Human Interest 2: A Wife-Sharing Exposé Page 2

  “Was it good?” Josh said, watching her pussy with fascination.

  “Oh god,” she said. Josh knew she was about to come, and he slid his hand from inside of her. She mewled and bucked. “Josh please....no, okay...yes...it was good.”

  “I want to hear you say you like getting fucked in your throat by a big, black cock,” Josh whispered. He let his fingers make a circle around the outermost lips of her cunt, and she wailed and then gave him what he wanted:

  “I like getting throatfucked by Xavier's big, black cock. I like to take it all, I love him to fill me up until I can't breathe. I loved swallowing all of his cock!”

  Josh stood up, driven wild by her admission and the relish she gave to it. He was no longer seeing straight or commanding anything. He jerked her hips up and plunged his cock inside of her. “And then did he fuck you?” he practically shouted. He was skipping to the end because he could feel the snake inside of him uncoiling, the tide inside him rushing out. He was going to blow and he wanted to make it to the end. He slammed his cock inside of her and he felt her tighten around him, going over the edge herself.

  “He fucked me just like you’re fucking me now!” she screamed, and then her voice disappeared into the sofa cushion as she came. She screamed, a strangled, crazed scream.

  “And did he stretch you out?” Josh said, fiercely. He pulled on her hips and thrust his own, slamming himself into her more roughly than he ever had before. He knew her pussy was wet with her cum for Xavier, Xavier's cum, and her own current rush of excitement. To all of this he added his own load, gripping her ass so fiercely he left dents in her skin.

  His orgasm came from inside of him in waves. He doubled over as the final pulse drained him completely. His fingers found the sweaty hair at the nape of Rachel's neck, and he tangled them in it. He kissed her back, and he felt her shudder and her pussy spasm around him. His cock was sensitive with that just-fucked tenderness, and he shuddered as well.

  Her skin was salty with sweat. She was lying with her cheek against the cushions, a small pool of spit beneath her lips. Her eyes were open, but she was otherwise as limp as a doll. Her hand fell open next to her face. They were both still panting.

  Josh inhaled the scent of her sweaty skin, and kissed her back again as he pushed himself up and slid from inside of her. He allowed himself a dirty glance at the gush of cum trickling from her pussy and down her thighs.

  The concern for his mental health, which he had submerged – or perhaps better put, his cock had drowned out – was returning. What in the fuck kind of man was he, that he wanted to watch cum snake down his wife's thighs and think long and hard about how it was the cum of another man?

  He lifted his boxers with one hand and shimmied them up and over his cock.

  Rachel lay there a few moments more. When she peeled herself from the couch, her sweat made a sticky scraping sound against the leather. She pulled her own panties up with her back to him, and then seemed to decide they were too wet, and dropped them to the floor. She stepped out of them.

  Josh waited with baited breath. Had they gone too far? They never had sex like this, not even remotely like this. It had been hot, hot as fuck, but now his mind was clouding over with doubt.

  But Rachel turned to him, and smiled. “That was hot,” she said.

  And then, and this was almost too incredible to believe, she kicked her panties up in a neat little move, and caught them in her hand, just before she gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and trounced off down the hall.

  Josh was left, staring at the empty living room, too stunned to move.

  T HE OTHER PLAN

  How did he get here?

  Snapping out of a reverie suddenly, with no idea how long he had submerged himself in it, Josh asked himself this question.

  He was a middle-aged man, with a good, albeit boring, career, and a stunning wife. He was not bad-looking, and not rich, but certainly not poor.

  He was a man such as this, staring at the wood blinds in his tiny office, criss-crossed by the shadows of the backyard trees, at three in the morning. In the glow of the computer screen. Smashed into a corner of the room so that Rachel could not come into the room and look over his shoulder and see what he was staring at.

  He was a middle-aged man with a stiff erection and a sludge of self-doubt oozing down the walls of his mind. Lurking around in the dark, alternating between masturbating and wondering if his wife loved him and what was wrong with him that had led him to encourage his wife to fuck another man.

  After their incredibly – incredibly – hot sex, Rachel had taken a shower, and locked the door on the way in. An uncharacteristic thing to do. Josh had no idea why, but he had suspected that she had locked it before he even tried it. It was only a vague suspicion, but it made him turn the knob quietly until it stopped in his hand.

  What did it mean, that his wife locked the bathroom door?

  Probably nothing. It was probably for the best. It was best if he didn't go into the bathroom, and begin fondling her in the shower. It was for the best if he didn't sit on the toilet and start talking about heir marriage and what was happening to it.

  He had lain down on the bed.

  Because this was a good thing, right? It was what he had wanted. He had wanted this, and that was something to remember.

  And there was no denying that he liked this. No denying to himself that when his seed had exploded from his cock there in the living room, he hadn't felt it like it was being torn from his soul or something. It was mind-blowing, actually mind-blowing sex. Little, glittering pixels had flooded his vision as he stood over his wife, spurting the last ounces of cum into her overflowing pussy.

  Even now, hours later in the office by himself, his cock was getting hard just thinking about it.

  So what was it then that had troubled him as he lay in bed?

  Rachel had come in, wrapped in a towel. Her voice was light-hearted and her mouth was turned up in a smile as she dropped the towel to the floor, held up a hand, and said: “No more though, not now, Josh. I'm beat.” She had pulled a nightie over her head, did not put on underwear. She slapped playfully at his hand, which he could not resist crawling over her side as though he intended to worm his way under her nightshirt.

  She had seemed happy.

  Carefree.

  And what was the problem with that?

  Josh spooned her, as platonically as he could. Until she seemed to be asleep. She fell into her sleep like an untroubled woman. She said nothing more than “goodnight.”

  He had rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, but after fifteen minutes he knew why he was still awake. He tried to tell himself that there were loftier motives to his fitful mind, but deep down he knew what really motivated him to get out of bed.

  He had crept into his office, and guiltily moved the furniture around so that the computer screen faced the wall. Then, like he was an adolescent sneaking porn from under his bed, his fingers trembled over the keyboard and he summoned the video to play.

  He watched Rachel sliding down the wall, opening her mouth, swallowing Xavier's cock. Now he had the details of the act. Rachel had painted a picture for him of the things he couldn't see on the camera: the tongue-slapping, the licking.

  He watched as they disappeared into Rachel's office, and then he watched the hallway and the floor blur across the screen as he had crept down the hall, the camera still on but Josh not holding it upright.

  Then he watched as the picture steadied. As it zoomed through a glass partition in the office next to Rachel's. He was hiding under the desk, filming like a rat, his finger cleverly on the red light. Zoomed right up to where Xavier's cock was punching into his wife's pussy, and his fat fingers were stretching her ass open wider and wider.

  Josh came long before the film ever reached that point, though.

  Then he sat there, staring.

  Were the details Rachel had given him the same? He clicked at the part of the video and watched with stony-eyed silence.
He tried to remember Rachel's exact words. He sliced them apart and analyzed them again and again. Sometimes trying to find fault, sometimes trying to make them a perfect rendition of what had happened.

  This was all okay, after all, if Rachel was just honest with him.

  Right?

  He pressed the pads of his fingers against his closed eyelids. Just hard enough to make the smooth appearance of his eyelid turn to a fizzing show of stars. Josh had a form of synesthesia, present only when he did this particular thing, and he heard the floaters and bright-colored stars bursting and popping in his mind. Like having his ear to a soda can. This was a fact about himself that he had never revealed to anyone, not even Rachel, though he could not say why.

  He did it when he was thinking. Problem-solving.

  The realization hit him: his mind was engaged in the act of problem-solving.

  Why couldn't he just enjoy what he'd set up?

  What was the problem?

  He dug deeper inside of himself.

  He knew what it was. He had known what it was for days. He had known what it was when he bought the camera, known what it was when he went to film them, and he knew now what it was.

  He wanted to be “cool” with what he had set up. He wanted to enjoy his wife fucking Xavier.

  But deep down inside?

  He was afraid. And he wanted to put the brakes on everything.

  He replayed the first moments of the video, if only reaffirm his fears.

  The look between them. The look on Rachel's face.

  He couldn't see it well but he could see it, nonetheless: she was, in that moment, not fucking Xavier for Josh. She was fucking Xavier because she was drawn to him, because he had her entranced.

  Josh rubbed his face. “Fuck,” he said.

  Options.

  He could talk to Rachel. Tell her it was a mistake. Ask her to stop seeing Xavier.

  Josh knew the feeling inside him now. It was the feeling of knowing what the “right” thing was, and just not wanting to do it. The same reluctance with which you'd hand over a walletful of money to a lost and found.

  Maybe you could just take one twenty for yourself...

  There was also the matter that, after seeing Rachel with Xavier, he wasn't so sure she would stop if he asked her to.

  And that was a terrifying thought. It gave him a severe pain in his stomach.

  There was also the fact that if he did that, asked her to stop, this was it. The last time he could watch Rachel's lips moving so close to his cock and forming the words of a story about how she fucked a hung black man.

  Josh stared out the window again.

  Or....there was the other plan. The one he'd come up with some nights ago.

  He turned off the monitor. He sighed.

  That plan was a crazy man's plan. A plan inspired by, of all things, a dream.

  He even laughed at himself, out loud. A small laugh, though. A laugh with some room to be serious.

  He remembered an important adage of his medical training: to not forget that there is always the option to do nothing. See if the body would cure itself.

  Sometimes this worked.

  His stomach twisted.

  Sometimes, it did not.

  F URTHER IN-DEPTH

  Rachel sat in her chair and stared at the back of Melissa's head. The clock seemed to tick with a glacial slowness that defied physics and time.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  It was otherwise silent.

  Rachel swept her eyes over the table where she had let Xavier fuck her. She kept doing this, partly for her own titillation, and partly to make sure it bore no traces of her misdeeds.

  What those traces would be, she had no idea. Streaks of cum? Fingernails clawed into the plastic top?

  Back to Melissa’s head. Jesus, she was taking along time to read through the leads.

  Or was it that time had stopped? Leaving her here, in a limbo, to contemplate her own reckless fever? She looked at the clock again. It did not seem to have moved.

  In one hour she would see Xavier again. Her stomach flopped and her blood went icy-hot at the thought. It was reminiscent of adolescence, this feeling. But it had a dark, liquid edge to it. When she was an adolescent, she felt butterflies in her stomach. Now she felt butterflies and a filthy ache inside of her.

  “I like this one about the shoe guy, honestly,” Melissa said. She spun in her chair and handed Rachel a stack of papers. “It has a bit of everything.” Then she lowered her voice, and took on a conspiratorial tone. “You going with Xavier?”

  Rachel had been expecting this question, because if there was something that could be said about Melissa, it was that she was a hopeless gossip. She wasn't a malicious gossip: she liked happy endings, the Royal Family, when good things happened to the Kardashians.

  Rachel kept her eyes on her pile of papers, moving them over the letters as though she were reading. The mere mention of Xavier's name had dumped adrenaline into her bloodstream, and her heart pressed against her chest. She shrugged, as if the question had no meaning for her, and hoped that Melissa didn't see that the papers were trembling in her hands.

  “It has pathos,” Rachel said.

  “You know you two are all over the internet?” Melissa plowed ahead. “There's even a picture of you at the hotel were you had lunch and everyone is like, 'OMG did they get together or what?'” Melissa spun around again and brought up her Twitter account and a feed of #HotRachel tweets faster than Rachel felt was normal. “See?” she said.

  Rachel rolled her eyes and flipped through the papers as though she had better things to do. Sure enough, though, there was a picture of her and Xavier at the hotel restaurant circulating the internet.

  “What does Josh think about all this?” Melissa was indefatigable. She spun back around. “Is he jealous? You're not actually doing anything with him, though, are you?”

  Rachel let her talk. The nice thing about Melissa's love of gossip is that she enjoyed inventing it as much as she enjoyed sharing it. Rachel knew from experience that she could nudge Melissa in whatever direction she wanted without saying anything at all. Rachel rolled her eyes.

  “That's what I said. It's obvious. Like you would do something in such an obvious way, right? If you were having an affair with him, you'd hide it better. That's what I said. And also, have you seen his wife? She looks like a supermodel. I'm mean, you're hot, obviously, but I just don't think Xavier's the type to cat around -”

  “'Cat around?' What year is this?” Rachel said. It was a deliberate move, intended to demonstrate how uninterested she was in Melissa's speculations. They were so fantastical, it was meant to say, that she wasn't even worried about defending them.

  Rachel's eyes fluttered involuntarily to look at the picture of them. Her thoughts were dragged to Xavier, to how it felt to fuck him. She could feel her insides twisting. She was getting wet just thinking about him.

  Melissa leaned closer to Rachel. “He is hot, though. I mean, I wouldn't turn him down. If he did, you know...” she arched her eyebrows suggestively. She was still trying to get something juicy out of Rachel. She was practically salivating like a dog in front of its dinner.

  Rachel slapped the papers on her desk and spun around. She was ready for this line, too. “That's why you are considered the office slut,” she joked.

  The joke worked because Melissa was moon-faced and almost as asexual-seeming as anyone could be, which was why she was behind a desk and not in front of a camera. It did not deflate her perkiness; it seemed to be a role she was born for. But there was no chance in hell that the cardigan-clad, mousy-haired Melissa was the office slut.

  She giggled and returned to her computer. Rachel's constricted chest relaxed. “Shoe guy it is,” she whispered, only to herself.

  Her mind was on the time, on how to make it pass faster. Because in just over an hour, she would leave the office, and drive to a hotel, and get what she couldn't stop thinking about.

  She was out
of control. She knew she was out of control, and she had never felt this way before.

  It seemed too easy, all of this. She was twenty-eight, which was young but old enough to know that if things seemed to easy, there was something wrong with them. An alarm flickered constantly in the back of her mind, but it was like a light in her peripheral vision: easy to ignore.

  She could turn her thoughts to Josh for only moments at a time. She loved Josh. She really loved Josh. He was a smart man, a funny man, a good-looking man. She loved their marriage, and she knew she didn't want to fuck it up. She knew that at the end of this – whatever it was – she wanted things to be back more or less to where they were before it all began. And she had a sense that thinking something like that could happen was a pipe dream.

  The problem was that she didn't feel like stopping. Not in her body. Maybe she felt that way theoretically, maybe she wanted to feel that way. But the reason she was driving in a half-daze, her stomach in knots, her panties soaked, sweat gathering on the surface of her skin, was because she wanted to fuck Xavier. She wanted the animal, fevered lust between them, and she wanted it in a way she had never wanted anything before.

  She knew she should be thinking more about whether or not she would be doing this if she didn't have Josh's approval. Or if Josh were to change his mind about it. She knew she should be thinking about her own feelings, and whether or not they were walking too close to the edge of emotional connection with Xavier. Or what if she and Josh could never have the same run-of-the-mill intimacy they had before? Going home and letting him wring the details of what she had done with Xavier from her was such a delicious, naughty, frosting on the cake. But what if they became addicted? What if they needed to go further every time, to get their fix? Did she want to go down that path?

  She was already envisioning things with Xavier that she had never, ever, given any serious thought. Dirty, filthy things. She was already doing things she almost couldn't believe. How far would she take it?