With This Ring, I Thee Bed

by Alison Tyler

  He gazed at me, the backs of my thighs, the split halves of my ass, the puckered asterisk between, and his cock bounced and twitched with eagerness. He laid his hands on the swells of my ass and I pushed it into his palms, and he squeezed and clutched and kneaded. He pushed the halves together, smashing them into clenched bunches, then spread them apart so widely it hurt, my asshole expanding and opening to him.

  He lowered himself onto me, pressing his lips against my back, tracing the tip of his tongue onto my ass, gliding it down between my cheeks, deeper still until his tongue flickered over my anus. Impatiently, I pushed my hips back against his face, and he took the cue, burying his face in my ass and sealing his mouth over my asshole, giving it a long, deep tonguing.

  I asked him to fuck it. Please. I felt his fingers dip into my soaking cunt and then work that wetness into my asshole, loosening and dilating it. He told me to beg, and so I begged. He told me to tell him what I wanted him to do, so I told him I wanted him to shove his big cock in my—

  I bit at my sleeve to keep from screaming. Slowly, carefully, calculatingly, he worked it in. It felt as if my body was swallowing up his cock, absorbing it. I was his now; we both knew this. I would do anything, anything, just as long as he kept doing this. I could feel his cock moving into my ass, pushing, forging new territory. I took it all, every inch, as if my ass was made for it. Any hesitation, any fear or guilt I had felt dissipated, and all that was left was the dirty thrill of being entered there. In my head I heard one down, four to go.

  Once he was completely inside me, he fucked me. He fucked me like the stranger he was, with zero regard for my own pleasure. He fucked me until the muscles in my legs turned to jelly. He fucked me as if he had stolen me. He called me a whore and I told him I liked the sound of that. He called me his filthy little slut, his dirty little fuck-toy. And I told him I loved that.

  I could feel his sweat dripping onto the small of my back. I braced myself against the armrest, stiffening my arms and arching my back to get the most of his cock. I cried out, yelling to the empty intersection that he was fucking my ass so good. The interior of his car filled with our noises and scents; his snarls and grunts, the creaking of the ancient vinyl seats, my strangled gasps, the sweet smell of naked skin and perspiration. I was almost weeping as he filled me with his cock, accepting it completely, ignoring the ache that came and went. I sobbed on every entry, my ass contracting helplessly around his shaft. I masked my struggles by moaning like the whore he said I was. I looked over my shoulder at Mr. GT, his face glowing eerily green, then yellow for a few seconds before finally turning an angry red. He watched his cock going in and out of my asshole. When he came, he was all the way inside me, somewhere deep, his cock snapping and coiling like a snake on hot pavement.

  I dropped my head onto the cool vinyl of his backseat and tried to remember how to breathe.

  Tanya, my little sister, has been a cheater her entire adult life. She’d never had a husband or boyfriend she didn’t fuck around on with some other guy. She’d never had some other guy she didn’t fuck around on. But she was angry with me when I’d confessed my newly acquired marital status to her. She told me that I was supposed to be the good sister, the role model, the thing she tried to be, even if she knew she never could be. She recoiled at the idea that I would choose to begin cheating on Stan after twelve years of marriage. She said she could maybe understand it if it had not been premeditated. I countered that only the second and third guys had been premeditated, that the guy I rear-ended had been spur of the moment. As spur of the moment as anything I’d ever done, in fact. And besides, I argued, how is it less reprehensible if it’s unplanned?

  Of course she couldn’t answer that. She didn’t even try. She was too busy warning me against the dangers of using adultery as a weapon. Cheating as revenge, she said, was totally fucked up. She was right, for the most part. I had been using it as a way of getting back at Stan, picking men that were his opposite; tall men, strong men, men who knew what they wanted and didn’t sneak behind someone’s back to get it. And I explained all this to Tanya, and she nodded and said she understood. But it didn’t keep her from being mad at me.

  Even my best friend, Kris, was disappointed in me. And Kris hated Stan. She knew he had this coming, knew he deserved every orgasm I gave someone else. She even admitted as much at lunch today. I called her a hypocrite when she requested the smoking section. She hated cigarette smoke and its culprits almost as much as I did, but she had spotted a pair of straining biceps on a waiter in the smoking section when we’d walked in.

  He was French, it turned out, and Kris and I both were old enough to be his mother. Well, I was, anyhow. Which would’ve made Kris his meddlesome aunt. Every time he reached to fill a water glass or retrieve an emptied plate, the short sleeves of his tight black shirt would try to strangle the life out of those bulging arms. And every time, Kris’s eyes would be glued, even as she chastised me about the moral and spiritual implications of straying.

  Between rounds of sleeves vs. biceps, it dawned on me that I had become not unlike the smokers Kris and I sneered at. Adultery and smoking were both bad for you. They were each bad for those around you. Both could prove to be prohibitively expensive. And both could most certainly ruin your life. Yet, like a lot of smokers I knew, not only could I not quit, I didn’t even want to. Because despite the ostracism, despite the risks, despite it all, I liked it. Plain and simple. And like a lot of smokers I knew, I felt I was now part of some kind of outcast club of bad boys and girls. Like the cool kids who sat in the back of the bus. Like somebody with a dark side. Like a rebel.

  I did my best to explain this to Kris. She called me a whore. Only this time it didn’t make my pussy wet, like it had with Mr. GT. I wasn’t a whore, and I told Kris that, even as our too-young, too-French waiter leaned across me to fill my water glass yet again, brushing my forearm with his pressed black slacks that contained, I knew, a too-young, too-French cock that would fit perfectly in my cunt.

  And it did. Even as the door to the walk-in storage cooler was sealing closed behind us, garçon was on me, locking limbs, pinning wrists, mounting. A burst of grunts, wet noises, gurgled moans, my expelled gasps condensing to fog in the thirty-five degree air.

  He bent me over a pallet of cases of frozen peas, raised my skirt, took down my panties and thrust away. In his thick accent, he told me I was a bad girl, and I told him he had no idea. He told me I needed a spanking and I asked him if he was man enough to give me one. And he showed me that he was. A startled yelp slipped out of my mouth the first time he brought his hand down across my ass. I started to say something, not so hard, maybe, but my voice died in my throat as he grasped me by the hips and snatched me back to him, running me through with his cock, forcing the breath out of me. Again he struck me and I glanced over my shoulder to see a scarlet welt rising across my cheek. Instinctively, my hands flew back to clutch at my bottom, desperately trying to rub away the sting, made so much worse by the frigid air of the cooler. The waiter grabbed my wrists with one hand and pinned them firmly to my back. I could feel my naked cheeks clenching in fearful anticipation as again he raised his hand and took aim, bring his palm down across my backside, my glowing red cheek jiggling ridiculously. He murmured something in whispery French, and thanks to Mrs. Binoche’s eleventh grade class, I believe he was comparing my ass to a soufflé.

  I squirmed beneath him as he fucked away. It was like he couldn’t get deep enough or drive hard enough. It was as if his mission was to punch his cock into my womb, and he faced an obstacle: my ass. He couldn’t go around it. He had to go through it. I wanted him to turn me around, to fuck me while facing me. French kiss me while he did it, even. But garçon didn’t want this, and where my wants conflicted with garçon’s, my wants were disregarded. I pictured his cock being long enough to run through my entire body and protrude from my mouth, like a pig on a spit. And with that, I hurtled into a raw, hoarse orgasm. And another.

  Three down, two to go.<
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  On the way home from the restaurant, as I ignored Kris’s jealous scowls, I expounded upon one of those revelations you have half a lifetime after everyone else has it. No doubt Kris had known since before she could vote that cocks come in all different shapes, sizes and flavors. But I had no idea until I became a cheater. I explained to Kris how Mr. GT’s cock seemed so big, the shaft straight and thick, the smell of gasoline and sweat filling my head as I sucked it. I told her how Derrick’s cock was smaller than GT’s and was curved like an archer’s bow, and how when I swallowed his come it tasted like the saltwater my mom used to make gargle with when I had a sore throat. Garçon’s cock was squat and bulging, like the muscles in his arms, the head round like a knob.

  Kris told me to shut up.

  Two months ago, Stan admitted that he had cheated on me. With five different women. Why he came clean, I have no idea. Maybe he thought I was onto him. Maybe he couldn’t bear the guilt and paranoia any longer. I don’t know. And I don’t care.

  In those first few days of reflexive outrage, I threatened to leave him, threatened to divorce him, ruin him. I felt utterly deceived. I demanded to know names and places, demanded a timeline. Even though I really didn’t want them, I demanded details, if only to put Stan through the humiliation of having to recount his dalliances to his wife. His shame, his tearful apologies were not enough. They would never be enough. We both knew this. But I slowly came to realize two interdependent things: neither of us wanted a divorce, and because of this, I now had a blank check.

  Within six weeks I had fucked three other men. To be completely honest, I could have stopped there. While I had enjoyed each one at the time, part of me felt as if Stan and I were even. Mainly, I think, because I felt no remorse. As if my lack of guilt over what I had done lent each transgression more severity. But there was a different, bitter part of me that wanted the numbers to match, wanted to fuck the full five I had planned upon when I first decided to do this. After a mental tug-of-war that lasted days, I finally decided that if the fourth fuck was the present itself, I wouldn’t necessarily turn it away. If it did not, so be it. I would keep that fifth and equalizing fuck forever in the future, indefinitely in reserve, keeping the balance of moral power tipped in my favor.

  In a way, this was crueler than just going through with it, and I realized that. But I really didn’t give a shit.

  In the days and weeks that followed I caught myself, on multiple occasions, on the lookout. Not for that fourth cock, necessarily, but for kindred spirits. Cheaters like me. Other adulterers. I imagined them everywhere. That man in front of me in line at the pharmacy counter. He was probably buying those condoms to keep from knocking up his tax advisor, I’d think. The bank teller smiled at the loan officer. I bet she blew him under his desk this morning. That couple getting into the car together? No doubt they were racing off for a lunchtime quickie.

  But I hadn’t been looking for that fourth fuck. It found me. The same time the fifth one did.

  It was Danny’s idea, all of it. He’d called me, said he’d talked to Tanya the other day when she’d phoned to ask where the alimony payment was. He told me he’d asked her how Stan and I were doing, and Tanya had told him the truth. I told Danny we were working things out, in our own way. He told me I was a bigger person that he was, because he still hadn’t gotten over my sister fucking around on him. Said he still felt like he owed her one.

  When Danny opened the door to his apartment, Jamie, his older brother, was standing behind him. I really don’t think either of them expected to fuck me tonight, much less simultaneously, but Danny’s just naive enough to have called Jamie to come over, and Jamie is just stupid enough to figure it was worth the trip.

  Danny asked me if I remembered Jamie, and I told them both that I did. There had been no other pretense, no foreplay. They were hard and I was wet. It was simply time to fuck. The first position we tried was me on my hands and knees, Jamie’s cock in my mouth, Danny fucking me from behind. Jamie held my head as he worked his cock in and out of my mouth, humping up against my face, alternating entries with Danny’s thrusts, causing me to bounce back and forth between the two of them. Danny dug his fingers into my soft hips and drove into me. I tried to moan, but Jamie’s cock was lodged in my mouth so completely that all that came out were muffled whimpers.

  After a while the men switched stations, and again. Then we rearranged ourselves, Danny on his back with me riding him, Jamie standing beside me while I sucked him. We changed again, this time me on my back, Jamie kneeling between my legs, eating me, while Danny straddled my face and tried to fuck my mouth, slipping out more often than not while I contented myself to lap at him while he jacked it in his hand, pushing it wetly all over my face, before finally snaking it back through my open mouth. Over and over again they used me, sticking their cocks in whichever hole happened to be available; pussy, mouth, ass, they didn’t care and neither did I.

  Then we were rolling, Danny off me, me away from Jamie, and we instantly rejoined, weaving limbs and hands and fingers, six arms, six legs, three mouths, two cocks, one cunt. The choreography, while sometimes awkward, was never hesitant. They had done this before. Almost before I realized it, they had manipulated me onto all fours, Danny under me, Jamie behind me, and were entering me in concert, Danny in my cunt, Jamie in my ass. The three of us pushed, pulled and slid, writhing and grinding until we were fully interlocked, the domes of their cocks separated by the membrane inside me.

  And then the fucking began in earnest. I felt everything. I felt their cocks, insistent and relentless, moving in unison inside me, pushing against one another. I felt their aggression and also their restraint, their barely checked urges to fuck me as hard as they could even if it meant they’d rip me open. I felt my body, the spaces inside being filled and emptied. I could feel their gathering momentum, infectious in its buildup, both of them past the point of no return now. I felt my own overwhelming need for this. I couldn’t have stopped now had Stan walked through the front door.

  I fucked with my mouth clamped over Danny’s, with my fingers crawling across his scalp. I fucked with my breasts smashed against Danny’s sweating and heaving chest. I fucked with my ass squirming and thrusting back against Jamie’s plunging cock. I fucked with all my feelings of shame, anger, betrayal, regret and guilt.

  My entire body buckled, my orgasm shooting through me like a bolt of electricity, paralyzing me. I was jammed between both men, immobilized, my body quivering with a series of tiny spasms neither man perceived, both cocks still pistoning into me, oblivious to my moment.

  And they came. My God, did they come. Danny was first, which seemed to set off Jamie, like sticks of dynamite with their fuses twisted together. We lay on the carpet for what felt like the better part of an hour, all of us spent. The room was still, the only sounds our gradually normalizing breathing, until even that couldn’t be heard. It was so quiet you could almost hear the vows break.

  Five down. None to go.

  After that, I quit. For a few weeks I acted as if it had never happened. Not Stan’s five. Not my five. None of it. We went about our lives like a happily married couple. Naturally, every now and then, there would be a character on TV with the same name as one of his whores. Or there would be a story on the news about a cheating husband. And Stan would just freeze, literally holding his breath, even his eyes unmoving. Then I would ask him what he needed from the grocery store next time I went, and he’d exhale. And we’d get on with our lives.

  I never told Stan the method I’d chosen to deal with his infidelity. I guess he simply assumed he had married the most forgiving, understanding saint of a woman on the planet.

  Yet I missed it. I missed the way my heart pounded when I thought I might get caught. I missed the discovery of each new man, the hunt for what he liked, the search for his weakness. I missed the cat and mouse of it all. I missed being a part of that club. But most of all, I missed having a secret.

  For months afterward I kept a constant vi
gil on Stan’s cell phone bill, checked his pockets daily for incriminating receipts. Lipstick on the collar. You name it. But nothing. I really do think he had stopped cheating. And I think it disappointed me.

  Seven Year Itch

  Kristina Lloyd

  They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die. When I stepped in front of that bus, I think my life flashed before Jim’s eyes, or at least our married life did.

  “Liss!”

  The bus horn blared over his cry. I saw not my life, but windows flashing by, a passenger in a red hat, thick black tires, trees touched with green and in the gutter, the book Jim had been consulting, A Rough Guide to Paris.

  “Fuck’s sake!” Jim yelled. “Gonna get yourself killed!”

  I stumbled onto the pavement, Jim’s grip on my wrist. He was livid, his cheeks flushed crimson, his mouth making words that wouldn’t quite reach me. The bus was gone but the noise remained, a horn filling my ears punctuated by the wild thud of my heart. I stared at Jim, watched his tongue leap like a landed fish in his mouth, wisps of sandy hair rippling across his forehead.

  Even in my dazed state, I knew his anger was born of sheer, blind terror. He sometimes yells at the kids this way and so do I, desperate to alert them to the dangers of sockets, juggernauts, running with scissors and that bad-tempered terrier at number twelve, which I suspect has a bad case of fleas. But the kids were at their grandparents, and it was as if, in lieu of their presence, I’d been put in Lola’s size-nine Hello Kitty shoes and was on the receiving end of a massive, fatherly bollocking.

  Traffic whizzed by. Jim’s fury barely registered, nor did anything else very much. I’d almost shuffled off this mortal coil, yet it was as if someone else had experienced the drama on my behalf, their attempts to communicate its significance being relayed to me via a dumb show. And instead of understanding the episode in all its potentially tragic immensity, my awareness and emotions were channeling toward one small and pure point, to the pressure around my wrist where Jim’s fingers clutched, the force of him twisting my skin and near enough crushing my bones.