"Does my little slut want it in the ass?"
She giggled again and turned around to give me a blow job. She went all out, taking me in as much as she'd ever done and really working on my balls. I got lost in how good it was. This was new for her and maybe in the back of my head somewhere, I wondered where she'd learned to do this. In my head, I thanked Gabby before Jess's tongue slid down from my balls to tap my asshole. Jesus, that felt so good, my brain shut down.
After four orgasms, I was spent. It wasn't just that my balls were dry; it was all the hours, all the bad food, all the stress from work, and all the worry about Jess hit me. I wanted to finish Jess off and went to go down on her, but she pulled me up to cuddle.
I was half asleep when she started to masturbate. She wasn't going for a quick good night cum. Even with her back to me and her trying to keep her movements small, I could tell she was engaging with a fantasy she was drawing out. I rolled over partly to hide that my cock was getting hard, but mostly so she could do what she needed to do without feeling inhibited. Or was it to see what she was doing? Dark thoughts had started to creep in, thoughts about what was going on with my wife's mental health. Her earlier giggles haunted me even as her soft moans tempted me to try for more. The
your slut wife
and giggles juxtaposed in uncomfortable ways and memories of her struggles in her last job came back.
I drifted into weird dreams about giant trucks running over model trains, crushing little plastic people over parking lot pavement. Yeah, my dreams can be a bit obvious at times. The track suddenly jumped like it was on a wave, and I half-woke, realizing Jess had slipped out of bed. The bathroom door opened and closed and I started to go back to sleep when I heard a slap and Jess's hoarse whisper, "Yeah, punish your bitch."
She was obviously trying to be quiet, but little slaps and interjections like, "oh, God, take your whore," "fuck me, fuck your bitch, harder, fuck this whore harder," slipped through the night. I wanted to get up and join her. I wanted to be the person she was fantasizing about. It felt like it would violate something private. Why did she need this? Should I have fucked her ass when she pressed my cock between her cheeks? Before we married, she told me she liked anal sometimes and we've played a few times with toys, but accepted we'd have to work up it and it was never something either of us got into enough to keep at it. Or maybe it was just that the idea didn't do anything for me. Did I miss her signs? Was I taking our communication for granted and assuming everything was good for her? But I asked! I fucking asked all the time about what she wanted. Fucking Gabby. I thought we'd both found out things about ourselves and sexuality with her, and that we'd opened up with each other even more than before.
Fuck. Jess revealed her submissive side and her joy at playing the whore. I'd seen how much she liked surrendering and being called names. She'd tried to get me to spank her and I couldn't. I still couldn't. And she was in the bathroom, getting off without me.
I needed to talk to her. I needed to push past this new giggle shit and have a real conversation about everything. But I let her come back to bed at 5:17 am without a word. And when my watch vibrated on my wrist 43 minutes later, notifying me of a text from my boss, I let her sleep as I got up to read it and get ready for work. Twelve minutes later, I was dressed and pulling out of the garage, my mind caught between what the fuck was going on with Jess, the new details we'd learned from a soil report that came in from a lab in Switzerland a few hours before, and my seething resentment at the entire world for making this fucking project a thing that existed.
[Jess]
It didn't matter what I did, the thoughts of giving in kept growing more frequent and louder. The more I had sex with Chuy, the worse it got. The first night, I failed entirely. I was feeling almost sick with worry. I've never done many drugs, but I felt like I was on what I assume a terrible acid or ketamine trip would be like. I was desperate to hide how I felt and kept giggling. I could tell Chuy knew I was off, which made me worry more, and the more I worried, the more I was certain I had to keep him focused on getting off so he wouldn't realize what I'd done. Yes, Maryam, I know that's broken brain thinking. This whole story is broken brain thinking. Sometimes I wonder if I'm in an institution like my mom and this is all some kind of super fucked up Freudian hallucination. If it is, could you please adjust the straight jacket so I feel more bound? Sorry. I know that's not true. I was avoiding this. The point is, I was really trying. Trying hard to connect with Chuy, trying hard to keep my sexual energy 100% focused on my husband, trying to keep my word. I kept going to the point that I knew he wanted to stop and cuddle, but I couldn't. Stopping would lead to a conversation and I knew if I opened my mouth, truths would come out I couldn't bear to reveal. But I couldn't get off. I got close a few times. Chuy knows my body so well, but I wanted to be punished, humiliated and abused. So I kept fucking him until he was completely fucked out. Thank God he was too exhausted to talk at that point. He knew something was wrong. He's so perceptive. If it hadn't been for his work being so demanding, even after four hours of constant sex, he'd pull me against me, protecting me from the world with his gentle strength, and ask me what's wrong. He'd be so kind and gentle and supportive. And I'd given in to needing that and told him the truth. At which point it would all go away because he'd know who he really married. He's strong enough to forgive, but that same strength means he won't stay in a relationship with somebody as toxic as me once he discovers how evil I am.
The whole time, I was desperate to come. Not just come, but have a mind-shattering orgasm. Fuck, I wanted something literally mind-shattering. Something so intense, it would destroy every thought I ever had. I couldn't get there with my husband. I couldn't get there with the one person who truly loves me, who cares for me, who offers me forgiveness until it becomes poison to him. So played with myself, playing with how much loathing I could pile up on myself in my head, until he drifted off. And then I went to the bathroom and imagined the Asshole using his bitch. I came so easily in the darkness. I'd always been a whore. My body tempted men,
I
tempted them. Only a worthless slut would act like me. Only a cheap bitch would come on her Daddy's cock and want more.
That night I dreamed of my mom. She never had a head in my dreams. Never mind. Let's not talk about that. She's dead. Children lose their parents and they get on with life.
When I woke up, I wanted to crush myself with one of those pavement roller things, the huge ones that flatten highways. I imagined myself pressed into a freeway, cars rolling over my two-dimensional ReVolution's clad body, rubber and road grit slowly eroding me away. I had to stop. No more masturbation. No more thoughts of being used.
I had so much work to do, but my hand would drift from my keyboard to trace a cuff around my wrist or neck as I squirmed in my chair, imaging Asshole pulling my clothes off and taking me. I cut myself making dinner because I was fantasizing about him using me in the living room and didn't pay enough attention to the knife. As I dressed, I'd wrap my bra straps around my wrists, or try to tangle my ankle in my panties to feel constrained.
When I wasn't fantasizing about giving in to the asshole, I'd crawl into bed and lay there, numb.
I chewed my nails--Chuy noticed that, even though he didn't get home until after 10 pm. He asked if I was alright. I could sense how much he wanted to talk about the night before. He knew, Maryam. Not about how toxic and fucking manipulative an evil I am. Anyone who knew that would have sent a letter from his lawyer or something, not started a conversation. But he knew I was faking it the night before. He knew something was wrong. I deflected, asking him about work. He knew I was doing it and kept trying to turn the conversation back to how I was doing, but I won that war. Well, we both lost the war, but I won the battle. We cuddled that night. It was so hard. I needed to come. I needed him to fuck me into a coma, but I knew I had to pretend that I wasn't a toxic cheating bitch with a psychotic need for abusive sex. And I managed to get through the night without masturbating. I woke him with a blowjob and had him come all over my tits as I fingered myself to a little come. He knew it was fucked up sex, not connecting sex, but he had to get to work. Conversation and solo masturbation avoided.
That night I had another little come from making love. It didn't annihilate me like I wanted, but I did give me a little oxytocin rush. I felt good most of the day, proud of myself for feeling so loving towards my husband and in control, even as the next day was a nightmare, where corrupting thoughts kept pushing me to go across the street to let the asshole use me.
Maryam, I even left the house the next Friday. I took an Uber, a $120 Uber because we live in the middle of nowhere, to a coffee shop so I wouldn't be home when the asshole dropped off the barbecue. I couldn't afford $240 a week just to avoid him. I couldn't bring myself to tell Chuy that we weren't getting that amazing smoked meat because I was afraid I'd let the asshole fuck me if I was there for it.
Saturday and Sunday were hard because Chuy had to work all day--7 am to 9 pm on Saturday and a leisurely 9 am to 8 pm on Sunday. I was massively behind on my work and could focus a bit in the mornings, but by the time afternoons rolled around, my head was back in our bedroom, teasing the asshole and begging him to put it in me.
I was on the verge of masturbating when Chuy came home Sunday night. He looked terrible. His whole body looked like it was melting. His gaze avoided me even as he picked me up in a hug and held me for minutes. We didn't speak or look at each other as we drove 20 minutes to a half-way decent Italian place. The whole time I chewed on my lip, wanting to ask him what the matter was. His eyes would glance over to me and my clenching, chewed-nail fingers and then turn back to the road, face pale.
He knew.
It was a Chuy thing to do to manage a conflict by putting us in some place where we couldn't yell. Someplace we'd have to keep the conversation at speaking levels so our bodies didn't get all fight or flight. I watched the cars around us, streaks of red and white in the dark ex-urban night as my heart raced. It was good he knew. I'd let him divorce me and have the house. I'd even pay for my share until we could sell it. I tried thinking about how I could help him find a good woman to love so he could move on. I wasn't really in the car. It was just a body moving along the road, the roar of tires on pavement at speed filling its ears. I thought I would be okay. In high school, I was caught masturbating in the bathroom by the star volleyball player. She was fantastic--not quite Olympics good, but close--and gorgeous and popular. I heard somebody come in, but I was close and couldn't stop. I needed it so bad. She sat in the stall next to me. I can still picture her aquamarine and pink shoes. "You're such a slut. Jessing off every fucking day. It's disgusting."
I couldn't stop. I wasn't making hardly any sound, but she knew I didn't.
"You're still jessing, aren't you?"
It didn't take me long to come, the humiliation of it somehow making my orgasm more intense. Afterwards, I sat still, but kept caressing myself. I was going to masturbate again once she left, but she sat there. "I'm not leaving until you do, slut."
So I cleaned up and walked out of the stall. We both went to the sink. I looked up at her through the mirror. She smirked at me. "We all know what you do in there, Jess. You're so disgusting."
I started to get headaches after that and...
Well, the point is I got through it. Maybe it was only her who knew. It happened two more times, and both times I couldn't stop myself even as I couldn't imagine anything worse in life. But I got through it.
I told myself I could get through it.
But Chuy didn't know. Not yet. He had to go to Korea. We talked about it like the main problem was logistics, but the subtext was that Chuy knew I was collapsing and I knew he knew, but we couldn't talk about it. We always talked about things. It was back to the worst days of my old job, but worse. He did ask if I'd seen you. He knew I needed help. Honestly, I think it wasn't just me who was losing it. Even at our worst, when my work problems were making us both crazy, he never looked so stressed. He's so easygoing, but this was gnawing at him.
Wednesday morning, two days later, I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee as the sun streamed in through the windows, along with a cool breeze that brought the smell of freshly cut grass, and I smiled. I thought,
It was a mistake, but it wasn't really cheating, was it? A blowjob, but no penetration, no kissing.
I didn't hate myself in that moment. I kept praising myself for my restraint. For how well I'd managed, no matter how much my thoughts begged me to give in.
I can put this behind me. I'll ignore the asshole until he gets the message and then tell Chuy we can't do things with him anymore. He'll understand.
I had a fucking smile on my face, Maryam! I fucking believed that shit. Not for long, but for a few hours I tricked myself into thinking I wasn't a worthless whore. I told myself 9 days of not masturbating meant that I was in control. Honestly, I actually believed I could get past this. I am such a good fucking liar.
