by Alison Tyler
I called Jerri and Amy and they had just gotten back from a movie. They came over and we opened a bottle of wine—yes, that’s where the Paso Robles merlot went. And the Sangiovese. And the last bottle of Two Buck Chuck.
I know you were saving that Sangiovese in particular, which is probably why I drank it.
I was kind of broken up about all the extra hours you’ve been working. I got majorly drunk and told them everything. By the end of it I was crying, baby, I was crying pretty hard. Don’t hold it against Jerri and Amy that by the time we made it to the Chuck, they thought you were a pretty big asshole. But before the Chuck was gone, they’d hatched a plan to make you putty in my hands, and it involved an expensive bleach job and some delicate work with a disposable razor. Jerri’s not as innocent as she looks. In fact, she was the one lobbying for the conclusion that you’re screwing around on me. Amy said she doubted it, but maybe, and I was sure you’re not. There’s no way you could, baby, we’ve shared too much; you just couldn’t do that to me. You just couldn’t.
It’s not just that you’ve been working late. It’s that you haven’t been that interested lately. I mean, it’s been over a year since you started something. I know because I keep a diary. It’s been forever since you grabbed me, forever and a day since you grabbed me and fucked me, forever and forever since you grabbed me by the hair, turned me around, bent me over and spanked me, and then fucked me silly. I can’t even remember the last time you fucked me without being asked.
Don’t get me wrong, baby, I’m not looking for attention, really. You know what I’m like; you’ve always known what I’m like. I don’t need flowers; I don’t need candy; I don’t need soft romantic music and scented candles and the lights down low. I don’t even need a kiss, baby. Half the time, I don’t even want one. Any time you want, baby, you know—you have to know, I swear you have to know—that you’re totally entitled to just grab me and do me. Don’t wonder if I’m in the mood. Don’t worry about making me come. Don’t worry whether I’m turned on before you enter me. Don’t worry about whether I’m enjoying myself. I’m telling you, don’t even worry about whether you’re hurting me. Hurt me, baby, fucking hurt me if it gets you going. And I’m not kidding, darling: You…can…put…it…anywhere.
One good thing about this house on Brennan Terrace, it’s got a great bedroom. When we moved here from our loft downtown, on your insistence because we were going to start a family, I was reluctant because it isolated me from all my friends, from Amy and Jerri and all the others. But I liked the house because I liked the bedroom. I liked the sliding door onto the patio right from the boudoir; it felt dirty, luxurious, decadent. I thought it was a sexy bedroom; I couldn’t wait to get a nice big four-poster bed in there and have you fuck me cross-eyed in it. I can’t say you ever have done that, exactly…things got pretty lukewarm right about the time that we moved. But I’m still optimistic; this bedroom is going to see some action yet.
That’s why I’ve gotten the bedroom all ready, turning it into our own little whorehouse/pleasure palace. Brand new sheets, eight-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton, bright red—scarlet like the letter that belongs on my puss. There are candles everywhere—a whole box of thirty votives, scented in musk and sandalwood, and thirty new holders. On the dresser sits a silken cloth under which rest four silicone cocks of steadily increasing size, the largest one big enough to make my eyes water just looking at it—I hope you’ll put that somewhere interesting, baby; I get wet just thinking about it. There’s a vibrator and a black-and-silver pair of nipple clamps, with a shiny silver chain. There’s more lube on the nightstand and a box of rubber gloves and a half-dozen condoms sitting on top of a big wooden paddle in case you miss the way I’m planning to wiggle my butt against you asking for it. I’ve got porn playing on the twenty-four-inch bedroom TV—dirty stuff, a four-hour DVD of nasty hair-pulling anal threesomes and gangbangs, women being fucked and spanked and double-penetrated, come on their faces, come in their hair, come all over their tits. Dirty, filthy stuff, a DVD it made me kind of wet to buy in that disgusting little sleaze shop downtown by the train station. The volume’s all the way down for now, but I’ll be happy to turn it up when we get started. If you want, baby. If you’d like that. If that would turn you on.
I’m not playing music because soft music would be cheesy, not at all what I want—and loud, pumping, earth-pounding ass-whacking hardcore would drown out your words when you talk dirty to me as you’re fucking me hard from behind. Which I very much want you to do, baby—every dirty fucking word you’ve ever called a girl, do it to me tonight, baby. Slut. Whore. Bitch. Yeah, baby, even that one. Say it while you fuck me. Because I deserve it, I guess, I deserve it because this isn’t the first time.
No, don’t get me wrong, it’s the first time for a lot of this. It’s the first time for the shaving, and the slutty hair, and the candles and all that. But it’s not the first time I’ve dressed up like a slut. It’s not the first time I’ve wanted a man to grab me and fuck me and call me names. It’s not even the first time I’ve wanted it…there. It’s not the first time I’ve told a man that he could put it anywhere.
I know, baby. I know I said I’d never done it. I hadn’t. I hadn’t done plenty of things before the affair happened. It was maybe three months ago. And I could claim it was a mistake—I could claim that if I’d done it just once. Maybe even if it had happened twice. But no… I fucked this guy seven times, baby, seven times and a couple of blow jobs in between. Plus the hand job at the office party and about ten instances of serious phone sex.
If you read my diary it’ll give you every detail of what he did to me and—Oh. My. God. It was fucking amazing. You can read it if you want, baby, you can read in my diary about how good I got fucked. I’ll let you. If you want. But I won’t tell you who he is, even if you ask, even if you demand to know. I won’t tell you, because you might go after him; you might want to hurt him or something, and I wouldn’t want that. Actually, it would be kind of hot, but it wouldn’t be fair. It’s not his fault he fucked me so good. It’s not him you should hate, baby, it’s me. It’s me you should want to hurt. It’s me you should be calling a whore, even if I like it a little too much.
I can’t say I’m proud of it, baby; I’m not proud of cheating on you. The guilt’s been consuming me. But I didn’t know what else to do. He was there, he was hot, and he wanted me. He wanted me bad enough to do things to me I’d never been able to ask for with you.
I think it was a good thing for us, baby; I think I learned about myself. I think it’ll be a net positive, if you can forgive me. If we can get past it. In the long term.
That’s why I’m dressing up for you. I feel like a slut, and I want to be a slut—for you. I’m going to give you everything you ever wanted, and I’ll never cheat on you again. I promise, baby. From now on I’m your slut, your little slutty whore. I’ll do anything, anywhere, any filthy thing your mind can dream up.
When I’m all tarted up like this I can’t figure out where to sit. I finally perch on the kitchen stool, because if I sit on the couch the dress instantly climbs up my thighs until it is far from decent. I’ve got the windows open and the curtains closed, fans going so it’s nice and chilly; my nipples should be hard, and besides if it gets even a little warm in here I’m going to start sweating before I’m supposed to. I’m seriously hoping our creepy land-lord Bill doesn’t pull one of his midnight garbage-rummaging trips looking for recycling, because what he’ll find is more empty disposable enema bottles than any midsized city has use for in a decade, and if he spots me dressed up like this he’s going to have very little question who’s the culprit.
It’s six o’clock, time for you to be home. When you don’t show I get nervous; I change my thong, which is wet and feels clammy, and I fix my makeup and work on my hair a little. At six-thirty I pour myself a glass of wine. At seven I pour another, telling myself there’s no reason to be pissed. You’ve simply forgotten. You’ve simply forgotten what I said this mo
rning: “Be home on time. I’ve got a surprise for you.” You’ve forgotten, and that’s far from a hanging offense. I kick off my high heels, pour another glass of wine, and try to relax.
I’m on glass number four when the phone rings; I pick it up already knowing.
“Hi, baby,” you say quickly, almost blurting it. “I’m sorry, baby, I have to stay late again. Tom has this problem with the Madrid project….”
Do you even remember? Even now, do you remember that I said I had a surprise for you? Have you forgotten my words entirely, or do you just not care?
Either way, I’d forgive you, baby. I’d forgive you, because you work hard, you provide for me, you’re a good husband. Either way, I’d let it slide…if it wasn’t for the laugh.
It’s off in the distance—a feminine giggle, and the first start of a sentence. Coming out of the bathroom, probably, showering clean after she fucked you silly. Coming out of the bathroom and giggling to you how she’s going to fuck you silly all over again.
But don’t get me wrong, baby, it’s you who tips me off. Because it could be a female coworker, stuck late at the office, coming by your desk and giggling for any reason. Any reason at all.
But if that was the explanation, you wouldn’t cover the phone and make a hissing sound. And I wouldn’t hear, distantly, a cruel hot whisper that sounds like “Sorry.”
“Baby? Are you mad?” You ask me the question with guilt in your voice. I answer with a casual laugh.
“No, baby, of course not. You’ve got to work. It’s no problem.” I take a deep breath, because I’ve got to fight back the tears, but by the time I let the breath out I’m not feeling like crying anymore.
I say it before I know I’m saying it: “I’m going to go ahead and go out, then,” I tell you. Now that the words are out, I can’t stop—I just talk. “Amy and Jerri are catching a movie. I don’t think it’s over until after midnight. Maybe I’ll even crash at Jerri’s place; is that okay with you, baby? It’s just such a long drive back from downtown that late.” My voice has gotten terrifyingly even, the hint of cruelty in it doubtless undetectable to anyone except me, the slut of Brennan Terrace. I can feel the energy humming in my body, the swirling sensations of wine, the empty ache in my pussy that begs to be filled, the clean tight feel in my ass that says tonight I’ll do anything—anything—and come home soiled and savaged, and never light candles for you again.
You sound distracted, baby. “No problem,” you say absently. You even make a little sighing noise, covering it and pretending it’s a yawn. Is she sucking your dick, asshole? Is she fucking down on her knees with her lips working up and down on your cock, the way I was going to be? Probably.
“See you tomorrow, then,” you say.
“Goodnight, baby,” I tell you.
You hang up with a sharp intake of breath—yeah, she’s sucking your cock, or doing something equally nasty to you. Something I would have done, if you’d bothered to come home on time one fucking night.
Unsteady and slightly drunk, I pad into the bedroom in my fishnet-stockinged feet. I go around the room blowing out candles. In the slanted light from the hallway, I retrieve the condoms and lube and put them in my purse. On second thought, I go back in and get the nipple clamps.
I leave everything else intact, just in case you were wondering. Not that you’ll care, baby, not that you’ll care. But then I’m not sure I care, either; I’m not the kind of girl who does care, anymore. I’m one hot slut, baby, I’ve made myself one hot slut for you, and you’re not here to see it. I’m the slut of Brennan Terrace, baby—and you can fuck yourself.
TRIAL BY FIRE
Bella Dean
We need to choose. Do you see any viable options?” Dave turns his face to the crowded dance floor. Parson’s isn’t exactly a swingers’ meat market, but the place has an undercurrent of interest. And you can usually tell who’s on the prowl.
I scan the club and sip my drink. I don’t want to do this, and yet I do. Underneath my resentment and my disgust beats the steady pulse of excitement. And that simply pisses me off. “I don’t see anyone. Maybe we should—”
“Don’t start with me, Glenna. Really. If you do this, I’ll know how much you love me.” His dark green eyes, so impossibly hard and bright like raw emeralds: I can see it in those eyes. The absolute decision. I will do this or I won’t. I love him or I don’t. This is how it always goes.
This wasn’t the first time I swallowed my argument. How did this prove my love for him? Was it that I was willing to do it at all? Or was it that I would later suffer the fallout? His jealousy, his rage, his doubt. Like the witches who proved their innocence by drowning in the lake or dying at the stake, I would go forward with what my husband wanted. If I did it, I loved him. If I got burned, I loved him. Then it would be if I loved him, how could I do it? And then he would break me down only to build me up again. I would go from saint to whore to saint all in an evening. I would give him his rush and then weather his doubts. Again.
I am not an idiot. Buried beneath is my own pulsing want. My own needs. The urge to show him. The urge to hurt him and bend him and—maybe just a little—break him.
“I think him. He’s looked at you about six times in five minutes.” I can hear the excitement in Dave’s voice. I can see the need all over his face. I can read it like a sign. He needs a fix.
I look where he points and smile. I can live with this. He is very tall and very lean. Muscles run up his arms and his back, but they are not overt. Subtly sinuous beneath his formfitting Henley; these are not showy muscles. He is built like a man who works lifting or bending or building. His hair is dark, shot with gray. And I’m willing to wager his eyes are a wonderful dark shade of brown. But they could be green or blue. The truth is, I simply don’t care. I like what I see. I like it even more when he smiles at me and my pussy jumps with an intense rush of arousal. I am wet before I can return the smile.
Dave motions him over and the man comes, looking confused but friendly. They lean together, dark blond husband speaking to tall dark stranger. I shift on the bar stool so I have something to do. It’s a mistake. The motion and the friction serve as a reminder of what I will do and what I want to do, triggering more wetness, more breathlessness, more staggering jumping beats of my heart. Finally, they both turn to me and smile. They both look eager.
I am disgusted. And I am thrilled. I am about to burn.
His name is Sean and he is married. For whatever reason, the married part makes it that much better for me. One more layer of perversion. One more level of deceit. He looks very much at home in our living room, sprawled graceful and average on our russet-colored sofa. “So, do you do this…a lot?”
Dave sits in the corner. He covers up the dark brown chair like a shadow. He is broad, my husband. He is big like a bear and when he is angry, he reminds me of one. He shakes his big head and says, “A few times a year. Tell her to get undressed.”
Sean blinks uncertainly, turns to me, frowns a little. Then he gets himself under control and says, “Get undressed, Glenna. Please.”
“Don’t say please again,” Dave says, and then all that can be heard is the rustle of my clothes as I peel them off.
When I’m there before him bare, my husband says, “Put your tongue on her. Tell her to spread her legs.”
I wait for Sean to order me and I do what he asks. His tongue is foreign. Broader than my husband’s. Wet and sweet and forbidden. I am entering the territory of whore, leaving saint behind. I broaden my stance and let him suck my clit until I grab his shoulders to keep from falling. I come in a rush of shame and redemption.
I hear Dave sigh. It is an elated and exhausted sound. A paradox. Like his wishes. He loves it and hates it. I crave it and am frightened by the craving. “Now fuck her.”
That’s it. No more instructions. I don’t look at him, but I can feel him there in the corner, like a predator and victim. He sits and watches as this stranger pulls me down onto his lap. Sean eyes his zipper, bulg
ed by his hard cock. I take the hint and pop the button, pull the zipper. All I can hear is the zipper’s tearing hiss and my husband’s low groan. Both sounds make my cunt wetter than it already was. A deep-seated neediness builds up until I feel like my throat will close. I go slow to make Dave happy and make him suffer. I’m never sure which it will be. Part of me hopes he is in agony, feeling needle pricks of pain every time I touch this other man.
Sean’s pale freckled hand pulls at my thigh, nearly circles it. He settles me on his lap and I feel his hot skin pressed to my wet slit. His cock jerks a little from the friction and he leans in and sucks my nipple into his mouth. The pleasure is intense and sudden. My head lolls back, my hips arch forward, and all the way I can feel Dave’s eyes on me. I push my ass out: I want him to watch me. I want to look like art, something to be cherished and loved. “Put me in you,” this stranger says and I do.
I push the silken head of his cock to my pussy and lower myself like I have all the time in the world and no interest. My heart is beating hard and I’m lightheaded. I push back the urge to just sink down on him fast and start moving. I want to go slow. I want Dave to get his fill. And me mine. I have fully entered whore territory.
He is different, his cock is different. It fills me in an unfamiliar way. But his mouth is hot on my skin and his hands are eager. He surges up under me even as he yanks me down and my body betrays me. It will not wait for me to be ready to come, it will come when it’s ready. My pussy grows tighter and tighter still, that all too familiar feeling that signals the beginning of the end. “That’s it,” Sean says, because he may be a stranger but he’s not stupid. He leans in, bites my breast, and the echo of his small violence shudders through my cunt. “Come for me, Glenna. Won’t you?”
He has just left me a souvenir. The skin stings and thuds with my heartbeat. Tomorrow it will be a purple bruise, as effective as a scarlet letter. It is right over my heart.