“Corrie!” I heard Jackson call out. But I was already out the back and gone, revving up my car. I wiped the sting from my eyes to see a blurry Jackson in my field of view, waving me down while clutching a towel. It was probably comical in a reality show kind of way, but it wasn’t funny at the time.
Chapter 6
These days, I think back to that incident with curiosity. No, it didn’t turn me on at all. And yeah, I was frothing mad. I wanted nothing to do with Jackson sexually. And yet … I didn’t kick him out of the house. I did ask him to sleep in the garage; he didn’t even qualify for the couch.
Our daughter was confused by my actions, but she was old enough to grasp that sometimes women get really ticked off at men. Perhaps Chelsea was relieved—maybe she sensed I wasn’t going to kick Jackson out, or go to a further extreme. I could see her sneaking things to Jackson—a Yoplait here, a T-shirt there. I didn’t stop her.
During this pissed-off phase, Jackson seemed to know exactly how to handle me. He steered clear, getting Chelsea to fetch things from the house. He knew I was too sweet on her to stop her from running his little missions. He didn’t try to make conversation, but left me the usual notes on the fridge—“I’ll pick up Chelsea after band,” etc. He frequently took the shopping list from our fridge clipper and brought the groceries dutifully home.
About two weeks into the silent treatment phase, I snapped at Jackson in the kitchen. “Make your own fucking iced tea!” I believe it was. But one day later, I saw him on the front steps braiding Chelsea’s hair while she waited for a ride from her pal Katie. (Jackson had learned to braid hair from his sisters, and to tell the truth, he was better at it than I was). Seeing how completely Chelsea trusted him while he sat on his milk crate and got her hair just right melted a crack in my concrete heart.
But Jackson stayed in the garage, crashing on the ratty brown couch that used to be in his collegiate cave, the one piece of crud furniture I let him keep. About a week after the front yard braiding, I had a problem with the kitchen sink. Ordinarily I would have asked Jackson to fix the leak by default, but I was still on my “I don’t need that motherfucker, or any man, for that matter” kick.
I required a special wrench we kept on a peg in the garage, so I figured I would barge in on Jackson. After all, he hadn’t earned any privacy.
When I walked in, I gasped. Jackson was jacking off vigorously, working both hands up and down his shaft, which he had evidently greased up with Vaseline or something. His dick looked angry and shiny, tempting me, but also scolding me for neglecting it.
I had forgotten just how big his penis looked when it was fully hard, and how embarrassingly powerless I felt around it. Before I even realized what I was doing, I hiked up my skirt and pushed Jackson back on the couch. I hated the smug look on his face—that I knew you’d be back for this big dick look—but there was nothing I could do about that now. I needed to cum all over him. No foreplay, and rougher than usual. I wasn’t as sloppy wet as I usually am when he enters me.
As I settled down on his cock, I really struggled. Not being wet, I could feel the burn as he pushed his way in. “Ahhhh!” I cried out. I’d tried to ride him dry like this once before, and I was brutally sore for two days. But I was too famished to sweat it. I started working him up and down. After a few minutes of that, my hands braced on his shoulders. Soon I could ride him harder; those nasty plunging noises his dick makes inside me were filling the room.
But I couldn’t ride him as hard as I needed. On the up stroke, I grasped upward. My hand slapped a chest-pull workout handle Jackson had drilled to the ceiling.
I had an idea …. “Hang on!” I said, lifting off his cock with a slurp. I grabbed the other chest grip with my left hand. With one in each, I could brace myself and pull down.
“Put it in me!” I told him. Jackson guided his tip inside me and I started riding. It took me some thrusts to figure out how far I could pull on those grips and then raise myself back up. Soon you could hear the whooshing noise as I got the hang of the pull. Before long I was riding him like crazy, pounding his cock inside me as if it could bludgeon all my doubts.
I was actually scared. If I pulled all the way out thrusting this hard, I would slam back down on Jackson, hurting him if not myself. Jackson grabbed me at the tip and pulled me down to keep the thrusts going.
“Fuck me!” I screamed, though I was really fucking him. I could feel an epic cum welling up inside of me, if we could just keep thrusting ….
“Oh my god!” I screamed. I had forgotten how badly I needed to cum. It was as if that botched scene with Alicia had lit a sexual time bomb inside my body. I put my anger at Jackson out of my mind and rode him for all I could, right through one orgasm and onto the next. But the tsunami cum hadn’t hit yet.
Jackson knew my body so well by now; he could tell I was going to have a mega cum. That’s what Jackson and I called it—a mega cum, or crazy cum. It was the type of cum a girl can have on a skilled lover with a big cock, where your whole pussy is turned inside out from the rhythm, and your entire body gets caught up in the spasms. Twenty or thirty times more intense than a clit orgasm, a mega cum is an itch that starts deep inside and then lights a fuse, and then … fucking look out! I’ve even (briefly) passed out from a cum like that. Many times, I’ve cried tears of physical and emotional joy.
“You’re going to cum crazy!” he said, holding me on his dick so I wouldn’t pop out. Sure enough, my thighs started shaking, like an erotic seizure was ripping through me.
“Oh … my … god.” I dropped into Jackson’s arms. The intensity of that cum was just what I needed. For the next minute or so, my legs trembled on top of him as my entire body exhaled. God, he played my body like a fucking Stradivarius.
If you’re thinking this encounter led to our reconciliation, you’d be wrong. I was not willing to let Jackson win my heart back through orgasms. I have far too much pride for that. Jackson did seem kind of smug the next few days as we went about our business. But he accepted the boundaries of our intimacy.
Jackson isn’t book smart, but when it comes to women, he is one wily coyote. That motherfucker knew if he just let me thaw out at room temperature, eventually there would be an opening.
After about six weeks of garage living, the dam broke. It was a Friday night. Chelsea was at a slumber party. Jackson and I ended up watching a movie in the living room together—Fury Road, I think.
It was nothing pre-planned, but we each had a Guinness. Well, maybe I had two. And it was relaxing just to be around him, without him begging to take me back. Just movie banter. But alcohol is my truth serum, so after a while, I hit “pause” on the movie, and cut to the chase.
“Was she the first?”
He knew exactly what I meant. “You want the truth?” he said.
“Out with it,” I said, pulling my legs back to my chest in a defensive position.
“Yes, she was the first. Since our marriage, she was the first.”
I felt relief, I’m not sure why, given how easily he could be lying.
“But—”
Uh oh.
“It wasn’t the first time with her.”
WTF?
“It started a year ago. She made me some lemonade …”
Lemonade? What a cliché! You have got to be kidding me.
“And ended up sucking my dick,” he finished, too smugly for my taste.
“She was desperate for it; it was hard to resist.”
“Oh no you didn’t!” The way I said it made Jackson crack a smile, but I wasn’t buying it.
“Oh yes I did,” he said, acting the fool. “But look at it this way—I’ve never been faithful for six months before, much less eight years.”
God, I hated that kind of excuse. But then Jackson turned on me. With a glare he said, “I’ve had a lot of time to think in that garage about how I ended up there. I warned you about this before we married. I’m not sure I can stay faithful, and frankly, I don’t intend to anymore.”
It was a kick in the damn gut. But I was going to finish the argument.
“And why is that?”
“You want the truth?”
“Yes, I want the fucking truth, Jackson!”
“Okay, here goes …” and Jackson looked me straight in the eye and said one of the most absurd things I’ve ever heard come out of a man’s mouth, “I believe I was brought on this earth to make women feel amazing. It’s the thing I’m best at. And I’ve decided that I’m not going to let anyone—including you,” he said for emphasis, “get in the way of that any longer.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Jackson? That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or slap his egocentric face. So … I slapped him. It felt good, and it was hard enough to leave a big red splotch.
I reached out to smack him again but Jackson grabbed my arm and patiently guided it to my side.
That gave me pause, and I fell back into contemplation. More questions:
“So why the hell was Brad in the room?”
“Well, he started watching us … at the suggestion of Alicia.”
“What do you mean he ‘started watching’? He’s done this more than once with you?”
“Oh yeah,” Jackson said with a weird grin. “I lost count at ten.”
“Why does he watch?”
“Well, he likes to experience the intensity of watching another man fuck his wife.”
Sounded fucking nuts.
“And he doesn’t want to deny her what I can give her any longer,” Jackson said, forcefully, confidently. I wanted to smack his goddamn face again. Almost did.
“I find it hard to believe he can’t make his own wife happy,” I said. “Why would they be married then?”
“Well, the attraction faded … for her anyway,” Jackson said. “But they still want a life together. And she doesn’t want to cheat.”
I had no words.
“You must have seen … how small his cock was,” Jackson said.
I didn’t really remember, though I did have an image of his hand moving up and down—not so much his dick, but his hand.
“Not really …” I said. Now, I would never have admitted it then, but I can’t deny it now: this was the first time I started to feel a slight tingle at the frankness of this conversation.
“Well, she had never cum from penetration during her marriage.”
“I took care of that the first time I was with her,” Jackson continued. Now he was grinning from ear to ear, without a trace of the guilt I was expecting out of that cheating son-of-a-bitch.
“She was … pretty darn grateful,” he added. “Eventually, he was too.”
“He was … grateful?” This defied explanation.
“Oh yeah,” Jackson said. “He knew Alicia had been cheating on him now and then. He always wondered if it was because of his own, well, inadequacies. It ate at him.
“Now he knows the answer to that question,” Jackson continued. “And … she doesn’t cheat on him anymore. It’s all out in the open.” Jackson paused, then added, “They told me how much closer they are emotionally. No more secrets, no more hiding.” Jackson was speaking with a gangsta Dr. Phil seriousness. As if I would buy into this whole mess as a mental health exercise!
“Well good for them, and good for you!” I said, storming out of the room.
“Garage?” Jackson asked expectantly.
“Yes!” I yelled without looking back.
For a while, I couldn’t sleep at all. But then my anger at Jackson gave way to a realization: I know what I have to do.
Chapter 7
The next morning, I called in one of my rare sick days. My secretary Lizzy was genuinely concerned. I’m never sick, and now I had used two sick days in seven weeks.
“Lizzy,” I confided, “I’m not really sick. I just have … something I need to take care of.”
Lizzy had met Jackson before. “Well, okay …” was all she said, but her conspiratorial subtext said, “Hot husbands bring problems, but they are worth it.” As long as Lizzy could cover for me, I didn’t care.
I washed my hair carefully, deliberately. Shaved my legs and even plucked a couple of stray eyebrows—the kind of stuff I might do before a big business meeting. But I wasn’t going to meet a new client.
An hour later, I was knocking on Alicia’s door. I could see her eyes flash through the peephole. Then, a good long hesitation.
“Don’t worry, Alicia, I’m unarmed!”
More silence. Perhaps the anger in my voice was less than reassuring.
Alicia cautiously pried open the door, sticking her angular face out. I wanted to punch it.
“Yes?”
“I think you know why I’m here.”
The door shut.
But then the chain rattled. Alicia opened the door deliberately, assessing my threat level.
“Corrie, please come in.”
I barged in, trying to still my quivering knees. My memories of the next few minutes are hazy. I know Alicia brought me into the kitchen. I remember her pouring some kind of hard alcohol into a blender full of frozen strawberries. I remember the whirring sound as she whipped up our drinks, awkwardly postponing our conversation.
I stared longingly at the knife rack mounted on the cupboard—Was Jackson responsible for that handiwork?—thinking how easy it would be to simply pull a knife out and ….
I remember Alicia pouring frozen drinks into two glass juicing jars and leading me to the back porch.
The glare was fierce. I sucked down half that drink without saying a thing as the sun beat down.
Alicia didn’t say anything either. She let me sit, bake, and suck through an straw. Clever little slut ….
As much as I hate to admit it, with the sun baking the porch and the drink in my veins, I started feeling kind of, well … relaxed. No. Somehow I felt good.
As if my life wasn’t falling apart, or as if my marriage wasn’t ruptured. Somehow, some way, everything was going to be okay. God, that’s a wonderful feeling when it sneaks up on you. And it can sneak up at the unlikeliest of times.
I had never thought of Alicia as an attractive woman the way my drooling guy friends did. Maybe she wasn’t my type; I wasn’t crazy about her boyish hairstyle. But, stealing glances as the sun steamed the pavement, I couldn’t help but notice that her body seemed strong and supple. And she was pretty damn relaxed in it. She had some ass-hugging denim shorts on, and a T-shirt cut low.
Alicia hadn’t bothered to comb her short blonde hair. I tried to tell myself she was too masculine-looking for Jackson. But there was something about her. Like the way she didn’t rush into some big apology, or for that matter, say anything at all.
There was only one thing left to say. I had only one reason to be here. I finally found the words: “Why?”
“Well, this is pretty personal,” Alicia said.
“I’d say fucking my husband is pretty personal also.”
“Okay,” she exhaled, and then said, “Are you familiar with the word ‘cuckold’?”
“You mean, like a woman who cheats on her husband?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s not really what I mean.” Alicia hesitated for a moment. “You see ….” She sat up straight in her wicker chair. Maybe she sensed I needed the short version: “My husband is a cuckold. We didn’t start out that way. We were head over heels in love. He was my everything,” her eyes were wistful, “but a few years into our marriage, I started to get, well, bored.
“We tried a few things, to spice things up—toys, date nights, lingerie—but then we met a couple who was into swapping. We decided to try it. It wasn’t great at first, but after I got another man inside me, there wasn’t any going back.”
I noticed she had skipped the cheating part Jackson had told me about.
“Suddenly I knew. If I was going to stay in this marriage, we would need something like this.”
Alicia seemed to be drawing comfort fr
om confessing. I wasn’t crazy about the comfort part.
“Brad liked the swinging, too, but after a few times, we figured out he actually liked to watch me have sex more than he liked making love to someone else.” She sighed. “And that’s what makes him a cuckold—the way we talk about it.”
“And Jackson?” I brought Alicia back to the point.
“Well, I really regret it.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Jackson was sure you couldn’t handle it. He said that you would be really, really pissed off if you ever found out … and he was right. I didn’t like the feeling that I was betraying you, Corrie. But the sex was just … well, you know.” She gave me a knowing glance. I hate to admit that I felt an immediate bond with her. I did know. It would have been so very easy to reach over and smack some pink into her face.
“And so I couldn’t really help myself,” she continued. “I found all kinds of ways to rationalize it. But I think in the end, it was just something that felt really fucking good. I was just so sexually famished, and Jackson, well, he ….”
It was the first really honest thing to come out of her mouth. But it was a start. We had a bit of history, and I suppose that helped us. But we weren’t there yet.
I commanded Alicia to make us another round of drinks. That’s one good thing about being cheated on—you can be very demanding.
While she made the drinks, my brain cooked in the sun while I tried to make sense of it all. I didn’t have any experiences that connected to this, even remotely.
Well, except for your fiancé, Daniel.
Yeah, except for that. Damn that thought! Shame and remorse ripped through me. Daniel would have never put me in this situation. Sweet Daniel. A horrid thought snuck in:
Maybe you aren’t so innocent. Maybe you’re quite a bit like Alicia.
Flush that!
When she came back, I came at her hard. Verbally, that is.
“Alicia, I’m going to need more from you. You fucked my fucking husband.”
My Husband's Adventures Page 3