The first thing you need to know about Jerome is that, though he's not conventionally handsome, he presses all of my buttons so hard. I don't know what it is, but I have a thing for quirky, nerdy guys. Tall, skinny, shy. So many layers of clothes and insecurities makes we want to rip them all of and have my way with them. Just the thought of him gets me as wet as a pool on a rainy day. A year and a half ago, he casually joked that he put a little cologne on his boxers to give a pleasant smelling welcome on the off chance someone ever went down on him, and ever since, every time I see him, I want to smell that cologne, if you catch my drift.
The second thing you need to know about Jerome is that he's a really nice guy. And not an Internet "Nice Guy" who's just being a gentleman because he thinks that's what it takes to get you to put out. Genuinely nice. That joke he cracked about his perfumed prick? I started that conversation. I guided it. I asked the question. I teased every bit of masturbation fodder I could out of him since I couldn't exactly tease out anything else.
Because the third thing you need to know about Jerome is that he's not my husband. Jack is. And I love Jack. I really do. He's a great guy. He's great with his nieces and nephews. He's a lot of fun in bed. But we had been together a long time. The seven year itch was a real thing. I knew he looked at porn. I'd seen him flirting with strangers on the internet. Having cyber-sex with screennames who say they're buxom beauties but are probably... well, it didn't matter what they actually were, because cyber-sex is about fucking the words and ideas, not the person. It wasn't like Jack actually had the nine-inch cock he told everyone in chat rooms that he was packing.
I was fine with all of his itch scratching, because I did it too, and he knew it. We talked about our urges. We fantasized. We'd fucked each other pretending to be strangers. Joked about gloryholes. In the throes of passion, we'd chatted about fucking other people both alone and as a couple. We'd never given specifics. I mean, we each know each others' celebrity fuck list, but we'd never said anything like, "You know, I'd really like to spread my legs and let our next door neighbor Tom plow me like a field." It was all just sexy talk, you know? A little spice to get the soup boiling.
Or so I thought. We had been in a slump for the last few weeks. Even my usual standby, where I would pretend to be Rosario Dawson for him didn't seem to get anywhere. I wanted to surprise Jack with a little roleplaying, so I went creeping through his chat logs to see what scenarios he'd been getting off on lately. The usual stuff for him. Strangers. One night stands. Small groups. Light BDSM. What caught me as odd was a chat with a woman who called herself Ex-Beauty_Queen. When she asked how big he was, he told her six and a half inches. Who the hell was honest about their cock size on the internet unless they were sure they couldn't get away with the lie? I scrolled a bit more, and the Queen sent a pic. Decently fit. Clearly amateur. Stretch marks. This was her real naked body she was sharing. She didn't blur the face either. Soon enough, Jack shared a shot of himself, smiling back, hand wrapped around his hard shaft for size reference.
This wasn't just his usual sexy times wankathon. I opened up Ex-Beauty_Queen's profile in a new tab and saw that she was local. I thought she looked familiar. I remembered her from middle school. Jack hadn't gone to the same school as her, so I knew this wasn't him chasing down the girl who gave him his first hard-on. Just a coincidence. Still a coincidence that may have played out in real life. I kept reading.
As they chatted, the real story came into focus. She was a frustrated trophy wife turned housewife looking for something, anything to give her life excitement. She made it clear in no uncertain terms that this computer sex was fun, but she wanted the real thing. Jack, for his part, resisted her for a long time, but as I read I could see his desire to fuck her growing with each chat. His resolve slowly slipping from, "I won't" to "I can't" to "I shouldn't."
A couple months ago, I went on a business trip. Jerome came too. We didn't do anything. Neither of us made a move. He probably didn't even know he was at the top of my diddle list. He probably had no idea how many times I mentally undressed him on that trip. How many times I trembled at the thought of sliding a hand under the table at lunch to grab his crotch. How many times I fingered myself back in my room, wishing it were his cock filling me instead of a couple lousy fingers. But he didn't know because I didn't fuck him. I didn't tell him how much I wanted him because I wasn't about to cheat on my husband.
But that wasn't what was happening back home while I was away. Jack and Queen chatted. She teased, revved him up, asked him to think about her when he fucked me that night, and to tell her all about it the next day. That's when he made his big mistake. He said he'd have to wait because I was out of town for the weekend. That's when she put her play into overdrive. Lurid requests. Short videos. Banana blowjobs. Real blowjobs, presumably her husband. All the while mine was saying no, but he was also not logging off either.
And then, Saturday night, he sent her our address.
I was mad, furious even. He wasn't home, so I didn't go give him a piece of my mind right then. Instead, I stormed upstairs and frantically fucked myself with my favorite dildo, imagining it was Jerome. I imagined all the ways I could have teased him, swallowed his cock, buried his face in my lap, spread my legs for him, and let him fuck me if only I had known what my husband was doing at the same time I was laying alone in my hotel room, dreaming of being filled.
Then panting and flushed from a nice, violent orgasm, I kept reading his chat logs. The next day she told him how much she enjoyed it and wanted to do it again. She described in intimate detail all the things he did to her. Things he hadn't done to me in a long time. He told her it was a mistake that would not be repeated, and despite all of her pleas and teases, he didn't utter one word more to her. Maybe he stopped talking to her because he felt guilty. Maybe it was because she just showed up at our house and they fucked without leaving a paper trail. It didn't matter. My blood boiled.
I wasn't mad that he had cheated. I was mad that he didn't tell me. I was mad about the opportunities I had missed with Jerome while he was fucking the Queen. I was mad about the new avenues this could open up for our relationship. This could have been the start of a whole exciting new chapter in our life, but he was keeping it all to himself.
My thoughts a stormy sea of every man I've ever wanted to fuck but didn't, I resolved myself to getting a little strange of my own. I knew I couldn't cheat on him per se, but there were other ways. I knew how Jack tended to get when he felt guilty, how the shame would gnaw at him, make him a little bitter, a little distant, a little impulsive. I knew just how to get the cock I'd been craving and open our relationship up to what we had clearly both wanted but were too afraid to ask for.
After setting my little scheme in motion, I went up to our bedroom and fucked myself to delirium.
When Jack got home, I was still in bed, spent from exhaustion, both emotional and sexual. He found me lying there, a satisfied smirk on my face.
After casually glancing around the room, he took a sniff. "It smells like sex in here," he said.
I tossed my dildo onto the nightstand and gave him a wink. "Yeah, my lover just left. Want his seconds?"
I didn't have to ask him twice. His clothes fell to the floor, and before I could move the blankets to make way for him, he was in bed, my legs heaved over his shoulders, and the tip of his cock poised on the puffy lips of my hungry pussy. I held him off.
"Before you fuck me," I said, "I want to hear about your day."
"Really?" he asked, disappointed. "I checked e-mails. Filed some papers."
"No," I said. "I want to hear about what you've been up to. I called your office, and you were out. I'll tell you all about my lover if you tell me about yours."
It was a little game of ours. We would pretend we'd been out having wild and crazy sex with other people, talk about our fantasies we'd had throughout the day as though they had actually happened. We hadn't played it since he cheated on me.
"Do we have to?" he asked. The game made him uncomfortable. Guilt, I supposed.
"You do if you want this," I said, and wrapping my fingers around his cock, I slid an inch of him inside me. A moan escaped his lips and he tried to thrust a little deeper but I held him at bay, pulling him from my wet cunt. I wanted more, but I needed to get him to open up at least a little about what had happened if this was going to work.
My hands slid up and down his shaft, stroking him as he hovered over me, longing to ram himself deep inside me, to fill me with his cum. "Tell me about her."
He moaned again, looked uneasy, then gave in to the handjob. "She's your height," he said. "Tits and hips a little bigger than yours, but your ass is better." He shuddered a little more, his eyes shut. He wouldn't look at me. I could see in his face the guilt he felt, but I could feel in the way his cock stiffened in my hand that he had thought about her since, fantasized about her, jerked himself to the memory of her.
"How did it start?" I asked, my fingers delicately sliding up and down his increasingly hard shaft.
"She knocked on the door," he said.
"Your office door, I assume?" I asked and gave his dick a firm squeeze. "Since I've been home all day, I know she didn't knock on the house door."
He stalled, stammered. "Yeah," he said. "She knocked on my office door. I opened and she grabbed me by the crotch."
"Like this?" I asked, and used my other hand to cup Jack's balls.
"S-something like that," he said.
