The Next Morning -- The Prequel
There stood the man on vaca. Crowding between my wife and me in the alcove outside our condo. Big guy. Bigger than me. Big voice. Life of the party and even a smooth dancer.
Still with us instead of leaving us at our front door and continuing on to his rental unit down the lane from ours. The guy we'd met at the Pub. The guy who said he was down from Philly. The guy who walked home with us, helping me support my wife from his side with a strong arm around her waist, us all laughing and staggering in our lusty drunken state of mind, the man, Brett, I think it was, who lurched against my wife in the alcove while I fumbled with the house keys, kissing her and feeling her big tits, still mumbling things into my wife's hair, although all I heard was "have a thing for a pretty blonde with nice tits." The man quick enough to get her shirttail out and his hand up under it while my inebriated fingers fumbled with the key to unlock our home for him.
"There!" I'd said, opening it wide to let my wife and her guest come inside. Turning back to them and smiling toward my wife's pretty face, I was blocked by his head dipping in and smashing his mouth against my wife's. His lips made a kissing sound twice -- loud, wet, sickening. When he straightened up, she looked surprised, certainly, but not at all unhappy about it. It seemed she was as amused at how much she obviously liked it as she was that he did it without asking.
That's when I'd discovered that his whole arm was inside her blouse from underneath. In the porchlight I saw his thumb and one finger protruding from her cleavage, pinching at the top curve of her breast, the palm of his hand and other fingers working on her nipple, visible under her blouse like a rat burrowing into the flowers in your garden.
I'd decided to pretend I didn't notice. She wasn't squealing or slapping at him. I'd decided this had simply become what they call a rowdy party. I'd sought to make eye contact with her. When her eyes locked with mine, I know her so well that in two seconds I'd known two things. She was scared of me, not him. I could tell she did not want to hurt me, but I could also tell she didn't want him to stop.
Trying to be Mr. Cool, I'd reached inside the house and flicked off the porchlight.
"Thanks, Brah," said the man pawing at my wife's tits. "No use lettin' the whole neighborhood in on the fun, huh?"
Even in the dim glow of the streetlight, I could see his other hand had swept up between her thighs. She had on her usual miniskirt that she wore to dance, so it was easy for him to get to her. She'd breathed in sharply a half a minute ago. Now I knew it was when his hand had collided with her groin. She was gazing across the street at the forest where there was nothing to see while she let him cup her pussy.
Again, I was stunned that she made no attempt to even slow him down. I'd wanted to say something, to protest his taking such liberties, or at least make sure she was okay with all this, but I'd realized we weren't going to have a policy meeting on the front porch of the condo at midnight, and just shouting at Carina would've made an argument I was not prepared to lose. What if I'd told her to stop? Wouldn't that've caused a big scene? She'd obviously decided he could have a high degree of intimate pleasure with her.
My wife was no longer making any attempt at eye contact with me, which told me not to bring this all out in open discussion. Her gaze flitted from side to side; she was blinking rapidly and then staring at nothing in mid-space, as if there was some importance to the wall, while his hands worked on her body.
So as a compromise that I'd hoped would break up the groping session, I'd called out "Wine, everyone?" and strode into the foyer, hoping even he was not smooth enough to walk and finger-fuck her at the same time.
"Beer," the man had corrected me.
"Beer it is," I'd answered out loud. Then I'd mumbled, "Sonofabitch," making a scowl into the darkness near our sofa, as I headed for the kitchen. I heard the front door close firmly as I'd gotten to the fridge. But I had a strange sensation of aloneness. As I'd swung open the stainless steel door, an icy chill hit me, and I'd wheeled around to find myself staring across an empty condo at the inside of my closed front door.
My wife was still on the porch. With that guy from the Pub.
Stepping to my left, I'd peered out the front window. Between the curtains I caught a glimpse of the man. It was as if they were in an alley in Europe, it was so surreal. My wife's blouse was loosened and askew, and her skirt was disheveled, the waistband pushed up all the way to her belly button. A near stranger was mauling my wife's body. She was leaning back against the wall with her feet wide apart and her back arched, presenting her breasts and crotch to him, lit only by the moon and one dim streetlight. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open.
Knowing he would not want warm beer, I'd put it back in the refrigerator and poured a half bottle of wine into the largest goblet we own. For my wife. In my glass, I'd thrown three fingers of whisky.
Debating the appropriate length of time one should allow a stranger your wife has picked up in a bar to steal a good-night kiss on the porch, I'd slugged down a big shot of the whisky. It was too much too fast, and my eyes had watered from the searing heat in my throat.
Just at that embarrassing moment, the front door had flown open, and my wife had swirled in, still unsteady, but floating it seemed, with a fixed grin, obviously searching for where I might be in the dark apartment. A step behind her had come the guy from the Pub, crushing up behind her and consuming both breasts in his palms. He'd nuzzled the pretty nape of her neck, whispered something to her I couldn't hear, and accomplished what looked like a very smooth dance step by spinning her around and floating her back into his arms, finishing in a tango-like clench, lips to lips. This had happened in seconds while I still sputtered and choked on the whisky I had chugged too fast.
"Ha!" he'd yelled when he'd finished sucking face with my wife, then looked over at me. Seeing my face reddened and tears in my eyes from the whisky, he laughed, "You mad, bro?"
"Nauhck," I'd replied, the whisky burn causing a gurgling sound to distort my answer.
Our new friend had made a face at my wife like "jeez, you're probably embarrassed that your husband's such a klutz" and he'd shrugged.
"Is that my wine, honey?" She'd asked me sweetly, half-heartedly tucking her blouse back into her waistband. I handed her the brimming glass. "That's a lot," she said, clearly embarrassed at the huge amount of red wine I'd poured for her.
"I think your wife's already pretty drunk, dude, but yeah, that's a good plan. Let's get her shit-faced."
I had not consciously made such a plan, but I raised my whisky glass and toasted her.
"Where's my brew, buddy? Let's get this party started."
I trudged back toward the kitchen. I got out the man's beer, but when I turned, he was right behind me.
"Y'all do this a lot?"
Too stunned by what "this" might mean, by what he might think was happening, I just shook my head 'no,' wishing I could explain that we had
never
done "this" before without conveying that we were not actually doing "this" at all.
But he wasn't stupid. "First time?"
My drunken mind again could only nod 'yes.' But at least I managed to look to my wife to try to figure out what she was thinking was happening. She had her glass tilted up, taking a long sip as if the wine were water.
"Bad-ASS, Bo," chortled the man heartily. "This is gonna be a blast."
