The Asshole 07

[Thank you for clicking on this story. I hope you enjoy it. This is chapter 7 of a slow-building story about a couple discovering that he likes to see her exposed to other men and she enjoys being exposed...and more. If you like stories with exhibition, voyeurism, and a slow move towards "corrupting" the wife and cuckolding, you might like it. If you don't like those things, this isn't likely to be an enjoyable read for you.]

[Note for readers of past chapters—this is an asshole-free chapter with healthy non-monogamous play. The asshole will return next chapter, but there is a whole bunch going on here that you might enjoy, including a bunch of firsts for Jess.]

[Jess]

When Chuy rode off without talking to me, I went home and cried. And texted. And cried. And wrote a long letter to him about what a horrible person I was and how I didn't deserve him and how he should move on and I'm sorry I ruined his life and if I could do it all over again, I would and please forgive me but don't because I don't deserve it and I'll call my sister and move in with her and I won't challenge the divorce because I deserve it and please forgive me and I'm sorry.

And I threw it away.

What was wrong with me? The moment the asshole grabbed me, all the teasing from the balcony became an irresistible need, and the second his hand hit my ass, my brain screamed

Daddy

. All of my resistance was a game to get him to do more. I wanted Daddy to take me. It was so fucked up. I have Chuy, and I certainly don't need or want some fucking asshole

Daddy

spanking me. But fuck, I was so turned on. And when Chuy finally said "no oral," I just looked at Daddy to see what he wanted. I couldn't even look back at Chuy. I knew. I fucking knew it was wrong. And that fucking made it so much hotter. I knew when I snaked a hand under Daddy's running shorts that having that flimsy nylon between my tongue and Daddy's cock didn't change anything. But I pulled on the waistband of his briefs with one hand while holding the waistband of those running shorts so I could have an excuse while I still tasted him. And I did taste him. God, I loved that. He was sweating from almost dying on the hill, which just made him taste more masculine. I could feel the veins on his cock through the fabric. And when the tip of his cock poked up past the waistband, I eagerly let it brush against my lips as he came. And in my mind, we were going to fuck next.

Fuck. How could I have been such a fucking whore? Such a fucking idiot? So fucking immoral. I never judged women for sleeping around, but cheating? That's vile.

I was not good at being wrong. I completely lied to my therapist until this happened, at which point I stopped seeing my therapist for months because I couldn't bear to reveal that my problems were fundamentally my fault and not just "the challenges of being a woman in the modern world." The therapist I had until she told me that my relationship with Mike didn't sound healthy (she was correct, incidentally) helped me work through my certainty that any grade less than an A on any project was a profound and unrecoverable error. The therapist I eventually replaced her with was fantastic with helping me stop crying over minor setbacks on work projects. Without her, I would never have been able to negotiate the deal I have with Cicletta which accepts I never work after 5:30 pm or on weekends because I'm so fucking good at my job and can delegate to people I train to be fucking brilliant. My therapist told me last fall that she's in awe of me, and she wasn't gassing me up. So how the fuck do I tell her I just fucked up my perfect life by betraying my husband?

My whole life has been structured to avoid having to be wrong about anything. And then Chuy draws a clear, distinct line and I pretend that if I put a flimsy piece of fabric between the asshole's cock and my mouth, it counts as "no oral."

Obviously, step one would be to place an emergency call to my therapist or one of my girlfriends. Fuck step one. Step two was writing the letter. Fuck step two. Step three should be figuring out why I did it. Why I've spent the past couple of weeks of pushing the limits and asking for permission afterwards. Obviously, it ties to Mike somehow. Mike was an asshole who didn't even like anything about me other than he could fuck me and I let him fuck me until he cheated on me.

Three times.

Yep, three times, and the first two times, I blamed myself. So sympathy for Jess tally—one point for a bad boyfriend. Obviously, that justifies cheating years later.

Maybe it's genetic. I've never been able to admit to anyone how much I masturbate and how often I want sex. The last year of college, we had a campus wide lock down due to a shooter event nowhere near me. My roommates were away on a road trip and I had nothing to do, so I masturbated for two days without interruption except for sleep. I joke with my girlfriends about how horny I am, but I could never tell them anything close to reality. So sympathy point number two for Jess—she's too horny to stop. I'm sure that will play well in divorce court.

Fuck figuring this out. Time to move on to step four: accept that if I'm put in that position again, I'm going to do what Daddy wants and never be in that position again. Astute readers will guess step four wasn't going to cut it. I could not live with step five, so I won't even contemplate it. Maybe if I cry enough, Chuy will just forgive me as, I don't know, step zero? Mike didn't even have to cry for me to forgive him twice, but Chuy is the most together person I've ever known. Odds on step zero succeeding have a steep multiple against.

Chuy came home. It was almost 10 pm and the first words out of his mouth were, "I saw otters on the path."

A lot of words came out of both of our mouths after that. Honest words, caring words.

At one point, after I blathered on, half crying, about how terrible I felt and how he could divorce me if he wanted to, he took both of my hands in his and said, "Jess, before this started, we said this was something

we

were doing and

we

would deal with our feelings if they were hard.

We

doesn't include divorce.

We

means we both sort out what we want, figure out what our real boundaries are, and if they're different work out what that means in practice.

We

forgive ourselves and each other. Because if we don't, this cost

me

more than I want to pay, and I think you, too."

I sat in his lap and wrapped my arms around him, crying. How could I have earned having this perfect of a man in my life?

It wasn't until Chuy was telling me about his conflicted feelings, how much he wanted me to go even further but was terrified it had gone so far that I realized the practical part of sorting out what

we

wanted relied on me knowing what

I

wanted and I didn't. It also relied on Chuy knowing what

he

wanted, and he didn't. We both wanted the barbecue night back—that carefree sexual exploration where we each learned about new desires. We wanted that pool day again. But we knew we couldn't go back to that. It wouldn't work, no matter how much we wanted it, because the asshole was different now.

We

were different now.

Chuy, the engineer who threads needles between city, county, state, federal and commercial interests to create the most efficient paths possible, said, "Jess, I think if we're honest, neither of us want to stop, but if we don't, this gets fucked super fast."

"So we move to Colorado?" It was the one place else we thought about living that might work.

He laughed. "Even if we could sell, we're already priced out. No moving to solve this."

"Then let's take an inventory."

"Of?"

"What we can accept. What if I give him a blow job..." I bit my lip, afraid to have mentioned my unforgivable crime, "...again?"

He nodded, appreciating, I think, that I didn't pretend the running shorts made a difference. But we'd cried through that a zillion times already.

"God, I'm glad we're not naked right now. If my dick was involved in this, we'd really be fucked. But sober truth is, I think if you'd just looked over at me and checked in, I would have been okay with it. Maybe that's the real line. I felt left out and forgotten. All the times before that, I felt you were teasing him and even playing with him for both of us. Today, it felt like you..." He turned away, face suddenly red and tears at his eyes again.

I knew there was nothing I could say that would excuse or justify what I did, because he's right. I was so caught up in Daddy spanking me and make me serve his cock, I did forget about him. And I knew that if we were to be as honest as we needed to be, I had to admit that in my mind, the asshole had become Daddy.

To be fair, I tried to say something. "Chuy, I know words can't fix what I did, but they also can't express how sorry I am. This is probably a sign we shouldn't do this. That there isn't a safe place for us to go."

He shook his head. "I don't think that's what we want. Honestly, Jess, I know how much you have to be perfect with everything, and I know how much you've worked to let go of your perfectionism. From where I stand, this was you letting go of a lot. You've never been so uninhibited and free. And it's so fucking sexy, sexy is a pitiful proximation for it. I just want this to be

our

adventure, okay? Maybe there's a blow job. And maybe afterwards, I feel like fucking Jimmy Palcucci."

"Who?"

"Remember that hiking trip last year with the guys? One of Beto's friends is a guy who saw my cock and wanted me to fuck his wife. He thought I would stretch her out and she'd never feel him again, and that turned him on. Just a fucking whiny loser."

"Doesn't he know women have sex after they have babies? Speaking as a woman who has fucked an extremely large cock—"

He laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure he does. Or maybe not. He really is an annoying whiner. None of us liked him and wondered what the fuck he did for Beto to bring him along. But anyway, I keep thinking about how getting turned on by seeing you tease the asshole makes me into a Jimmy Palcucci. If I, I don't know, give you permission sounds wrong, but, you know, was okay with my wife sucking another man's cock, part of me feels if I don't get angry, I'll be a fucking Jimmy Palcucci. Then I think, Jesus, Chuy, that's such boomer morality. If you want to fuck the asshole, it's your fucking body."

"Baby, it

is

my fucking body. But it's our marriage. I don't own your body, but if you looked up Esmé on Insta and fucked her, we'd be having a conversation."

"I don't think she's on Insta."

I felt a little spike of anxiety. Anyone but her wouldn't threaten me, but Esmé is fucking Esmé. "You know she's not because you tried to stalk her?"

He laughed. "I got curious once, but mainly if she got married or became a nun. I'm sure if I really wanted to know, I could ask my mom to find out."

"But you get my point, right?"

"Yeah. But I guess my point is..." he shook his head. "My point is, yes, it's weird as fuck that I'm trying to figure out if I'll be okay if my wife fucks somebody else. And that, despite all of that fear of being a Jimmy Palcucci..." He bit his lip and shook his head. "You teasing the fuck out of that fucking asshole turns me on."

"So let's go back to teasing, just teasing, and only when you're there."

He nodded. "Back to the pool and—"

"Do you want to watch him shoot a big creamy load all over your wife's chest?"

"God, that was so hot. Why the fuck is that hot, Jimmy you fucking whiner? But yes, Jess."

I slid my hand up his thigh. He was hard. "His big load all of your wife?"

He nodded as I rubbed him.

"What about his big load in her mouth?" I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue, like I had the asshole's come in there.

He guided my hand as I stroked him. "Yeah. But...Oh, fuck, you can't get me horny while we talk about this. I can't think straight. For whatever sick reason, that excites me."

I pulled off my top and straddled his legs. "So for now, lets pause a little bit. Let him know he can't break our rules without losing what he wants. And we have more time to figure out what we really want. But in the meantime, you have to fuck me so much, Baby. Show your wife you still love her."

He pulled my finger with the interconnect hearts tattoo to his lips and kissed it, then pressed his matching tattoo against it. "Always and forever, Baby."

Then he took me upstairs and fucked the hell out of me.

We slept late on Sunday and had a lot of make-up sex, including a blowjob over his shorts—or an attempt at that: none of his shorts were flimsy enough. But by noon, my belly was full of my husband's seed. I promised no teasing the asshole without Chuy there, and on Monday, didn't have any desire to. Actually, the thought was kind of nauseating and I couldn't even indulge in self-care. The same on Tuesday.

That afternoon, I get a text.

CHUY: Short notice but can you get Wed-Fri off? Katie owes me after all that overtime I put in after Robert was forced, so I got her to agree to a short-notice trip. If you can do it, Puerto Vallarta.

Chuy could not have communicated forgiveness any more strongly. We took an impromptu super-cheap trip to Puerto Vallarta after four dates, before we'd even been completely naked with each other (Chuy took it slow!). It was the most spontaneous thing I'd ever done. That it went so perfectly was probably the first sign that we'd end up honeymooning there.

JESS: Short notice, but maybe. How soon do you need to know?

CHUY: 10 minutes ago? :D The sooner the more likely I can pull this off. Could you work remote Thurs-Fri?

JESS: No way. If we go, we're on full-time honeymooner duty.

I lied to my boss, then apologized and told her I didn't crash on my bike, but really needed some personal time. The next morning, we cuddled on the airplane and I felt almost as giddy as I did on that first trip. After a delicious lunch, we were on a water taxi going to a ridiculously underpriced apartment in a millionaire rental mansion on the Pacific. Bike into town for shrimp everything; paddle boarding for Chuy, swimming for me; a balcony overlooking the beach for relaxing; and a gorgeous pool alcove if we didn't want to spend our days on the beach. Not to mention a bedroom that demands maximal honeymoon fun.

I explored the apartment as Chuy took our bags up to the bedroom. The kitchen was modern, the wi-fi blistering fast, and the fridge full of good beer. The only thing it was missing was an espresso—nope! It even had a fancy espresso maker that ground beans before making the espresso.

I ducked into one of the downstairs bathrooms (there were two) and stripped down into the lacy bra and panty set I'd driven an hour the night before to buy so I could surprise Chuy. They weren't as skimpy as bikinis 7-10 (all brought with me, along with the more family friendly #2) or the booty shorts, but I'd fuck me in them and I don't have any sexual attraction to women.

When I got up to the bedroom, Chuy was standing the corner, peaking out the window between a little gap between the drapes and the wall. As I crept silent to him, my mind conjured a half-dozen things that might be outside, from narcotraffickers to snakes and jaguars. He jumped when I slid my arms around his belly.

"Oh, Jesus, Jess. You startled me." He was as red as I've ever seen him.

"What were you looking at so intently? A drug deal? A wild sex—"

He got even more red.

"Oh my god, somebody's fucking down there?" I slid around him to peak out.

A woman in a bikini that might give #8 or #9 competition laid by the pool, sipping on a drink and listening to headphones. She was objectively hot, enough so that I assumed she had to be an influencer. The kind of woman who I'd have my marketing people try to reach out to so Cicletta could get in front of the million people who watched her Insta to dream about her perfect vacation and hope they could somehow look as gorgeous. Except she was too curvy for Cicletta's cycling market. She had the kind of body Mike would have stared out windows to see. The kind of body Chuy had never shown any particular obsession over. Certainly not the kind of body he's creep on from a window.

"You look so fucking hot, Jess. God, that..." He waved his finger at my bra and panties. "Fuck!"

"Nice try, Chuy," I said with a bit of spice. I calmed my voice. "Why were you spying on her? Did all of my teasing unleash the voyeur in you?"

He turned me around and kissed me. "God, I can't believe how sexy you look right now."

I gave him a gentle push and turned back to look at the woman. She wasn't doing anything particular, like touching herself or taking off her top. "Why are you avoiding why you were spying on her? It's not like I expect you to not find anyone else hot. She's a smokeshow, Chuy. I don't mind if you take a peak at her as long as you're not an ass...not a creep about it."

He wrapped his arms around me, his very hard cock pressing into my ass and back. "She's a dead ringer for Esmé. I mean, she can't be Esmé, there's just no way, but...it was less that I was looking

at

her than trying to figure out if it

was

her. If that makes sense."

So this is what he spent his late teen years staring at. Staring just like this, hidden, watching her in her bikini, stroking himself, imagining fucking her. "Did you ever..." I bit my lip, not know if I wanted any answers.

"Did I ever? I didn't do anything with her, if that's what you were going to ask. I could barely get myself to talk to her."

"Did you ever..." I couldn't say it. Her tits were magnificent. Voluminous, lush. God, why did my mind have to get stuck in "little titty" mode? I know Chuy adores my breasts. But maybe because he couldn't have her. I'm cute and sparkly. I've got an amazing ass, but otherwise, I'm maybe a 6, a 7 at best. "Esmé" was a 10. A statistical outlier for hotness.

"Jess?"

"Sorry. All that old Mike shit coming up. You don't wish I looked like her, do you?"

His hands came up and caressed my breasts. "Honestly? Like no hold backs?"

I gulped and nodded. I knew our love was far more than physical attraction. I could take this. Maybe.

"From this far, peaking out a window, that's an amazing body. But up close? You and this body every single time. Every..." he pushed my bra up to pull on my nipple while sliding his other hand into my panties. "...single..." He ran his finger outside of my hood. "...time."

He started pulling me back towards the bed, but I stopped him.

"Did it excite you to spy on her? Did it bring back all of that high school stuff we tried to capture at the pool house?"

He nodded.

"I want you to jerk off while you watch her."

"Jess, you don't have to...if this is trying to make amends or evening the score..."

He read me so well, but missed part of it. "Chuy, I...I want us to watch her. I want to watch with you. Touch myself, too. Just play with my breasts while you stoke yourself, okay? See if we can come together, okay?"

"Really, Jess?"

"Yeah, baby. Let's be perverts together. Sick fucking voyeurs."

He stepped away, and I thought he was leaving the room, but he only stripped off his pants, leaving on his boxer briefs.

"When you're about come, let me know, Baby. I want it in my mouth. And on my tits. Soak this slut."

"Esmé" hardly moved as I slowly caressed myself. I knew we should be going for quick, coming before she looked up and watched her new neighbors creeping on her. But sharing this with Chuy was so hot, I wanted it to last. I teased my fingers across my belly and onto my thigh as my breathing got more intense.

Chuy's hand rubbed against my ass as he stroked himself. This was so wrong, so delightfully wrong. Worse than anything we'd done with the asshole. This woman would be mortified if she looked up. God, I couldn't imagine a worse thing to discover while sunbathing in private. Nor anything hotter.