drank tea, we talked about their praise band, and his wife left for while to breast feed their four-year-old. It was hard to get him to talk. He had no interests beyond his work, or at least not that he could talk about when his wife had the floor. She spoke for them. Just weird people.

I heard a lot about Phil when my wife still worked for him. Why wouldn't I? He was my wife's boss. He was the one who gave the best advice when she was stuck on a piece of code, and despite that she often she vented about him. She'd get frankly furious about him sometimes. Did Phil "like" my wife? It didn't matter to me. I never thought about it except to dismiss him.

My wife is very attractive, and frankly I did have a few reasons to be suspicious of something then, but I never thought for a minute they were realistic thoughts or about Phil. because this guy couldn't be more beta if he tried to be. He was Milhouse without the upbeat personality. He was first programmer they hired and he was the section leader because he was senior, not because he was charismatic or laid out effective plans and goals for the group. He had no power in the organization in terms of hiring and firing - that went to a floor director. My wife vented about his shortcomings, how many decisions he refused to make. My antennae weren't up.

So, my first opportunity back then to truly realize something was out of whack was her first business trip. A large team was going to DC, reps from various divisions. She had a lot of concerns, what to pack, how to pack, will the hotel really have a hair dryer, things like that. But I always remembered she said something I thought was very silly of her. She dropped something like "And I might have to room with Phil, ugh."

I laughed in her face. "That won't happen, don't sweat it."

She said "No, they are making us pair up, no one gets their own room like you guys do at your company, and we're the only programmers going to support the presentation. Everyone else going is from sales or the medical team."

"I got my own room because I'm usually the only one going. When it was 7 people sent the centralization project, I happened to be the only man going on that trip. All the women put up in the extended stay suites, two to a suite." I explained. "On that trip, I was put into another hotel that had single rooms, because they weren't going to rent a two-bedroom suite just for me, and they sure weren't going to pair me with a woman. There is absolutely no way any company will mandate or allow men and women to share a room with the opposite sex on a business trip. It doubt very much it would be allowed by your HR, even if he was gay and you were gay."

She was a little bent out of shape with my mansplaining, but a few days later she said, "You were right, I'm rooming with Susmita and Phil is with John, it's all boy boy or girl girl."

At the time, Jan and I had some issues. We had more marital friction than we had before or since. The second baby is more than twice the workload. I have a degree, but I do work that doesn't actually require a college degree, and I was not moving up the chain of command quickly enough for her at the time. She'd say things that were tinted with meanness, like a fair statement mixed with a slam "You are thirty-four, and I think you need a better job." When I'd moved past the frontline, it wasn't enough. "I know you love the company culture, but I thought I married a college man, that you had ambition to do more." Or she'd be mean and batshit crazy "You work so many hours. Sometimes, and I know you love them, I'm not saying you don't love them, but sometimes I wonder if you even like the kids."

At the time of the Phil era, I'm working maybe 2-3 hours of OT a week, at the most. If my relief shift flakes out or runs late, I must stay. Being reliable is the ticket up, and when you move up then it's even more important to set the example. Not everyone has a job where they all leave early on Friday just because the weather is nice and the work can wait. It was ridiculous to say I'm a workaholic or avoiding my children when I'm essentially working regular hours. So she wasn't happy with me. I should mention this period is all deep past. We got through some very rough times together, and she and I bonded more deeply. So this blast from the past surprised me completely.

I never thought anything about Phil at the time. If anyone was being jealous - it her against me, and now that I think about her the friction we had, some of the things she said, were a strong warning sign that some is affair prone. The charges, both real and trumped up. Someone building a case to justify an affair. Not an honest one -- one who admits to themselves that doing is wrong or a betrayal but does it anyway for the thrill or whatever. No, this is the sign of a cheater who is not being honest with herself, one who needs to feel justified. Almost forced into an affair of some sort, preferably with an ambitious man who likes his kids, not a villain who has no ambition and stayed at work until 6 pm when he could have been home at 5 pm.

In this era of our relationship, we would go to couples counseling now and again, to communicate better, and always we're 3-4 sessions down and suddenly she feels connected to me again, plus by then we've heard her complaints and workshopped how to work on my style, then we're starting to get into her issues, so at that point we quit going at all, always at her suggestion. I don't have to make complaints; most therapists can spot for themselves a few things and are biding their time to bring it up. "We just needed a place to talk, and when you talk to me, I don't feel disconnected or discouraged. It would be cheaper and more fun to just go to the bar." So while we'd had some problems while she worked for Phil, they were not consistent or long duration.

Next up on the warning sign parade, she gets very paranoid about my whereabouts and who I work with, especially when I get the promotion she wanted me to get, the increased responsibility I've been working for all this time.

"Why did it take you so long to get home?" "Who is this Cara you talk about?" "Who is your assistant again? Kim? Why did you pick a woman assistant?"

I make sure she meets Cara, and she's reassured at see this funny, sweet, 280-pound woman who I adore because she gets things done. She sees Cara and feels about as threatened as I feel about Phil.

Still, even when she's met the people I work with, or pings my phone, or comes by my work to check on me, I don't mind. I'm always where I'm supposed to be, doing what I should be doing. She seems so genuinely concerned that I find myself always catering to this jealousy. I take it seriously - very seldom do I get annoyed and tell her to settle down. Yes, you can have my assistant Kim and her wife over. Yes, I said wife. She's married, and gay. Yes, you can come by my work if you want to when I'm working late. You want my phone to check something on the internet, even though your phone is literally in your hand? Sure, here it is. I watch her scroll my texts, my e-mail, my search history passively.

Maybe a few days later she mentions, mock casually, "I was setting up the app for the kids test scores on your phone and you'd left a lot of browser windows open. Did you really google "How to make my wife less jealous?" "

The answer is yes, and because I'm not above being manipulative, I fully admit to you, internet reader of smutty stories, that I maintained certain things in my browser history specifically for when she has grabbed my phone at 3 am. "Yes. I mean, sometimes I'm going to have to stay late to do paperwork. And while I think it's sweet you think I could have any woman I meet, or whatever you think, that women just throw themselves at married men. But I know what's funny to me is not funny to you. I do want to help you to not feel jealous and insecure. I was just trying to see what I could do."

She hands the phone back. "Oh" she says. "Learn anything? What did google say"

"Not helpful - It said I can't do anything. I think one said, 'Often a person who is constantly accusing their spouse of cheating has had an affair or one night stand, and now that they know how easy it is they are worried about it, something like that." I said with nonchalance. "Or they've been cheated on before, and they've got emotional baggage."

I did NOT think she was cheating, but I dropped that line and it worked. It stopped the "where are you!" pestering for months, and I continued to try to act in the least suspicious way I could. I love my wife and give her no real reasons to worry about me, I thought.

So, the night of the party, years later, when she blurted out "Never have I ever slept with my boss" the rest of the night she's all over me the rest of the night, sitting on my lap, kissing my neck, trying to pull me into the bathroom. Worked up, twitterpated. We live across the street, so I do not let her pull me into the bathroom. We can wait. We stay and laugh, and we stay until I'm certain the remark about Phil has submerged into the collective background. I don't follow the Law of Lek in terms of Balkan style blood vengeance for stains on my honor, but it would have been intolerable to me for the neighborhood to be discussing "Oh my gawd, Karen, did you hear what Jan said about her boss? Xico's face!"

But it was entirely forgotten before we left.

Just not by me.

At home, I immediately take her to the nearest wall and kiss her, pinning her hands and then letting them go. She reaches up and puts one hand on my shoulder, another in my hair. I've got her cocktail dress up and her panties to the side and I've made her cum with my hand. Just an appetizer -- she's always been multi-orgasmic. As I work her inside, bringing on the next one, I say "Tell me what happened."

She whispers "What?" She's confused. She's forgotten already.

"Tell me what happened. About your boss."

"Oh, I just, uhhhhhhh, oh god" squirming (figuratively mentally, literally physically) "I was just saying that to say something."

"You told all the neighbors you cheated on me just to say something?" I persist. I laugh, but inside I'm anything but amused.

"No, I mean he wanted things to happen, but they never did. Uh, uh, that's good, so good. I was just trying to be... "

"Sexy, risqué?" I prompted.

"Yeah." Breathy whisper. I have always loved her voice like that. I make her cum again

"Tell me what really happened, then. Make it sexy for me." I pull her hand off the back of my neck, where she's holding on for support, and drag it down my body to my hard on, the old standby "treat her like she's Helen Keller" move that most guys have. It works on my wife the way I want it to. She immediately begins by feeling the outline.

"You are so hard."

"You've got me hard, honey. You get me hard. Tell me the truth. Tell me everything, it's hot."

She begins to stroke my cock through my jeans but does not reply. She may be fuddled by drink, but she's not stupid.

"I bet Phil was very hard for you. Do you think he strokes off thinking about you? I think he does. I think he does..."

"Yeah."

If you've ever watched the First 48, this is the point when the interrogator gets that first opening. Next comes something like "I was there, but I didn't see nothing." She put herself at the scene.

"At the DC conference, he kept trying to put his hand on me under the table. I know he liked me. He later said he had to carry a Bible to keep from being tempted when I was around."

I gave a little theatrical moan and encouraged her hand with mine. She picked up the pace, tightened her grip a little. It did feel good.

"You knew he liked you before the conference. Where were you two sitting together that he could put his hand on you without getting caught?"

"At the big dinner, we all went out after presentation and Dr. Smith was buying everything, bottles for the table, all on his tab. We were all at this long table and Phil and I were sitting next to each other on the wall side, we couldn't get out if we wanted to." (Her every sentence was punctuated by breathy gasps, moans, but I'm not going to describe everyone. It probably took her 10 minutes to tell the tale.) "There was a tablecloth and maybe 15 people and we were all drinking and talking. He kept trying to hold my hand under the table, so I had to keep both my hands on the table to stop him. Then he put his hand next to my leg and sort of pressed his leg against mine under the tablecloth."

I rewarded her as she talked. She responded, has always been so responsive to my hands. Not just my hands, I thought, and I pressed her for more details.

"I bet he put his hand on your knee."

"Yes" she whispered. It was like a starter pistol to my heart. I could feel blood pumping. I could have cum; I could have killed.

"Then what did he do? It's not like you could stop him with all those people." In interrogation, this is called the alternative hypothesis -- where you lay out a motive for a crime that seems less objectionable.

"Yeah, he put his hand on my knee, and sort of rubbed it along and up my thigh, my inner thigh. He couldn't get anywhere though, because I had panties on. Nothing happened."

So, let's pause here to consider this piece of sexy adorable bullshit she's trying to sell me. I've put my hands on a female knee and gone further. I've moved my hands on a female, from the knee going along slowly up the inner thigh and moving the dress incrementally if needed or especially fun. I've fingered a woman in a dark movie theater, in a restaurant, under a blanket at her parent's house, and while driving her somewhere.

But all these situations getting a hand anywhere near the panties required something this story lacked so far: a willing accomplice. A man sitting side by side with a woman in a crowded restaurant can't go from a woman's knee to the panty barrier without a certain amount of female cooperation. The hemline of the dress must come up. Maybe in a sundress or something like that you have loose fabric, you can push it up without her shifting her hips too much, but even then, hands travelling down the fun part of the inner thigh requires the knees to part somewhat. And even if the hand is on the knee and just the knee, that's something.

"You spread your legs for him?"

"Just a little at first. He just started gently rubbing and caressing and moving my dress up."

"And then his hand got higher and higher..."

"Yes, not all at once. Some people left the booth at the ends, so I had more room, and he had to pull his hand up to pass drinks and the wine bottles sometimes."

"But his hand went right back to being naughty as soon as it could."

"Yes."

"You liked it, I bet it was exciting, knowing how much he wanted you. I feel so close to you knowing you are telling me this, trusting me. It's hot." I whispered that in her ear again "So hot" partly to encourage her, partly because it was hot. "Keep talking."

"That was it."

"No, he tried to get his fingers in you. Didn't he?"

"He couldn't, he just sort of rubbed the tips of his fingers a little on the outside. I had to reach down quick and pulled them to the side for him, and then he was able to get one finger in, but not deep enough to matter. He couldn't really finger me."

I could feel it. My fingers twitched with the phantom memory of the rough sewn silk and sequins of fancy panties rubbing against the side of my fingers, sawing a delicate raw spot as I fingered my wife. I knew exactly what Phil must have felt.

She had tried to go down on me a few times during this Q&A time, either because she needed me in her mouth or because she wanted an excuse to stop talking, to interrupt the spell of the memory and the work of my fingers, but I'd kept her against the wall with my hand and my kisses. I needed to know what had happened and I know I probably can't get the full story tonight. She always holds things back. I need to get all she can give me, though, all the details she is so terrible at faking.

I also had to have her. We went to the bed, and I pulled her dress up past her hips, the panties were fairly ripped off and tossed. We kissed passionately, and she tugged at my belt and then my fly. I took her as soon as my pants were down far enough, leaving her dress on.

"Did he take you like this? In the cab ride back to the hotel? In his room?"

"No. We were in the hotel restaurant, same place as the hotel I mean, and we all just headed up the rooms in a group. We were all on the same floor. We couldn't have snuck off even if we wanted to go somewhere else."

"Not even for ice, or to make a phone call? Not after Susmita fell asleep?"

She was silent, thinking.

"I would have taken you like this. I would have been too worked up to not try to see you, to sneak out to go someplace. I couldn't have stopped myself."