Behind His Back

by Stranges, Sadie

  It should be gross, but the thought turns my cheeks as red as my dress.

  David introduces me to the company’s CFO, a tall lantern-jawed man with a completely shorn head that’s an obvious preemptive attack against his retreating hair line. He’s old, somewhere in his fifties, but he’s built like a tank. He has a bit of a gut, which I’m sure looks a lot worse when it’s not sequestered in a tailored power suit, but he looks strong enough to get away with it. He shakes my hand with a thick fist that looks larger than a toaster when he wraps it around mine, and he glares at me with the burning eyes of a natural-born predator. I can tell instantly by his ballsy stare that he wants to fuck me. If these men really are part of some secret cult of wealthy perverts, he’s probably their leader. His wife, a nervous, thin woman in a black dress, can tell too, and the dirty look she gives me is drowned out by a weary acceptance. Her bleached-blonde hair is pulled smartly back to accentuate her alarmingly visible collar bones. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t broken her.

  The sex-cult leader starts bullishly blabbing with David about the next quarter’s fiscal targets while I pretend that I’m not examining his crotch and estimating the size of his cock. It’s probably pendulous and weathered like the trunk of a tired elephant. Suddenly, I feel four fingers touch the bare skin of my back. It’s somewhere between a tap and a caress, and it would be grounds for an HR complaint if this were an office instead of a snazzy soiree at Lotus. I turn around to see my assailant, expecting to find that one of David’s new corporate overlords has had too many fingers of whisky and decided to get handy. Instead, I’m greeted by a runty brunette with a pixie cut and big blue eyes that are mostly unaided by makeup.

  “Oh my God. I love your back,” she says. “You’ve got it going on.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I take a subtle step back from her to avoid further groping.

  I can’t think of a time that I’ve seen a woman look more awkward in a dress. It’s a hue between violet and blue—a color that’s impossible to match, and I’m guessing by her scuffed white pumps that she didn’t even try. She likely chose the dress because it bares her shoulders, which are nicely toned. She’s nowhere near as fit as me, but she can definitely do a push-up or two. I’ve seen her type before. They get divorced, and then they get way too into fitness—not that I should talk—to get back at their philandering husbands for squandering their joint savings on younger women whose tits still bounce when their bottoms are spanked. But instead of lifting weights or doing something useful with their time, they buy a three-thousand-dollar bike and decide they’re going to do a triathlon. They start training like a fiend, and they spend the first six months losing fat and seeing new, exciting lines in their abdomen. Then they spend the rest of their obsession looking increasingly stringy and suffering from adrenal fatigue.

  “What do you do to get arms like that?” She reaches out and grips my bicep, forcing me to reconsider my assumption about her recent divorce. Based on the way she’s staring at me, there’s a good chance this woman was never married to a man.

  Is this what happens after you eat out another woman in a three way? Can lesbians sense that you’ve been between a girl’s legs? Does the scent of Jessica linger on my tongue every time I speak? I resign myself to a lifetime of being hit on by women who want my toned arms wrapped around them. Then a man, younger than the others and wearing a cheaper suit, approaches us.

  “I see you’ve made a new friend,” he says to her. He glares at me like I’m the quarterback of a rival school’s football team. Then he grasps her arm, pries it off of me, and drags her to a table, where they sit and dig back into an argument that they’ve probably been sustaining over the duration of their iffy relationship.

  David pokes my ribs and leans in toward my ear. “I think she liked you.”

  “I think she wanted to do more than like me,” I say. I smile and then stick my tongue out and pretend I’m licking an imaginary pussy. It’s a vulgar gesture—and maybe it’s too much of a clue that I’ve recently had some real-life pussy-licking practice—but I’m sure Mr. Elephant Cock won’t complain about seeing my tongue.

  David laughs—the first time I’ve heard him laugh in months—and it reminds me of how much we used to joke around. Back when we were younger and he was articling at his first law firm, a ritzy occasion like this would have been fodder for us to poke fun at everyone in the room. We’d have come up with a nickname for every plastic surgery victim and swinging dick who staggered by, and we’d sit at a table and snicker at them while getting drunk off their free booze. Maybe if I play my cards right, tonight could be a return to that kind of closeness.

  Or maybe not. My hopes of a rekindled connection are dashed when his phone buzzes from inside his jacket. Overcome with irritation, he pulls his arm from the small of my back and rifles through his pocket to retrieve it. He looks at me with a worried expression and raises a stiff index finger to silence me as he answers it.

  “What is it now?” he says while pacing briskly away from me. Should I be weirded out? Any time he’s received a call over the past year, I just assumed it was someone from work, because work is all he seems to do anymore. But isn’t everyone he works with here tonight?

  A terrifying thought occurs to me: what if he’s on to my sexual shenanigans and he’s hired a private eye to snap pics of my compromising behavior. Or worse, what if he knows everything, and he’s preemptively hired a divorce lawyer?

  No, I tell myself. He’d never do that. Not sweet, gentle David. At the first sign of marital distress, he’d sit down with me and hash out our troubles. He’d find us the city’s best therapist and beg me to go with him. He’d work to preserve our perfect little life, no matter how brutally I’ve abused it. That’s just David. He’s a good boy, and I’m a bad girl. That’s just the way it is now.

  Feeling suddenly reassured, I look at my husband. He’s still on the phone, dealing with what I’m now certain is a boring work-related issue, so I decide to grab another drink and find a seat by myself. The suited men turn away from their conversations to stare at me as I make my way to the bar, and the thought of each of them mentally fucking me lights a fire between my thighs. Not that I’d fuck any of these gold-ring geezers of course. If I’m going to be a cheat, I’ll do my best to save it for Hunter.

  Seated alone with my glass of wine, I stare around the room at all the fake conversations. I don’t understand how David can function in this world. Is that why he’s too exhausted to fuck whenever he gets home? I’ve been here for half an hour and I’m ready to throw in the towel. If I spend any longer in this room, all I’ll want to do is go home and put on comfortable pyjamas and sit in front of the television with a pint of Chunky Monkey, and that’s the opposite of everything I want out of life right now.

  I decide I need to be somewhere else, and pronto. And I don’t mean sitting on my couch—I mean riding on Hunter’s cock. Wherever he is, I need to find him. I just need to get his attention. Inspiration arrives quickly, courtesy of the wine that I’m devouring, and I grab my purse and b-line for the restroom.

  It’s empty when I enter, and it’s a calming oasis compared to the babbling of the executives. At the end of a long row of large, dark-stained bamboo doors, there’s a wall-length waterfall trickling a tranquil sheet down to a bed of carefully placed pebbles. I pick a spacious stall near the end, close to the waterfall, and I latch the door behind me. There’s a hook on the back of the door, and I hang my purse on it. I pull my phone out of my purse and, after a quick inspection to make sure the tank is immaculate, I set it on the back of the toilet so that the camera is facing me, and I start recording a video. Then I shimmy my dress up past my hips and bend over, showing my ass to the camera. I tug my thong down my thighs so that the flimsy fabric is suspended just beneath my ass. Satisfied that the room is still silent, I reach between my legs and begin rubbing my already-wet pussy while fantasizing that Hunter is standing behind me, unzipping his pants and pulling out his thick, throbbing cock. I wan
t him to fuck me in this stall. I want him to tear my panties off and punish my ass. I want him to pick me up and hold me against the door while he pumps his white, hot cum into me, and then I want him to drop me, sweaty and satisfied, onto the cool tiles beneath us.

  My fantasy soon switches from Hunter violating me behind the safety of the stall door to thoughts of him propping me up against the sink on the other side. In my twisted vision, startled women walk in, always in pairs like they’re still in high school, to fix their makeup and dish about their latest renovations, and they quickly dash out when they catch us in the act. They pretend to be put off, but I know the truth. I know they’re jealous of my hard little ass getting pounded by a man who can fuck any ass he wants.

  I’m close to cumming when my mind switches gears again. We’re still fucking in the restroom, and I’m still gripping the sink for dear life while getting pummelled from behind, but now we’re in the men’s room. And instead of darting away like their frightened wives, the executives who catch us congregate and watch, unafraid to stare at the slut they’ve discovered where no good girl would go. The thought of those wealthy men watching, wishing they were the ones fucking me, waiting to be next, pushes me to the brink, and I start to whimper as powerful waves of pleasure wash over me. My knees buckle and I rattle the door while trying to steady myself. Then, when I finally catch my breath, I hear the restroom door shut, and I know immediately that I’m not alone.

  “Oh my God,” I hear a woman say in a hushed tone. I freeze, still bent over with wet fingers pressed against my pussy, and listen. The door closes again, and just like in my fantasy, they’re gone. I should probably be embarrassed, but all I feel is a strange sense of accomplishment.

  I pull up my panties and tug my dress back down, and then stop the video and creep out to the sink to wash up and straighten my hair. Once I’m presentable, I text the video to Hunter with the words “I need to be fucked.”

  I push send and then wait a moment longer before heading back out into the fray. But as I sit there, I feel a sense of unease creep slowly over me. A terrifying debate unfolds in my head.

  Did I just?

  No. There’s no fucking way.

  Oh God.

  I think I might have.

  My phone can’t spring to life quickly enough as I jab the home button and open my Messenger app.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

  Instead of sending my dirty little creation to my new friend, I stupidly sent it to the last person I texted. I sent it to my husband.

  I retreat to the stall and start to sweat. My perfect little dream world, in which I can pretend to be the adoring, happy wife with the enviable magazine job, starts to swirl and crumble and slip through my fingers. God damn it, I think I’m having a panic attack.

  Why can’t you take back a text? You can erase almost anything else. If you regret an email you sent, you can figure out a person’s password. If you do it at work, you can bribe the IT person with a candy bar or maybe show him your tits. If it’s a letter, you can break into their home before they open it—or at least light the mailbox on fire. There are always options, but not with a text. And certainly not when it’s a video of me rubbing my pussy in a bathroom stall.

  I apply the brakes for a second and try to be rational. I didn’t send it to a total stranger. I don’t have to worry about it showing up online—I think. It wasn’t my boss. Or my dad. I sent it to a man who’s seen me do dirty things before—maybe just not in that format. If things were better between David and me, maybe I’d be sending him naughty texts like that all the time. This could be a lot worse, right?

  No, it couldn’t.

  Because he’s already suspicious. I’m sure of it. And he’s not off somewhere on a business trip, leaving me with a few days to plan some kind of fix—or at least to pack up my shit and sleep on Cassie’s couch. He’s out there, surrounded by his colleagues, waiting for me. And I have to go and face him.

  I leave the stall and check myself in the mirror. I’m deathly pale and visibly drunk. Hold on—I can use that. Maybe that’s all this is. Just me getting too tipsy and doing something dirty for my husband that the sober me would never think of. I’ve been getting more aggressive with him lately, and if I can get him to believe I did it all for him, I might be in the clear.

  I take a breath and grip the sink—a familiar position—as I prepare to face him. When I reemerge, I scan the room and see him sitting alone at a table staring at his phone. He looks up and sees me, and his face asks a thousand questions that I can’t answer. It’s the face of a scolded puppy, or a child who’s just been told by a cruel older cousin that Santa’s a scam.

  It’s show time. I stumble toward him, trying not to look too much like my drunkenness is an affectation.

  He doesn’t get up or pull out a chair for me. He just stares down at his phone.

  “How many drinks have you had?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think they’re affecting me really weirdly.”

  He looks at me with compassion. Does he think I’m a lush? Is he worried that one of these horny old sex-cult executives drugged me? He seems to be buying it, so I double down. I put my hand on his thigh, close enough to his cock so that there’s no confusing my carnal intentions, and I lean in to whisper in his ear. “Take me home so I can swallow your cock.”

  It’s the first time in forever that David has shown genuine enthusiasm about one of my advances. Is he just eager to get out of this corporate circle jerk, or did my accidental text really turn him on? As we climb into a cab to grope each other like horny teenagers, I wonder whether this is our chance to become the horny, fuck-happy couple I need us to be.

  Chapter 18

  I wake up to the smell of sizzling bacon, and I know exactly what it means: David’s preparing my favorite breakfast. Pastured bacon from Whole Foods, full-fat sheep’s milk yogurt with fresh raspberries, and almond-flour muffins from a gluten-free bakery that I’ve become addicted to. Way back when I was skinny-fat and weak, a healthy breakfast meant low-fat yogurt, a thimble of egg whites scrambled in a soy-based cooking spray, and whole-wheat toast with margarine.

  Puke. At least I have that part of my life figured out.

  Sadly, I also know why he’s cooking me breakfast, and it’s not to commemorate any carnal acrobatics from last night. If anything, he’s trying to make up for another lackluster performance. Let’s just say this isn’t celebratory bacon.

  Things might have gotten hot and heavy in the cab, but they quickly fizzled when we got home. The scene plays through my mind like a trailer for a PG-rated movie. I tried pulling him into the kitchen, but he wanted to head up to our bedroom. Always the bedroom. Always on the bed. Would it kill him to tug my panties down from behind and fuck me on the stairs just once?

  Once I got him on the bed and stripped him down, a familiar scene unfolded. I sucked his limp cock until it was hard enough to fuck me, and he climbed on me and carried out his duties, finishing quickly and rolling off to turn his back and sleep.

  There was one new development, though, in that he apologized before dozing off. He told me he had too much on his mind.

  And now I’m left to wonder what that meant. Was it more work? Maybe the call that distracted him while I got naughty in the bathroom last night? Or is he still suspicious about the video I accidentally texted him?

  Even though I’m on shaky ground and I need to be careful, I’m still not satisfied. And as much as I’m craving that bacon, I have a deeper itch. I decide that, one way or another, I’ll find a way to connect with Hunter today.

  Before heading downstairs, I hastily apply makeup and a pinch of my Fräulein perfume, and then I sheathe my ass in a pair of tight gray stretch pants and squeeze my tits into a pink push-up bra. I skip the shirt and throw on a tight, sporty zip-up that hugs my torso with black stretchy fabric that makes me feel like a superhero. I’m not too concerned with clothes today—I won’t be wearing them for long.

  When I get downs
tairs, he’s forking the thick pieces of bacon from our cast-iron pan to a bed of paper towels on a plate.

  “You’re so sweet,” I say. “But I promised Cassie I’d meet her for breakfast.”

  It scares me how easily these lies are flowing out of me.

  “That’s okay,” he says, but I can tell he’s crestfallen. It breaks my heart, but it’s not enough to stop my devious plans.

  He holds out a juicy strip. “Want an appetizer before you go?”

  The smell—a succulent blend of umami and salt and sweet—overtakes me, and I step toward him. “You know I can’t say no to bacon.”

  He holds it high, like he’s expecting me to grasp it in my mouth, but I reach for it with my hand instead. I chew it slowly and let out a little moan. He might not be able to make me cum, but he fries up a mean strip of pig.

  “I was really hoping we could have a sit-down breakfast together,” he says. “I feel as though we have some stuff to discuss.”

  “I know,” I say. But do I know? The talk he wants us to have could range anywhere from his potential erectile dysfunction to his knowledge of me fucking other men. Oh shit. Does he have a disease that’s stressing him out and making him soft? Is it cancer? Has he been visiting some distant specialist every week and telling me he’s away on business to keep me from worrying? Am I cheating on a dying man?

  “Can we save it till later?” I ask. If I’m caught—if my secret world is about to be exposed, cutting me off from Hunter and the dirty girl I’ve become—then I want one last hurrah. It’s not like fucking Hunter one more time will make me any worse of a wife, right?